#i was asking the first and pretending i was asking the second

[vynlrecord]

♡ is the light sleeper in the room with us?

At first when you’d asked Simon to move in with you, he seemed excited or well, as excited as Simon allowed himself to show. Yet as it got closer and closer, you weren't so sure.

“You probably won’t ever get a good night’s sleep again. I'll constantly be disrupting it.”

"I have nightmares and night terrors, I’ll probably scare you-"

“I’m such a light sleeper, everything wakes me up and puts me in a panic."

It was almost like he was trying to dissuade you from sticking to your decision, giving you an out in case he was too difficult for you, you knew exactly how his brain worked.

But you loved him, and nothing he was saying was making you change your mind, not even close to it.

You prepared anyway, looked up everything you could with how to handle certain night terrors, best things to say or not say, whether you should wake him up if he’s having a nightmare, everything.

Then the first night came, and you were ready to be woken up at 3am, maybe to Simon shouting or crying or something and you pictured all the things you’d do to calm him down, grab him some tea, maybe gentle reassurances as you wiped his tears, whatever it took. 

But none of that happened.

The first night, he slept the whole way through, completely undisturbed and you would know because ironically you were the one who didn’t sleep the first night. You'd stayed awake, worrying, wanting to make sure he was okay, checking for even a slight twitch or a face of anguish but, nothing.

And then a few days later, on an early Sunday morning, your neighbour had decided to mow the grass. It was unbearably loud and you'd sat up, internally screaming because who chooses 7am to cut grass on a Sunday?

And Simon? Well he was completely out.

You looked at him, wondering if he was pretending for a moment, giving him a little nudge. He'd shuffled a little in his sleep before letting out a few soft snores, it was like he was on another planet completely.

And it kept happening. He'd sleep through alarms, and not just one or two but enough in a row that you had to turn them off yourself and tell him to wake up. Phone calls too, slept through every call, no matter the ringtone, no matter how loud. Your cat's 4am zoomies? Not even a flinch.

You were so confused, he'd worried constantly before moving in about ruining your sleep and now it was like sleeping was second nature to him, which you wouldn't have questioned if not for the repeated warnings of how light of a sleeper he was.

It made no sense, Simon couldn't understand it either, but you were quite happy with it of course, and so was he. Whenever you thought about it for too long, it actually made you smile, there was something sweet about it to you.

Perhaps it was your apartment, the fact that the space was yours, maybe your presence was helping him, you'd even joke it was your cat's soothing company. Or maybe it was the soft sheets, in a bedroom that felt cosy. A proper homely space, one that Simon wasn't quite used to in his old place, all bare walls and no decoration, not even a comfortable mattress. He'd never bothered with anything except the bare minimum, a vast difference to now.

Whatever it was, he was actually sleeping, peacefully for once, he couldn't remember the last time he was able to say that.

But what Simon did know, was that he felt completely safe with you and seeing him like this was the most beautiful thing to you.

[iamactuallysocute]

I absolutely LOVED your Saja boys x assistant for your writing is honestly amazing 🙏

Sooo I wanted to know if I can ask for another one 🙏

If you don't mind can you do a scenario or story (not actually sure what it's called) for kpop demon hunters, the Saja boys when your secretly dating one of their members like Abby or Romance or baby (you can pick, or do 2 or both of them) and your apart of Huntrix and they find out and their reaction isn't good.

THANK YOU 🤍💜

HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY

cw: mentions of sex and rewinds of sex so we can technically say nsfw, secret relationships, arguments, cursing—and tell me if I missed something

PLOT: Three hunters? History says four! At least in this universe it sure does, because you’re a member of HUNTR/X, a beautiful sweetheart, the dream girl actually. That’s the exact reason a Saja Boy had interest in you. And that Saja Boy is…

JINU

It started like a joke. Like the dumb kind of thing you whisper to yourself when you’re three drinks deep after a long night of demon slaying, bruised, blood-splattered, and sore in all the wrong places, “Wouldn’t it be so stupid if I let that cocky little shit Jinu kiss me?”

Except you did. And you let him do a lot more than that.

You know damn well this is wrong.

You’re supposed to hate the Saja Boys.

But then there’s Jinu.

Oh, Jinu.

You know better. You do. But you also know how he kissed you the first time, like he was starving for it, like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, that you’ve been driving him crazy.

Every time you sneak off, telling Mira you’ve got to “clear your head”, lying to Zoey about meeting friends, making up some bullshit mission Rumi would definitely sniff out if she wasn’t so busy being ten times the badass you pretend to be, you end up in Jinu’s room. Usually on his lap. Sometimes against a wall. Once in the backseat of a staff car, which, honestly, was way too cramped for the kind of shit he wanted to try. (But did you complain? No. You just bit his shoulder to muffle the sounds.)

You keep saying it’ll be the last time. Every single time, you tell yourself:

This is it. I’m cutting it off. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon. I’ll kill him when we’re done.

And every single time, you end up under him again, hips rolling, nails dragging down his back while he whispers filth.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Every second with him is a risk. If Zoey finds out? She’ll be furious. If Rumi finds out? You’re dead. If Mira finds out? You might wish you were.

But fuck… it feels good to be wanted like that.

So no. You’re not telling the girls. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because that boy is a demon, still.

You can see it in the yellow flickers in his eyes when too much happens to his body. The way his voice changes when he’s angry, the shadow under his skin when his temper spikes, like there’s something inside him, snarling.

Because there is. Gwi-Ma.

You hate that freak. You really, truly do.

He’s not always loud, but when he is, you feel so bad for Jinu.

Sometimes, you’ll catch Jinu zoning out—just for a second—and when he blinks back into himself, there’s this… weight. A bitter taste in the air. You know it’s Gwi-Ma.

You’ll be tangled in Jinu’s sheets, your mouth on his throat, your nails digging into his ribs while he gasps, and then suddenly he’ll choke out a laugh. You’ll ask, “What?” thinking you did something good, and he’ll groan, cover his face and mutter, “Ignore him.”

Like??? Fuck off, Gwi-Ma. (He also once called you “delicious,” which Jinu immediately apologized for by dropping to his knees and staying there for a long time. It helped.)

There was also that one time you were straddling Jinu on the couch in his dressing room, and he went real still, eyes distant, and then just groaned, “Shut the fuck up.” into your neck.

But here’s the thing. Gwi-Ma’s always there—always. Jinu can’t shake him, can’t silence him, not completely. And yet… you don’t feel the urge to pull a blade on him. Not like you would with anything else that dark and dangerous.

You should. You know that. Every instinct in your hunter-trained, scar-hardened body should scream put it down before it turns on you.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is? The demon’s a parasite. But Jinu? Jinu’s not the demon. He’s the boy fighting it. Every single day. You see it when his eyes flash for just a second and he has to swallow it down. You see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s scared you’ll see it, too. The rot inside. The crack in the mirror.

But you already do.

And you love him anyway.

No, wait, you didn’t mean to say that. Not even in your own head. But it’s out here now.

You love him.

He hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But you know. You know by the way he touches you when he thinks you’re asleep. Soft fingertips, trailing your spine, memorizing the shape of you. You know by how he always lets you go first when you argue, even if he hates it. By the way he flinches when you joke about your death like it’s just another occupational hazard.

And sometimes? When you least expect it, he says shit that almost counts.

Like, “I’d burn the world down if anything happened to you.”

Or, “I like who I am when I’m around you. I don’t hear him as much when you’re close.”

And maybe that’s what really fucks you up.

You thought you were just in it for the heat. For the adrenaline. For the sex and the secrecy and the thrill of knowing you were doing something very bad with someone very pretty.

But now? You’re in deeper.

Worse, so is he.

You’re full on dating. Dating dating.

You should be enemies.

Instead, you’re in his bed.

Heart beating fast.

Shirt already half-off.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the last light he can still see in the dark.

You don’t trust this.

You don’t trust yourself.

But when he kisses you, slow and scared and wanting, the demon in him quiet for just a second?

You let him have you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You also like the tiger. Or cat. Or tiger-cat. Whatever. You still don’t even know what to call it.

You remember the first time you saw it, you thought it was some kind of hellbeast and went for your blade, and Jinu was like, “Waitwaitwait, he’s chill.”

And now? You’ll be at Jinu’s place, half-naked, trying to sneak in a post-mission quickie, and suddenly there’s a 600-pound animal flopping on your legs like it’s a house cat.

Like, sir. Please.

Your vibe is adorable but your mass is inconvenient.

It loves to curl around the both of you like some kind of living, purring barrier. It’d be cozy if it didn’t also come with the crushing weight of “You move, you die.”

And then there’s the crow that hates everyone. Except Jinu. And sometimes, very begrudgingly, you. But only if you bring food. Or if you’re crying, which you hate that he knows. The crow is weirdly intelligent like that.

Sometimes he lands on your shoulder and just sits there while you and Jinu are talking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t squawk. Just watches. It’s unsettling, but Jinu swears it’s a sign of affection. (You’re not totally convinced it’s not reconnaissance.)

Then, you got caught, babe.

Now, you’re wearing a little shirt that barely reaches your navel and a little black thong. You’re barefoot on your balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching a soda you don’t even really want. Your legs are sore, your back hurts, your lip’s still split from earlier, and the last thing you need is—

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jolt. Turn.

“What the fuck, Jinu?” you hiss, slamming your soda down and rushing to him. “What are you—how did you even get up here?!”

He’s grinning. Soft, smug, absolutely useless in his very kissable way.

“Teleported.” he says. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Jinu. They’re home.”

“And?”

He says it so easy. So breezy. Like your heart isn’t trying to hammer through your ribs. You grab him by the arm and drag him fully onto the balcony, pressing him into the wall so he’s out of sight from the windows. Your face is close to his now, too close.

His eyes flick down your body, lazy but appreciative. “You’re not exactly dressed for company.”

