#f: six degrees

[maryellencarter]

i think the hill i'm going to die on here is that lasting anti-fascist activism begins and ends with unrestricted social services.

protests are great. kind of indispensable right now. but in times when we can be less reactive, you want to know what you're protesting *for*, not just against.

today i saw a post elseweb saying "why aren't white women fleeing maga? they have to know by now that tradwife means sex slave". and like... it's very simple. they can't leave because they would end up like me.

they're, we're, deliberately made unemployable so that we'll have to marry whatever mediocre white man picks us out. as it happened, i was unappealingly intersex, fat, butch, and autistic, so none of the mediocre white boys of my generation ever took a second look at me, but that didn't give me job skills or career connections.

i knew multiple women whose husbands divorced them and took the house as part of their midlife crises. they had to send the kids to live with relatives and take dead-end jobs like bagging groceries because they were in their forties with zero job experience. if they'd rejected the worldview, if they'd alienated their families and what few friends didn't victim-blame them for the divorces, they'd have had nowhere to turn.

it's been over twelve years since i got out. psychologically, medically, i'm healthier. but i've chased a fresh start through half a dozen states. i spent my inheritance getting a degree. none of it helped. there are no supports for abandoning (or being abandoned by) your support network.

you won't defeat fascism until my people are free to leave the cult if they realize they want out. until we can access free housing to get away from financial abuse, free comprehensive job training and placement services to help us start careers, national healthcare so we can flee across state lines if necessary without losing any medical care we're lucky enough to have access to, protections for children and teens so they can flee without needing a parent's help... universal basic income would be really good but there are smaller steps that could help with financial independence.

and it all has to be available to everybody, including people you think are "unworthy". people who hold the wrong opinions. drug addicts. people whose husbands or parents make too much money. people who aren't from around here. unrepentant bigots. if they want out, you have to give them a path out. minds can change later, once people are less scared and less pressured.

(i'm ex-catholic. do you want to hear about what happens when you force people to profess certain beliefs in order to access basic assistance? i have two thousand years of examples.)

"but if they really wanted out they'd do the Right Thing and leave without support!" Better to be one man's sex slave than turning tricks on the street. "staying just proves they're actually evil and there for the bigotry!" Live in your car for six months in 100°F heat, twice, and then talk to me again. There's no virtue in cutting yourself off from society just to prove some kind of moral point. All that does is get you dead or worse.

("JT, you're not dead" I'm a fucking cockroach. Most people would be dead by now. Survival bias goes both ways; we're not all the same model of airplane.)

[paarksunghoon]

you plus me | heeseung

SUMMARY: it's been six years since heeseung stopped being your friend and the thought of him tagging along an annual camping tradition makes you feel like the world is crashing around you. one misunderstanding and one trip later makes heeseung re-evaluate all he knows, and it makes you believe there might be life after love.

NOTES: first full length fic!!!!!!! enjoy :) x

PAIRING: heeseung x fem!reader (featuring enhypen)

PLAYLIST: added march 17 - find it here

WORD COUNT: 34.1K

WARNINGS: fluff, angst, mentions of poor relationships with parental figures, mentions of infidelity, bad friendships, smut in the form of: fingering, oral (f. receiving), creampie.

***

“Please don’t make me go.”

“Y/N, you already said yes. We’re only gonna be gone for a week.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Jungwon. You just said that Heeseung is gonna be there.” 

Your best friend sighs and sits down on your bed, inspecting the duffle bag you have that’s half-packed. Your clothes are haphazardly strewn all over your bedding while you plead with him to no avail. You’re so desperate that you consider getting on your knees to beg.

“I’m sorry for telling you now, but he was able to get people to cover his shift last minute and paid for a spot on the kayaking rental.” 

“If he’s going, I’d rather save us all the trouble and stay at home.” Jungwon watches you cross your arms over your chest. “Every time we’re in the same room, it’s just a matter of time before things become awkward.” 

“We’ll be outside in the suuuun,” Jungwon says, tilting his head to the side and giving you those amused eyes that he always gives you when he’s trying to convince you to do something with him. You scoff and look away. It almost works. 

“I bet that it’ll be worse since we have a few things planned with the guys already.”

“So what? You two don’t get along. Big deal. We’ve already made reservations to secure a spot on the campsite and set a deposit for kayak rentals.”

“Won, I think you and I view Heeseung very differently. He doesn’t just not like me. He hates me.” 

“Hate is a wrong word.” 

You huff. “I don’t think you grasp just how weird it is every time we’re together. You could cut the tension with a knife.”

“Seriously, Y/N. It’s one week. I’m sure you can survive that. You’ve never missed a camping trip and it’s the first time all of our friends are coming.” Jungwon deadpans and throws a shirt towards your chest, which you hastily grab after being startled by his sudden movement. You know better than to argue with him when he gets like this. “Just help me pack your clothes, dude. Jay’s gonna be here to pick us up tomorrow morning, and you don’t want to be under-packed.” 

You relent and grumble. “Are you still staying over?”

He nods. “My apartment’s in the opposite of where we’re going, and I didn’t want to make him drive an extra twenty minutes since he needs to pick Riki up. Just need to drop Maeumi off at my mom’s before coming back here. ” Your eyes fall for a flat second before you squash that feeling down.

“I didn’t invite you over, you know.” 

“No, but don’t pretend like you’re not excited,” Jungwon says with a laugh as he pulls your clothes out of the bag and starts to readjust the clothing you’ve folded poorly. Seeing your best friend smile tugs a bit at your heartstrings and you can’t say that you aren’t happy to have him with you. “We should get you packed now so you don’t stress out later.” 

Begrudgingly, you allow Jungwon to sort out your clothes for you and pull last minute items you’ve yet to pack. It annoys you watching him be so calm when you’re simmering with worry. But you know he’s right—you’ve invested some money into this getaway, and it’ll be the last big outing before you move away from Korea for a year-long job opportunity in Okayama before pursuing your Master’s degree. Jungwon knows you a little too well, and sometimes it irks you. 

The end-of-summer camping trip is always one for the books. For as long as you can remember, the two of you have been going camping just before everyone goes back to school to celebrate the beginning of a new academic year with your families. But this time, the trip wasn’t just about continuing an annual tradition. It was also to commemorate a new chapter in your life. 

You’re a year older than Jungwon. He’s known you since you were obsessed with learning how to double dutch, and you’ve known him since he first learnt how to ride a bike. The two of you started out as neighbors when you moved into the house next to his, and his family had adopted your own like old friends, eventually inviting you and your parents into their annual camping tradition. Even when dynamics changed and people left, the tradition was the only thing that remained a constant for you.

This is the first summer that your loved ones announced they wouldn’t be coming along. They all thought it was time for you to embark on new traditions with new people, and nobody seemed to mind the change that much except for you. Jungwon had been ecstatic about it since he invited his friend, Jake, to the camping trip last year. You’d been wary at first since Jake is friends with Heeseung, but he never brought up your confusing arch-nemesis and chose to have a great trip before you all started university again.  

Sure, you had a lot of fun. You might even consider last year’s trip as one for the books. But your mom pulling out of the camping trip and everyone around you agreeing that it was for the best made you feel like your world was crumbling around you.

When you graduated university three months ago (Jungwon swears he didn’t cry, but you know better than to believe him), the weight of leaving your home started to sink in. In the blink of an eye, Jungwon wouldn’t be a twenty minute drive, and hanging out with all of your friends wouldn’t be as easy as it once was. You’d be in Japan all alone.

This past summer has been a whirlwind as you tried to do everything under the sun, savoring each moment until you wouldn’t be able to anymore. Jungwon’s been a good sport about it, never once complaining when you drag him to your latest adventure. He deals with your sudden shift in mood from happy to sad, letting you cry on his shoulder and braving the cliche words you say when telling him you’ll miss him a lot. 

Unlike past seasons, this is the first summer you haven’t seen Heeseung very often. Lee Heeseung, who usually keeps his head down and minds his business, always seems to have a bone to pick whenever his eyes settle on you. It confuses you to no end, and he keeps his quips to a minimum when your mutual friends are around, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering what you must’ve done to make him act like that towards you. It’s a shame because that small childhood crush you always had on him was squashed the first time he ignored your presence. 

None of your friends comment on it much. They’re used to the dynamic between the both of you because it's been years of this. Elementary school saw the two of you become friends for the first time and middle school brought more friends into the group. It was in high school that things changed and Heeseung started ignoring you out of nowhere until one Thursday afternoon when he’d told you to leave him alone after pestering him about his change in behavior. 

The odd tension followed you into university and continued to seep into your life. You don’t think you’ve ever been in a room with Heeseung where he’s been anything but nonchalant towards you, often acting like you aren’t there to begin with. You do your best to put up with it and plaster a smile on your face, but six years have gone by, and you don’t think you can handle a seventh. All of your friends seemed to have moved past it. You don’t know why you can’t.

“Don’t think about Heeseung,” Jungwon says with a sigh. “In fact, don’t think at all. Let me handle everything and enjoy this trip before you move to Okayama, okay?”

“Okay, fine. But I want to see Maeumi.”

Jungwon snorts. “She’s gonna be real pissed when she doesn’t see you for a year, you know.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jungwon knows you like the back of your hand and has seen what you bring on these trips enough to know what you like to have in your duffle. He packs things you neglected to pull out because your mind has been elsewhere. As much as he wants to flick your head and tell you to quit overthinking so you can help him, he did tell you to let him handle everything. 

Your best friend makes you triple check that the two of you didn’t miss anything before heading back to his apartment to fetch Maeumi. She jumps into your arms when you squat to pick her up and won’t allow Jungwon to pet her white fur body while she’s nestled against you. This fondness and the familiar jab of Jungwon’s elbow to your ribcage make your heart ache despite the sweet moment. You’re really going to miss home. 

Ever the concerned mothers your mom and Jungwon’s are, they send you with a tray full of sweets for the road. They make you tell them exactly when you’ll be picked up and by who (“Jongseong, Eomma,” Jungwon says for the umpteenth time) and when you plan to come back. His dad gives you a spare bucket hat for when you’re on the water and an old sweater from his college days when Jungwon complains about how you never pack enough layers. The gesture feels warm since you consider his father to be somewhat of your own.

Leaving them to go back to your house feels a bit bittersweet. A lot of your belongings sit in storage boxes in the garage from when you moved out of your campus apartment upon graduating. Jungwon decided to get an apartment for himself with the money he saved from his part-time job as a busboy at a local chain restaurant. Staying over with you makes it seem silly when you remember he used to live next door. 

It’s nine in the evening when the two of you get ready for bed. Jungwon puts your bags by the front door so neither of you would forget while you finish brushing your teeth. He grabs extra blankets from the linen closet and settles onto your L-shaped couch, pulling the fabric just underneath his chin. Your heart feels like it’s sinking in on itself when you think about how this might be the last time you’re able to be so casual around him. 

“Stop overthinking,” he says in the quiet of the night, as if he can hear the thoughts in your head. The living room lights are off and the moonlight is what’s responsible for illuminating the space. 

You refrain from throwing your pillow at him. “I’m not overthinking. You’re overthinking.” 

Jungwon snorts. “We both know that’s not true. I know you’re scared about Okayama and I know that’s why you’ve been on edge about Heeseung. You’re usually never this loud about it.” Like always, your best friend is right. 

“It’s hard not to.” Your meek voice makes Jungwon’s heart lurch. “Everything’s changed so fast. I feel like I didn’t get enough time to properly say goodbye to everyone.”

“You’ll be in Japan, not America. It’s not like we’ll never see you.” 

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to annoy you for boba and you won’t be coming over to have dinner with my mom and me." Jungwon frowns. Too caught up in making sure you were happy this summer, he hadn’t given it that much thought. “I know I won’t be far, but I’m scared that things will change too much.” 

For the first time today, Jungwon doesn’t know what to say to make you feel better. “I’ll miss you a lot.” 

“I know that, dummy. I guess…I feel like I’ve been dealing with a lifetime of shittiness and the universe wanted to throw another curveball at me.” Jungwon’s heart softens at your confession. He’s used to your quick jabs and sarcastic humor. Knowing you’ve more afraid than excited makes him upset. 

“The universe sucks,” he says, happy that it pulled a laugh out of you. “I’ll always be a phone call away and you’ll never have to worry about me ignoring you because we both know I’m gonna blow up your texts anyway.” 

“I can always count on you to annoy the hell out of me.” You can’t see his face, but no you already assume Jungwon’s sporting a shit-eating grin. Even if you both know the main reason why you’re afraid of living in Okayama, neither of you say it. You’re grateful that Jungwon doesn’t bring it up. “Still, though. You know how I am with change. I’m really scared that I’m going to hate it there and not have you to keep me company.”

“Life is crazy and unpredictable but that doesn’t mean you’re going to be miserable. I mean, you did a pretty good job of making sure both of us had happy childhoods even though I know you were hurting when we were younger.” 

“It’s really hard not to have expectations or think badly about the future when I feel like I took everything for granted.” 

“I know, Bug,” Jungwon says, using a nickname from your childhood he reserves for when he thinks you need an extra bit of comfort. “But you’re the best person I know. You didn’t do anything wrong. Life just…gets in the way.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

Jungwon is quiet for a moment. “Just please promise me you’ll try to have fun, okay?”

“I know I’ll have fun, Wonnie. I’m scared that I’ll have too much fun and be a sobbing wreck when we get back.” 

The two of you share a laugh. “Alright, fair. Promise me you won’t let Heeseung get under your skin.”

You groan. “If he doesn’t like me, that’s fine. I don’t need everyone to like me. But why go out of his way to act like I’m scum of the Earth?”

“Just ignore him, okay?” Jungwon pleads. “I know it’s uncomfortable but he paid for a last minute spot. I’ll tell him to be mature about it too.” 

And, well, part of you believes Heeseung will listen to Jungwon. Despite being on the younger side in your shared friend group, everyone seemed to listen to your best friend most of the time. Jungwon has an authoritative aspect to himself when he’s refrained from being the silly, happy-go-lucky guy you all know him to be. 

It’s quiet for a brief moment with the wind gently tapping on the windows behind you. “I don’t know why he doesn’t like me.” 

Truthfully, neither does Jungwon. “I’m sorry he’s putting you in a tough spot.” 

“Won, sometimes I really wonder if he hates my guts. He doesn’t talk to me and he never replies to my messages in the group chat. It’s like I don’t exist to him.”

“I think that might be a little extreme.” 

“It’s not and you know it.” 

Jungwon hums. “Well, at least you’ll get away from him when you move to Okayama.” Just like that, all of your worries come flooding right back.

“Yeah,” you say meekly. “I’ll have Okayama.”

You don’t see him, but you know Jungwon’s smiling since you agreed with him for the first time tonight. “That’s more like it. You have your whole future ahead of yourself, dude. Heeseung is just a blimp. In three weeks, he won’t matter because you’ll be having fun in Japan. Just think about that.” 

You try not to think about the fears and hesitations you have about starting anew. This time, you wouldn’t be going back to university after the camping trip. You’ll have a week and a half back home before you’re boarding your flight and saying goodbye to the place you’ve called home for the past two decades. Thinking about the future keeps you up until you hear Jungwon’s snores from the other side of the couch. 

Unsure of when your mom will be coming home, you snuggle further into the cushions and curl yourself into a ball before falling asleep. 

***

The next morning, Jungwon wakes up just before you do and you see him and your mom talking before they see you sit up. Barely noticing their hushed tones, you find yourself yawning more than normal and force the blankets off of your body. Your mom fixes you a cup of tea while Jungwon finishes packing, leaving you to freshen up and do the same. 

“You know, this trip will be good for you. I can feel it,” your mom says when you sip on your tea. It’s hot and nearly burns your tongue, but you don’t mind. Somehow, that sharp pain makes you feel even more alert than the strong brew. 

“You say that every year.” 

“Yeah, but this time I won’t be with you.” 

She laughs when she hears you huff. “Baby, I know you love it when I come on these trips but we’ll always have other ones. We’ll have next year too.” 

“I just don’t get why you and Jungwon’s parents don’t want to come on this one.” 

“Like we said all those months ago–it’s time for you guys to break tradition and spend some time with your friends before you move to Okayama. Next year, we can rent out the whole campsite if it means we can accommodate us, the Yangs, and your friends.” 

Frustration bubbles within you but you’re quick to shut that feeling. “I guess. It won’t be the same.”

“Jake’s going this year, right? You guys had a lot of fun last summer.” 

Well, she isn’t wrong. “Sure, yeah. I had fun with him.” Motherly instincts kick in and she bumps your hip with hers. 

“I know you’re scared about moving and seeing Heeseung. But you’re much braver than you give yourself credit for. Sometimes people are meant to be lessons and maybe Heeseung is the biggest one of all.”

You throw a fake-disgusted look at her. “Did Jungwon put you up to this?” She laughs and shakes her head, bringing you into her arms. Her lips on the crown of your head feel warm and you don’t shy away from her embrace. 

“No, but I carried you in my stomach and brought you to term. I like to think I know you pretty well.” 

You chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you do. I’ll try not to let Heeseung bother me too much.” 

“Jungwon’s pretty worried, even if he won’t say it. I told him to relax a little. This trip isn’t supposed to stress anyone out. It’s supposed to be a nice getaway before you go back to your normal life.” 

“I feel guilty for making Jungwon worry about me. I know he’s still friends with Heeseung, somewhat, even though nobody can figure out why he doesn’t like me so much.” 

“That old saying about boys being mean to their crushes is bullshit.” 

You pull away and gasp when you hear her swear. “Eomma!”  

“I used to swear like a sailor before I became a mom, you know.” Her eyes light up when she watches you giggle and from the corner of her eye, she can see Jungwon walking back into the living room. 

“Jay’s almost here,” he says, shoving his phone into his back pocket. 

“Does he want a cup of tea?” 

Jungwon shakes his head. “I think it’s better if we head out as soon as possible. We still have to pick up Riki and then we have a four hour drive to the campsite.” 

She looks at the two of you like she has stars in her eyes. Wordlessly, your mom pulls Jungwon underneath her other arm and kisses his forehead before kissing yours. “When did you two become so grown up, huh? It feels like just yesterday that Y/N stopped crying whenever she got papercuts.” 

Jungwon snickers. “She still does.”

“Hey!”

“And it feels like just yesterday that Jungwon stopped needing to sleep with a nightlight.” Jungwon’s cheeks turn pink and you snicker at him. 

“Time flew by fast,” says Jungwon. She lets the two of you go and the doorbell rings. “That must be Jay.” 

Indeed, Jay is standing behind the door and bows at your mom before she offers to help you both carry things to his car. They make small talk while the two of you put them into the trunk (he loves to cook while she loves to bake. Likewise, they enjoy talking about this with each other). Jay’s Jeep is far too expensive for you to wrap your head around, but you don’t complain when he offers to drive you in it. A yellow rubber duck sits on his dashboard and it never fails to bring a smile to your face whenever you see it. You wave goodbye to your mom and stick your body halfway out the window until you’re restricted by the seat belt.

“Can we get coffee on the way?” you ask, yawning into your palm. It’s eight o’clock and everyone’s agreed to arrive around noon for lunch and to relax before sleeping. 

“Yeah, good idea. Let’s pick up Riki and then stop somewhere.” 

Jay plugs his phone into the aux cord at a red light and turns on some music. You like driving with him because you always discover new songs you obsess over for the next few days. It brings a pang in your heart when you think about how this will have to stop when you move to Japan. The two of you have created many playlist blends and he’s curated a few for you. While you’re not as musically inclined like your friends may be, Jay is the only person who’s willing to break things down for you in depth so that you can understand them too. It’s nice, especially when he talks about his own musical talents. You can see why he loves music so much and you don’t mind if he sends you a million songs to listen to. He turns onto the freeway and you know you’re about to see Riki soon.

He’s about to be a first-year in the university you graduated from. He moved to Korea from Japan a few weeks prior to get a lay of the land and become more comfortable in his surroundings. Originally planning on enjoying your summer until he reached out to you, your mother chided your decision and told you to help Riki move into his new dormitory. 

It was the least you could do for your half-brother. 

Begrudgingly, you spent a lot of time making sure Riki felt comfortable and settled in when you could’ve been soaking up the sun. Maybe that’s why you were so adamant about hanging out with Jungwon whenever you could. Being around Riki made you feel drained because his mere presence was enough to remind you of why you started losing faith in people. 

The dorms aren’t too far from your house. The drive there is silent, save for the music coming from Jay’s stereo. It gives you plenty of time to think about what the next week or so might look like. Avoiding Heeseung is out of the question since there will be eight of you participating in the same activities together. You’re not worried about having to watch over Riki too much either. Before moving to Korea, he met Jungwon the first summer he spent a few weeks vacationing here and they instantly became friends. He introduced Riki to the people you’d be camping with too. Without fail, the seven of them were always up to no good when he was in town. 

Spending three weeks with him in your neighborhood felt like someone was trying to set your life ablaze. He was so young back then, barely speaking Korean until you had to translate conversations into Japanese for him. You tried to mask disdain for having to help him, but even then, Riki understood why you were hesitant to have him in your life. If he were in your position, he’d probably feel the same way about you. 

He didn’t come to Korea very often but started to when he had school recess for the holidays and summer breaks. Since he expressed an interest in attending university in Korea, it felt like the right decision to send Riki whenever school wasn’t in session. He’d stay with his paternal grandparents and saw you every so often when you were both invited to the same place. Neither of you made a real effort to keep up with each other on social media or over the phone. At this time, Riki followed you on Instagram and you hadn’t bothered to follow him back. In all honesty, you didn’t see the point. 

You held a lot of resentment over Riki for things you know you can’t blame him for. But with new life changes that came your way, Riki seemed like the perfect scapegoat. He feels it sometimes, the way you pull him in just to push him away when the moment gets too familiar. He shoves down his feelings, choosing to treasure when you laugh with him. 

The two of you are doing somewhat better nowadays. You followed him back on Instagram the night after you dropped him off at the airport at the behest of your grandparents. They insisted Riki arrive at the airport four hours early despite the flight’s duration equating to two and a half hours. You suspected they wanted to force you into spending a little bit of alone time with your half-brother and get to know each other. 

To your surprise, the two of you got along pretty well. Riki was a dweeb trying to mask himself as cool. You bought him ice cream (pretending like you didn’t see him smiling so hard that he forced it off of his face) and sat in your car for two hours to talk. He found out you were a genius when it came to mathematics, a subject he did not excel in, and you found out he’s in a hip hop dance crew and wants to study dancing in Korea. Riki showed you a few clips of him dancing and from the corner of your eye, you could see how happy he was to be sharing this moment with you. It made your heart twinge and guilt crept up your spine when you think of all the times you’ve blown him off. You said goodbye to him at the gate and he surprised you with the first hug he’s ever given you. 

Still, it’s a bit awkward when the two of you spend any time together without your friends acting as buffers. It irks you that Riki and Heeseung get along so well because they share similar interests and are often awake at the same time, especially during the midnight hour. Part of you wondered if Heeseung would tell you all about your “rivalry” and how the two of you didn’t get along. If he did, Riki never let you know it because he’s been the same Riki you’ve known since you first met him three years ago. 

You can tell Heeseung is a bit irritated, too, that your half-brother still chooses to be nice to you. In fact, you realize he’s annoyed at everyone about this, especially Jungwon. You don’t call him out on it because you know it’ll spark a useless argument that makes you and everyone else feel upset. How Heeseung has the energy and stamina to avoid you for hours on end is strange to you. 

You and Jungwon meet Riki at the front door while Jay gets out of the car to make room for his belongings and the lawn chairs his grandparents dropped off for this specific trip. There’s exactly eight of them and they somehow all fit into the rear with all of the other cooking gear he’s packed. You assume the other car has everything needed for pitching tents and fishing.

“Hi,” Riki says before you can acknowledge him. He steps forward like he’s about to throw his arms around you but stops himself. “Good morning.” 

“Morning, Riki,” you say while grabbing the duffle bag from his shoulder. “Let me put this in the car. You and Wonnie can load the chairs.” 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

It’s Riki’s first time on the camping trip and you find yourself a bit more nervous with him coming. He’s not someone who’s been camping before and you wonder if any of the other guys are going to look out for him. Jungwon, for as responsible as he is, tends to turn into a younger version of himself when he’s with your half-brother. You furrow your eyebrows when you put his duffle bag in Jay’s trunk as he rearranges and waits for the two boys to load everything in before settling back into the car. 

Riki and Jungwon immediately hop in the backseat and you’re quite pleased that you don’t have to call shotgun. They talk about things you don’t understand while Jay starts the car and resumes manning the aux cord. That strange feeling of nervousness creeps back into your stomach. You turn around and startle Riki when you look at him. 

“Do you have everything you need?” you ask him. 

“Yes,” Riki says with a nod. “I have my water bottle, my Swiss army knife, and sunblock.” 

“Bug spray?” 

“Jungwon says he’s bringing a few bottles.”

“Swimming trunks?”

“C’Mon, Y/N. We’re gonna be camping by a lake. That’s the first thing I packed.”

“Toothbrush?”

“Second thing I packed.”

“Enough shirts and socks?”

“Okay,” Jay says, pulling your wrist to get you to look at the road. “Riki’s got everything he needs and if he doesn’t, I’m sure someone else would let him use or borrow it.”

“I’m just making sure he’s got everything so we don’t need to stop somewhere,” you mutter, slinking into your seat while Jay sighs. You don’t catch it, but Riki sits behind you with a happy smile on his face. 

“Relax. We’re trying to make the most before summer ends. You deserve that too.” You know Jay’s right. He smiles when you fix your posture and hands you his phone. “You know my passcode. Queue up whatever you want.” 

You do just that, especially since Jungwon and Riki are engrossed in a conversation about God knows what. You think of interrupting them to ask what they want to listen to but ultimately decide to play a few songs you and Jay could jam out to and some from Jungwon’s playlists. You also try to remember the songs Riki has danced to in his Instagram videos and the musicians he posts on his stories and add them to the queue too. 

“Thanks for letting us come on this trip,” Jay tells you with chatter in the background, not once taking his eyes off of the road. “I know it’s a thing you and Jungwon do with your families.” 

“Eh, it was bound to happen anyway. Jake was the only one here last summer and I knew it was a matter of time.” 

“Still, I know how you’ve been feeling lately and it must be overwhelming to have so many people around you right now.” Damn. Jay is almost as receptive as Jungwon is. 

You don’t bother lying to him. “Yeah, I think I’m just scared about starting my life in Okayama. I know a few people but it’s not like here. I thought it was what I wanted to do when I accepted the position but now I can’t help but feel like I made a mistake.” 

“It’s not a mistake if you believed in it enough to do it all those months ago. I mean, there’s a reason why you’re moving.” 

“I guess.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, dude. You’re like, a fucking wizard when it comes to numbers and even Jake is speechless. You know how he feels about math and physics.” 

That makes you laugh. “It feels kinda nerdy to love math so much but fuck it. It got me a paid year’s worth of employment before I earn my Master’s.”

“See? Not so bad, isn’t it?” You suppose it’s not. “Junwon, can you please tell the others that we’re about to stop for coffee then be on our way?” You see the notifications on your phone. 

wonton: we just picked up riki

jaeyunnie: who’s we

wonton: me jay and yn

jaeyunnie: AYOOOOOOO YN

you: JAEYUNIE :DD

jaeyunnie: idk why i thought jay was driving alone. whatever this is about to be the best camping trip of my Life. even better than last year

sun sun: is it just me or is jake always really fucking dramatic. also i’m lowkey offended i wasn’t invited last year …

jaeyunnie: shut Up u know nothing about me sunoo. and u were in bejing how tf could you have gone with us

sun sun: so much attitude 🙄

fanghoon: yn save me PLEASE. i’m in a car filled with animals

sun sun: HEY

jaeyunnie: who are you calling an animal big guy ?

you: sunghoon what makes you think i can do that 

you: jk come over here ~i will protect you~

fanghoon: Thank You. It’s Literally 8am

jaeyunnie: u guys need to become morning people

you: pass

sun sun: PASS 

sun sun: noona we are the same 🙂‍↕️

you: i know that’s right

wonton: we’re gonna stop for coffee before heading to the campsite 

jaeyunnie: oh shit we should make heeseung stop for coffee too

wonton: jay says to stop blowing up his phone in the group chat. we’ll text you when we stop for gas and when we’ve arrived. bye!!!

***

After one stop to fill up Jay’s gas tank (you paid for him as a thank you) and a snack run (Jungwon and Riki split the cost), the four of you are at the campsite in no time. You’re all somewhat grateful that it’s a little bit cloudy outside because the sun was killing you on the two-hour mark of your road trip. The weather is a little cooler and you tug on the sweater that Jungwon’s dad gave you.  

You see your other friends park just after you do. Jungwon and Riki are first to get out of the car and greet them like they haven’t seen the group in years while you and Jay take your time getting out of your seats. Since when did your joints become so stiff? You blame it on the fact that you woke up from a nap just a few minutes before you arrived. 

“This place was hard to find,” you hear Heeseung say from a distance. You try not to let it dampen your mood. 

“Where’s Y/N?” You’re sure that was Jake. 

“Waking up, probably,” says Jungwon. “She took a nap in the car and we just woke her up.” 

“The drive wasn’t even that long.” You assume your best friend gives Heeseung some kind of reaction before the latter apologizes quickly. 

Jake is by the passenger door as you open it and looks at you like a dog who wants to be taken out on a walk. He holds the handle to the door and bounces in his shoes until you push yourself out of the car. The loud slamming of the door behind you makes you wince. Jake pulls you into a hug faster than you can process. 

“I missed you dude,” Jake says. He puts his arm over your shoulder and slowly leads you to the group. “Did you have a good summer?”

“You know, despite the incredibly hot weather that made me feel like I would sweat to death, summer wasn’t so bad. How was Brisbane?”

“I missed the heat,” Jake says with a pout. “But it was pretty good to be back home for a month. I really missed my parents and my brother.” 

“I’m sure they missed you too.”

Jungwon spots you. “Your eyes are so puffy.” He takes his thumbs and tries to put more color underneath your eyes and onto your cheeks. Riki, Sunoo, and Jay have slipped away to start setting up camp.

Jake laughs beside you when you swat Jungwon’s hands away and lets his own arms fall when you lurch forward to give him a taste of his own medicine. He always liked that Jungwon was able to bring out a childish side to you because he’s always seen you carry yourself like you had to shoulder the weight of the world. Watching you chase Jungwon as he tried to escape your pinching fingers made him a bit more happier knowing you’d have friends like him to return to when you came back from Japan. 

Heeseung, however, rolls his eyes and speaks low. “She’s so childish.” 

“Dude,” Sunghoon sighs in exasperation. “We’re gonna be with her for a week. You need to quit making those comments.” 

Heeseung shrugs. “What? It’s not like she can hear what I’m saying.” 

“Yeah, but we can. We’re friends with her too, Heeseung.” 

The eldest tries to hold in his disdain. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll keep shit to myself.” 

“Just for now,” Jake encourages. “Y/N never starts anything with you but sometimes you say something that goes a little too far. No one is asking you to be her best friend.”

“Just remember it was Y/N’s mom and Jungwon’s parents who invited all of us,” Sunghoon reminds his friend. “We wouldn’t be here without them and if I recall correctly, you really wanted to come when you found out we were all planning to go.” Heeseung wants to argue and justify why he’s annoyed but can’t find a good enough reason. 

“You’re right,” he relents. “I’ll make nice but do not expect me to do shit for her.”

“We aren’t.” Sunghoon pats Heeseung’s back. “You’ve got this. It’s supposed to be a fun trip before we all go back to reality. All we want is one week where you two don’t create tension.” 

“I can do that.” Jake and Sunghoon share a look between the two of them when Heeseung isn’t looking and pray that he means it.

When Jungwon decides he’s out of breath, he accepts his fate and runs into Sunghoon’s arms when you outstretch your arms to pinch his cheeks and pull them apart like he’s made out of dough. The broken laughter coming from your best friend makes you laugh too. Everyone, save for Heeseung, laughs when Jungwon’s face becomes distorted due to your fingers. 

Eventually, you pull away from him and he starts to grab his duffle bag and the lawn chairs. The three of you follow suit once you realize you’re missing a few people. You lift your duffle over your shoulder and put on your hiking backpack while trying to hold more lawnshairs than you can carry. 

“Woah,” Sunghoon says as he catches a falling chair. “Let me help.”

“Thanks, Hoon. I don’t know why I thought I could carry two chairs at once.” 

“You’re strong but you’re also carrying a fuck ton of things.” 

He smiles at you and it makes you laugh. You haven’t seen much of Sunghoon over the summer because he’s been working nonstop at a local ice rink, teaching kids how to skate in back to back summer classes. Sunghoon is sometimes too tired to hang out after work or falls asleep on your couch whenever he hangs out with you to watch movies. Your mom thinks it’s a bit endearing and never has the heart to wake him up. Between Sunghoon’s impromptu sleepovers, Jungwon and Sunoo’s unannounced visits, Jay’s cooking and baking sessions in your kitchen, and Jake appearing out of nowhere every few nights for dinner, you’re starting to think your house might have an unspoken open door policy. 

Heeseung is the only one who doesn’t frequent your house if you don’t count Riki, who doesn’t spend enough time in Korea to become a permanent fixture. The only time Heeseung has been to your house is when he dropped Jungwon off after he had one too many to drink and he’d been adamant about going to your place because it was closer to the bar in comparison to your apartment. One awkward conversation later and Heeseung was out of your driveway. Jungwon woke up with a hangover the next morning and you were grateful your mother chose that weekend to take a girl’s trip with her best friends.

You don’t invite Heeseung over like you do with the others. The only reason why you haven’t deleted his phone number is because of the big group chat you’re in to discuss plans. He never responds to your texts in it and you don’t respond to him unless absolutely necessary. Sometimes you catch him laughing at your messages only to retract it when he realizes it’s you who sent it. It’s been six years of dealing with this and as much as it confuses you, part of you has learned to tune out this behavior and focus on the other friends you do share. 

Sunghoon must know you’re thinking about his friend because he looks at you like he’s been trying to get your attention. “Sorry,” you apologize. “What did you say?” 

“I said thanks for letting us crash your trip. I know this is something you and Jungwon do with your families every year. Can’t help but feel a little special that we get to come along.” 

You coo at him. “Do you remember when you could barely look me in the eye, let alone tell me something as sweet as that?” Sunghoon rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, shut up. You know I’m an introvert.” You bump your hip with his. 

“I’m just messing with you. But in all seriousness, it’ll be fun having you guys around.”

“I’m excited to see what you and Jungwon do every year.” 

“Nothing too out of the ordinary. Swim, eat a lot of food, kayak, hike, the usual. But there’s one spot we usually go to, just he and I, that’s away from the main spot on the lake.” 

“How’d you find it?”

“Jungwon found it by accident when we were younger. He said it was gonna be our secret spot and told me not to tell our parents. I think the whole campground panicked for an hour or so until somebody found us in the clearing.” 

Sunghoon snorts. “Yeah, that sounds like you two.” 

“They told us to tell them where we’d be and promised to leave us alone if we gave them a heads up. It’s not really noticeable if you don’t know where to look, but it’s so beautiful. It leads to another part of the lake and it’s always so peaceful and quiet.” 

“In that case, I’m honored that you’re showing us.” 

“Eh, it’s about time we add new members to the club.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrow. “There’s a club now?”

“Mhm. Gotta pay me two fish to join.” 

“Like you know how to fish.” You bump your hip with his again.

“There are things you guys don’t know about me, Park. Just wait and see.” 

Sunghoon lets the conversation end when he finds himself at the campsite where Jay and Riki have started to organize things and make spots for tents. It’ll take a few trips for all of the supplies and camping gear to be fully unloaded so you each take turns until everything is sitting in a big pile, waiting to be sorted. 

“Okay, I’m a bit out of my depth,” says Sunoo, who kicks around a rock as he speaks. “I, for one, will need help pitching a tent.”

“I’ll help you,” you say, nodding for him to come over. 

“You can pitch a tent?” Heeseung asks like he doesn’t believe you. 

You nod and pick up a bag. “Yeah. I do this every year.” You don’t say it with any bite in your tone but Heeseung, who forgot this fact, feels like an idiot for making a fool of himself in front of his friends. He chooses to look away from you for now. 

“We have three tents we need to put up,” Jay says. “I’m thinking we pitch those now, have a snack and water break, and then start to organize before we eat lunch.” 

“Sounds good.” You agree. “I’d rather have everything set up so we can enjoy our evening. Besides, we should do this before it gets dark.” 

“Right.” Jungwon clears his throat and hands out each bag, assigning your friends based on the size of the tent. Everybody gets to work, clearing the flat ground of rocks and debris before deciding where your tents will go. You all hammer the groundsheet into the dirt before assembling the poles.

You teach Sunoo the basics and give him pointers when he struggles to connect the joints. He’s learning much faster than he gives himself credit for because in no time, he’s jumping for joy when he finally manages to grasp what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s nice to watch him be so happy over this, as Sunoo originally declined the invitation to go camping since he isn't a huge fan of the outdoors. But now it’s like you would’ve never guessed that because he’s pretty quick to pick up your lessons.

Your tent is pitched up in no time. You roam around like a camp counselor to see if anybody needs help. Jake, Heeseung, Jay, and Jungwon seem to know what they’re doing and have the biggest tent halfway set up. Sunghoon and Riki look like they need a bit of assistance. Sunghoon’s figuring it out quickly while Riki fumbles with his fingers. 

“You have to do it slowly,” you say from beside him. Riki hands you the attachments when you beckon him to hand it over and show him slowly. “Like this. See? If you do it slowly, they’ll catch easier and it’ll be smoother when we feed them into the tent.” 

“Oh.” Riki nods when your trick works. “Thanks, Y/N.” 

The three of you pitch up your tent too, with Riki handing you the pegs to hammer them into the ground after zipping the door. Sunghoon dusts off his hands on his shorts and takes a big gulp from his water bottle. Sunoo’s mom packed enough fruit and onigiri for a midday snack, and all eight of you feast quietly after exerting more power than anyone anticipated. You really need to start working out again. 

“Before we clear out and organize everything else, we should probably figure out who sleeps where,” Jungwon says. “That way, we can put our stuff in our respective tents and have that out of the way.” 

“Good idea,” Jake says. “How should we do this? Rock, paper, scissors?” 

“Sure, but I think Y/N and I should share a tent.” Heeseung rolls his eyes at Jungwon and you see it from the corner of your vision.

“What?” Riki asks. “Why?” 

“Because all of you get too comfortable around her and forget she doesn’t want to hear you snore or see your boxers in the morning.” Jungwon laughs. “It’ll be easier since we’ve been camping together anyway. She’s used to rooming with me and I’m used to waking up next to a Zombie.” 

“I hate you.” Jungwon merely smiles at you.  

“You just want to get out of sharing a tent with three people,” says Sunghoon. Jungwon nods. 

“That too.” 

“Rock, paper, scissors it is,” Sunoo says, getting his hands ready. 

They all battle one another until the rooming situation is sorted. You and Jungwon will share a tent while Sunoo and Jay share the other smaller one. That leaves Jake, Sunghoon, Riki, and Heeseung sharing the big one. You all throw your belongings in before helping Jay organize the portable stove, chairs, and other things that need to be stored properly. 

When all is said and done an hour later, Jay and Sunghoon start a barbecue. All of you are spent, sagging your bodies in the camping chairs that are positioned around the campfire. You know you’ll need to fetch some wood from the outpost if you all want to have a bonfire. But that can be a task for later.

“Your mom makes the best onigiri,” Riki groans as he shoves another bite in his mouth. “It reminds me so much of home.” 

Sunoo smiles proudly. ��She’s the best, isn’t she?” Jake, who is busy stuffing his face with sliced watermelons, agrees. They pick at the leftovers from snack time and Jay chides them for it.

“Don’t spoil yourselves too much or you won’t have an appetite for lunch.” 

“He’s so bossy,” Riki says as he leans over towards you. “But it’s kinda nice having someone who does shit and takes charge.” 

You nod. “Mhm. Usually Jungwon and I are the ones spearheading everything but Jay’s got some camping experience. I’m fine taking the backseat.” 

“Do you camp a lot? Besides this tradition, I mean.” Riki watches you shake your head. 

“No, not really. This is as much as I can handle. It’s more like a gigantic lake house with hot showers and a few convenience stores miles away to replenish food if we run out of anything.”

“It looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s because I do, Riki.” 

He blushes. “Right. Thanks for helping me with my tent earlier.” 

“Don’t sweat it. You’ll be able to do it without my help in no time.” That brings a shimmer of hope to the younger boy sitting next to you. 

Heeseung avoids looking at you when Riki purposefully sits beside you on the empty lawn chair. He doesn’t completely understand why the younger boy likes you so much. Heeseng thinks you’re a nuisance and that you overstay your welcome at hangouts. But Riki clings to you like you’re his lifeline and he gets that you’re his half-sister and all, but you weren’t the most welcoming to him when he started hanging out in Korea more often. Riki would never tell Heeseung the details about his past and he never tried to pry past what the youngest would reveal. Six years of avoiding you made him forget every single detail he once knew about you when you’d both been somewhat friendly towards one another. 

There were some days when you wouldn’t make room in your schedule to see Riki as often as he’d wanted you to and he lamented that to Heeseung. But every time he’d start to talk about how unfair it was for you to pick and choose when you got to see our younger brother, Riki would defend you every time. He didn’t get it, feeling the frustration bubble to the surface before realizing that it wasn’t his place to question why Riki acted the way he did. Sure, he was younger than Heeseung, but he respected family matters and didn’t care about you enough to figure you out anyway. 

He keeps these feelings to himself mostly. The friends you share don’t really understand why he has a distaste for you and he refuses to elaborate because the memory is too painful, and instead chooses to bury these feelings. It’s nobody’s business anyway. He certainly doesn’t want to start anything with Riki involved because he would feel guilty for putting him in an uncomfortable position, and because he knows he’d defend you regardless. Even though you’ve made progress to open up yourself to Riki, Heeseung still scoffs whenever he sees the two of you together. 

By the time lunch is done, all eight of you are crowded around a table built into the ground, feasting on meat and vegetables. Everybody thanks Jay for cooking and the seven of you agree to clean up after every meal so Jay doesn’t have to work twice as hard. You’re not sitting too far from Heeseung (to both of your dismay). Sunghoon purposely sat in between you both when he realized the other empty spots were filling up and didn’t want to chance an uproar during mealtime. 

“So,” Sunoo starts to say after closing the bottle cap on his cola. “What’s on the agenda for today? Personally, I think we should take it easy until tomorrow.” 

“I agree.” Jungwon nods. “We’ve done a lot and drove for a while. I say we relax and do whatever until dinner.” 

“I’m going to nap, that’s for sure.” You all snicker at Jay. Typical. 

“Me too,” says Riki. 

“Is anyone up for walking around the lake?” Jake asks. 

“I could go,” Sunghoon says from next to you. 

“Sure,” you finally say, “why not.” 

“I think I’ll hang back here.” Heeseung says it almost immediately and it stings a bit. “I’ll probably nap too.” 

“I want to read.” Sunoo changes the direction of the conversation before anyone can pick up on the awkwardness and you throw him a smile. 

“I think I’ll join you.” Jungwon pulls a book from his backpack and the pair begin to brainstorm where they should sit. Natural chatter falls back into place and you focus on eating, as your stomach has been grumbling pretty loud. 

Heeseung breaks the silence. “Can someone pass me the pineapple?” You don’t register that your arm has moved on its own accord and pass the container to him. Heeseung gives you a look you can’t decipher and it’s only then you realize what you’ve done. Sunghoon gulps. 

“Thanks,” Heeseung mutters, taking the pineapple from your hands. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t make a comment about how he isn’t craving it anymore and watch him eat some from the corner or your eye. 

By nightfall, all of you are too exhausted to sit around the campfire. The hot shower stalls provide the kind of warmth you would go crazy without and you find yourself contemplating underneath the water longer than you’d like to admit. A plethora of thoughts run across your mind and they drift from the events of today, Riki, Heeseung, and moving to Okayama. Your friends don’t bring up the move and you’re grateful for that. 

When you return from the shower and from brushing your teeth, Jungwon asks if you’re okay. You lie and say you’re fine but exhausted and he lets it go, too tired himself to pry the truth out of you. The last thing you think about is Heeseung. You send a silent prayer out into the universe and ask that the two of you are able to make nice during this camping trip. Then, you fall asleep.

***

Everybody is up bright and early after a good night’s sleep. All of you agree today’s the best day for a short hike to get used to the terrain before you explore harder trails. You and Jungwon know the hike like the back of your hand and lead the group expertly through trees and dirt pathways. All of you have a backpack for your essentials, and each of you has packed a portable lunch for when you reach the top of the peak at the end of the trail. 

Halfway into the hike is not as uphill as you recalled it to be. The scenery is still breathtaking and you temporarily forget that Heeseung is burning eyes in the back of your skull. Last night’s prayer seems to be working, as he hasn’t said a word to you or argued with you when you started leading everybody towards the start of the hiking path. You’re not sure whether his feelings about you changed or if he knows you’re the literal expert since you grew up here, but you don’t think you care either way. 

Heeseung makes a false step and twists his ankle. You hear the commotion behind you and turn around. He stumbles and a sharp edge of a branch catches his thigh, creating a gash that starts to bleed. Everyone crowds around him when they realize it and make him sit on a large rock and he feels like shouting at you to back away when you start to walk towards him.

“Guys, I’m fine. It’s not that bad.” He feels more embarrassed than hurt. 

Jake looks concerned. “Dude, your leg is bleeding.” 

“It’s just a cut.” 

“Let me inspect it.” 

You pull your backpack off of you and take out your water bottle and first aid kit. You drop to your knees to inspect the wound and Heeseung refrains from coughing at the awkward position from where he’s sitting. You don’t seem phased by it, however, as you push up the fabric of his shorts and use your water bottle to clean the dirt from his wound. 

Your face is somewhat close to his leg and he jumps when your hand touches his thigh. The guys mistake his sudden movements as pain and rush to help stabilize him. Heeseung insists that he’s fine and brushes them off of him. He won’t admit that his fidgeting is because the last thing he expected you to do was patch him up. He figures Jungwon would be good at that kind of stuff, not you. 

Heeseung winces at the sudden contact of water in his wound. “Okay, maybe it hurts a little.”

“You won’t need stitches or anything, but I should get you cleaned up and put a bandage on it.”

Heeseung watches as you do your best to clean it with the wipes you have and ointment that will keep any debris out. The wound isn’t too gnarly but it’s no small papercut either. He watches as you expertly deal with the wound and keeps quiet, even though he feels uncomfortable and wishes he could turn back time to avoid any of this. It’s awkward to know your hands are on him because he feels like ants are crawling up his leg.

“I think we should probably go back and rest a little,” says Jungwon. “We can eat lunch there and maybe hang out for a bit.”

“Good idea,” Heeseung mutters when you’ve stepped away from him. Sunghoon and Riki each help him up and allow the eldest to use them as crutches as he limps back to the base. He mutters a quiet ‘thank you’ in your direction and doesn’t pay attention to see your reaction. You feel like you got your hopes up for nothing because he turns his back towards you before you can smile at him. Defeated, you try to put your best self on display and follow everybody back to your tents. 

Heeseung decides to rest on the chairs and eat his lunch there. You aren’t particularly eager to spend any time with him and figure he’d appreciate it if you weren’t around while he recovered. You take your sack of lunch and tell Jungwon you’ll be walking around the lake like you did yesterday. He tells you to be safe and then you’re on your way. 

“Hey, wait up!” You turn around to see Jake running until he’s caught up with you. It’s a bit unfair how he barely runs out of breath when he jogs. It’s definitely because he’s an athlete, but it’s still unfair. 

“Care to join?” 

“Can’t a guy accompany his friend on a nice, brisk walk?” 

That makes you laugh. “Yeah, sure.” You fall in a quiet tandem enjoying the silence and the environment for a while. “I had a lot of fun camping last year. I think my favorite part was kayaking or when Jungwon accidentally dropped his entire s’more in the fire.” 

You snicker at the memory. “His mom was so mad that he kept eating the marshmallows.” 

“Yeah, it was pretty funny. I still feel kind of embarrassed that I managed to flip over in my kayak somehow.” 

“Eh, it makes for a good story.”

“It’s not my fault Jungwon slammed into me!” Jake defends when you begin to laugh. “Seriously, Y/N. How the fuck do you put up with that menace?” 

“The same way you do, dummy.”

Jake bites into his sandwich. “I love Jungwon.”

“Me too.” 

“Our parents loved having you come too. Jungwon’s dad loves fishing with people.”

“I still can’t believe how many we were able to catch. I’m sad the guys weren’t there because they keep shitting on me for not being able to catch any when we go together.” 

You bump your shoulder against his. “They don’t know what I know. I’m sure my mom has pictures somewhere.” 

“How is she, by the way?” Jake asks. 

“Eomma’s doing alright. She just got a huge bonus at work for managing a really difficult client and completing this campaign she’s been working on. It stressed her out for months but I’m happy if she’s happy.” 

“That’s awesome. I’m happy for her.” 

“How are things with your family? How’s Layla?” 

“My parents are actually on a trip to the States to see some family and my brother just got promoted at his job. I’m super proud of him. He worked really hard for it. Layla’s doing okay too. She’s staying with my cousin until I come back.” 

“I miss her.”

“She probably misses you too.” 

The two of you settle into a comfortable pace and eat your lunches. There are no awkward moments with Jake. Something about his personality makes everyone around him divulge their deepest secrets and he always seems to know what to say, too. You haven’t been close to him for very long but you know him well enough to know that he’ll keep anything you say between the two of you. 

“I know you probably feel a little awkward with Heeseung around but you’ve been handling it really well.” Jake’s tone softens and he looks straight ahead as he talks, breaking the temporary silence. “I don’t know what goes on in his head half the time.” 

“I just wish I knew what I did so I can apologize and fix it. He gets mad every time I ask and accuses me of bringing up bad memories for him. I don’t know what to do, Jake. It feels like he gets along with everybody in my life but me.” 

“We all know Heeseung’s been through a lot and has trouble talking about them sometimes. He’s been in therapy but we had to really convince him to set an appointment.” 

You scoff. “Sounds like him.’ Jake doesn’t disagree. 

“I guess I understand that having to deal with shitty cards makes a person go insane.”

“Sure. I just wish I wasn’t the scapegoat.” Jake winces but tries not to let you see. 

“Sorry you’re going through this. Sunghoon and I made him swear to be on his best behavior.” 

“It’s a little awkward still but at least he isn’t picking a fight with me. Although, who knows how long that’ll last.”

“Have a little more faith in him, Y/N.” You deadpan and he holds his hand up in mock surrender. “Okay, next topic. How are you feeling about Japan?” 

Your shoulders slump. ”Awful.” 

Jake’s head quirks like he doesn’t understand. “What do you mean? You were really excited when you got the job offer.” 

“I know but…it doesn’t feel right anymore. My whole life is about to change and I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“You don’t have to know anything. In fact, I’d be a little worried if you had your shit figured out.” You punch his arm. “It’s really cool that you’re leaving Korea to pursue your dream. I know how hard it is to leave everything behind for a better opportunity.”

You look at him softly and nod because you know he empathizes with you. Back when you first met him, he��d moved from Australia to Korea because your university had one of the best physics programs in the world. He knew how to speak your native Korean but wasn’t confident in conversing back then, and you had your fair share of mentoring him in formal greeting and the basics when it came to interacting with people. Jake definitely understands where you’re coming from and doesn’t want you to feel alone. 

“We’ll always be here for you too,” he reassures. “We won’t be too far away and you can come home whenever you have the time and aren’t working.” 

“I know, but it feels like everything in my life is changing at the same time and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I wish I was a freshman again. I wish I could turn back time and really enjoy my life before I make a life changing decision.” 

“You’re really torn up about this, aren’t you?”

Nodding, you look at the ground beneath you. “There are so many things I’ve been dealing with over the past few years or so and it feels like I’m giving up on things if I just leave. Everything feels so scary, you know? I feel like I’m being suffocated every time I open my eyes. 

“On top of starting a new job in a place I’m not that familiar with, I’m leaving my mom behind. I’ve never lived farther than an hour away from her and I hate knowing that I won’t be able to see her whenever I want. Not to mention Riki studying in Korea means I’ll be spending even more time with him.”

Jake chooses not to comment and nods with his lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t know what’s going on between the two of you but has his suspicions after hearing your hushed conversations with Jungwon. Even before the two of you became as close as you are, Jake has always looked out for you because he knows Jungwon loves you like a sister. It was easy to tell that you’d fallen into some sort of depression as you graduated high school and barely managed to pull yourself out of it before graduating university. 

Riki has always been a sore subject for you. Jake doesn’t bring him up unless you do, no matter how much he adores the younger boy. The relationship you have with him is complicated but it tears him up inside to see Riki longing for you when the two of you are together. Jake knows there’s a great deal of tension that follows both of you too. He could feel it the first time you brought up having a half-brother and started to put the pieces together. 

“I love that Riki’s more comfortable in Korea. I really do,” you confess. “I love that my friends get along with him too, but part of me is scared that you’ll all forget about me since he’ll be here to take my place.” 

“You are not replaceable.” Jake looks at you when he says it. “You’re about to chase your dream, Y/N. None of us will throw our friendship down the drain just because we won’t be able to see you everyday. Riki is great but he’s not you.”

He’s pleased when you lift the corners of your mouth into a small smile. “Thanks, Jake. I don’t know where this fear came from.” 

“You’re dealing with a lot. It’s understandable. I don’t know much about what’s going on between you and Riki, and you don’t have to tell me, but you should know that he loves you a lot and would never think about dishonoring you while you’re gone.” 

“I know. I have a lot of pent up emotions and therapy feels like it isn’t working. I guess I should give myself some more time. But with the move, it’s been hard to focus on anything. I don’t want Riki to feel like I don’t want him in my life but it’s hard to make room for somebody you didn’t know existed until a few years ago.” 

Jake nods. “Yeah, I get that. It feels a bit weird making space for someone who calls himself your brother, isn’t it?” 

“He has every right to. I mean, he’s my half-brother. But I don’t know…I want to be at a place where I can look at him and not see how much my life has changed for the worst. He’s such a talented kid with a bright future and I hate that I project my feelings onto him.” 

“Baby steps,” Jake reassures. “You’ve been through a lot of shit. Both you and your mom have and you've both handled it really well.” 

“I’m glad it looks that way because I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread.” 

“Well, that’s what it means to be in your early twenties.”   

The two of you decide to head back to the campsite when it starts to get warmer. You throw your trash in garbage bins before trotting back and see that Sunoo and Jay have left to go back hiking on the trail that you were on earlier in the day. Heeseung seems to fare better with his wound, which you see he’s managed to replace (thanks to Jungwon, no doubt). But his mood seems to worsen when he sees you and Jake walking side by side towards the group. 

“How was the lake?” Jungwon asks, sipping on a cola.

“Pretty,” Jake replies. “There weren’t that many people there so it was a little empty.” 

“We should probably discuss what we want to do for the rest of the day and plan some stuff for later this week. It’ll be a little warmer later in the week so I think we should save that. There’s a great spot where Y/N and I go fishing. We could do that later in the morning.”

“Y/N, fishing?” Heeseung laughs. “I’d pay to see that.”

“What, you don’t think I can fish?” 

He shrugs. “I didn’t know you were a fan of the outdoors. You always had a nose in your textbooks so I thought that was it for you.” 

“Well, Heeseung, it’s not like the two of us know each other well enough to know these types of things.” He doesn’t seem to like that answer. 

“Fishing tomorrow it is!” Jake interjects. 

“I haven’t gone fishing in a long time,” Riki laments. “It’ll be nice to have trout for dinner.” 

“I think Jay brought a lot of seasoning and sides,” Jungwon says to the group. “We can always go to the market a few miles down for anything else.” 

You tune out the rest of the conversation, feeling a bit tired from the walk and the heat that’s starting to make you sweat. You’re eternally grateful that your tent is covered in shade and contemplate on taking a nap when Jungwon waves at you.

“You good, Y/N? You seem a little out of it.” You nod at Jungwon and take a seat next to the closest camp chair. You can feel Heeseung watching you and try not to slip as you sink down into the seat, crossing one of your legs over the other. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just have a lot going on in my head. I think I’m a little tired, too”

Heeseung scoffs quietly. “We’re camping. What could you possibly be thinking about that’s making Jungwon worried?” You curl into yourself as Jungwon chides his friend. 

“I’m moving to Japan soon,” you tell him. You’re not even sure that he knows this about you, figuring that one of your friends would tell him to you at some point. Neither of you communicate with one another unless you absolutely have to. You didn’t see the point in telling him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that, I guess.”

An array of emotions seems to wash over him and, as always, you have a hard time trying to figure out what he’s feeling and thinking. “Oh. So you’ll be out of Korea?”

“Yup.” 

“When are you leaving?” 

“Don’t seem too excited,” Sunghoon says underneath a cough.

“In a couple of weeks. I leave a little after we get back home.” Heeseung merely nods. He doesn’t ask you why you’re moving or what part of Japan you’ll be living in and you don’t offer that information, feeling awkward with the tension ever since you and Jake arrived back at the campsite. Riki finishes eating and stands up to throw his trash away, providing something to look at in order to forget that Heeseung keeps trying to look away from you. 

“Y/N’s gonna be an engineer,” Jungwon brags on your behalf. “She’s taking a year off to work before getting her master’s degree.” 

“Damn,” Riki whistles. “You’re so smart.” You try to hide a smile. 

“What are you gonna be working on?” Sunghoon asks. 

“I’ll be assisting other researchers in software development, particularly for space and aeronautics.” You nod once, feeling tense underneath everyone’s stare. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing specifically but that’s why I’m moving to Okayama.” 

“That’s so cool!” Jake exclaims. Heseung rolls his eyes at his excited outburst and tries to avoid your eye. “You’re gonna be amazing.” 

“I hope so. It’s a great opportunity to work in my chosen field before I decide to continue in this career when I go back to school. I have so many interests within mathematics but this seems like the right place to start.”

“Shit,” Sunghoon says as he slowly claps for dramatic effect. “I knew you were smart but you’re a fucking genius.”

“I wouldn’t say genius–”

“You are, though.” Jungwon smiles at you and gives two thumbs up. “You’re the smartest person I know, dude. This company is lucky to have you.”

“So cool,” Jake says again. He bumps Heeseung’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Isn’t that right, Heseung?” 

“Yeah, totally,” he says carelessly, giving you a half-hearted smile. His mouth doesn’t quite reach his eyes and you refrain from audibly sighing. 

“Don’t you think Y/N was always the smartest person in our year?” Heeseung nods. Jake nudges his friend again. 

“Yes,” Heeseung says with a great amount of venom in his tone. He shakes off Jake’s hand from his body abruptly, causing the younger boy to take a step back in shock. He looks at you and musters an insincere smile when he notices the rest of your friends watching. “Y/N is so smart.” 