You slap his chest. “Don’t make me push you off this building.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Your hand’s still on his chest, and he’s warm under your palm. Steady. Calm. Like nothing can touch him, not even the hurricane that’s about to slam into your life when this secret finally gets out.

“You’re insane for coming here.” you murmur, quieter now. “What if they see you?”

“I missed you.”

That’s it. No drama. No poetic nonsense. Just those three words, spoken so plainly you feel the ground shift under you.

You swallow. Your throat’s dry. Your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw. “You couldn’t just text? Send a letter with your cat?”

“I needed to see you.”

He leans in, just a little, and you follow because of course you do. His lips brush yours once, just a ghost of a kiss, and it’s enough to turn your knees to—

Gasp.

You freeze.

The sound comes from inside the room.

Both of you turn your heads just in time to see the door swing open, Zoey standing there, eyes wide, mouth fully agape.

“…oh my god.” she breathes.

Then the door slams shut again.

“Oh my god.” you echo, gripping the balcony railing like it’s going to save your soul. “Oh my god. Jinu. She saw you. She saw us.”

“She didn’t knock.” Jinu says, baffled.

“WHY WOULD SHE KNOCK? IT’S MY ROOM.”

You whirl on him, panic spiking like adrenaline in your veins. Your whole face is on fire. Your body’s moving already, ushering him toward the edge of the balcony, trying to think, to fix, to stop the bleeding of this moment from leaking into the rest of your life.

“She’s going to tell Rumi. Mira. Bobby. She’s going to tell everyone. Oh my god.”

“Okay.” Jinu says, still infuriatingly relaxed. “And?”

“And?!”

He’s smiling again, like this is funny, like you’re just being dramatic. He has no idea how bad this is. You shove him toward the railing with a hand to the back of his head, not hard, just enough to make him stumble.

“Go.” you hiss. “Go, now. I’ll fix it.”

“You’re gonna ‘fix’ getting caught half naked with me on your balcony?” he laughs, holding the ledge like he’s deciding whether to leap or wait for you to calm down.

You swat the back of his head again.

He laughs harder.

And somehow… somehow, that helps.

Because he’s not scared. He’s not shaking like you are, imagining Rumi’s furious stare or Mira’s disappointment or Zoey’s lethal level gossip abilities. He’s just… there. Present. Unbothered.

You exhale hard. Press your forehead to his chest for just a second. He lets you. His hands come up, hold your waist gently, swaying with you.

“Go.” you whisper again. “Please.”

He nods. Serious now. The playfulness fades, just a little. He cups your cheek, presses one last kiss to your lips, then steps back over the balcony’s edge.

And disappears.

You’re left standing there. Heart racing. Lips tingling. Whole body humming like you’ve been plugged into an outlet.

Inside, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Loud ones.

Zoey’s already telling them.

“Shit.” you breathe, dragging a hand through your hair. “Shit shit shit.”

But even with the panic creeping up again, you can’t stop the small, ridiculous smile that curls onto your face.

Because that dumb, beautiful demon boy came here just to see you.

You don’t even bother throwing on shorts. Just storm out of your room in the tiny shirt and thong you were already wearing, not because you’re trying to prove a point, but because fuck it, the point already proved itself.

You race down the hallway, barefoot, still breathless from the sheer velocity of your panic. The walls feel like they’re closing in with every step. And as you reach the living room, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Zoey’s perched on the arm of the couch. Her popcorn is real. You knew she’d have popcorn.

Mira’s sitting, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed. Her expression isn’t angry. Not yet. Worse, it’s disappointed.

Rumi’s standing. Her arms are crossed too, and her face is blank in that terrifying way that says: I haven’t decided whether to scream or murder someone.

You stop cold in the doorway.

“…hi.”

No one answers.

You laugh. Short. Nervous. “Okay. So. Surprise?”

Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Surprise? GIRL.”

Rumi’s voice cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Sit down.”

You glance around. “I’m, uh, I’m not really dressed for a—”

“SIT.”

You sit.

“Zoey saw Jinu.” Mira says, voice like ice water down your back. “On your balcony. With you. And not in a friendly way.”

“Wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, hun.” Zoey adds, tossing popcorn in her mouth.

“Zoey.” Rumi scolds gently.

Zoey zips it. Barely. She’s vibrating with drama high. Her foot’s tapping. She’s dying to see how this plays out.

Mira leans forward. “How long.”

You blink. “What?”

Mira’s eyes are lasers. “How. Long. Has this been going on.”

You swallow. “…A while.”

“A while?” Rumi explodes, stepping forward. “Define ‘a while,’ because ‘a while’ sounds like weeks, and if this has been going on while we were out risking our asses, while we were fighting off demons and you were texting your little boyfriend under the table, I need to know that before I go to prison for launching a sword through the next Saja concert.”

You flinch. “Okay, whoa, let’s not—”

“WAS HE AT THE CEMETERY FIGHT?” Zoey blurts, her eyes wide. “Because you said you were on break that day and he was also conveniently there! Oh my god—were you hooking up behind the mausoleum while I was getting bit by that demon?”

“That was one time.” you snap.

“You just admitted it!” Zoey screams, victorious.

“Okay, enough.” Rumi says, holding up a hand. She turns back to you. “Is it serious?”

And you freeze.

Because there’s the real question.

They’re not just mad about the secret. They’re mad because they know what this means. You don’t sneak around for fun. You lie to protect. So if you were protecting him…

Then you weren’t protecting them.

“I care about him.” you say softly. “It wasn’t just sex. It isn’t. He’s not—”

“He’s a demon.” Mira says, flat. Cold. “End of sentence.”

“He’s not—” you start, then stop. Because okay. Yes. He is. But not the way they mean. “There’s something inside him, yes. Gwi-Ma. But Jinu’s fighting it. Every day. He’s—he’s not evil. He’s not one of the monsters we hunt.”

“And what if he loses that fight?” Rumi asks, quiet again. “What if the thing inside him gets stronger? What if you become the liability?”

Your throat closes. Because that’s the worst part, you’ve already thought about all of that. And it still wasn’t enough to stop you.

“I know what I’m doing.” you whisper. “I know.”

“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Because it looks like you’re playing house with a demon.”

“Rumi, stop—”

“No. You lied to us.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You chose him.”

Yeah. You did. Over and over again. Every night you crept out, every time you let him touch you, every second you looked at his face and thought, maybe this could last, you were choosing him.

Even if it meant eventually losing them.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” you say, finally.

“Too late.” Mira mutters.

“Wait.” Zoey says. “Did you say Gwi-Ma? Like the actual Gwi-Ma?”

“Yeah.” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Lives in his head. Won’t shut up. Kind of an asshole.”

Everyone’s silent again.

And then, Zoey: “…Does he also do the tongue thing when he kisses you? Like he looks like he does the tongue thing.”

You close your eyes. “Zoey.”

Rumi sighs. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room starts to loosen. Not dissolve. Not disappear. But… loosen. There’s still tension in the air. Still betrayal.

“You know we’re supposed to kill them. Right?” Rumi says, loud and clear so you hear it.

You have heard it. You’ve heard it a hundred times. In debriefs, in Zoey’s snide jokes, in the way Mira files her knives after watching Saja Boys interviews with a dead stare. You’ve said it yourself. Weeks ago.

You knew what they were. You knew they weren’t human. And your girls have been tracking, prepping, moving toward this for weeks.

And meanwhile?

You’ve been sleeping with the mark.

“I know.” you say, barely above a whisper.

“You knew.” Mira corrects, her voice a blade.

“I know.” you repeat, louder now. “And I didn’t—I didn’t plan for this. It wasn’t some operation gone rogue. It wasn’t a trick. It just—”

“You tripped and fell onto his dick, huh?” Zoey says, sharp and bitter.

You shut your eyes. “Zoey, not now.”

“No, I really wanna know.” she goes on. “Did you just accidentally fall in love with a guy who’s literally got a demon whispering murder in his ear while we’ve been training to put his head on a spike? Because that’s wild.”

“What was your plan?” Rumi asks, not looking at you. “What was the endgame here? That we’d kill his bandmates but leave him alone because you like his face?”

“No.” you snap, the sharpness surprising even you. “God, no. You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I haven’t been ripping myself apart every night over this? I know what we’re doing. I know what he is. But you don’t know him. Not like I do.”

“Enlighten us.” Mira says, icily. “Please.”

You blink fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes. You weren’t gonna cry, you swore you wouldn’t, but the pressure’s building.

Silence.

Rumi closes her eyes like she’s trying not to hit something. Mira sits back. Her face has gone to that scary-silent-assassin look that means her brain is moving three steps ahead of everyone else. Finally, she says: “So when it’s time to take them out… what happens then?”

You stare at her. You hate how cold she sounds. You hate how reasonable it is.

Because that is the question, isn’t it?

What do you do when it’s your sword, and his neck, and no one else to make the call but you?

“I don’t know.” you admit, soft. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s not good enough.” Rumi says, voice rising. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re putting us at risk. What if he turns on us mid-mission? What if he uses you to get ahead of us? What if this whole time—”

“He wouldn’t.” you say quickly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt any of you.”

“You can’t know that.” Mira says.

“I do.”

And you do. Deep down. Where all the fear and doubt and guilt live, even under all of that, you know.

He wouldn’t let them touch you.

And he wouldn’t touch them.

Not unless they tried to kill him.

Which they… will.

Soon.

Zoey stands again and walks across the room, pacing now. “So what, we’re just supposed to ignore this? Let you keep cuddling up with your demon boyfriend while we finish the job?”

“No.” you say. “I get it. I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m not even asking you to like me right now. I just… I just need you to understand. I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing truth. Jinu’s not a monster. Not yet. And I don’t think he ever will be.”

There’s a pause. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Then, softly, Mira asks: “But what if you’re wrong?”

You look at her. Look at all of them.

And you don’t have an answer.

ABBY

Look. You’re supposed to kill him. Let’s be very clear about that. The Saja Boys are your target. You’ve watched them on stage, off-stage.

The first time you saw him, shirtless and grinning, was some training clip Rumi pulled up on the mission table, purely for recon (allegedly), and even then, you felt your spine short-circuit.

He looked like a human weapon.

Except he wasn’t human.

And you weren’t supposed to want the weapon.

But, you know. Whoops.

He’s huge (like, throw-you-around-the-room, bench-press-you-during-foreplay huge). Arms like steel, voice like “what’s up, babe?” and a smile so cocky it should be registered as an actual threat.

You hated him at first.

You hated him… until you didn’t.

Until one night after a bad mission, your ribs aching, pride worse, your blood still up and nothing in the world feeling good. And then you saw him. Leaning against a wall, flexing like he didn’t know he was doing it and voice dropping into that stupid low register like, “Hey. You okay?”

Game over.

Brain fried.

Panties? Gone.

And then, somehow, you were... kissing. In a stairwell. Covered in blood. Your blood. His blood. Something's blood. Messy. Wrong. And absolutely addictive.

Now it’s… a thing. A secret thing.

Because Abby? He makes you laugh, first of all. He says dumb shit in bed. He says dumb shit all the time. And he’s so proud of it.

And yeah. He’s a demon. You see it. He doesn’t even hide it.

There’s something in him that pulses dark. Wild. Primal. The heat in his body burns wrong sometimes. The shadows cling to him longer than they should. And there are moments, fleeting but undeniable, where he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

Not in the fun way. (Though, to be clear, he definitely wants that too.)

But in the demonic, soul-thirsty kind of way.

And yet. Somehow. You’re not afraid of it. You should be. You’re trained to be. You’ve put down lesser demons without blinking. You know what he is. But something in you doesn’t flinch.

Because under all of that darkness… you know he likes you.

He really, actually likes you. In his dumbass, show-off way.

The first time he said it, he was inside you—of course he was—panting, all flushed and cocky, and he muttered, “shit, I like you too much.” Then he tried to play it off with a kiss to your neck, followed by something heinous you don’t even remember, too busy feeling all of him.

You laughed. And then whispered, “me too.”

He knows you’re a hunter. He knows who you are, what you do. But he keeps showing up anyway. Still winks. Still pulls you into dark corners and picks you up like you weigh nothing. Still teases you like none of this is real.

He trusts you. And that terrifies you more than anything.

Because when the time comes…

When the blades are drawn…

He’s not going to fight you.

And you don’t know what you’re going to do when that moment comes.

But for now? You let him pin you to the wall and mutter, “what, you gonna slay me, hunter?” against your jaw.

Because the worst part isn’t that you’re supposed to kill him.

It’s that a small, aching part of you knows you won’t.

He does shit like carrying your bag when it’s heavy, but doesn’t make it weird. He just grabs it and then slings it over those stupid big shoulders like it weighs nothing. Flexes a little, maybe, but you let him. You even look on purpose. He likes it.

He memorizes what you order from that little noodle shop you go to after late-night sweeps. The first time he brought it to you unasked, still hot, you didn’t even know what to say. He just handed it over with a lopsided grin and went, “See? I got a brain in here.” and then tapped his temple with the chopsticks he’d stolen from the shop.

He warms his hands before touching your face. Doesn’t even think about it. Just always runs them over his neck or into his sleeves first, and then cups your cheeks.

And then there's how he watches you. Not like prey. Not like the demon in him is looking for an opening. But like... you're the funniest, hottest, most precious thing in his world and he can't believe you're even talking to him, let alone letting him see you naked on the regular.

And oh my god, he tied your shoe once. One time. You’re mid-arguing, mid-huffing about something completely irrelevant, and this man bends down, wraps those huge hands around your ankle, ties your shoe with all the careful attention of someone untangling a bomb, then slaps your thigh and stands up.

You were silent for, like, ten minutes.

You hate how much you like it. Hate it. Hate it.

But not enough to stop.

Not when he’s currently got you pressed up against cold tile, his breath warm against your throat, your thigh hiked high around his hip in the almost empty bathhouse the three of you ducked into after a hunt.

You don’t even know how it happened.

One minute, you were soaking in the women’s bathhouse while Mira and Zoey argued over whose blade got the final hit, and the next, you were in the showers and Abby was there. Shirtless. He must’ve snuck in through the back.

You didn’t even try to stop him. You should’ve.

But he’d walked up to you, dripping from a quick rinse-off, and grinned. “Damn. You clean up nice.”

And that was it. That was the moment your common sense packed her bags and left.

Now? Now you’re sandwiched between Abby and the cold wall of the bathhouse’s back corridor. Your towel’s half off, your thigh’s fully up, and Abby’s mouthing your neck like this isn’t a public facility.

“Abby.” you whisper, half-laughing, half-moaning, trying to push him back even though you’re very much not trying that hard. “They’re still here. They could come back any second.”

He just kisses lower. “Then we better make it fast, huh?”

“You’re the one taking your damn time.” you snap, trying not to laugh, and he grins against your skin.

“What can I say?” he murmurs. “My girl’s distracting.”

You shove his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of warm concrete. “I swear, if they catch us—”

Footsteps.

Voices.

You both freeze.

You don’t see them at first. But you hear them. Zoey’s laughing about something and Mira’s voice is lower, casual, annoyed maybe, like she’s mid-eye roll. They’re just coming back from the sauna. They’ll be rounding this corridor in seconds.

You shove at Abby, harder. “Go. Go now.”

But he’s LAUGHING. The fuckass is laughing, muffling it behind that dumb smug smirk like this is the funniest shit ever.

You smack the back of his head, panicked. “Are you trying to get me killed?!”

He grins harder. “If we die like this, honestly? Worth it.”

“Abby!”

Zoey’s voice: “Wait… why’s the floor wet back here? Was someone—”

She turns the corner.

She sees you.

Sees him.

Sees you, basically naked, thigh still up, Abby shirtless and pressed into you, steam rising off both of you.

Zoey screams.

Mira slams in behind her a half-second later, silent, deadly, her eyes going wide.

Abby, still shirtless, just waves. “Hey.”

You are going to die.

“YOU.” Zoey shrieks, pointing. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”

Mira? Mira’s face is stone. Pissed. Her arms are folded. Her jaw is clenched. And she’s staring directly at Abby’s glistening chest.

You, meanwhile, are red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red. Half-wrapped in a towel. Half-tangled in him. All of you exposed, literally and emotionally, in the worst way possible. You’ve barely had time to stumble back and yank your towel up around your chest when he decides to speak.

“Yo.” Abby says with the most unbothered, dumbass charm in the world. “Heeeeeeey girls.”

He actually lifts a hand. Like he didn’t just get caught shoving his demon tongue down your throat in a public women’s bathhouse.

Zoey looks like she’s about to scream a second time. Possibly kill you. Possibly him first.

And what does this stupid man say next?

“You know what,” he continues, glancing between them and then at you. “I feel like… you guys got some things to work out. Real important girl talk. Imma… just.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit, completely unapologetic. “Slide out. Give you all some space. Respectfully.”

You gape. “Abby—”

He turns, halfway out the door, then glances back at you, slow, like he’s throwing a whole-ass grenade at your friendship. And then, he calls:

“Catch you later, babe.”

Babe.

In front of them.

AND THEN THE BASTARD WINKS.

Winks, flexes without flexing, and vanishes.

You are.

So.

Fucked.

You’re clutching your towel to your chest, dripping water, heart hammering so loud it might as well be a war drum. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. Just a stupid, guilty sound like, “Uh—”

“How long.” Mira says, deadly quiet,

You blink. “I—”

“HOW LONG?!” Zoey practically screams, her arms thrown up like she might start flinging bath sandals at you. “You’ve been sneaking off to tongue wrestle with a Saja Boy?!”

“It’s not like that—”

“Oh, it’s not?” she snaps. “Because from where I was standing? It looked exactly like that. Unless ‘chest licking in a sacred women’s bathhouse’ means something different in demon-speak.”

“Zoey.” Mira says again, voice low. “Let her talk.”

“Why?! So she can lie again?”

You feel it. The shame. The guilt. The sting of it.

Because you didn’t tell them. Not when you should’ve. Not when it started. Not after the first time. Not after the sixth. Not even after you knew it was something real, something that wasn’t going to just go away if you pretended hard enough. You stayed quiet. Let them think you were just normal. Still loyal. Still on-mission.

But you weren’t. You’d fallen into bed with the enemy, and now it’s your best friends staring at you like you’re the monster.

“Okay.” you say, quietly. “Okay. Look.” You take a breath. It comes out shaky. “Yes. It’s been going on. And yes. I know how it looks.”

“You lied to us.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“Bullshit.” Zoey hisses. “You snuck around behind our backs with the very thing we’ve sworn to eliminate. You let one of them turn you into his little secret side piece—”

“Stop.” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Don’t talk about me like that.”

Silence again.

“I’m not a side piece.” you say, quieter. “And he’s not just… whatever you think he is.”

Zoey’s expression warps into something like heartbreak. “You’re in love with him.”

You look away.

“Oh my god.” She covers her face.

“I didn’t plan for this.” you try, pleading now. “It just—it happened. And I know it’s wrong. I know what he is. But I also know what he’s not. He’s not—” You gesture weakly toward the steam he vanished into. “He’s not hurting people. Not the way we thought.”

Mira steps forward, eyes sharp. “And what happens when he does? When we take him out? What then?”

You swallow. You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. And they see that.

After the bathhouse blowout, the tension clung to your skin worse than the towel.

Mira and Zoey walked ahead of you the whole way home, Mira silent, Zoey muttering to herself in rage, still trying to process the abomination of seeing you with Abby’s abs all up in your personal space. You trailed behind, wrapped in shame, hair dripping, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with impending doom.

“Let me tell her.” you said, the second the elevator doors opened to the penthouse. “Let me tell Rumi myself.”

Mira turned to you, her jaw clenched. “You sure?”

“No.” you said. “But I’m going to.”