His sarcasm deafens your ears and makes your blood feel like it could be boiling beneath your skin. The atmosphere around you changes. Riki and Jungwon try to pretend like everything is normal while Jake and Sunghoon give Heeseung wide eyes as if to tell him to knock it off. You look at your lap, uncomfortable with the silence that washes over. 

“Why’s it so quiet?” Sunoo asks from behind you. The group collectively sighs and you’re all thankful that he and Jay returned from their hike to cut the tension. 

“We were just talking about what we wanted to do for the rest of the day,” Jungwon says before anyone can speak. “Let’s take it easy tonight and go fishing tomorrow.” 

“Sounds good to me.” Jay takes a seat and takes a big gulp of water. “Let’s heat up some kimchi jjigae for dinner because I don't feel like cooking. Jake’s mom made enough for all of us to have seconds.” 

None of you disagree. Feeling yourself grow more tired the more your friends converse with one another, you manage to catch Jungwon’s eye and nod at him before heading inside the tent. 

***

It’s not unusual for you to wake up with what feels like a heavy heart but you’re having a hard time pushing yourself off of the uncomfortable ground to get ready for the day. Jungwon is asleep beside you with his knee digging into your side but even that isn’t enough to motivate you to leave the tent. 

You mourn the loss of your mom and his parents accompanying you  on this trip. As fun as hanging out with your friends are, having Heeseung constantly avoiding eye contact and muttering things underneath your breath has you feeling more on edge than you anticipated. It always feels like he’s waiting for you to mess up so he can get a word in or wait for the perfect moment to drop a subtle insult that only you can catch. Sunghoon and Jake in particular try their best to restrain him but that doesn’t do much. Eating dinner was awkward and you blamed your quiet nature on sleeping too deeply. 

Finally, you sit up in your spot and rub the sleep out of your eyes. It doesn’t seem like any of the other guys are up and you pull a clock out to read the time. It’s still early and the people around you are still waking up as well. Your movements seem to have woken up Jungwon, who yawns when he opens his eyes.

“Morning,” he croaks. “Did you sleep okay?”

“It was fine. Woke up a few times because of people stepping on twigs, though.”

“Yeah, same. I think Jake got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Woke up to him walking by the tent.” Jungwon sits up and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “I’m so hungry thinking about all the trout we’re about to eat tonight.” 

“If you catch any.” He swats your arm. 

“I alway catch more than you.”

“Nuh-uh. Last year I beat you by two fish.”

“Y/N, I’ve caught more fish than you every year before that.” 

“Shut up.” 

You hear Jungwon laughing as you exit the tent to freshen up at the bathhouse. There are a few people milling about when you walk towards the structure. Your mouth feels a bit grimey from your morning breath and the cold water that hits your face wakes you up immediately. When you turn around after you’ve finished your morning routine, you collide right into Heeseung.

“Watch it.” 

“I didn’t see you. Geez.” Your heart continues thumping as you grip your toiletry bag. Heeseung rolls his eyes and slips past you. Anger rises within you but you decide that it’s not worth getting so worked up over at this hour. 

As time ticks by, the rest of your friend group emerge from their tents and gather around the campfire. You all wait for everyone to wake up and prepare themselves for the day, enjoying a nice breakfast with a cool breeze until you’re all ready to go fishing. You secure the bucket hat Jungwon’s dad gave you until it fits snugly over your head and forego a jacket, only packing the necessities while you wait for everybody else to gather their belongings before you’re all walking to the boathouse. 

The instructors are the same from last year. You and Jungwon make small talk and explain that neither of your parents are here on this trip and you tell them about Japan when they ask you about life after college. Each of your friends introduce themselves and after a quick introduction, they’re leading all eight of you out onto the dock. 

There are enough boats for two pairs of three and one for two people. It seems as though you were too preoccupied talking to the employees because you realize the only boat left is one shared with Heeseung and Riki. 

“Oh,” comes your meek voice in realization as you watch the two step onto the boat.

“You should man the engine,” the employee says as the two men get on before you. “You’re more familiar.”

“I can steer,” Heeseung says. “I’ve done it before.” 

“I’ve watched Y/N steer these boats for a decade, son. You’ll definitely want her to do it.” 

Heeseung relents. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, 

You step onto the boat. Heeseung sits at the far end while Riki sits in the middle, holding onto the seat as you get your bearings. The three of you wave goodbye to the employees at the dock and you start to drive the boat out into the lake to catch up with the rest of your friends.

The open clearing away from the port is more beautiful than you can describe. With open waters and enough room to roam around, there’s an array of directions to catch the most fish. The water is fairly calm with the exception of the ripples your boat makes. Riki and Heeseung don’t say a word as you steer them towards a clear path with minimal boats and see the other guys scattered around the large body of water. 

Neither of them argue with you about where to go, even though Heeseung is holding himself back. Bitter over having you steer, he knows it’s the logical answer since you know this place like the back of your hand. He instead chooses to bask in the sunlight and welcomes the spray of water on his face and body. The cool splashes are a nice contrast to the warm sunlight. 

When you start to slow the boat down, the water around you becomes still as well. You turn the engine off and wait for the contraption to settle beneath you. The sound of water rippling against itself is enough to make you feel more at ease and you don’t mind it when you see Heeseung start to assemble bait on the fishing poles.

“Why’d you pick this place?” Riki asks.

“I caught a lot of fish here last year. I hope we can catch more this year.”

“More than Jungwon?”

You smile. “Yeah. He and I have this unspoken competition.”

“What’s the prize?”

“There’s not really a prize. It’s just something we do.”

“What’s the point of competing if there’s no prize?” Heeseung interjects. You shrug.

“Dunno. It’s fun for us.” He doesn’t say anything after that. 

It’s quiet for a while. The sound of birds chirping and faint chatter in the background fill the atmosphere but the three of you silently agree to refrain from talking once you’ve all casted your reels. Riki, who is a bit excited to catch some fish, anxiously peers at the water below him every few minutes or so. He pulls back with a pout when he doesn’t feel a tug on his line. The awkward tension somewhat dissipates and you’re able to forget that Heeseung is a few feet away from you. He angles his face towards the water and seems to be in his own bubble as you hold your fishing rod. 

Growing up on this campsite means learning the virtue of patience and willing yourself to become more in tune with your surroundings. It was your father that first taught you that the most important rule to fishing was patience. He’d tell you the fishes could sense urgency and impatience from underneath the water, and therefore they knew not to take your bait. It made sense to you at a young age. Every time you’d be on the water with him, you’d force yourself to slow down and calm your thoughts until the silence felt like a welcomed embrace. 

That mantra of practicing patience seeps into your life now that your dad isn’t in it anymore. Jungwon’s father had volunteered to go fishing with you the first year your own chose not to go on the annual camping trip. Everyone could tell how difficult it was for you and your mother to attend, but despite hardship and the change in dynamics, she didn’t want either of you to lose any semblance of normalcy. You’d argue that was the hardest week of your life. Jungwon, who is usually very organized and detail oriented, chose to let you lead the trip activities between the two of you and didn’t complain once.

The two of you were in high school when your father left and Jungwon swears it was like somebody stole the sun from your eyes. Your studies became the sole focus of your life and even Heeseung was barely at the forefront of your mind anymore. He’d watch you become detached from everything that didn’t have to do with academics and extracurriculars. Focusing on college applications was the most important thing for you back then. 

Of course, Jungwon and all of your friends gave you a bit of space to process new feelings and the change in household. Your father moved away and wasn't living in the house anymore. It started to become an empty shell, where neither you nor your mother could stand eating at the dining table because it brought up unwanted memories. Your dad wasn’t here to help you with homework anymore and you could no longer hear your parents talk outside of your door until you fell asleep. The complete silence startled you. It still does sometimes, but you’ve learned that grief is about facing your hardships until it isn’t so scary anymore. 

These trips are bittersweet every year. Fishing is a reminder of everything you’ve lost. But lately, you’re starting to think about it as everything you could gain and then some.  

“The more you look down, the more the fish are gonna be scared,” you say, breaking the quiet atmosphere. Riki looks at you quizzically. 

“Really?”

“No, but you’re not gonna catch anything faster just by looking down.” His shoulders sag. 

“We’ve been here for so long and nothing has tugged on my line.” 

“Fishing is a game of chance. The fish choose to take your bait if it feels enticed enough.” As if on cue, your fishing rod starts to move. Riki watches you latch onto it while Heeseung turns back when he feels the boat rock underneath him and observes you too. You wrestle with it for a short while before reeling the fish above water and proudly hold it beside you. “Patience is the most important part of fishing. The fish finds you when you least expect it.” Heeseung snorts when you put the fish in the bucket. It takes a great deal out of you not to roll your eyes. 

“You’re so wise,” Riki mutters. 

“I don’t think I’m wise, per se. I just think there’s nothing else you can do when you’re in open water with nothing to distract you.” 

“I’m working on my patience. Moving to Korea made that pretty difficult for me.” 

“Well, you’re moving to a new country. It’s something you’ve never done before, you know? I bet packing was stressful.” 

“I hated every second of it,” he says as he rolls his eyes like you’ve brought out an irritating memory. “I triple checked everything before leaving. I hope I didn’t forget anything back home.” 

“Are you scared to start the semester?”

Riki thinks about it for a second. “Kind of. My Korean is okay, but I still have trouble saying certain words. The culture is different, too. I need to get used to that more. I guess I’m a bit sad that I had to leave my friends and family behind but it’s for the best, isn’t it? I wanted this.” 

You find yourself nodding in agreement. “Yeah. It’s hard to leave everything you know behind.” 

“I cried when I said goodbye to my dance teachers,” Riki admits with a laugh. “I think it was the first time I did that in front of them. We kept bowing to each other until I had to go. It’ll be weird finding a new studio in Seoul but I’m excited about it.” 

“You’re an incredible dancer, Riki. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll thrive here.” 

He tries to hide his blush. “Thanks. I’m happy that I know some people already but it’s not the same, you know?” 

“That’s how I feel about moving to Okayama. I know it’ll only be a year, but it feels like I’ll be there for a lifetime.” 

“Do you ever get scared that everything back home will change?” Heeseung, too, is curious about your answer. 

“Honestly? Yeah. Sometimes it feels like everything’s gonna change completely the second I step on that plane. I feel like everyone will forget me and move on.”

Riki looks back at the water. “I wonder if people back home think of me.” 

“They do.” He looks back at you.

“Everyone here will think about you too.” 

A beat passes between the two of you and you start to see Riki for what he is: a smart, sensitive person who disguises himself as somebody who can mask his feelings. What you learn is that your half-brother wears his heart on his sleeve but is careful about who he gives himself too. It’s something you’ve noticed in the time you’ve known him, but this trip is starting to make you think you two are more alike than not. 

“What about you, Heeseung?” Riki asks, turning to look at the eldest. “What are you gonna be doing now that you graduated?” 

“I, uh, start working at a record label pretty soon.” He clears his throat. Knowing you’re looking at him makes this boat feel smaller all of the sudden. 

“You majored in music production, right?” Heeseung nods. 

“Yeah. I’ve always had an interest in music so I learned how to produce during freshman year and started taking it seriously.”

“I’ll bet your perfect pitch helps you a lot.” Heeseung whips his gaze over to you when you speak and you feel your skin burn. You don’t know if you should’ve contributed to the conversation or not. 

“Sure does,” he says awkwardly, looking at the fishing rod between his legs. Heeseung remains quiet when Riki doesn’t prod him further and looks back at the water in front of him. Even in the forced proximity, you still can’t figure out why he chooses to be avoidant. 

Heeseung, on the other hand, finds that there’s much to contemplate about. His life has barely begun and yet he feels the weight of his future hanging in the balance. He’s just moved into his first apartment and will need to furnish it when he gets back from the camping trip. He’s got a mattress with no bed frame and a single loveseat his parents gave him. Aside from his gaming setup, Heeseung’s one bedroom apartment is completely bare. 

Looking at it makes him worry for his future and being around you. You, someone he’s always assumed had it easy because you were academically gifted, makes Heeseung feel like he’s got to step up his game. He hasn’t liked you ever since high school for reasons he justifies as perfectly valid. But high school was years ago and some of his anger has subsided. All that’s left is a faint annoyance and he'd rather be anywhere than next to you. He only said yes to this trip because of the other people who were going as well. 

He’s kept his feelings simmering beneath the surface and chooses to focus on anything but you when he hears you talk. It’s frustrating enough knowing you share a lot of mutual friends, even worse when some of his best friends are people you consider family. He hates that Jake is comfortable enough to hang out with you without anyone else present and loathes that Sunghoon actively wants to become closer to you after he realized the two of you share the same taste in cinema. He especially despises the fact that Riki looks up to you even though, in Heeseung’s eyes, you’ve done nothing to earn it. 

The young teenager met the eldest of the bunch at a bonfire the third time he came to Korea after your mom had forced you to bring him along. You told him absolutely no alcohol no matter if anyone else was going to be drinking and to say no if your friends offered him a beer. He watched you that night, the way you periodically looked at your half-brother but made a lame attempt to include him in conversation. Riki found fast friends in Sunoo and Jungwon after messing around in the shallow waters of the ocean. Heeseung decided that you didn’t deserve that type of respect from Riki at that moment. 

It’s been years since then and he’s seen the two of you grow, albeit slowly. Even in his blind hatred for your existence, Heeseung has always wondered why Riki vies for your attention. In fact, what is it about you that makes everybody fawn over you? Why do you always seem to be the center of attention? Does nobody care about what you did to him all those years ago?

It keeps him up at night to know that nobody around him understands why he’s so angry at you. Above the root cause, you have everything you could ever want. You were the smartest girl in high school and university, and it was no question about what your future would look like. You’d accepted a job opportunity right after graduating and it seemed as though things were merely handed to you without you working that hard for it. You didn’t have to ask for anything. It always seemed as though people could read your mind and always gave you what you wanted. 

Maybe coming to the camping trip was a mistake. He’s been walking on eggshells around you this entire time and feels like he’s suffocating every time his friends laugh at your jokes. Heeseung bites his tongue when he feels himself getting worked up and finds that nothing can get his mind off of you no matter how hard he tries. 

He wonders if you remember that day all those years ago. He wonders if you know just how hurtful words can be and how awful it is to be on the receiving end of utter despair and desperation. Heeseung has always known you to be somebody who knows exactly what you want, too. Teenage angst never stopped you from pursuing higher education. It seemed like you threw everything you had into academics and everyone rewarding you for it made Heeseung want to crumble. Nobody else thought of you the way he did. 

But this is something he’d rather keep to himself. For as much as he refuses to be your friend, he knows nothing good will ever come out of trying to convince everyone you aren’t someone who they should be friends with. After all, you’ll be working in Okayama and with any luck, you’ll make a permanent residence out of Japan. 

Heeseung is distracted from his thoughts when Riki manages to catch a rather large fish. With your help, he’s able to reel it in and watches the younger boy become awestruck at its sheer size. Heeseung watches you congratulating Riki and celebrates this excitement with him as you put the fish in the bucket for safe keeping. It should warm his heart to see a friend of his so happy, but seeing you smiling next to him makes Heeseung feel all the more irritated. The three of you head back to the dock after another couple of hours and a few more dishes later.

Jungwon catches more fish than you do. All eight of you manage to acquire enough for dinner and breakfast in the morning. Jay and Jake have volunteered to help with cooking while the rest of you prepare side dishes and talk about fishing adventures from your time apart. You smile at the group halfway through the conversation, fondness blooming in your chest when everybody is laughing after having eaten dinner. 

“God, I swear I almost fell into the water trying to wrestle with the trout!” Jake shouts amongst the chaotic laughter. “It felt like I was about to become one with the fish.” 

“I almost pushed his ass into the lake,” Jay snorts. “It was so fucking funny.”

“I’m surprised Sunoo caught the most fish out of all of us.” Jungwon shrugs and bites into his s’more. 

“You’re telling me,” Sunoo replies as he wipes chocolate from his lip. “That’s my quota for this trip, though. Don’t expect me to go fishing again.” 

“I’m not ready for this trip to end,” Riki says with a mixed sigh. “We’ve already been here for a couple of days and it feels like time is going by so fast.” 

“I start that consulting job the Monday we go back and I’m excited for it, but I’m also nervous. It hit me on the way back from the lake.” Jay rubs his face with his hands. “This adult shit is scary, man.”

“Do you guys remember when we were all freshmen and had that awful orientation leader?” Heeseung asks. Those who were in the same year as him nod. “That felt like just yesterday and now we’re about to be real adults.”

“Jay’s going to become a financial consultant, you’re working at a record label, Sunghoon’s going to open up his own cafe someday, and I’m about to start a fellowship at a research lab.” Jake shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “Not to mention Y/N’s moving to Japan for work. If you told me four years ago we would talk about the future like this, I would’ve laughed.” 

“It feels a bit weird knowing we aren’t going back to school.” Sunghoon looks at the younger boys and laughs. “Well, sorry to you guys.” 

Sunoo speaks up with a pout. “It’ll be weird not seeing you guys around campus. I’ll miss running into you on my way to class.” 

“Sometimes I wish we could stay in college forever.” Jay reaches over and picks out another marshmallow to put on his stick. “It sucked ass but it was nice living close to you guys.”

“I’m scared to go out there alone.” You tug at the zipper on your jacket and stare at your hands. “I feel like I’m going to mess everything up and fail. I’ll come home and have nothing to show for myself.” 

“Couldn’t have said it any better.” Sunghoon finishes off his s’more and wipes the crumbs off of his lap. “I wish everything was simple and easy. We really had it good back then, didn’t we?”

“Don’t get too caught up in growing up too fast,” Jake says as he pinches Riki’s cheeks for dramatic effect. The latter tries to dodge his touch but fails. He points to Jungwon and Sunoo. “You guys need to make every minute count.”

Jungwon laughs. “You sound like a Hallmark card.”

“Yeah, but one day you’ll be saying the same thing. You’ll go back to campus and you won’t see us walking around.” Jungwon remains quiet after that. 

“You’ll all be fine.” Sunoo nods once and it feels like he’s smiling at everyone individually through the fire. “Life is scary but there’s a reason why we believe in you.”

Jay nudges Sunoo with his knee. “Since when did you get so wise?”

“You could learn a thing or two from me.”

The tension dissipates. Everyone finishes up their desserts and helps tidy up the campsite. Jake and Sunghoon put out the fire while the rest of you put the chairs away and throw out any leftover trash in the nearby garbage bin. One by one, the eight of you start to grow sleepier as time ticks by. You all let your younger friends wash up first as you stifle yawns and prepare your makeshift bedding while you wait. 

It feels like forever to wait with Heeseung close to you. Everybody else bids you goodnight as you brush your teeth in the wash station and rinse your face of dirt and debris from earlier in the day. Heeseung is standing just a few feet away as he waits for you to finish up but knowing he’s watching you makes your heart rate increase. Your hands tremble as you turn the faucet off and it’s just your luck that you trip over yourself and hold onto Heeseung when you turn around to exit the washroom. 

“Watch where you’re going, Y/N,” Heeseung snaps. He shrugs your hands off of him and pushes you away from his body. 

“What the fuck is your problem with me?” If Heeseung is surprised by your sudden outburst, he doesn’t show it. Your typically calm, non-confrontational demeanor is nowhere to be seen. 

“Why can’t you walk properly?” he mocks. 

“You have been so passive aggressive towards me this entire trip. Hell, you’ve been that way since we were in high school. What the fuck is your deal and why can’t you man up and tell me why you hate me so much?” 

His expression sours. “You have some nerve asking me that.” 

“Why?! You won’t tell me what your deal is and I can’t fix it if you don’t communicate that with me. We have so many mutual friends who want us to get along and it’s fine if we’ll never be friends, but really, Heeseung, you’re acting like a child.” 

Heeseung’s nostrils flare and it feels demeaning the way he has to look you down in order to meet your eyes. The twinge in your heart flares when he makes no effort to talk to you further. The tension in his shoulders rises and falls with every second that passes by and you’re starting to wonder if there’s any way you can leave the trip early. 

He doesn’t say anything, though. Heeseung pulls away from you and enters the washroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the sound of water running. Years of pushing aside your feelings for the greater good of preserving the peace feels like they’re suffocating you with every step you take as you talk back to your tent. The cold chill of the night bristles through your hair and your watery eyes make you stumble before unzipping your makeshift bedroom. 

“Y/N?” Jungwon asks, half-asleep. He sees you wipe your eyes as you turn away from him and put away your dirty clothes and toiletries. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

He pushes himself up and hears the clip in your tone. With his eyes softening, Jungwon gently touches your shoulder and realizes that your eyes are red before you shut your flashlight off. “Come here.” 

It’s somewhere between a command and a plea. Jungwon doesn’t force you to speak as he pulls your body into his. He doesn’t care that your tears are falling onto his arm and he doesn’t mind that you’ve settled your weight onto his chest. Your silent hiccups make his heart lurch and the best he can do is let you cling onto him in your time of need. 

You don’t get like this often. The last time he remembers you letting him hold you like this was a few days after your parents’ divorce had been finalized. The tangerine-shaped pillow you had was the only thing keeping Jungwon’s back from aching as you spent what felt like hours sobbing between his arms, dirtying his shirt with your hot tears. His heart broke back then, too. He’s not used to seeing you without a smile on your face and every crack in your demeanor lets him know you’re a dam that’s about to burst. 

It can’t be easy to live knowing your father willingly left and chose to leave you behind. Nearly two decades of saying ‘I love you’ and championing his only daughter to be the best version of herself felt like it was all for naught the night he told you he wouldn’t be living with you anymore. You could barely stand watching him pack his belongings and take everything valuable with him. You were unusually quiet during this period of time, too scared to make a sound and make things worse than they already were. 

Jungwon knows you keep your heart locked away in a cage these days. Your friends know you like the back of their hands but it’s been getting harder and harder to coax you out of your shell. He knows it hasn’t been easy with Heeseung within your main friend group and wishes he could do more to quell your anxieties about spending time with him, even if your other friends are there to shield you from his silent torment. 

Your best friend softens a bit when you cling onto his arm, holding him like he’s your lifeline. He pushes his fingers through your hair the way he’s seen your mom do countless times and rocks your body back and forth until you’ve started to calm down. He hears your shallow breaths and holds onto you for the fear that you’ll think he doesn’t want to comfort you if he lets you go. 

“Sorry.” Your voice is brittle and it makes his heart break. 

“You never have to be sorry, Bug. Are you okay?” You shake your head. “Is it something one of us did?” You nod. “Was it Heeseung?” He hates that you start to tear up again. “I’m sorry, Bug. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t like me,” you hiccup. “I don’t know what I did. How can I apologize when I don’t know what I’ve done?” 

Jungwon sighs. He’s with you on this one. “You’re right. I don’t know what’s gotten into him recently but I’m fed up with it too.” 

“We don’t need to be friends but I want him to stop pretending like I ruined his life.” Your best friend nods against you and pushes his cheek against the crown of your head. “Sorry that I woke you up. I feel like a mess.”

“You’re not a mess, Bug. You’ve been tied together with a smile for so long. It’s only natural that you break down every once in a while.”

“You’re very smart, Wonnie.” 

He laughs. “I know. Do you want to cry some more or go to sleep?” Jungwon’s tone lacks any humor tonight. He’s concerned about you in a way that makes you feel like a porcelain doll and while you appreciate it when he pokes fun at you to show how comfortable he is with you, this feels just as nice. 

“I’m ready to sleep.” 

You pull away from him and settle in your sleeping bag, welcoming the calmness that washes over you. Jungwon chooses to stay up just a smidge longer until he’s certain that you’re asleep before he closes his eyes, wishing for better days ahead of you.

***

The trees always seemed taller when you were younger. They stretched for miles and touched the sky from your point of view, almost as if they  could reach the heavens above. You always wondered what it must be like to have lived as long as nature around you. The leaves and branches see all walks of life, from humans to animals, and keep many secrets hidden underneath its shaded areas. It almost feels like they whisper stories back to you when the wind shakes the weakest branches. You always try to listen. 

When you find yourself hiking on another path around the lake, it becomes easier for you to clear your mind and think about all that lies before you. The sounds of birds chirping amongst the blue sky make the environment around you seem picturesque. In all of your ears camping here, you don’t think you’ve ever appreciated it the way you are at this very moment. 

Your friends are scattered in front and behind you, each of them wrapped up in their own conversations. You can feel Jungwon look at you periodically but you silently let him know that you’re doing alright. He worries about you a lot and he has every reason to. Sometimes, you wonder if any part of you is holding him back because he spends so much time looking after you. It used to be the other way around with you watching after him at playgrounds and on your walk home from school. But with your father leaving as soon as you started trying to figure out who you were, it was like a switch had flipped. 

Your best friend has had a few girlfriends here and there but none of them ever lasted long. He reminds you that he’s young and isn’t looking for a life partner at this stage in his life, but you know he worries about you ever since the news of your dad leaving and Riki entering your life turned your world upside down. You wonder if you’re causing him too much stress. 

He always reminds you that you’re the reason he has so many people that he loves. You introduced him to the majority of your friends on this camping trip. You were the one who introduced him to his first girlfriend and why he finds so much hope in all of the small things. Jungwon admires your resilience and ability to stand on your feet after you’ve been knocked to the ground by an unseen force. Your tenacity pushes him to be a better person towards others and to himself, and he’ll remind you every chance he gets. Jungwon believes that you’re okay for now. You know he’ll be there to pick up the pieces if you need him to.

It brings you back to your future and how Jungwon won’t be physically present when you move to Japan. You’ve spent so much time with him and it made you happy when he was accepted into his bachelor program at your university. The two of you have always been close, whether it was because neither of you had siblings and found solace in each another or because of forced proximity from being neighbors, you don’t know. It feels like you’ll be saying goodbye to somebody who you’ve always leaned on. It feels like you’re leaving him the way your dad left you. 

Dealing with the overwhelming guilt of moving to Okayama, the city your father moved to when he left you and your mom, digs a hole deep inside of your chest every time you think about it. It’s probably why you push off discussions about moving whenever you can and change the subject when other people bring it up. You try not to get too irritated whenever your mom talks to you about packing and everything else that’s important when settling in a new country, like a work visa or financial burdens. But every conversation with her about your eventual move feels like a million needles are slowly pricking your skin. Every step feels heavier than the next. 

There’s Heeseung, too, who has been plaguing your mind ever since you awoke. It’s not unlike him to be cold towards you. In fact, you’ve dealt with tuning him out and learned to ignore his quiet scoffs, paying attention to anyone who would give you some of their attention. The accumulation of life stress and the inevitable move has made it so your heart rate can’t seem to be still at any time in the day. Heeseung doesn’t make it any better by snapping at you for treading carefully. This feeling reminds you of the time you tiptoed around your father when you found out about his infidelity being the reason why he chose to leave you and your mother for Okayama. It feels like anticipating a bomb going off. It’s never a matter of if, but when. 

You don’t remember when things changed but you remember it was abrupt and unannounced. One day, the two of you were laughing with bologna sandwiches for lunch and the next, Heeseung was ignoring you like the two of you had never been friends. His stare was just as cold as his tone when speaking. You could never catch his eye when you were with your group of friends and he refused to be alone with you. The hurt that came with his actions felt like a punch in the gut with all you were dealing with back home. 

The reason why it was easy to tune out his friendship was purely because of prioritization. Dealing with empty rooms and the house feeling like a ghost was haunting the walls was by far a greater sadness than losing a friend. But even so, seeing Heeseung laugh with your friends and watching him excel in everything you used to support him in made you feel like you were being left behind. It hurt to attend his basketball games because he no longer looked for your eyes in the stands. He didn’t acknowledge you when your group of friends would head to the nearby diner for a celebratory meal, and he didn’t call you to say goodnight and to thank you for coming to his games and open practices anymore. 

The ghost of your friendship lingered over you like an unwanted guest. It followed you into university after you committed to the same one and it seemed like neither of you could escape one another. Seeing him live a life that you weren’t a part of made your reality sink in–the few years he spent distancing himself from you wasn’t merely a fluke or teenage angst. Heeseung wanted nothing to do with you. You had to learn how to be okay with that. 

Still, you wish you were as tall as the trees around you. Maybe then Heeseung would tell you why he didn’t like you anymore. 

“Y/N, watch out!” 

The warning nearly comes too late. You don’t register a hissing sound until you see a reflection of scales and stumble backwards into somebody who seems to be caught off guard as much as you are. Jake’s warning saved you from a nasty bite from a snake that has slithered away back between the trees but your heart stammers in your chest as you curl yourself further deeper into the person behind you. 

You hate snakes. You’re petrified of them 

Heeseung, to his misfortune, is the person you’ve bumped into. He saw the snake just before Jake said his warning and felt his body freeze in the way yours didn’t. He didn’t have time to move aside and let Sunoo, who he was talking to, move to grab your body and pull you out of harm’s way. He feels your beating chest against his and looks down at you. Heeseung doesn’t think he’s ever seen you like this before. It makes his stomach fall. 

“Y/N is really scared of snakes,” Jungwon says as he walks up to the two of you, offering a quick explanation before Heeseung could say anything about you clinging onto him. “She got bit by one as a kid and it scared her pretty bad.” Heeseung doesn’t push you away. Instead, he lets Jungwon pry you off of his body until you’re able to blink and come to your senses. 

“Sorry.” You throw an apology his way when Jungwon rubs your back. The rest of your friends, who seem to know about your fear, try to give you some space instead of crowding around you. A part of him wants to scoff. The other part of him feels bad for you. It almost makes him feel guilty for being so short with you last night.

“We’re almost at the end of the trail anyway,” Jungwon says. “Let’s finish it and get some lunch.” 

When you all arrive back at the campsite, Jake pulls your water bottle out of your backpack and stands with you while Jungwon lets you stand right beside him in an attempt to calm yourself down. Jay and Sunghoon, not wanting to impede and make things uncomfortable, decide to go on another short hike and let you rest. The sight is a bit unnerving for Heeseung, who has generally only ever thought of you as this self righteous, confident person, to see you in such a state of shock that you could barely look him in the eye like you did the night before. He’s used to you avoiding and ignoring him but he isn’t accustomed to you scurrying away from anything or anyone. 

He’s a bit confused as to why he feels a little guilty for how he spoke to you last night. You were his friend before he decided you weren’t and that feeling of concern is starting to creep back in. Heeseung watches the way you flinch when Jake tries to rub your shoulder and how Jungwon is the only person who seems to know how to get you to relax after the snake incident. 

“Is she really that scared of snakes?” Heeseung asks Sunoo, who stands away from you to give you space. He pretends to be busy picking at his nails to let you have peace and not make you feel overcrowded with two of your friends already by your side. 

“If I tell you, are you going to use that against her?” Sunoo doesn’t typically question Heeseung like this. It startles him but he shakes his head anyway. 

“No,” says Heeseung. “I’m not. I’ve never seen her act like that.”

Sunoo must think the elder is telling the truth. “When Y/N was very young, a snake bit her ankle when her parents weren’t looking. She got scared and tripped over a rock or something, and her entire leg started to bleed and got a pretty bad gash from it. They rushed her to the emergency room and panicked because her leg was covered in blood.”

“That’s it?”

Sunoo glares at Heeseung. “It might not seem like a big deal to you, but that kind of stuff leaves an impression on you when you’re a kid, Heeseung. She’s been pretty terrified of snakes and blood ever since.” 

“Huh. I never knew that.”

“Don’t go barking up that tree. It’s bad enough that you hate her for no good reason.” 

Heeseung looks at Sunoo quizzically when he hears his friend’s harsh tone. “What’s the matter with you?” 

Sunoo scoffs. “Me? What’s the matter with you? I heard you and Y/N last night. You were an ass to her. She’s right, too. How can she apologize for hurting you if you never talk about what she did? 

“Sunoo–”

“Save it, Heeseung.” He straightens his posture. “You’re my friend and I love you, but you’ve been really harsh on Y/N for the past few years. I thought the two of you drifted apart but you clearly have a vendetta against her.”

“I do not have a vendetta against Y/N.”  

“Sure. Whatever you say. Just remember that Y/N’s the reason why you’re on this trip. One veto from her and Jungwon would’ve kicked your ass to the curb. You’re lucky she doesn’t say this shit to anyone.” 

Heeseung looks at his shoes, feeling the heat in his body creep up his neck. He knows Sunoo’s somewhat right. You’re half the reason why this trip exists at all. Even if Jungwon brought the friend group along, it’s you who this campaign tradition belongs to as well. Heeseung bites his tongue and tries his best not to argue with Sunoo. Deep down, the elder knows that he’s been a bit harsh to you and sometimes finds himself regretting the venom he aims directly at you. But then he remembers that incident from all those years ago and feels his anger bubble up inside of him. He pulls his friend away so that none of you hear him. 

“I have a reason not to like her okay?” Heeseung whispers through his teeth. 

“What reason could you possibly have that justifies how shitty you’ve been?”

Heeseung looks around like he’s afraid someone’s listening in. “Second semester, sophomore year of high school. You and Jake were with me doing homework right outside the front gate. We were waiting for my brother to pick us up from school when Y/N told Kim Chaewon that I would never amount to anything because I didn’t have any talent and had to flirt with girls to get them to listen to my music.”

Sunoo looks at Heeseung like he’s sprouted a second head, who looks at the younger boy like he’s waiting for confirmation or validation of sorts with his eyebrows raised as if expecting a certain outcome. Instead, Sunoo slaps him on the back of his head with his palm and scowls. 

“You are so stupid, Heeseung.”

“What the fuck did I do?!” Heeseung soothes the spot where Sunoo hit him. “It was messed up for her to say that. Why are you calling me stupid?”

“Y/N didn’t say that about you. Chaewon did.” 

Heeseung’s eyes grow comically wide. “I know what I heard.” 

“No, you don’t. I remember the moment you’re talking about. You left so fast and didn’t stop when Jake and I called out for you. Chaewon couldn't get another word out because Y/N tore her a new one. Why do you think they aren’t friends anymore?” 

“Well…Because Y/N said that about me. Chaewon was my friend, too.” 

Sunoo shakes his head. “Chaewon said that about you. Not Y/N.”

“That’s not possible…”

“How would you know? You weren’t there. You left before you could hear the full argument.” 

“Sunoo,” Heeseung says, voice quivering from a mixture of guilt and embarrassment. “Please tell me that’s not true.” 

“Do you know how stupid you look knowing you blew off Y/N, the person who defended you, and still talked to Chaewon?” Sunoo shakes his head at Heeseung. “You ended your longest friendship over a misunderstanding and then got closer with the person who actually said those things about you. Imagine how Y/N must’ve felt.” 

Heeseung’s mind starts to recount the days after your argument with Chaewon and how he’d gone out of his way to ignore you in the aftermath. He never gave you an explanation about his absence and why he pulled away, citing that incident as the reason why you didn’t deserve to know in the first place. He thinks about Chaewon and how he didn’t think twice about it because his mind had already been made up. He was still friends with Chaewon, taking pictures with her at parties and talking to her whenever their friend groups hung out together. Not once did he spare a glance to you. 

As his mind starts to wander into nostalgic territory, Heeseung feels his stomach plummet. The sudden urge to rectify his actions overwhelms him and he’s fighting tooth and nail not to cry on the spot. 

When he looks at you now, quiet and hidden within your shared friends, Heeseung can’t help but feel a bit guilty. He suddenly remembers the few moments where you showed a vulnerable side of yourself and allowed him to see you cry after a bad grade or when your middle school friends were being mean towards you. Heeseung recalls all the times he’s ever thought of you as somebody who puts on a brave face and stands back up after feeling the weight of the world crush you to the ground. He thinks about all of the times he’s ever made you feel insignificant to him and feels pins and needles in his footsteps. Heeseung finds himself walking towards you as he’s contemplating his feelings and Jungwon guards you, pushing you behind him. 

“Hey,” Heeseung says awkwardly. He tries to peek at you but doesn’t like seeing you look so helpless. Pathetically, he offers a meek apology. “Sorry about the snake.” 

“It’s fine. Sorry I grabbed you.” For the first time in a long time, Heeseung doesn’t feel annoyed by the thought of you latching onto him. 

“It’s okay. I, uh…wanted to know if you were fine.” Heeseung clears his throat. “Is there anything I can do?” His unfamiliar kindness confuses you and it confuses Jungwon too.

“You know, maybe it would be a good idea if you left the campsite for a while,” Jake suggests from beside Heeseung. “You’re a bit shaken up and you could probably use a change of scenery.” 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Jungwon agrees. “You could leave for a few hours and come back once you’ve calmed down, Bug.” 

You pick at your fingernails. “I feel so stupid for being so scared.”

“It’s not stupid, Y/N.” Jake tilts his head and looks at you with a pout. “It’s something you’re scared of and with good reason. I would’ve been scared shitless if it was closer to me.”

“You could go into town and get some ice cream,” says Jungwon. “You should go to the beach by the highway for a little bit and get your mind off of it.” 

“I-I don’t really want to go alone.”

Heeseung speaks before he can even think about what he’s saying.

“I’ll go with you.” Jungwon and Jake whip their head to their friend. 

“Heeseung–”

“I can drive us,” he says, mouth moving faster than his brain. “I won’t say anything, I swear. I’ll take her to the beach and ice cream if she wants to.” 

Jungwon hesitantly looks at Heeseung. “Are…Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.” He lies straight through his teeth. He doesn’t know if he can sit with you when his whole life has been turned upside down. But it’s too late to backtrack. “I’ve been feeling a little restless here anyway.” 

“I don’t know…”

“Jay isn’t here and he has his keys.” Jake looks at you and nudges your shoulder. “What do you want to do, Y/N?” 

You look up at Heeseung for the first time and he sucks in a breath. It’s like you’re devoid of yourself, fear and anxiety clouding your eyes like you’re petrified to even speak. He watches you lick your lips slowly as if contemplating carefully. “I want to go.”

“Bug, you don’t have to.”

“I know, Wonnie.” You touch his arm and he relents. “I think I need to leave for a little bit and calm down. I should walk on the beach, or something.”

“I can come with you guys.” Riki, who has been silent during this ordeal, speaks up and appears to the other side of Heeseung. “I saw the beach just before we got here. It looks pretty.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Jake nods, looking at you. He softens his tone. “Would that be alright with you?” 

You hum .”Mhm. Yeah, that’s fine. Let me get my wallet.” 

When you leave for your tent, Jungwon looks at Heeseung and stares at him with an expression he can’t read. The silence is deafening and he awkwardly coughs, looking away from his younger friend. 

“Don’t fuck this up,” says Jungwon with a clipped tone. “You’ve been a dipshit and she’s been putting up with it for the sake of everybody else. The last thing she needs is for you to make fun of her and make her feel even worse than she already does.” 

“I won’t, Jungwon. I swear.” 

“I’m choosing to trust you because you’re my friend too, despite everything you feel towards Y/N.” He nods at Riki. “You, keep an eye out for them.”

“I won’t do or say anything,” Heeseung promises for a second time. You come back a moment later, oblivious to the tension. 

“Be safe, yeah?” Heeseung hears the change in Jungwon’s tone when talking to you. “Call me if you need anything. Your phone’s charged from the portable, right?”

“Yeah.” You hold up your phone to show him. “I’ll let you know when we’re coming back.” 

The beach itself is nestled towards the end of the highway where the sand meets the trees. The small shops around it bring a sense of nostalgia, especially when Heeseung parks in front of a large, tattered orange sign that says “ICE CREAM SOLD HERE.” The three of you walk inside and Heeseung watches you look over the flavors. 

“They change the flavors all the time based on the season,” you say absentmindedly. The three of you are the only customers and he figures the employee must be in the back. 

It’s a bit strange to be spending time with you apart from everybody else. Even though Riki’s accompanying the two of you, he hasn't been alone with you like this in years. You seem to be doing a little better with distance put between you and the campsite. Heeseung hopes the drive wasn’t too terrible. His knuckles turned white with the grip he had on the steering wheel, too afraid to look into the rearview mirror for the fear of catching your eye. He wonders if you’d be able to read his mind in the way you once did. 

You make small talk with the owner of the shop who recognizes you before ordering. Riki and Heeseung follow too, the youngest trying a few flavors before settling on one. You go to pay for your own until Riki pulls out his wallet and pays for the both of you. Heeseung watches the two of you argue before the owner accepts Riki’s card. He’s pulled out of his thoughts before paying for his own cup. 

The beach is right next door and the three of you leave your shoes inside Heeseung’s trunk before stepping onto the warm sand. The sun’s high in the sky and Heeseung’s grateful that he chose to put on extra sunblock before leaving his tent. Riki follows you towards the water. He chooses to stay behind and give you both space even though his heart is telling him not to. 

Heeseung has always believed in telling the truth because it’ll always see the light at the end of the day. He’s a fan of honesty and it’s something he values in all of his friends. He thought he’d found that in you ever since the day the two of you started becoming friends and felt his world shatter around him when he thought you were making fun of his aspirations to become a music producer. You’d spent countless hours in his bedroom with him as he learned how to use proper equipment and went so far as to buy him a few things here and there disguised as birthday and Christmas gifts. You spent so much time listening to him grow as a musician in the comfort of his bedroom. The thought that you were pretending to care about him made Heeseung feel sick to his stomach. It wasn't hard for him to cut you off when he thought you betrayed him.

But now, life feels like it’s at a stand still. You stand before him and Heeseung’s throat closes up like he’s lost the ability to breathe. You might not even know that you’re the reason for his inner turmoil. You probably don’t care. Why would you when he’s pushed you so far from arm’s length? Heeseung sighs to himself and replays every single interaction he’s ever had with you after deciding to cut you out of his life. The guilt piles up on him before he can stop it from stacking until it eventually makes his skin feel like it’s been set on fire. He’ll have to sit with the fact that he’s made you out to be a cruel, terrible friend instead of the person who would defend him to hell and back.

What must you think of him now? For a long time, it took Heeseung great strength to push you into the far corners of his mind and stop seeking you out whenever you were near him. He trained himself to look away from you, the weight of your alleged words playing in the back of his mind whenever he felt the urge to talk to you like old times. Heeseung stopped communicating with you altogether, unfollowing you on all of your social media and physically removing you out of his life so he wouldn’t have to see your face when he least expected it. 

But now it feels like the last six years of his life have been a lie. He’s been living in his own world, wrapped up in a delusion that only he was able to clearly see. The memory was too painful to say out loud let alone tell a soul. Heeseung kept his heart guarded and offered a brief explanation whenever your mutual friends asked why the two of you weren’t close anymore and he’d shut you down if you tried to talk to him until your efforts ceased. 

When he looks at you now, all he feels is regret. 

Riki walks back towards Heeseung, who’s perched on a bench right on the sand. His ice cream is discarded in the nearby trash can and Riki eats whatever’s left in his cup before tossing it away. The two of them sit in silence. Riki basks in the salt air and relishes in the sound of birds chirping and waves crashing onto the shore. Heeseung can only hear his heart beating in his ears. 

“She’s doing okay,” Riki says, breaking the silence. “I think her shock and adrenaline are wearing off.” 

“Good,” Heeseung nods. “That’s really good.” 

“I could tell she wanted to be left alone after a little while. I hope she’ll be fine when we go back.” 

“I’m sure she will be.” 

Riki nods and looks back at you. “Have you ever seen her get like that?” 

“Maybe once or twice. We stopped being close in high school.” 

“Oh, yeah. Right.” 

“But she always bounced back,” Heeseung adds quickly. “Like you said, she’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t even know she was scared of snakes.” 

Heeseung laughs. “Me either.” The silence permeates until Heeseung speaks again. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“Since when have you ever asked me if you could ask me something?” 

“Fair point.” Heeseung rubs his palms against his thighs. “I don’t really know where to start.”

“The beginning is usually the best place.” 

“You know how I feel about Y/N. How I felt about her. I told you so many times to stop expecting people to treat you the way you want to be treated if they didn’t put in the effort to make you feel welcomed.” Heeseung looks at the younger boy. “Why did you keep defending?” 

“Are you asking me because you’re worried about Y/N or because you have some weird thing with her?” 

“I’m asking because I’m starting to think I was wrong about her.” Riki must think Heeseung is telling the truth because he nods after a moment. 

“How much do you know about Y/N’s family life?”

“I know she has a mom and that Jungwon’s parents are like her own. I also know her parents got divorced and that her dad left just before she graduated high school.” 

“Right.” Riki coughs nervously. “How much do you know about our relationship?” 

“You two are half-siblings.” 

“That’s all?” 

Heeseung shrugs. “I never questioned it.” 

“Okay, yeah. That makes sense.” Riki looks down at his lap like he’s trying to figure out what to say. “I don’t really know if this is my place to say it but I want you to know so you can stop thinking Y/N’s the Devil.” 

“I don’t think she’s the Devil.” 

Riki chuckles. “Sure. To put it simply, she's my half-sister because her dad cheated on her mom with mine. He’d go on business trips to Japan a few times a year and they hit it off after they met. One thing led to another and they started meeting up whenever he was back in town. 

“They had me a year after they first started their affair and I guess he was able to keep his life in Japan a secret until Y/N found pictures on her dad’s laptop. She saw pictures of us on vacations when her dad was supposed to be on work trips. I think she told her mom about it and that’s around the time I found out he had another family too.” 

“What was going through your head back then?” 

“Well, my mom told me my dad had to live in Korea for work. I believed it until I was seven, maybe? I’d always ask her questions as I got older but she either brushed me off or told me things that didn’t add up. He’d come more frequently the older I got. We didn’t talk on the phone much when he was over in Korea, though, so seeing him in person used to be extra special. 

“Then I found out that he had an affair because he came to live with us full time when I was twelve. My mom told me everything when he moved in and I felt like my entire life was a lie. I couldn’t look at either of them the same.” 

“Wow…I can’t imagine going through that.” Heeseung’s words hang in the air. 

“Yeah. It was hard. I hated Y/N for a while. I hated that she got to see my dad more than I did when I found out. My friends used to make fun of me because he wasn’t around for my dance competitions and showcases. I always defended him and said he was working in Korea to make a better life for us. It’s what I believed at the time.” 

“And your mom let you believe all of that?”

Riki shrugs. “I guess so. She hated Y/N and her mom. She always talked down on them when my dad moved in and I felt that my anger was justified too. My mom hated the fact that my dad still wanted to keep Y/N in his life and wouldn’t fully abandon her the way he did hid with his ex-wife. Some of his paycheck would go towards Y/N’s college fund and my mom tried everything in her power to stop him from giving her money but he gave her an ultimatum, so she stopped complaining. 

“He took me to Korea once. I was fourteen, I think. I met my dad’s parents and we stayed with them for a while. I don’t know why he took me there since I could barely speak the language but he said he wanted me to get to know where he grew up and integrate myself in the culture since he was trying to be a present father. That was the first time I met Y/N. I had my mind made up and decided I hated her the first time I saw her. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen. I hated that she looked just like me. 

“When we met for the first time, we didn’t really get along. Both of us didn’t talk and our dad tried so hard to form a bond between us but it didn’t work. I didn’t want anything to do with her because all I could think about was how she got to spend so much time with him while I only got to see him for a week or so a few times a year.” 

“What made you change your mind?” Heeseung asks. 

“When we got back to Japan, my mom kept saying all of these mean things about Y/N and her family,” Riki continues. “I wasn’t her biggest fan but the stuff she was saying was cruel and untrue. I knew it was pure jealousy and realized that my mom helped break up a perfectly good family. I mean, I knew it was my dad’s fault for cheating on his wife and leaving Y/N also, but coming to that realization made me think about how Y/N must’ve felt when she found out.”

“Wow…I didn’t know any of this.”

“As far as I can tell, Jungwon’s the only person she’s told.” Riki sighs and pushes his fingers through his hair. “Anyway, at that point, neither one of us cared to keep the relationship going. I didn’t call her and she didn’t call me. But the more my parents started living their lives like they hadn’t made two people fall apart, the more I started to feel sorry for Y/N. I can’t imagine finding out your dad cheated on your mom and then willingly left you for another family. Our dad brought me back to Korea a few times after that for winter and summer breaks to stay with his parents. He said he wanted me to experience life abroad. He’d bring me to family events and I always felt so out of place.”

“Wait, seriously?” Heeseung asks in disbelief. 

“Yeah, if you can believe it. I felt so guilty coming to these things. It was actually Y/N’s mom who told her to start being more open to me. I can’t explain how awful I felt when I realized she was making an effort to include me even though I was someone from her ex-husband’s affair. When my dad was trying to get back in everyone’s good graces, Y/N’s mom was making sure I had enough food and water.

“I slowly started to realize that Y/N was hurting too. She had everything I wanted but it felt like I was the one who took that away from her. I thought, maybe if my mom wasn’t pregnant with me, her dad would’ve never continued the affair and she would’ve never found out he cheated.”

“That’s why you defend her, isn’t it? Even when I thought she was being unfair?” 

Riki laughs. “Yeah, man. I’ve known about her longer than she’s known me and I’ve known about the affair longer than she has. I’ve had more time to get used to it. I don’t blame her for pushing me away. If I found out I had a half-sibling because my dad cheated on my mom, I think I’d react the same way.” Heeseung’s heart feels much heavier than it did prior to this conversation. “We’ve been getting better. She texts me first every now and then and she keeps up with my dancing stuff. It’s not like we’re total strangers anymore. I mean, she likes me enough to let me be friends with you guys. It’ll just take some time.”

“Do you want her to be in your life? And do you want to be in hers?” 

Heeseung watches Riki nod without a second doubt. “Absolutely. I love Y/N now. She’s my sister even if she only thinks of me as her half-brother. I know we’ve had it rough in the past but she looks out for me. Y/N’s smart and confident in all the ways I wish I could be. I love listening to her talk and I love learning new things about her. I always wished for a sibling and even though this isn’t how I imagined it going, I’m happy.” 

The two of them sit in another round of silence. Heeseung does his best to process everything Riki has just told him but it feels like there’s too much information for him to digest all at once. He never knew any of this about you, too caught up in his own feelings about the misunderstanding. While he was giving you the cold shoulder, you were crumbling apart because your dad left for another family. If he knew any of this back then, Heeseung thinks he would be sympathetic. But he can’t turn back the clock. He watches you stand by the water with your empty ice cream up in your hands and wonders what you’re thinking about. 

“Wait,” Heeseung says, cutting the silence for the umpteenth time. “You’re from Okayama.” Riki nods. “You’ve lived in Okayama until you moved here.” 

“Yeah, that’s right.” 

“And Y/N’s moving to Okayama for work.” Riki nods solemnly. “You’re telling me Y/N’s moving to the city your dad moved to when he left her?” The younger boy nods again. “Shit.”

“With everything going on in her life, I don’t expect her to have it all figured out. Sure, it hurt when she didn’t want to spend time with me but I don’t think I can really be mad at her when this is how her life is. Okayama is a big city but the world is pretty small.”

“That’s fucked up. That’s really, really fucked up.” 

“I’m pretty sure she’s scared about running into our dad. Lord knows I came to study in Korea because I didn’t want to be around him anymore,” Riki scoffs. “I know that I have my own shit to deal with and that I’ll probably need to find a therapist when I start school but for now, I’ll focus on Y/N. I’m happy she let me come on this trip because I know how much camping with Jungwon means to her. I can somewhat empathize with her about moving to a place that didn’t feel like home because of your dad.” 

Heeseung looks at Riki and doesn’t expect him to look as tranquil as he does, but he looks at you like you’re the person giving him this grace and maturity. “Fuck, Riki. I’m really sorry that you had to deal with this. Do the other guys besides Jungwon know?”

“Not as much as you do, they just know something happened with my parents and that’s why I don’t want to go back to Okayama. I don’t think Y/N’s told anybody else, so please don’t tell her you know.”

“I won’t,” Heeseung promises. “I swear on it.” 

“Good. I trust you and you’ve been a good friend to me.” 

“Sorry for giving you a hard time about her too.” 

“It’s fine now. Just…promise me you won’t be so harsh on her. She’s been through a lot and I can tell she’s really not happy about the move even though the job opportunity is really good for her career.” 

“Of course.” 

You walk back towards them and the two boys stand up and pretend as if they weren’t speaking in depth about you. Heeseung, for the first time, smiles at you without restraint and it makes you feel confused as you shake off the sand and head back into his car. 

On the entire drive back to the campsite, Heeseung lets Riki control the music and thinks about their previous conversation. He had no idea this is what you were dealing with and always thought you stopped talking to him because you didn’t think it was worth being friends either. He doesn’t remember much about the last few years of high school, apart from avoiding you when you were around, but now he wishes he would’ve paid more attention. Even though what’s past is past, Heeseung wishes he could turn back time and stop himself from making a false assumption. 

He parks the car sooner than he realizes and Riki hands Heeseung back his phone. You step out of the car and look far better than you did before the impromptu trip. Heeseung can’t help but jog after you. 

“Hey,” he calls out. You’re pulled out of your thoughts when you hear his voice and look at him, perplexed. “Are you feeling better now?” 

“Um, yeah.” You look at Heeseung like you don’t know what he wants from you and he’s starting to hate that he’s made you feel this way for so long. 

“Good. That’s good.” Heeseung clears his throat. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for what I said to you last night. That was out of line. I’m really sorry.” The gears turn in your head and he can see you processing his apology slowly. 

“Yeah, well, if you have a problem with me then you should either tell me why or leave me alone.” Your words lack any venom like they did last night but they’re replaced with something more raw and callous. He almost wishes you would yell at him. 

“I know.” He really does. “But I really am sorry. For everything.” Heeseung can’t find the words to elaborate how he feels, not when he sees your shared friends in front of him. 

You look at him and he feels like you might as well be looking into his soul. Without another word, you leave him with his thoughts and rejoin the rest of the group. 

***

It’s nearing the end of the trip and Heeseung feels like he needs to get you alone to apologize for a million things. Guilt courses through his body when he’s awake and it only ceases when he’s asleep. He does his best to keep a straight face when he’s around everybody else and he’s sure they’re all picking up on the fact that he hasn’t been avoiding you like he did when you all first arrived. 

But it’s hard to get you alone. He knows you likely wouldn’t hear him out if he asked you to talk. Even so, he doesn’t know if he knows everything he wants to say. Heeseung is sure everyone else will want to know why he asked to talk to you and make a big deal out of it too, but he can’t say he blames them when he’s the one who has put so much tension between the two of you. Being nicer towards you with intention is not normal for Heeseung. He wishes that weren’t the case. 

It’s a warm day outside and everybody’s agreed to go kayaking in the lake. The water is calm and there are a few families and groups who’ve decided to do the same thing. Everybody fastens life vests and hops into their own kayak before setting out on the water. 

Heeseung wants to enjoy being out on the water but his mind keeps coming back to you. He wonders deeply about the past he shares with you and what would’ve been if he hadn’t made those assumptions all those years ago. He knows he’s always been a bit too prideful for his own good, putting himself above the opinions of others without thinking twice. He’s got tough skin and likes that he’s developed a sense of confidence and identity, especially because he wants to pursue a career in music, but now he wonders if he’s too confident. 

The reason why your words hurt more than he’d care to admit is because he harbored a pathetic crush on you ever since you wrote him a letter for his thirteenth birthday. He’d just gotten the hang of making music on GarageBand and by the time his birthday rolled around, Heeseung wanted to show some of his friends what he’d been learning after school. October came quickly and he invited his closest friends to his house for some cake and to jump in the large bouncy house his parents rented for him. The warm afternoon is forever etched into his memory because everyone Heeseung cared about in his first year being a teenager was there to support the beginning of his music interest. 

Heeseung remembers the gift he unwrapped from you and your parents. It was a CD of his favorite album and one of those plastic statues with an award title etched into the base. It read “BEST MUSIC PRODUCER” on it and Heeseung thought it was the best gift he received that year. What made that warm afternoon even more special was when you pulled him aside to give him a handwritten note. He remembers your shy voice telling him not to open it until everybody was gone and said you wanted to give the letter to him in private when nobody else was looking because your parents didn’t know you’d done this. He kept that card on his desk until everybody left, promising to read it as soon as he was alone. 

You wrote to his yearning heart, the side of him that wanted to make music so badly that he’d sit in his room until the late hour with a lamp shining over his desk to write songs until his hand hurt from holding his pen. Heeseung would hunch over his desk during school and scribble down lyrics in the margins of his assignments. It always felt like he was the only person who felt this way most times and felt like his peers couldn’t understand why he loved making music so much. Reading your letter made Heeseung feel less alone, as if you were always watching over him and seeing his passion when he thought nobody else could. 

That note alone solidified his blooming crush and suddenly, every love song he wrote was dedicated to you. Details about you were weaved into his songs–the sound you made when you laughed, the stickers you used to collect, and the number on your childhood home–it all became important to him. It was almost like Heeseung could talk to you through his music without saying a single word. He could let his songs do the talking for him. 

Of course, thinking you were the one who said he didn’t have any real talent made his hopes and dreams shatter into a million pieces. He always felt like your champion and that pursuing his passion wasn’t so scary if he had you by his side. The world felt like it was crashing all around him to the point where he considered giving up on making music altogether. For that, he would never forgive you. But it’s different now. Heeseung knows you’re not to blame. The culpability doesn’t lie on your shoulders, even if that’s what Heeseung thought for all these years. 

Heeseung roams around the lake in silence, letting the birds chirp uninterrupted. The sound of his boat sailing against the water beneath him does something to soothe his aching heart for the time being. He sees you not too far ahead with Sunghoon a bit behind you when he sees you reach for the paddle that fell from your grip. His heart stops when your kayak tips over when you've reached too far. 

He wastes no time and rows his boat with all his might after hearing your yelp. His arms burn as he pushes through the water but before he can get any closer to you, Sunghoon has jumped out of his kayak to help you back to the surface. He’s able to drag you to the shore nearby and takes off your life jacket when the two of you are sitting on the edge of dry land. Heeseung manages to haul your kayak and paddle while Jay, who also saw the incident, grabs Sunghoon’s. The two of them wordlessly make their way to you and Sunghoon.

Heeseung sees and hears you coughing but he’s also aware of the fact that you’re situated between Sunghoon’s arms. He’s got you securely wrapped between him as you regain your breath. It’s selfish to even consider the idea that he might be jealous but he can’t help it, especially since you’re gripping onto his arms like he’s your lifeline. 

“Shit, Y/N,” Jay says as he takes his life jacket off. Heeseung does the same and parks his boat to get out of the water. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” you mutter, catching your breath from the water that’s still lodged in your throat. “Jesus, I didn’t think that would happen.”

“You gave me a heart attack.” Sunhoon laughs from behind you but doesn’t push you away just yet. Heeseung watches you.

“I got your boat and paddle,” he says pathetically, feeling awkward when the three of you look at him. “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

“Thanks.” You cough when you speak and Sunghoon rubs your back gently. “Why does this shit keep happening to me?” 

“Maybe Heeseung’s bad luck,” Sunghoon snickers. There’s no real animosity in his tone but Heeseung feels upset nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” he finds himself apologizing. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you tell him, leaning back against Sunghoon as you catch your breath. “I think that’s enough kayaking for today, though.”

Jay laughs. “Yeah, you can say that again. I’m getting hungry anyway. Sunoo and Riki are probably complaining about that too.” 