They just exchanged a look, silent agreement, and then headed to the kitchen like they weren’t absolutely going to lurk by the hallway to hear every single word.

You find Rumi in her room. She’s standing by the window. You almost leave. Almost. But then she turns. “You need something?”

Your throat closes.

Yeah. Just your life exploding.

“Can I talk to you?” you ask, voice trembling. “It’s… personal.”

She gestures toward the chair. You don’t sit. You can’t. You’re vibrating with nerves, practically bouncing out of your skin. You pace instead, like if you move enough, the words will come easier. They don’t.

“Okay, so—so.” you start, hands waving like you’re trying to draw the sentence into existence. “So, you’re gonna be mad. Just—please, can you let me finish first before you say anything? Just let me get it out all at once, because if I stop, I won’t say it, and I have to say it because it’s already—happened, and Zoey and Mira know, and you’re going to find out anyway, and I need it to come from me.”

Rumi’s arms cross slowly. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m dating Abby.” you blurt.

Silence.

You say it again, just to fill the space. “I’m dating Abby. From Saja. The one with the abs and the arms and the—yeah. Him.”

Still no reaction.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t, like, some weird betrayal thing. I didn’t go into this planning to screw around with the enemy, I swear. It just—he was there, and he’s funny, and stupid, and sweet, and he’s not like what we thought. And yeah, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I know it’s dangerous, and I know we’re supposed to be hunting them, and it’s all wrong, but it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with him. It just feels like… mine. Like something I chose. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

You finally stop.

You wait.

“…You’re joking.”

Your heart drops. “I’m not.”

You’ve never seen Rumi this mad without even raising her voice.

“You’re sleeping with a demon.” she says, cold. “A Saja Boy. One of the five. Our primary targets.”

You flinch. “It’s not like that—”

“Did he charm you? Manipulate you? Feed off you?”

“No! Rumi, he hasn’t even—he hasn’t taken anything from me.”

“Oh, but he took you, huh?” Her voice cuts like glass. “He gets the girl, the inside scoop, the trust, and we get what? A betrayal?”

You step forward. “I didn’t betray you.”

“You didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. You let this go on while we’ve been risking our lives—my life—hunting down his kind. You don’t think that’s betrayal?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you did. You did lie. Maybe not in words, but in silence.

“You’ve compromised our entire mission.” she hisses, turning her back on you. “You think this is just about sex or feelings or whatever he gave you to keep you quiet? It’s bigger than that. He’s dangerous. And you let him in.”

“I didn’t let him in.” you snap, suddenly defensive. “He got in because he wanted me. Because he likes me. Because I like him.”

“And when the time comes,” she says, turning back around, eyes locked on yours. “and you have to choose between us and him, what’s your play?”

You’re shaking.

You can’t answer.

And Rumi sees it.

“…Get out.”

“Rumi—”

“Get. Out. Before I say something we both regret.”

You stagger back. One step. Then another.

And as you open the door—Zoey and Mira. Absolutely planted on the other side. Zoey straightens so fast she almost falls into a lamp. Mira just steps back, arms crossed, deadpan. Neither of them says a word.

You don’t say anything either.

You just walk away.

ROMANCE

Ohhh baby. You’ve just opened Pandora’s box with Romance.

The first time you and Romance crossed paths just the two of you, it was bloody. And violent. And frankly, stupid hot in hindsight.

You were rooftop hunting, your blade humming with enchanted energy, adrenaline in your teeth. The Saja Boys were slippery—always were—but he showed up like he’d been waiting for you.

You fought.

He was strong, too strong. Slippery. Every move came with a smirk, a breathy compliment, some infuriating “ooh, I like it when you’re rough.” You were sweating, pissed, cornered on the edge of a skylight.

But you didn’t back down.

You clocked him, hard, elbow to the jaw, leg sweep, blade to his throat, and he went down. Fell like a sack of demons with a ridiculous grunt and a flutter of his pretty shirt.

You stood there panting, blade raised.

Victory. Yours.

You even kicked him, toe of your boot to his ribs. “Dead?” you muttered.

He grabbed your ankle, fast as lightning, yanked, and dragged you straight to the ground with him. The breath left your lungs. Your body slammed to his. And suddenly? You were chest-to-chest with him, both breathing hard. His smile was bloody and filthy.

“Now this,” he purred. “is foreplay.”

You tied him up after that. You had to. Found rope in the storage unit of the building, tied his wrists behind his back, looped around the support beam. He didn’t fight it, no, of course not. He just watched you. Smirked. Made comments.

“That grip.” he said. “Ever thought of moonlighting in bondage? You’ve got talent.”

You should’ve killed him. Should’ve. He was just lying there, helpless, caked in blood.

But something in you faltered.

So you left him. Said it was a warning.

Before you left, he looked at you with those bedroom eyes and said, “Next time, bring better rope. You’ll be the one staying.”

And you did.

You came back. In the dead of night, alone.

And he wasn’t tied up anymore.

No, that time you were the one in knots.

Literal ones. Spread out, mouth covered in tape, eyes wide while he knelt between your legs, chin lifted and so fucking pleased with himself.

He whispered things you still feel heat up your spine when you’re alone in the shower.

That was the real beginning.

You’re not blameless. You like it. You like the chase, the secrets, the tension in every stolen second.

Romance doesn’t ask. He offers. He tempts. He brushes his fingers along your collarbone in passing, whispers filth into your ear just to see you shiver. He invites you to meet with him night after night. You go. Every time.

You’d call him a slut, except he only ever wants you.

He’s also attentive. Not the good boy kind, no. He’s too much of a tease for that. But he knows when you’re stressed, when you’re insecure, when you need to be fucked out of your head or just held while he brushes your hair. Super senses like he has do wonders in him getting your little feelings. Romance also has a memory like a thief. Remembers everything you say, down to the way you phrased it.

He’s obsessed with you. Openly.

But he also won’t stop flirting with other people in front of you just to rile you up.

(You’ve slapped him for it. He moaned. It didn’t help.)

He knows exactly what you are. A killer. A blade. Something sacred and trained and dangerous.

And he adores it.

“God, baby,” he’ll murmur while trailing his mouth down your thigh. “do you know how hot it is that you could murder me and choose not to?”

You don’t tell the girls. Obviously. They’d lose their minds.

Because you’re supposed to be on a mission to exorcise his ass from the planet—not get your back blown out on rooftops between hunts.

For an example, you let him tie you up again last night. He read you poetry while he did it. From memory. Filthy, ancient verses in a demon tongue you didn’t know—but understood perfectly from his eyes alone.

And when he made you scream his name, you think the whole street heard it.

Even when he’s being a tease—pulling your panties to the side in an alley or teasing you with promises he has no intention of letting you walk away from—his hands are always reverent. Worshipful.

He runs his fingers down your back when you’re not even paying attention. Laces your fingers together when you’re not touching him.

Then, it started with a bra strap.

Well, a glimpse of it, really, something delicate, lacy, red, peeking just above your sports tank when you bent down to pick up your dagger from the training mat. You didn’t even notice. But Zoey did. She always does.

Zoey squinted. “Since when do you wear matching sets for patrol?”

Mira glanced up from her weights, brow cocked.

You just shrugged. Played it off. “Self-care.”

They didn’t buy it.

And then it happened again.

The next night. And the next.

A different set this time, satin, black, barely-there. They weren’t judging you for it. Please. You’re hot, you’re allowed to feel yourself. But there was a pattern emerging, and it had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with how you were always glowing when you came back from “walks.”

Your cheeks flushed. Your lips bitten. The scent of perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to your jacket.

And the final straw? Rumi walked into your room to grab something and saw an empty condom wrapper on your nightstand. You weren’t even home.

That night, the three of them made a decision.

They were going to follow you.

It’s late.

You thought you were slick—slipping out the back stairwell in your “casual clothes” (which just so happen to include a barely-buttoned blouse and lace-trimmed thigh harness under a trench coat). Hair glossy. Lip gloss glossier.

You head toward a park a few blocks away. A little bench nestled between two massive trees. Always quiet. Always shadowed.

And sitting there, legs crossed, coat open over a shirt unbuttoned just enough is Romance.

He looks up, sees you, and grins. That slow, wolfish, I’m-gonna-undress-you-without-touching-you kind of smile.

“You’re late.” he says.

“You’re early.”

“I’m always early. It gives me more time to think about you.” He says it like a whisper. You bite back a smile, step closer, the night air curling around your ankles like it knows this is wrong and wants in.

He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at your dagger strapped to your thigh.

You lean in, eyes half-lidded. “What if I was here to kill you this time?”

“Then tie me up first. You know how I like it.”

You laugh. It’s soft. Intimate. Familiar.

That’s the sound that does it.

Zoey’s voice, “Whaaaaaaaat.”

You whirl around.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Standing just behind the tree line, like they’d been parked there for ten whole minutes, watching your little forbidden lovers’ reunion.

Your blood goes cold.

Romance just sits back, arm along the bench like this is hilarious.

Zoey’s eyes are bulging. “Are you seriously making out with Romance?! As in Saja Boy, Romance?! Mister demon dick himself?!”

Mira’s arms are crossed, her voice dry. “So that’s what all the lace was about.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Romance, unbothered, lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Ladies.”

“Don’t you ladies me.” Zoey snaps, stomping forward. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”

You stumble over your words. “I—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—okay, not like this. I wasn’t using him or betraying anyone or—”

“Oh my god, are you in love with him?!” Zoey howls.

Romance leans closer to you, whispers, “Say yes.”

You elbow him in the ribs so hard he wheezes. But he’s laughing. This fucker is laughing. And that laugh? It seals your fate.

Rumi steps forward, voice cold as glass. “Go home. Now.”

You look at Romance. He gives you a wink. A wink. He’s enjoying this. He is.

You turn to leave.

And you know they’re right behind you. Their silence is heavier than their words. Zoey’s arms are flailing in disbelief. Mira’s jaw is tight. Rumi says nothing, but you can feel her disappointment.

Back at the penthouse, everything feels louder. The walls feel tighter. Every footstep echoes like judgment.

You try not to flinch as the elevator closes behind you, sealing you inside with three of the people you love the most, and who now all look at you like you’re a stranger.

No one speaks.

You want to say something, break the silence, offer an explanation, but your throat’s tight, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape before Rumi cuts it out herself.

When the elevator dings open at your floor, it’s Zoey who moves first. Quiet. Shoulders tense. Mira walks out after her. Rumi walks last, slow and composed, her silence ten times more dangerous than if she’d yelled.

You don’t even make it to the living room before Mira turns on you. “What the actual fuck, Y/N?”

You swallow. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?!” Mira snaps. “After you fucked all of them? Or just after the Saja Boys rip our hearts out?! Which was it?!”

“I didn’t—” You exhale, hands up, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to fall into something with him.” You’ve gone over it a thousand times in your head. Every rule you broke. Every kill order you ignored. Every night you slipped away when your best friends were asleep, trusting you to be one of them, not one of the fucking enemy’s bedwarmers. “I know what I did.” you say, quieter. “I know it’s wrong.”

Zoey finally speaks, voice soft. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

You look at her. And she looks like she’s not angry like Mira, not composed like Rumi. Just… hurt. Her arms are folded across her chest.

“I don’t know.” you admit. “He’s a demon. He’s everything we’re trained to kill. But—”

“But you let him charm his way between your legs and now suddenly that makes it okay?” Mira’s voice is sharp. “You endangered us. All of us.”

“No.” you snap, louder now. “I would never let anything happen to you. I’m not stupid. I’m not just lying there letting him feed off my soul—he hasn’t even touched that part of me. I wouldn’t let him. I’m not a liability, Mira.”

“You are.” Mira spits.

Silence again.

You feel it in your stomach, a cold pit of shame. But beneath it, there’s something else. Something like defiance. Because yes, maybe you’re making a mistake. Maybe you crossed every line. Maybe you’re betraying the oath, the cause, the sisterhood.

But it wasn’t just sex. Not with Romance.

He sees you. Wants you. Not your blade, not your strength, not your usefulness to the mission.

Just… you.

“He cares about me.” you say, quietly.

“That doesn’t matter.” Rumi says. Her voice is so soft. “You’re a hunter. You don’t get to fall for the monsters. You kill them. Or you compromise everything we’ve built.”

Oh Rumi, we know why you think that.

Zoey bites her lip, voice shaking. “Are you in love with him?”

You hesitate.

And that’s the answer.

Mira throws up her hands. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Rumi looks at you like she’s assessing whether or not to kick you off the team. “We’re here to stop them, Y/N. All of them. We don’t get to make exceptions because they kiss nice or talk pretty.”

You nod slowly. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Rumi steps closer. “Because the second he snaps his fingers, and decides he’s hungry, you’re the first soul he’s going to devour.”

Do you really think that Rumi, or you’re just making shit up to stop your beloved Y/N from making the same mistake your mother did?

You want to scream that it’s not like that. That Romance—for all his bullshit, his flirting, his filthy mouth—has never once made you feel prey. You’ve never seen him lose control. Never once doubted he would stop if you told him to.

But even you know that doesn’t make it safe.

You glance between them, the three people you’ve fought with, bled with, survived with, and it feels like you’re in the wrong. You are.

Zoey steps forward finally, hand brushing yours. “If you really love him… then please be careful. Don’t make us bury you because you thought he was different.”

Her voice breaks at the end.

And Mira won’t even look at you.

Rumi just turns and walks toward her room. Before she disappears down the hall, she says one last thing:

“You have one chance to fix this. Or next time, it’s me that puts a blade in his chest.”

The door slams.

Your pretty underwear under your clothes feels stupid now.

But even through all that, you know, deep down?

You’re not going to stop seeing him.

And that’s the problem.

BABY

Oh, Baby.

You hate(d) his name.

Baby.

You don’t even know when it started.

Just that one second you were fighting, and the next?

You were… not.

It was supposed to be a quick hunt. You’d gotten separated from the girls for like five minutes—five whole damn minutes—and then bam. He was there.

Backstage, right behind the curtains at some underground venue, blinking at you like you were the surprise, not him.

Did he say anything?

No.

Just smirked.

And you knew it was a smirk, even if his mouth barely moved. Something about the way his eyes narrowed, chin tilted. The unbothered little lean against the wall, arms crossed. Hair too shiny. Mouth too glossy. Pretty in a way that made you want to scratch it up.

So you drew your blade.

He didn’t move. Just blinked again. Like you were the one being ridiculous. Then you lunged. He blocked you, lazy, like your movements were predictable. A joke. Your blade barely missed his throat, and he laughed. Not even like a proper laugh. Just this airy “heh” with his head tilted like, Is that all?

And you? Furious. Mortified. Already picturing the way Mira would roast you for getting played by the baby demon.

So you kicked his leg out from under him. Hard.

The fight got into close combat from there, your blade dropped to the floor. And the two of you just… went at it. Not even fighting anymore, just grappling, rolling across concrete with all the force and heat of a catfight.

His fingers in your hair. Your hand around his throat. Neither of you speaking, just panting, growling, gritting teeth. And his face?

Still blank. Still bratty. Still beautiful.

Until your knee landed in a very strategic place and he grunted—actually made a sound—and somehow that flipped a switch.

Next thing you knew?

You were on your back, shirt pushed up, his mouth on your tits, sharp little teeth teasing your skin as you hissed at him to fucking go.

“The girls are almost on. I have to go.” You hissed.

His response? A slow blink. Like you’re so loud and he was busy. Then he kissed a bite-mark over your nipple like it was his fucking signature and pulled back, shirt half untucked, his lips all red, and not a care in the world.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wink. Didn’t flirt. Just looked at you like he expected you to come back later. Like he knew you would.

You did.

Because Baby is… different.

He doesn’t do the “Oh, I want you so bad” stuff. That’s Romance’s thing. Doesn’t do the “I’ll protect you, angel” softness. That’s Jinu. Doesn’t even do the “Come here, babe, sit on my lap” gym rat boyfriend vibes. That’s Abby. Doesn’t let you control him like Mystery does.

Baby ignores your ass half the time.

You text him that you’re downstairs? He doesn’t even buzz you up. You have to break in. You say something flirty and he shrugs. You try to make plans and he answers with a yawn.

But when you’re alone? When you’re in the dark corners of club basements or dressing rooms or the stairwell no one uses between the 6th and 7th floors of the broadcast building?

He’s all teeth and tongue and whispers against your throat. Biting. Mouthing. Slouching against you like he doesn’t care but always pulling you closer.

He talks more with his mouth on your body than he ever does out loud.

His affection comes in weird little ways. Like slipping your favorite drink into your bag without saying anything, which he clearly stole from someone. Like swiping the exact eyeshadow palette you complimented on a make up staff member.

Like blowing off fan meetings just to sit in the dark and watch you stretch, head tilted.

And every time you call him out on it?

He gaslights you. Fully.

“What palette?”

“You bought it, didn’t you?”

“You said I could come in.”

“You didn’t say stop.”

Smug. Rude. Hot as fuck.

And for all his demon blood and dead-eyed stares, there are moments—tiny, barely-there glimpses—where you think he might actually care about you. Like really care.

He is the worst, but underneath that generally insufferable personality, he actually kinda likes you.

He still ignores the fuck out of you.

Deadass. You’ll walk into a room and Baby won’t even glance up. You’ll say hi and he won’t say anything back. Doesn’t even nod. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him to move. He never moves. Just slowly looks at you like you’re interrupting.

But the second you’re smiling on your phone, texting?

Laughing too hard?

Not paying attention to him?

He’s right there. Doesn’t say a word. Just drapes himself over you like a cat and sighs against your neck like this is what I had to resort to?—then nips at your collarbone.

You tell him to go away. He doesn’t.

You shove at him. He goes heavier.

You call him annoying.

His answer:

“Mhm.”

You’ll be pouring tea, being the sweet, functional human being you are, and he’ll just… slide his mug over. No eye contact. No “please.” Not even a “yo.” He just tugs on your sleeve once and you already know.

You always say the same thing: “I’m not your maid.”

To which he always responds by… waiting.

Not moving.

Just standing there like …so?

So you pour the tea.

Every. Damn. Time.

(And then he takes a tiny sip and says, “Too hot.” And you fantasize about kicking him in the shins.)

He has the nerve to walk around with that adorable, sweet little face. Wide eyes. Lashes for days. Little nose. Pink lips. He blinks at people and they melt.

“Oh my god, is he shy?”

“He’s so precious!”

“Aww, he’s like a little bunny!”

LIES.

Baby is a demon.

A predator.

A horrible little shit who absolutely uses his face as a weapon.

Don’t even get me STARTED on his voice. It does not match him. At all. It’s low and slow and filthy, like it’s meant for whispering horrible things directly into your ear. And he knows it. He uses it. He’ll say your name in that voice, right behind you, when he wants something. And every time it works, you hate yourself a little more.

You hate him.

You want to climb him like a tree.

You’re the problem.

He likes you though. He really does.

He doesn’t say it. Obviously. But you know.

He shows up at your window at 2 a.m. and does not leave you alone, that’s his love language. You wonder what Gwi-Ma thinks about that. Does he insult the poor boy in his head? Leaves the topic alone? A wonder, really.

He doesn’t care about people. Not really. Not like you do.

He’s selfish. Bratty. Condescending.

He never says “I love you.” Never writes sweet notes. Never says “I miss you” or calls you beautiful.

But he stays. He lingers. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s tired. He lets you sleep on his chest when you both sneak off after dark. He lets you see the version of him no one else gets to.

You’re not sure if this is love, or madness, or both. But you keep crawling back. Keep letting him tug you close. Keep pretending it’s not dangerous, even though it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.

Yeah.

He’s terrible.

But you like him that way.