At dinner, the eight of you sit around the fire as Jay, with the help of Riki and Sunoo, prepare and serve the food. The warm food satisfies everyone and everybody takes turns swapping stories about kayaking, and everybody laughs when Sunghoon recounts the story of you tipping over your boat. Riki keeps your plate full and tries to give you more meat but you shake your head. He pouts and you eventually relent, and that makes Heeseung smile.

He can feel Jungwon looking at him. The younger boy sits next to Heeseung and looks at him every so often, especially when you start talking or when the topic of discussion falls onto you. He ignores it to the best of his ability because he’s sure his friend has picked up on the fact that he’s not acting like he’s not interested anymore. When Jungwon pulls him aside when everybody leaves to get ready for bed, he isn’t surprised. 

“What’s up with you?” Jungwon asks quizzically. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean either, Heeseung. You were acting weird at dinner.” 

“To make a long story short, the reason why I didn’t like Y/N all this time was because I thought she was the one who said I would never make it in music. Sunoo told me it was Chaewon, not Y/N.” 

Jungwon’s eyes open comically. “That’s the reason you didn’t like Y/N?!” Heeseung smacks his shoulder and shushes him. “You know if you just, like, told any of us why you were so mad at her, we could’ve solved this and you wouldn’t have lost a friend.” Ouch. 

“Yeah,” Heeseung replies, looking at the ground below him, “I know. I feel like an idiot and I feel guilty. I want to make it right with her but I’ve acted like such an ass. I told myself it was for the better.”

“You really were an ass,” Jungwon agrees. “Did you know she almost pulled out of this trip when she found out you were going?”

Heeseung’s shoulders slump. “I fucked up, Won. You’re her best friend and I put you in an uncomfortable position too. I’m sorry. I want to make things right but we haven’t had a real conversation in years.” 

“You’re going to have to do a lot more than apologize.” Jungwon sighs and beckons Heeseung to sit down on a log next to him. “She doesn’t hate you, Heeseung. Y/N’s sensitive, you know? She’s sensitive in the way that she feels things pretty deeply and doesn’t push things aside anymore. Back in high school, she went through something pretty life changing that forced her to shut down and all she wanted was to reach out to you but you iced her out.” 

“I feel awful. She has every right to hate me.”

“That’s the thing, Heeseung. Y/N doesn’t hate you. She doesn’t understand what she did that made you pull away and she’s hurt that you won’t talk to her about it. She’s done all she can trying to get through to you but she’s given up because that didn’t seem like it was going anywhere.”

“Can I ask you something?” Jungwon nods. “If…If I talked to her, apologized and tried to tell her what was going on at the time, do you think she’d forgive me?” 

Heeseung waits for his friend to answer. “I think she would appreciate that you put in the effort to be there for her. She still cares about you even if she says she doesn’t.”

“I don’t know about that.” 

“I do. I’m her best friend, Heeseung.” The elder nods. “What I’m saying is this: All Y/N has ever wanted was for you to make an effort for her. When you stopped being her friend, she wondered for months if she was a bad person because you didn’t talk to her about why you pulled away so suddenly. Apologizing doesn’t mean the two of you will go back to the way you used to, but she’ll appreciate that over distancing yourself because you feel guilty.” 

That last part hurts to hear but he understands. “Do you think Y/N and I could ever be friends?” 

Jungown nods. “Yeah, actually. I can tell that you’re being upfront with me right now. You know how she is. She values honesty and loyalty. Of everyone in our friend group, Y/N is the one who’s really good at communicating and giving advice about that kind of stuff. She doesn’t need you to go above and beyond for her. It might take time but I know she’d appreciate it if you at least made an effort to talk to her and clear up some stuff.” 

Heeseung is lost in thought and barely hears Jungwon tell him he’ll try his best to let the two of you talk tomorrow night after dinner. He doesn’t know how to thank him other than to pull him into a tight embrace and cling onto the younger boy like he’s got something to lose. Jungwon seems to understand where Heeseung is coming from–he, too, has had his fair share of arguments with you–so he hugs him back as if to say everything will be alright. 

When you wake up the next morning, a weird feeling settles in your chest. Jungwon is fast asleep when you leave the tent to get ready for the day after failing to fall asleep. The sun is already up and you don’t know what time it is, but the morning is cold and the sweater you have on protects you from the chill nicely. 

You see Heeseung at the wash station and grip your toiletry bag when he spots you. Awkwardly, you step into the bath house and turn the faucet on as he brushes his teeth, motioning yourself to do the same thing. He watches you from the mirror as you keep your eyeline straight in front of you. He wants to say something to you, perhaps “good morning” or “how did you sleep?” but nothing seems good enough. You, on the other hand, feel like Heeseung may as well put you under a microscope. 

“Can I help you?” 

He looks at you as if he’s been caught with his hand down the cookie jar. “N-No. Sorry.” You sigh and resume brushing your teeth when he spits and rinses his mouth of the toothpaste. “I mean what I said I was sorry. I really am.”

“For which part? Cussing me out or avoiding me since high school?” You sound tired. 

“All of it,” he says quietly. You keep your head straight while he looks at you. “I have no excuse. I’ve been acting like a dick towards you and I feel awful.” You don’t say anything. “I…I thought you were the one who said I wouldn’t make it as a producer. I didn’t know it was Chaewon who said it and that you were the one who defended me. I was stupid and angry, and I took it out on you without knowing the whole truth. 

“I didn’t find out until Sunoo told me yesterday. I didn’t talk about that with anyone since we were friends, you know? I was so hurt but I didn’t know that it was my fault for making myself feel like that…And in turn, I made you feel like you didn’t have a place in my life. I’m so, so sorry that I treated you like you didn’t mean anything to me when you did.” 

You don’t look at him as you finish your morning routine. He stands there awkwardly, waiting for you to say something. 

“I went through a lot of shit back then,” you say, turning to face him. “My dad left just after you stopped talking to me and all I wanted to do was talk to you about it. You always knew what to say to make me feel better but then you started ignoring me like I never mattered to you. Do you know how badly that hurt to have one of my best friends stop giving a shit about me? 

“I watched you hang out with our mutual friends. I watched you do really cool things with music but I did all of that on the sidelines because you never included me, even though I was the only person who really supported you., I don’t think you really get that there were so many people back then who just wanted to be your friend because a few of your songs blew up on the internet. I watched you keep them close while you pushed me aside without giving me the chance to make up for whatever I did to make you upset. 

“I’ve spent the last few years trying to be okay with the fact that you didn’t want to be friends anymore. I tried so hard to accept that you and I would only be people who saw each other in passing. But that hurt. It hurt so much to think you didn’t care about me for one second and didn’t care that I was upset too.” 

Your confession hangs in the air and Heeseung feels like crying when he sees that you’ve started to tear up. You wipe them away aggressively, too embarrassed to be seen weeping in front of him. 

“I’m sorry.” Heeseung’s voice cracks. “I am, Y/N. You were so good to me and I took that for granted.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” 

“I can’t make excuses for myself back then but I want you to know I own up to everything. I’m sorry that I let you feel like that and wasn’t mature enough to talk to you. I know I’m too late, but you deserve an apology. You deserve more than that.” 

Heeseung thinks you’re going to storm past him like he did a few nights prior. He thinks you might spit in his face and tell him to go to hell. But all you do is stare at him in silence. 

“I’ve wanted to hear you say that for a long time,” you tell him. “So thanks for that. I feel beyond hurt by everything you did and everything you’ve ever said since we stopped being friends. All I have ever wanted was to be in the same room and not worry about if you wanted me there or not. This entire trip has felt like walking on eggshells around you.” He lets you step around him and out of the bath house. 

“I don’t hate you either, Heeseung. I know you probably think that I do but I don't.” 

***

The rest of your friends can tell something’s going on between the two of you but choose not to comment on it. Everybody is off doing their own thing, as today is the last day of camping, and nobody wants to accidentally spoil it. You and Jungwon decide to head over to your “secret spot,” just the two of you, for old time’s sake.

“I’ll miss you when I leave Korea,” you say as the two of you sit on the ground. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do any of this without you, Wonnie.”

“I know you’re scared of the future and about your dad asking to see you, but you’ve got to know that you’re stronger than any of us. You’re like, a superhero, or something.” 

“Now you’re just being corny.” 

Jungwon laughs. “Yeah, maybe I am. But seriously, Y/N, I’ve always liked that you were able to find some of your optimism again. You make me feel like things will get better for me too. I can’t sit here and pretend I know what you’re going through, but I’ll always be here for you. My parents will too.”

“I still remember the look on their faces when my mom broke the news,” you snort. “They looked like they were ready to go to prison for murder.” 

“I’ve never seen them so angry. I felt like castrating your dad.” 

“Didn’t we all?” 

“But at least we got Riki out of it.” You smile fondly. Jungwon wants to tell you he’s proud of how far you’ve come, but decides to keep that to himself for now.

“I love him, you know. Even if I don’t really say it. I think it was hard for me to be able to say I loved him without feeling guilty. I thought I was betraying my mom if I gave Riki a chance and seeing her step up to be a parental figure when my dad was too busy mingling with our side of the family was hard. We’ve never talked about it but I know she doesn’t hate Riki. She wouldn’t have forced me to spend time with him if she did.

“He’s such a bright kid and he’s so talented. It makes me happy when people recognize that too. He taught me a lot about prioritizing my feelings. Learning to re-evaluate my life when Riki showed up made me feel, I don’t know, more mature? Like, I can be upset and still care about people because we all make mistakes and none of us asked to be here.” 

Jungwon lets a beat of silence pass before speaking. “Did Heeseung talk to you?”

“This morning. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I saw him acting a bit different at the bonfire last night and asked him if anything happened. He told me why he was so mad at you for so long and said he wanted to apologize.”

“Men are so fucking stupid,” you sigh, bringing your knees to your chest. “I don’t understand why he didn’t talk to me in the first place.”

“Me either, honestly. But at least he’s making an effort. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Feelings are complicated. I’ve been angry for so long. I always thought I’d yell at him and give him a piece of my mind, or something. I thought I would hate him and tell him to forget about me. But when he apologized, he said it in a way that made me believe he meant it. It didn’t feel like he was bullshitting me. I felt stuck.” 

“What did you end up saying?” 

“I told him how hurt I was during that time and said I wished he was there for me like I was for him when I was dealing with my dad. I told him how I wished we could’ve talked it out.” 

“That’s a good start.” 

“I don’t think we’ll ever go back to the way we were but I also know Heeseung. I know it took a lot out of him to set aside his pride and put somebody else first. I don’t really know what I’m gonna do now. All I know is I’m tired of being upset and I want to feel okay.”

Jungwon nudges your shoulder with his. “You’ll be just fine. The universe moves for you, Y/N. There’s no way you won’t have a happy ending.” He watches you hide a smile. 

“You are such a sap.” 

“It’s what you love about me.” 

“Unfortunately.” You’ll really miss him. “I gotta take it one day at a time, right? Heeseung is going to be in my life for a long time since we share so many friends. Riki loves him too, and I guess I can’t hate Heeseung too much for looking out for him. I don’t think I have any room to think about it when I get back because I’ll be doing some last minute packing and getting ready to move.” 

“It’ll be over before you know it. But even then, you’re going to have the best time in Okayama. Fuck your dad and all of the bad shit.”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “Fuck my dad.” 

The end of the trip is bittersweet. You start to tear up when you see the campsite completely empty and move slowly to pack everything in the cars. Heeseung notices but doesn’t say anything, offering to grab whatever’s in your hands when he sees you looking out into the clearing for extended periods of time. He doesn’t pretend to know what you’re feeling but he knows he doesn’t like it when you cry.

He watches you get into Jay’s car and wishes that you could be comfortable sitting alone with him. While Jake mans the aux, Heeseung thinks about what might happen when you move away. Will the two of you remain how you are or will you grow apart? Is there any room for him in your life now that you’re off to explore a different part of the world? Will he ever be able to push past the gnawing feeling of pushing his pathetic crush on you down until he no longer thinks of you like that?

He’s never admitted it, but those feelings he had towards you all those years ago never really went away. Heeseung doubled down on his irritation because doing otherwise would allow all of those romantic feelings to overwhelm him. He kept his head down around you because he knew one look at you would be enough to throw his inhibitions away and he was afraid he would risk everything he’s ever wanted just for you to tell him you love him too. Now that he knows everything was a misunderstanding, the grave loss weighs on him. He’s got a million thoughts running through his mind and none of them seem to make any sense. These romantic feelings didn’t lie dormant for all of these years, right? 

The next week and a half feels like it passes by too quickly for the both of you. You finish packing the morning of your going away party that everyone helped set up and plan. Your mom, along with Jungwon’s parents, all of your friends and their parents, and Maeumi, presentes you with the kind of happiness you never want to forget. Even Heeseung, who shows up and gives you a letter when no one else is looking, makes you feel like you would be dearly missed. You’re not sure that you enjoy being the center of attention, but everybody’s kindness makes you feel like you deserve to be. 

It’s late when they leave and socializing makes you feel far more exhausted than you anticipated. Your flight is midday tomorrow but you try not to think about that. Heeseung’s letter sits on the edge of your bed and the green envelope–your favorite color–stares at you like it’s begging you to open it. And open it you do. 

Y/N–

I don’t know where to start. I’m sorry, first of all, for treating you the way I did. I was a sorry excuse for a friend. I should’ve talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions and it doesn’t matter that we were both young. Friends annoy each other but they don’t disrespect one another. I’m so sorry that I made you doubt yourself. 

I’ll miss you a lot when you’re in Japan. We didn’t get the chance to talk it out and I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me after you leave. You deserve people who will be there for you. But please know I’ll always be rooting for you. 

Lastly…I don’t know if this is my place to say this but here goes nothing. Back when we were close, the one thing I loved about you was how passionate you were about life. You loved to learn and explore new things, and you always made me feel like I could feel that way too. I know you’re scared about Okayama for a number of reasons but you’re the strongest person I know. You’ll be just fine, even if you don’t feel like you will be. I’ll be here for you whenever you need me. I mean it.

- Heeseung

For the first time in a while, you allow yourself to cry over Lee Heeseung and surprise yourself when you realize that you want him back. 

***

At the airport, your mom helps you check in your luggage and asks if you’ve got everything you need and makes you double check everything. It’s reminiscent of the way you did with Riki before the camping trip. You’re happy despite feeling a bit annoyed that she’s making you take off your backpack. You don’t totally mind it, though. She gives you a hug that feels like it could last a lifetime and letting her go is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. 

Everybody else gives you love, too. Sunoo is the first to hug you and makes you promise to bring him back some skincare and souvenirs the next time you’re able to get back to Korea. Jake embraces you next and gives you some words of encouragement while Jay does his best to pretend like he isn’t sad by complaining about how there will be one less cook in the kitchen. You throw your arms around him anyway and pretend not to hear him sniffle. Sunghoon traps you in a bear hug and makes you promise to take as many photos as possible and says he’ll look forward to seeing them. He, too, pretends like he’s not about to cry. You push your head onto his shoulder and give his hand a squeeze before he lets a few teardrops fall. 

Jungwon is the most emotional of them all. He wipes away his free falling tears and crushes you in a hug, burying his head in your neck. “You better come back, asshole. I can’t believe you’re gonna leave me to chase your dreams. That’s so selfish of you.” You think you might cry too but laugh anyway. 

“I love you so much, Wonnie.” He squeezes you like he’s afraid he’ll forget what it feels like to be in your embrace until Jake pries him off of your body. 

Riki stands awkwardly with his eyes to the floor and his hands in front of him. The taller boy feels as though his shoes are glued down but you see the way his gaze flickers as if he’s trying to figure out what to do next. It doesn’t take much out of you to throw your arms around him and push yourself into his chest. 

“I’m going to miss you a lot, Riki,” you tell him.

“Really?” You nod. 

“I know I haven’t been the best towards you but you need to know that I’m so proud of you, okay? I loved getting to know you. I loved that you came on the trip and I’m so fucking happy that you’re my brother. Out of everybody who could’ve popped into my life, I’m so glad it was you.” 

Everybody watches Riki melt in front of them as he envelopes you right into him. You feel the weight of his shoulders relax and for the first time, you feel like you’re starting to wonder if this is what it feels like to have everything figured out. 

“I’ll come visit you,” he promises. “I’ll come home for winter break.”

“Stay with me. We can do all of the corny shit siblings do. I’ll even pay for everything.” 

Riki laughs but doesn’t let you go. “You’re the best, you know that? Even though it took you some time, I always thought of you like my sister. I’m really happy to be around you.” 

The waterworks begin and Riki does his best to comfort you when he feels tears on his shirt. He feels somewhere in between empty and fulfilled knowing the two of you have made amends, but knowing you want to work towards the future is enough to make him confident that everything will be alright. He lets you go when he feels your arms loosen around him and aggressively wipes his own tears away. 

When you look at Heeseung, the last thing he expects you to do is acknowledge him. He came to the airport because he wants you to know he meant everything in the letter he wrote. He stayed up all night to check for your texts but you hadn’t said anything, and while he knew it was an emotional day for you because of all you were dealing with, a selfish part of him wanted to know what you thought about it. 

You surprise Heeseung and yourself by engulfing him in a hug. The familiarity of his embrace makes you feel nostalgic and you can’t help but cry right into his chest. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate and brings his arms to wrap around your fragile body as you silently weep against him. He holds you tight and gently rocks your body like he used to all those years ago. You don’t fight back either. Instead, you push your head deeper into him and hold him until your tears have stopped. 

“I read your letter,” you say quietly. “We have a lot to talk about but I appreciate everything you said, Heeseung. I tried to hate you but I could never bring myself to feel that way about you.”

“I’m really going to miss you. Can I be selfish?” Heeseung asks with a sob in his throat. “I wish I apologized sooner and I wish we had more time. But please, promise me that you’re going to try to have fun in Japan, okay? You’re the best person I know, even if I didn’t make you feel like it. I’ll always live with that regret but knowing you’ll forget about me and make a life for yourself is enough.”

“I could never truly forget about you, Hee.” That nickname you used to call him makes Heeseung’s heart beat faster. “I don’t want you out of my life. All these years I felt like that’s what I wanted but I don’t want that now. Be happy without me too, okay? Forget about me and follow that dream of yours.” 

Heeseung laughs sadly. “I don’t think I could ever forget about you.” You step away from him and wipe your eyes for the umteenth time. 

“Write a song for me, then. And don’t be a stranger, okay?” 

“Okay.” Heeseung swears on it. “I won’t.” 

A beat of silence passes before all seven of your friends push you into the middle of their group hug. It brings another round of tears to your eyes and Jungwon’s the one who lets you cry into him until your mom tells you it’s time to start boarding. Everybody gets one final goodbye before you disappear into the plane. 

You smile at your phone when you settle into your seat. 

lee heeseung: I miss you already 

You miss him too.

***

Okayama is a dream until it isn’t. You settled into your apartment and had one month before you started your job and went to all the places Riki recommended. You started to understand him a little better after moving and both of you find it hilarious that you two ended up living in each others’ hometowns. You can’t choose your siblings but you’d choose Riki in every lifetime. 

You call your mom every so often and update her on life. Your friends keep you in the loop and FaceTime you when they’re out together. It makes you feel like you’re back in Korea and while it isn’t the same, you appreciate the effort anyway. You’ve made friends with your neighbors and a few girls you met when you went out drinking with your cousin the week you moved and it made braving a whole new country feel less daunting. Jungwon calls you everyday and you tease him for being such a clingy friend, but you both know you love it. You inform him about everything from the boring details to juicy work drama, and it feels like you’re sitting in his bedroom wearing face masks and eating junk food. 

Heeseung has been a constant fixture in your life, too. You texted him the moment you landed and he kept the conversation going. You talk about everything, the past especially, and start to feel like things might be okay. Those butterflies that you had for him in high school made an appearance after three months in Japan and part of you wondered if you were a fool for bringing him back into your life after everything. All of your friends back in Korea tell you Heeseung is miserable without you and when they tease him in the big group chat, he doesn’t deny it.

The friends you made seemed divided–one half thought you should leave him in the dark while the other half swooned over his dedication to making things right. You don’t really know what to think or how to feel, but you know you’re happy. Between phone calls and late night texts, you were always left with a smile on your face before bed.

Riki came back to Okayama for winter break and spent two weeks in your apartment. When the two of you weren’t bickering as siblings do, you both stayed up way too late watching anime and watched him dance at his home studio. Riki even got you to attend a few classes (he tried not to laugh at your poor coordination skills but appreciated the effort anyway). You prefer to be in the audience. 

Life seemed great until your dad made an appearance just before Christmas. He knew you were here from a single text message he never responded to before you moved to Okayama. The weight of his silence prepared you to be in Japan without him but his sudden appearance made you feel like everything changed for the worse. Riki went back to his childhood home to see his family and asked you to come with him after your dad had forced him. Your brother knows the intricate dynamic and you don’t blame him for anything. Seeing your dad with his new family after sparse texts since he left felt like a punch in the gut. It soured your holidays and Riki spent the rest of his trip apologizing even though you told him there was no reason for him to be sorry. You dropped him off at the airport and told him you’d see him in the summertime. 

The holidays came and went but the feelings you’ve carried since then haven’t disappeared, which brings you to the present. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of your apartment in Okayama, looking at you with those big, round doe eyes you always loved. 

“Hi,” he says breathlessly. 

“Heeseung…What are you doing here?” He scratches the back of his neck. 

“You’ve been going through a lot, you know? Every time we talked on the phone, you sounded like you were a thousand miles away and it killed me to know I couldn’t do anything to make you feel better after the holidays with your dad. Jungwon and I have been talking about how much of an ass he is and how much we wish we could be here for you and the next thing I knew, he was encouraging me to buy the next flight out to see you,” Heeseung says in a single breath. “But honestly? I just really, really fucking missed you.”

“You flew all this way here? For me?”

“Yeah.” Heeseung says it like it’s a no-brainer. “Although, now I feel kinda stupid. I realize I’m putting you in a tough spot. But you know what? I think it’s worth it to know that you’re okay.” 

He looks at you but you don’t say anything. Heeseung can see the gears turning inside of your head while you process his arrival. You look so cute in your sleep shorts and oversized shirt. He loves it when you call him via FaceTime because he gets to see all parts of you–getting ready for work and winding down as you are now. It makes him feel like you’re pulling him right back into you. 

You don’t really need to say anything. You lurch yourself onto him and press your lips against his like it’s something you’ve been waiting to do for the longest time. You probably have. Heeseung wraps his arms around you and lets his mouth melt against yours and doesn’t complain about your boldness either. He welcomes it, even. 

“You’re so stupid,” you mutter against him, pulling him into your apartment and locking the door behind you. You kiss him repeatedly and he puts his hands on your waist as if to let you know he’s right there with you. 

“Why am I stupid, baby?” Heeseung’s voice paired with that nickname makes your knees buckle.  

“You can stay with me.” He feels you smile against your lips. “Please just…stay here and don’t go.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Heeseung drops his backpack onto the floor and lets you capture his mouth again. You taste so fresh with your cherry lip balm. He moans right into your mouth when you push him against your countertop and the feeling of his hands on your body makes you grow hotter as the seconds pass by. The ache between your legs starts to overwhelm you as his plump lips kiss you over and over again before he pushes them against your neck. It’s too much in all of the right ways and you’re too aroused to even think straight. You start to pull yourself away from Heeseung and he’s about to ask if he’s going too fast when you grab your hand and lead him to your bedroom. 

“Y/N, wait,” Heeseung tries to say in between kisses. He loves the feeling of your warm mouth against him and feels himself starting to get worked up but he doesn’t know if you’re thinking straight. Even though the two of you have talked nearly everyday, Heeseung doesn’t know if this is moving too fast. 

“I’m done waiting.” You pull away from him and reach for his hand, pushing his lengthy fingers past your shorts and underwear until he feels the wet slick starting to pool at your folds. Your hand moves his back and forth as he looks at you like you’ve stunned him with a laser gun. Heeseung’s dick jumps in his pants and it takes him a second to move his fingers on his own accord. “I want you, Heeseung. Don’t you want me too?”

His resolve crumbles. Heeseung nods with his mouth parted as he pushes his fingers inside you, your wetness allowing him to reach your depths immediately. You push yourself on your toes and put your hands on his chest, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he’d let you go if you don’t. He thrusts his fingers with intention and hears your quiet whimpers when he leans his head down next to your mouth.

“Yeah,” Heeseung says, lips touching the shell of your ear as his voice ripples through your body. “I want you.”

He pulls his hand away from you and smiles at the short whine from the loss of his touch. Heeseung loves how much you need him and he’s sure you can see how much he needs you too. A surge of confidence jolts within you as Heeseung looks down at your body like he’s ready to eat you alive. You peel off your shirt and shorts, leaving you in your underwear as Heeseung pulls his shirt over his head with a single hand. 

“Lie down,” Heeseung beckons. You do as he says and he sinks down to his knees and pries your legs apart, looking directly at you as he speaks. “Good girl.” He pulls your garments down your legs and the cool air hits your center as Heeseung looks down at you. 

You don’t have time to think about anything when he peppers soft kisses on your skin. His lips journey from the inside of your knee and he presses one small kiss to your slit before repeating the process on your other leg. Heeseung allows himself to get lost in the way your body reacts to his feather-like touches before descending down onto your folds. 

Heeseung’s tongue feels like the closest thing to magic. He takes his time when licking you with his warm and wet muscle, canvassing every ridge with expert movements. You rake your fingers through his hair and tug gently at his soft roots, pulling a moan out of him that delivers a delicious shock up your spine. He puts your feet on his shoulders and plunges his tongue inside of you and grips your flesh with his fingertips until you’re coming undone on his mouth. 

“So fucking good,” he mutters to himself more than he does to you. He laps up your release and you find yourself a bit embarrassed that you were able to come so quickly, but the way he touches you makes it seem as though he already knew how to push your buttons. “You’re so sweet, Y/N. I could eat you all day if you’d let me.” 

Heeseung trails his lips up your stomach and kisses you so tenderly that you feel as though your body must be made out of soft cotton. His lips find your left nipple and lets his tongue swirl over the bud before sucking on it with a gentle motion. He repeats the process on the other nub and flicks it, enjoying the soft sounds that come from you. Heeseung buries himself right into your neck but he doesn’t kiss the skin like you think he will. Instead, he kisses you twice on your open neck before moving his body so that he can look down at you. 

He bites his lip. It makes you feel exposed but somehow, it makes you feel all that more confident. It’s like Heeseung is looking right through you with all of your worries and faults laid out for him to reject. But he doesn’t. Likewise, Heeseung allows you to see him in his vulnerability and he’s ready to pack up his things and leave if you tell him you don’t want this anymore. But you don’t. 

He descends on you once again, this time his lips pushing against you in a slow and sensual kiss. You feel the way he moves against you and savor the sounds your mouths make together. Heeseung brings his hand to brush strands of your hair away from your face as he kisses you and the gentle touch of his fingertips feels like it was always meant to be there. 

“I need you.” Your back arches right into his chest as you speak. “Don’t make me wait, Heeseung. Please, I just…I need you.” 

“I’ll never make you wait. Never again,” he promises. Heeseung manages to rid himself of his pants and boxers and pushes himself between your legs until his dick is situated between your folds. Your arousal, paired with the precum oozing from his slit, provides the perfect balance of wetness that coats the entirety of his cock as he glides himself against you. 

When his tip catches your hole, the sounds of your moans overpowers his refrain. He pushes inside of you slowly inch by inch, savoring the way you feel for the fear that he might never be able to do this again. You look so beautiful underneath him with his dick completely sheathed inside of you and when your legs wrap around his body to encourage him to move, Heeseung doesn’t deny you of your pleasure. 

Neither of you have ever had sex like this–the feeling of pure rawness echoes throughout the room between your breathy moans and the sound of skin pushing against one another. Your body is warm in the way he always imagined and his hands touch every inch of you as if to commit your silhouette to memory. In this moment, Heeseung feels as though the two of you are kindred spirits who found each other.

“You’re so good for me,” Heeseung whispers into your neck as he thrusts into you. “So fucking tight and wet.” He feels your arms wrap around his shoulders to keep him trapped between you but he can’t say he minds all that much. 

“I-I’m so close,” you say in a broken moan. 

“Already, baby?” Heeseung says to tease you as he brings his head up to look down at you again. He pushes his hips against you faster and that surprised gasp you let out makes his balls clench. 

“S-Shut up.” 

Your arms fall to the mattress as you claw at your sheets. Heeseung plans his elbows on either side of your head as he focuses all of his willpower towards fucking you with fast deep strokes, loving the way your mouth parts slightly and how your eyes are closed shut. His muscles flex as he pushes himself until you’re coming with a loud moan, and finds himself releasing inside of you the moment he feels you gushing around him. 

You feel Heeseung press his tender lips against your forehead as you come down from your high while he continues to rock you through your release. Your cheeks are hot from the pleasure and the room is suddenly too warm with Heeseung on top of you. When you open your eyes, he’s looking at you like he’s seen a halo above your head. He can’t really help it. Heeseung leans down to press a soft, gentle kiss against your lips to convey a job well down. 

“I came so fast,” you whisper bashfully. You bite your lip but Heeseung tugs it away from your teeth to kiss you again. 

“Me too.” Heeseung kisses your nose and relishes in the way you scrunch your face. “But it’s okay. You deserve to feel good. I don’t care how long or short it takes.” He places his hand on your face and rubs the apple of your cheek with his thumb. 

“I really missed you.” 

“I missed you too, dummy,” Heeseung says before flicking your nose. He holds your jaw in place before kissing you again. 

“We’re gonna have to do a lot of making up, you know,” you mumble against his lips with a smile. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Mhm.” You push against his lips. Heeseung pushes his half-hard dick inside of you as your back arches right into him. He’s there to catch you this time, his arm supporting your spine underneath you. “Fuck!” 

“My baby,” he whispers into you. “Let me make it up to you.” 

You let him.

***

EPILOGUE: THE FOLLOWING SPRING

“For fuck’s sake, get your big ass head out of the way.”

Jay smacks Jake’s shoulder. “You can see just fine, stupid.” Sunghoon hits both of their shoulders. 

“Both of you, stop moving so much. You guys almost knocked my camera.” They mumble a quick apology before finding another thing to discuss. 

“I feel like I’m surrounded by children.” You sigh as Heeseung wraps his arms around your waist and lets his chin sit atop the crown of your head. He feels your body relax against him and smiles. 

“Well you are, technically. Riki just stopped wearing diapers.” 

“I hate you so much, Heeseung,” the younger boy whines without any true malice. You laugh and squeeze Riki’s hand. He can’t find it in himself to be too mad at either of you. 

“Do you guys see Jungwon and Sunoo?” Sunghoon asks with his camera at the ready. “I want to make sure I take as many pictures as possible.” 

“I don’t think they’re coming out yet,” says Jay. 

“Duh.” Jake provokes him in a way you missed while you were in Okayama. It brings warmth to your heart when you see them bicker. 

Jay turns to you. “Y/N, have you given a second thought about moving in with Jake when you come back? I think you’d be better off if you kicked him to the streets.”

“Hey!” Jake tackles Jay until he’s got his older friend’s neck between his arms. None of you pay too much attention and choose to wait for Jungwon and Sunoo. 

“Our friends are another breed,” Heeseung mumbles against you as he kisses your cheek. “Are you sure you want to move back and be roommates with Jake and Jungwon?” 

“Mhm. I miss you guys so much.” 

“But you miss me the most, right?” 

“Yes, baby.” You bring his hand up to your lips and kiss the back of it. “I missed you the most.” 

“There they are!” Riki shouts. 

Jungwon and Sunoo, clad in their caps and gowns, saunter their way out of the stadium before spotting your group. They make a run for it and push past the onlookers who search for their loved ones as well. Sunoo clings onto Jake while Jungwon finds his perch in Riki’s arms as Sunghoon captures the beautiful moment on his digital camera. 

“We fucking did it!” Jungwon shouts as he pulls away. “Sunoo, we did it!” 

“About damn time,” Sunoo replies as he rolls his eyes with a smile. “I felt like I’d be there forever.” 

“We’re so proud of you both.” Jay smiles and moves to hug each of them. “You guys are amazing, seriously.” 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” Riki bumps hips with Sunoo. “That seems unfair.” 

“Life is unfair.” There’s no real bite to his tone, just a bittersweet future. Sunoo hugs the taller boy. 

“Oh my God,” Jungwon says with his hand pressed to his mouth. “Y/N is crying.” 

“No I’m not,” you say, even though you definitely are. Heeseung squeezes you tighter against him. “Shut up, Jungwon. I’m not crying.” 

“You so are!” Riki shouts. 

“I’m not crying. Seeing my best friends graduate college is not a good reason to cry, okay?!” 

Jungwon and Sunoo sport shit-eating grins. Heeseung lets you go as they engulf you in a hug while the younger of the two feels your hot tears on his cheek. He laughs and this moment starts to feel a bit nostalgic to him, as he acted the same way you did upon seeing you in your cap and gown. 

“Hey,” he says in a softer tone, pulling away from the two of you. “Thanks for being here. I know taking time off was a little hard but we’re so happy you could come.”

“Yeah,” Sunoo agrees. “Talking to you over the phone isn’t enough. We missed you, you know?” 

You tear up again and wipe your nose before falling into them again. “I missed you too.”

“Oh God,” Sunghoon laughs. “If Y/N’s crying then I know we’re in for it.” 

“Hey!” Heeseung jokes, nudging his friend with his shoulder. “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.” Although, he can’t really disagree with Sunghoon. 

“You’re all so stupid for making me cry in public,” you say as you wipe your tears from your eyes. “I’m gonna look back at these pictures and my eyes will be all red and puffy.” 

“I feel like you and Heeseung might as well be our parents,” Sunoo says as Heeseung pulls him into a hug.

“Wait, you guys should totally take a family photo.” Jake steps forward to arrange the four of you like a family portrait with Jungwon and Sunoo between you and Heeseung. “There. Sunghoon, take a picture. This is so going on the fridge when we move in together.” 

Heeseung moves back next to you as the rest of your friends look at the photos on Sunghoon’s camera and take turns taking pictures of him with the graduates. He kisses your cheek and pulls you back into him. 

“You ready to come back to all this chaos?”

“More than ready,” you affirm. “I loved Okayama, even though I had to deal with my dad and all of that stuff. But I missed my life here and the masters program over in Seoul is a good fit for me, you know? Plus, your apartment isn’t too far from mine.” 

“I can’t wait for you to move back.” Heeseung kisses your cheek again. “Your mom and I talked logistics about helping you move into the new apartment. Knowing you, I’m sure you’ll have another suitcase coming back with you.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You know I’m right.” 

You blush and mumble. “Yeah…You’re right.” 

“Your mom and Jungwon’s parents talked about renting a bigger camp space this year, too. I think they’re planning on having one huge trip this year now that most of us have graduated.” 

“I can’t believe our last trip was almost a year ago. That’s insane because it feels like I moved to Japan just yesterday.” 

“I solemnly swear I will never be as stupid or dense as I was back then.” When you turn around to look at Heeseung, you know he’s telling the truth. You don’t answer him verbally and choose to silence him with a pretty kiss. It’s enough for the two of you. 

“Oi, love birds,” Jake calls, looking at you. “We should find their parents. Your mom called me and I think she was crying.” 

You frown. “Why didn’t she call me?”  

“She said you were probably crying too,” Jake snickers. 

“Is it too late to back out of being roommates?” 

“Nope. You’re stuck with me.” 

Heeseung squeezes your hand. 

“And me.” 

As you look around, you can’t help but feel as though this was always how it was meant to be.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

***

comments and reblogs are appreciated! xx

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [epilogue]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.9k words cw: none.

you try to move on.

Eight months later

Time is a river. 

That’s what your sponsor Brian had told you, when you went up to receive your six-month chip. A navy plastic coin, unremarkable, special in its own way.

Y’just gotta let the current take you. 

Poetic old Irishman that he is. Seen worse things than you. You’re not sure why you always find it helpful, grounding, to hear him talk about his experiences during the Gulf War. Plane shot out of the sky. Parachuted directly into enemy-controlled territory. A prisoner of war for three weeks, only liberated once the war had already been won. Wears the scars of it; a missing eye, doughy skin graft on his cheek, a pillowy stub where his hand should be. 

Told you he got into heroin pretty quickly after coming back home. Said he couldn’t look at anyone the same. Couldn’t stay in touch with his brothers-in-arms. Couldn’t stand the dark. Didn’t take him long to replace food, water, air, with a needle in his arm. Felt a lot better back then, he said. 

But using is like holding stones underwater, he told you. Keeps you stuck to the riverbed till y’drown. 

He’s been sober for twenty years. Almost twenty-one. Said he offered to sponsor you because he said he saw himself in you. 

You couldn’t tell him anything about your own experiences when you spoke to him at your Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Tongue legally tied by what was essentially an NDA and persistent government surveillance. Forbidden to utter a word of what had been a special operations mission of the utmost confidentiality. A failed mission, at that. 

He saw it in you, though. That blackness in the back of your eyes. Understood without you needing to share it. 

You wouldn’t have wanted to share it, anyway. 

That was Mia’s life. 

Now, you’re Amelia. 

Amelia Frances Day. Printed on your new birth certificate, on your driver’s license, on your shiny new passport. A photo of you with your new haircut in the corner. Born in Leeds, it says, only child to Harry and Phillipa Day. Both tragically dead, of course, according to your manufactured origin story. Died in a car accident when you were a teenager, so you’re spared putting on the show of mourning imaginary people. 

Captain Jonathan had decided your vaguely northern accent was weak enough to say you had been raised in Newcastle. Told you that London got hit the worst, and half the city is cordoned off by plastic tents and caution tape. Better to plant you somewhere reasonably intact. 

He had asked you what you wanted your degree to be, when he had you in a boxy little office with him at Brize Norton, a week after you stepped off the helicopter. 

It was surreal, you remember, sitting in that room with him. The Captain. In a cushioned chair, across the table from him; unrestrained by zip cuffs, with the door unlocked, and a window cracked open to let in the cold air of late winter. He was stiff as a board, then, only spoke with a bone-straight back and through gritting teeth. Nothing like the unctuous suave he put on when you first met him, or when he held that revolver to your head. He sat upright in his chair, laptop and a notepad open on the table, manila folders and documents scattered across it. 

Psychology, you had suggested. Bachelor of Arts. The kind of unremarkable graduate degree that can slot in anywhere. That people don’t ask about. Helped that you sat through two years of lectures before you had dropped out — lends a bit of believability to your story. 

“Does Amelia have any hobbies?” He had asked you, impassively, but you could hear the solemnity in his throat. 

You had to think about it for a while before you could answer him. There was something forlorn in his expression that gave you the impression he was self-flagellating by asking it. Wanted to know how human you were as punishment for how he had treated you as less than. 

“She likes to draw,” you had told him, mumbled it, staring vacantly at the six-day-old bruises on your legs. “She likes to read, too. Um… I can’t remember what else she likes.” 

So he got you a library card. New health records. Clean criminal record, of course. Amelia hasn’t committed any crimes. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket. 

You remember how his face dropped when you told him your real name. You weren’t sure what compelled you to share it, that Mia Zakhaev was as manufactured and artificial as Amelia Day. Perhaps you wanted him to shoulder the guilt that came with being forced to acknowledge that you were never the enemy. Some part of you found it satisfying, watching him fidget in your company, avoiding eye contact or speaking more than three words at a time — evidence, you thought, that he understood how he had wronged you. 

He had wrapped up the meeting, then. Scooped up all his papers and folders, shut his laptop with a thunk. 

You asked about Simon before he left the room. 

He only let out a terse breath and looked at his boots, before telling you that you’d get all your documents when you were cleared to leave the airbase. Left the subject at that, before he slipped out of the door and left it ajar behind him. 

Simon died that day, you’re certain. 

You haven’t heard anything otherwise in the eight months since. Not even from Kyle, your assigned custodian, despite how frequently you asked him in your first few months of confidential protection. 

Let’s talk about you, he’d say, to change the subject. Or he’d robotically tell you, I’m really sorry, you know I can’t talk about that. 

He’d come over every fortnight or so, at first, when you had been holed up in your safehouse in the city centre, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Your new ‘apartment’, so they called it, repurposed to look like a young woman had been living there. He always told you he was visiting just to check on you, make sure you were settling in okay. You believed it for a while, when he’d come over for some takeaways, or to watch a movie, just to keep you company. 

He was surveilling you, though. You could read it in the glimmer of shame in his doe-like eyes. Forced to ensure you continued to act in the Nation’s best interest. 

You aren’t allowed to leave the country, of course. Aren’t allowed to travel too far without informing them. Aren’t allowed to disappear or to talk to anybody untoward. 

Standard practice, they had informed you, to keep an eye on foreign informants. That’s what they had designated you as — an informant. Explained that it was for your safety and theirs; you might retain your foreign connections, after all. Might share secrets with the Russians you had been unwillingly allied with. 

They gave you a compensatory pension, at least. Hearty payments of a few thousand a month, and a decent one-off payout as ‘reimbursement’ for the damage they had done. For the scars they left. Hush money, obviously, but you took it willingly. 

You sold your wedding ring, too. The one Mia’s husband had proposed with. A pillow-cut pink diamond, four carats, encircled by twelve Burmese pigeon-blood rubies. Prong-set, white gold band. You traded it with a jewellery dealer for two-hundred grand. The only good thing Victor ever did for you, even if it was pocket change compared to the size of his wallet. 

There’s not much you can do with that money, though. Not yet. They gave you an amorphous timeline, all but telling you that someday you’ll be allowed totally free movement, if and when they deem you trustworthy enough. There’s no spending it on travelling, on a house, on an apartment in the meantime.  

The one benefit, though, is that it means you are spared the need to find a job. One day you’ll need one, you’re sure, but you’re not ready yet. Not ready for interviews, for background checks, for probing questions about the gap in your employment history.

You’ve picked up volunteering, instead. 

Took you a while to gather the strength to leave the house, of course. A month or two before your agoraphobia abated and you were able to venture out onto the street. Even longer before you could go anywhere crawling with people — not to say anywhere was busy anymore. People kept indoors even still, just in case. 

But after a couple of months of NA meetings and military-funded counselling, you were handed a UNICEF pamphlet. Information about volunteering at make-shift ‘childcare centres’. A gentler word for the last-minute orphanages set up to house swathes of children left parentless after the attacks on Eleven-One. 

Black Thursday, they call it. 

Makes your teeth saw together every time you hear it. And it’s everywhere. 

It’s on the news, on the radio, on your phone. Plastered on street posters. Billboards. Trauma support services advertised on the sides of the arsenal of buses they eventually sent out to replace the underground Metro, now that the entire subway system is a red zone, still contaminated by the sticky nerve agent that had coated every surface and still lingers in the air down there. 

Two bombs went off in Newcastle. Twenty-one in London. Three-hundred odd had been triggered all over Europe. Casualties in the tens of thousands, and counting. Never a specific number, always, tens of thousands. 

Kyle had told you, against instruction, that there had been thousands of bombs, planted even further afield than Europe. Waiting for the ping that would set them off at the right time of day to maximise the number of casualties. 

Simon had prevented that. He inputted the code that terminated the sequence, while knowing that doing so would kill him.

There was no heroic send-off for him. His name wasn’t in the press, wasn’t even whispered at the military bases you were tossed between for two weeks after you were sent home. No medals or commendation or praise for an act that prevented the deaths of hundreds of thousands of others. 

At first the guilt was blinding. 

All-consuming. Pumped like lead through your blood, gritty and black, leaving little sores in the ventricles of your heart. For a while you thought you mightn’t be able to live with it — bearing the knowledge that every casualty whose name was carved into the public memorial had died because of a button that you pressed.

Seemed that part wasn’t common knowledge, though. Somebody had kept that secret for you. As far as the world was aware, some Soviet extremist was the one to have set off the sequence of explosives. The simple explanation. A terrorist enacting terrorism.  

Your counsellor believed your guilt to rest on the fact that you had married the man to orchestrate it. That you played a part in some non-literal, ignorant-but-obliging way. It made it even harder to overcome, because her method of comforting you was to tell you ad nauseum that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. 

Her advice was still beneficial, at least. Could be extended to your less forgivable circumstances. 

She told you to help people. To make a tangible difference. That doing so would alleviate even a portion of the guilt that weighed on you. 

You’re approaching your fifth month of volunteering at CRSC Newcastle. Children’s Refuge and Support Centres, they call them — a whole network of them, fifteen-odd foster centres across the UK, all set up in under-used community centres or schools. Your fake bachelor’s degree certainly aided in getting you a role there, but it helped that they were and continue to be desperate for any support they can get. 

You work the later shifts. Wednesday through Sunday, one p.m. to nine p.m. Mainly with the younger kids, too. Three to five. A relief, because any older and they’d have questions. They’d have the vocabulary to ask why their parents are dead. To talk about how sad they are, how much they miss them, how much they hate the people responsible for killing them. 

You’re not a licensed educator or a counsellor, nor do you get paid, so they call you a supporter. You’ve got a name badge for it, too.

Amelia. CRSC Supporter.

You clip it to your cerulean UNICEF t-shirt as the last step of getting ready for your shift. 

Hair in a claw clip, no earrings, nails unpainted. Legs unshaven. Jeans. Adidas sneakers. A spritz of perfume you bought on special at TK Maxx. 

You felt stupid for missing it while you were stuck in your mansions, but you did. Normalcy. No need to perform, to consistently be stripped and scrubbed and ready for eyes and hands at any given moment. No need to cover yourself in ostentatious displays of wealth just to avoid ire from the moguls around you. 

Amelia has the same sense of style as Bridget Jones. She doesn’t need to try too hard, because she’s not a billionaire’s tormented wife, she’s just Amelia. Amelia from Leeds. 

Seems the weather is finally turning after a week straight of sunshine, as fat raindrops begin to patter on the window to your bedroom. For the best, you have a crisping-up sunburn on your nose and cheeks from when you took the kids to Ouseburn Farm on Wednesday. Still warm, though, a little under twenty celsius, so you only pull on your burgundy Primark rainjacket, and you bring your brolly with you as you head out the door. 

The refuge is a fifteen minute walk from your military-issued apartment, and it’s a pleasant one, for the most part. Once you get off the busiest roads, anyway, and the streets go from being littered with shops to being lined with suburban terraces and big old trees. Leaves all on the cusp of yellow as autumn looms in the coming few weeks. 

Saoirse, one of the licensed counsellors, is out the front of the old brick community centre when you arrive. Arm around one of the older kids as they sit on the steps together. She gives you a quick smile as you walk past with a little wave, occupied, but you can catch up with her after bedtime. 

It’s Friday, so the kids are still in preschool by the time you arrive, and there’s nobody at reception. You pour yourself a tea in the break room behind the front desk in the meantime. 

Even after eight months, you still think of him at the first sip. 

I drink tea. You remember how his grumbly old voice sounded when he said it. Mourn that you never got to know what kind of tea he preferred. Whether he took it with sugar. He seemed like an Earl Grey type, you thought. 

Stupid to reminisce on such a thing, and you shake off the thought like a wet dog when you do. It’s a vice, you’ve found, reflecting on your brief and harrowing time with him through such rosy lenses. 

“Oh — Meals,” comes a woman’s voice, and you turn to spot Josie, one of the early childhood teachers who tends to stick around long after her classes. Gave you that nickname within a week, because apparently she has a cousin called Amelia who goes by Meals. “Quick warning — Daniel’s got an upset tummy. So… might be some clean up later.” 

“Lovely,” you reply through a smirk. “What’d they have for lunch?” 

“Ham sandwiches,” Josie says. 

“He probably ate some dirt again, then,” you remark, and she giggles. 

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Filthy little animals, the lot of them,” she snorts. “It was all maths and spelling today — you should let them have a play around in the art room for a while.” 

“Good idea,” you nod. 

Art time is your favourite after-school activity to monitor. Something soul-healing, you think, watching children express themselves creatively, unbounded by instruction or time limits. There’s so much stuff in there, too — acrylic paints, crayons, coloured pencils, glitter glue. Big sheets of brightly coloured paper and a bucket of toddler-safe scissors. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly-eyes. All of the supplies funded by community donations, a fact heartwarming in itself.  

So once the preschool kids finish their classes and eat their cheese and crackers, you turn them loose like piglets in a pen. 

Your only job is to keep them company. Guide them when they ask for help, praise them for their drawings, take them to the toilet when they need it. 

It was extremely distressing, at first, when the kids would show you crayon drawings of their late parents, or when they smeared red and orange paint on a piece of paper and told you it was a painting of the Metro bomb. You’d have to leave the room quite often, then, and Saoirse was a huge help to you. 

She doesn’t know anything, of course, she only thought your grief stemmed from overwhelming sympathy. Still, she was a shoulder. Told you that it would only take time, and soon the children would return to their happiest little selves, and you’d get to hold their hands through it. 

She was right. Now you most often get drawings of rainbows with a blue stripe as the sky above and a green stripe as the ground below. You get given little creatures made of pompoms and glue and googly eyes and are told you have to feed them glitter or they’ll get hungry. You get to tell Lila she looks beautiful when she asks you if you like her makeup and shows you all the stickers she put on her face. 

They get about two hours of free time before you get their attention with the five-clap call and tell them it’s time for dinner. A few whinges later and they file into the cafeteria, where the donation-funded catering company feeds them roast chicken with peas and mashed potatoes. 

Your shift aligns with Kate’s around dinnertime, because she looks after the kids older than nine — your favourite person to talk to, because she talks so much that you don’t have to think. 

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the kind of shit he said,” she prattles on, under breath, so the kids don’t hear the content of her conversation. “He was all like — wow, babe, you’ve got such a cute arsehole. Like, what does that even mean? Cute arsehole? I mean I’ll take the compliment, but then I was thinking — how many arseholes must he be looking at to be able to distinguish a cute one?” 

You can’t help but snort loudly at that, quickly covering your mouth when one of the children turns over his shoulder to squint at you. Taxes, Kate tells him, when he asks what’s so funny. 

After all the kids have their pudding and their bathtime, they get to pick their Friday night movie. Cars 2 is the most popular choice, because they watched the first one last week. You sit with Kate at the very back of the telly room, behind where the pack of children sit cross-legged on the carpet. She continues to whisper details about her dating life in your ear, and you are spared from thinking about yourself or your situation or your failings for even a second. 

Until she says; “What about you? Surely you’re seeing someone.” 

Your chest tightens up when she asks it, and you suddenly get stage fright as you scramble for what to tell her. Amelia doesn’t have baggage, after all — not the kind of baggage Mia did, anyway. 

“No, I’m — I’m taking a break from men for a while,” you settle for, vague enough to avoid probing but close enough to the truth that she won’t offer to take you on a double date or something equally as horrific. 

“Ah,” she hums, with a nod. “Understandable. Getting over someone?” 

You inadvertently let out a sigh. “Guess so.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Who—”

Miraculously interrupted by a four-year-old who waddles over to where you sit. “Miss Goodwin, um, I need to use the toilet.” 

Kate all but groans at that. “You just went, Charlie!” She chides in a whisper, before immediately relenting and holding the wee girl’s hand. “Alright, c’mon.” 

They slip out of the room and you’re spared the rest of the conversation. 

Seven o’clock is bed time, but most of them wind up actually in bed closer to half past, after all their fussing and requests for more pudding and but I’m not tired-ing. There’s no falling asleep until eight, because what was once a temporary shelter has now become permanent, yet still only has the capacity for ten-bed bunking rooms. You shush some giggling and tuck in some blankets, and finally, by ten-past-eight, the kids are down for the night. 

There’s a window of time before the end of every shift where you can chat with the other staff all at once, settled down in the break room for some post-sunset tea once the night-time custodians take over the childcare. 

You tune in and out of the conversation like you’re fiddling with the dial of a radio, either staring vacantly into the table as you sip your tea or making eye-contact and nodding attentively. 

“Wait, you’re still going on that date?” Josie asks Kate incredulously, head cocked back in shock. “I thought you said he was a freak?” 

Kate gives her an impish smile. “I did.” 

“You’re foul,” Saoirse snickers. “Far less salaciously, I’ve got my sister’s baby shower tomorrow.” 

“Oh my god!” Josie gawks. “That’s so sweet — I forgot. She must be well along now, does she know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

“No,” Saoirse murmurs with an eye-roll. “They want it to be a surprise. I keep telling her, I’m the aunt, at least I should get to know!” 

Kate tuts. “That’s gonna be a big argument when it pops,” she says. “Who wants to be fighting about a name when you’re bleeding everywhere and pissing yourself? Not me.” 

“Good thing you aren’t having babies any time soon then, Kate,” Josie teases, chuckling. 

“Ever,” Kate adds facetiously, signing a cross over her chest. “These ones are plenty.”

“Ugh, you guys have interesting things going on. I’m so boring,” Josie moans, taking a sip of her tea. “You doing anything tonight, Meals?” 

Your eyes flick up from where you fiddled with the label of your teabag. “Oh, um,” you think aloud, because you hadn’t even considered it yet. “Nah. I’m boring too. Might stick around and tidy up the art room, though, it’s a sty in there.” 

“Gonna have to start hiding the paint,” Saoirse comments amusedly, “It’s all down the hallway. I even found some on a toilet seat. How do they even spread the mess that far?” 

You giggle. “I had to stop Will from drinking it today. He got as far as taking the pump out. Got bright pink all over his shirt.” 

“That solves it,” Saoirse laughs. “The paint in the toilet was pink.” 

“Such goblins,” Kate smiles. 

Kate leaves the moment she finishes her tea, hurrying off to get ready for her date, so she calls it — which gives you an excuse to slip out of the break room. Allow your social battery a chance to recharge before you implode. 

Your prescribed counsellor reminds you frequently of the need for socialising. Tells you that solitude is the recipe for spiraling. That a return to regularity is a cure-all. She hasn’t yet been proven completely wrong, but your ability to feign contentment isn’t as honed as it used to be. 

Strange, you’re aware, perhaps unjustified, given the starkly different circumstances you now find yourself in. But a mask is hard to hold up, regardless of who you are showing it to. 

You just hold onto the hope that someday, years, decades from now, expressing joy won’t feel like a performance. Such a dream was lost to Mia, but maybe Amelia will be the one to find it. 

It’s not uncommon for you to stick around at the refuge for much longer than your shift requires. Maybe out of some degree of obligation, indebtedness, making up for your wrongs. Maybe to avoid going home alone to your safehouse. 

In truth, though, you enjoy being alone. 

No mask needed, then. No performance. No need to worry about who might be watching. In solitude you can unfurl, because there’s nobody else alive you can be yourself around. Nobody whose company doesn’t feel like a collar. 

You spend the next quarter hour alone in the art room, tacking new drawings to the pinboard. You can never bring yourself to take the old ones down, so you just find spaces in between them, or layer the new ones carefully so that the old ones still peek through. Flowers and sunshine atop missing parents and rain. No good pretending the old ones don’t exist, you think to yourself. 

You hear some fuzzy conversation down the hallway as you’re washing paint off the palettes in the sink, getting a decent smearing of myriad colours on your skin and clothes in so doing. Perhaps one of the kids snuck out of bed.

You shut off the running water to listen, though, and you stand in the silence, broken up by water dripping from the faucet. 

“Sorry, who?” You recognise that voice as Saoirse, that twinge of grouch she puts on when displeased. 

“She’s a volunteer.”

A man’s voice. 

Deep. Rumbles through the walls like an idle engine. 

“Oh — you mean Amelia?” Saoirse asks, knife-sharp edge in her voice. “She’s, she’s in the art room, but she’s busy. I’ll let her know you came by?” 

“Where’s the art room.” 

There’s no give in his tone. No room for debate, no tempered frustration. It’s raw and bare in every word he utters. 

“I’m sorry, you can’t just — excuse me,” she belts, edge escalating to a point. 

You shuffle uneasily away from the sink, closer to the door, but you get caught in the centre of the room when you hear heavy but inconsistent footsteps landing on the hardwood. 

“Hey!” Saoirse snaps, closer, angrier. “You can’t just barge in here, this is a childcare centre.”

No response from the man she must be pursuing, in your direction, as the footsteps grow nearer. 

“Mia?” 

A hoarse call through the walls. 

Your eyes glass over. Ears fill with radio static. Feet glued to the floor as a figure suddenly fills the doorframe; towering, imperious, hidden by the shadow. Eyes catch a glint of the light within. 

He lumbers slowly into the room. A noticeable limp. Umber bomber jacket, worn leather, black hoodie beneath it. Loose jeans. Black boots. 

Wheaten blond in disordered spikes, unkempt. Stubble grown-out except where the side of his jaw is shiny and knurled with scars left by fire. Eyes that glow like amber. 

Time stops flowing. 

Your jaw is wired shut. Throat full of talc. Tongue palsied. 

“Y-you… you’re—” 

You choke on your words like they’re made of cotton, and you cannot muster a full sentence; you stumble hastily in his direction and land in his chest like falling a distance into water. Release a breath you had kept pent for the eight months since you last saw him breathing. 

His arms constrict around you, warm and heavy; wide hand settles at the back of your neck, fingers weave into your hair at the nape, and soon your feet feel light on the floor. 

You distantly hear Saoirse stumble into the room, likely armed with a taser and ready to call the police, but she falls quiet. Empathetic woman that she is. She must slither away quickly, because you don’t hear her leave. 

Sobs shatter you despite a feeble effort to contain them. Earnest cries that catch in the fibers of his sweatshirt and the skin of his neck. Tears that you can taste in your mouth. 

“I thought—” you falter, tongue weak, teeth soft. “I t-thought you were dead.” 

“Not yet,” he murmurs. 

His voice quakes through you from where he speaks it into your shoulder, fluttering along your nerves like a hot shiver. Clutches you tightly as if you’re dripping wet and liable to slip through his fingers all over again. 

You breathe him in like oxygen. He smells the same, like skin and leather and gunpowder. Feels the same, warm and rough, soft in the middle. Familiar as you could have become with his touch and taste in your extremely transient crossing of paths. 

“They d-didn’t tell me,” you sob. “They didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t know what h-happened to you.” 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, bites out the words like it’s hard to let them loose. Firm hand smoothes down the back of your hair, the other coiled around you tightly enough to keep you off the floor, and you feel his heart beating against your sternum. 

Your hands form claws that lodge in the folds of his jacket as though digging for flesh you can hook into — not yet convinced he’s real, let alone that he won’t disappear the moment you can’t feel him there. So you cleave to him, soaking in him, and you unfurl completely. 

“God, I — I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you lament, in a whimper. “I c-can’t believe you came back.” 

He presses his lips into your temple, soft and yet cracked, as if he might speak directly to the worried subconscious hiding in the cavern of your skull.

“I promised.”

[satoruxx]

THE SPACE BETWEEN COMFORT AND CHAOS.