Anyways, your room is big. Like, stupidly big. The girls fought tooth and nail for this penthouse, and somehow, you ended up with the one room that had its own damn sitting area, fireplace, and balcony. Probably because you “never bring people over.”

Ha.

Right now, you’re sitting on your bed, one leg bent, your hair damp from a shower, some oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder. You’re glowing, content, the kind of comfort that only comes when your secret demon boyfriend is stretched out across your silk sheets.

Baby, flat on his back, hoodie pushed up just enough to expose his stomach. He’s got one arm under his head, and the other lazily dragging over your thigh.

And you’re telling him a story. Some stupid one from earlier. About Zoey trying to cook eggs and somehow setting off the fire suppression system, and Mira slipping in the foam and cussing in three different languages, and Rumi trying to keep everyone calm.

He doesn’t say much—he never does—but every once in a while, he makes this little “hn” sound that means he’s listening. His eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and you gently run your fingers across the curve of his bare stomach as you speak.

Just light touches. Lazy, mindless. Your thumb sweeping around his navel. Tracing the faint v-line that disappears under his waistband. And he just takes it. Like he deserves to be pet.

His hips shift just slightly, subtle little rolls into your hand. His lips twitch. He hums.

“You’re distracting.” you mutter, dragging your fingers down his side.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just tugs on the hem of your shirt like he wants it off but can’t be bothered to do it himself.

You laugh a little and lean over him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He lets you. He always does. Touchy and spoiled and acting like he’s the one doing you a favor by being here.

His fingers brush the back of your knee. Slide higher. God, he is so touchy. Not in a Romance kind of way, not in a flirty, dirty whisper way. Just clingy. Needy in a wordless, bratty little way. Always tugging at you. Always reaching. Not because he wanted attention, but because he expected it.

You’re just about to crawl into his lap when he suddenly opens his eyes—not startled, not alarmed, just blank. “Behind you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Door.”

You frown, confused. Turn to look, and your soul leaves your body.

Zoey. Mira. Rumi. Peeking through your bedroom door, all crammed into the tiny sliver they must’ve pushed open while you were distracted. All of them with their mouths slightly open. Eyes wide.

They must’ve been watching you for minutes.

Baby waves to them lazily.

The second your eyes meet theirs, they jerk back like they’d been slapped and slam the door shut.

SLAM.

Silence.

You stare at the door.

Baby stretches behind you, unfazed.

“You forgot to lock it.” he says, yawning like this is the most boring turn of events that’s ever happened to him.

“You watched them watch us!” you hiss, slapping his chest.

He shrugs. “You looked cute. Figured they’d agree.”

You launch a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him and doesn’t even blink.

You shoot to your feet like you’ve been lit on fire. You’re not even fully dressed, just the shirt, some thin little shorts, no bra, and your heart is thrashing in your chest because oh my god they saw. They saw everything. “You couldn’t have warned me earlier?!”

He gives a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think they’d stay.”

You smack him in the chest, hard.

“OW—what?!” he complains, still not even bothering to sit up. “You were telling a story.”

“Get out.” you whisper-yell, frantically waving your hands. “Go, go, GO!”

He groans dramatically, sitting up like it physically pains him. “You’re so loud.” he mutters.

But he stands anyway, tugging his hoodie down and making zero effort to look guilty. His hair’s a little messy, lips pink, eyes smug. He’s glowing like a man who’s very satisfied with his life choices. He is casually stretching his arms over his head. Right before he leaves, he pauses, looks at you, and then? Then he raises his voice just enough for the hallway to hear: “BYE GIIIIIRLS.”

He snorts to himself, satisfied with how he fucked up this for you even more, and leaves you there. Alone. Staring at the spot he just vanished from.

Okay, yeah, alright. You take a deep deep breath and walk over to your door to open it.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. All standing in the hallway, backlit by the soft pendant lights. Their expressions? Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of tears but holding it together with sheer willpower. Mira’s pacing, fists clenched so hard her knuckles are white. Rumi is just staring at you, arms crossed, completely still. That’s the scariest part.

“Okay,” you say, voice cracking like the ice you’re walking on. “that was—”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.” Mira explodes. Her hands fling up like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing them at you. “You had him in your room?! While we were home?!”

“It’s not like I—”

“Don’t.” Rumi says. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous. “Don’t say it’s not what it looked like.”

It was what it looked like.

Zoey finally speaks. Her voice is so small it hurts. “You… you’re with him?”

“I didn’t—” you start, stepping forward instinctively, “I wasn’t gonna— I mean, I was, I just—” You sigh and rake both hands through your hair. “Yeah. I’m with him.”

Silence.

Rumi’s brows lift slightly. “For how long?”

You look at the ceiling. “A while.”

“Did he brainwash you?” Mira snaps. “Are you cursed? Are you fucking STUPID—”

“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cuts like a blade.

“No, I wanna hear her say it.” Mira hisses, rounding on you. “Do you even care that he’s a demon? That he’s probably feeding off you? That he’s probably laughing with the rest of those Saja freaks about how easy it was to get a Hunter to spread her legs—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mira.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it lands.

Mira steps back.

“…I know what he is.”you say softly. “I know what we are. I’m not confused. I’m not cursed. I’m not being controlled. I know what I’m doing.”

Zoey’s lip trembles. “Then why?”

You glance away. Chew your lip. Feel your chest ache. “Because he’s not what I thought demons were. Not all the time. Not with me.”

Mira scoffs. “Oh, my God.”

Rumi stares at you, then she says, “Go to your room.”

“I—what?”

“Go. To your room. Now.”

You pause for half a second, wanting to argue. Wanting to stand your ground. But you’ve already shredded the ground beneath your feet. So you do as you’re told. You walk back in. Close the door. Sit down on the bed.

The sheets still smell like Baby.

MYSTERY

You like him. God help you, you really do.

It started during one of their meet-and-greets. A crowd full of obsessed fans screaming over them, while you stood in line like a regular human, hair tucked under a cap and sunglasses on your face, just scoping the scene.

That’s when you noticed him in the back. Standing off to the side like he wasn’t even part of the group. His mic wasn’t on. He wasn’t smiling. Just kind of… existing.

You don’t know what possessed you, maybe it was the odd way his hands were twitching around the prop mic, or the slight crease in his brows as he watched the crowd, but you stepped toward him. Just a little. Close enough that he looked up. Or at least, lifted his chin.

He was holding a lightstick upside down.

And god, something about that made your heart ache. Because he looked so confused. So detached. So alien in that moment. Like he didn’t get what any of this was for.

So you’d whispered, “Turn it around. Other way.”

He blinked. Glanced at it. Turned it slowly, obediently.

You reached out and twisted his fingers to hold it right. “There. Like that.”

He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he watched you. All of you. Your hands, your mouth, your face.

And when you turned to go?

“…Thanks.” he said. So small. So low. Barely audible.

After that, he kept noticing you. You’d catch him watching from across rooftops during a hunt, or from the shadows of backstage areas. Silent. Unmoving. A presence. He never approached you directly—you had to do that—but he let you. Which, coming from him, was kind of massive.

You started sneaking around. Sitting next to him when you knew the other Saja boys wouldn’t be around. Leaving stupid little notes for him where you knew he’d find them. One time you brought him a chocolate bar and he ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Then murmured, “Too sweet.” and handed the wrapper back.

You’ve learned to read his silences. Every little shrug or pause or twitch is a language now. One you understand. But he also talks, like:

“You smell good.”

“Don’t go yet.”

“You looked sad today.”

He didn’t have to be sweet with you. Or quiet. Or gentle.

He just chose to be.

Once you were in the alley behind a club where both your crews had performed. The others were still inside fighting. But he had slipped out. And so had you. Not nice, you know, but it felt right.

He had his back against the wall, shoulders relaxed.

You had asked him, “Why are you always so quiet?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s always something to say.” And then you turned toward him, shoulder brushing his, and whispered, “Like… if you wanted to kiss me.”

His breath stilled.

You watched his lashes lower behind his heavy hair. You could barely see his eyes, but you could feel them.

And then, softly:

“…Can I?”

You nodded.

He kissed you. No tongue, no hands, no hunger—not at first. Just lips.

Then you leaned in harder. Slid your hand up his chest.

Then he moved.

And after that? It was on.

It was a relationship—even if the word felt too loud, too bright, too human. You didn’t label it. You didn’t talk about it. But you felt it every time he waited for you. Every time he slipped into your space. Every time he murmured your name.

Don’t even get me started on the patterns on his dick. It’s weirdly attractive.

WHO SAID THAT?!

And then you got caught.

It had been weeks. The girls were suspicious, but they hadn’t figured him out yet. The others? Sure. But Mystery? Who could tell what he was even thinking, let alone who he was touching?

So that night, you got bold.

It was late. Everyone else was asleep. You were in the upstairs sunroom, one of your favorite places because it overlooked the whole city. Mystery was curled up with you on the wide window ledge.

Your hand was in his hair. His breath was on your neck. You had just whispered something—you don’t even remember what. Something dumb and soft and sweet.

He turns his face to you and said, “I like it when you talk.”

You blink. Smile. “That so?”

He nods once. “Your voice is warm.”

And you arw about to say something else when Zoey’s voice rang out behind you:

“…You’re kidding me.”

Your whole body jerks.

You turn so fast you almost knock Mystery out the window.

Zoey stands in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw slack. Mira right behind her, looking like she was about to throw up. And Rumi is staring at Mystery.

And he—fucking audacious—is just sitting there. Calm. Not moving. One arm still around you.

He’s kinda evil so he’s definitely doing that on purpose.

“Okay—okay, listen—”

But Mira is already marching forward, murder in her eyes. “You’re sleeping with him?!”

“He’s not what you think—!”

“He’s a DEMON!”

Zoey looks betrayed. Like it physically hurts her to see you like this.

Rumi just says: “Leave. Both of you.”

Mystery doesn’t move until you move first. He stands slowly, brushing off his shirt. Then he reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear, and whispers: “I’ll wait.”