✧ PAIRING: wolf!toji fushiguro x f!reader | 9k words

✧ SUMMARY: this fic has always been 18+ but now especially I MEAN IT mdni, toji gets horny fr this time (like 2.5k words of just that), masturbation, toji gets turned on by love idk, rut/heat cycles, basically abo/hybrid mating tendencies, idk let me write my porn sigh, misogyny, um stalking, more hybrid mistreatment, talks of murder, the typical blood as a metaphor for love :/

✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: lol okay i'm vv sorry for the six month absence.. had to get that degree :33 but hopefully this chapter being 9k words and having horny toji makes up for it.. however pls do heed the warnings! i yap a lot about mating and other abo things so if that's not your thing pls scroll TT.. anyways i'm thanking you all so much for your patience !! hope you enjoy <33

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"pause."

toji's form stops abruptly, and you bite back a chuckle when he turns to glare at you over his shoulder. "what?"

you grin, rocking back on your heels even as the rest of the street continues bustling around you. "i'm hungry."

the street's lights reflect over toji's facial features, and the way his jaw drops looks extra comical. "already? we just had dinner."

you frown, affronted. "that was like an hour ago."

toji snorts, rolling his eyes, though it comes off fonder than you expected it to. "so you want dessert?"

you nod eagerly, and a muted chuckle escapes the wolf as you catch up to his side. his jade eyes scan the lively streets critically, before falling on you again. "well, go crazy."

you immediately grab his wrist and tug him along, peering at different stalls and stores despite his protests. toji ends up just crossing his arms as he waits for you to buy your dessert (ice cream, you've decided. on a cone). he watches you grin as you pay and then hurry over to him, both of your hands full.

"here," you chirp, shoving a cone into his hand. a few melted drops stain his skin, still cold to the touch. "for you!"

he huffs. "kid, i told you i don't like sweets that much."

"that's what you say at first." you point your finger at him as you lick up the dripping sides of your own cone, gaze all too knowing. "but then you try it and realize you can't get enough."

toji rolls his eyes, but still obediently takes a lick. the flavor of chocolates and some other sweet confections burst across his tongue. it's strong, almost unbearably so, but then it settles on his palate and leaves a satisfaction in its wake. he can't help the subtle twitch of his lips, almost pleased, and you give him a smug smile.

(it seems like he will always be doomed when it comes to sweet things.)

you both walk home in relative silence, save for the occasional bit of chatter when you remember something you haven't told him. the streets are still bright and bustling with people trying to enjoy their saturday night, and toji feels a little more comfortable because it's so easy to blend in.

"are you sure you don't want me to hold those?" you ask pointedly, peering at all the shopping bags he's balancing on his arms. "aren't they heavy?"

he gives you a sidelong glance—affronted. "seriously? how weak do you think i am?"

you raise your free hand in surrender, biting back a laugh as you look at him with that same spark of a challenge in your eyes. "don't you sleep with a nightlight?"

toji's glare is boiling when it settles on you. "shut up and eat your ice cream."

you chortle, nudging his side with your elbow, and he groans under his breath. his fingers itch. it would be so fucking easy to just grab your free hand that's swinging listlessly at your side. the lines of his large, rough palm pressed against your smaller, gentle one. his fingers would curl around yours so gratefully, sweet and soft and yet still keeping you attached to him.

(he can't elaborate on how pleased the thought makes him. keeping you at his side, where he can always see you. where you can always see him.)

but all he can do is clench his fist, internally reprimanding himself for taking such liberties with you to begin with—even if it's just in his own head.

when you both make it back home, you hop in the shower quick and then toji takes his turn, so used to the mundane routine. he heads into the bathroom, not before making a sarcastic jab at your choice of pajamas for the night (doughnuts, printed in all shapes and colors), to which you just punch his arm as he cackles.

toji enjoys the feeling of the searing hot water burning into his skin. psychopathic maybe, but it feels comforting. it's not like he was given the luxury of hot water back when he was underground.

(that being said, even once he'd started living with you, it's not like he took hot showers often. in fact, he'd sometimes find himself relying on cold showers. especially when you were around him. a fleeting touch here, a meaningful glance there, and he'd find himself under pelting ice, breathing heavily through his nose until he's finally got himself under control.)

even now he tries not to think too deeply about that, focusing on enjoying his warm shower. he feels a little guilty when he stops to consider that you probably have no idea that his thoughts about you are so fucking depraved.

(poor thing. you don't deserve something so unhinged breathing down your neck.)

and unfortunately that's all he truly is. unhinged. an animal that lacks self control. and you are nothing of the sort. sweetness and good all bundled up into a human being. night and day, dark and light, sun and storm.

good and evil.

toji knows this well. knows that he has no right to let his claws tear into your perfect flesh and rip you to pieces. only monsters ruin perfection after all.

and perfection you were. he knows you don't really see yourself that way, but it's hard for him not to. reminds him of statue deities the old artists left behind to stand in museums under heavy spotlights. for people to flock to, eager and awestruck as they marvel at beauty like they've never seen it before. and he'd bow front of you, knees digging into rough earth, bloody and bruised as he reaches for your marbled fingers. letting stone gently tickle the sharp curve of his jaw, trace the scar cutting over his lips. maybe when he finally looks up at you he'll only remember your smile immortalized into the stone.

but toji is selfish. he doesn't want to worship a statue. he'd rather have you as is, life thrumming through your veins the way blood does. warmth bursting from under your skin and seeping into his own. and there's a part of him that knows you'd touch him so eagerly, ready to please and give him everything that he's ever wanted. you've already been so generous—giving and giving and giving some more. if he asked to let him take you apart, would you dare say no? would you let him sort through sinew and muscle until he's found your very core? would you let him hold your beating heart in his claws no matter how many times they nick the flesh and make you bleed?

you would, with stars in your eyes. in fact, there's a greedy part of him that thinks you'd do the same in return. tear him apart piece by piece with careful fingers until he's nothing but laid bare in front of you. press your flesh against ragged scars and bruised skin, rough with use and danger. if he focuses a little harder, he can feel your touch linger on those scars. your lips will follow, pressing deep against his blood, staining you wine red. but you'll just smile, light bursting behind your silhouette (angelic; awe-inspiring), and he'll once again be speechless in front of you.

(powerless in every sense of the word.)

this is followed by yet another dangerous thought—just how much of an animal would you let him be?

it would be easy to cage you between his arms, close enough that he can count every eyelash and see every shade in your skin. it would be easy to hook his claws around the waistband of the fabric that hid you away, press a searing kiss into the stripe left by the elastic. it would be easy to reduce you to a shaking mess, quiet whimpers escaping into the space only he shares with you.

it's ridiculous, how quickly his obsession bleeds into arousal. a thin line, his toes dancing over it. but he doesn't have it in him to dwell on the shame behind it. it's instantaneous, how heat starts thrumming through his veins at the thought of you, alighting every expanse of flesh and breaking through skin.

toji bristles, tail flexing even under the weight of the water.

you have to know what you're doing. weren't you ever warned about dangers like him? wasn't it common sense not to dangle prey in front of a predator's eyes?

(though, if he's being honest, toji doesn't feel like much of predator. if anything, you're the predator, circling him with attentive eyes that makes his hair stand on end. makes him want to expose his underbelly and let you pounce.)

it doesn't make sense to him, how his mind relates someone as sweet as you to a role so unflinchingly unkind. in reality, the only one who's fucked enough to take on that role is him. the true animal—unhinged, reckless, cruel.

the only one who'd dig his fangs into your flesh and tear you apart with no hesitation. let sweet blood drip from his lips, lapping away until not a drop is left. reverent—because he knows how valuable it is.

the problem is you'd let him.

welcoming, with open arms and a warm smile that makes him want to take even more. more and more until nothing is left.

(would you enjoy it? his claws encircling your fragile wrists and pressing them into sheets. heavy body weighing yours down, scarred muscle meeting soft flesh. fanged teeth digging into the tender meat of your lips. perhaps you'd tell him as much, quietly sighing into his mouth, singing his praises and whispering a sweet combination of toji please, more.)

blood rushes south, his cock hardening so quick it's almost humiliating. this had been an ongoing issue for months now. toji never thought anyone would have the ability to drive him up the walls like this. not that you had gone around deliberately trying to give him a hard time (no pun intended), but it'd become more difficult to ignore. even just noticing little things—like the texture of your fingertips against his skin or the way your scent bleeds into the walls of the house. or the way his height towers over you and forces you to look up at him in a way that is so easy to imagine in certain other scenarios. in between his legs, gentle hands on his knees, eyes peering through lashes, and swollen lips wrapped around his—

fuck.

he's rock hard now. thick and aching in a way that makes him feel almost ashamed because there's no reason he should be acting like a whelpling who's just been thrown into a rut for the first time. no, he'd been an adult for a long time. one that had gotten through a lot worse than this.

(it's seared into his brain, the way the faceless doctor from the underground would hand him suppressant pills a couple weeks before a rut was due to hit, eyeing him to make sure they were swallowed without any issues. his body remembers scratching at the stone ground of a cell as he snarled through the pain of one of his most natural instincts being manipulated through a drug.

it was normal for them. every hybrid there had experienced being put aside for a day or two, labeled "out of commission" for a fake sick period while they rode out their cycles with no help or relief.

what would've normally been a couple weeks of rut was cruelly suppressed into two short days. in that time, toji was confined to a special cell with no outside contact. no fights, no interactions with any other hybrid.

all he had was the time to get increasingly more feral and frustratingly turned on. and no way to deal with it but ruthlessly fucking his own fist until he was exhausted.

exhausted, but never satiated. never satisfied.

after all, the suppressant pills couldn't erase the nature of his instincts. the part of him that craved not for a simple release, but for the experience of sharing a rut with someone. craved forming a connection with another being who could not only provide relief through it, but also take every bit of devotion he had to offer. the pills were effective in dulling down the intensity of ruts and heats, and shortened the length of them tremendously. but even after all that, they were still animals—there was no denying it. no, none of it could be erased; the instinctual craving for a fucking mate.)

all of those years under suppressants had made toji forget what a real rut felt like. but if it's anything close to the way he'd been feeling lately, he was definitely screwed. his mind had become increasingly more creative, able to conjure up the most inappropriate images of his most shameful fantasies. and this issue could only be fixed by jacking off until cum was dripping between his fingers and he felt even more ashamed than he did before.

which is exactly what he's being pushed to right now.

it seems almost instantaneous the way his fist wraps around his cock, throbbing flesh hot and angry. he bites back a hiss at the sensitivity, the hot water doing nothing to help his already searing flesh.

toji knew to start expecting flare ups of arousal. after all it was just a part of his nature, but a headache all the same. unfortunately, when escaping that hellhole he called a home, he didn't think about what would happen to his body now that those bastards weren't pumping his body full of suppressants.

sukuna had once said that it was their way of stripping them of their natural instructs, domesticating hybrids without them even knowing. the thought had pissed both of them off, but the tiger was right. nothing inherently natural about controlling such a significant facet of their bodies.

if he had more time to prepare his escape, he would've broken into the medical wing and stolen a few years' worth of suppressants for himself.

hindsight. instead, now he has to deal with these admittedly intense pangs of carnal desire. he knows why. how long had it been since he'd had a natural rut? definitely not since eighteen, because that's when he'd given up his freedom and they started feeding him suppressants (after all, can't have a feral wolf in rut running free throughout the barracks; bad for business; too dangerous to control). it makes sense that his body is working on overdrive now that it's finally tasted freedom.

(finally tasted a sweet scent and warm smile.)

toji isn't sure what he'll do when his rut really hits. he had thought that maybe he could get away with lying to you, passing it off as some contagious sickness and locking himself in his room for a few days until it passed. but then he got nervous thinking about just how bad this rut might be, and he figured he probably wouldn't be able to keep it from you even with the walls acting as a barrier.

there was also the option of telling you the truth. you'd probably be so accepting about it; after all, you've been nothing but understanding. and it seems like you know more about hybrids than your fellow humans, so he's sure you wouldn't judge him for something he can't really control. and yet despite all that, the thought of telling you feels strangely nerve wracking. some strange implication behind admitting just how vulnerable he'd truly be (and some sick thrill at the unspoken boundary that could end up being crossed).

a boundary line that he had scratched into the floor over and over again. so intent on denying the thought of ever being that close to you.

and yet he can't deny it. can't deny that the idea of trailing his tongue over the swells and divots of your body doesn't make him salivate. like the thought of your lips pressing into the ridges of his neck doesn't make his ribcage jump.

(like the thought of you saying yes to him doesn't make him want to lay the entire galaxy at your feet. because saying yes to him means something more than you'll ever realize. means bonding yourself to him for a lifetime. souls intertwined, the way only a mate can be—)

toji's presses his forehead against the damp tiled wall, exhaling shakily. there's a reddish pink shade crawling up his skin, spreading like liquid gold. his fist feels like nothing special, but it still offers a semblance of relief from that stupid aching feeling. the warmth of the water and the remnants of soap makes it easy for his fist to slide back and forth, and god he's so fucking hard. he's starting off fast, but he doesn't really care. all he knows is that it feels good, and it's utterly humiliating to be jacking off in the shower when you're just across the hall, so he just wants to get it over with.

but his brain? his brain lingers, cruel in its torture.

if he closes his eyes, toji can picture you doing it instead. your hand's a lot smaller, but it's softer than his—not rough with scars and callouses and danger. maybe you'd touch him slower, not as stupidly fast as he is, not with the mission to just get off and be done. no, you'd probably touch him with intention, eager to take him apart. he'd be glad to let you do as you please, so pathetically ready for whatever you want from him.

his fangs dig into the scar cutting over his lip, almost hard enough to taste blood. he thinks about sinking those fangs into the open canvas of your neck, and his dick twitches in response, eager and swollen. he tightens his grip and twists his wrist in the same way he's always done, knowing it'll get him there quick.

toji's head presses harder into the tiled walls, and he blinks the water away from his eyes as he tries to focus. his brain conjures up a strikingly detailed image of you pressing your lips against his dick, and that itself shoots a searing hot flash of arousal up his spine. but that's not all. he imagines that you'd be a lot more generous with your touches than he is. you'd touch him all over, gentle fingers tracing over the curve of his jaw and over the slopes of his cheeks. down over the planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. gentle, the way only a lover's caress could be. chills run over his skin, the shiver so pleasurable it makes his breath hitch.

his high creeps up frighteningly fast, tingles shooting up the nerves in his body like he's never touched himself before. the muscles in his arm strain as heat pools in his lower belly, licking at his insides like an uncontrollable flame. the sound of the soapy water each time his hand moves is embarrassingly inappropriate, and he's briefly struck with the filthy thought of the type of sounds he'd be able to pull from your body if you just gave him the chance.

he wonders where to touch you to make you sing. where you'd be the most sensitive. what spots would have your voice catching on a strangled moan or have a breathy whimper escaping your throat. maybe you'd beg him for more, or perhaps you'd demand it from him. maybe you'd give in finally tell him what he's been dying to hear. in that same sweet voice, quietly sighing an earnest toji, i love y—

ropes of cum splatter between his fingers, and he's thankful that his muffled grunts are drowned out by the shower. his hips twitch, instinctual, and his dick pulses with every spurt, pelvic muscles contracting with effort. and throughout all of it, all he can think of is you.

(horrible, he is. so dirty, filthy.)

"ah fuck—" he feels messy, and hypersensitive. he stands there for a minute, catching his breath and doing his best to quell the mess in his head. it takes all but a minute to wash away the evidence of his crimes, but the thoughts of you still linger—infectious and deep.

(he thinks maybe he'll never be rid of you. you've latched onto him the way he has to you—parasitic and flesh deep. some part of him really likes that; a sick and twisted part.)

the wolf huffs out a tired sigh, standing under the pelting water like some kind of mindless idiot. what kind of freak was he? you offer him a place in your home and here he was jerking off in your shower with nothing but filth in his head. he's terrible; a dirty animal.

and yet, he feels good. feels good in the same way he feels when he sees you smile. or when you finally come back home. or when you grin at him from across the dining table as you watch him dig into his food. or when you accidentally fall asleep while watching some stupid movie.

his brain is foggy, and there's still a few aftershocks of pleasure tickling his nerves. but his guilt is smothered by that good feeling, pressed down into the deep recesses of his subconscious as he focuses on how you seem to have such an influence on his emotions.

(powerful, sneaky little thing.)

"hey toji?"

your muffled voice cuts through the pleasant haze in his head, and the panic is instant. he flinches so hard his elbow thuds against the shower wall, eliciting a yelp that he tries hard to recover from.

"y-yeah?!" he winces at the voice crack (trying to pretend he didn't just bust to the thought of you not a minute earlier), and clears his throat.

"i'm running low on period stuff so i'm gonna run down the street and grab some pads."

"i can go grab em if you want?" he replies, scrubbing his skin with a quickening pace, but then you chuckle and wave him off.

"no no it's fine. enjoy your shower. it's like two streets over, i'll be back soon."

"well…" he hesitates, but then nods even though you can't see him. "fine. be careful, y'hear?"

"yeah yeah…" your voice fades away as you head down the hall, and toji's shoulders relax. for a second he thought you might've somehow heard his less than appropriate little session, but instead you're just updating him on something he probably wouldn't have cared about many months ago. but here he is, ultimately caring so deeply.

hot water streams between toji's eyes, and he pushes his wet hair back with a tired huff. his ears fold under his palms, muffling all noises and for a second, the raging thoughts in his head subside.

(if it were up to him, he'd stay in this peaceful bubble for as long as he could. hoping, dreaming, praying that you'd join him in the space with no protests. comfort, chaos, and everything in between.)

****

the streets are a lot more deserted than they were a few hours prior, back when you were dragging toji to eat ice cream. now there's only faint chatter, the occasional squeals of laughter and excitement permeating the sounds of your slippers against pavement. normally you would've dragged toji out with you, especially so late on a saturday night, but since this is barely a 15 minute walk and you've been here countless times before, you decided not to bother him.

after all, you would grant toji as much peace as you could give him (god knows he deserved it and more).

there's some faint song playing over the speakers when you enter the store, instantly fading into muted background noise as you smile at the elderly man behind the counter. he recognizes you, a local frequenter, and smiles back before going back to the paper he was reading. your steps take you to the feminine products quickly, memorized route guiding your feet, and then you're scanning the shelves for familiar colors and brands.

the store is almost completely deserted, save for a few other likeminded individuals who needed a late night run. your fingers drift over boxes until you finally find the brand you like.

"excuse me? can you help me with this?"

the flinch that comes from you is almost embarrassing, but you're genuinely impressed by how quietly this guy seems to have snuck up on you. you glance over your shoulder carefully.

dyed blonde hair, dark roots, narrowed beady eyes. and yet a sheepish, awkward smile that makes your shoulders drop when you notice the box of pads in his head. you tilt your head questioningly, quirking a brow. he raises the box. "my girlfriend sent me out to get supplies but i have no clue what to pick for her…"

the helpless smile that crawls onto your face feels natural. at least he was trying, that in and of itself was a lot to ask for these days. "well do you know if she has a heavy flow or a light one?"

"heavy i think?" his brows furrow thoughtfully. "she says she bleeds a lot…"

"well then this is probably better for her than that." you reach for a different box on the shelf, one that's specifically labeled for handling heavy bleeding. "they're better for heavier flow. and they're longer so that should help her out."

he takes the box from you carefully, before smiling. something shines in his dark eyes. "thank you so much. i'm clueless when it comes to this stuff."

you chuckle, shaking your head. "no it's okay. at least you're trying."

"i would've been lost without your help. i'm naoya by the way." his smile gets a little more pointed, that gleam in his gaze brighter. he sticks his palm out expectantly.

warning bells start ringing in your head, but you don't know why.

"oh uh, nice to meet you…" you trail off, cautiously taking his hand. you're sure he's being polite, but you don't really understand why he's telling you his name. maybe it's paranoia, but you bite your tongue and hold off on giving him yours, something telling you that maybe you shouldn't be sharing that information.

the blonde doesn't comment on your lack of forthcoming, but something feels off. he looks like he knows something, like he's dissecting you on a surgical table. you let go of his hand, and awkwardly smile, before turning back to the shelf. his voice gets a little louder. "naoya zenin."

you freeze. the name washes over you, a brief sense of warmth, before it bleeds into something cold and jarring. you know this name well—heard it murmured from scarred lips a few times (in a voice that was filled with nothing but distaste.)

now if you think back, you can remember the same blonde hair and dark eyes being in the background of pictures you've seen on the internet. random news articles of what the head of one of the biggest companies in the country did that day. you don't know why you couldn't remember it earlier. maybe you just weren't expecting to see naoya zenin at your tiny little store so late at night. but he looks calm, as though it's all intentional, as though you should've expected to bump in to him like this.

the warning bells ring louder.

"so!" the blonde claps his hands together, brightly smiling as though he's catching up with an old friend. "how is he?"

you feel your tongue grow numb. an image of a moody scowl and twitching ears flashes behind your eyes, and you finally realize that warning bells had nothing to do with your own safety.

(too preoccupied with dedicating your care to someone else. someone who's probably patiently waiting for you back home.)

"who?" you're playing dumb, and you're sure he knows it because he just laughs and quirks his brow knowingly.

"you know who." he pins you with a level stare. "toji of course. my precious cousin."

you remain quiet, mind spinning. you're not sure if you should lie or continue playing dumb or just run and hope he isn't fast enough to follow. but naoya just continues on without a care in the world.

"let's stop beating around the bush." the blonde's smile drops, voice going serious in the same way you've seen it go on those television interviews. "i don't know how or why you're connected to him but i'm sure you know what he is by now."

"ah yes the wolf ears and tail really gave it away," you reply sarcastically, not even bothering to keep the bite out of your tone. naoya grins predatorily, making a show of leering at your blatant hostility.

"well yes, the poor beast was unfortunately born that way." naoya waves offhandedly, before his expression sours. "just my luck, he had to be born into my fucking family."

you snort out a scornful laugh, crossing your arms. "well it makes sense. i mean he might be the wolf, but it's pretty clear that dogs run in the family."

naoya pauses, before his smile returns. this time, it is icy, and yet there is spark of malice flickering in his eyes. "hah! you're more interesting than i thought. you look so boring from afar, you know?"

you glare at him irritably.

"but! you're much more entertaining than i expected. maybe that's why toji's hanging around you." naoya glances down at his fingernails with feigned interest, his voice dropping. "it's a shame he didn't teach you any manners though."

his hand drops to his side, and his expression darkens so fast it makes your head spin. "if it were up to me, i'd cut your tongue out and deliver it to him, you know?"

your bravado shatters, blood going cold. naoya seems to catch the change, so he just smiles again with that fake politeness. "but father says we should be nice and talk it out. so that's what i'm doing! i had no clue how i was going to find the time to chat with you, but i'm glad i caught you today."

you swallow, fingers creasing into the sleeves of your sweater.

"you know, when i told father i saw toji with you today, he was surprised. that freak doesn't seem like the type to get help from others, let alone humans like you and me." the blonde hums, amused. "but seems like he liked something about you. that, or you had something pretty valuable to offer."

you almost roll your eyes. clearly this asshole liked to hear himself talk.

"i mean i'm kinda surprised that you got close to that freak. don't you have any survival instincts?" he tuts, exaggeratedly pouting at you like you're nothing but a dumb child. the blood in your veins grows hot with indignation.

"he's not dangerous." your voice is resolute, stating a fact rather than an opinion. naoya observes you with mild interest. he hums thoughtfully, and you shift your weight not knowing what to do.

"you know, i saw you both being all cute on your little shopping trip." naoya's expression turns bored, almost like he's disgusted. he leans against the shelves haphazardly. "it's a shame i lost you both in the crowd as you left though. i would've stopped by at your house otherwise."

the threat is not lost on you. and something churns in your gut when you think about this man being anywhere near your house. near toji.

"i don't understand," you say, raising your head. you have no clue how you manage to keep your voice steady when your heart is beating so fast, but you'd rather not look too deep into that. "what exactly is it that you want from me?"

"you have…influence," naoya grins, peering at you. his expression is mocking. you think you might vomit. "i'm sure you can bat your eyes and convince my dear cousin."

when you swallow, it feels like rocks are sliding down your throat. "convince him to what?"

naoya's grin drops, eyes narrowing dangerously. "to go back to where he belongs."

your words tumble forth before you can even stop them, hot and indignant. "and what if he doesn't want to go back there?"

a burst of laughter escapes his throat, though it is sharp and unamused. "don't you get it? he doesn't have a choice. that's all he was born to do anyway."

you glare at him, teeth digging into your tongue so hard it hurts painfully. naoya's expression turns bright, a very dramatic flare of sick amusement filling his tone. "ohh i finally get it!"

he leans closer to you, smirking. "who would've thought my dear cousin went and found himself a girl!"

the traitor organ sitting in your ribcage gives an eager jump, getting distracted by its original threat. you steel your expression. "what are you even talking about?"

"no need to play coy. i understand!" he raises his arms like he means no harm, a greasy smile still splitting his face. "that just means you really should be able to influence him."

"you don't even know what you're saying." you roll your eyes, turning away from him, though you still keep his figure in your peripheral. "it's not even like that. we're barely even friends. the most i would say is acquaintances."

the lie bleeds through your teeth easily, molten lava. worth it if it means keeping him safe. away from the treacherous vines that seem so intent on chasing him and pinning him down.

"oh sure." the blonde chuckles, looking at you with a sharp mockery in his gaze. it's obvious he doesn't believe you, especially with how quickly his tone turns chilling. "i don't really give a damn who you are to him. let him know what he needs to do, or we're gonna have a problem."

"and if i can't convince him?"

naoya shrugs casually, but then he pins you with a stare that makes you feel like your bone marrow is turning to lead.

"well then, we'll just have to see what happens, won't we?" he says nothing more, but the implication is very clear. the blonde then glances down at the pads in his hands. his expression goes disgusted once more, and he haphazardly chucks the box back onto the shelf. "ew…" he mutters, dusting his hand over his coat. his eyes find you again, and then that same smile appears once more. "anyways, i'll definitely see you around! get home safe!"

your pulse is thudding wildly as you watch him leave, a heavy onset of nausea making your stomach churn like never before. the hidden threats were so carefully placed, but not obscure enough for you to miss, and that scares you even more because it says that this guy is just that confident. you stand in the aisle for another two mins, mind running in a thousand different directions. suddenly you feel strangely exposed, like you've been placed into a glass box for someone to observe your every movement.

(suddenly, you feel completely and utterly alone. scared and vulnerable and in real danger. suddenly, all you can think about is the brooding wolf you've left at home, and how seeing him is the only solution to making these feelings go away.)

you're out the door before you even realize it. your legs carry you back in the direction of your home, but your paranoia leads you to take as many convoluted turns that you can think of (because you can't shake the feeling of those beady brown eyes digging into your shoulder blades).

naoya zenin. you don't know how he shares blood with toji. if you squint hard enough you can maybe find some similarities in features. but still, you cannot understand how someone so outwardly horrible can be related to someone like toji. toji is not warm, not inherently sweet. but he is good, and that much is obvious to you. the same way you know this naoya is bad, with nothing but negative intentions.

when you finally reach your doorstep, you keep your head down and slip inside. your fingers double check every lock, every window. your mouth feels dry and there's too many weaknesses and he's definitely still out there and—

"hey."

the voice makes you jump, and when you look up, toji is staring at you—confused. his brow quirks as he peers at you through his wet hair. "well that was dramatic."

you sigh, quelling the thundering of your heartbeat. sweat beads on the skin of your palms, and you drag them over the fabric of your pants. "you just scared me."

"oh yeah, i'm so fucking terrifying." he sits on the couch, aggressively drying his wet hair with a towel. you snort, grinning as your eyes trail over the way his pointed ears fold under the weight of the fabric.

"shaking in my boots." toji rolls his eyes at your reply, and you pull off your coat with a quiet chuckle.

(honestly a little jarring how easy it is for you to relax in his presence. how easy it is to start smiling again.)

"i thought you went to get supplies?"

you freeze, glancing over your shoulder. "w-what?"

he motions to your empty hands. "you didn't get anything?"

your stomach drops. "oh um…" you clear your throat. "they were closed. so i came back."

it's almost laughable how quick the lie slips from your mouth; sickening, really, because it shouldn't be quite so easy to lie to someone who obviously trusted you. you've felt guilty before, but not like this. this goes past the dull surface ache and settles as a deep stinging, fraying your nerve endings. maybe it's because you know that you have no right to keep this from him; after all, it's his family. but something about the gleam in naoya's eyes makes your hair stand on end. if it were up to you, you'd stand in front of toji with a smile even with knives raining down your back.

the way toji's brow arches tells you that he's a little confused, maybe a little skeptical, but he shrugs and turns back to the tv, turning it on with a flick of his finger. "well okay then. i can grab some tomorrow on my way back home."

you inhale through your nose, forcing a smile. there's really no point stressing. naoya can't do much to you to begin with, not without starting something potentially dangerous with toji. so you just push it to the back of your mind and take a seat next to the grumpy wolf you realize you would do anything for.

(even lie.)

"thank you, toji," you say earnestly. the wolf gives you a sidelong glance, ears twitching at the sound of your voice, and he scoffs.

"whatever. it's not like i haven't done it before. quit bein' dramatic."

you grin, watching him cross his arms and sulk like an overgrown puppy. for some reason, his expression settles the chaos in your chest and you decide that whatever problem it is, you'll do anything it takes to keep it from him.

(perhaps it's silly, thinking that you could easily stand in front of a hybrid capable of tearing you to pieces and expect to be able to protect him. but you know he would do the same for you, and that's why it feels all too natural. easy.)

you think you will always be willing to offer him whatever space you have left. comfort, chaos, and everything in between.

****

toji doesn't consider himself a very intelligent person. not to say that he's dumb. no, he thinks he excels at street smarts. after all, no one survives a life like his without a brain.

but in terms of emotional intelligence.. well he doesn't feel all that confident. yet another area where he feels like you're a lot better than he is.

it scares him a little, how fast you can read him. how you can pick apart his every expression and behavior like it comes naturally to you. and then how you're able to to adapt and give him exactly the response he needs. whether it's sweet comfort or rational courses of action—it's perfect.

(you're perfect.)

but he's not like you. he cannot pick people apart, can't look at them and figure out what they're thinking. cannot read them like an open book the way you can.

but right now, he feels like something is wrong.

it's been almost a week since he's noticed this change in behavior. you've been looking over your shoulder like you're in some kind of horror movie. eyes constantly scanning your surroundings, fingers fiddling with the window locks. even peering outside through the gaps in your curtains.

you're nervous, he realizes. paranoid, like something's chasing you. whatever it is, toji understands that he doesn't like the way worry looks on you. in fact, he hates it. hates the way his ears can pick up your increased heartrate. hates the way he can smell the spikes of anxiousness in your scent.

he's trying to be a good housemate and respect your boundaries. trying not to be nosy and let you deal with your own issues like an adult. but then his mind wonders if there's something really wrong, if someone's giving you a hard time or stressing you out, and then he just gets angry.

(don't you know that he adores you? don't you know that you need only say the word and he'd kill a man for you? don't you know the amount of power you have over him?)

regardless, he's still trying to be a good housemate and respect your boundaries. but it's becoming increasingly more difficult to watch you come home everyday like there's someone chasing after you. even now, he watches you double check the door locks before you hurry over to your windows. double check the locks, tug the curtains shut, peer outside through the gaps.

only when you're done do your shoulders relax, and when you turn around, you jump when you notice him standing there staring at you. the surprise bleeds into a quick, barely there smile. "oh hey! how was your day?"

you don't even wait for his answer before you're turning around to hang your coat up, and that's enough to make him crack.

"alright what the fuck is wrong with you?" toji's voice cuts through the silence like ice, and you internally wince. defensive walls rise quickly, and then you're turning on him with fire in your eyes.

"excuse me?"

toji's bulky arms flex as he crosses them, staring down his nose at you completely unfazed. "you've been hiding something."

"i—"

"—and don't even bother tryin' to deny it. it's written all over your face."

the wolf watches you inhale heavily, and the crease in between your brows makes his fingers twitch (eager to reach out and smooth them down carefully).

you sigh, defeated. "remember last week when i went to the store that one night?"

toji nods.

"i, um, bumped into someone there." your fingers rub over your arms in an attempt to be soothing, and toji's frown deepens in tandem.

"who?"

you glance at him. guilt gnaws its way up your esophagus. "um, naoya zenin."

toji's reaction almost makes you vomit. his ears stand up straight, tail going rigid, and the anger that contorts his expression makes you shiver. "what?!"

his voice has taken on a timbre you haven't heard before, an inherently primal growl ripping through his vocal cords in a way that sounds almost painful. you wince, trying to placate by backtracking.

"i was gonna tell you—"

"what the fuck did he say to you?!—"

"he just—"

"that fucking creep i swear to god—"

"toji." your palms find his forearms in this strangely natural way that makes his stomach churn. steadying, stable, everything that he lacks. "please. can we just relax and sit down?"

his ears droop slightly, but he still maintains his heated glare. not that he's necessarily angry at you. but his palms feel too sweaty and his heartbeat feels too fast and his stomach feels too heavy. still, he forces himself to breathe deep through his nose, quelling the instinctual rise of feral panic that seems to want to burst from his veins. he lets your hands, barely able to fit around the width of his arms, maneuver him to the couch.

when you take a seat next to him, he can smell the nerves.

(spiked; hints of bitterness hiding between layers of sugary sweet.)

more so, you look guilty. it briefly strikes him that perhaps you feel bad about keeping this from him. he's then struck with a similar feeling when he realizes he's kept something from you too. this is all followed by a searing streak of anger when he remembers the reason why you both have been hiding things from one another.

(maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live up to their expectations of him. be the real curse of the zenin bloodline. they always said he was an uncontrollable animal. maybe it would be okay to finally prove them right. have his family's life force dripping red rivulets through his pointed claws. taste its metallic tinge between his sharpened teeth.)

"he came up to me at the store," you start, wiping down your palms on your thighs. "he already knew that i knew you. said he saw us walking around that night shopping."

toji's claws dig into the flesh of his palm painfully. the memory is now tinged with something poisonous. always breathing down his neck.

"he was talking about how his father was surprised that you were even interacting with another human. and then he said it was a shame he lost us in the crowd because otherwise he'd come to our house for a visit."

you watch the wolf next to you clench his fists, and your lips slant.

"what else did he say?" toji tries to keep his voice even, but it comes out strange. your teeth dig into the flesh of your bottom lip painfully.

"he… he said that since i was clearly c-close to you, i should convince you to do something."

"and what's that?"

you pause, before letting the bitter words spill. "convince you that's it's time to go back where they want you to be."

"that fucking asshole!" toji's voice is akin to a roar, and you wince as you watch him stand and snarl like he's been beaten. he pushes his claws into his hair and grits his teeth. "how fucking dare they even—"

another pained growl rips from his throat. the sound makes your stomach coil, and before you can stop yourself, you're reaching out to grab his arm. his head whips around at the contact, baring his teeth with a snarl as he ears point upright. but then he sees your expression, sad and tired, and his shoulders drop immediately.

"you know that i don't want you to go, right?" you ask him quietly. toji stares at you, long and hard. his jade eyes are bright with anger, but there's a hint of fear in there that makes you want to cry.

"… you sure?" his voice is so quiet you almost have to strain to hear it. your fingers tighten around his forearm. even with the way he is standing over you, you think he looks smaller. like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"i'm sure." your voice is resolute, like it's always been when it comes to him. his exhales slowly, and you smile at him in this tragic way that makes him want to rip his eyes out.

(you're too good. too trusting. too confident in the fact that he won't lead to your downfall.)

"kid," he calls out, voice strained.

"hm?"

"i gotta tell you somethin' too."

you frown, but then you're pulling him back to the couch (right next to you; close enough that your scent wraps around him once more—warm, blanket-like), and then you're looking at him earnestly. "what is it?"

he tells you all about his run in with naobito zenin. details the angry confrontation in which his stupid uncle had warned him to go back to where he belonged, tired of the wolf's running game. how the old man had been close to calling his men to come get him before toji had resorted to nearly crushing his windpipe in retaliation. how naobito had warned toji that hurting him was a punishable offense that would lead to him being locked up again. and how, at the end of it all, toji had told him that it would be worth it if it meant being rid of the stupid zenins once and for all.

and then he finishes by telling you that his uncle was so convinced toji would end up back there on his own anyway, because he was nothing more than a mindless animal.

(he carefully leaves out the threat naobito made about putting him down. and he also leaves out how none of that scared him more than the idea of his family's clutches ultimately reaching you.)

you sit there and listen with an expression that bleeds horror. the divot in your brow is so deep toji worries it may become permanent, and your eyes shine with a sadness he's never seen before. when he's done speaking, you exhale shakily.

"kid, i'm never gonna be rid of them," he says quietly. "they're always gonna be breathing down my neck. which means they're always gonna be breathing down yours too."

you nod slowly, eyes distant as you stare at the edge of the coffee table like it's got all the answers in the world.

"there's nothing i can really do." he finishes with that final statement.

you chew on your bottom lip quietly. something is working behind your eyes, calculating, evaluating. "you threatened him?"

toji scoffs. "of course i fucking did. threatened to kill him and his brat son."

you turn to him, eyes alight. "would you?"

toji's heart leaps into his throat. he will never deny the amount of times he's thought about it. since the day he was old enough to realize his own brute strength. every day he was thrown into that damn cell. every fight where he would scratch and claw just to live another day. and every day since the old man stopped him in the streets.

the thought has lingered in the back of his mind, poisonous. rotting. because he knows that it is the only way. he knows that they deserve it. he knows that it is the one path that could lead him to peace.

(that could lead to him wiping the worry from your eyes.)

it's always been there. and now you…

"you can't be serious?"

"toji, answer the question. would you do it or not?"

"of course i would!" he fires back quickly, before taking a steadying breath. "you don't get it, kid. i got no love for them. been dreaming about ripping those bastards apart since the day i was smart enough to realize they only saw me as an animal."

you nod slowly, still chewing on your lip. something settles behind your eyes, and the thrill it sends up toji's spine is almost sadistic. your voice is flat when you speak, but it does not waver. "toji… if there was something that came into my life that was threatening me and my loved ones. our livelihood, our safety, our security… i wouldn't really be thinking about morals anymore."

toji stares at you mutely, and you continue. "so… if there's an unwelcome guest showing up at the door, and we've asked them—no, begged them—to leave us alone and they haven't listened… then maybe the only thing left to do is force them to leave."

his mouth runs dry, and simultaneously, his ribcage jumps. you're looking at him with all the conviction in the world, and something in his deep complicated web of feelings for you shifts on its axis.

(you are sweet. you are peace and comfort and good. you are innocent and untouched by the horrors of the world in the best way. you are completely humane and understanding and you give nothing but kindness. you've offered him the world and he's gratefully cradled it in his palms. which is why this deeply root loyalty, this protectiveness, this affection—it has all come so naturally to him.

he would show mercy if you wanted him to. he would rip apart limbs if you wanted him to. he would dig a knife into his own intestines if you wanted him to.

but this. this is something he's wanted; dreamed about for as long as he can remember. cursed himself for thinking about because it makes him evil and wrong and horrible. but here you are—giving him support. telling him that you want it too.

this utterly wrong and animalistic thing that makes him the monster.

maybe you aren't all that pure. maybe he's the one who corrupted you. but then he thinks back to the fire in your eyes, that same resolute determination in your tone. and then he thinks that it couldn't have been him. it had to have come from within you, this desperate and complicated decision.

and then toji realizes that the reason it appeared is because you value him so highly. because on your moral scale, it is worth it to sin if it means keeping him safe. it is worth it to be animalistic if it means having him by your side.

he wants to envelop you in his arms. find your lips and breathe his own soul into you because he knows you'd keep it safe. knows you're willing to do whatever it takes for him.

the same way he is for you.

he loves you, he thinks. it's just that simple.)

and that's all the confirmation he needs.

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[gyubakeries]

𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗼𝘆 𝘃𝘀. 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 | k.mg [TEASER]

a/n: finally! this collab has been cooking since the start of this year, and after six long months, i'm ready to share the teaser for my fic! that's showbiz, baby! is a collab close to my heart, because i've made some amazing friends through it. i'll forever be grateful for tara and kae for the opportunity to join this collab. without any further ado, here's a short sneak peek into loserboy vs. hatergirl!

shout-out to bennie ( @miniseokminnies ) for this cute banner!! bennie ilysm for making it even better than i envisioned <33 major credits for the title and most of the brainstorming that went into this fic goes to rie ( @okiedokrie-main ) ! without rie, this fic would be non-existent.

and lastly, thank you to all the lovely writers who are a part of this collab for welcoming me into the writer community! i love you all, and i know your fics are gonna be BANGERS!

p.s. don't question why the fic isn't formatted in lowercase please ..... i got too lazy to edit it </3

word count (for the teaser): 352 contents (for the teaser): corporate!au , IT specialist!reader , f!reader , social media intern! mingyu , light swearing , clumsy!mingyu

full fic out now!! read it here <3

check out the masterlist for that's showbiz, baby! -- here! please support all the wonderful writers participating!

summary: When Kim Mingyu, the new addition to the Social Media department of Sebong Corp., shows up at your office, requesting you to feature in one of the 'promotional tiktoks' he's been assigned to film, you tell yourself that it'll be your last interaction with the puppy-faced, hyper-energetic intern. A few months, twenty tiktoks, and a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar, you can't quite remember exactly why you had wanted to stay away from him in the first place.

You like your job, you really do. Sure, you hadn’t envisioned yourself working in the IT department of Sebong Corp, one of South Korea's most popular media companies, but you were satisfied, somewhat, with the way you had put your computer science degree to use.

However, there were a few moments that really made you question your job, life, and entire existence.

One of those moments being this:

It’s 9:05 A.M., and you’re not even close to reaching the office. You just got off the subway and you’re booking it down the street to reach work before your department head launched off into another lecture on how ‘today’s youth is late to everything in life.’

Behind all the cafes, shops, and people on the crowded streets of the commercial hub of the city, the tall, glimmering glass building of Sebong Corp. comes into view. An eager tourist might stop to take a few pictures of the sight, but all you can focus on is entering said building in time for your meeting.

You swiftly avoid bumping into most pedestrians taking a lazy stroll down the street, and only when the doors of the building are in front of you, you let your guard down and reduce your sprint to a brisk walk.

Big mistake.

After you swipe your ID card at the main entrance, thereby triggering the large glass doors to open, you stop in the office lobby to catch your breath. You’re just about to wave at Sunjae, the new receptionist, when all of a sudden, you hear someone curse loudly behind you, get abruptly pushed forward, and feel a strange wetness on your back. It smells a lot like coffee.

You’re not one for cursing in the workplace. Xu Minghao from HR is slightly terrifying when you see him deal with interns who forget to lower their voice while speaking in language inappropriate for work, and you like to remain in his good books. Now, however, you feel every drop of that restraint leave you as you shout loudly, for even Minghao’s ancestors to hear, “What the fuck?”

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[mahalachives]

hi!! i don't if requests are still upon but if you're free can you please write one where the reader is azriel's mate and they've been together for a while and the IC knows, and at one dinner they find out that she used to be like, a party animal and kinda a maneater and they're totally shocked bcs shes so calm and composed now.

and then the next night the girls ask her for like tips to reject guys and stuff like 'what's the most offensive thing you've said to a man?' or 'how to reject men?'

really sorry if its too long!!

The Shadow's Mate: A Past Revealed

pairing: azriel x f!reader

genre: slice of life, fluff

The evening air was crisp as you made your way to the townhouse with Azriel, his shadows curling affectionately around your wrists. Six months since the mating bond had snapped into place, and still the Inner Circle dinners filled you with a mixture of joy and mild anxiety.

"You're quiet tonight," Azriel murmured, his hazel eyes searching yours."

You smiled up at him. "Just thinking."

His scarred hand squeezed yours gently. "About?"

"How different life is now." You leaned into his warmth. "And how much I prefer it."

Azriel's mouth quirked up at the corner, that small smile that only you could coax from him. "As do I."

The townhouse was already alive with chatter and laughter when you arrived. Feyre and Rhys were locked in what appeared to be a spirited debate about some painting technique, while Cassian and Nesta were arguing over knife-throwing techniques. Mor and Amren were deep in conversation about some jewelry merchant in the Rainbow.

"Finally," Cassian called out, grinning broadly as you both entered. "We thought we'd have to start without you."

"Some of us respect punctuality," Nesta remarked dryly, but there was no real bite to her words.

Dinner began as it always did – with wine flowing freely and conversation bouncing from topic to topic. Azriel kept his usual quiet vigil, though his shadows occasionally danced toward you, a secret gesture of affection that never failed to make your heart flutter.

"So," Mor said, refilling her wine glass for the third time, her cheeks flushed with a rosy glow, "I ran into the most awful male at Rita's last night. He tried to convince me his father owned half the Night Court."

"What did you tell him?" Elain asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Mor's grin was wicked. "That I'd introduce him to my cousin, the High Lord, and see if that checked out."

Laughter rippled around the table, and you couldn't help but join in.

"I swear, the males in this city are getting more ridiculous with their approaches," Mor continued, rolling her eyes. "Remember that one who tried to impress me by claiming he could outfly an Illyrian?"

"Did you dare him to try?" you asked before you could stop yourself, a hint of your old mischief slipping through.

Cassian barked a laugh. "I would have paid good money to see that."

"When I was at the Court of Nightmares," Feyre added, swirling her wine, "the number of propositions I received was absurd. One male offered me a collection of 'rare' paintings that were such obvious forgeries I nearly laughed in his face."

Something about the conversation loosened something inside you—a reminder of a different time, a different you.

"At least forgeries show some effort," you said, taking a sip of your wine. "I once had a male offer to buy me a drink with money he'd just borrowed from me."

The table fell momentarily silent, and you realized everyone was staring at you with varying degrees of surprise. Even Azriel's brows had inched up slightly.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"You've never mentioned... dating before Azriel," Elain said delicately.

You glanced at your mate, who was watching you with that unreadable expression that had first drawn you to him. But there was a curious glint in his eyes now.

"Oh, I didn't date," you clarified with a casual wave. "Dating implies some level of commitment."

Cassian choked on his wine. Nesta patted his back, though her eyes never left you.

"You mean you..." Mor began, leaning forward with newfound interest.

"Had a rather active social life? Yes." You shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips. "Is that surprising?"

"Considering how you nearly fainted when Cassian made that joke about bedposts last month..." Rhys trailed off, his violet eyes dancing with amusement.

"That wasn't embarrassment," you corrected him. "That was me trying not to laugh at how tame it was."

Azriel's shadows curled with what you recognized as amusement, though his face remained mostly impassive.

"You're so... composed," Feyre said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. "So..."

"Proper?" you offered, and couldn't help but laugh. "I wasn't always. Before I moved to Velaris, I spent decades in the Autumn Court border towns. You develop certain... skills to navigate those environments."

"Skills," Amren repeated, her silver eyes gleaming with approval. "I bet you have stories."

"More than you'd believe," you admitted, feeling oddly liberated. You'd kept this part of yourself tucked away, unsure how it would fit with the dignified Inner Circle. Now you wondered why you'd bothered.

"Like what?" Cassian pressed, looking far too eager.

You caught Azriel's eye. His expression was one you knew well—silent encouragement, absolute acceptance.

"Well," you began, leaning forward conspiratorially, "there was the time I convinced three different males they were meeting me for a private rendezvous, only to have them all show up at the same tavern, at the same table..."

"No," Mor gasped delightedly.

"Oh yes. They were all from prominent Autumn Court families who were business rivals. I simply left them to figure it out while I slipped away with a rather expensive bottle of wine from behind the bar."

The table erupted in laughter, and something in your chest loosened even further.

"Why?" Nesta asked, a gleam of approval in her eyes.

"One of them had been particularly cruel to a friend of mine," you explained. "The other two were just collateral damage. And terrible flirts."

"I can't believe we never knew this about you," Feyre said, shaking her head in wonder.

You shrugged. "It wasn't relevant. That was before... everything." Your eyes drifted to Azriel.

"Before you tamed our shadowsinger?" Cassian teased.

You and Azriel exchanged a look that made Rhys clear his throat awkwardly.

"I wouldn't say 'tamed,'" you replied with a small smile.

"I think that's enough details for dinner," Rhys declared, though he was grinning.

The conversation shifted to other topics, but you could feel the occasional curious glances from the others. It was strange to have this part of yourself exposed, but not entirely unpleasant.

Later, as you and Azriel prepared to leave, he pulled you close in the quiet of the townhouse foyer.

"You never cease to surprise me," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

"Does it bother you?" you asked, suddenly uncertain. "Knowing I was so..."

"Free?" he offered. "Independent? Formidable?" His scarred fingers traced your cheek. "Why would I be bothered by the woman you were? She led you to me."

Your heart swelled as his lips found yours in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened into something more urgent.

"Take me home, shadowsinger," you whispered against his mouth.

His shadows enveloped you both, and the last thing you heard before the darkness swept you away was Cassian's distant whoop of approval.

The following evening found you at Rita's, surrounded by the females of the Inner Circle. It had been Mor's idea—a "girls' night" she'd called it, though you suspected it was partially motivated by her desire to hear more about your previous life.

"So," Mor began after your second round of drinks, confirming your suspicions, "most offensive thing you've ever said to a male?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "That's a high bar."

"We have time," Nesta said dryly, though her eyes sparkled with interest.

You considered for a moment. "Probably when I told a particularly persistent suitor that I'd rather mate with one of the naga than endure another minute of his company."

Elain's eyes widened while Feyre and Mor dissolved into laughter.

"That's brutal," Feyre managed between giggles.

"He deserved it," you replied with a shrug. "He had grabbed my wrist when I tried to walk away."

"What happened?" Amren asked, sipping her blood-red wine.

"Let's just say he learned that not all females need Illyrian warriors to protect them." You smiled sweetly, and Nesta clinked her glass against yours in solidarity.

"I need your expertise," Mor declared, leaning forward. "Best way to reject a male without causing a scene?"

"Depends on the male," you replied thoughtfully. "For the entitled ones, nothing works better than complete indifference. Act as if they're invisible. They hate that more than outright rejection—it wounds their pride more deeply."

"Noted," Feyre said, looking impressed.

"For the genuinely decent ones who just aren't right for you," you continued, "honesty works best. A simple 'I'm flattered, but no' with direct eye contact."

"What about the handsy ones?" Nesta asked, her expression darkening at some memory.

"Ah, those." You leaned back in your chair. "Public embarrassment is effective. Loudly ask if they're feeling alright after that unfortunate rash cleared up. Works every time."

Elain nearly choked on her drink.

"What about the ones who just won't take no for an answer?" Feyre asked.

"That's when you employ the 'bait and switch,'" you explained. "Pretend to give them your address, but actually direct them to the most unpleasant location you can think of. In the Autumn Court, I once sent a particularly awful male to what I claimed was my private cottage. It was actually the local waste collection site."

Mor's head fell back as she howled with laughter. Even Amren's lips curled into an appreciative smile.

"You're a menace," Feyre said admiringly.

"Was," you corrected with a small smile. "Now I'm a perfectly respectable mate to a High Lord's shadowsinger."

"Speaking of," Nesta said with uncharacteristic curiosity, "how did you and Azriel actually get together? I can't imagine him navigating the games you used to play."

"He didn't have to," you said softly. "That's why it worked. He saw through everything—all the walls, all the games. He just... waited."

"That sounds like Az," Feyre murmured.

"It was terrifying," you admitted. "Someone who could see the real me when I'd spent so long hiding her."

"And now?" Elain asked gently.

You smiled, thinking of the quiet understanding that had grown between you and Azriel, the safety you'd found in his shadows.

"Now I don't have to play games anymore. It's... peaceful."

"Cauldron save me," Mor groaned dramatically. "Az has domesticated you."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," you replied with a wicked grin that made even Nesta raise her eyebrows. "Some skills never fade."

Later, when you arrived home to find Azriel waiting, his shadows reached for you before he did—always so eager, so honest in their affection.

"Did you have a good evening?" he asked, pulling you close.

"Enlightening," you replied, wrapping your arms around his neck. "They think you've tamed me."

His low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Should I tell them it's the other way around?"

"Let them wonder," you whispered, standing on tiptoe to brush your lips against his. "Some mysteries are worth keeping."

As his wings enfolded you both in a cocoon of shadow and starlight, you silently thanked the Cauldron for leading you here—from the wild, guarded creature you'd been to someone who could finally be herself, completely and without fear, in the arms of a male who cherished every version of you that had ever existed.

End.

Note: hope you enjoyed! I had fun writing this. ❤️

[booksandteaandtears]

You're my only you

Michael 'Dr. Robby' Robinavitch x f!prosecutor!reader

another part in the series that starts with Teaching Hospital. This is the masterlist in suggested reading order, but go ham.

Summary: you're overworking yourself and Robby's had enough. Do you listen? Well... no. Vaguely inspired by my favourite rendition of There Will Never Be Another You.

Mentions of arguments, blood and fainting, medical inaccuracy (I've got a law degree, I'm no doctor). Older reader.

Genre: little angsty, fluffy ending. Robby gets mad 'cause he loves you. Protective! Robby (my fav ❤️), my favourite hospital bed trope.

about 2.3k words

You knew you were working too hard. Robby had told you a hundred times that past week. But you also knew that in six (6!) days time, you'd have to be in court for one of the biggest cases of your life. The police kept sending you more reports, the victims kept sending letters and requests for compensation, and the defence lawyer called you twice a day because he hadn't gotten the police reports yet and it was your responsibility to get those to him. All in all, you were drowning, rapidly.

Robby had noticed weeks ago. You'd stopped taking the time to cook, grabbing take-out and eating it in front of your laptop instead. Your dressing time had decreased drastically, something he didn't know you were capable of, and you got dressed in mere minutes every day. He got worried about you, because he thought both of those things were non-negotiables, as you loved doing them, but you'd brushed him of, saying you'd pick them back up in a little while, when work had calmed down a little.

Then came the point where you asked him to sleep at his own place, because you told him he was distracting you. He'd gotten mad at you.

"You don't want me here?" He'd asked. You'd sighed and put your glasses down on the messy kitchen table. They were new, your eyes finally catching up with your age, and just a month before he'd spend an entire afternoon showing you how sexy they were to him. Robby felt like that was the last time the two of you had spent any quality time together.

"I practically live here!" He growled. "Last month you were talking about moving in together, and now you don't even want me here all of a sudden?" He looked at you with pain in his eyes. You sighed at him. "I need my space, Robby. I need to work, just work, and I can't have you hanging around telling me to sleep more, or eat more, or drink more water." Robby tried to interrupt you. "No, don't. I've been dealing with this for a good twenty years, Micheal. On my own. You've just been here a couple months. I am a grown fucking woman. I don't need you all up in my business, telling me to sleep, to rest, to work less. I don't do that to you, so don't do it to me!" Robby threw his hands up. "You slept for about 20 hours this week. Twenty. This entire week. I never do that, so don't go comparing my working hours to yours. It's dangerous. You need sleep, sweetheart. You can't function without it." You huffed at him. "Oh and you know best, just 'cause you're a doctor? I have to work! People depend on me. I'm fine with the amount of sleep I get, I know myself. Just stay out of my way, please. You've got an apartment, go sleep in your own bed and worry about your own life. I don't want you here." You grabbed a binder out of the mess to your right and slammed it open, the force of it disturbing one of the stacks of paper so it fell to the floor. "Fuck." You muttered, and bent to pick them up. Robby looked at you with tears in his eyes. "Let's talk about it, sweetheart, don't shut me out like this. We work better together when we talk about things." Your eyes were thunder when you looked at him. "Just leave. I need to work, I don't have time for this bullshit." "This bullshit?" He sputtered back, "If this is bullshit to you, then I am gone." He stormed off, up the stairs. "Good." You muttered, "Just let me work in peace."

Ten minutes later he was downstairs again, backpack in hand. When you looked up at him, a dribble of blood left your nose, a red splat landing on the report you were highlighting. Dramatic timing.

"Fuck." You whispered, trying to stand up and contain your bloody nose at the same time. Robby was at your side in a second, putting a clean towel under your nose and pinching the bridge. He pushed you back onto the chair gently. "Look at me." You reluctantly turned your head towards him and he inspected your nose. His strong hand took hold of your chin, bringing the towel back to your nose with the other. He made you look at him properly. "If you don't want to listen to me, listen to your body. You've been freezing all week, you're not hungry, even for your favourite pasta. I know you were supposed to get your period and you didn't, and now you have a fucking nosebleed. Get yourself together sweetheart. Trust me, listen to me. You've gotta sleep, you can't do it like this. You're overworking yourself."

You looked down to evade his eyes. He made you look up at him again with a push of his hand. "I am leaving, because I'm angry with you, and I'm sad. But I need you to sleep more tonight. Alright? I need you to be alright." You didn't answer. He stepped back and slung his backpack over his shoulder. You still did not say anything as he left for the door and turned around. "I love you. Text me when you can see reason again. Hunch over and keep that nose pinched for ten minutes." And then he stepped out and was gone.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Dana was fed up with you. Dr. Robby had been grumpy for weeks, but today he was a literal thunderstorm. Dana knew all too well what would be the cause for that, and she blamed you for his mood. The poor Pitt-crew was carrying the damage and morale was low. Even sniffing too loudly was a sure way to receive an earful from the chief attending, let alone actual medical mistakes. Dana was done with it.

She cornered him four hours into the shift, waiting for him outside the men's toilets. Dr. Robby nearly bumped into her. "Jeez, Dana. This is an ER, you are a nurse, not an arrest team ambushing someone." He tried to continue walking but she stepped in front of him. Her face was stern. "Dana, this is not the day for this, let me pass." She didn't move. "Are you going to tell me what's going on or are you going to keep scaring all the med students away? You are obviously not okay." Robby's anger broke when he saw the worry in her eyes. He rubbed a hand over his beard. "I have been an asshole today, haven't I." Dana raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Robby stared at a point behind her but kept quiet as well. After two minutes Dana was through with waiting. "I'm going for a smoke, you're going to follow me, and you're going to tell me what went wrong for you to have such an attitude. And then you're going to sit outside for a minute and think about how you're going to behave differently for the rest of today. Come on Cap, follow me." Robby followed her like a sad puppy whose favourite toy had broken.

After explaining about your fight yesterday, Robby calmed down a little. Dana lit another cigarette. "She's even worse than you are." Robby looked at her, exhausted. "In stubbornness? Yes, definitely." "In how much she cares. She's not working so hard for herself, you know? She's terrified that something will go wrong because of her. There's a lot at stake, if she makes mistakes it has an impact on people's life. A big impact. The kid's just worried about that, just like you're worried about what you could have done differently after a hard day. You blame yourself, so does she." Robby dragged a hand across his face, messing up his beard in the process. "I know, but I don't know how to tell her everything will be alright. She doesn't listen to a word I say." Dana turned her head to blow the smoke away from him. "She hasn't slept, she's not thinking clearly. When you get home tonight she'll probably be fast asleep, and she'll be better in the morning. She's tough, she'll figure it out." Robby looked disgruntled. "I know. Doesn't mean I like waiting for her to fall apart." "She'll come round. You guys love each other to bits, you can get through a rough patch. But she'll kill you if she finds out you've been slacking at work because of her, so let's get to it."