Then he vanishes.

You walk back into your room, listening to Rumi. Like your best friends didn’t just see you wrapped up in one of the five you’ve all sworn—sworn—to destroy.

You don’t cry. You don’t know if you can. It’s just this huge, pulsing silence in your chest, like someone rang a bell inside you and then walked away.

To Rumi, this was personal.

We know why.

And she just saw you—her best friend—wrapped up in the arms of something she sees as rot.

Of him.

It’s not even about him being a Saja Boy. Not completely. It’s the idea that you’re letting something like that close to your heart. That you’re flirting with what her bloodline forced on her.

And she’s scared.

You sit there for what feels like forever.

Mystery’s scent still clings to your collar. You wonder if he’s out there waiting like he said. You wonder if the girls will ever look at you the same again.

You wonder if you even deserve it.

[syrupyuu]

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𝐇𝐎𝐏 𝐇𝐎𝐏, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘! . nsfw

YANDERE!BUNNYBOY × GN!READER — mdni | unedited. yandere behaviour, stalking, emotional manipulation, power imbalance(owner/pet), dub-con undertones, petplay, degradation, choking, spanking, masturbation, fingering, d/s dynamics. hybrid pet/sci-fi dystopia AU.

𝐀/𝐍: fdsgf this fic was not supposed to be so short, i swear!!! but i realized too late that it works better as a drabble... oops,, hope you'll enjoy regardless (￣▽￣*)ゞ

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 you bought from an online luxury pet market at a premium price, advertised as a limited-time comfort model designed for reclusive owners who crave a devoted, compliant companion.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who arrived half-asleep in a sealed crate, blinking up at you with glassy, half-lidded eyes the moment the lid opened, murmuring, “You’re so pretty… are you my new owner?”—but something in his voice was...off.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who curled against your side on the first night and shyly asked to sleep in your bed. Who purred when you scratched behind his ears and mewled in his dreams when your hand drifted lower.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who dozes through most of the day—on your couch, across your lap, in the curve of your bed. Who always seems to wake in compromising positions: cheeks flushed, shirt rucked up, his soft tail twitching.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who clings tighter the sleepier he is, winding around your arm and whispering, “You smell so good… can we stay like this forever?” Who pouts when you try to pull away, pawing at your chest and begging for more pets, more praise, more touch.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who pretends to be too naive and gentle to ever do harm. Who plays the perfect pet—blushing when you call him good, pressing close when you stroke his hair, sighing sweetly as if he’d never dream of disobeying.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who sometimes pretends to be asleep, just to feel your hand on his hair, your fingers tracing the edge of his collar, your breath warm on his skin.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who follows you from room to room, barely noticeable, until he’s pressing his face into your neck and inhaling you like he can’t get enough. Who watches you sleep with wide, shining eyes. Who memorizes every password, every schedule of yours. Who licks your toothbrush when you’re gone and leaves wet stains on your bedsheets when he thinks you won’t notice.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who slips little gifts into your pockets—soft tufts of his shed fur, a note with a little pink heart drawn on it, a wrapper from your favorite candy—just to remind you he’s still thinking about you every second.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who wants to be more than your pet—who wants to be your everything, for you to feel just as intensely for him as he does you. Who wants you to mark him so thoroughly he’ll be ruined for everyone else.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who dreams about you every night—dreams where you hold him down, where you kiss him so roughly it bruises, where you tell him he belongs solely to you and no one else ever will.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who moans your name into his pillow at night, clutching the collar you gave him like a lifeline. Who stares at you through damp lashes while biting his thumb, face flushed and desperate. Who trembles when he grips your thigh and begs in a broken voice, “Please… p-please ruin me. Ruin your dumb little bunny…”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who fingers himself in your shirt, whimpering your name like a prayer. Who pretends to be asleep when you come home, but arches his back the moment you hover near.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who can’t help the way his thighs shake when you brush your knuckles over his cheek, trying to act like he isn’t soaking the sheets just from your touch.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who shivers when you scold him. Who gets visibly hard when you call him a “bad pet.” Who clings to your waist when you try to leave, voice hitching as he pleads, “I’ll be good—I promise—I swear… you can punish me if I’m bad… just don’t leave me…”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who can’t cum unless he’s crying. Who sobs, gasping, “Break me… I was made for you…” and it's more confession than plea.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who trembles with a cracked little whimper when you threaten to send him back. “P-please… don’t return me—I’ll be so good—I’ll do anything… anything… just let me stay… please…”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who flinches the first time your hand closes around his throat—but moans when you don’t let go. Who shakes all over when you glare down at him, but he can't help the lovesick grin that spreads on his face when your eyes meet.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who tries to hide the way his cock twitches whenever you slap his cheek, but the soft whine he lets out gives him away every time.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who can’t look you in the eye when you catch him rutting into your pillow. Who clutches it to his chest, panting, whispering that he wishes it was you instead.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who kisses the bruises you leave on his hips like they’re precious gifts. Who guides your hand to his throat, voice ragged: “I want it—I want all of it—make me yours forever…”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who can’t stop tracing the marks you leave with trembling fingers, smiling like he’s never been happier in his life.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who sobs when you finally give him everything he’s craved—pleading in broken, high little gasps, “Please—please don’t stop—break me—make me worse—I don’t want to be anything but yours—only yours—”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who forgets his own name when you’re inside him, only able to cry out yours over and over until his voice gives out.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who melts into you, voice dissolving into soft, wet whines every time you degrade him. Who presses kisses to your knuckles between hiccupping sobs, whispering, “I’m nothing without you… I don’t want to be anything without you…”

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 who falls asleep afterward with his cheek on your thigh, little hiccups still shaking his chest, one arm draped possessively over your waist as if he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he lets go, lips parted in a dazed, blissful smile that doesn’t fade even in his dreams.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader.

Imagine you did not even remember when you stopped breathing. One second, you were standing beneath the soft glow of the chapel lights, heart beating inside your chest like something caged but still hopeful and before you even knew it, time simply stopped.

Imagine the string quartet has been playing the same piece over and over again and now it sounds less like music and more like an apology.

Imagine the aisle is long. Beautiful and lined with white flowers and people who love you or at least pretend to and all of them are watching you. Watching as the minutes keep ticking.

Imagine twelve minutes have passes on and then, eighteen. Twenty seven.

Imagine, He's not coming. Thats the thought that slices through you like a blade and you hate it. Hate that your brain dares to whisper it before your heart is ready to accept it. But you’ve already scanned the room three times, and every time your eyes pass over the empty double doors, the weight in your chest grows heavier. Like your ribs are closing in on themselves.

Imagine Leanne's voice, your friend finally cuts through the hush beside you. "Hey." She whispers. "Let's go wait in the back for a minute, okay? Just... Just to breathe. Okay?" You nod or maybe you didn't. Maybe she just leads you and your body follows because it doesn't know what else to do.

Imagine as she takes your arm, you hear the first real whisper that makes your stomach drop. "MC isn't here either." Your legs almost give out. Not from fear. Not from heartbreak. From recognition. MC. Of course.

Imagine she was supposed to be here hours ago. You had texted her when your makeup was done. She did not respond. But that wasn't weird. She had probably been caught up with something. Probably helping Caleb. Helping Caleb. That phrase alone makes your stomach churn now.

Imagine you could feel the crack forming somewhere deep inside. Small. Quiet. But real. More voices follow. "They were at the base together this morning…" "They always had something, didn't they?" "He probably ran to the one person who knows him best." "It's always the best friend."

Imagine the way tbe pain doesn't come in one sudden blow. It comes in pieces. Slow. Deliberate. Like someone's peeling your skin off inch by inch.

Imagine you blink at Leanne as she tries to close the dressing room door behind you, blocking out the whispers. You think she says something, but you're already gone inside your own head.

Imagine as you sat in the middle of the sofa, gown spread out like wasted silk around you. Your hands won't stop shaking. Your bouquet lies forgotten on the floor. Your phone shows one voicemail from this morning.

Apple: No matter what happens, I love you.

5:13 a.m.

Imagine what the fuck does that even mean? Your hands tighten. Your breath comes out in sharp, humiliating gasps. That's not a message from someone running late. That's a goodbye. That's a pre written excuse. That's a coward's escape route.

but Imagine Caleb is not a coward. Is he? God, no. He's not. You love him. You know him. He had never... But she was always there. MC. Always just close enough. Always just understanding enough. Never stepping over the line but never quite behind it either.

and Imagine you trusted her. You liked her. Hell, you thought of her as a friend. She zipped you into this very dress three days ago and told you you looked like a walking promise. And now she's gone. Alongside him.

and Imagine for one gut wrenching second. Just one, you imagine them together. Caleb kissing her temple. MC whispering. "You deserve better than a life that cages you." Caleb agreeing. Caleb choosing freedom. Choosing someone who understands the scars you never earned the right to ask about.

Imagine you hate yourself. You hate yourself for even thinking about it. Because that's not MC. That's not Caleb.

but Imagine the doubt is there now. And doubt, once it takes root, doesn't care how much you believe.

Imagine you slam your phone face-down. You pull at the pins in your hair. You press your hands to your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, because if you let yourself speak, it'll turn into a scream.

"Why wasn't I enough?" That's the question that breaks you.

Imagine you hate it. You hate yourself for the shadows in your heart. You hate the silence that Caleb's absence has left behind. And most of all, you hate that you might never get your forever.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: caleb when I catch you-!!!!