They stepped back inside and Robby whispered a quiet "sorry" to Collins who had been on the receiving end of one of his louder outbursts. She forgave him with a little pinch in his hand. Calm had re-entered the Pitt.

That was until an EMT came in. "44 year old female, passed out at work, colleagues said she'd been working too much and not sleeping. BP 146 over 94. Tachycardic at 132 bpm. Could not wake her on scene. Oh and someone said her boyfriend worked here?"

Robby dropped the chart he was holding and sprinted towards the gurney, stopping when he could see your face. You were so pale, way worse than you had been the day before. He felt panic rise in him, rapidly. Dr. King took the gurney and wheeled you towards one of the curtains. Langdon came running up next to her. "Let's get an IV going and keep our attention on that heart rate. If she hasn't been sleeping she'll probably be fine with some rest, but let's get some bloods done as well. Let's try to rule out the usual." Robby was next to the nurses' desk, frozen. He felt like his heart was stuck in his throat. Dana ran past him and started massaging the crook of your elbow to put an IV in, doing so swiftly. Mel lifted your head up and felt at the back of it. "There's a slight bump, let's get her to CT as well, must have hit something on the way down." Langdon nodded at her and turned towards Robby. "She'll be alright boss. Your girl will be fine. Just give her a minute."

Dana arrived at the desk a second later and pushed Robby towards a chair. "You sit down now, cap. Give us a minute, let us work, and she'll be fine. You're a doctor, you know there is nothing bad happening to the kid, she's just overtired en dehydrated." Robby could not peel his eyes of her figure on the gurney. "Stop looking at her like she's dying, she's not. Use your brain, you're a doctor for god's sake." Robby sat down and buried his face in his hands. Dana put a cup of water in front of him. "Hey, cap, look at me." Robby lifted his head out of his hands. "You drink this, and then go sit next to your girl. Jack's on his way, he'll take over."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You woke up a couple hours later, majorly disoriented. The light was too strong and you groaned while you blinked at it. "Hi, sweetheart." You heard someone whisper. Opening your eyes fully you saw that a curtain had been pulled around you. You looked straight into the fluorescent lighting above you. You groaned again and turned to your right. "Hi sweetheart." Robby whispered again. "You could have just told me you wanted to visit me at work, I would have given you a tour."

You cracked a smile but a headache took over instantly, making you close your eyes again. "Ouch." You whispered. "Yes, ouch is the right word. You got yourself a concussion by fainting and hitting your head." You could feel the hurt in his words and cracked an eye open. "I'm sorry." You whispered, voice croaking from your dry throat. "I should have listened to you. I shouldn't have sent you away. I regretted it the minute you left." Robby smiled at you. "Bet you were too stubborn to text me." You nodded and laid your head in his left hand that was lying on the gurney. His right hand reached for the other side of your face and he lowered his face to yours. His nose touched yours softly.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself better.” He whispered. “You’re my only you, remember. Can’t exchange you when you break.” 

A tear left your eye. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I just..." A sob made it hard to breathe. "There's people relying on me to do my job. It matters to them, and I'm the only one who can help them. And it's terrifying that it al depends on me so I try so hard to make everything perfect. And I know I was doing too much, but I'm scared to share it all with you, Robby, I've done it all by myself, all these years." His thumb wiped your tear away. "I know sweetheart, but I'm here now, and I see you. I see you, and your worries and your pain, and we can do it together, alright? You just gotta let me in, sweetheart."

"I didn't know you noticed all of those things. How much I eat, when I last had my period, how much cooking and getting dressed up mean to me." You sniffled and Robby smiled at you. "Of course I do. I love you."

You touched his arms, the feeling of the muscles grounding you. "I need a hug." You breathed out. "And then I need sleep." A smile crept up on Robby's face and he folded himself onto the bed next to you. He was careful not to rip out your IV and hugged you close to his chest, his face buried in your neck. "Then let's sleep sweetheart, we'll figure it all out when we wake up."

It didn't take long before Mel opened the curtain to check on you, and found the two of you fast asleep, curled up on a bed that was far too small. Robby's feet were hanging out. It took even less long for a haggle of doctors and nurses to assemble in front of the bed, pushing each other away for the best spot to take a picture. A betting pool was set to gamble on how long it would take for Robby to fall out of the bed and wake up. Dana bet an hour and 38 minutes and won.

[artficlly]

letters of devotion [one-shot]

marvel band au drummer!bucky x waitress! reader

you sent filthy, anonymous letters and nudes to the drummer of your favourite band, never expecting he’d read them. never expecting he’d keep them. never expecting he’d show up at your diner one night, more than eager to fulfil your fantasies.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, multiple orgasms, forced orgasm (consentual), oral (f receiving), fingering, p n v, unprotected sex, praise kink, explicit consent, aftercare, reader is horny lol, daydreaming smut scenarios, beefy bucky, band au, diner au, love letters, fangirl/obsession, lowkey depressed/sad reader, bucky is a menace, bucky matches reader's freak levels, use of the petname sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hi, thank you for 5k followers! as a treat, have this absolute filth. i think this is the closest you'll ever get to smut w no plot from me lmao, i went through every stage of grief writing this. inspired by dinner in america + spun my prompt wheel and got band au / beefy - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were starting to think your obsession with the Winter Soldier wasn’t just unhealthy, it was pathological.

Two hours into your shift at Sal’s Diner, buried in the itch of your polyester uniform and the reek of burnt coffee, you’d already drifted off into fantasy more times than you could count on both hands. Daydreams clawed at the edge of your attention like static, buzzing louder with every second you spent beneath the flickering fluorescents. You’d nearly poured hot coffee straight into a trucker’s lap. His barked ‘watch it!’ still rang in your ears as you’d scrambled with a rag, your hands shaking as liquid pooled across the table. You’d forgotten table four’s extra side of bacon, missed table six’s banana smoothie with extra whip.

You hated this place. Hated the chipped pink tiles, the dusty jukebox that hadn’t worked in years, the scent of grease that soaked into your skin no matter how many showers you took. But more than anything, you hated the sameness of it all, the way this town never changed, never grew. How every face that passed through the diner was one you recognised, and worse, how they all recognised you.

You were twenty-something, with nothing to show for it except a minimum-wage job and a slowly decaying sense of purpose. Your apartment was a shoebox with paper-thin walls and a view of a brick wall. Every night, like clockwork, the baby next door shrieked, the couple upstairs screamed and stomped, and the couple across the hall fucked like they were being paid for it. You’d eat something microwaved and vaguely beige, drink cold coffee you forgot you poured, and zone out to reality TV you weren’t really watching. Housewives screamed through muffled speakers while your brain quietly rotted.

Everyone else’s lives were in motion—marriages, babies, master’s degrees, weekend getaways with friends and Instagram sunsets. Yours was stuck on pause, the buffer wheel spinning endlessly. You kept saying yes when Sal asked you to cover a double, because what else did you have to do? You had no plans. No passions. No clue what you even wanted.

You had tried. God, you had tried. College ended in a quiet breakdown and a withdrawal form. Relationships fizzled before they even warmed. Nothing stuck. You felt like you were wading through a fog that everyone else seemed immune to, like they all had a compass pointing to some clear, shining future, and you were just circling in the dark.

If anything still lit you up, it was music.

It was the only thing that made you feel. You were always listening, earbuds in as soon as you left work, blasting bass-heavy playlists on your way home, tapping your fingers to invisible rhythms behind the counter. You hummed under your breath while restocking napkin holders and scrubbing dishes to the beat of crashing drums. Music drowned out the ache, the boredom, of everything you didn’t want to think about. It was the closest you got to peace.

And your salvation came in the form of one band: The Howling Commandos.

They were everything you weren’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetic. All raw vocals and snarling guitars, like rebellion captured in sound. You clung to their music like a lifeline. Their songs made you feel invincible, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds at a time. You stalked their socials like a religion, hoping they'd announce a show in your town. Underground gigs, secret venues, cryptic posts…the mystery only made you want them more.

And they were hot. Unbelievably so. You didn’t even know what they looked like. They performed in ski masks, their identities always hidden, but that just added to the appeal. They were anonymous, untouchable. A fantasy you could project anything onto. Big, muscled silhouettes thrashing under stage lights, voices full of rage and sorrow. 

And the Winter Soldier, the drummer—he was your favourite delusion of all.

He was the biggest, a towering shadow behind the drum kit, all brute force and brooding stillness. Maybe it was just the size of him that drove you wild, the thick bands of muscle in his arms, the way his thighs flexed as he worked the bass pedal. His hands were massive, wrapped tight around his drumsticks like they could break bones just by holding on too hard. You’d close your eyes when one of their songs hit its peak, feel the rhythm pounding in your chest, and imagine those hands wrapped around your waist. Pressing down your hips. Spreading your thighs. Keeping you still while he—

The shrill clang of the service bell sliced through your fantasy.

“Oi, girl!” Sal’s voice barked from the kitchen, all gravel and phlegm. “Plates for table three! Move it!”

You blinked hard, swallowing the heat that had risen to your cheeks. “Sorry, Sal,” you muttered, forcing your legs to move, dragging yourself away from the milkshake machine with the weight of a thousand unmet fantasies.

Because the truth was... yeah, you were obsessed.

Not just a fangirl. Not just a casual listener with a couple of favourite tracks. You were consumed by the Winter Soldier. The mystery, the sound, the brutal power behind the drum kit. You had no musical talent yourself, no rhythm in your bones, no dreams of making it big. But still, music was your only lifeline. And him? He was the rope you clung to when it felt like you might finally let go.

So, you found your own way to contribute. Your own warped form of expression. Your own art.

Love letters.

It had started innocently enough. Just a few pages of breathless admiration, scrawled out after long shifts while your brain buzzed from caffeine and exhaustion. You confessed your devotion to the band, to the music, to him. You wrote about how their songs made the world feel bearable. You poured out thoughts like they were diary entries, lyrics from a girl whose life was anything but lyrical. You didn’t expect a reply, you weren’t stupid. You imagined he probably received plenty of letters from fans. But the act of writing? It helped, it made the loneliness less loud.

But the longer you went without hearing back, the longer you worked the closing shift in a sweatbox diner and watched your life go nowhere, the more unhinged the letters became.

Passion turned to desire. Pages and pages of filthy, desperate confessions. You wrote about how you wanted him to bend you over your shitty couch, how you’d beg if he made you. You described exactly how his hands would feel gripping your hair, how his voice would sound in your ear as he pushed into you. You stopped holding back. The words poured out of you like something exorcised.

And then came the photos.

You’d found an old thrift-store polaroid camera, the kind that spat out little grainy prints with bad lighting. On your braver days—the lonely, horny, bored out of your fucking mind days—you’d strip down in your bedroom, the blinds barely tilted shut. You never showed your face. That wouldn’t be on brand, you gave him anonymity right back.

Your body became the message. Lace underwear clinging to your hips, the curved lines of your thighs spread wide. Some days you kept it tasteful, just the bare suggestion of skin. Other times, when the ache got too strong and the fantasy too vivid, you’d pose with your fingers between your legs, soaked and aching, back arched.

You’d kiss the pages with bright red lipstick, spray your favourite perfume, and seal them tight in mismatched envelopes.

You called them Letters of Devotion.

And maybe, deep down, beneath the layers of lust and delusion, you still hoped he’d reply. That he’d see your letters—your alias, your handwriting, your stories—and feel something. Anything.

Maybe you were a little crazy.

Or maybe it was the only thing keeping you sane.

—

It was late.

The kind of late where the world outside the diner windows had gone completely black, where the parking lot was empty save for a few tired trucks and one lone streetlamp flickering. Your feet ached in your shoes, cheap sneakers with soles worn thin from double shifts and the way you dragged yourself around this place like a ghost. You’d been on your feet for nearly eleven hours, fueled by lukewarm coffee and pure spite. Even the radio had given up playing its same old loops and was spitting static.

The bell above the door jingled, and you glanced up from the counter, expecting maybe the regular who came in late for grilled cheese and three cups of black coffee. But instead, four men walked in.

You blinked. Then blinked again.

They didn’t look like locals. Not the usual crowd of truckers or farmers passing through. No, these guys were something else. All broad shoulders and heavy steps, tattoos trailing up their forearms and necks, worn boots and dark jackets dusted with road dirt. One of them had a scar splitting through his eyebrow. Another had arms so thick he barely fit into the booth. 

Your gaze snagged on one in particular.

He slid into the booth facing you, his leather jacket creaking as he settled in, and you swore the breath stalled in your lungs for a beat too long. He was massive. Broad through the chest and shoulders, thighs spread wide like he didn’t know how to sit small. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his mouth pulled into a neutral line—neither a frown nor a smile. Serious. Watchful. His hair was dark and thick, ruffled like he had dragged his hand through it a few too many times. 

You forced yourself to move, grabbing your notepad and approaching with a practised smile that felt barely glued to your face.

“Welcome to Sal’s,” you said, as cheerily as you could force. “Kitchen’s closing soon, so if you want something hot, order now.”

One of them, the one with the scar, grinned and cracked a joke about ‘always liking it hot’, but you barely registered it. You were still stealing glances at him. He didn’t say anything, just looked up at you with those cool eyes, and nodded toward the menu. 

“Burger and fries. Black coffee.”

“Sure thing,” you managed. You scribbled it down, turned before they could see the way your cheeks flushed.

Behind the counter, you leaned against the milkshake machine, heart still thudding, mind absolutely not on the order. You watched them from the corner of your eye. They spoke in low voices, murmuring to each other, intense and focused

And all you could think about was him.

You didn’t know why. Maybe it was the size of him, the stoic vibe, the fact that his shape reminded you of The Winter Soldier. Maybe it was the way he didn’t talk unless he needed to, the way he moved like his body was too powerful to be casual. Or maybe you were just so sleep-deprived that your brain was automatically generating pornographic content to keep itself entertained. You could imagine him behind the drum kit, imagine his face behind the ski mask. Maybe you would hold onto this memory, think of his stormy blue eyes when your core was hot and wet, fingers already scrabbling for your polaroid, ready for another Letter of Devotion as you came and came again at your own hand—

Your eyes drifted back to the booth. 

You imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against that chest, what it would sound like if he whispered in your ear with that voice. What it would feel like to have his hand sliding up your thigh beneath your diner uniform. You imagined him fisting your hair, guiding your head as he fucked your mouth slow and deep, until the cheap linoleum beneath your knees squeaked—

You were so deep in the fantasy that when you blinked, he was looking at you.

Direct. Curious. Like he knew.

Your heart skipped. You jerked your gaze away so fast you nearly knocked over the salt shaker. You busied yourself behind the counter, wiping an already clean surface, trying not to combust.

—

Eventually, the guys finished eating. Paid in cash, left a decent tip. One of them winked at you on the way out. He just gave you one last lingering glance as the bell over the door jingled again, then disappeared into the night.

You exhaled, a little dazed. Tried not to think about the heat still curling in your stomach.

And then you noticed it.

In the booth, the one they’d just vacated, sat a black backpack. Left behind, half-tucked beneath the table like someone forgot it in a rush.

You looked out the window. Their taillights were already gone.

Somehow…it felt like a sign. 

You rounded the counter on instinct, hands moving on autopilot as you stacked plates and wiped down the booth, the backpack heavy in your peripheral vision. You slipped into the kitchen, scraping leftovers into one of the giant bins, trying to look busy while Sal shouted down the phone near the walk-in freezer. Something about plumbing. Something about the hot water. You weren’t really listening. Not with your thoughts spinning like a carousel.

Your fingers twitched with anticipation.

Had he left it behind on purpose?

Maybe it was nothing, an honest mistake. Just a man in a hurry, too focused on the road ahead to notice what he’d forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been distracted. By you. Had you gotten into his head the same way he’d buried himself in yours? Had he been sneaking glances the way you had? Imagining things?

God, the possibilities curled hot between your legs.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water when Sal came stomping back in, muttering curses. 

“Dahla’s moanin’ that the hot water ain’t workin’,” he barked, grabbing his keys off the hook. “I gotta run. You good to lock up?”

You nodded, barely looking up. “No problem.”

He grunted in the barest minimum of thanks and was gone within the minute. You waited, counting the seconds until the crunch of his boots on gravel faded, until the cough of his truck engine roared and peeled off down the road.

You all but bolted to the front of the diner, heart hammering in your throat. You hadn’t even locked the front door. The open sign still glowed in the window like a forgotten thought. You didn’t care. Your hands were still damp from the sink as you reached for the bag, tugging it up onto the counter with a soft thud.

It sat there, plain and unassuming. Black canvas, one shoulder strap fraying. Just a backpack.

You stared for a second.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A note? An ID with a name you could finally put to that face? A number scrawled on a napkin meant only for you?

Your lip caught between your teeth as you slowly tugged the zipper down.

The contents were disappointing at first. A couple of old t-shirts, faded and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Crumpled food wrappers. A phone charger. Some receipts. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing romantic. Your heart dipped—

Then froze.

Nestled at the bottom, slightly bent at the corners, was a thick bundle of envelopes. Cream-colored. Handwritten. Lightly smudged ink. It wouldn’t have been that strange if it weren’t for the fact that you recognised them. 

It was the smell of the perfumed paper that hit you immediately. You knew that smell. The faint trail of your favourite perfume, sweet and smoky. The red lipstick stain pressed into the corner, your shade. That was your kiss. Your handwriting.

Your fingers moved with nervous urgency, fumbling as you grabbed the stack and rifled through it.

Your letters.

At least a dozen of them. All opened. 

You seized one at random, and your hand trembled as you pulled the page free. A small clatter followed as a polaroid slipped loose and hit the countertop face-up.

You felt the heat rush to your face like a punch.

You. 

It was you. 

One of the more explicit ones. Black lace panties, expensive, a splurge from when you were still clinging to the idea of romance. Your thighs spread wide. Your hand, barely hidden behind delicate fabric, buried between your folds, caught mid-motion. Your other hand was out of frame, probably holding the camera. You remembered that night vividly. Remembered how worked up you'd been, how starved. You hadn’t just been horny, you’d been aching, lonely.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you slowly unfolded the letter, the edges soft from wear. Like it had been regularly reread. Your cursive spilt across the page, desperate and messy. A confession. A fantasy—

I had a dream about you last night.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was a memory from some other life. One where you knew me, touched me, ruined me like you were meant to.

You bent me over the arm of my couch. One hand flat on my back, keeping me down, keeping me still. The other between my legs. You didn’t tease. Didn’t waste time. You slid your fingers through my pussy and hummed like you liked what you felt. Then you pressed two fingers inside me, slow at first, then rougher, curling them just right until my legs shook and I moaned like I’d break apart.

You didn’t stop. Not when I came. Not even when I begged. You made me take it, over and over, until I was soaked and shaking, face pressed to the cushion, drooling into the fabric while you watched. While you owned me.

And only then did you unzip your jeans.

You didn’t say anything. Just dragged the tip of your cock through the mess you’d made of me and pushed in, inch by inch, nice and slow. I remember crying out, legs spreading wider like my body already knew what to do, like it wanted to be ruined by you. You fucked me deep. Kept me bent over. Kept that hand wrapped around my throat when I tried to lift my head.

And when I finally looked back at you, barely able to keep my eyes open, you grabbed my jaw and made me say it.

‘Tell me who you belong to.’

And I did. Over and over. 

I woke up soaked through my sheets, hand still between my thighs, still aching. I’ve been thinking about it all day. I can’t stop imagining this. Wanting this. Needing it—

“Why are you going through my stuff?” A deep, gravelly voice jolted you back to reality. The letter slipped from your fingers and fluttered back onto the counter

You hadn’t heard the bell.

Hadn’t heard the door open.

Hadn’t realised the man you’d spent the last hour wet and restless for was standing just a few feet away. Arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted, expression somewhere between amused and dangerous.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to breathe through the thick, electric panic that was blooming behind your ribs.

“I—” 

You fumbled for words, your voice catching and unravelling as heat rushed up your neck. “You left it behind. I thought maybe I could find ID or a name or—I wasn’t trying to—”

Your voice faded as he took a single step forward. Just one. He was already towering above you. You stood frozen behind the counter, gripping the edge. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or drop to your knees.

And then, against all your better judgment, the words tumbled out.

“Why do you—how do you have these?! I didn’t write them for you, I wrote them for—”

You cut yourself off. Because you were watching it happen in real time, the slow curl of understanding at the edge of his mouth, the glint of something unholy blooming in those stormy eyes. A smile pulled at his lips, knowing and wicked.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, half-horrified, half-aroused. “Unless… unless you’re him. The Winter Soldier—”

He stepped closer, until the edge of the counter was the only thing between you and the solid heat of his body. His gaze dragged down your face, your throat, like he was memorising you.

Then he leaned in, just slightly, and spoke, low and lethal.

“I read every single one.”

Your entire body flushed hot.

Every. Single. One.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, just the soft stutter of your breath as your brain struggled to catch up. You were painfully aware of your appearance. The grease-slicked apron, your hair pulled back in a lazy bun, the sweat still drying at your temples from a long shift. You were supposed to be invisible here. 

But now he was here. Standing over you. Real. Breathing the same air. And he’d read it. All of it. All the filthy, aching, needy things you’d never even said out loud.

“You…” you rasped. “You read them?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You think I just collect random strangers’ letters full of desperate, pretty little fantasies?”

His voice was quieter now, just above a whisper. It curled around your throat like a hand.

“I started reading the first one on tour,” he went on. “Thought it’d be funny, another obsessed fan. But then I kept reading…kept waiting for more to arrive.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You don’t hold back, sweetheart. Not even a little.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t think—I never thought anyone would actually—”

“—read it?” he finished, one brow raising. “Come on. You write shit like that and don’t expect it to crawl into someone’s brain? The way you describe it, how you want it… fuck.” He leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear. “You got no idea what you’ve been doing to me. You’re like some kinda genius, some kinda fuckin’ succubus. Do you know how many songs I’ve tried to write about you, about those fuckin’ photos?”

Your knees went weak, pulse thudding behind your ribs like a warning bell.

“Which one was your favourite?” you asked before you could stop yourself, breathless and reckless. 

His grin returned, dark, indulgent. “The one where I make you cum over and over again,” he murmured. “And you beg for it, like a good girl. And you beg until you're so fucked out you can’t even speak, just moan and take every last inch of me.”

Your breath hitched.

He studied your face, then slowly, very slowly, reached out and picked up the polaroid you’d dropped. He held it between two fingers, glancing down at it with a hum of approval.

“You still have these panties?” he asked casually, like he was asking for a drink recommendation.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up from the photo, and his expression turned serious in a way that made your stomach flip.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” He asked.

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I’ll come by after you close up,” he added, voice low, fingers tapping on the counter. “You let me in and I’ll do everything you wrote about, hell, I’m ready to beg for it just lookin’ at you.”

—

You weren’t sure how you made it home without crashing your car.

Your hands shook the whole drive, knuckles white around the wheel, still sticky from the milkshake syrup you’d forgotten to wash off. The radio played something mindless, but you couldn’t hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat thudding behind your ribs like a fist.

You didn’t even turn the lights on when you burst through your apartment door. Just kicked it shut behind you, peeled off your apron, and headed straight for the shower. The water was too hot, scalding your skin, but you welcomed it. You scrubbed with your nicest soap, dragging the loofah hard over your flesh. Like you could wash off the diner grease, the lingering smell of cheap coffee. 

You towelled off in a hurry, slipping on lotion while your skin was still damp.

The panties were easy, the black lace ones from the photo. No bra. Just a thin cotton tank top, the kind that clung to every curve.

You paced your apartment like a storm was coming.

Checked your reflection.

Then checked it again.

Clean sheets. Dim light. The curtain pulled just enough. You caught yourself reaching to tidy the bookshelf, then stopped. What the fuck were you doing?

He didn’t care if your books were alphabetised. He was going to ruin you.

The knock came just after midnight.

You froze.

Your feet carried you to the door before your mind could catch up. You stared through the peephole, breath caught.

Still in that worn leather jacket, shoulders broad enough to fill the frame. His eyes were darker in the hallway light, but they still found the peephole like he knew you were watching.

Your fingers curled around the doorknob and tugged it open. 

He looked at you, eyes dragging down your bare legs, the hem of your tank top, the curve of your breasts beneath it. His jaw tensed like he was trying not to say something filthy right there in the hallway.

“You wore them,” he said at last, voice rough.

You swallowed. “You said you liked them.”

He stepped inside without another word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. You stood barefoot on the rug, heart hammering in your chest as you looked up at him, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You parted your lips to speak, to say something, but you never got the chance.

Because he was on you in a second.

He crossed the room in two steps, grabbed you by the waist, and lifted you clean off the ground. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips as he shoved you against the wall. His mouth crashed down on yours, tongue sliding past your lips. 

You melted into him instantly, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, back arching to press yourself closer. When he finally pulled back, you were panting, dazed, lips wet and parted.

He carried you to the bedroom without asking and dropped you onto the bed, stepping back just enough to shrug off his jacket.

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. It slipped out, needy and desperate, before you could stop it.

“Take off your shirt.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed. You pulled the tank top over your head, exposing your bare chest to the warm lamplight. He watched you like a man starved, his eyes dragging slowly from your flushed face down to the curve of your breasts. You could feel the heat pooling between your thighs already, the lace of your panties damp and sticking to you.

He stripped his own shirt next.  “Lie down.”

You sank into the sheets, heart pounding, legs already falling open.

He crawled over you, his face right above yours. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, then slid down to wrap gently around your throat.

“You want this, sweetheart?” he murmured. 

You whimpered again, nodding, thighs instinctively rubbing together.

“Words,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, I want this.”

He smirked, and then he dropped his mouth to your chest, biting softly at your nipple, soothing the sting with his tongue before moving lower. He kissed your ribs, your stomach, licking and dragging his teeth along every inch of skin until he reached your panties.

He hooked a finger under the waistband, met your gaze, and then ripped them off.

“Still my favourite pair,” he muttered, tossing the ruined lace aside. 

And then his mouth was on you.

Tongue hot, thorough, relentless, he licked into you like a man on a mission. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wide, keeping you in place as you writhed beneath him. You sobbed, fingers digging into the sheets, your hips lifting off the mattress before his hand came down hard and held you still.

Your first orgasm crashed into you fast, so fast it stole your breath, tore the sound from your throat. You choked on it, body arching, tears prickling at your lashes.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you whimpered, not even when you trembled.

“I said over and over again,” he reminded you, dragging his tongue up your slit with obscene precision. “Beg for the next one.”

“Please—fuck, please—” you sobbed.

“That’s better, good girl.” The praise scraped low from his throat, barely audible over the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy.

You were already shaking, thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hands fisted in the sheets. But he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. His tongue worked you ruthlessly, slow when you needed fast, fast when you couldn’t take it. He read your body like a song he’d memorised, like he was playing you just to see how many ways he could make you fall apart.

He licked deep, flat and hard, then flicked his tongue tight against your clit until your hips jerked. Every time you gasped or moaned or bucked against his mouth, he made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he muttered between strokes, his voice ragged.

You choked on a moan, your back arching off the mattress, but his hands clamped down and held you there.

“I can feel it,” he said, breath hot against you. “You’re close again, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Fuck—please—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled back just enough to slide two fingers into you, thick and unforgiving. Your whole body snapped. He hooked them expertly, rubbing against that perfect spot deep inside, his mouth still latched to your clit, and your orgasm hit so violently you couldn’t even speak. Your cry caught in your throat, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your eyes rolled back as white-hot pleasure splintered through you.

You collapsed against the bed, panting, twitching, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

He licked through the aftershocks, fingers still curling inside you like he was searching for more.

“Please—please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. “You said you wanted this. Said you wanted me to ruin you. That I could fuck you until you couldn’t speak.”

“I did—I do—fuck—I do!”

“Then take it.”

He leant back on his knees just enough to watch what he was doing, his fingers fucking in and out of you, soaked to the knuckle. Your juices dripped down the insides of your thighs, your pussy glistening in the warm light, flushed and swollen. He looked wrecked watching you, his cock straining hard against his pants.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers out with a slow, slick pull that made you whimper. “Look at this fucking mess. You’re dripping, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, a sob tearing loose from your throat.

“I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Please. I need you inside me—please—”

He moved fast.

One hand on his belt, jerking the buckle loose. The clink of metal echoed through the room, followed by the sound of fabric hitting the floor.

He stood at the edge of the bed, fully naked now. His cock was thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip, the veins along the shaft standing out as he wrapped his fist around it and stroked once with a tight grunt.

You couldn’t look away.

“I’ve been hard since the diner,” he said hoarsely, eyes locked on your wrecked body sprawled across the sheets. “Sat in the truck reading that last letter again, just thinking about how wet you’d be for me. How sweet you’d sound when you begged. How I’m gonna write that fuckin’ song about you, how I’ll write a whole fuckin’ album about you—”

You mewled again, tears slipping down your cheeks now, your thighs twitching open wider on instinct. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ll say it. I’ll say anything. Just give it to me.”

He climbed over you slowly, bracing himself on his elbows as he lined up at your entrance.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark with hunger. “You’re gonna take every inch.”

And then he pushed in.

You cried out as the head of his cock stretched you open. Your back arched off the bed, fingers scrambling at the sheets, your body twitching from overstimulation. Your pussy clenched tight around him on instinct.

“Shhh,” He murmured, his voice ragged as he held himself still. “You can take it. I know you can.”

He slid in another inch, slow, dragging, splitting you open around him.

You keened, helpless. The stretch burned, but the pressure—the way he filled you so deeply, so perfectly—made your toes curl. Your walls clamped down around him, greedy, desperate, already milking him without meaning to.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re tight. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands flew to his back, clawing at his skin, dragging down his spine. He was heavy and solid, his cock thick and pulsing as he fed you more inch by inch.

“Please,” you gasped, legs trembling on either side of his hips. “Please, fuck me—just do it—”

He let out a rough groan.

And then he sank the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a hard, final thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

Your body spasmed beneath his as he filled you to the hilt. 

He moaned above you, one arm sliding under your back, pulling you tighter against him, locking your bodies together.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice shaking. “How perfect you take me?”

You nodded frantically, tears slipping free, your hips rolling up to meet him before you even realised.

And then he started to move. Each thrust dragged the full length of him through your soaked pussy, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with unrelenting precision. You cried, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he groaned, fucking into you harder now. “Already so fucked out, sweetheart. Look at you.”

You couldn’t. Your eyes were glassy, lips parted, hands slipping uselessly across his slick back as he took you. His pace built, thrusts snapping forward faster, harder, making the headboard bang softly against the wall. 

“Beg for it again,” he panted against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—need it—need you—”

“That’s it.”

He shifted, changing the angle, sliding one hand beneath your ass and lifting you to meet his thrusts. The new position had you screaming, your body jerking, clenching tight as your orgasm slammed into you so hard it felt like falling. You convulsed around him, sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body begging without words.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, through your crying, through the way your body trembled and tried to curl in on itself. He held you open, held you down, every thrust bruising and perfect.

Your vision blurred. Your voice broke.

And still he kept going.

“You said you’d let me,” he growled. “Said I could fuck you until you couldn’t think straight.”

“You can,” you cried. “Please—just don’t stop—please—”

His mouth crashed down on yours, swallowing your scream as he finally lost his rhythm, his thrusts turning sloppy, urgent, his cock twitching inside you.

And then he came.

Hot and relentless, spilling inside you with a groan so wrecked it made you see god. He buried himself, grinding in as he filled you, a string of curses a rough whisper in your ear. 

You didn’t even realise you were crying again until he brushed the tears from your cheek.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

You didn’t know how long you lay there, trembling and spent, your body still flushed and twitching in the aftermath. You couldn’t move. Could barely think. You were splayed across the mattress, your skin slick with sweat, your thighs sticky and sore, your pussy still aching from the stretch of him.

A large hand brushed damp strands of hair away from your forehead, gentle fingers stroking through your hair with surprising care. “There she is,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, bleary-eyed, lips parted but no words came. You were too fucked out to string together a thought, let alone a sentence. Your body was heavy, bones turned to syrup, and you felt the flutter of tears threaten again.

He leant over you, his skin warm where it pressed against yours, and kissed the side of your temple. A lingering kiss, soft and steady. One that said, I’m not in a hurry.

“You did so well,” he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed. “You know, I never even asked your name.” Your voice was hoarse, practically gravel from all the screaming and moaning.

You felt him smirk softly. “It’s James, but all my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky…” you sighed, almost dreamily. “Suits you.”

Silence fell over both of you as you nuzzled his shoulder, dazed.

He stayed close, his hand never leaving your body, sliding down your arm, over your hip, then back up again. A slow, idle rhythm that kept you tethered to reality.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I read every word you wrote.” He finally whispered, enough to jolt you back to full consciousness. 

Your breath caught, eyes opening, but he kept going.

“I tried to write back, wanted to...” His thumb swept over your cheekbone. “I’m just no good with words, not in the way you are. Different from writing songs, I don’t know why. Was scared I’d fuck it up somehow, scare you off.”

He watched your face, his tone softening even more.

“I think I’ve spent this last year looking for you, whether I realised it or not. Like I knew I’d find you.”

Your chest ached. Your lips moved, trying to speak, but you only managed a faint, broken sound, a gasp, a sob, maybe a laugh. You weren’t sure. You were too far gone, too full of him, too unravelled.

“And now that I’ve found you?” he said, voice dropping low. “I’m not letting you go.”

With a shaking hand, you brushed a few fingers across his forehead, down his temple to the stubble of his jaw. His breath caught at the motion. “Yeah? You’ll take me away from this place? Make me happy like in my letters?”

A huff of laughter escaped his nose. “If that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

---

if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

[starmapz]

all of my work is listed below! thanks for your support ♡ see also my kinktober 2024 masterlist !

→ SERIES ✰

⋆ what you know - sukuna x f!reader [fluff, smut & angst] [college au] [ongoing] ❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

⋆ shame on me - gojo x vessel f!reader [fluff, smut & angst] [complete ✓] ❝ gojo satoru is the strongest sorcerer. when you come along with power to match his own, his responsibility to the world gets the best of him and his first impression is poor to say the least. when he needs your help, by some miracle you're too kind to deny him. or maybe he's just manipulative enough to convince you. either way, you're stuck training his student, a vessel like you. what could possibly go wrong? ❞

⋆ love & company - sukuna x f!reader [fluff, smut & angst] [non-curse au] [ongoing series of oneshots & etc] ❝ you're beginning to lose hope of ever fixing your bike as the moon rises over the horizon when a man built like a brick wall and covered in tattoos stops to help you out. he's standoffish and his words are cold - but as it turns out the version of him you see is soft. who knew this man could ever become your best friend, let alone something more? ❞

⋆ six degrees of separation - geto x sorcerer gn!reader [angst] [complete ✓ series of oneshots] ❝ life isn't easy on sorcerers, but in the case of suguru geto there stood something beyond being a sorcerer. he could never have imagined the way he would drag you down even in his best effort to keep the both of you afloat. ❞ or- a series of 4 oneshots spanning the length of your complicated relationship with suguru geto.

→ ONESHOTS ✰

⋆ wolf in sheep's clothing - gojo x f!reader [fluff, angst & smut] [werewolf & monster hunter au] ❝ most parents tell their children stories of fake monsters to scare them into staying in bed at night. your father told you stories of real monsters to train you for your career hunting them. it's that career that brings you to a small town reporting disembodied limbs and missing people. it's here that you spend your days flirting with the cute coffee shop owner with stunning blue eyes during the day, while your nights are spent setting traps and preparing silver bullets. of course, life has a funny way of making things complicated, as your day life and night life begin to collide unexpectedly. ❞

⋆ rest in the mourning - heian true form sukuna x f!reader [angst] ❝ sukuna is a god among men, untouchable by mortals. or so you had both thought. as he fades quietly in your arms, sukuna wonders if curses die with regrets. ❞

⋆ worship - toji fushiguro x f!reader [smut] ❝ after a day out you admit an insecurity to your husband and he has every intention of proving to you just how much you have no need to be insecure. he has no shame in just how willing he is to fuck that thought straight out of your head. ❞

⋆ changing of the seasons - shy!nanami x gn!reader [fluff] [college au] ❝ nanami is a man of habit, so when he doesn't show up to class, it worries you. when he changes his style drastically, you're worried, and- wait, is his sweatshirt from the store you were raving about having nice clothes the other day? ❞

→ DRABBLES ✰

⋆ comfort in you - gojo x f!reader [fluff] ❝ in which satoru gojo subconsciously seeks your comfort ❞

⋆ cold floors - gojo x f!reader [fluff] ❝ in which satoru gojo steals your blankets on his birthday ❞

⋆ celebrations - heian true form sukuna x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which ryomen sukuna surprises you on your birthday ❞

⋆ intrusive thoughts - heian true form sukuna x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which ryomen sukuna lets the intrusive thoughts win ❞

⋆ a soft moment - heian true form sukuna x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which ryomen sukuna comforts his queen through anxiety ❞

⋆ itchy - heian true form sukuna x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which ryomen sukuna is itchy ❞

⋆ "never" - toji x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which toji reconsiders his thoughts on marriage ❞

⋆ soulmates - nanami x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which yuji asks nanami how he knew you were soulmates ❞

⋆ to have and to hold - nanami x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which your husband nanami finds you asleep at your desk ❞

⋆ bad guy - choso x gn!reader [fluff] ❝ in which choso asks if you think he's a good person ❞

→ HEADCANONS ✰

⋆ divorce lawyer!higuruma - higuruma x f!reader [fluff & smut]

⋆ cheesy boyfriend!gojo - gojo x f!reader [fluff & smut]

⋆ colleague!gojo - gojo x gn!reader [fluff]

→ ART ✰

⋆ shin sukuna

art, format & dividers by starmapz. do not repost/translate/copy.

[vaporize-employers]

What kind of tents combat hypothermia?

For the last few months, Gazans have been surviving regular floods of rain, soaking their bodies, clothes, and whatever belongings they have left.

The biggest risk factor in hypothermia isn't temperature itself: it's water. If you're soaked through, you cannot get warmer without dry clothes and shelter. A water temperature of 10 °C (50 °F) can lead to death in as little as one hour.

This is especially lethal to children and infants; starvation and malnutrition compounds these risks. In the last week, six babies have died of hypothermia in Gaza.

There are some kinds of tents that provide some protection for $2,000 to $1,500, but providing a fully waterproof tent costs between $2,500 and $3,000.

Dome fabric tent

✔ Wind resistant

✔ Provides shade

❌ NOT waterproof

❌ Outer lining only

Cost: $2,000

This provides some protection, but the cost in winter clothes and blankets to rewarm after the rain soaks through can reach hundreds in added costs.

Insulated tarp tent

✔ Wind resistant

✔ UV protection

✔ FULLY WATERPROOF

✔ Inner and outer insulation

✔ Privacy area

Cost: $2,500 to $3,000

I hope you found all that interesting!

With that in mind, consider helping one of these families by sharing and donating if you are able: all 3 have young children with high risk medical conditions, no shelter, and are completely dependent on donations.

Maha and her 4 y/o daughter Joan (#163). Joan is high risk due to malnutrition and gastritus.

Ahmed/Safaa and their 1 y/o son Kamal (#47). Kamal is high risk due to 3rd degree burns and missing one lung.

Abeer and her little sister Nour (#157). Nour is high risk due to a severe heart condition; you can read more about her situation at @northgazaupdates.

@safa33 @mahafamily1 @nohaibrahims-blog @abeeribrahimss

[pastafossa]

Heat Wave (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, SFW)

Had this one sitting in my docs folder for a while, decided to edit it and finally drop it in honor of the hot summer.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: SFW, no use of y/n, lots of descriptions about how hot it is but it's fine cause Matt still thinks you smell nice, Reader is AFAB, Matt is a brat

Fic Summary: Just a short, humourish drabble-ish bit about you and Matt dealing with the heat as I try to get back into writing.

Or: in which Matt is still somehow cuddly in triple-digit weather.

You were going to kill someone. 

Matt would claim you were exaggerating, but you knew the truth. These were living conditions meant for lizards, not mammals, and when mammals—one particular flavor of mammal, especially—were forced out of their proper biome, murder wasn’t out of the question. You were pretty sure that was how it worked, anyway, according to Genesis. It was hard to remember when your brain was sizzling inside your skull like a wad of bacon. 

One-hundred-and-fucking-six degrees. 

You could have dealt with it if it had been a bit drier. Really. But during New York summers, the only thing more reliable than the honking of horns was the humidity, which had sent the index soaring up into the category of absolute hellscape. The rickety old air conditioning unit in the apartment had done alright until the heat index had hit triple digits. Then it had coughed, sputtered, and settled for, ‘Sure, you’re still a sweaty puddle of melting meat juice, but the outside is worse if you think about it, right?’ The A.C. at Nelson and Murdock had waved the white flag even sooner than that, to the point they’d closed the office four days ago and reverted to working from home. Matt hadn’t even bothered to go out as the Devil the past two nights, not when the very act of putting on the suit had become dangerous. 

Not that there was anyone out there for Matt to fight right now. Apparently even the criminals had a temperature limit. Turns out the real secret to stopping crime wasn’t a Devil suit, but instead just cranking up the setting on the giant ball of fire in the sky until the very act of crime meant you might wind up with a chance to meet the real Devil first hand.

The fact that you were living in Hell’s Kitchen had never felt more accurate. 

Matt, ever the practical masochist, was out in the bad air doing… something. Errands, you vaguely remembered, since it was after dark and thus moderately less like a pot of boiling soup outside. You didn’t much care, though. You were currently in the bedroom sprawled out on the floor where it was just a touch cooler, a few thin sheets and a pillow thrown down for padding. You’d stripped down to your underwear, five different fans whirring away around you in an attempt to stir the stagnant, sticky air in the room. If you were lucky, they’d help you retain the brief snatch of heavenly cold your body had greedily absorbed sitting in the shower for the past hour. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better, and at this point you’d take it. And as much as you loved Matt, it was far more pleasant without him here. That man was a furnace and the heat had only reduced his cuddling needs by about forty percent. On top of that, if he knew you’d cooled your body, he’d want in.

The bedroom door slowly rolled open with an ominous… 

…squeak. 

You blearily turned your head.

Matt had already stripped out of his shirt, his body so soaked in sweat he almost seemed to shine. On a good day you’d have compared him and his damp, pale skin to a beautiful marble sculpture, to classical paintings of gorgeous Greek Gods emerging from frothing rivers. Now, however, all you could think of was a hot dog pulled straight from the hot, cloudy water at that one food cart you didn’t really trust: 

Shiny. 

Questionably wet. 

And not something you particularly wanted laying on top of you in triple digit weather. 

Matt blinked innocently at you as he slowly shucked his shorts—shorts you hadn’t even realized he owned until this heat wave. It left him in nothing but damp boxers still clinging to his thick thighs. His intent was clear. 

“Shoo,” you croaked. “My cold body. Go away. Go sit in the shower like I did.”

“Everyone else had the same idea. The water pressure’s too low now.” He took a creeping step, and then another, bit by bit making his way around the bed towards you like an overheated panther. “Share it with me. I want it.”

“Come back when it’s ten degrees cooler.”

“I love you,” he sighed sadly, aiming those big, dark, mournful eyes in your general direction as he rounded the bed. Foggy called it Matt’s ‘abandoned kitten in the rain’ look. It was far more effective on you than you’d ever admit to, and on a colder day, it would have worked. But you were quickly reminded of Matt’s true goal when a droplet of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked it away with a grunt, nose scrunching like a cat’s as he paused just long enough to wipe it away. Then he was back at it. He sank smoothly to his knees, crawling menacingly towards you across the floor on all fours. “I love you so, so much. Let me hold you, sweetheart. I need you.”

“Fuck off, you goddamn cold thief.” You kicked lethargically at him with one leg the moment he was in range, dodging his grip when he snatched at your ankle. You quickly shifted to your backup plan, which was mostly just rolling like an overcooked rotisserie chicken to the far side of the small cloth nest on the floor. But even after an hour in a cold shower, you still wound up partially stuck to the sheets where sweat had pooled against your lower back, bringing half the fabric with you, making you groan. “Do some Devil meditation to cool down.”

He’d made it fully onto the blankets now, inching towards you, that familiar predatory hunger radiating from every inch of him. He slowly tilted his head, honing in on you, on the exact positioning of his body. Then he flashed you a grin. “This is faster.” 

“I’m not your cold pack—” 

“You’re about to be,” he purred. 

Before you could blink he’d flung himself across the blankets, twining himself around you, trapping you in his sticky grip. You squirmed and rocked weakly in an attempt to escape, a flopping wet fish caught in the clutches of your beloved cuddle octopus, but it was no use, and fighting him off would only heat you up further. You let out a miserable groan, sagging against the floor, and the sound was almost lost beneath his equally loud moan of relief. 

The struggle clearly over, he made his final move, throwing one of his fuzzy, muscular legs over your waist and dragging you back in tighter against him, shoving his hips up against your ass without so much as a, ‘you want some dinner first?’ Just like that you were trapped against a mountain of sweaty, burning Devil. His contented, admittedly-mildly-heat-exhausted little purr into your hair was only matched by your grumble of irritation as his body eagerly began to drain you of every last drop of cold you’d managed to suck up in the shower.

“Why?” you moaned, his sticky, wet skin sliding against yours with every breath, the sweat already pooling between you. You felt like you were trapped against a slip-n-slide. “Why, Matthew?”

“You don’t want me to get heat stroke do you?” he mumbled sadly, though he wasn’t sad enough not to rub his great, big, obnoxious, sweaty head against your damp hair. There must have been some cold left up there, too. “Who will keep you warm in the winter? As if you don’t do this to me when you’re cold. Fair’s fair.” 

“The pot is uncomfortable being called the fuck out by the kettle,” you muttered, reluctantly lifting one arm so he could more easily wrap himself around you. Which he did, with no small amount of pleasure. “This sucks, and I hate it.”

“There is one upside though.”

“What’s that?”

He dragged his head sleepily down to your neck and faceplanted against your damp skin without any hesitation, taking a few long, drunken inhales. When he spoke again, his voice had grown just a little slurred, glutted and thick. “You smell amazing, sweetheart.” 

“No, I smell like I’m a bag of meat that’s marinating,” you said grimly. “Because that’s what I am right now thanks to this heatwave. I am God’s sentient bag of marinating meat.” “Mm, but the bag smells good at least.” Matt rubbed his cheek fondly against your slick shoulder, no doubt luxuriating in all the pheromones bogged down in the sweat clinging to your skin. “We can marinate together.”

Who said romance was dead?

“As flattering as it is that you’re not turned off by how I smell soaked in my own sweat,” you told him tiredly, though not unkindly, “I regret to inform you that Club Vagina is closed until the air stops trying to kill us.” “Fair. Just thought you should know how good you smell.” He yawned, adjusting himself against you. You grimaced when your skin and his stuck together awkwardly for a moment before sliding slickly against each other, only to seemingly glue itself back together a moment later when he settled.

Once he was cooled off, you were absolutely leaving him on this side of the floor nest and making an escape for the other side. Hell, you might be able to talk him into giving you a good six inches of space if you could convince him that a single pinky toe touching qualified as cuddling in spirit, if not in form. 

That he still wanted to cuddle at all was the bigger mystery.

“What I really want to know is how you aren’t dying right now.” You furrowed your brow. “You’re tolerating this and the heat a lot better than I thought you would.”

“Let me put it this way.” He tapped one finger against you almost playfully. “Ninety degrees in the suit feels roughly equal to triple digits when not wearing it. At least this way the sweat has somewhere to go. Some nights I’m surprised I don’t make sloshing sounds when I move.”

Your brain unhelpfully offered up an idea of what that might sound like: a wet squish caught somewhere between the splashing of water in a bucket and the muffled squeak of a water balloon when you squeezed it in your hand. 

You really wished your brain was a little less imaginative. Or specific.

“Oh god.”

“Mhm. Now you know why I sometimes avoid you until I shower after patrol in the summer.”

“That is very much appreciated. Speaking of showers, I could already use another one, but that’s not doable until the water pressure’s back.” You blew out a breath, staring at the wall, the only shield between both of you and the tacky, carnival taffy-thick humidity desperate to find a way in. One of the fans sputtered as if in sympathy, though that likely had more to do with the way it had been running almost non-stop for twelve hours. For all you knew, this was the fan threatening a lawsuit over unpaid overtime. “Until then we just survive. Or evolve into lizards.”

“I choose survival. Might be hard to keep the streets safe if I was a lizard.”

“Unless you were a really big, scary one. A Komodo Devil.” You groaned, flopping your head back against his shoulder. “Then you could chase people off before they take all the ice cream at the store. I don’t suppose you found some?”

“I could only find a box of popsicles.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Except they melted on the way home. So fruit-flavored, room-temperature water in a tube is the best I can offer until they solidify in the freezer again.”

Fuck. 

This wasn’t fair. You bet Turk had ice cream. Somehow. Why couldn’t you have some of that

Actually…

“I don’t suppose,” you said innocently, “I could talk you into stealing an air conditioning unit, and maybe some ice cream, from a bad guy?”

Matt was quiet for a long, thoughtful, Catholic moment as he presumably considered the sin of thievery, especially if that thievery involving taking something from a very, very bad person who surely didn’t deserve the cold air and sweet, sweet relief of ice cream as much as you, the love of his life, did.

You pointedly leaned forward, your wet, sweaty body peeling away from him like the hands of a kindergartner who’d coated his palms in Elmer’s glue. 

That did it. “The second I’ve drained all the cold from your body, I’m willing to discuss it.”

“Excellent.”

[danidrabbles]

Pulling a Double

Michael “Dr. Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader x unnamed f!resident | 11.6k words | explicit.

Summary: When Doctor Abbot breaks his collarbone, you come in from Presby to cover as attending on PTMC’s night shift until he’s fit to come back. During your time there, you meet Robby and one of his female residents. After a couple of tense situations, you pitch an idea to Robby on your last day.

Tags/Warnings: fem reader (female anatomy, has at least shoulder-length hair, bisexual), canon typical medical jargon and emergency department horrors (including car accidents, head trauma, drug overdoses, death of a child (mention), water ski accidents, injuries from glass) (but it’s me just saying shit because I’m not a doctor), alcohol consumption, power imbalance (two attendings vs. one resident), smut (including f/f/m threesome, protected piv, dirty talk, spitting and more) - let me know if I missed anyhthing!

Notes: Woke up one day and thought: What if Robby and Reader double teamed a pretty resident? One thing about me is I will find a way to serve the bisexual agenda. Big thank you as always to @javier-pena for jumping at every chance to read this, serving as my very speedy editor and leaving comments that make my writing better, and to @robinavich, not just for enthusiasm but also for reminding me Abbot probably had fall training as a former military medic...

– – – – –

It's Monday morning, on your day off, when you get a call about filling in for Jack Abbot. 

Apparently, he tripped and fell post-shift on the roof of the hospital. Landed on his shoulder. Split his collarbone clean in half.

Turns out that accidents happen, even if you've had military fall training–though 5'9"ish is probably nowhere near the altitude he trained at.

It's nice as far as breaks go; needs no surgery, just a sling and some rest. He's out for at least six weeks. Most likely twelve.

The call surprises you, considering you work for a different hospital, but they've given you the all clear if you want the job.

UPMC Presbyterian has enough personnel, they can absolutely afford to miss you, but they’re usually more hesitant about temporary replacements. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is… struggling, not just with the general nursing shortage and budget cuts, but rumours have long been flying about the hospital “being up for sale”, and that doesn’t exactly make physicians want to apply for a job there. Your best guess is that Presby’s only lending an attending out because they’re not fully prepared for the swarm of patients it will bring to them should PTMC’s emergency department really shut down over staff shortages. 

You wonder if they know you’re personally invested. 

You met Jack when you did a rotation at the VA years ago, when you were in medical school and he was a military medic freshly torn apart by war. His medical background made him a little different from the other vets you’d met up to that point, and he had a certain calm around him, even though he had every right to want to curse the world. Throughout your rotation, he told you both the best and most harrowing stories about emergency medicine in the field. If you were being honest, it’s probably what inspired you to pursue the specialty. 

Though it might be best he never knows, he already won’t stop saying he has “permanent stock in your medical degree” after helping you with a particularly tricky biochemistry exam.

With that in mind, and considering there's a chance, albeit a very slim one, it might shut him up, you accept the offer.

– – – – –

You meet Robby on your second day at PTMC. 

It’s right before change of shift, when you’re swamped with two separate patients in Trauma 1 and 2. You’re making your way from one trauma bay (26-year-old female, car vs. pedestrian, then face vs. pavement, A and O with good vitals, but significant facial fractures) back into the other (42-year-old male, ataxic breathing, nasal discharge, and a dorsal head wound after a fall down the stairs during a sleepwalking episode), and bump into him. Or rather, your shoulders bump when you try to take the same place by the bed to assess the next steps. 

Once you figure your patient is probably bleeding more than expected because he’s anticoagulated, Robby orders history and a four-factor PCC to be on standby before you can even speak. 

Then he asks what’s in it.

You don’t reply, figuring his question is for one of the residents surrounding you and focusing on the atrial fibrillation on the monitor instead. But then he nudges you, “Today if you can. This is a teaching hospital, so let’s hear it.”

“I’m not a– I’m the attending taking over for Abbot,” you say.

He takes you in, trailing from your crown to your toes, then back up to your eyes. You curse inwardly when you realize your badge is hidden beneath the disposable white scrubs you have on over your regular ones. “Could have fooled me,” Robby says, before raising an eyebrow as if to say, Anyway, what’s in the four-factor PCC?

“Clotting factors two, seven, nine, and ten,” you grit out, because there’s no time, and because you might have just worked a 12-hour shift, but you could answer that in your sleep. 

“Excellent,” is all he says.

And you both get back to work.

After, when your patients are in the clear, shipped off to reconstructive surgery and neurosurgery respectively, you get properly introduced and Robby realizes you are in fact the attending taking over for Abbot. He apologizes for his slip-up and compliments your work on the trauma patients. He does so with his hands buried in the pockets of a hoodie he wears over his scrubs, his shoulders drawn up to his ears and a set of brown eyes that silently ask for you to accept his apology. 

It’s not worth the argument; you’re too fucking tired and his apology seems genuine, like he’s a hardass purely for teaching purposes and not because he actually enjoys grinding people down, unlike some other doctors you’ve come across. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Learn to live with it, learn to accept it, and find balance if you can–you heard that somewhere once. “Comes with emergency department chaos, right? And with first–fuck, no, second days,” you correct with a shake of your head. 

Robby looks at you with a quick narrowing of his eyes, a corner of his mouth turning up and his eyes crinkling around a careful smile. Finally, his shoulders slump, a little relaxation slipping into his frame as he exhales. 

The board overhead flickers with change, and both your heads turn up to read it – test results from someone in Central 6 that are back – probably a UTI, nothing too exciting. Robby makes his way to one of the computers to check, fishing a pair of round reading glasses from his pocket along the way. Setting them on his nose when he arrives, he clicks around a couple times with the computer mouse, before leaning down on his forearms to look at the results.

“All right,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “Time to go home. Have a good shift, Doctor Robinavitch.”

“Just Robby,” he reminds you, eyes still slipping from left to right as he reads.

“Right. Robby,” you nod.

“I’ll let you know if it was a good one,” he sighs, before pocketing his glasses again and finding his back with his hands, shoulders drawing together as he straightens. When you frown, he elaborates, “This shift, I mean… When I see you tonight at the next change of shift? I did see you on the schedule, right?”

“Yes. I am on schedule. Sorry about the brain fog.” You yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, then using the same hand to point a finger at the ceiling with a twirling motion. “Must be the 12 hours of flickering lights, and screaming, and… general fucking agony.”

Robby snorts. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

You both look up when an announcement message echoes through the emergency department. “Attention, code STEMI. Attention, code STEMI. ETA 3 minutes.”

Something immediately changes in Robby’s demeanour, eyes flicking towards the ambulance bay before excusing himself to make his way to Dana, no doubt to figure out what room’s open. 

“Get some sleep!” he shouts over his shoulder.

Aye aye, captain…

– – – – –

You quickly fall into a routine of three on, four off, and every morning after work, you come home exhausted, but also weirdly satisfied. During one of your three’s, you’re asked to pull a double; Robby spoke at some conference in Chicago two days ago, his flight has a significant delay, PTMC is swamped… 

You like the idea of it – as much as one can like the idea of being in the emergency department for that long. It’s just that everything at PTMC is a rush in a way things at Presby aren’t. Presby is safe. Everything is by the books–everything. But emergency medicine can’t operate that way and it’s like everyone at PTMC knows that, takes calculated, sometimes even creative, risks, and gets results.

So, you agree to the double. It’s not like anyone’s waiting for you at home, anyway.

As night shift becomes day shift, you meet her. Or rather, you see her.

She comes sailing by on a gurney, on top of a patient, face scrunched up with effort as she delivers deep, steady chest compressions, presenting to you all the while as you rush after her (32-year-old male, came in with chest pain, collapsed as soon as he walked into the waiting room, no pulse).

As soon as he’s rolled into one of the rooms, you help her off him, one of the med students taking over on compressions. Everyone works fast, you hear yourself yelling out for a crash cart, one of the nurses hooks the patient up to check vitals, and as soon as you identify his rhythm as v-tach she is next to you, on standby with the paddles and waiting for the charge, voice steady when she says, “Clear.” 

It’s all it takes to get him back into normal sinus. 

Over the course of the day, you discover the morning isn’t a one-off. She’s a third year resident, quick to react, smart as hell, a bit of a blabbermouth, which she needs to work on as a professional but it mostly just makes you laugh. She sticks close in the Trauma rooms, seems to know exactly when to step in and when to let you take the reins. While waiting for surgery to come down, you talk her through an emergency REBOA on a guy with NCTH after a car accident, and she aces it.

By the end of shift, you’re running on fumes, discussing the state of the department with Shen when he arrives to relieve you, your voice rough from all the talking you did today. When you finish up with Shen, you do a quick round to make sure your dayshift is getting relieved, and find your R3 in Central 8. She’s finishing up her stitches on a guy who fell through a glass door. You take in her slumped frame, her frazzled hair, and the heavy blink of her eyes. 

Knowing when to quit is something she also needs to work on.

You pluck one of the med students from the hall, verbally walk her through bandaging the patient up and handling the discharge with Doctor Shen, then poke your head back in the door of Central 8. 

“Sir, we’ll have one of the student doctors finish up with you, is that all right?” you ask, giving the girl a little push inside when he agrees. You turn your attention to your resident. “You got a minute?”

She nods, switches places with the student, and drags a hand over her face once she’s out of her patient’s view. 

“Thanks. Thought this day would never end…,” she says as you lead her into the empty hallway. She looks at you then, like she suddenly realizes she said that to someone who has been here for over 24 hours. “Shit, sorry–”

“Don’t sweat it,” you say with a wave and a chuckle. “I did come to make sure you get some rest. And because I wanted to let you know that I think you’ve done a fantastic job today.”

She perks up, shoulders dropping, eyes wide as saucers. “You think so?” she asks. Her voice is laced with a little too much enthusiasm to just be from the adrenaline of the day. “Thank you.”

You nod, “You really impressed me.”

And, oh, the addition might be a mistake. Because after you say it, she flashes you a bright smile, like all the effort she put into today has suddenly become worth it because of your praise. She’s fucking gorgeous. You already noticed before, but it’s worse this close up; freckles dusted along her nose and cheeks, a set of sparkling, green eyes set on you. You wonder if she knows, or if she’s one of those women who have no idea how beautiful they are. And then she blushes. It’s devastating.

You can’t help yourself. Delirious on being on the receiving end of all of that, and on the hours you’ve worked, you feed her ego further, “Sorry, is Robby– Does he not tell you how great you are at this?”

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry! He does, but in his own… disgruntled way,” she laughs, then takes a step in your direction. “But I um, I really like hearing it from you.” 

You wobble where you stand, wanting to step back, but feeling like doing so gives this more weight than it should have. More than she might mean. Though deep down… you know, have gotten better at sussing it out over the years. You can tell from her airy little laugh, the hairs on her arms standing up straight, goosebumps disappearing under the sleeves of her scrubs, the way she bats her lashes while waiting for what you’ll say: she’s flirting with you. 

“From both of you.”

It unlocks something–something your fried brain can’t really provide you with a name for. Instantly, you wonder how many times a week that face gives Robby pause. How often he is on the receiving end of that smile and, fuck, this is bad. You need to keep your head on straight, you can’t let your co-workers get to you like this. 

Just teach. You are teaching. This is a teaching hospital. 

With a heavy blink, you pick your conversation back up. “But you do um, need to know when to take a break, all right? At the end of shift, find someone to take over for you. Don’t run yourself dry.”

She swallows thickly, then nods. 

“Okay, so–”

“When’s your next shift?” she cuts in. 

You bite your cheek, then say, “I don’t plan on making a habit of being on the day shift.”

She hums, sweet, high pitched, then clicks her tongue. “That’s a shame, I really like…,” she pauses, has the audacity to bite her lip and narrow her eyes at you as she scans your face, “...your teaching style.”

Christ, you’ve accidentally unleashed a monster. Or, well, not exactly accidentally, but it’s hard to hold yourself responsible when you’re spread so thin after such a long day. And when you have a pretty thing like her making advances at you. You like it, though. Like the back and forth–like it a little too much. And so does she, you can sense it radiating off of her, and you have to end this before you do something stupid, like find a rare, empty on-call room to show her exactly what your teaching style could do for her.

“That’s great to hear,” you say instead. “I’ll be sure to give Doctor Robby some pointers.”

“I’d like that,” she says.

“I bet,” you huff out, too much of a mumble for her to hear. “All right, get out of here, it’s end of shift. Go get some sleep,” you say, gathering your composure and sending her off with a jerk of your head.

As she walks away, you realize that Robby will be back tomorrow, even more disgruntled after his conference, his delayed flight, the general stress of the emergency department… and he’ll have to deal with that.

Maybe you should pity him, but you find yourself smiling instead.

– – – – –

Labour Day weekend is a shitshow. While dealing with all the madness a regular night shift entails, including a feverish toddler whose screams reach decibels previously unknown to man, and a burn victim from a house fire, there’s also the dozen or so attendees from an end of summer houseparty, where some ritalin pills were spiked with fentanyl. You see enough naloxone to last you at least a month – a lifetime if you’re honest. Four accidental overdoses don’t make it to sunrise. 

One of them is the 8-year-old brother of one of the partygoers, who had been asleep upstairs, snuck down, and most likely mistook the pill for candy.

Right before change of shift, you spot Robby by the central hub, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck while assessing the damage of the night via the board above him. Once you’ve updated him on everyone, you ask, “Do you need me to step in and help?”

He scoffs, because of course he does, especially now that he knows exactly what’s waiting for him this morning. He folds his arms in that way he always does, where they don’t quite cross and he holds one of his elbows. “Should tell you to go home.”

You open your mouth–

“But I won’t,” he says pointedly, leaning down a little to be at eye-level. “Two med students called in sick, there’s still no beds upstairs, it’s…,” he gestures at the board, “...a fucking nightmare here. Could really use an extra pair of capable hands.” 

“Thought so. I’ll stay,” you nod. 

Before you walk off, he grabs your arm, and when you turn… he asks if you’re okay. It catches you completely off guard. Not the question itself, but the way he asks; in a voice that’s so genuine and soft it cracks on every word, and with a little squeeze of his hand that makes the reassuring warmth of his palm bleed through your scrubs. Tears spring into your eyes, making Robby’s go soft in return.

“The night was um, rough,” you admit, blinking rapidly.

“Thought so,” he echoes. Then, carefully, “You should… let yourself feel it, it’s better if you let it out.”

Your head tips down with a knowing sigh. It’s not new information, but the reminder is nice. And, in a way, it’s a relief that you still haven’t become desensitized to all of this despite how many hours you’ve spent doing this job.

“Go get some cold water from the fridge in the staff lounge, sit, and don’t come back until at least an hour from now. And if you still want to stay, you can stay.”

You concede, nodding and inhaling slowly. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” he squeezes your arm, makes you look at him, eyes widening when he says, “Come find me, if you need me.”

It’s decidedly a declaration, and not a question. You blink up at him, hold his gaze for longer than necessary–longer than you should, because you can practically feel Dana’s stare and you don’t want her babying you all day because she’s worried.

“I will,” you promise.

Robby releases you, turning back to the board, and you make your way to the break room.

Exactly one hour later, you’re back on the floor.

Robby’s talking to Dana, hands in the pockets of his pants, nodding along to something she reads off her iPad. When he spots you, he cranes his neck and gives you a look. You give him a thumbs up in return and a fake smile, something that says, I’m still not okay, but doing well enough to be able to work. His reply comes in the form of a narrowing of his eyes and a huffed out breath. As soon as Dana is finished up with him, he approaches you until you’re standing shoulder to shoulder by the ambulance bay.

“We’ve got two en route, waterski vs. waterski,” Robby says.

You roll your shoulders and nod once. “I’ll take Trauma 1, you take Trauma 2?”

From the corner of your eye, you see his head turn to you, and you swear he smiles.

It’s a whirlwind after that, of screams and orders, blood, fractures, trauma. It’s a miracle you get your guy’s vitals to stabilise. The other room’s still frantic, and when you sail through the sliding doors between Trauma 1 and 2, you find it’s mostly because of how packed it is; there’s two nurses, an R1 on the phone, a med student taking notes, Robby’s listening in as Garcia from surgery fires away questions at Mr. Waterski 2, with his R3 by his side. 

You announce yourself by saying. “Other room’s stable, what can I do to h–”

“Got the blood!” comes from behind you. Another med student walks in, puts a brake on the speed with which he enters the room a little too late, and he steps on the back of your shoe as he hands the bag to one of the nurses.

You trip– or, rather, you’re shoved up against Robby’s resident. She squeaks out an, oh! when you collide with her, and your hands find her waist to keep yourself from tumbling over further. It’s no use. You’re like two dominos, your shared momentum making you crash into Robby. Her hands land on his chest to keep her own balance, and Robby stumbles backwards into the wall, a tray of medical supplies clattering to the floor. Your front is pressed against her back, your hold on her tightening as you essentially pin her up against Robby. His hands are up, blue gloved digits trembling slightly as he looks down at her, his pupils dilating, his next intake of breath sharp between his teeth. 

“Whoops,” she says between you, voice breathy, and you might have laughed, even just from the tense nerves fluttering through your body, if Robby hadn’t chosen that moment to flick his eyes up to yours over her head.

A deep, dark flush colours his cheeks, the tip of his nose, creeps down the protruding tendons in his neck and into the collar of the shirt he wears under his scrubs. Without your permission, your lip finds its way between your teeth, unable to look away from how affected he is.

Guess you aren’t the only one nursing a little crush.

But duty calls, and you untangle from each other as fast as you’d gotten pressed together. Robby sends the med student away with a curse and a barked out order that’s a little too sharp for the poor guy.

The alarms around you are still blaring, doing wonders to tuck your collision somewhere in the back of your mind and snap you back into attending physician mode. Taking the head of the bed, you keep Robby and his residents updated on vitals as they work on figuring out why they’re dropping.

Both water skiers make it.

– – – – –

After 12 weeks of alternating the night shift with Shen, you find yourself in one of the bars down the street, where the usual post-shift drink had turned into somewhat of an unofficial going away party. It's early evening and the mood is mellow, with people trickling in and out all night depending on change of shift.

Halfway through the night, when things have significantly quieted down, you spot Robby by the bar, freshly showered by the looks of it. It’s the first time you see him out of his scrubs. He’s swiveled around on his stool, bottle of beer in his hand. The moment your eyes find his, he turns his gaze away, staring straight ahead instead. He looks sad, but not in his usual puppy dog way, more like he’s… pining. When you follow his line of sight, it lands directly on–

Of course.

Before you know it, you’re making your way over with quick strides, a grin you can’t hide plastered on your face. When you reach him, you open your mouth–

“Don’t,” he begins with a scoff, “even start.”

“What?” you say innocently, tucking yourself between him and the open stool next to him, leaning back against the bar. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“Saw the little…,” he gestures at your feet, “...pep in your step as you came over. Can’t imagine what’s swirling around that head of yours.” 

“Can't help it, you have no idea what working the night shift with Ellis and Walsh as much as I have does to a person.”

“I do, that’s what’s got me worried,” he laughs. “You only have Mohan down there to keep you sane.”

Air puffs out your nose at that. “Speaking of.. What’s her deal? Sometimes she gets this… look on her face; Ellis describes it as looking like she just made the saddest realization.”

“She works in the emergency department,” Robby reasons.

“No, it’s more than that.”

Robby sets his beer down with a hum, then folds his arms like he’s hugging himself and closes one eye in thought, “Is it after someone brings up Abbot?”

Your time to think. “Now that you mention it…,” you say, going over your interactions in your head, “yes.”

He picks his bottle back up with a knowing nod. “She switched to the night shift a couple weeks before Abbot’s accident, looked real sad about his injury and the prospect of not seeing him for months. Think she’s harbouring some… warm feelings.”

“What about you?”

Robby grins. “I do not harbour warm feelings for Doctor Abbot.”

You give him an exaggerated fake laugh. “Just for someone else.” 

Robby takes a swig from his bottle, giving you a long look and swallowing thickly. It’s enough to make you straighten up, confused eyes narrowing before you use them to gesture at his resident. 

“Are you gonna make a move on her, or are you just gonna keep staring at her?”

He sighs deeply, like he knows better than to answer, but he does it anyway, “It alllll depends.”

“Oh, yeah?” You bring your drink up to your mouth. “On what?”

“If you are going to make a move on her.” 

It makes you spit your sip back into your glass with a choked sound. Fuck, okay, he’s more observant than you gave him credit for, noted. Robby smiles against the rim of the beer bottle pressed against his lips.

You gather your composure with a shrug. “It is my last day.”

“That it is,” he says with a slow nod.

Silence stretches between you when your mind prompts you with something–something you haven’t been able to stop thinking about since Labour Day weekend. This is kind of the perfect day to bring it up, to gauge Robby’s temperature and act on the tension that’s been present between the three of you ever since the incident.

You need an extra sip of your drink first, though.

As you do, you flick your eyes to the side and find Robby fidgeting with the collar of the brown button down he’s wearing.

“We could both make a move on her,” you broach carefully.

“Absolutely not,” Robby snorts immediately, turning his head to face you. Then, more seriously, “We are not… competing over one of our residents.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Pff, my job, maybe,” he puffs out quietly. 

“C’mon, you were with Heather and that didn’t cost you your job.”

“How do you even..? That was diff–” Realizing he took your bait, he licks his top lip, then swipes a hand down his face, scratching nervously at his beard before pointing back and forth between the two of you, “Because we’re not 20-somethings in med school, that’s why.”

You roll your eyes, take another sip. Like you need the reminder. “No one said anything about being each other’s competition.”

That catches him off-guard. The hand holding his beer hovers in the air, forgotten in its journey from his lap to his mouth.

You continue, “We could, I don’t know… double team he–”

“Please, don’t– Fuck. We can not fucking,” he lowers his voice to a hiss, “double team her.” 

Your eyes widen, and you throw your hands up in a way that says, Sorry I even considered it! With a large gulp, you finish your drink and put the glass on the bar behind you, willing the dent he put in your ego away. If Robby doesn’t want this, that’s fine, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. “Message received. I’ll make my move then.”

After two steps, a firm hand closes around your bicep, slowly dragging you back. Your pulse jumps as he twists you around.

“Wait… a minute. I just…” Robby’s gaze darts between her and you, and back. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable because I’m there.” 

He signals with his eyes, implies… something, but what, you have no idea. Puzzled, you look at him, your brain going over the possibilities as your tongue passes over your bottom lip. If it’s not about you, and not about her, is it a self-esteem thing? Does he not know his whole… well, everything, does it for a lot of people? 

A little flush creeps up his face the longer you wait, until he can’t take it anymore. “Oh, for the love of– I’m a man.” 

Air escapes out of your nose at the comment. He can't even look at you after he says it. A smile threatens to curl at your lips, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep it from morphing into a full blown grin; you don’t want to make him feel bad because god, that’s actually really fucking cute…

“Robby,” you begin, stepping closer so that you’re standing in between his legs. You reach up, take the folded-over collar of his shirt between your fingers to feel if the fabric is as soft as it looks (it is). Robby’s breath hitches when you do, eyes flicking to your exploring hand for a moment. “Man, woman, anything in between… I don’t care, I like everything.”

Something changes in his eyes, like your words flip a switch in him, but not the usual switch that flips in men when you tell them you’re bisexual. This isn’t excitement over the prospect of potentially seeing you with another woman, even though that is on the table right now. It’s more about… the realization that you’re attracted to him, that you are included in the deal. It makes you shiver, more so when his eyes drop to your mouth, only for a second.

“So, unless you’re this slow in bed,” you tease, “should I go present our case to her?”

The hand around your bicep tightens, and you swear he growls. “No. I’ll settle our tabs and then I’ll fucking go to her. You go say your little goodbyes to everyone, it'd be rude not to.” He’s so close you can feel his warm breath fan out over your lips, “And once we get to yours, or mine, or hers–I don’t care where, I will show you exactly–”

“Easy,” you say, dragging the word out with a chuckle, his change in demeanour making you feel warm. “She goes first. And then we’ll see what happens.”

– – – – –

“Are you sure you’re sure?” you ask her on the way.

Robby’s behind the wheel of her car, driving towards her address she rattled off to him; he put the two of you in the back to catch up on what he told her. He hums in agreement. “Cause I can just… drive you home, we’ll get a cab, it won’t be a big deal.”

“And let you two have all the fun without me?” she laughs. Her hand finds your thigh. Unfair. “No.”

You stop her. “I’m serious.”

“And I appreciate that,” she says, voice losing its teasing lilt, turning her hand under yours and taking it with a squeeze, “but I want it, so you can stop worrying and start kissing me.”

“Okay,” you nod, watching her as she cups your cheek and leans in, a waft of her perfume, or maybe it’s the shampoo she uses, making it to your nose. Focus. “But um, anytime you want–”

“I know. I will. Now, kiss me,” she whispers, close enough that her eyes cross a little. “Please?”

A deep sigh sails from you the moment you finally close the distance, weeks of piled up tension finally coming to this moment–clearly inevitable, now that it’s here. Her lips are soft, and when you swipe your tongue over the seam of her lips, you taste a hint of some fruit-flavoured drink she had earlier tonight. She parts for you immediately, moaning as you close your lips around her bottom one with a suck, before letting your tongue meet hers.

“Fuck.” 

It comes from the front seat. Robby’s brown eyes look at you via the rearview mirror, flick to the road, and then back. 

“Are we far out?” you ask, kissing down her neck, enjoying the way she sighs, cups the back of your head, and tilts hers to give you more room.

“Almost there,” comes the gruff reply.

“Then step on it.” You make your way back up to her mouth. “You’re gonna want in on this.”

– – – – –

Her apartment is cute, quaint in an old-fashioned way, and you like it, it suits her. You stumble into the living room positioned much like that day you crashed into them in the hospital; Robby walking backwards, led by her steps as much as her kisses, and you at her back, hands on her waist and pressing your lips to her neck, her shoulder.

Before you can fully consider if her bedroom is anything like the rest of her place, Robby trips, the three of you landing on the couch instead, and you realize you’re not gonna make it to the bed. It’s impractical with three people, but there’s gentle laughter and the soft, yellow light of a lamp she flicks on, and you make it work. She certainly makes up for it in eagerness, dividing her time between you equally.

Robby manoeuvres her against one of the armrests, pulling at her clothes until her bottom half is bare, and pushing her top up to expose her tits. In no time, they’re glistening in the dim light, the skin rubbed slightly raw from the time he spends with his face all over them. Just as you've pulled your shirt off and rolled your jeans down, Robby's satisfied with his work. 

He pulls his hand from between her legs and drags you to them with a, “Got her nice and wet for you.” And as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, he moves back so you can take his place. 

To say you’re dying to taste her might be a bit of an exaggeration, but you do feel spit pooling on your tongue at the idea. You make your way down her body, soothing Robby’s assault on her skin, pressing kisses to some of the cute little freckles scattered across her torso and then on the curls that cover her pussy. 

Her legs widen to give you more room, and it really shouldn’t make you feel as smug as it does. Under other circumstances you would have taken some more time with her, but when you use two fingers to spread her open, your eyes glaze over a little at the sight of how Robby's prep has her dripping, and you can’t help yourself. 

You drag your tongue up between the V of your fingers, flattening it against her opening with a groan to really taste her. She’s sweet, soft yet slippery in a way that makes your blood pump. And she’s vocal, a little sigh or moan escaping her lips with every pass of your mouth. But it’s nothing compared to the pleased grunt she lets out when you tell her how much you’ve wanted to taste her for weeks.

Robby hovers behind you, the sound of his clothes rustling after the clink of his belt buckle filling your ears. Then the couch dips, and slowly, he plants a knee between your legs, scooting forward until his thigh meets the fabric between your legs. You can feel the line of his boxers, the press of his bulge against your ass. His hands close over your hips, pulling you harder against him and then he just… stays there, holding you in place. 

You slow down with a frown. It feels good, the little barrier between you beginning to soak through with the pressure, but–

“Just… keep going,” he says, fingers toying with the waistband of your underwear.

He’s using that voice, you realize. The kind of soothing tone that he’d use on a patient… right before pulling a dislocated shoulder back into place. He’s attempting to lull you into a false sense of security and it instantly has you on edge. 

“Fuck, please, that feels amazing,” comes from in front of you when you gently circle the tight bud under your tonue. Her hand reaches down to cup your face and hold you in place, while the other pinches at her own nipple. “Stay right there.”

Giving her your best attempt at a nod, you concentrate on keeping your rhythm instead of on Robby’s dislocated shoulder voice, to give her enough to please, but not enough to get her off just yet. But it’s hard, because Robby is still toying with the elastic on your hips, fingers dipping underneath and back out in a pattern you can't quite discern, and it’s fucking distracting.

When your resident’s hips begin bucking up, Robby’s hand finds the back of your head, his whole palm big enough to cup it, which is also very hard to push from your mind. His fingers twist into your hair and move you until you’re shaking your head between her soaking thighs, your tongue lolled out as you pass it over her clit again and again. 

It helps to get lost in her, how wet your chin is getting, how her arousal is smeared across your lips, your cheeks, your nose… until, without letting go, Robby shuffles back a little. You let out a whine, instantly chasing the pressure.

“Give me…,” he yanks your underwear down to mid thigh, “...a second,” then presses his bare thigh against your soaked folds.

You jerk against him, the surprised moan it tears from your throat filthy and loud, echoed by your resident only moments after. Robby chooses that exact moment to let go of your head, hands finding your waist to put an arch in your spine and angle you down using his bodyweight, and you’re helpless to stop it. It makes you slide along the hard muscle of his thigh, grinding you against him in a way that rubs your clit just right, and… 

You come.

It isn’t anything big, just a steady throb that comes with the friction on your clit after all that continuous pressure. It does nothing to douse the twinge of arousal pooling in your belly–borders more on the painful side of pleasure. Most of all, it pisses you off.

“I said her first,” you snarl, your head snapping back at him as you let two fingers take over for your mouth.

“Could’ve just waited,” Robby shrugs, and he looks so annoyingly smug, smiling down at you, still holding you tight against him–he can probably feel you fluttering. “I can’t help it that you’ve got such an eager pussy.”

Jesus fucking Christ, maybe you underestimated him. Maybe you should have left him in the bar. 

Then again, you’re more turned on than you ever remember being.

“When you get a taste of her you’ll see why it’s so hard to concentrate,” you attempt to quip.

“Make her come and I will,” Robby challenges, and this time when he pulls his leg back, it feels like relief.

With a huff, you turn your attention back to the woman in front of you, attempting to find your bearings by pouring equal parts arousal and frustration into doubling your efforts. Your middle finger slides inside of her with ease, and with the next thrust, you fold your ring finger over it and curl up to massage the soft walls of her cunt. The sound she makes in return is exactly what you were looking for, irritation making room for desire–to make her feel good, to make her come undone.

Having done this plenty of times, you don’t need any pointers, and you’ve barely started or she’s already begging for it. This is your favourite part, when they plead with you not to stop, ask for your mouth and “just a little more,” when you’ve got them on the precipice and it’s up to you to tip them over the edge. So, you do, sucking her clit back between your lips, and watching her intently while your fingers find that spot inside of her and push until she’s crying out.

You can feel Robby leaning over you, moving closer and closer, and if you weren’t so preoccupied with the grinding against the push of your tongue, you’d be able to come up with a clever comment about his reading glasses. After a few more passes, you pull back with a smack, her answering desperate sound music to your ears. 

“Come here,” you say, and you reach for Robby, grabbing him by the jaw to draw him in. 

Taking the spot to the left of you, he shuffles closer until her calf rests over his shoulder and you’re both on your stomach with a premium view. His large palm slowly travels along your back, sliding from left to right, fingers flitting over your ribs, using his grip to keep you pinned to his side. He’s helping you keep your balance, you realize, making sure you don’t roll off the side of the couch. It makes your eyes flutter when he takes advantage by letting his touch ghost along the side of your breast. 

“It’s not every day you see something like that,” he says, effectively redirecting your attention from his wandering hand to the two fingers that are still curled inside your resident.

Carefully, you pull them out, the both of you watching as little strings of milky-clear arousal web between your digits. You use them to find her clit, mixing your saliva with her come, watching her spit-slick hole twitch when you do. She gasps, trying to squirm away, but quickly realizes she has nowhere to go when two different hands shoot up to keep her in place.

“Stop teasing,” she protests hoarsely.

It’s hard to take it to heart when she looks dizzy with arousal, her chest still rising and falling at a rapid pace, and makes a weak attempt at closing her legs.

“You’re fun to tease,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh that's both meant to soothe and to keep her spread open. It makes her muscles jump under your touch. “So sensitive.”

Robby lets out a shaky breath. “Can’t blame her after seeing what your mouth can do.” 

The small victory makes something hum in your brain, but it’s short-lived when his fingers flex against you again.

“I want to see what your mouth can do,” you confess, head turning and watching as his jaw ticks. Your thumb strokes along his beard, nail scraping over some of the greys between the dark hair, and you struggle to fight a smirk when his lips part. “I can guarantee you she’ll love this.”

A soft little, Oh, please, sails up from above you, and you grin, using your grip on Robby to push him against her soaked folds. 

He shuffles closer after the first contact, mouth falling open to engulf her pussy when you let go of him. Pinned in place, you watch with quiet curiosity as he gets to work. 

Though there’s overlap, his technique is different from yours. Where you’re more about spit, long lines and swirled circles, using the flat of your tongue, he’s more… rigorous, harsh sucks to her clit that make her keen, quick flicks to it that he can keep up for an impressive amount of time before pushing his tongue inside of her. 

Oh, he’s… He’s good at this.

Before you can think too hard about the added sensation of the bristle of his beard on her entrance, her hand fumbles for the back of your head, pushing you down when she gets a good grip. With a muffled Hmmmpf you collide with her, lips clumsily smearing over her wet skin, your smooth cheek pressed to Robby’s rough one. He grunts when you make contact with him, before pulling away from her clit with a suck and giving you better access.

“No,” she protests, whining as she motions for him to come back. “Together.”

You realize what exactly she’s asking for, and everyone is just fuuuuull of ideas today, apparently? Good ideas… You can't deny she’s kind of an evil genius for making this work so well for her.

It’s new territory for you, but you could spend the whole night between her legs and not complain, so you look at Robby, raising your eyebrow in question to see how he feels.

There’s a lazy grin on his face, and his head cocks with a shrug, “You’re the one who wanted to double team her.” 

The chuckle you let out in response is mostly air, and you draw your lip between your teeth while shaking your head. He’s such a bastard for revealing this information to her now, when she’s spread out and desperate, all but begg–

“Fuck me,” she growls. “Then do it. Please.”

It takes a moment to find the right approach, to divide your attention equally without constantly getting in each other’s way. 

You don't want to compare it to work, nothing about this is like dealing with trauma patients, but… it is kind of like it. Let's say it’s definitely a testament to how attuned to each other you have become that you make it work. 

When he focuses his attention on her leaking entrance, your tongue finds her higher. When his mouth slides back up again, yours travels along the crease between her thigh and pelvis, down until you can suck a mark into the curve of her ass. It becomes this dance, but you're both leading, both anticipating each other's moves and adapting while your resident's moans rise in pitch.

Robby's arm curls around her thigh to keep her down when she arches up. “You wanted it like this…” he says when he pulls back, working his jaw and pursing his lips before spitting down on her, “...so take it.” 

She shrieks at the action, cursing afterwards with a shudder in her voice.

Your body, naturally, reacts more like you just got shot in the gut; a pang of arousal in your stomach that pulses and twists, a surprised intake of your breath to match.

Who the fuck is he right now?

What the fuck he does next is chase the glob of saliva as it trickles down her clit.

But you're… locked in place, following his moves until he pulls away and twists his head to you like he's wondering where you are.

His eyes are hooded, pupils pushing out the brown of his irises, and his mouth hangs open, the bottom half of his face damp and shiny. It makes whatever's been brewing between you since the revelation in the bar impossible to ignore. In another momentary lapse of reason, and thinking more with another part of yourself than with your brain, you kiss him–it’s more of a collision really, hard pressed, but that’s what makes it so good–

“Fucking… finally,” Robby growls.

Correction, that’s what makes it so good. 

You use the words to lick into his mouth with a slow flick and a sound you're not proud of, but it's all worth it when his tongue glides against yours, and you feel his facial hair brush your lips, and god, you'll never tell him but he's right, you should have done this sooner. 

He tastes like her, and there’s a conflicting feeling to it; excitement at the notion that he can probably taste the same thing on you, but also something… possessive, like you want to keep kissing him until you taste him. 

The quick reminder of her makes you slip your thumb between the slide of your tongues, before reaching blindly for her, letting Robby take control over your kiss as you press the wet digit against her clit. 

“Just like that,” she sighs, her hand finding your wrist, guiding you where she needs it and keeping you there. “‘s gonna…gonna...”

But then Robby makes a protesting sound in reply. 

He lets go of your side, pushing your hands away before cupping the back of your neck to direct you both back to her pussy. It’s a dizzying, three-way kiss; messy, and so slippery, and what the hell, for someone who shuddered at the words “double team”, Robby’s pretty fucking exceptional at it.

“Ohhhh, myfuckinggod,” she squeals, clearly in agreement, followed by a giggle that morphs into a groan. “It looks so fucking hot, please– Oh, please don’t stop, please make me come like this.”

The hand on your neck squeezes, holding you down so you can't do anything but work her together–not that you want this to stop anyway, it's a very, very clear winner in the Hottest thing that has ever happened to you-competition. 

You keep going until your head is swimming, until you have no real idea whether your tongue curls around his, or around her pulsing clit. Vaguely, you register Robby’s fingers pumping in and out of her, but don’t have much time to wonder how you missed that, because when he pulls them out with a grunt, she’s coming.

You feel her orgasm more than you hear it, warm and wet as she desperately grinds herself against your faces; the vibration of Robby’s answering groan as his hold on you wavers; the thud of your knees against the floor as you slip off the couch, gravity forcing you off her as you heave a desperate gasp.

Robby manages to chuckle, eyes flicking down at you before dedicating himself to working her through the aftershocks of her orgasm. 

“Holy shit. That was good. Thank you,” she pants, running a hand through his hair as he nips at her thigh. 

She makes an attempt to reach for you, but her arm just rolls limply off the couch, joining the leg that came down with you. 

“I need to lie flat. If only there was a doctor around…” she grins, “...it appears I've lost all sensation in my extremities.”

“I gotcha,” Robby laughs. He takes hold of her calf, wincing as he gets up on his knees, and yanks her closer to him.

A bright giggle bubbles up from her throat when she slides down, hair fanning out over the cushions. She’s glowing, with satisfaction and a thin sheen of sweat; she looks even more beautiful than she already was.

You're still kneeling next to the couch, watching as Robby does exactly what you would do: kiss his way up her body until he can press his mouth to hers. After, he whispers something you can’t hear, something that makes her cup his cheek and smile with a nod. He kisses her neck, little brushes of his mouth as he grinds himself against her. 

He's still wearing his boxers. They must be ruined by now, if not from his own arousal then definitely from the way he's rutting up against her pussy. You want to see it. Mostly to see what's under it, because he felt big against your ass, and–

You pull your underwear from your legs, giving yourself more room to push a hand between your legs. You can already feel your arousal as your fingers inch up the inside of your thighs, slippery trails of where it’s leaked down in just the short time you’ve been kneeling.

“Get back on the couch,” Robby says suddenly, head turning to you.

“I kind of like the view,” you say, grinning when his eyes drop to where you're touching yourself.

He beckons you closer with a crook of his finger while moving to sit back on his haunches.

You shuffle closer, looking up at him. “I want to watch you fu–”

“I want that, too,” he assures you, and before you can scold him for never letting you finish a thought or a sentence, he's bending down to kiss you again, and your mind goes quiet. He holds you by the neck, thumb and ring finger at the corners of your jaw, pulling until you have no choice but to stand, then murmurs, “So would you just fucking… listen to me? Be good and sit on her face.”

Your shiver at the words, eyes flicking to her, and she responds by opening her mouth and showing you her tongue, and god, yeah, another great idea.

Your legs wobble, and Robby’s hands fly to your waist, guiding you to her with an amused look on his face that shouldn’t turn you on.

You can't believe you worked with these people for a good chunk of your 12 week stint at PTMC. Earlier, you wished you’d done this sooner. Now, you’re certain you wouldn’t have survived if you had.

You can’t help but hiss when your pussy makes contact with your resident’s perfect, warm tongue. She flicks at you once, twice, before she tugs you down on top of her, that mouth that has made you laugh so much opening under you to pull a deep moan from your throat instead. 

“There you go,” Robby rasps as he lets go of you.

Their combined attention makes you melt, some of the tension that always comes with this position slipping away, making you slump and take a more firm seat. With your eyes cast down, and a hand cupping your own breast, you watch her, the pink of her tongue peeking out from between your legs every now and again. 

After a couple passes of her tongue, she suddenly moans, nails digging into your thighs. Your eyes shoot up to watch Robby, slumped over, his little quiff matted down, one thumb hooking the waistband of his boxers down far enough to have taken himself out. The condom he rolled on while you were occupied gives his shaft a shine, like he’s already covered in her slick; the tip of him pressed to her entrance definitely is. 

You were right when you felt him earlier, but maybe thick is a better word to describe him–thick in a way that… yeah, that would have you a little worried for her if you hadn’t spent the better part of this rendezvous with your tongues between her legs. Still, she squirms when he slips the head inside, one moan loud and clear in front of you, another trapped against your cunt. 

Seeing them both so affected changes your demeanour, like no longer being the very center of attention is giving you more freedom to play with them a little. To be sure, you lift a knee, plant a foot into the cushions. She gasps when you lift off her, and you can’t help but smile at the way she arches up to chase after you. 

“Are you okay, honey?” you ask, stroking her wet chin.

“Yes. It feels– It all feels too fucking good,” she manages.

“Hmm-hmm, I bet,” you nod. “But you can take it,” you say sweetly, before promptly sitting back down. The vibration of her muffled, surprised sound makes you sigh, but the answering moan comes from in front of you.

“Jesus,” Robby says, inching a little further into her. “I didn’t think you’d get… like that.”

You let out an amused huff, because the thing is, you’re not; not often, anyway. You’re content to adapt to what the situation asks of you, and this one has you floating, high on pleasure, on feeling wanted, and watched. And when you think about it, he made it this way.

Your hands find her chest, squeezing at her perfect, plush tits before using her as leverage to roll your hips along her eager mouth. Leaning forward, you let your lips meet that spot in the center of Robby’s chest, the spot where his perpetual flush seems to bloom up from. 

“Like what?” you ask anyway, looking up at him through your lashes, dragging your mouth over the coarse hair that’s scattered all over his torso until your tongue flicks at his nipple.

“So…” He hisses when you bite him, hand fisting the hair at the back of your head to pull you off, “...fucking mean.”

“Takes one to know one,” you say, enjoying the way he uses his hold on you as leverage to fuck her, subconsciously matching the rhythm of your hips to his.

With a tug, he angles your head up, kissing a path down the center of your throat. “Got that fucking right,” he murmurs, before moving to where your neck and shoulders meet and biting at the juncture.

It hurts, but the good kind, where it’s on the tip of your tongue to aks for more. The thing is, he’s been creative so far, and you’re not sure you can handle another surprise. You can feel him grin when he pulls away, like he knows exactly what you were thinking, which, at this point, wouldn’t surprise you; he’s smart, should’ve known he’d be a quick study.

Under you, your resident moves one of her arms from under your thigh, reaching between her legs with a desperate sound. Robby’s not the only quick study; you’ve figured by now she needs the stimulation to come. It isn’t surprising, it's the same for you, but it is helpful information. You reach for her, grabbing her wrist and pinning it to her belly, just out of reach.

“Wait,” you tell her pointedly, shushing her whines and reveling in the way they vibrate against you. Heat begins pooling in your belly as she slides her tongue into you, making something promising simmer deep inside.

“Please,” she murmurs between mouthfuls of your pussy, her hand twitching in your grip. “Can I come?”

It takes everything in you to conceal how affected you are by her pleading when you look at Robby. “Ask him.”

Obediently she asks, “Please, can I come?”

A snarl flickers across his features as he contemplates his answer, and without looking away from you he says, “What was that?” 

“Robby.” It doesn’t sound like her; an octave higher, drenched in desperation. “Please.”

He waits a second… two… three. “Yes,” he says, eyes glazing over with something darker when she thanks him. 

In a flash, you bring your free hand up to your mouth, getting the pads of three fingers wet before using them to strum at her clit, rapid flicks from left to right that make her writhe under you, another shriek landing muffled against your cunt. 

Robby’s reaching the end of his rope too, you can tell by the way his thighs shake as he frantically tries to keep fucking her.

You work together, looking down, leaning closer until your foreheads are pressed together, her little moans rising in pitch until she's shuddering beneath you, another orgasm pulling her under its current.

“Fuckfuckfuck, it's– She’s squeezing me so…” Robby trails off with a rumbling sound, eyes snapping shut before he pants out, “I’m gonna come. Tell me w–I need to know–oh.”

You sit up, giving her some reprieve and ask, “Where?”

“Fuck, come on my tits,” she says, pushing them together.

Robby pulls out of her, tearing his condom off with a snap!, scrambling to straddle her waist. He's red all over, his cock nearly purple at the tip, eyes glued to her chest as he strokes himself.

Your eyes zero in on the way his fist moves over his cock, quick, squelching flicks from root to tip. He’s leaking, steady drops of precome oozing from the head of his cock and the more you watch him, the greedier you get.

“Let me do it,” you say, tongue passing over your palm and reaching down.

His free hand catches it, voice straining with effort as he says, “Wait, I–”

“Robby, stop it,” you say, pulling yourself free. “Let me do it, I need to do it.”

Your hand has barely closed around his or he’s coming, a deep surprised moan tearing from somewhere deep in his chest as he twitches in your grip. Your eyes widen, tingles of excitement fluttering through you as the first thick rope of it shoots up against your belly, the rest ending up on your resident’s tits.

He exhales heavily, chest rising and falling at a rapid pace after. “I said wait,” he grits out after a couple of panting breaths, his hand slipping out from under yours.

“Could've just done that,” you retort, still milking him, enjoying the way he grunts as the last dribbles of come ooze from the head of his cock. “I can’t help it that you’re so sensitive.”

“Oh, fuck you.” It comes out half groan/half chuckle, and actually sounds like he's kind of impressed with you. Then suddenly, he's more serious, “Oh, you need to– Slower, slower,” a shaking hand closes around your wrist. “‘s too much.”

“Surprised you held out this long in the first place,” you smirk, following his instructions, slowing to a halt and letting go as he starts to soften in your hand. “Thought for sure I’d end up somehow having to finish the job.”

“Hmm, no, don’t have to worry about that with me,” he says, with a lazy grin. He redirects his attention to your resident. “You okay?”

“I’m fucking great,” she grins, still sounding a little dazed. She reaches for you, grabbing at your thighs. “I just need you to sit back down.”

Before you can properly prepare for it, you’re pulled back onto her mouth, a surprised huf sailing past your lips. Your eyes flutter shut as she laps at your swollen clit, your concern for your own pleasure rushing back to the font of your mind now that everyone else’s is taken care of.

You reach for her hand, leading it up your torso to your chest, where she squeezes your breast, massaging the soft skin before pinching at the peak. The sharp pain mixes perfectly with the swirls around your clit, and with every tweak and swipe, she makes you barrel towards the edge faster and faster. 

Your eyes fly open when Robby’s hand cups your cheek. He says nothing, seemingly just… holds you to hold you. And he watches, lets his gaze rove over your face, eyes flicking down the length of your body and back up. “Feels good, huh?”

“Yeah. We–oh, f-fuck–made the right call with her.” You barely get the words out or she wiggles her hand between your legs to let two of her fingers slip inside you. 

Robby hums, “We did.”

Slowly, you start rolling your hips, meeting the curl of her fingers. You bite your lip, a little frown forming between your brows when that familiar sense of pleasure starts blooming from somewhere deep inside of you. You don’t even really have to chase it–it’s more like it’s chasing you.

“Oh,” you gasp, clutching at Robby’s wrist to have something to hold on to. “Oh, you’re doing perfect, it’s gonna make me come.”

“Yeah?” Robby’s brow arches. “Gonna show me this time, hmm?”

Fuck. You nod as her tongue flicks faster and faster, making your hips twitch. It’s nothing like the first one–it’s the complete opposite, like it never stops building until it does, suddenly, in a way that seems to push all the air out of you as you gasp, gasp, gasp…

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Robby says, his grip on you forcing you to hold his gaze. “Show me how pretty you look when you come– There we go.”

Goddamn him.

It’s like an avalanche, a loud, vibrating groan rumbling out of your chest as your muscles clench and you push your hips down harder. It seems to reach you everywhere, your thighs quivering, heat tingling up your spine, and your hand scrambles to hold Robby by the shoulder to make sure you don’t topple over. His face becomes a little blurry as you try desperately to keep your eyes open, as the gentle strokes of her tongue start bordering on too much… until it actually becomes too much.

You scramble backwards, overstimulated, ducking down at an awkward angle towards her panting mouth and giving her a sloppy, upside-down kiss. She clutches onto you, licking into your mouth with enthusiasm as you pour praise down her throat, assuring her how good she made you feel, how beautiful she is. After a couple spit-slick kisses, you pull away, taking in her face and stroking a thumb along her freckled cheek, before kissing it and sitting back against the armrest.

Catching your breath, you watch as Robby hauls her up into a sitting position. She reaches for his face, pulling him into a kiss that’s almost chaste in comparison to the one you shared with her. 

When they part, his eyes find yours over the top of her head. He calls you over in silence, repeatedly opening and closing his outstretched hand. You take it, and he pulls you closer until you’re kneeling behind her. Then, he brings the back of your hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to it and says, “Good job, team.”

It makes all of you laugh.

The aftermath isn’t as awkward as you feared. You drink a big glass of water, share a snack in her kitchen, take turns showering, listen to her and Robby discussing their schedules to figure out when they’ll see each other next… and then you move to the front door to say your goodbyes. 

She kisses you on the mouth before you leave, thanks you as she pulls away. 

When you part ways with Robby when you exit her apartment complex, he does the same.

– – – – –

It's Monday morning, a little over a week later, on your day off. You should use the time to sleep in, not to sit behind your laptop in your kitchen before 7am, but you were up the second you were awake. As you're putting the finishing touches on the sign off of the email you're writing, your phone buzzes.

It’s Robby. 

That’s kind of freaky.

Ellis told me to tell you she misses you on the night shift, he writes.

the kids always miss the substitute once their teacher is back, you reply. how happy was samira to see abbot?

Had to talk her down from organizing a welcome back party.

A smile pulls at your lips. Of course she’d try that. Sweet. how was he? healed okay?

Busy trying not to smile too wide at the cake Samira brought in anyway. Then, Healed okay, just some expected general discomfort left. And, Why does Abbot say he has permanent stock in your medical degree?

You roll your eyes. So much for that. because he’s an asshole.

He doesn’t reply, and with a quick glance at the clock you realize his shift probably began and chaos is ensuing. You put your phone down, checking if your cover letter is in the attachment of the email, if you spelled PTMC correctly in the email address… and it looks like everything is in order. 

Then your phone buzzes again. This time, Robby’s calling.

“Do you want to hear the story that badly?” you answer with a chuckle. “Because I promise it’s not that–”

“I absolutely want to hear it, but… not why I’m calling.” You wait for him to say more, and hear him sigh deeply before asking, “Can I see you this week?”

You suck in some air through your teeth. “Missing me already, Doctor Robinavitch?”

“I uh, had this dream about you, the kind where I…,” he pauses with a chuckle, and you kind of hate how you can picture him; head tipped down, hand scratching at the short hairs at the back of his head, “...had to do something about it when I woke up. Was almost late for work.” 

Oh, fuck. You didn’t expect him to say that. Instantly, images flood your mind of a nondescript bedroom, Robby tangled in bed sheets, still sleepy, thinking about you, rutting against the mattress, maybe even with his hand around his–  

“Jesus, Robby…,” you huff, snapping yourself out of it while your cheeks begin to feel warm. Then, you think about her, and you bite your lip before asking, “What about your R3?”

“Wasn’t in my dream,” he says simply. “She’s seeing someone from neuro. At least, I believe they're neuro.”

“So I’m just second choice all across the board, huh?” You aim for a joke, but oof, ouch, you actually kind of hurt yourself with that one… Closing your eyes with a sigh, you try to come up with a way to save it, but Robby’s already speaking.

“You know,” he begins, and he sounds amused, and you hate him, “someone as smart as you should know not to make assumptions.”

“Huh?”

“I’m calling you, not her,” he says, then adds quietly, “Ellis told me I looked… sad– Actually, she said I looked like I just made the saddest realization.”

Well, first of all, few times Robby doesn’t look like that. Second, and once again: Huh? 

“After she brought you up to me,” he continues.

That makes something click in your brain: He’s talking about the Samira look, the look you told him about in the bar, about her harbouring– Wait. Your entire body goes rigid as the realization kicks in. And then it floods with something pleasant, something that tingles and makes you giddy… 

Warm feelings.

Robby’s voice sounds a little unsteady on the other side of the line when he breaks the silence you put between you, “But you can just tell me the story, and we can pretend this conversation was just that. No hard feelings.”

“I’m free tonight, if you want to hear the story. You can come over after your shift, and…” with a hum, you pretend to think, letting your mouse hover over the ‘send’ button on your job application email, then continue, “...who knows what else I might spill should I be… How should I put it, properly motivated? Suitably loose? Nicely–”

“stuffed?” he finishes for you, voice soft, and deep, because he’s at work but he can’t help himself; he’s calling you about a wet dream he had about you that was so good he had to get himself off after, and making confessions, and the whole thing is actually really getting you goi– “Yeah, text me the address, I’ll fucking be there.”

Click.

He hangs up at the same time you press ‘send’.

– – – – –

Thanks for reading! Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with! I originally wanted to post this for Pride Month, but evidently that didn't work out like I wanted, turns out I have a life and responsibilities (bummer...), but yes, anyway, happy belated Pride Month, friends ���💜💙!

[daemour]

I Can See You

Pairing: single dad! Seonghwa x babysitter! f! yn

Word Count: 10,137

Warnings: cursing, alcohol consumption, a creepy old man in one scene, age gap (10 years but both are adults (and not just barely)), smut warnings under cut

Genre: Angst, fluff, smut, single parent au, M for mature audiences

Summary: When you took a job babysitting a young toddler, you didn't expect to be so drawn to the family. And more specifically, her frustratingly hot and single dad.

Smut Warnings: masturbation, sexual fantasies, riding, slight (if you squint) corruption kink, sliGHT breeding kink, unprotected sex (DONT DO THIS unless you discuss safely outside of sex!), breast play, overstimulation, undiscussed kinks (yn is fine with it. but discuss your fucking kinks guys *gun emoji*), slight cumplay

thank u to @pyeonghongrie and @mingsolo for beta'ing and for the title hehe <3 this is also a collab with @potatomountain who is also writing a dilf hwa (Bittersweet Neighbours), we're just on two sides of the spectrum lol...and this is so damn long

-

“Hello, I’m here for a babysitter interview with a Mr Park?”

“That would be me. Miss (Y/N)?”

When you answered the ad in the newspaper about babysitting, you were so ready to see an older man, around his fifties. But this man looked so young, around his late twenties although you’re sure he’s probably forty. And you’re not one to judge—nearing your mid-twenties one wouldn’t be expecting you to still babysit as a full-time job. But it pays the bills and helps you get some hands-on experience in your degree, child development.

“Ah, yes. That’s me,” your words spill out as you realise he is awaiting an answer. Mentally, you berate yourself for the immediate blunder while Mr Park’s eyes crinkle with amusement.

“Come on in and make yourself comfy on the couch. I’ll be right there. Would you like anything to drink?” Mr Park’s voice is smooth like butter and you have a hard time making sure you don’t get lost in it.

Again, you nod, actual wordy responses jumbled in your brain, walking to the couch and sitting down almost mechanically. If you were mentally present, you would have noticed the smile the older man sends your way.

He doesn’t take too long, returning with two glasses of water. “You didn’t say what you wanted to drink so I just got you water. Is that okay?”

Thankfully, you finally can respond coherently and smile, albeit a little shakily. “Yes, thank you so much.”

You take the glass with both hands, thanking him again quietly and taking a small sip before just holding it as you wait for him to be seated. You’ve felt awkward before, but this is a new extreme. Normally you pride yourself on keeping your cool in front of someone you think is hot, but Mr Park…he’s something else. You try your best to keep your eyes trained on the coffee table, only letting yourself glance at him occasionally so he doesn’t realise just how in awe you are.

“Jihee will be home from school soon, so you’ll see her soon. For now it’ll just be old me and my questions,” Mr Park starts his interview as soon as he sits on the couch across from you. “Now, I saw in your application that your major was in child development? Can I ask why that interested you?”

You blink at him for a moment, not expecting that question. Sure, bringing it up was expected, but the way he sounds like he’s interviewing you for a position in a company amuses you. “Uh…I just grew up with a lot of siblings and their kids. I’m the youngest of six, and the oldest is sixteen years older than me so I have a lot of nieces and nephews as well. Children have always been a part of my life, and my first job was babysitting so it’s something I’m very used to. Child development was just a way for me to learn even more and in a less… hands-on way. Poopy diapers are not my favourite.” You pause. “Not that I can’t change them! Or that Jihee uses them. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

You’re so sure your face is bright red right now as you stumble over your words, and you’re ready to be kicked out, but all Mr Park does instead is laugh at your embarrassment. It’s a little mean but it’s better than your worst conclusion so you’ll take it. “It’s okay,” Mr Park smiles at you. “It’s okay to ramble, it was actually quite amusing. Now, I’d just like to warn you, Jihee has trouble with working on schoolwork. While that usually isn’t an issue, she may be asking you to help her with her homework and reading and I just thought I’d give you a heads up. Would that cause any trouble?”

“It wouldn’t bother me, and I’ll try my best. I took children’s education in college as well so it’d be a good time for me to exercise that,” you laugh quietly. Your first dream was to be a governess, no matter how few jobs there are for that type of work.

Mr Park nods thoughtfully. “Glad to give you some experience in that,” he hums after careful consideration, a smile on his face. “Her struggles lie in understanding the problems and in English. If she faces any difficulty then I can always help out.”

Before either of you continues speaking, his watch beeps and he glances down. Without another word, he stands and goes to open the front door. “Uh–” Your confusion escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh, Jihee’s almost home and I always leave the door open for her,” he explains, eyes still trained on his watch. “You’ll get to meet her, and then we can discuss more details. And just to reiterate the ad, this is going to be a job that requires a lot of hours. I, of course, will be paying you for any sort of overtime if I need to stay at the office later. Does your schedule still allow for that?”

You hold back your smile. Your schedule mostly consists of scrolling the internet for job opportunities and eating lunch with your friends. “Yes, I can do that,” you affirm. “I’ll need holidays off, but I assume that’s a given as you’ll also be with Jihee?”

A smile pulls at the corner of Mr Park’s mouth. “Very astute,” he chuckles. “Now, here she comes.”

The door swings open without another word from either of you and a little girl dressed in pink and ribbons barrels into Mr Park’s knees. He lets out a quiet grunt, stabilising himself against the door as his hand strokes at her hair. “Hello, Jihee,” he hums fondly. "How was school today?"

The young girl beams up at her father. "So fun!" she grins, her words slightly slurred in her excitement. "Today, Mrs Lee had us do shapes and my favourite colour is blue now! I have so many blue crayons."

Mr Park's eyebrow raises at the mention of crayons. "Do you have them with you?" he asks, and Jihee nods vigorously. "Can I see them?"

Another nod comes from the child and she immediately plops on the floor, pulling out her pencil case and opening it to reveal at least ten crayons, all of varying sizes. What stands out to you the most is that half of them are green. "See! All blue. But this one's my favourite." She grabs at a particularly long and skinny one, a shade of emerald green.

"Ah. Lovey, remember, your colours are a little different, right?" Mr Park talks in a gentle voice, very different from the very adult voice he used with you. "That's a green crayon."

Jihee's face drops. "Oh." Her bottom lip juts out in a pout.

Mr Park holds out his hand and Jihee drops the crayon into his palm. "You can't take the crayons from school anyway, dear. Why don't we leave these in your bag and you can give them back and apologise to Mrs Lee tomorrow?"

Jihee's pout grows bigger but she nods. "Okay, daddy," she agrees and Mr Park nods proudly.

"Now, do you want to meet your new friend?" You flinch as Mr Park mentions you, sitting up straighter in your chair before ultimately deciding to stand instead.

"Hi, Jihee," you do your best to speak with the same quiet tone Mr Park used. "I'm (Y/N)! It's nice to meet you."

You offer your hand for her to shake and Jihee looks at you, her thinking face almost a spitting image of her father's before she walks over and takes your hand with gusto. "Hi, Mrs (Y/N).”

"Ah, I'm not a Mrs," you correct her. "You can call me (Y/N)."

"Miss (Y/N)," Mr Park quietly interrupts and you nod, not wanting to override his parenting although being called 'miss' will catch you off-guard for the time being. "Why don't you tell her one thing about yourself and then Miss (Y/N) has to go, okay?"

Jihee's mouth twists in sadness, her hand still gripping yours. "Okay," she sighs again. "I get to talk to her more later though, right?"

Mr Park nods. "Of course. Miss (Y/N) will be spending a lot of time with you, so I'm glad you like her."

Jihee nods solemnly. "I like pretty people and you're super pretty," she tells you earnestly and your heart swells at the compliment.

“Thank you, Jihee,” you thank her genuinely, although you’re amused at the fact that she considers her appreciation for physical looks a good introduction to herself. “It was nice to meet you.”

With another decisive nod, Jihee turns and marches right off down the hall, presumably to her room. Mr Park turns to you, finally shutting his front door with a sigh. “That was Jihee. Ball of energy extraordinaire. She comes home from school at one-thirty, and will put her own things away before coming to eat a snack. She has one worksheet to do a day but with your help she’ll get it fairy quickly. I’ll email you a list of house rules.”

You nod. “That sounds perfect. What would the schedule look like? What time would I be here, and when would I expect you to come home?”

Mr Park hums, running a hand through his perfect hair. “For her school days, I’d like to have you in here maybe ten minutes before she comes. I’ll always leave her snack in the fridge and you can just pop it in the microwave and make yourself comfortable before she comes barrelling in. Then I’ll be home at five-thirty sharp whenever possible. Every other Saturday I’m in the office for eight hours and you’ll be watching Jihee for those days. If you can’t do a Saturday, just let me know so I can get someone to watch her, but generally I’d like you here from eight to five.”

You nod. All your friends have atypical work schedules so your Saturdays are empty in general, and since the weekdays are shorter hours you don’t mind. “When it comes to after-school playdates, should I expect you to be home or would you like me to take care of them?”

Mr Park’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly. “That won’t be an issue. Jihee doesn’t do playdates.” Your curiosity spikes at his short answer but his tone leaves no room for discussion so you don’t press it. “I’ll give you a key now. Tomorrow is my off-Saturday but if you can come in just to adjust yourself that would be great. I have some work to get done anyway so I’ll be mostly out of your hair although you can still ask me questions.”

You nod again. “Yeah, that works,” you confirm after a quick check to your phone calendar. When you look up, Mr Park is already holding out a key and you take it after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Mr Park nods, moving to open the door when Jihee calls out with a whining tone to her voice. “Daddy, I need help!”

Mr Park sighs but it’s full of affection for his daughter. “I would walk you to your car but she calls for me,” his head dips into an apologetic bow but you shake your head.

“Don’t worry about it,” you smile at him. “There’s no need for that at all.” That is one of the main reasons, but another part of you doesn’t want him to know you have no car and you take the bus to his neighbourhood and then walk the rest of the way.

A twenty-four-year-old with no car? It’s a little embarrassing, especially in the area you both live in where it’s almost required to have a car to do anything. Generally, your babysitting jobs were close enough to your home, but the salary of this job enticed you to give up walking.

As you exit, you can hear Jihee starting off her complaints about her jacket and you smile to yourself subconsciously.

-

You’ve been working with the Parks for almost a month now and generally, it’s a good time. You only really see Mr Park when he comes home, but by then you have one foot out the door. There are days when he looks so beaten down that you want to offer him some encouragement, but you don’t want to step out of your boundaries. So, you just keep your head down and leave.

Jihee is sweet and easy-going, not hard for you to get along with. She always has some sort of fun idea for you to play along with and her schoolwork hasn’t been too terrible although you dread when she starts getting into more difficult maths.

But today, as soon as Jihee walks into the door, you suspect something is wrong. She doesn’t greet you as excitedly as she used to, just stalking straight into her bedroom and coming right now, settling herself down on the couch with a pout on her face.

“Jihee, don’t you want to eat?” you try to coax her to the dinner table, but she just shakes her head, immobile. You frown. It’s strange for the usually talkative child to be this closed off. “Did something happen at school?”

Jihee glares at the coffee table, shaking her head. “No,” she mutters but her cold-stone facade drops immediately as she suddenly bursts into tears. Your heart drops for the child crying on your couch and you immediately run to her and pull her into your arms. “Why don’t they like me?” she wails into your shirt and your heart drops.

You had suspected it when Mr Park shut down the playdate idea very quickly, but this just solidifies your thoughts. How could the kids at school not like such a sweet kid? As you’ve been working for the Parks for quite a bit now, you’ve grown to adore the young girl like she was one of your own nieces.

You don’t say anything just yet, just patting her hair and doing your best to calm her down. It takes almost an hour but now she just curls up in your arms, her hands gripping your shirt as she’s so close to falling asleep. You don’t have the heart to wake up so you resign yourself to letting her sleep on you for now.

Within ten minutes, you fall asleep as well. It’s not what you meant to do, but you couldn’t have stopped yourself. When your eyes open again, Jihee is no longer in your arms and there’s a large fluffy blanket laid on top of you. You blink yourself awake before panic sets in and you shoot up, looking around. “Jihee?” you call out and hear deep laughter behind you. When your head snaps back you see Mr Park chuckling at your face.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss (Y/N).”

It takes a minute for your words to register, blinking stupidly at your employer for a few moments before your face drops and you practically leap off the couch. “I’m so sorry!” you cry, bowing rapidly at a low angle. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep and it won’t happen again.”

You keep your eyes lowered and you look up at him through your lashes, scared of how he’ll react but to your surprise, Mr Park’s smile grows and he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, you looked comfortable and the doors were locked. Jihee didn’t get into any trouble, just was a little bored since you were asleep.”

You shake your head. “Regardless, I shouldn’t sleep on the job but thank you for the kindness. Jihee is very responsible for her age and it certainly reflects on your parenting.” You smile back at him.

“Well, thank you for your kind words. It means a lot to me as well,” Mr Park hums. “Would you like to join us for dinner? I know you usually leave around the time I get back but let me at least feed you before you go.”

You frown. “I’d like to, but I should get going,” you say absentmindedly. “I have to make it in time to catch the bus.”

You’re looking around, trying to gather your belongings, when you realise how silent Mr Park is. And in turn, you realise what you just said. “You take the bus?” His voice lowers and you stare at the look of concern he has on his face. “It’s practically dark by the time you leave and you’re walking to the bus stop by yourself?”

“Ah– it’s okay! It’s not a far walk, just up the street.” You hurry to defend your choices, waving your hands. “I’ve gotten home safe so far, no?”

Mr Park shakes his head. “No, you can’t take chances. I’ll drive you home tonight after dinner. You must stay.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes, but his stance is unwavering. And as much as you would usually protest—being taken home by a much older man would usually ring alarms in your head—the idea of not having to wait in the cold and the dark by yourself is very appealing. And from how you’ve interacted with him before, Mr Park seems very sweet, and you trust him just a little more than you probably should.

“Well, I do thank you for your kindness,” you sigh, nodding your head in concession. “But this will be the only time.”

Mr Park chuckles, not taking you seriously. “We’ll see. Now come on. Tonight is beef stew and my younger brother will come for dinner as well.”

“Uncle Uyu is coming?” You can hear Jihee’s excited voice coming from the kitchen as well as her feet pittering on the floor as she launches herself into your lap. “Hi again, Miss (Y/N).”

“Hello again, Miss Jihee,” you tease, pressing the tip of your finger to her forehead and Jihee giggles.

“Are you staying for dinner?” You nod again and she screeches in happiness, not giving a second glance at how you wince at the sound. “I can’t wait! I have to make you pretty! Come with me.”

With as much seriousness as she can muster in her body, she pulls you by the hand into her room as Mr Park watches the two of you with a soft smile and follows the two of you into Jihee’s room. He takes a seat on the bed as Jihee fusses over your hair, styling it with her toddler's hands and putting an obscene amount of hair clips into it. But you’re whipped for the little girl and you let her do whatever she wants, ending up in two uneven pigtails and a plethora of Hello Kitty clips.