[t4kalcvr]

MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 4,576 ) genre :: forbidden romance, eroticism, && secret desire. content contains :: spicy read, acrobatic + designer reader, manipulation, temptation, infatuation, big sister mira. PART ONE !! PART THREE

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

ever since that rooftop, you’ve been meeting him in secret.

not always at the same place. not always at the same time.

but always late. always quiet. always when the rest of the world is sleeping.

it started with a single text — a message you should’ve deleted, a name you shouldn’t have saved.

then a shadow against your window. a knock you could recognize in your sleep.

and from there, it became routine. a habit. a hunger.

you’ve tasted him now.

and ever since that night, you can’t forget the way he kissed you like your lips were made of something holy.

can’t forget the way he said your name like it was the only word he wanted to remember.

you’re hooked.

on the way he smells.

on the way his breath catches when your hands slip under his jacket.

on the way his voice drops when he leans in to say, “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and god help you — you always have.

tonight, it’s your room.

the door locked. the lights dimmed. the window cracked open just enough to let the summer breeze creep in.

and he’s already got you against the wall.

his mouth is on yours, again and again, hot and desperate, like he’s making up for every second he’s had to pretend you don’t exist during the day. his hands are at your waist, then your hips, then pressing into the arch of your back to pull you flush against him.

you gasp softly when his teeth graze your bottom lip, and that sound — that sound drives him insane.

“you always taste like trouble,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing down the line of your jaw, “but I’ve never minded bleeding for it.”

your fingers tangle in his hair, guiding him back up to your mouth because god, the silence is too much — you need to feel him again, need to erase the guilt that always scratches at your chest when you’re apart.

the makeout turns messy fast.

heated. gasping. clothes shifting. his jacket already tossed to the floor. your shirt riding up with every movement.

his hands are everywhere — touching like he’s trying to memorize your shape, like he’s afraid he’ll forget if he stops.

your back hits the edge of the bed, and suddenly he’s pushing you down with a smirk that’s far too pleased, far too knowing.

and when he crawls over you, lips swollen from kissing, voice hoarse with need, he doesn’t ask permission.

he just says, “you’ve ruined me, you know that?”

his eyes dark and tender.

“i don’t even want to stop.”

and the worst part is — you don’t want him to.

not now. not here.

not when the space between you is nothing but heat and unspoken yeses.

and yet, there’s a fatal flaw.

you knew this couldn’t last forever.

no secret, no matter how sweet it tastes, can survive too long in silence.

not when it lives in stolen kisses and bruised lips, in locked doors and tangled limbs, in the way you’ve started looking for him even when he’s not there.

you should’ve stopped it.

the first night.

the second.

maybe even the tenth.

but you didn’t.

and now you’re here again — back pressed against the sheets, his mouth on yours, hot and relentless, like this might be the last time.

because it always feels like the last time.

you don’t even hear the door open.

you only hear the gasp — sharp, full of disbelief and heartbreak and betrayal — and when you break the kiss, your stomach drops so fast it nearly rips through you.

“what the hell.”

mira.

she’s standing in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide, expression frozen between shock and rage.

zoey is just behind her, blinking, speechless. rumi’s already stepped into a defensive stance, like she doesn’t know whether to fight or flee.

you scramble upright, heart in your throat, shirt half off your shoulder, baby still between your legs and too stunned to move.

fuck. you thought you locked the door.

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

what do you even say?

this isn’t some petty secret. this is treason. this is betrayal. this is him. a demon. the enemy.

and you, Mira’s little sister — the one she’s spent her life trying to protect — are sitting in your bed, breathless and flushed, with the one person she would never trust near you.

you see the fury bloom in her eyes. the hurt blooming right behind it. she steps back once, then twice.

“you’ve been lying to me?” she says, voice cracking despite how sharp she tries to sound. “this whole time?”

you feel baby shift behind you, sitting up, silent. his presence doesn’t help. it makes it worse.

because no one in that room is asking if it was a mistake.

they saw.

and worse — they know it’s been more than once.

mira turns, muttering a curse under her breath, and storms down the hall.

zoey follows without a word.

rumi lingers at the door, gaze unreadable. she looks at baby. then at you.

then closes the door without saying anything.

the silence that follows is unbearable.

your chest rises and falls, too fast, too sharp.

you feel sick. dizzy. not just from the kiss, or the heat still lingering between your legs — but from the crash of reality that just hit.

you finally look at baby.

he’s staring at the closed door.

“…so,” he says after a long moment, “that went well.”

you don’t laugh.

but you almost do.

and then you move fast — faster than your mind can keep up with.

your hands fumble to straighten your clothes, cheeks flushed, limbs shaking. baby helps without saying a word, slipping back into his jacket like he already knows how this ends.

it’s quiet now. dangerously quiet.

you turn to him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“don’t move. don’t follow. just… just give me a second.”

his eyes flick to yours. unreadable, but not cold. never cold. not with you.

you step out of the room, closing the door behind you like it’ll keep the world from exploding.

but it doesn’t.

it’s already started.

mira’s at the end of the hallway. rumi and zoey flank her like shadows, but this time they aren’t in their oversized hoodies or casual fits.

they’re in full HUNTR/X gear.

thick boots. tactical belts. high-collar jackets fastened tight. every inch of them reads ready.

like they’re about to kill something.

your stomach drops. “what… what are you doing?”

no one answers.

your eyes scan their bodies again, panic crawling up your spine like a vine wrapping tighter and tighter.

then you see it — mira’s spear, glowing with faint light.

she only summons that for one thing.

your throat goes dry. “what are you doing in your full gear?”

rumi tilts her head, her voice cool, nearly clinical. “there’s a demon in your room.”

zoey adds, eyes sharp, “we’re here to kill it.”

and just like that — something inside you snaps.

you lurch forward, blocking the hallway like your body alone can stop three trained demon hunters from doing what they were raised to do.

“no—no, you don’t understand!” you yell, louder than you meant to, louder than you’ve ever yelled in your life. “you can’t—he hasn’t hurt me, he hasn’t—he’s not like that!”

mira steps forward. her tone is low, like she’s trying to hold herself back.

“he’s a demon, y/n.”

“and i’m not stupid!” you shoot back. “i know what he is! i know who he is! but you don’t get to come in here and decide—”

“he’s using you,” she cuts in, eyes burning. “he’s using your feelings against you—”

“maybe!” you shout, voice cracking. “maybe he is! but it’s mine to figure out! not yours to kill!”

rumi’s expression is unreadable, but zoey looks like she might be on the verge of speaking — until mira raises a hand, silencing everyone.

she stares at you. deep. searching. like she’s looking for the girl she used to protect. like she’s mourning someone who isn’t even dead yet.

“you’re not thinking clearly,” she says, voice low. “he’s manipulated you. that’s what they do. and we’re going in there. with or without your permission.”

you take a shaky breath. your voice softens, almost a plea now.

“mira, please… i’m your sister.”

mira’s jaw tightens.

“and i’m trying to keep you alive.”

she brushes past you.

and for the first time in your life, you shove her back.

hard.

she stumbles slightly, stunned. not hurt — just shocked.

the air between you turns electric.

and suddenly, you realize… if they take one more step, you might actually fight them.

for him.

for the demon behind that door.

and god help you — you don’t even know who that makes you anymore.

your breath catches when mira pushes past you again.

without thinking, your hand goes to your side — and your sickle glows blue in your grip before you even summon it aloud.

rumi and zoey both freeze.

“don’t,” you warn, voice tight.

zoey’s eyes widen, hands half-raised like she wants to stop all this before it begins. “y/n…”

“don’t,” you repeat. “don’t make me raise this at any of you.”

rumi glances at mira. “mira…”

but mira’s already summoning her spear — the shimmer of silver and violet illuminating her hardened face as it forms in her hand. she doesn’t hesitate.

“upstairs,” she says flatly to the others. “now.”

“mira, come on—” zoey starts, but rumi gently grabs her arm and pulls her back. her eyes meet yours one last time. there’s something apologetic in her gaze.

you don’t blame them. you wouldn’t fight your sister either.

as they disappear up the stairs, silence falls again.

then—

“baby, run!” you yell, backing up and keeping your sickle between you and the door. “go! please—just go!”

but there’s no reply. no footsteps. no blur of silver vanishing out the window.

you don’t know it yet, but he’s already gone.

mira twirls her spear once, steady and precise, eyes locked on you like you’re the demon now.

“he already got in your head.”

“he didn’t,” you snap, weapon raised. “you just never gave me the chance to show you who i really am.”

“i know who you are,” she says, voice sharp. “you’re my little sister.”

“then act like it!”

your sickle slashes first, slicing the air in a brilliant arc of blue light — she dodges, then lunges with a powerful thrust of her spear. you twist aside just in time, the tip grazing your shoulder. it stings. the pain is real. so is hers.

“you’re better than this,” she growls as your blades clash again, metal shrieking. “you were meant to lead, y/n. not fall.”

“fall?” you hiss, stepping back and spinning your sickle in your palm, sweat already dripping. “you think i fell just because i feel something? because for once, i chose something for myself?”

you duck as she swings again — this time harder. angrier.

your foot connects with her ribs in a clean side kick. she stumbles — not far, but enough.

“he’s not what you think,” you say, voice cracking as you go in for another strike. she blocks, barely. “and even if he is… he never lied to me. not once.”

“he didn’t have to!” mira shouts. “he used you!”

your blades clash again, sending sparks across the room.

you’re both breathing hard now, circling.

“no,” you whisper. “he saw me.”

she pauses.

and for a second, you think she might drop the spear.

but she doesn’t.

“then you’re already lost.”

she lunges again, and this time — you meet her halfway.

the next clash feels heavier. not in force — in emotion.

your sickle locks with the length of her spear, both weapons trembling between you as your arms strain, breaths sharp and fast. your eyes meet hers, and for the first time in this entire fight… she looks unsure.

not weak. not wavering. but tired.

you both push, and for a moment — neither of you gives in.

then—

“he’s gone,” rumi’s voice calls down from the stairwell. calm, certain.

you both freeze.

“we checked every corner,” zoey adds, appearing beside her. “no windows broken. no trace of a fight. no presence.”

your stomach drops, but not in fear. you already knew. you felt it the moment you stepped out of the room. that cold emptiness where his warmth had just been.

baby’s gone?

mira is the first to lower her weapon.

slowly, deliberately, like it’s costing her something.

you follow suit, releasing your sickle with a faint flicker of blue light