“Daddy, isn’t it pretty?” Jihee giggles, moving your head to tilt so her father can take a look at her work. “It’s better than your hair to practice!”

Mr Park, mock-affronted, holds his hand to his chest. “Betrayed by my own daughter? Alas, but I can let it slide as this may very well be your best work.”

Jihee giggles, pressing her face against your cheek when the doorbell rings. “Uncle Uyu!” As always, her focus is diverted by any new thing and she runs for the door, both you and Mr Park following shortly after. As she yanks the door open, a man around Seonghwa’s age greets her just as excitedly, bending down to pick her up and spin her around.

“Jiji,” he cheers, “Already so big?” His eyes find you and you offer a small wave. “And who’s this? Seonghwa, you found a girl?”

Mr Park’s jaw drops and your eyes widen as you rush to contradict. “Oh, no, no, I’m just the babysitter. Mr Park has kindly invited me for dinner.”

Wooyoung chuckles at the look on both your faces. “Don’t worry, I just like to pull on Seonghwa’s leg. You’re a little young for him too.”

You offer a smile. “Yeah, and the forties are a little out of my age range as well,” you try to joke, but to your surprise, Wooyoung breaks out cackling, startling Jihee who starts laughing with him confusedly. Mr Park’s shocked face has somehow become even more intense.

“You think I’m how old?” Wooyoung has reigned in his laughter although a smile still pulls at his lips. “I’m only thirty-four!”

A gasp made its way out of your mouth as you start bowing rapidly again in apology. “I’m so sorry! You look your age, I just assumed you had to be older.”

Mr Park sighs, although an amused smile now graces his face. “It’s okay, I can understand it. I’ll just be giving you a hard time from now on.” He punctuates with a wink and your eyes snap down to Jihee in embarrassment.

“Let’s get on with dinner so I can go home and just melt in embarrassment, okay?” you groan and the two older men laugh. Jihee seems to agree with your sentiment, declaring her hunger grumpily and you laugh and pick her up. “See, even Jihee’s on my side. Let’s eat now.”

Mr Park hums, stepping aside. “All right, I see I’m outnumbered now. I hope you don’t mind how casual this dinner is, but I promise the food is worth it. Wooyoung’s the better cook, but he’s taught me a few tricks.”

You shrug. “Any food is good food to me. At home, I have instant ramen and fried rice so it’s a nice change.”

Out of disapproval, Mr Park shakes his head although the smile does not leave his face. “I do not miss my college diet. Please, take a seat.” He motions to the dinner table, pulling out a chair for you to seat yourself, sitting beside you as Wooyoung and Jihee join the other side of the table.

“So, tell me about yourself (Y/N),” Wooyoung hums, leaning on the table by his elbows. “You’re in college?”

You shake your head. “I graduated a year and a half ago, I’m twenty-four now, but it feels like just yesterday I was taking my finals,” you chuckle. “What was your major, Mr Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung smiled, “Please, call me Wooyoung. Mr Wooyoung just sounds weird. But to answer your question, my major was culinary, of course. Before I taught Hwa how to cook, he was hopeless. I think I was feeding him and Jihee primarily other than his sandwiches and canned soup.” He sighs, leaning back and smirking at Mr Park whose ears are red.

“Hey, Youngah, I paid you for your work. Don’t make me seem incompetent,” Mr Park snorts, leaning over to smack the back of his neck. “Wooyoung may be eight years younger than me but he certainly acts like he’s five.”

You laugh at the banter. “Me and my siblings were the same way. We’d always fight but in the end, we care for each other. It’s sweet to see you guys act the same.” You smile, taking a bite of your stew. “Thank you for letting me sit in on your family dinner.”

Mr Park shakes his head. “Of course. Can’t let you walk on your own at night, you know. I’d be happy to give you a ride home from now on.”

“Ah, no, I can’t make you do that,” you try and decline again but Seonghwa is having none of that.

“It’s not a matter of making me, I offered. I can’t let my babysitter just stand around in the dark. Let me do this for you. Jihee cares for you, she wouldn’t want to make you get hurt.”

You frown, pursing your lips. “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” you concede. “Thank you once again.”

Mr Park shakes his head, his hand moving up to ruffle your hair. “Don’t worry about it.” His hand rests atop your head a moment longer before he remembers who he is in relation to you. “Ah, sorry. Habit from Jihee.”

The heartfelt moment is cut loose by everyone amused at Mr Park’s habit. Jihee immediately takes the initiative to start rambling about stickers, engrossing everyone in the conversation, Wooyoung being particularly vocal. The dinner is finished with no other events, and you offer to help clean up, ignoring Mr Park when he tries to protest.

“Thank you for helping out,” he tries to thank you but you wave your hand dismissively.

“You fed me and are driving me home. It’s the least I could do. Shall we head out though? I don’t want you to have to leave Jihee for too long.”

Mr Park nods, grabbing his keys and jangling them as he opens the door to the garage. You do your best to not show your surprise at the sight of his fancy car. Of course, you knew he was well off, but you never imagined you’d actually be sitting in his car. He even opens the door for you, letting you slide into the passenger seat.

You hold yourself stiffly, but Mr Park looks over and just laughs at you. “Relax, I’m not going to bite you. Just let me know where to go and we’ll be set. Want a piece of gum?”

He holds out a pack of gum and you gladly take the piece, happy for the distraction. Most of the car ride is silent, except for you telling him occasionally where to go. But as he pulls up to your street, he slows to a crawl.

“You know, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around.me. Sure, I’m your employer, but I’m also a dad. I got the dad instinct, you know?” Your lips twitch at his attempt to be comforting. “Really, though. Don’t hold yourself so tight around me. I don’t mind doing this for you.”

You turn your eyes down. “Thank you. I’ll try, it’s just a little weird for me if you understand. But I do appreciate everything you’re doing for me.” As you unbuckle your seatbelt, you smile at Mr Park. “I hope you have a good night.”

As you go to your apartment building, Mr Park leans out of his car and calls after you. “You can call me Seonghwa, (Y/N). Mr Park makes me feel old.”

You laugh at his admission. “We’ll see, grandpa!” You can’t help but tease him before running into your home, leaving an amused Seonghwa outside.

-

These days you and Seonghwa have become a lot more friendly. He’s taken to driving you home despite your protests and during the car rides, some interesting conversations have happened. For example, you learnt that he built his company from the ground and yet is respected in many old money circles.

Okay, maybe you didn’t learn that from a conversation, and instead just searched on the internet. But what can you say? You’re curious about the man who happens to be your charge’s father and the man who happens to be very very handsome.

Maybe you have a bit of a crush on Seonghwa, but you couldn’t blame yourself. There was something about him. It is the aura he holds himself with, the kindness in his smile when he arrives home, and it helps that he is hot. Every so often, you can’t help but find yourself glancing at his pretty hands, or his well-toned arms, and you have to look away before heat spreads up to your ears.

You’re down bad, and it’s not getting any better. Every time you see Seonghwa, you want to jump him but it would be inappropriate. Not only is he your employer, but he’s also a decade older than you. There’s no way he would be interested in you, he probably sees you just as some kid.

With a sigh, you look down at your sketchbook. Today was supposed to be a fun day. Both Jihee and Seonghwa were off today, so you were spending the day with her as Seonghwa was still called into the office to put in some extra hours. But then the toddler fell sick and you were tasked with taking care of her.

At least it was a fairly easy job—Jihee slept most of the day and you were free to work on some of your more personal projects. Although your passion lies in children, you do enjoy drawing and even took a couple of classes in college. As you lay on the couch sketching, you get so lost in your mind you don’t even register the door opening and the footsteps coming towards you.

“Is that me?”

A shriek rips its way out of your throat as you do your best to whirl around and hold your drawings to your chest, but your legs get caught in the blanket and you instead fall half off the couch to the ground. Your chin props your head up on the ground but your legs are still tangled on the couch, your arms twisted into the blanket, the sketchbook an arm’s reach away.

“Hi, Mr– Seonghwa. How was work today?” you mumble half into the carpet, too embarrassed to look up. “Jihee’s taking a nap in her room.”

After a moment of silence, Seonghwa laughs, although it’s a little pained. “Uh. Do you need help up?”

You groan, pulling one of your arms out from your cocoon prison. “That would be great, thanks. Sorry.”

One of his cool hands gently takes your elbow as another comes to rest on your back. It’s at the moment you realise your shirt has ridden up. You can’t help but tense at the touch, hoping the embarrassment doesn’t show on your face. “Jihee’s taking a nap?”

You’re grateful he chose to brush over the incident. “Yeah– yeah. She’s not much better, but she’s not much worse. It’s just a simple cold, so she needs to sleep it off.” You chose to ignore the hand lingering on the small of your back, instead scooching back on your butt to distance yourself just a little bit. He’s your employer, there’s no way you can give in to your feelings.

But the couch seems to be against your plans, as when you try to pull the blankets off your feet you tumble into Seonghwa’s legs, knocking him down as you land on his firm chest. Your face is mere centimetres away from his and you freeze. “I–” you stammer out, Seonghwa equally as awkward.

“Sorry–” He tries to sit up, but it just results in the blankets twisting tighter and pulling you two even closer together. You swear if you could hold your breath, you could feel and hear his heart beating. “Ah, shit.”

You can’t help but laugh a little at his profanity, not something you’ve ever expected to hear from him. “Welcome back, Seonghwa.”

Seognhwa’s eyes widen, his blush deepens, and his head snaps away from you. Your brows furrow at the change in his features and you can’t help but wonder if it’s from the proximity, or if it’s the proximity to you specifically. “Ah. Let’s get out of this, shall we?” he coughs. He carefully detangles himself from the pile and holds out a hand to you.

You grasp it, noting his firm grip and letting him pull you up. “Thanks.”

“I’ll drive you back to your apartment first since Jihee’s asleep right now. It won’t take long.” While Seonghwa’s voice remains warm, his eyes move away from you.

Suddenly a guilty feeling pools in your stomach and you turn away as well, bending to pick up your sketchbook silently. “Of course.” The disappointment fills your head as you internally admonish yourself for even trying to entertain your fantasies of the older man.

But, to your surprise, a warm hand pats you on your shoulder. “You are good at art, (Y/N). You should continue to pursue and practice it, even as just a hobby.” His words make you look up into his eyes and you see a sparkle behind them. “You’re a talented person, and you should take advantage of it.”

“Thank you, Seonghwa,” you smile at him again. “Once again, I appreciate the kindness you offer me.”

Seonghwa chuckles, spinning the car keys as you’ve quickly found out is his habit. “(Y/N), thank you for putting up with such an old man who can offer you nothing but kindness.”

You snort. “You’re not even that old, you geezer.” In retaliation, Seonghwa leans over and pokes you in the forehead.

“Oh, hush and let me take you home.”

-

It’s been almost six months since that day and your feelings have only intensified. But this time, you swear perhaps he may be returning your feelings too. Sometimes you catch him looking at you with a gentle smile, and his hand on your shoulder lingers a little longer than you think. But then he talks to an employee on the phone and you remember how accomplished he is. Even if he wasn’t much older than you, there’s no way you would fit into his lifestyle.

And, like any self-respecting person would do, you start to avoid him. What else are you going to do? Tell him? You’d be crazy to even entertain the thought. There’s no way he would even take you seriously.

These days you’ve just been going to work, and heading straight home. Seonghwa barely has time to catch you, and you’ve been plotting with Jihee to keep him away. She doesn’t quite understand why, but it’s fun to her so she’s happy to. You’re pretty sure half your wallet has gone to sticker sheets. But no matter how many stickers you’ve bought, it doesn’t help Seonghwa from figuring out something is amiss.

It’s your one day off and you’re spending it at home, lounging around and just watching movies while you sulk about your tangled feelings. Watching all these romantic movies doesn’t help at all and you groan. There’s no way you’re going to act like a lonely teenager, you declare to yourself. You’ll go to a club! Maybe meet someone closer to your age and you won’t feel like a wet sock anymore.

That’s it, you’ve convinced yourself. You’ll give yourself a night out. Suddenly inspired, you throw off the blankets covering you and start donning your nicest clothes. There’s a club you used to frequent in your college days, and you haven’t been back since you got the new job. It’d be nice to let loose again.

As the nighttime approaches, you’re almost all ready to go. You have your outfit and your makeup, and all you need is your shoes. Once you pick out your favourite pair of heels (comfy and not too high), you make your way down. You can feel the excitement pounding out of your chest and you can’t wait to get the night started.

As you enter the club, your body immediately relaxes as you take in the atmosphere. It’s been so long, you’re just excited to have fun. Get drunk, find a nice guy, and forget your problems. You down drink after drink, hyping yourself up, but as late night comes, nothing happens. With a sigh, you plunk down your last drink, feeling the buzz of the alcohol burn in your veins.

Nothing will happen tonight, and you just have to come to terms with it. You place down a couple of bills to pay off your tab, tip, and stumble out of the bar. You’re plastered. You can hardly walk in a straight line and you lean against the cool brick for a minute, letting the sensation sober you up a bit as you do your best to call up a taxi.

But before you can do so, a hand creeps onto your bare waist and your head snaps up to see a man, no younger than fifty, leering at you. “Uh, hi?” you slur out, your hands fiddling with your phone as you try and discreetly move to the phone app. You may be plastered, but you’re not a fool and you know what could happen in this situation.

Unfortunately, the old man seems to know what you’re trying and he grabs one of your wrists. “Now, pretty lady, take a break there. Why don’t you come hang out with me for a bit?” His words are greasy and slimy, and you almost gag at the idea of what he’s insinuating. At least Seonghwa isn’t triple your age…and he’s hot.

“Ah, no thanks,” you manage to push past him, pressing your most recent contact and holding the phone to your ear. “I’m a little uh…” You’re cut off when whoever you call starts speaking.

“(Y/N)? Why are you calling me? It’s nine.” Seonghwa’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Are you okay?”

“Ah, shit,” you groan, stumbling to your side and colliding with the wall. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you. I’m just out and–”

Once again, the old man approaches you and pulls you back by the waist. “Come on, pretty. Get off the phone and pay attention to me.”

You shake your head and pull away again, moving even more down the street. “No, no, I’m not– just leave me alone. I want to go home,” you say, shaking your head, still holding the phone to your face. “Just…I wanna go home.”

“(Y/N), are you okay? Where are you?” You can hear the worry in Seonghwa’s voice rise and a faint jingling of keys. “I’m going to get you. Wooyoung’s here so he can watch Jihee. Talk to me, (Y/N).”

“I’m at the club Desire. Or near it. I don’t know.” Your head is muddled and no matter where you look, the street signs are blurring and the old man is still trying to get your attention. “I just want to go home,” you repeat, tears springing to your eyes. “I thought I told you to leave me alone!”

The old man growls at your tone, grabbing at you again. “Don’t be stupid, child. You can come home with me and I’ll teach you how to be proper for a man like you.” His breath reeks of alcohol and bad breath and you instinctively slap him across the face. Surprised, he jerks back, and you take a couple of shaky steps back again.

“Leave me be! I don’t want you near me.”

The old man’s eyes narrow at you and he takes one menacing step forward, his hand raising to strike you but you bring up your arms to block the slap, whimpering in pain when the hit lands and your phone clatters out of your hand. “You insolent child!” Your eyes squeeze shut and you hope Seonghwa gets there soon.

-

Seonghwa has never driven so fast in his life. He’s racing through the lights and he counts his lucky stars that they’re all green and that the police aren’t around right now. He can hear arguing coming from his phone and he’s calm enough knowing you’re at least still on the phone. But then he hears a noise and what he assumes to be your phone falling on the ground. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “Please, please be okay, (Y/N).”

Stepping on the gas, he roars around the corner to the club you mentioned, praying you’re still there. As he gets out, he’s looking around but can’t seem to find you. “(Y/N)?” he calls out. “Where are you?”

He races down the street to find you pinned against the wall, your hands attempting to push an old geezer away and he sees red. He marches right up, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from your shaking figure. “Fuck off,” he growls in his face, delighting in the fear that moves across his face. “Don’t let me catch you near this place again. Now fuck off!”

He practically throws the old man to his knees before turning and cupping your face. “Seonghwa,” you practically sob. He can still see the drunken haze in your eyes but it’s almost completely cleared up now and his brow furrows even more.

“Come on, I’m taking you home.” He pulls you along and you do your best to keep up with him in your inebriated state. “I can’t believe you would do this! Have you no sense of security? Why didn’t you get anyone to come with you? Why would you call a taxi outside of the establishment?”

He still opens the car door for you and you slide immediately in, eyes staring wide at the pristine dashboard. He slides in and puts the car in the ignition before sitting back and groaning in frustration. “I hope you’re ready to talk as soon as we get inside,” he gripes. “I still am so shocked, (Y/N). You act so mature about Jihee, but what happened then? You could’ve been hurt…no, you were hurt!”

He continues his rant driving up to your street, ushering you into the elevator and into your place. “Do you know how my heart dropped when I saw you struggling? I don’t want to see you hurt. You need to take care of yourself.”

As he yells at you, his eyes rake over you to see if you’re injured any further, but something else stops him and the words die in his throat. You’re wearing a sheer shirt, your lacy bra underneath just showing off your chest. Your leather skirt has ridden up your thighs and your eyes fill with unshed tears. And something burns in his brain.

It’s been months since he hired you, and with each passing day, he finds himself more and more attracted to you. He berated himself every time these unwanted thoughts popped into his head. Sure, you’re sweet, good with kids, and are passionate about what you care about. But you’re also so young. You can do so much better than him, a single father with no prospects.

But seeing you like this, heat sparks in his gut and he leans in, his face mere inches away from yours. “When you wear things like that, it makes me want to rip them off you and do things even that creep couldn’t even imagine,” his low voice pierces through your thoughts and your mouth gapes open.

“I���m okay with that,” you whisper, hand reaching out to brush against his chest, but Seonghwa blinks as he realises what he just tried to do, and he jerks back. Your eyes flash with hurt and Seonghwa would like to hit himself for doing that to you but he can’t let you come onto him when you’re still drunk.

“I– I’m sorry,” you whisper, your hands reaching behind you to steady yourself on the wall. “I just felt so lonely. I wanted to be wanted.” 

Seonghwa’s breath stutters as he stares down into your wavering eyes. “I–” He wants you so bad. But he can’t bring himself to say it. Not when you’re drunk. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He turns away and hears your disappointed sigh alongside your footsteps trudging to your bedroom. With a groan, he sits on the couch with his head in his hands. He wants to reassure you, but he can’t help but feel guilty about it. But he’s still straining in his pants and after locating your bathroom, he sits on the shower bench, leaning against the cool tile and breathing in and out. With a groan, he unzips his pants and pulls out his half-hard cock. The feeling of regret rises but he pushes it down to his gut as he spits in his hand and presses his thumb against the head of his dick.

As he wraps his hand around his cock and pumps it, he can’t help but close his eyes and imagine you. You with your mouth wrapped around his cock, with your hands gripping his thighs. You seated on his throbbing member, grinding your hips against him as you lean down to kiss him. He can feel his dick jump and he wonders what it’ll feel like to fill you with his cum.

He lets out a broken moan as his grip turns tighter. His image of you would scratch your nails down his back. He can almost hear your little whines and breathy moans as your hips work over him. You’d lean in and whisper into his mouth, “Seonghwa, fuck me hard,” and—

Seonghwa sighs as he looks down at his cum-coated hand and the mix of shame and relief swirling around his brain. Maybe he should just go to sleep on the couch and hope he doesn’t dream of you. As he washes his hand and goes to lie down, he can already feel a stress headache coming on. He hopes you’ll at least fare better in the morning.

-

When you awaken, you have a throbbing pain in your head and you groan and roll out of bed. You’ve taken your club shirt off as well as your skirt, but your bra and underpants are still on. You’re sure your makeup is smudged too and you have no clue how you got home but all you want is some coffee and oatmeal.

You trudge to the kitchen, rubbing your eyes from sleep. There’s a blanket fallen on the floor so you toss it onto the couch and head straight into the kitchen to start your coffee maker. As you lean against the counter and yawn.

“(Y/N), are you feeling better?”

A voice calls out from behind you and you shriek, whirling around to see a sleepy Seonghwa, blanket wrapped around him and his hair a mess. You shriek again, realising how little you’re clothed and duck behind the counter, your cheeks flaming and your heart beating faster than you ever thought it could.

“What are you doing here?” you force out, your voice tight.

“Do…do you not remember last night at all?” You do remember most of what happened. He took you home, but that’s about as far as you remember. And you’re not sure you want to know the rest of it. But you’re far too embarrassed to admit, so you put your acting skills to use. You’re not sure you can handle the shame of a real conversation.

“What?” you ask, forcing your voice to pitch higher as you slowly stand back up, hands covering your chest. “I didn’t– Oh my God, I’m so sorry if I came onto you. I was drunk, I must’ve been out of my mind. Please accept my deepest apologies.”

You notice Seonghwa’s eyes trail down to your chest and then snap back up to your face as if he’s forcing himself to and he chokes out a breath. Despite the headache, your mouth twitches. Maybe you’re still a little out of it. “No, nothing like that. I fetched you from the club because you called me to save you from a creep. Then I took you home and we slept.”

You sigh. “I’m glad. I do apologise for whatever my behaviour was. It was out of line and it won’t happen again. I understand if you want to let me go–”

“No!” Seonghwa’s outburst surprises you and your eyes widen. The lack of clothes you’re wearing has been long forgotten and you move around the counter to stand in front of him. Seonghwa has the decency to look a little embarrassed at the volume of his voice. “Sorry. I just…it’s like you’re a part of our family already. I care for you just as much as I care for Jihee.”

Ah. He thinks of you like a child. Your suspicions were right. You turn slightly to face away from him, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice. “I see. Well, I appreciate that. It’s nice to have a second family,” you chuckle, internally beating yourself up. How could you even entertain the thought of the two of you being together? “Let me change, and I’ll walk you out.”

As you return to your room, you finally let your heart sink as tears brim in your eyes. You hastily wipe them away as you rummage in the pile of clothes on your bed for something fairly appropriate to wear. First, you make a fool of yourself in front of Seonghwa, and then your crush is unfounded. You can’t seem to catch a break.

With a sigh, you pull on some shorts and a large shirt before heading back out. “Hey, (Y/N), could we talk first?” Seonghwa asks, still standing in between the kitchen and the living room as his eyes flit around nervously.

After some hesitation, you finally find your voice. “Sure? What’s up? You can sit on the couch if you want.”

Seonghwa takes a seat, hiking up his sweatpants and you move to the floor across the little coffee table. “Last night…you told me something.” Oh no. This is it. You bite your lower lip and look down, awaiting his next words. “Uh. So. You think you came onto me, right? Well. It was. Uh. It may have been me.”

You blink at him foolishly as your brain tries to wrap itself around your head. “You what?”

Seonghwa raises his hands and lowers his head ashamedly. “Let me explain, please. I saw you outside with that horrid excuse of a human and something in me snapped. I just wanted to protect you and I brought you home. But seeing you in that outfit? It just made me want you. And I told you. And you reciprocated. At least, you tried to.” He chuckles a little to himself, bringing up his hand to grip at his hair. “I told you we would talk in the morning. But one thing you said stuck with me. You wanted to be wanted. And all night I’ve been thinking about it. (Y/N), you were drunk. But you weren’t that drunk. Something you said had truth to it. Please. For my own sanity, tell me how you feel about me. Please.”

His voice cracks at the last syllable and something in your heart hurts at the sound. “Seonghwa I…I do care for you. More than I should. You’ve shown me unbendable compassion and you’ve never taken my words or myself for granted…or treated me like a child. Against my better judgment, I’ve fallen for you.” You sigh, tightening your fists. “I’ve been hating myself for the better part of six months because of it. You were so much better than me. In job, in maturity. What was I supposed to do? I went to the club to forget you, but it appears that didn’t work.”

Seonghwa stands quickly, shuffling over to kneel in front of you. “How could you think such a thing? Me better than you? Don’t make me laugh. I may be older than you, and yes, I have a better-paying job. But in the end, how could you compare? You’re amazing with Jihee. You’ve managed to teach her in ways I could hardly hope to imagine. And just because I have a higher wage doesn’t mean your job is less important. I wasn’t lying when I said it felt like you were already part of the family.”

“You told me you thought of me like Jihee,” you argue, and Seonghwa laughs, leaning forward to take your hands.

“I said I care for you as much as I care for Jihee. Not in the same way, (Y/N).” Seonghwa smiles kindly. “I know if this does happen we’ll need to put a lot of care into this, but if you’ll have me, I’d like to be with you.”

You’re not sure whether this is a dream or not, staring up at Seonghwa with wide eyes. You’d be a fool if you said no, but the worries in your head won’t seem to cease. Taking a deep breath, you push them aside and smile up at him. “I’ll have you, Seonghwa.”

As soon as the words fall out of your mouth you can see Seonghwa’s eyes crinkle as he smiles and leans in, his nose almost touching yours. “May I kiss you?” he murmurs in his deep voice, and instead of gracing him with a reply, you meet him in a soft kiss.

His large hands cup your face as he deepens the kiss, and his thumbs brush against your cheekbones. “You’re so pretty,” he hums, pressing a multitude of pecks to your lips. “Last night I was so conflicted. Seeing you like that made me almost go insane.”

An idea sparks in your brain, and a smile widens on your face. Your fingers crawl up his shoulders to rest your arms on them. “How insane?” you ask, and Seonghwa’s eyes darken.

“I’ll show you,” he grows before capturing your lips with his once again. This time his arms shift to wrap around your waist and he pulls you closer until you’re practically pressed against his body. You squeak at the sudden movement but it’s swallowed by the kiss.

He pulls you onto his lap and you can feel the growing hardness in his slacks. You wriggle your hips a little, grinding down, and the moan that Seonghwa lets out is heaven to your ears. “Fuck, (Y/N). You’re so pretty,” he repeats, burying his face in your neck and nipping at the sensitive skin.

You whine at the pain blooming into pleasure and your hands fist into his hair. Your precious sounds get to Seonghwa and he groans, moving your legs to wrap around his waist and he hoists you up and brings you over to the couch. “Your noises are so pretty, baby,” Seonghwa groans into your mouth. “Can’t wait to hear them when you’re wrapped around my cock.”

“Please–” is all you can muster out and your whines only serve to make Seonghwa’s cock harder in his pants.

With a groan, he pats your ass, motioning for you to move up. As soon as your hips lift, he grabs the waistband of your shorts and pulls them down to your knees, leaving your underwear and shirt on. In the same motion, he shoves his slacks and boxers down just far enough to let his cock spring free.

“Seonghwa–”  you whine and something in Seonghwa’s stomach burns at the idea of you crying on his throbbing dick. He sits back, guiding you to sit right above his cock as he moves it to rub against your soaked underwear. Every time the angry-red tip of it brushes against your clit you let out breathy moans and it only serves to make Seonghwa impossibly harder.

“Fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” Seonghwa breathes, his free hand coming up to brush against your face. A smile blooms on your face as you bend to kiss him again.

“Then don’t.”

Something flips in Seonghwa’s brain and he lifts you, pushes your underwear to the side, and lets his cock press into you slowly. The both of you throw your head back and groan loudly at the feeling of him slowly filling you up. He’s not the biggest you’ve had but that doesn’t matter as the sting of the stretch is enough to make you drool. You can hardly speak as you whine nonsense into his ear and let your head drop to the crook of his neck.

“You fit around me so well,” Seonghwa praises, his head spinning at the feeling of finally fucking you the way he dreamed of. It was only yesterday he was fucking into his hand at the thought of you and here he is, only a few hours later, his painfully hard member inside of you. “Look at you, a mess for me. Bet you’ve never been with an older man before. Do I make you feel good, baby?”

You clench at his words. “Fuck, yes, the best I’ve had,” you babble, squirming at the already overwhelming feeling. “You’re so good to me.”

Seonghwa laughs delightedly at how gone you seem to be not five minutes in. “So precious, especially for me, (Y/N). Sitting on my dick so prettily.” He gives a little experimental thrust upwards and you gasp. The noises you make are so addictive, he can’t help but do it again. And again.

You’re panting, moaning as he fills you up so deliciously and your hands grip at his now-wrinkled dress shirt. His cool hands slide up your baggy shirt to shove up your bra and cup your boobs. The weight of them sitting in his hands makes him groan as he leans in to mouth at them through your shirt.

“Been dreaming about these tits since last night. Jerked off in the bathroom after seeing you, you know?” Your eyes widen at the admission and Seonghwa smirks at how embarrassed you look. “Wanted you so bad and you thought I wouldn’t like you in that way? You’re so cute, (Y/N).” He punctuates each word with one thrust after another.

The feeling of his dick pumping into you as well as Seonghwa’s teeth scraping against the soft flesh of your tits makes you so overwhelmed. It’s almost embarrassing how close you are already, and Seonghwa knows it, chucking up at you from between your chest. “Aw, baby, you’re so far gone. Am I that good?”

You cry out and sink your teeth into the junction of his shoulder and neck. You’re trying so hard to keep your noises down but Seonghwa isn’t having any of that. His hand finds its way to your hair, gently tugging on it until your head falls back, exposing the column of your neck.

As his warm breath ghosts over it, you stiffen, and when he moves up from your chest to lick a stripe up it and nip at your earlobe, you come with a groan. Your hips are shaking from the intensity of it but his thrusts don’t stop and soon you’re whining from the overstimulation.

And he still hasn’t come.

“Fuck, Seonghwa, it’s so much,” you groan, mouth hanging open. Seonghwa greedily swoops in to capture your lips once more, licking into your mouth as his thrusts become more and more erratic.

His dick twitches and he groans. “Where do you want me? I’m clean,” Seonghwa mumbles into your mouth.

You shift your hips a little. “I’m clean too and on the pill, so it’s on you. I don’t care, I just want you, Hwa.”

Your words spark something in Seonghwa and he thrusts upwards, once, and his cum starts filling you. It’s searingly hot, settling deep in your gut and you throw your head back and moan so goddamn loud. His throbbing cock is twitching like crazy and it’s still pumping cum into you. Seonghwa’s hand slides down your body to tweak at your nipples, thumb over your flesh, and finally come to rub little circles into your clit.

You gasp and it feels like you’re touching heaven from the extra stimulation. “Gonna fill you up so well,” Seonghwa groans. “Do you think Jihee would like a sibling?” 

Your thoughts all blur together at his sentence and you come again with a groan. Your cunt squeezes around him so deliciously and a sob breaks its way out of your throat, one that Seonghwa eagerly swallows as he kisses you again.

His thrusts start to slow down and you slowly pull off his now-softening dick and settle back down on his lap. His hands push his leaking cum back into your pulsating pussy and you sigh at the feeling.

“Well, that was quite the escalation,” Seonghwa laughs quietly as he pulls both your and his pants back up and wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. His hand pats your butt and you squirm and slap his chest softly.

“You’re lucky I’m on the pill.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly and Seonghwa hums, capturing your lips in his yet again. He can’t get enough of your plush lips and you’re not complaining at all.

“I’m lucky to have you, period,” he sighs happily. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

You smile and sit up, ignoring the whines that come out of Seonghwa’s mouth at the lack of contact. “Well, I couldn’t let you be a lonely old man,” you tease and Seonghwa smacks your ass again.

“Can old man do what I just did?” You’re suddenly lying on your back with Seonghwa hovering over you, a crooked smile growing on his face. “Or do you need another demonstration?”

You smile and throw your arms around his shoulders and pull him closer. “I don’t know, sir, maybe you should show me once more.”

With a nip to your lips, Seonghwa leans in and your eyes crinkle at the promise of what’s to come.

[scary-grace]

SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

You're a hero who specializes in water rescue, and you've been captured by the League of Villains. It only gets worse when you find out why.

my first ever MerMay thing! Canon-ish, hero!reader, reader has a transformation quirk, mild mortal peril, etc. Part 1 of...more. Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

When you became a rescue hero, you knew what you were getting into. A rescue hero’s life isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t come with sponsorships and it doesn’t really come with product endorsements, and you only really matter when something’s already gone wrong. You don’t fight villains – you just save people, usually from themselves. You’re the last person any villain would be interested in kidnapping. There’s no reason for Japan’s most dangerous villains to take any notice of you.

At least that’s what you thought. But the last thing you remember from this morning is leaving your house and heading for work – and the next thing you know, you’re standing out on a sea arch with six members of the League of Villains staring at you.

They asked you a question, but you’ve already forgotten it. The shock of it all – kidnapped, villains – is making it hard to think. “Can you run that by me again?”

“What about it aren’t you getting?” Dabi sneers. “We need you to teach Shigaraki to swim.”

Maybe you do remember something about that. It doesn’t make any more sense the second time around. “Why?”

“Because,” Toga Himiko says, from behind a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, “we’re having our beach episode. And we aren’t going to have fun if we’re worried about Tomura-kun.”

“Right!” Twice announces. He’s still wearing his mask, but the rest of him is decked out in swim trunks, flip-flops, and a floppy hat. “I can’t frolic in the waves with my best pals if I’m worried one of them is gonna wander off and drown, and Spinner said we can’t put Shigaraki on one of those retractable kid leashes –”

“For the record, none of this was my idea.” Spinner looks embarrassed, and not at all like the villain you’ve seen on TV – without his Stain mask, he just looks like a normal guy with a heteromorphic quirk. “I just said we shouldn’t do a beach day if not everybody can enjoy it.”

“And I said you all can do whatever the fuck you want.” Shigaraki is standing off to one side, his face hidden beneath a hand and the hood of his black coat. It’s barely nine and the temperature’s already cracked thirty degrees. He must be boiling alive. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Of course you do,” Dabi says. His sneer isn’t hero-specific, it looks like – Shigaraki gets the exact same one as you did. “None of us want to put up with your bitching and moping –”

“Or your drowning –” Twice chimes in.

“So we found you a swim instructor,” the fifth member of the group concludes. He’s tall, with brown hair and eyes, and you don’t have a clue who he is. “She can help you.”

Shigaraki glances your way briefly, then returns to staring out at the sea. “I don’t need fucking help. Go roll in the sand and leave me alone.”

Problem solved, not that it’s going to help you any. If Shigaraki doesn’t want swim lessons, then your purpose here is at an end, and they’re probably going to kill you. At the same time, though, you’re aware of your proximity to the edge of the cliff. If you can get over that edge and hit the water, you’re golden. None of them have the kind of quirks that would let them chase you down, and you can swim to the nearest guarded beach and sound the alarm. The fact that you didn’t show up for work this morning probably sounded the alarm already. This is doable. Maybe.

The League of Villains isn’t paying quite as much attention to you as they were a second ago. They’re focused on Shigaraki. “She’s an expert. She does this all the time,” Spinner is saying. “I looked her up. People pay big money for her to teach their kids to swim.”

The brown-haired man looks interested. “How much money are we talking about?”

Spinner names a figure that’s triple what you charge for private lessons, on the rare occasions when you offer them. He and Dabi both worship Stain. They’ll think you’re disgusting, and instead of escaping while their backs are partially turned, you open your mouth to defend yourself. “I don’t really do private lessons,” you say, and they look at you. “My swim classes are open to anybody. And the rest of the time I lifeguard. So, uh – if you think I make a lot of money doing this, I don’t. That’s not why I became a hero.”

Twice hoots with laughter. “Some hero. We grabbed you without breaking a sweat.”

“I’m a rescue hero,” you say, aware that it’s pointless. Instead of you using their distraction to escape, Shigaraki’s using your distraction to sidle away from the others. “My job isn’t to fight villains. It’s to help people.”

Dabi gives you an evaluative look. “A rescue hero,” he says. “I heard your type is always on duty. If you see somebody in trouble, and your quirk and training equip you better than the average person to help, you have to. Right?”

“That’s weird,” Toga says. She lowers her sunglasses for a better look at you. “Is it true? If you see someone who needs help, you have to save them?”

“Yeah.” The rules are different for rescue heroes than regular heroes. “If I can help someone in distress, I have a responsibility to do it.”

“Got it,” Dabi says. That thoughtful look on his face is fading fast into malice, and a jolt of terror shoots down your spine. “Hey, Shigaraki –”

Shigaraki takes a few steps away from Dabi without turning around, and before you can so much as call out a warning, Dabi plants his hand on Shigaraki’s back and shoves him over the edge of the cliff. “There’s someone in distress,” he says, as Shigaraki vanishes with a curse that abruptly breaks off in a scream. “Help him.”

You’re not the only one who’s horrified to see Shigaraki go over the edge, but you are the only one who can do something about it. While Twice and Toga berate Dabi, and Spinner runs to the edge of the cliff and comes damn close to giving you two people to rescue instead of one, you pause for the most crucial step in a successful rescue: Taking a second to evaluate the scene. You peer down at the water and realize instantly that Dabi couldn’t have picked a worse place to push Shigaraki off. You could jump from the same spot, but why make it harder on yourself? You move to the left instead.

The brown-haired man you don’t recognize spots you. “What are you doing? He fell in over here –”

You tune him out – and the others, too, when they remember why Dabi pushed Shigaraki off a cliff in the first place. You breathe deep, more for show than anything else, then break into a run. Ten steps puts you at the edge, and you launch yourself over, bracing for the long drop into the water. That part never gets easier.

But your jump has carried you clear of the rocks and heavy surf at the base of the cliff, and when you hit the water, there’s nothing but ocean beneath you. You jumped feet-first, and your water shoes – the only support item you carry – immediately begin to stretch, molding to the shape of your feet as your quirk fuses and elongates them into fins. Webbing spreads between your fingers, and when you open your eyes, they’re impervious to the sting of seawater. Full immersion in seawater is enough to activate your quirk in its entirety, but years of training allow you to hold the transformation where it is. You have someone to rescue.

You swim for the spot Shigaraki went in. He won’t have gone far, not with how ceaselessly the waves batter against that section of the cliff, and it doesn’t take you long to find him. He’s underwater, still moving but sluggish under the weight of his clothes, his hair drifting around his face. There’s blood in the water around him. You can taste it, and as you swim closer, you see that it’s emanating from somewhere around his head and shoulders. He hit something when he fell, and head and neck injuries are a disaster no matter who gets them or how they occur. Is he even conscious? Whether he is or not, you need to get him out of the water.

You let the current carry you close, and although you hate yourself for it, you hesitate a second before reaching for him. You know how his quirk works. All five fingers touch you, and you’re dead. Trying to help Shigaraki could be the last thing you ever do.

But ocean rescue is dangerous, even for someone with your quirk. Every rescue could be the last thing you ever do, and if you do nothing, Shigaraki will drown right before your eyes. You can’t let that happen. You dive down to him, slip your hands under his arms from behind, and haul him upward. He comes to life in your grip, thrashing while you kick for the surface. You’d be more frightened of the fact that he’s trying to turn and grab you if every other person you’ve rescued hasn’t done exactly the same thing.

The two of you break the surface, you doing your best to keep Shigaraki’s mouth above the waves so he won’t swallow any more water than he already has while he tries to breathe. Your lungs haven’t even started to burn yet. You give him a few seconds to gasp for air, then order him to keep his mouth shut and close his eyes. No time to check if he’s done it or not. The only way you’re getting through the surge to calmer water is if you go under it. The next wave crests and you dive beneath it, pulling Shigaraki after you.

Now he’s trying hard to grab you, to use you to push himself to the surface. You adjust your grip and switch to a dolphin kick, fighting your quirk and its attempts to help you. At the same time, you keep count in your head. Shigaraki will need to breathe soon. You need to be through the waves by then.

As soon as the turbulence begins to soften, you swim for the surface again. Once again, you make sure Shigaraki clears the surface first. He’s coughing and gasping for air, but his chin’s above water, which means you’re in good shape for now. “Take some deep breaths. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Fuck you.” Shigaraki coughs and spits out seawater. “This is your fault. I’m not safe. You dragged me out to the middle of the ocean instead of – that had better not be a fucking shark –”

“It’s a dolphin,” you say. The dolphin swims a little closer, decides you and Shigaraki aren’t interesting enough for further investigation, and turns swiftly away. “We’re headed to the beach now. I just needed to get us clear of the surge.”

You swim back for the beach, propelling yourself mainly with your legs. You need both arms to secure Shigaraki. He’s not fighting, which is a relief – and he’s not talking, which makes you nervous. He hit his head. You need him to talk so you can assess him. “Hey, Shigaraki? How are you holding up?”

He mumbles something. “I’m going to need you to repeat that,” you say. “How are you doing?”

“Do you put everybody you rescue in a headlock?”

“It’s not a headlock,” you say. “This is how I swim with anyone I rescue. It’s what’s safest.”

“Sure. And it’s not –” Shigaraki coughs as a wave splashes into his open mouth. “It’s definitely not because you’re scared of my quirk, right?”

You don’t see a point to answering that. Shigaraki keeps talking anyway, a sharp, irritated note in his voice. “How stupid do you think I am? I still can’t swim. If I Decay you out here, I’ll drown.”

So you’ll be in more danger on the beach than in the water. Good to know. You swim the rest of the way to shore, dragging yourself and Shigaraki onto the sand. Once you’re clear of the water, you start your actual assessment. “I saw blood in the water. Did you hit your head?”

Shigaraki nods, grimacing. “When?” you ask. He shrugs. “I need to know. Did you hit it when you fell, or once you were already in the water.”

“I came up for air. The fucking waves pushed me into the – what are you doing?” Shigaraki flinches as you move some strands of wet hair out of his face. “Don’t touch me.”

“I need to see the cut.” You keep looking, with a little more urgency this time. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“No,” Shigaraki says. You find the cut – a jagged gouge from his temple to his ear, just below his hairline – and make a skeptical sound before you can stop yourself. “Stop touching it.”

“Sorry. I know it hurts.”

“I didn’t say it hurt. I’m not some primary-school brat who cries about everything.” Shigaraki responds with a lot more venom than you’d expect given what you actually said to him. “It’s not like you can do anything, so don’t bother.”

The League grabbed you on your way to work, which meant you had all your supplies with you. Your first-aid kit is still hooked onto your belt. “I have what I need,” you say. “Are you going to let me help, or do you want to keep bleeding all over the sand?”

“You can’t help me if I don’t let you.”

“That’s right,” you say patiently. Sometimes people you’ve rescued get hostile with you – out of fear, or embarrassment. Even though this is probably just Shigaraki’s personality, you know how to deal with it. “Are you going to let me?”

Shigaraki holds your gaze for a second, averting his eyes faster than you’d expect. “Do your job. Whatever that means to a so-called hero.”

He’s mean. Of course he’s mean. He’s a villain – but honestly, you’ve rescued civilians who were worse. You pry open the first-aid kit and get to work. You’ll bandage him up, make sure he’s not decompensating, and escape. No one’s faster than you in the water, and given that Shigaraki can’t swim, he’s not going to chase you if you go back in. You’ll warn someone, the League will be captured, and you can forget all about this. It’s fine. Everything is going to be –

“Hey, I found them!” Toga is hollering down from the top of the headland to your right. “The hero brought Tomura-kun to this beach instead of the other one. Tomura, are you okay?”

“It looks bad!” Twice announces. Then, to you: “Give him mouth-to-mouth. With tongue!”

“He’s conscious, breathing, and talking. He doesn’t need mouth to mouth,” you say. You hear this joke a lot, usually from guys whose friend you just saved, and it irks you. “And you don’t do mouth-to-mouth with tongue.”

“Hey! You can’t give Shigaraki substandard mouth-to-mouth just because he’s a villain!” Spinner’s arrived now, too. “What kind of hero are you?”

“The kind who’s trying to do my job,” you say. They’re distracting you, and you need to focus on Shigaraki, not in the least because he could kill you instantly if you make a mistake. You need to keep assessing. “Okay, you didn’t pass out. Did you swallow water at all? Or breathe any in?”

“I didn’t breathe it.” Shigaraki coughs, then grimaces, a flash of panic crossing his face. “Shit. I’m gonna hurl –”

He rolls to one side and vomits seawater into the sand, and you hold his hair back, mainly so you can keep it out of the head wound you’ve just cleaned. “See, he’s fine,” Dabi says from the headland. “Told you.”

“Are you sure he’s fine?” Spinner sounds like he’s thinking about pushing Dabi off the cliff. “Hey. Hero. Is he going to be fine?”

“I’m still assessing,” you caution. Shigaraki coughs a few times, then flops back into the sand. “So far, I’m not too worried, but –”

“Great! We’re going to be over there!” Toga points to the beach on the other side of the headland. “That’s where Mister Compress put all the fun stuff. See you soon, Tomura-kun!”

Most of the League vanishes without another word, but Spinner hangs on a little longer, glaring down at you. “Spinner,” Shigaraki says, his voice raspy, and Spinner looks towards him. “It’s fine. See you – over there.”

Spinner nods and leaves, which is a relief for you. Usually you aren’t that intimidated by guys in purple board shorts, but you usually haven’t been kidnapped by a gang of villains who are hovering over you, shouting bad advice. And you’ve got a different problem now – Shigaraki, who’d be intimidating no matter what he’s wearing. Maybe. He’s soaking wet, his clothes plastered to him, and he’s a lot skinnier than you thought he’d be. He’s looking at you expectantly. “Are you going to fix my head?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You pick through your kit for an appropriately-sized waterproof bandage. “Hold still.”

To your surprise, Shigaraki does it, not even flinching when you move a few more strands of his wet hair away from his face. “Why’d you bring me here instead of the other beach?”

“It was a longer swim. I wanted to get you back on land as fast as possible.” You press the bandage down carefully, running your finger over the edge to make sure it seals properly. “Okay. All done.”

Shigaraki starts trying to sit up, and on instinct, you reach out to help, only realizing your mistake when Shigaraki flinches away. He barks a question at you before you can apologize. “How do I get to the other beach? Climb that thing?”

“No,” you say. “Those headlands aren’t stable, and, uh – you probably need both hands to climb. Both hands and all your – what?”

Shigaraki ignores you. He’s fumbling in the sand, patting down the pockets of his coat, and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, panic descends over his features. “The hands,” he says, and your stomach lurches. “I lost them.”

“Um –” You don’t know what to say, and Shigaraki’s hands rise to claw at the sides of his neck. “If they’re a support item – I know it sucks to lose those, but you can probably get –”

“They’re my family’s hands. I can’t just get more!” Shigaraki’s starting to hyperventilate. “I need them –”

He shoves you to one side, gets unsteadily to his feet, and stumbles back towards the surf. You chase after him, thankful that your feet have mostly gone back to normal. “Hey. Where are you going?”

“I have to get them.” Shigaraki shakes you off when you catch his arm, and you grab him again. “Fuck you. Let me go!”

“You still can’t swim. If I let you go out there, you’ll drown.” You grit your teeth. You really, really don’t want to do this, but – “I can go look for them.”

Shigaraki blinks. “Huh?”

“I’ll swim you over to the other beach, and then I’ll look for them,” you repeat. “People ask me to find stuff they dropped all the time.”

You don’t mention that you usually say no, because it’s a waste of time when you’re supposed to be looking out for everyone on the beach. But it’s just Shigaraki here, and his breathing is starting to even out. “How are you supposed to find them? It’s the ocean.”

“They’re a little heavy, right? They’ll sink, and since I know how the currents work, I can figure out where they probably touched down.” You risk letting go of Shigaraki’s arm, breathing a sigh of relief when he doesn’t immediately bolt. “Come on. I’ll swim you over.”

“Are you going to put me in a headlock again?”

“Not if you promise not to grab me,” you say. He rolls his eyes. “I’m not kidding.”

“And I’m not stupid. If I kill you out there, I’ll drown.” Shigaraki lets one hand fall from his neck, then the other. “Swim me over. Now.”

You take a second to pack up your first-aid kit, then lead Shigaraki out into the water. You give the headland a wide berth, even though it means swimming more than a hundred yards out from the shore, but unlike last time, Shigaraki doesn’t question you. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all, except once. “Is that a –”

“Still a dolphin,” you say. The fin protruding from the water is rounded, and the snout that bumps against your hip is smooth and blunt. “Nothing to worry about.”

The entry to the other beach is smooth and easy. You can see why the League chose this one to hang out on – white sands, gentle waves, picturesque to the max. You hope they didn’t kill anyone to claim this beach for themselves. It looks familiar to you, but you can’t quite remember why, and you realize all at once that you don’t know where you are. Where is this place? How far away did they take you?

It doesn’t matter. You can swim to wherever you need to go, as soon as you dump Shigaraki off on the beach. And you don’t even have to take him all the way in – when they see him, Spinner and Twice come out to help. Shigaraki shrugs them off. “I’m fine.”

“Can you swim yet?” Twice asks. Shigaraki scoffs, and Twice turns on you. “You were supposed to teach him to swim!”

“I will,” you lie. “After I find the hands.”

“Ew,” Toga remarks from the beach, where she’s building a sandcastle. “You don’t need those, Tomura-kun. You feel better without them.”

Shigaraki ignores her and looks back to you. “You’ll find them.”

“Yeah.” You dive back into the water and swim for the other side of the headland. Maybe while you’re over there, you can come up with a plan.

There’s no way to get out of gathering up the hands. If you don’t, Shigaraki will go in to get them himself and drown, and you can’t call yourself a rescue hero if you’re willing to let someone die. You’ll find the hands, removing any incentive Shigaraki has to go back into the water, and then you’ll clear out. You can swim as far as you need to in order to find a populated beach, and once you do, you’ll be able to direct them back here to arrest the League. You track the current around the headland, noting that it forms a small vortex in a recessed area in the rocks. That’s where you’ll find Shigaraki’s hands. He said they were his family’s. What does that mean?

You figure out what it means, the second you find the first one. You pick it up out of the jagged rocks underwater and recoil, dropping it instantly. It’s not a model hand, like you thought when you saw him on TV. It’s a real, embalmed human hand, smaller than yours. It looks like it belonged to a little kid, and a surge of guilt travels through you, mixed in with frustration. You’re not the crazy one. Shigaraki’s the crazy one, for wearing his family’s embalmed hands all over himself all the time. It’s not weird at all for you to not want to touch a little kid’s embalmed hand.

But there’s something sad amidst the awfulness of it all, and whoever’s hand this was, it deserves better from you than just being pitched into the water because you got the ick. You retrieve it again, grimacing. Diving for embalmed hands is one thing, but the longer you stay underwater, the harder it becomes to resist your quirk’s transformation. The sooner you finish this, the better.

It takes you two trips to collect all the hands. Shigaraki wades out into the water to take them from you, but rather than putting them back on, he carries them past the high-tide line and dumps them in the sand. “You found all of them,” he says to you, and you nod. “I didn’t think you could do it.”

That’s neither a thank-you or a compliment, but you expect exactly none of that from a villain. And now’s your moment – Shigaraki’s up on the sand, the others are distracted, and nobody will be able to catch you once you cross the drop-off. “Stay out of the water,” you say, and as Shigaraki’s opening his mouth to respond, you turn and dive back in, swimming hard for the open sea.

This time, you let the transformation kick in, and it’s a relief. Each kick propels you through the water at speed, and you watch the seafloor fall away beneath you. You’ll swim a circuit of the island, figure out where you are, and take off. With luck, you’ll reach land way before the League decides to call cut on their beach episode.

In the water, with your transformation mostly complete, you can see everything, and although sound is muffled underwater, your dorsal and flank fins can pick up vibrations, giving you a heads-up for any sound or movement. But you don’t need your fins to pick up the flailing and thrashing that’s going on behind you. Someone’s in distress, and you have a bad feeling about who. You’re right. When you glance reluctantly over your shoulder, you find Shigaraki, just past the drop-off and sinking fast.

It’s not a question of what you’ll do next, no matter how frustrated you are. You breach the surface, suck down a new lungful of air, and swim back to shore.

The salt water must be stinging Shigaraki’s eyes, but he’s got them open, and when he sees you, they widen even further in shock. You know what he’s looking at, know that the natural response is to flinch back – but he doesn’t. Instead he reaches up for you. there’s nothing you can do but dodge his hands, wrap your arms around him, and pull him back to the surface for the third time today.

He’s gasping, coughing, but you don’t have the patience to wait for him to catch his breath. “Are you crazy? What was that about?” The answer occurs to you, and your frustration explodes. “Did you seriously try to drown yourself so I’d have to come back?”

“It worked,” Shigaraki says. You count to ten and remind yourself that you’re a rescue hero, just so you won’t drop him back in the water and let him sink. “You’re a rescue hero. You have to save people who need help. And I need help, so –”

“You’re going to keep drowning yourself so I can’t leave.”

“Or,” Shigaraki says, “you can teach me to swim.”

“I thought you didn’t want a swim lesson,” you say. “What changed your mind?”

“Seems like something I should know,” Shigaraki says. He shrugs. “And I’d be a dumbass to turn down swim lessons from a mermaid.”

You don’t like being called a mermaid, but at the same time, you know you’re not beating the allegations. When your quirk is fully activated, it transforms your legs into a long tail, complete with multiple sets of fins. It sprouts webbing between your fingers, lengthens your ears, changes the structure of your eyes. If you stayed under long enough, you’d probably sprout gills. You don’t look like a Disney mermaid, but mermaid is still what people see when they look at you when your quirk is on full blast. You’d never have let it get this far if you thought you might have to come back.

Shigaraki’s legs brush against one of your pectoral fins, and you clamp down on a shiver. This is why you never transform fully at work. Worse, you’re breaking protocol – you’re never supposed to hold victims face to face, and you’re definitely not supposed to let them wrap their arms around you like Shigaraki is doing right now. He’s getting weirdly familiar for somebody who’s so against being touched. “I’ll teach you to swim, and then what? You’ll let me go?”

“Maybe.” Shigaraki shrugs. “If you help me out, I won’t have a good reason to kill you.”

That might be the best you’ll get. For now. Once he knows how to float, you’re bailing out. “Fine. I’ll teach you.”

Shigaraki looks pleased. Not smug, like you’d expect – just pleased. “Okay. What do I do first?”

“Get back on land,” you say, “and find a swimsuit. I’m not teaching you in your clothes.”

Shigaraki’s suspicious at first, enough to remind you that he’ll just go over the drop-off if you try to escape again, and you react the same way he does when you remind him not to grab you. He heads up the beach, towards the surf shack Mr. Compress – the brown-haired guy you couldn’t place before – must have stolen. Meanwhile, you work on getting yourself out of the surf. Your quirk won’t start to deactivate until you’re clear of the water, and to teach a normal person to swim, it helps to be working with the same equipment as they are.

You use the waves as much as you can, but eventually it’s just you and the wet sand, and your tail is so heavy that you’re reduced to hauling out on the beach like a seal. It looks stupid. You look stupid, and all you can do is hope that the League of Villains is looking the other way. They aren’t. Shigaraki might be off looking for a swimsuit, but the other five are all staring your way.

It doesn’t take long for you to lose patience. “What?”

They ignore you. “I knew we grabbed the right one,” Toga says, gleeful. “We got Tomura-kun a mermaid!”

Dabi is nodding, a smirk on his face. “This is perfect. She’s gonna keep him busy all day long.”

“I’d be busy forever. Look how pretty her tail is –”

You flop back in the sand, staring up at the sky. Not only are you going to have to teach Shigaraki to swim, you’re going to have to do it while being stared at like you’re an animal in a zoo – and if you try to escape, Shigaraki will try to drown himself just to make you come back. This is going to be the worst beach episode ever. At least for you.

taglist: @deadhands69 @shigarakislaughter @handumb @cheeseonatower @lvtuss @xeveryxstarfallx @atspiss @warxhammer @stardustdreamersisi @shikiblessed @evilcookie5 @aslutforfictionalmen @dance-with-me-in-hell @agente707 @koohiii @minniessskii @baking-ghoul @boogiemansbitch @lacrimae-lotos @issaortiz @f3r4lfr0gg3r

[divaofmads]

Thanatos | Dr. Crane

Pairing Jonathan Crane x Female Reader

Gif by @breakfastonuranus

Summary: A psychopath who wants to control fears — and a woman willing to become his plaything. On a journey filled with desire and fear, control and pleasure begin to blur into one.

⚠️ Warnings: +18, MDNI, NSFW, Smut, Fingering, Domination, Vaginal Sex, Rape/non-con/underage content is not present or condoned, The content explores consensual dark erotica and kink with clear agency, Age Gap (F! 20 -M! 30), Heavy sexual tension, Dark themes, Psychological manipulation, Obsession, Gaslighting, Dark!JonathanCrane, Fear Kink, Toxic relationship dynamics, Fear Serum Mentions, Experimental drug use (fictional substance, psychological context), Power imbalance (mentor x intern dynamic), Do not romanticize manipulation in real life, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @arcielee

📌A/N: While writing this story, I drew inspiration from Freud’s concept of the death drive (Thanatos), the life/sexual drive (Eros), and the dark line where these two opposing forces intertwine. What is told here is not just a fantasy; it's also about how people approach their desires with fear, and how they transform fear into desire. My story is both a warning and a surrender. Like a life lived under the shadow of death. Or like the sudden sense of absence that appears at the very depth of pleasure.

You began to tidy up the scattered documents on your desk. Files, pens, your glasses case. You slowly zipped up your bag and stood. Adjusted your shoulders. Noticed the bottom button of your shirt had ridden up and hastily tucked it back in. Your reflection in the mirror showed a tired but content expression, the day was over, or so you thought. Your palms were still clammy, because working in Dr. Crane’s office wasn’t merely an academic duty; it was a kind of survival art. Even his silence was a threat, and you had no choice but to obey it.

The wall clock had just passed six, its ticking sound slicing through the silence like a blade. In your mind still lingered the notes you’d taken throughout the day, the patients you observed, and Dr. Crane’s meticulous gaze. That gaze had followed you like a shadow through Arkham’s dimly lit corridors all day. Even though barely two sentences had escaped his lips, Jonathan Crane seemed to read you with a chilling precision. It was as if he knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, what you were suppressing, better than you did. And the most terrifying part? He seemed to enjoy it.

Just as you turned toward the door… the handle clicked. And like a cold gust of wind, he entered.

He stepped in holding his notebook, and the air in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. The dirty yellow light highlighted the pale sharpness of his features. His eyes looked at you like a hunter sizing up prey, just before striking.

“I don’t recall granting you permission to leave.”

His tone was low, measured, and deep. But the undertone was ice-cold. It wasn’t merely a sentence, it was a decision, a judgment, a command. Your heart skipped. Your hand remained on your bag strap; you couldn’t move forward or backward.

You opened your mouth, but the words stalled on your tongue. Because you knew there was no point in arguing. Jonathan Crane wasn’t just a strict professor; he was like a surgeon dissecting you. He had placed your soul on the table, opened your veins, and watched you from the inside. Not just as a student, but as a subject.

“It’s past six... I just…” you said softly, like a child retreating to defense. “I was just packing up, doctor.”

His expression didn’t change. His eyes stayed locked on your face. Then, he stepped closer. The door didn’t shut, through the crack, a line of sterile white light cut into the dark office like a blade.

“So you were preparing to escape before I dismissed you?”

His voice didn’t rise, but the subtle sarcasm scraped at your insides. Your gaze dropped to the floor, your head bowed slightly. Your shoulders sagged. You knew everything, this damned internship, hung between his lips. He had told you on the first day: “If you want to stay here, you’ll follow my rules. My rules are... changeable. Like your courage.”

“No... no, I just misunderstood, I think…” you said, but before you could finish, the strap of your bag slipped from your fingers. A small thud. And then silence. And his footsteps, ah, those slow, deliberate steps began echoing across the hard floor, sending a shiver through you.

Jonathan stood in front of you. He didn’t tilt his head or raise your chin when he spoke. The space between you was barely a breath. You smelled him; a metallic medicinal scent, a hint of sweat, and the dusty aroma of old book covers. His face was expressionless, but his eyes… they watched you break.

“This internship… requires diligence. Small details often determine fate. For instance, do you know who decides when you’re allowed to leave this office?”

You slowly shook your head. Your lips parted, but you gave no answer.

“I do,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not you. Not the bell. Don’t think you’re ‘free’ just because the sun has set. I control this institution’s rhythm, Y/N. And your little sense of time can’t disrupt my system.”

He reached out. His fingers moved toward the button on your collar but didn’t unfasten it. He only touched it. With cold and steady pressure. It felt like he was pressing not on the fabric, but on your throat. A tremble rose beneath your heart. A shiver coursed down your spine. You weren’t afraid… at least, not just afraid. There was something in that touch a submissive surrender mingled with fear.

“If you want to leave…” he said, and with his thumb under your button, he lifted your chin, “...you’ll ask for permission. While looking me in the eyes.”

You stood there, head bowed. Your body motionless, but inside, storms were brewing. Jonathan Crane’s eyes were on you. He had your strings in his hand, unraveling you. He didn’t even need to raise a hand. That eye contact was pushing you back, further and further from yourself. You swallowed against the heat swelling in your throat.

“Please… may I leave, Dr. Crane?”

Your voice was soft, barely a whisper. But in the silence, it was a confession, an audible expression of your submission to his authority. You didn’t want to please him as much as you feared angering him. Because his wrath wouldn’t be verbal, it would come through action. And while you didn’t yet know what he was capable of… your imagination was more than active.

His eyes lingered on you for a few seconds. Then, his eyelids drooped slightly, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. He examined you. Smelled your helplessness.

“No,” he said flatly. The word echoed like a bullet hitting the wall. “We’re not finished yet.”

Your heart paused. What could you say? To object… would be suicide. Your shoulders dropped. You dared to meet his eyes.

“But…” you said, swallowing hard, “…it’s past working hours. For today…”

“Be quiet,” he cut you off. His voice didn’t rise. But the tone, was like a slap that shattered any thought of defiance. “If you work with me, time does not belong to you. Understand? Time is mine.”

He took another step. The sound of his shoes still echoed coldly on the floor, but now he was just inches from you. Your eyes drifted to his chest, just below the collar. You couldn’t see his heartbeat, but it was there. Close. Dangerous. Yet… alluring. With the back of his hand, he lifted your chin this time. His palm was warm, but the skin he touched went numb. When your eyes met his… your balance shifted.

“You’ll go down to the archive room,” he said softly. His fingers remained at your chin, pressure slightly increasing. “Retrieve file A-38. The one with the red label. When you bring it back, we’ll… examine it together.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t about going to the archive. You didn’t care about the contents of the file. What mattered, was his tone. His request, so unnecessary and arbitrary… was a test. A rehearsal for control. A reminder of your place, your time of surrender.

“I suggest you move quickly,” he added. He removed his hand from your face but immediately reached again for the button on your collar. “And if you try to leave again without permission… next time, we’ll speak differently.”

He didn’t press the button. He just paused there. But for a moment, you felt your whole body lock beneath the tip of his finger.

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then turned and walked toward the bookshelf. All that remained was silence, your shallow breath, and the fragile desire trembling in the cold room.

Your fingers trembled. You tried to suppress the storm inside as you took a deep breath. You knew… when you returned with that file, what awaited you wouldn’t be limited to the pages.

And the next time you stepped into that office…

you wouldn’t leave as yourself.

As you stepped into the corridor, even your own footsteps sounded too loud in your ears. It felt as if each step echoed off the walls, amplifying the noise inside your head. Your fingers were still trembling slightly, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear… or the lingering phantom warmth of where he had touched you. Your heart fluttered inside your chest like a restless creature clawing to escape. Your body moved forward, but your mind was still in his office. That tone of voice, the breath that brushed your neck, that single word: “No.”

No.

He had said no. And for the first time in your life, after someone told you “no,” instead of stepping back, you had chosen to move forward.

That was what shamed you the most. That fluid guilt flowing through your veins. Yes, you had to obey his command. This internship was a necessity for you. But deep down, you knew, it was no longer just about obedience. There was a need rising from within, something you couldn’t name. When you looked into his eyes, there was something stirring in you, something that made you feel… tainted. Desire and hatred should never be so tightly woven together. It shouldn’t be like this. Why did the dark feel so… alluring?

Why did his humiliation burn just like his touch?

Your underwear had grown damp. Even that detail embarrassed you. If he had realized what state you were in around him… he’d tear you apart. And even as you imagined that moment of unraveling, you felt shame.

You took a deep breath. Tried to collect yourself. The archive room was at the end of the corridor. “I’m just getting a file,” you told yourself. “A piece of paper. That’s all. Calm down.”

But your steps began to shorten. Because as you neared the door, all you could see was a slit of dim light. Most of the ceiling lamps were broken. The archive room was one of the least used, most forgotten spaces in Arkham. When you pushed the door open, the metal hinges groaned with rust. The creaking sound slithered across your skin like a chill.

Inside… was a dark labyrinth.

Only one fluorescent light flickered weakly on the left. It gave off more of a tremble than brightness. The rest was in total darkness. The shelves, if you could even call them that, were chaotic. Stacks of files, labels scattered across the floor, toppled folders. The place looked like it had been abandoned after a war. Which section was A, which was B? Where were the red-labeled files? Nothing was clear.

There were narrow paths. Just barely enough space between the shelves to squeeze through. Turning, bending, even taking a deep breath felt difficult. You felt like even a moment’s distraction, as small as a loose screw, could bring the whole structure crashing down on you. The air was stale. The familiar scent of dust filled your nose. You tried not to cough. In this silence, even the slightest sound from your throat felt too much.

A-38.

With a red label.

Your mind repeated the instruction over and over. Your feet moved cautiously between the shelves. But with each step, you felt more and more lost. Not physically… mentally. This place felt like Crane’s mind: cluttered, chaotic, narrow, out of control, yet woven with a strange, magnetic logic that kept pulling you in.

You lifted a few folders. A-14, A-22… C-03… B-67… All jumbled. Some labels were torn, others faded. As your hand brushed over the folder covers, the moist, dusty cardboard tickled your skin. Your eyes were adjusting to the dark, but your body remained on high alert. You kept feeling like if you turned around, someone would be standing there. Or… maybe you wanted to feel that.

Because his voice was still in your head. “If you try to leave again without permission…”

It echoed in your mind like an unfinished threat.

And you… you were beginning to hope for more than just threats.

You didn’t know how long you’d been struggling among the files. Time seemed warped in here. Your fingers were dark with dust, your elbows scratched from the sharp cardboard edges. Your back ached from twisting and bending in this oppressive space. But above all, you felt a weight. Something non-physical… an instinctual pressure. Your heart was slowly speeding up. Your ears buzzed. And strangest of all, at the tip of your nose, you smelled him. That same metallic, medicinal tone mixed with a dark cologne… or was it just your imagination?

Just as you were sifting through the lower section of the B shelf, a shadow suddenly passed to your right and struck the floor. You hadn’t heard any footsteps. As someone appeared behind you, your body instinctively tensed, but then you heard his voice. That cold, sleek blade of a voice, full of restrained authority, familiar and terrifying.

“Truly… that a task this simple challenges you so deeply is… disappointing.”

His voice was too close. And as soon as you heard it, your heart clenched and the tension radiated through every inch of your body. Your hand still rested on the files, but your focus shattered. The space behind you… wasn’t empty anymore. Just like the silence in your mind. He was here. Quietly. Watching. Patiently. And now… he had arrived.

You swallowed, feeling your throat muscles scrape against each other. Your eyes scanned the shelf in front of you, but the letters made no sense anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “It’s… quite disorganized. The labels are missing.”

It was an explanation, but also a defense. Because the thought of disappointing him had carved itself deeper into you than fear. It felt cruel, yes, but also… like a fragile form of attachment.

His presence shifted behind you. No sound. But your body could feel every subtle movement he made. The distance between you was shrinking. This shelf row was barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. And he wasn’t moving past you. He was behind you. Very close.

You couldn’t move. His breath grazed the exposed part of your neck and you instinctively held your breath. Nothing touched your back, but where was he? He was close. You felt it in your bones.

“This file,” he said, his voice landing near your right ear, “is a kind of… case study we’ll be working on. If you want to learn, and you must, for this internship, you must understand what and why you’re looking for. Otherwise, you’ll wander in the dark like a blind subject.”

One more step. This time, you couldn’t suppress your breath. Because something lightly touched your back. Not harsh, not aggressive… but definite. His body, maybe his jacket… or simply his nearness was enough to make you feel it. You realized someone had bent near your waist. Then, something brushed the inside of your arm. A fine fabric. His hand. Moving discreetly at your elbow. Your eyes widened, but you didn’t turn your head. Your face was blank. But inside… chaos exploded.

And he continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

“Perhaps someone like you struggles to find what they’re looking for… because they don’t quite know what it is they’re seeking.”

The end of his sentence was dangerously close to your ear. But the real realization was that your body had forgotten how to move. You stayed as you were, hands resting on the files. Because if you moved, the contact might become more obvious. Or… it might change. It might go further.

And maybe… you wanted it to.

And the most terrifying, most shameful thought was this:

You wanted to stay like this.

As your fingers kept gliding over the folders, Crane’s presence was no longer debatable, it wrapped around you like a second skin. You stood caught between the shelf and his body, positioned so that even the lack of space itself felt intoxicating. The tightness of the archive room pressed him closer, yet he moved as if it were nothing but necessity. But nothing about this was natural. Every move was calculated, every breath rehearsed.

Suddenly, his right arm reached over you to grab one of the folders above. As the inside of his arm passed just behind your shoulder, you felt his hips brush against you, for the first time, there was no ambiguity in the contact. You held your breath, but he kept moving as if nothing had happened. His fingertips hovered over the labels, yet he didn’t move his body an inch away. On the contrary… he leaned in, just slightly.

The side of your neck was bare. Strands of your hair were messily falling. That’s when you heard his voice again. This time, lower. More personal. His vocal cords nearly touched your skin.

"Why are your hands shaking?"

It wasn’t a question. Not even an observation. It was a kind of threat, silent, implied. Not physical. Psychological. His voice seeped under your skin. The heat of his breath vibrated at your neck. Your shoulder now felt like it was pinned to his chest. There was no room to retreat. The shelf in front, his body behind. Your breath shortened. You thought of saying “stop”… but your tongue didn’t move. Because you didn’t want him to. But you couldn’t ask him to start, either. You were circling inside a moral void. And yes, you were scared it might cost you your internship.

He raised his hand again, reaching for another folder. This time, the motion was slower. As his fingers passed just in front of your arm, his palm lightly brushed your wrist. And stayed. He didn’t pull back. Not until he had the folder. The weight of his hand pressed against your skin, unmoving. You closed your eyes, tried to hold your breath—but your chest started rising and falling too fast.

And he noticed. Of course, he did. For Jonathan Crane, your body's responses were data. He didn’t need your words to understand. Your pulse, your breathing, the trembling at your fingertips... they were maps to him. And reading those maps gave him pleasure.

He leaned in a little closer. You felt him move through your hair. His lips were nearly at your exposed neck. It made your skin shiver. Your eyes locked on the labels along the far wall, but none of the letters made sense anymore.

You were scared. Every brush of his skin had carved itself into yours. But what followed shattered you even more. His other hand touched your outer thigh, just above the hem of your skirt. A warm touch. Maybe even a caress. But done in a way that suggested accident, like it was just part of the motion.

You swallowed hard. The knot in your throat wouldn’t loosen. You couldn’t speak. Your back was being pressed further into his torso. You were locked in place. And yet, his hands remained—on the surface—innocent. He was just browsing folders. Just… helping.

But his touch lingered longer each time. Each folder he reached for, he seemed to do so with unnecessary tenderness. Like he wasn’t touching paper, but skin. When he pulled one out, his hand grazed your hip. “Accidentally.” But it was too specific to be dismissed. And when your knees trembled, his breathing deepened. His chest rose beneath his jacket. He was watching you. Drinking in your reactions.

“You’re feeling too much. That pleases me. It means... there’s still something left in you to break.”

That’s when it hit you. This wasn’t just about finding a folder. This was a session. A covert experiment. You were his subject. The narrow archive aisle was the lab, and your helpless responses were the data. Every small shiver echoed inside him.

For a moment, you imagined yourself through his eyes. Someone who couldn’t move, couldn’t flee, and yet… wouldn’t say “no.” Your chest tightened. But within that tightness, something darker bloomed. A pleasure you couldn’t explain pulled you deeper.

And Jonathan Crane… he wasn’t rushing to drag you there. He was guiding you slowly. Without force. Without resistance.

Because you were already breaking.

The folder with the red label trembled between your fingers, shining like salvation. It had been wedged deep behind the shelf, covered in dust, nearly invisible. The rustling sound it made as you pulled it free shattered the icy shell inside you. Your heart began to race, but this time, it felt like breathing again.

“Ah... this is it,” you said, your voice trembling with a fragile kind of joy. “We’re saved.”

That word slipped out before you realized: saved.

Your own tongue had chosen it, as if aware of the weight of the moment. The presence of the man behind you still burned on your skin. But the file… was just an excuse.

You reached back with a gentle but decisive touch, placing your hand against Crane’s chest. It wasn’t gratitude, it was an attempt to escape. And the moment your fingertips met his warmth, it hit you like a blow. But when you pushed, he didn’t resist at all.

It was as if he’d only been there to observe you.

As if he wasn’t trying to trap you, but provoke a response. And he got it.

Once you stepped out of the narrow aisle in the archive room, you inhaled deeply. As the door creaked shut behind you, you realized something inside you hadn’t followed. It lingered on your skin. On your hip, your wrist, your neck... everywhere he had touched, a trace remained. A shadow.

You clutched the folder to your chest and started walking. Your steps became mechanical. Your left arm supported the file tightly, your other hand opened and closed in the empty air. Your eyes looked ahead, but your thoughts clung to words for distraction. You tried to smile. Maybe if you laughed, it would pass. Maybe if you spoke, everything that had just happened would disappear.

“Finally,” you said with a light smile. “Those shelves were like a battlefield. I think A-38 might be this building’s best-kept secret.”

Your voice tried to sound natural, but it felt foreign even to your own ears. Something inside you was still trembling. It hadn’t stayed behind. It was walking with you. His hands, his breath, his voice were now buried in silence, yet you could still feel him.

Dr. Crane was watching you. His eyes were on your face.

Through Arkham’s long corridors, the echoes of your footsteps over cracked ceramic tiles accompanied his silence. He didn’t say a word. Nothing. That made you feel even more on edge. His silence wasn’t a punishment, it was a clue. He knew he had read you. And now, he was enjoying the sight of you trying to wear your armor again.

You felt his gaze. Heavy. Sharp. Like fingers pressing into your back. It wasn’t the kind of desire that chased, it engulfed. A shadow wrapping around you from the inside. Picking through your mind. Memorizing your skin. The desire of a man who devoured you not with his hands, but with his eyes.

And no matter how much you clung to words, that silence… said more than any sentence could.

When you entered his office, the space transformed again into Crane’s domain. Unlike the cramped archive, it was wider, but somehow more intimate. The light was muted. The amber glow of the lamps leaned across the desk, casting soft halos on the papers, forming shadows. But here, shadows weren’t just from objects, they were intentions.

As you opened the folder, he sat down in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His fingertips touched one another, the familiar position of the observer. His eyes weren’t on your face. They hovered just below your neck, on the fabric of your shirt. But he wasn’t looking. He was scanning.

As you pulled the files from the folder, you noticed he hadn’t moved closer. Not yet. But his breath arrived before any motion did.

On the top right corner of the first page, there was a date: 03.08.22

Below it, a name: Leonid F. Klein.

And beneath that, a note scribbled in handwriting: “The perfect lie. Even to himself.”

“Klein,” Crane said, not taking his eyes off your hands, “a case of obsessive-compulsive behavior coupled with advanced mythomania. Which means he wasn’t just a pathological liar. His sense of reality was fractured. Lying wasn’t a defense, it was structure. Pleasure.”

His voice was low, but every emphasis carefully chosen. Just like the words. You rotated the file slightly toward him so both of you could read at once. That motion brought your shoulder close enough to touch his. Your knees nearly brushed. But neither of you pulled away.

“In cases like this,” he continued, fingers tapping the desk’s edge, “we don’t just look at the lie itself. We look at what need shaped it. Sometimes, the individual... requires a process even to confess the lie they wish were true.”

He placed his hand near the page. Close, but not quite touching yours. Yet you could feel the heat of his skin. The deliberate proximity.

“For instance,” he said, lowering his voice further, “imagine someone’s made to do something they didn’t want. They may say they didn’t want it. But the body... might tell another story.”

“Klein was the same. He always said, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’ But his pupils would dilate. His voice would soften. His pulse would spike. The body doesn’t make alliances with lies.”

A pause followed. Not from lack of information, but to listen to your reaction.

Your breathing had changed. He noticed.

Your hand trembled. He saw that too.

His eyes slid from your face to your chest, then to your neck, and finally... to the edge of your lips.

He didn’t say a word. But somehow... he said it all.

“People often want what they claim they don’t. But knowing that, hurts. You have the intellect to understand that.”

These words weren’t direct. But their weight was unmistakable.

You felt exposed. You stared at the table.

He touched your shoulder with the outside of his hand. This time, deliberately. Gauging your response. Then he leaned in. As he turned the next page, he spoke beside your ear.

“Do you know what a liar truly seeks, more than anything?”

“To be believed?”

“No. To be caught.”

You swallowed. Hard. Your eyes drifted toward the corner of the room. But your body, as if trying to escape, shifted slightly away from the desk. Your hip slid to the side, putting space between your leg and his. The distance still looked professionally acceptable. But what you felt… had already passed those boundaries.

He brushed your fingertips with his. Brief. Soft. But calculated.

“One doesn’t only defend themselves from others… but from their own impulses. And impulses... love resistance. Resistant minds are their favorite playground.”

With those words, he finally looked into your eyes. Fully.

And brought you to the edge.

Jonathan Crane’s touch on your hand ended in a thin line. The closeness he had maintained up until that moment had been sharp and patient; but now he pulled back. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes for a few seconds. He left between you not a tense silence, but a calculating space. Then, when his eyelids slowly opened, it was as if he had become a completely different man, but he was still the same Crane. Only he had moved into the next phase.

He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. Rhythmic, thoughtful. Then he tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes returning to the pages. But there was a sentence on his lips that would pierce your mind:

“Do you remember… that new prototype I mentioned last term? A beta-typogenic class combination… a type of fluid. A formula that facilitates the confessional reflex. It is being developed to overcome behavioral blockages.”

His tone was neutral, as if you were in a classroom. But that was only the first layer. His words were presented to you as a technical reminder; but what was seeping beneath the tone… was something else entirely.

His jawline was harder. The inside of his eyes was measuring.

He was measuring whether he remembered or not, not just on the level of knowledge, but on another level as well.

“It’s a very interesting thing, chemically,” he continued. “There’s a very fine line between the neurological structures needed to tell a lie and the structures needed to repress it. If you can blur that line… everything that’s repressed comes to the fore. It spills out into words. Inevitably.”

You held your breath. Your hand was still on the corner of the file, but you weren’t looking at the pages anymore. As he spoke to you, he stood up abruptly. The slight creak of his chair echoed through the room like a small tremor. He turned his back to you and headed for a closet in the back corner of the office. His movements were not quick; each step was measured and heavy. As he opened the closet door, the fluorescent light reflecting off the metal shelves inside dazzled him.

He reached out and pulled out a small glass tube. Inside was a liquid as dark as night and quivering with a golden hue. The liquid moved slowly inside the glass, rippling as if it were breathing.

Jonathan turned to you, twirling the tube between his thumb and forefinger. His face was still expressionless. But his eyes… bore the impatience of a God about to begin an experiment.

“I’m glad you remembered,” he said. “But the question is… whether you have the confidence to put this theoretical knowledge into practice.”

He moved closer. He stood across the table, holding the tube in his palm. From where you were looking, the liquid was clearer now. The glass had been warmed by his body heat. He didn’t hand it to you. Not yet.

“The effect of the drug is temporary,” he said. “It doesn’t cause unconsciousness. It doesn’t involve external intervention. It just… brings out what’s inside. It doesn’t numb. It cleanses. It erases obstructions.”

Then he stepped forward. He came around the corner of the table and approached you. The tube was still steady in his hand. His stance was under control, but your breath was close enough to brush his chest. He lowered his voice another notch. He whispered, as if only you could hear: “Do you trust me?”

The words were easy. But their content was poisonous. And then came another sentence; that fragile persuasion that trapped you, leaving no way out: “Or… is there something you’re afraid to confess?”

Your whole body tensed. Because at this point, the choice was no longer whether to accept the drug or not.

The choice was whether to accept and accept how much you obeyed him. Whether to learn who you were in his hands or not. And he was offering you this drug as a personal tool, not just an experimental one. Would you choose to deny yourself?

Or, looking into his eyes… surrender?

Jonathan finally placed the tube on the table. He rolled it slowly to a stop. He locked his eyes with yours. There was a threatening expectation in his eyes. A cold, scientific, frightening curiosity-infused expectation. A decision that seems like "it's your decision", but in fact it has already been made for you.

The glass of the tube stopped spinning on the table. The movement had stopped, but the liquid inside seemed to still stir. It vibrated with uncertainty, fear, but also with an uncontrollable curiosity, just like the restlessness inside you.

You smiled. Forced it. Your facial muscles relaxed for a moment, your voice tried to sound natural.

“We can’t do this… I mean, it was an experiment. A prototype. I don’t know if testing it on yourself… is reasonable or ethical. It might even be… illegal.”

The rise in the voice at the end was tried to sound like a joke. But even you didn’t believe it. Your eyes still avoided his. Because there… there was a darkness reading you. A clinical coldness that analyzed not only your behavior but also your desires.

Jonathan Crane was silent for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side. The line between his eyebrows wasn’t just a superficial sign of thought. He was watching you. He was listening to all the “no’s” you had hidden under that sentence. And then he spoke. Slow, sharp, as if every word had been chosen to tear you apart from the inside.

“I don’t meet students like you every semester. Do you know what’s interesting? They’re all brilliant at first. They’re all praised with grades. But then… they’re not tested. And no success that isn’t tested is real.”

He took a step toward you. His hands were tied behind his back. He was taller than you; his position was that of a judge rather than a teacher. He was cold. But that coldness… seemed like it would be warmed by a punishment.

“You think you’re ‘the best,’ don’t you? The most careful, the most patient, the most meticulous… even the most courageous. But none of these… should apply only to the classroom. There’s no room for these fairy tales in your professional life.”

The words seeped in. To be the best. That was the command you wrote inside yourself. You wanted to be ‘the first’ in his eyes. To be distinguished, to be seen as different. Because this internship… was the most fragile bridge of your career. And Crane had caught you on that bridge.

“Do you remember the students before you?” he asked. “Not one of them has been in this room with me where you are now. None of them have come this close. None of them… had this much potential.”

Your breath caught between your lips. Your chest heaved rapidly, but that breath was not a victory… it was a loss. He had set you apart. He had offered you the title of first place, but that title came with a price.

And Crane, as the one who held the prize, reminded you of that price:

“People like you can’t afford to be weak. They’re not afraid to make a decision. They think you won’t hesitate.”

“But now… you’re running away. You’re afraid. Because this is the first time you’ve been put to the test.”

His eyes locked on yours. Not to convince, but to leave no room for escape. Then he turned his head slowly. He opened the drawer on the desk. He pulled out a sterile syringe with a black frame.

It was the same temperature as the glass tube, but much more menacing. And he began to prepare this threat, as if it were a ceremony, calmly and methodically.

“It doesn’t change you. It just… opens you up to you.”

“Without any external interference, it just lets you face your truth. That’s what all ‘successful’ people avoid. Learning… who you really are.”

A note of tone appeared in his voice as his fingers tested the steel of the needle:

“If this is too much for you… maybe you’re not as brave as I thought.”

There it was. It was chosen to sink in. If you’re afraid, it’s because you’re weak. If you don’t accept, it’s because you’re not ready. And you… had to be ready. Because in his eyes, you were ‘the best.’

And in his eyes, being ‘the best’ was tantamount to obedience.

The hissing sound as the syringe began to draw the liquid echoed through the room. The golden liquid, flowing from the glass into the metal, was now only a few centimeters away from you. And Jonathan Crane watched you with no expression of triumph on his face.

Because he had already won.

The hissing sound as the liquid in the glass syringe vibrated into the metal needle was like a warning bell for you. It didn’t echo throughout the room, but it became an internal whisper that buzzed in your ears. This was no longer part of a laboratory experiment, but a chemical revelation ceremony played with your body. And you… You were standing there, facing Crane. Your wrist was exposed. The sleeve of your shirt was slowly rolled up. Your veins were highlighted by the effect of fear. The blue under your skin was now a direct target.

The hard rubber sound of Crane’s hands as he put on his gloves seemed to polish the seriousness of the moment. And then, the brief but infinite second of injection that would prepare you to see from within, not from the surface, would begin.

“Stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “This will only disable the voice that silences you. Everything else… already exists inside you.”

You felt the moment when the metal of the syringe needle touched your skin before it went deeper. First, the coldness. The sudden tightening of nerve endings that knew something was coming. Then a little pressure.

And then…

Introduction.

The moment the needle punctured your vein, your brain registered the moment. The puncture wasn’t sharp, but the wave that followed was…a fire that burned inside you but couldn’t seep out.

Crane slowly pushed the plunger. The fluid in the glass tube was now moving through your veins.

Your vagus system was activated. Your heartbeat slowed for a moment, then sped up. Your breathing became irregular. The fluid was directly touching the communication between your amygdala and your prefrontal cortex. The frontal lobes of your brain, which “censored reality,” began to fail like a membrane that was slowly evaporating. In its place, a more primitive layer was preparing to speak.

The drug’s intravenous spread reached your brain’s limbic system in about 8.3 seconds. And that’s when you realized that your body was no longer yours.

A vibration rose. First in your neck. Then in your shoulder blades. Finally… in the center of your chest.

The bottom of your chest tightened as if someone was pressing from inside. There was not enough air. You didn’t want to breathe because even the air you took in at that moment seemed to be under Crane’s control.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your sweat glands activated. Your subcutaneous temperature rose rapidly, while your body warmed up by 0.5 degrees.

But the most dramatic change happened inside. Your mind’s voice fell silent.

Instead, whatever was repressed began to climb upwards with the chemical drive of the liquid. Just as nausea comes not from a thought, but from a physiological drive…

For a moment, an image of the past flashed before your eyes. A failure. A race. A class. Eyes looking at you. That minus sign you received after the exam. That moment when you were told “insufficient”. It opened up in your mind like an unhealed wound. And then, the voice inside you asked: “Does Crane look at me like that?”

No thought was safe for you anymore.

It was all getting ready to come out. And he… was watching you.

When Crane withdrew the syringe, a small drop of blood rose to the surface after the metal had been removed from his skin. He pressed it gently with his fingers, but for the first time the contact was truly personal. Because this time, it wasn’t just the medicine that had seeped into his skin… but also his gaze.

“This is… the first stage,” he said. “Now, not your words… but your instincts will speak.”

Your pupils were dilated, your forehead moist. The insides of your knees were tingling, your body was losing control, but you weren’t falling yet.

Because you were still resisting. But the resistance was no longer just suppressing the medicine, it was suppressing yourself.

The silence of the room had changed to something else now. There was a chemical vibrating in the air; an aura that was invisible but coursing through your veins, an effect that took your thoughts from your hands and delivered them to his fingers.

You sat in your chair, your eyes wide, your lips parted. Your breathing wasn’t smooth, but rather undulating like waves crashing against the shore. Your chest, your shoulders… all seemed to carry a weight that was loaded onto your body. Everything you had suppressed inside you wanted to come out in the uncontrolled movements of your body, but you… were still trying to resist. Confessing… meant everything.

Jonathan Crane was still standing. After dropping the syringe into a medical waste container, he slowly guided his steps towards you. His stance was calm, but this calmness was only apparent from the outside; underneath it was strategy, appetite, lustful attention. His eyes lingered on you; he seemed to take note of your every reaction. But he didn’t want to tear you apart… he wanted to have you by making you unravel yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked, his voice low but direct. “Not much. Just honestly. Are you afraid?”

Even the question was a trap. Because if you said “no,” you would be lying. And you couldn’t lie. If you said “yes,” you would be accepting the fact that he was controlling you. But you… you were torn. After a few seconds of silence, without lifting your eyes from the table, you whispered:

“A little.”

He smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was patient, mixed with pleasure. He was starting to figure you out. And now, he had decided to dig deeper.

He moved closer to you. He took a step toward the back of the chair. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was getting closer to you from the thickening air between you. There was a deep silence. Then his voice rose again, from somewhere near the back of your neck. You shivered, your muscles tightening. “So what makes it hard for you to be honest with me? Fear? Morality? Or… something else?”

Your body quivered reflexively at that moment. Because the question wasn’t direct, but the implication was very strong. The words caught in your throat. The word “morality” felt like a needle when it came out of his voice. Was it what had happened between you and him that you were questioning… or was it that you wanted those things?

You swallowed.

“It’s just… weird,” you said with difficulty. “This isn’t normal.”

Jonathan tilted his head a little to the side at that answer. Like a doctor watching a subject’s first reaction. Yet he wasn’t impatient. Because he knew that the magic of confession… lay in its delay. Then, without forcing you at all, he began to speak slowly, in a way that would mentally grip you:

“People worship mediocrity to escape normality. They force themselves into ‘reasonable’ patterns. But inside them… there is a darker, more honest self. Those like you know this very well. Because you… don’t just want to be successful. You want to be distinguished. To be noticed. To know that something that is thought to be untouchable… has been opened up specifically for you. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you don’t stay silent.”

His words were filling the voids inside you. You were trying to resist, but your lips were moist, your fingers were tightly gripping the edge of the table. That liquid running through your veins was now loosening not only the urges, but also the shame.

Then he asked the question. Slowly. Almost in a whisper. “Have you ever thought about me?”

The blood rushed to your face. You felt like even hearing that sentence was tearing you apart. Your shoulders started to sag, as if someone had reached out from inside your heart and pulled away all the walls you had stepped on.

For a moment you couldn’t answer. But then… the word came. Like a rotten whisper.

“Yes…”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up. He didn’t smile. Because this moment wasn’t something to laugh at. This was the moment when the armor that made you who you were cracked for the first time.

And then he took another step. This time he was right next to you. He didn’t put his hand on your shoulder, he didn’t touch your hair. But you could feel his presence… under your skin now.

“When?” he asked. “What moment? What thought?”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to run away. But the words… came.

“The first day of the internship… when you didn’t look into my eyes. You weren’t talking to the other students like you did. I thought about it then. But I didn’t want to. But I thought about it anyway.”

Crane lowered his gaze to you. Just like a patient is put under observation at the first moment of crisis… only this time his interest wasn’t just clinical. He wasn’t solving you anymore.

He was solving you in order to take care of you.

Jonathan Crane accepted your confession with silence. He neither mocked nor showed any surprise. He simply remained silent. But this silence was not an ordinary “I heard”. This was the first time a lock was turned. And he… had now stepped into the room behind that lock.

He took another step. His fingers were slightly tense, but he did not touch. He would not touch yet. Because you had to want him to come closer. Your mind was just getting used to this confusion, and he was slowly untangling you with his patience.

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down next to you. There was a short distance between you, but that distance was now lost in his eyes. His pupils were constricted, scanning you. But this scanning was no longer clinical. It was a preparation for possession.

“You said what you thought of me,” he said softly, “but that is only the beginning. Thoughts… can escape intention. But desires are more honest.”

He was silent for a moment. You heard his breathing. The uncomfortable warmth that his arm leaning on the table had awakened in you was seeping up from under your body. Like a fire that could not reach its depth but made you feel it was approaching.

“When I enter the same room with you… what do you feel? Really. When you see me… how does your body react?”

The question was direct and chilling. This was no longer a ‘test’. This was a transition to another layer of confession. And under the effect of the drug, the filters on your honesty were now dissolving. But this honesty was chaining you instead of freeing you. Because everything you said would mean surrendering to him a little more.

You swallowed. Only one word came out of your lips first: “Restlessness… I feel like there is no limit to what you can do.”

But he waited. He looked at you without blinking. That answer was not enough. Because when you pulled away from his gaze, he could see your heart speed up. Your eyes wandered around the room, as the words were preparing to fall from your chest, the urges that you had not even confessed to your own inner voice began to rise.

“But… also… curiosity. I want to see your limitlessness. I want to stay even when I should be leaving. And that endless unknown makes me feel attracted to you. It’s… disturbing but… addiction, Dr. Crane.”

Crane slowly lowered his head. Like a hunter watching you over his shoulder. Not your words, not your fragile tone… nothing was foreign to him. He didn’t respond as if he already knew you. He watched you patiently, as if he were shaping you right now. And then he asked something even more specific. It was proof that he was moving toward becoming not just a counselor but an object of obsession:

“So… what would you like me to know about you? When you think of me… how would you like to be seen, Y/N?”

The question was like a knife. The answer was something you were waiting for, just to see in his eyes. Maybe “to be noticed.” Maybe “to be liked.” But in that moment, a more primal urge emerged:

“I want you to see my weaknesses… especially my fears,” you said. “But without belittling me. The thought of you not pitying me triggers me…The fantasy of controlling me stimulates my groin.”

Your words caught in your throat. Because this wasn’t just a confession; this was a declaration of your voluntary inclusion in the entire system he had created.

Jonathan was silent for a moment. Then, he leaned in. Very lightly, very slowly. You felt his breath near your cheek. But still, he didn’t kiss. Because the biggest touch between them… was still your voice.

“For you, boundaries are just the outer shell,” he whispered. “I’m not helping you break yourself. You’re already broken. I… am just holding up a mirror to you.”

And what you saw in the mirror… wasn’t just you. It was how he saw you now. And it was something you had never seen before.

Crane’s words didn’t hang in the air. They had descended over you like a heavy veil, slowly descending. You were breathing under that veil now, hazy, uncomfortable, but familiar. Because the deep, clinical softness in his voice… wasn’t a cure, it was a promise of resolution.

Your shoulders had slumped, your jaw had trembled slightly. Your body didn’t feel like your own. It was a place where only his words echoed. And Jonathan Crane was the architect of this place.

Nothing was rushed as he approached you. He slowly raised his hand from the edge of the table, and with a slight bend in his thumb, he reached just below your cheek. His touch was so gentle that at first you weren’t sure if he actually made contact. But then the veins beneath your skin began to pulse at the gentle pressure.

“Has anyone ever looked at you this closely?” he said.

“With all your masks off. Without running away. Without judging. Just… watching you.”

Your eyes turned to him, but you couldn’t look. Because this wasn’t just a look, it was the first step of surrender.

He didn’t take his eyes off you. As if he was memorizing all the subconscious folds inside you by watching your every breath.

His fingertips moved from the edge of your chin to your lips. He didn’t turn your face. He just touched your lower lip with his thumb. But this contact wasn’t affection; it was a form of dominance. Not to caress you, but to see where you were trembling. And you shivered.

A muscle twitched involuntarily on the side of your neck.

Because in his palm was not only the pulse of deep desires but also of repressed desires.

Crane moved his head a little closer to you. When his breath touched your skin this time, your body moved with an internal reflex, but you couldn’t move.

This was the disintegration of a body torn between running away and staying. And he saw it.

He could now read you without the need for medication.

“What do you imagine when you think of me?” he asked, his voice low but poisonously calm. “What do you want me to do with my hands? What did you imagine me doing, Y/N?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a confession. But it had to come from you. It had to be your choice to say it. And so your last remaining boundary would collapse with your hand.

Your throat went dry. Your eyes darkened. But the answer came. In a whisper. The words seemed to come from inside you, not from your lips.

“When I think of you, we’re always in the same place: in a dark room, with only your voice. ‘Be patient,’ you say. There are handcuffs on my wrists… But not just physically… You’ve captured me. You bite me because I want to be yours. With every painful touch, I become more dependent.”

Crane’s face didn’t come closer. He just listened to you.

Because that was the moment you opened up to yourself.

And that surrender… was the greatest victory for him.

“Good,” he finally said. “Because you have now surrendered yourself to me. Not your body, but your mind. Your most fragile part.”

He moved closer to you. His hands were now on either side of your neck, but he was not squeezing you. He was just pressing you with his presence. And you… even as you breathed, you were now following his rhythm.

He looked you straight in the eye with those cold eyes. “Get up,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing through the room. His tone was commanding, yet it also carried a dark allure. You did as he said, obediently. Jonathan stood before you, but it was impossible to understand what he was thinking or doing. And that uncertainty aroused you.

His frequent tapping of the glass syringe on the table against the floor gave him away. He was a control freak, and you wanted to be under his control.

Crane’s gaze changed. The dull calm of his eyes gave way to a sharper determination. He was no longer trying to untie you, but to possess you. For once, the contact was unwavering.

His fingers reached under your chin, tilting your head up slightly. You let out an involuntary sigh as you turned to him, an echo struggling with both uneasiness and surrender.

And then… his thumb pressed the edge of your lower lip. This time harder, like a beckoning gesture.

“I’m here,” he said. “And you’re mine now.”

“You want more, don’t you, Y/N,” he said, his voice as soft as ice. “Because you… you’ve already prepared yourself for this moment.”

He increased the pressure on the corner of his mouth a little more.

The thought that your desire wasn’t yours, but his… made you shiver and pull at the same time. You parted your pale lips slightly, the suppressed fear you carried inside you like a mysterious invitation in the curve of his lips. Jonathan, at that moment, mixed with your breath, as if he were looking for a spiritual contact, not just physical. But he didn’t kiss you. No. He had to drive you crazy first. He leaned down to the side of your neck. His lips didn’t touch your skin. But his breath was directed right at that point that coincided with your pulse. Your whole body was stuck for a moment. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because movement could be the end of something. But you didn’t want it to end. He first touched your neck with his lips. Where your pulse beat. Your body trembled as if you’d been electrocuted. “Are you scared?” Jonathan asked, his breath touching yours. You nodded slowly. “Yes,” you answered, your voice trembling. Jonathan’s smile widened even more.

He ran his tongue first. It left a chilling dampness on your skin. Then a bite, just like in your dreams. Not enough to hurt you, but arrogant enough to claim it. “Perfect,” he said. “Fear is the strongest emotion. And you will share it with me.” As he felt the speed of your pulse, its irregularity, the pull mixed with fear, he felt like he owned you from the inside. It was as if he had completely taken over your body, like a parasite.

While you continued to feel his tongue, his lips, he moved along your neck. He brushed his lips all the way to your jawbone. From there, he reached your cheeks. But he never fully touched you. He did not let your tongues burn with each other’s wetness. His breath was now touching the spot between your cheek and ear. His fingers started from the tip of your shoulder; He moved down to your breasts, which filled the palm of your hand, over the thin fabric. Then he slowly slid and glided. First, he traced the outline of your waist, the hollow of your spine. Your body was so tense that each touch was not an observation but part of an experiment.

He bent his head ever so slightly. When the tip of his nose touched yours, your body shook. This was not a kiss. This was the first threat of contact. When your lips finally met; this kiss was a trembling and contradictory touch, dancing on the thin line of passion and death. His cold and controlled demeanor frightened you. He had the careful manner of a doctor measuring your body temperature. He measured how your lips were reacting. He pressed lightly, pulled back. He came closer again. This was not pleasure, but the application of the first dose that would create addiction.

His fingers slid to the back of your neck. Your skin shivered. And then the kiss deepened. But you were still not directing him. He lightly ran his tongue between your lips, drawing you in. But the movement of his tongue is deliberate: each curve slowly, almost calculating. Jonathan is not kissing you… he is silencing you. He is stopping all the “Is this true?” echoing in your mind by pressing it against his lip.

His eyes weren’t closed. They were open. He wanted to watch your reactions. There was power and analysis in his eyes, not affection.

When he slid his tongue into your lips, the rough, wet surface of the papillae tickled. The deepening rhythm as your tongues intertwined, as if synchronizing your heartbeats. There was no limit, but the tempo was his.

Even when he pulled away from your lips, the kiss wasn’t over. His gaze flickered to your mouth, then to your eyes. The pressure of his hand on the back of your neck continued.

“Do you realize how easily you give in?” he whispered, his fingers landing on your collarbones. “The serum I made won’t break your resistance. It will only disrupt your lying mechanism, and that comes with fear.”

And before you could respond, he pulled you closer. Slowly, but firmly. Your body touched his chest. His arms didn’t wrap around your back. He just stopped. Crane wasn’t holding you. He was locking you up.

“The void I’ve created inside you,” he said at ear level,

“Only I can fill it. And you belong to me now… in another form.”

Your body took an involuntary breath. As if your tongue had not yet reached the thoughts that were passing through it. But his fingers were now roaming the lower edge of your abdomen, carefully but insistently pushing you toward your limits. As if he were making decisions every millimeter, measuring when the touch would turn into desire, when it would turn into surrender.

One of his hands was now pressing gently on the back of your waist. He had paused there before pulling you closer. You were on the edge. And Crane knew it.

His gaze, as it slid down from top to bottom, showed neither hunger nor complete aloofness. Like a psychological prey, he watched you for when you would give in. His lips moved, but almost whispered:

“I want to see you… not what the world sees when you hide under cotton and fear.” His fingers touched the first button on your shirt. He wanted you to do it. He wanted you to watch him, but he made it clear to you before he did. He unbuttoned the button with a single movement. When he stretched the edges of the fabric to the sides, the curved lines of her breasts were visible.

There was nothing moving in the room at that moment. Only your heart. It was beating so hard that you were sure even Jonathan Crane could hear it. Your eyes were locked on his; but his was fixed, yours was searching. Perhaps you were instinctively looking for an exit. But this was Crane’s mental labyrinth. And now you had reached the last room from which there was no exit.

With trembling hands, you took off your vest and left it on the chair. Jonathan’s gaze roamed over your body, watching your every move. “Now your shirt,” he said, his voice becoming even more authoritative.

You unbuttoned his shirt clumsily. Your fingers were shaking more than usual. You felt the coolness of his skin against your underwear. You caught your breath at first. Then your rhythm quickened. This, the symptoms, occur for two reasons. Either intense desire or… fear.

Jonathan’s eyes rested on your breasts, but his expression remained blank. “Go on,” he said, as if this was just an experiment.

You prayed that your knees wouldn’t betray you as he took off your skirt. That shiver was always running up your spine. But also in your groin.

You were left in nothing but your underwear. The texture of the lace against your skin was almost whisper-light; delicate shades of purple and gray quivered like diamonds against your skin. The bra that hugged your breasts was more than just a piece of fabric, it was an intention. A clever trap between covering and exposing. The lace patterns traced thin paths across your skin, each one as clear as a line your fingers would want to cross, yet still forbidden.

Your panties were seductive with a simplicity that words failed to describe; the almost invisible thin bands dug into the bony line of your hips, the front generous enough to cover only the most intimate secrets. It was like a sensual oath, inviting you to imagine before touching.

Jonathan’s gaze traveled down your body, taking in every detail. “Very beautiful,” he said, but his voice was devoid of praise. “But tonight, your beauty does not concern me. Only your obedience.”

But you could no longer make eye contact with him. Your breathing quickens, but you can’t get enough air into your lungs. There’s a tension in the center of your chest, like your heart is stuck and hasn’t yet convinced itself to beat. Like when you’re scared.

“Look at me,” he says. His voice is controlled and measured. But you can’t look at him. When he does, eye contact is like a slap.

“You’re resisting eye contact… classic displacement behavior under chemically induced anxiety. That means it’s working.”

The serum.

Yes, the fluid Jonathan had injected into your vein for a special “test.” He hadn’t told you about his fear symptoms.

You heard his footsteps. He was approaching. You had pressed yourself against the window sill as if you could run away, but you didn’t realize it. The room wasn’t big. And you had nowhere to run now.

Jonathan stopped right in front of you. You were still looking away.

“Look at me,” he says again. There’s no anger in his voice. But there’s something there that defies argument. Like a scientist trying to keep a subject in line when they’re running away from him. With your eyes still on the floor, he took another step.

“Oh yes, you feel it, don’t you?”

The serum’s effects increased. The hormones of fear—adrenaline, norepinephrine, cortisol—danced through your blood. His hands were shaking, his knees felt weak. But he knew it, he was watching it, and he was aroused by it.

Jonathan held your chin in his fingers as you continued to look away. Not forcibly, but with an obsessive patience. He turned your face toward his.

His lips almost touched yours again. “No. You can’t look away. Not from me.”

“Fascinating,” he said when your eyes finally met his. His thumb slid to the corner of your mouth, barely touching your skin. You wanted to run away, and at the same time, you wanted to sink to your knees.

Jonathan Crane looked at you like someone analyzing you. “You’re shaking… but you’re not trying to.”

“Do you know what that means?”

You couldn’t answer. But what was going through you was neither fear nor desire. You were on a sharp, slippery line drawn between the two.

Your chin was still in his fingers. Even if you turned your head to the side, he wouldn’t let you. The pressure he applied was light but absolute.

When you tried to escape with your eyes, his gaze would bore into yours again. Looking at you was like penetrating you. And it was exactly what he wanted you to not be able to escape.

“That’s it… breathe. Let it take you.”

Let “it” take you. What? The serum? Fear? Or… it?

Crane leaned his head down a little more. His forehead was so close to yours.

"Your pupils dilated... your skin flushed... your hands trembled. Fear reached its peak. Now let's see what happens next."

He moved a little closer to you. His breath was just above your lips. But he didn't kiss you this time.

His hand slowly moved down from your chin to your neck. He stopped there. He felt your pulse with his fingertips. Much more noticeable now.

You were still shivering. But... But that touch wasn't just fear anymore. It was warmth. A desire. A mixed, dirty pulling feeling.

When he kissed your lips again, this time he was harder. He wanted fear to cascade, to merge with lust. When he pulled his lips back and looked into your eyes, he saw your pupils dilate. His cock was getting hard with this sight. And after that kiss came another one. A little more pressing, a little more burning with desire to possess.

His fingers wrapped around your neck a little tighter in the beat.

Then he put his hands on your bare waist. He squeezed you between the wall and his body. As if to remind you that he owned you.

His voice mixed with your breaths. "You can still stop this. But you won't."

Because you couldn't stop. The serum continued to flow through your veins. But now his voice, his touch, his closeness to your skin... More effective than the serum.

The wetness he left on your lips shone in the dim light, like raw meat.

Suddenly, he grabbed your hair from behind. Not hard, but determined. His fingers got into your hair, gripping it near the nape of your neck. Your head fell back suddenly, your neck tensed, your breath hitched. His breath licked your skin as he spoke.

"You're scared like prey... and I've never seen anything so perfect," he said through his teeth.

His fingers pressed against your hair roots, steadying you.

Your skin was burning. Your heart was beating like it had lost control. His other hand found the edge of your panties. And he entered between your skin and the fabric like an invader, finding the outer lips of your vulva.

It was wet... Dr. Crane’s fingers were wet enough to make them soggy. His middle and ring fingers were wet enough to slide easily into her slit.

A slick sound filled your ear as he stroked your inner lips in a circular motion.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled wryly, “Oh, my… you’re soaked,” he said, while continuing to tease your clitoris and vaginal opening. “So tell me, what exactly are you afraid of? Of me, or of the fact that I scare you and you enjoy it?” he whispered. When he reached your clitoris and stopped there, he squeezed the bud with two fingers. Even the slightest pressure inevitably stimulated the dilated capillaries inside. Your sensitivity increased to the point that your temple twitched with each stroke.

As he continued to crush your clitoris between his fingers, you felt the pain. Your chest heaved, you sighed, your mouth slightly parted. This was more than it should have been. Pain triggers your fear, Dr. He made you see Crane as a threat—and you should have. You wanted to run away. But the pleasure in the pain was so sweet, so tempting. Lust and pain balanced each other. Your mind was giving warning signals… your body was writhing in surrender.

“Ah. You weren’t expecting this, were you?” he said, his index and ring fingers stretching your outer lips. “That your fear would make you… suffer for me,” he said, his middle finger brushing along your vulva. It stopped at the entrance to your sensitive vagina, applying pressure.

You were so out of control that your breathing quickened. Your muscles tensed, you held onto the arms of the man you feared, your fingers trembling. The man who was bringing you to orgasm locked eyes with you, both godlike and beastlike. And he stared into your eyes, impassive, emotionless, and grabbed the fabric beneath him, pulling it taut. The sound of the fabric tearing didn’t fill the room, but your ears did. His dominant movements, his dull gaze, his desire to possess reminded you of death. You wanted to escape from him. To escape without looking back and to lock yourself somewhere he couldn't find you.

The wall behind you was no longer just a physical boundary. As alive as your own skin. Cold. Hard.

But he was more honest than you. Because you still thought you could escape. His presence was as close as a sentence. As heavy as a look. And you had already accepted that you couldn't escape, but you wouldn't admit it to yourself.

Jonathan threw the torn fabric in his hand to the ground and stepped back toward his desk, as if he expected you to follow him. Your inner thighs were wet as you took a step. Your arousal was flowing through your legs in a colorless, slippery liquid. It was the arousal of fear, the orgasm of death.

You stood in front of him. “Now,” he said, “you will bend over for me.” He raised one hand and pointed to the table. The files were scattered on top of it.

Your fingertips were trembling slightly. Your breath was now uncontrollably ragged. Your body wanted to get closer to a man you saw as a devil.

The moment you realized this, the inner scream began.

Your mind was screaming, “No.”

But your skin… that fire that stretched from your spine to your womanhood, knew that you were nothing but Crane’s shadow.

You turned back to the desk, your hands fixed on a place where there were no papers, your head bowed. He was right behind you, and that feeling was more dangerous than making eye contact with him. Because he was watching you. And him continuing to watch without doing anything, not taking you even though he had untied you… would leave you even more naked. Because then you would not only carry the desire, but also the shame of rejection.

When Jonathan’s hand touched your hair, your muscles clenched. His fingers tightened around the strands. He leaned your head back against his shoulder, his lips tingling your ears. “You flinch when I touch you… but your body calls me back like a prayer,” he said, his voice threatening. “Isn’t it beautiful? Your terror is what makes you… irresistibly wet.”

Jonathan’s face cracked into a smile, but it was dark. “You don’t belong in the outside world anymore,” he said, unclasping your bra. “You belong here. In this room. "Under my control," he continued. After your bra was removed, you were now as naked as your soul. Your warm body tensed when his cold hands cupped your breasts from behind. Your areolas were hard, your nipples were erect, and you felt the coldness of his fingers very sensitively. But that wasn't all you felt. His cock pressing against your hips was straining the fabric, twitching to fill your tight vagina.

He cupped your left breast and squeezed it hard. He crushed your right nipple between his fingers, just like he had done to your clitoris a moment ago. He leaned down to your ear and rubbed his tongue around it. All the way around, as if he were setting a boundary around your ear.

You, on the other hand, frowned in fear and began to moan with desire. The husky sound coming from your throat was lustful and shy at the same time.

"You're ashamed of how much you want this, aren't you, Y/N?" Jonathan said, sliding his hand from your left breast down to your belly. "But this shame... making you tighter. Wetter. Needier." His fingers were making a figure 8 at his groin now. "Don't hide it. Let it devour you. I want to see everything about you."

All of this, while the serum in your veins was still stimulating your amygdala, was getting darker and scarier. "No." came out of your lips. "No" had many meanings for you. But most of all, it was because you couldn't accept that the doctor you thought was more terrifying than your nightmares wanted to fuck you. Yet, he had been in your dreams ever since you saw him. Ever since you saw him, you wanted him to fill you with his sperm on the gurney in his lab. But the serum made everything complicated.

Jonathan pressed his hand on your back. His fingertips were strong enough to leave white marks on your skin. You bowed in lustful fear. First a little, then a little more... But it wasn't enough for Dr. Crane. He wanted you to press your face against the table.

You turned your head to the right. When your left cheek touched the file, the first thing you noticed was the cold. It was as if all the light in the room had been drained from the walls; only his silhouette remained. Your eyes were on the metal cabinet, but your mind was on him.

Your breaths were short, broken. You wanted to slowly push yourself up, but… When the warmth of his hand pressed against the center of your back, something inside you unraveled.

You were in the exact position he wanted. "I've been dreaming of this exact position since you were leaning over my bookshelf last semester," he said, his hand still on your back, applying pressure. It restricted your movement, shouting that the will was in his hands. "I almost touched you then. But I waited. Because now... now you'll remember this for the rest of your life."

And his free hand went to his tie.

You didn't see him. But you heard his movements. The slight rustle of the fabric of his tie. Time suddenly slowed down. As if every second was diminishing one more defense inside you. And you were no longer sure what was more troubling: his hand holding you or the fact that he hadn't done anything yet.

His removal of the tie was slow and precise. As if he'd done it a hundred times. But this time, not to loosen your shirt, but to steady you. His eyes never left yours as his fingers released the fabric that had come loose from his collar with a single tug. He took his time. Because he knew that fear thrived best in waiting.

And you... were motionless.

Your lungs were rising and falling rapidly in a narrow space.

Your hands were shaking, but your body couldn't move. Your head was crowded: "He chose you long ago. You always knew that."

The tie was now in Jonathan’s hands, and even before it touched your skin, you felt him tie you up. Your body froze, but your thoughts were screaming, “He won’t do it now. He’s just scaring you. It’s just a game…”

“Put your hands behind your back,” he said. His voice was low but unarguable. Just that sentence sent an icy shiver down your spine. You didn’t move. But he didn’t wait. He gently but firmly guided your wrists back. His fingertips were cold; like a doctor’s gloved hands.

He noticed you were trembling. But he didn’t say anything. As the fabric of the tie wrapped around your wrists, your heart began to race like a false alarm. But no one would wake up from that alarm. Because you were the only one in the room. And he was listening to your fear.

When the fabric was knotted, your hands were now tied behind your back. Your shoulders were tense. And he studied you like a painting. His gaze was not cold, but dark. Not satiated, still hungry.

The sound of the belt reached your ears. You knew it was your turn, but your heart was pounding with fear, and the colorless liquid flowing down your legs was thickening.

The hard, heavy click of his metal buckle echoed in the silence of the room, brief but firm. Every moment you didn’t see, your ears grew stronger with your imagination.

Then, that dry scraping sound of skin being pulled across fabric… As the buckle was released, the belt flexed like a spring at the end, then relaxed and dropped.

The sound of the zipper was more delicate. It cut through the air like a thin, continuous scratch.

The weight of his pants yielded on its own as the waistband came undone. The thick fabric made a gentle scrape as it slid down his legs; a brief stiffness at the knees, and then a muffled, rolling sound as his weight dropped to the floor.

He wore only a pair of skinny, smoky-gray boxers underneath. The fabric was neither new nor worn; it was simply “used.” He grabbed the faded seams and pulled them down. His hardened penis arched slightly as it was released from the elastic at the waist.

Jonathan was straining at the entrance to her vagina. He first took hold of his penis with his hand and flicked it toward her clitoris. A warning shot through your spine, clenching your fists. But the fabric around your wrists was straining and hurting. You sighed through your teeth.

Then he stroked your vulva a few times. He reached down from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina, and pushed a few inches inside, but never in. It was driving you crazy. “Oh, please, Dr. Crane!” you moaned. “Please,” he begged. Like prey begging the hunter.

Jonathan was even more aroused by your words. “Should we put that in your internship report?” he asked, almost rasping. “‘Subject: Dr. Crane applied full pressure; subject responded with incoherent moans and demanded more.’” Dr. Crane could no longer catch his breath. “Let’s call it… behavioral data.”

You were aroused by these words. Both terrified and lustful. Triggered by the corrupt desire he had for you. His pursuit of you, his insatiable obsession with you, was enticing. “You scare me, Doctor…” you moaned. You paused but never stopped. “…but I don’t know why I still desire you so much.” The words came out in gasps, “I want you to fuck me, in all your sick fantasies.”

Jonathan wheezed breathlessly, “Do you really need someone to dominate you, Y/N? And someone to bring you to your knees with nothing but their eyes.”

You groaned breathlessly, “No… not someone.

Just you and your twisted mind.” You looked so eager. So needy.

When Jonathan pushed his cock into your vagina, it enveloped you completely. It wasn’t very long, but it was thick. Too thick for you. Too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of his vagina wrapped around Jonathan’s manhood. “Oh, Y/N, every breath belongs to me. Every tremor you make is my victory.”

His cock was surrounded by the knots of your warm vaginal walls. This rough structure allowed him to feel you deeper. Jonathan was losing himself in the pleasure you were giving him, moaning. Every time he pushed his big cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped your ass, stimulating both your ‘g’ spot and your clitoris, making you almost cry. And you couldn’t react at all. He had you completely trapped in his body.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jonathan asked as he fucked you like an animal. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want to be trapped in my darkness.”

You were out of breath. With the intensity of the terrifying pleasure you were experiencing, the whites of your eyes were exposed, and your moans were getting louder and echoing in Jonathan's ears. "Oh, Dr. Crane, this is beyond my dreams."

Your flesh was slapping against each other with each impact as he rooted into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically. "It's wonderful to feel you from the inside." he said.

You were both about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Your tight vagina felt Crane's hardness and veined surface down to the smallest cell. His penis was wrapped around your knotted walls, twitching.

You were now at the height of your orgasm. Even though his penis filled your vagina completely, the juices of pleasure continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. You were so wet that a slurry sound echoed with each thrust.

Jonathan leaned over you and put his lips to your ear. Now you could taste his moans, his short breath, the warmth of his breath just behind your ear. He bit your earlobe. It was painful, but the tip of his tongue was taking the pain to a stimulating level. "My poor obsession, just be patient a little longer. It's almost here."

The table was shaking. The creaking echoed off the walls of the room as the table legs rubbed against the floor. The muscles in his hips were now clenched, and he was about to spill his sperm onto your womanhood. But he held himself back to witness the moment his sperm slid across your skin, and he pulled out of you suddenly and came breathlessly onto your hips. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your juices of pleasure had soaked the office floor, and the rest had seeped down your legs and dripped down to your ankles.

The effects of the serum had completely worn off, and you were left alone with only your interest and desire for Jonathan Crane. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry with pleasure. You were on cloud nine, realizing you had never had an orgasm before. You had never had real sex. And what you wanted was exactly what Jonathan Crane wanted.

[delicrieux]

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !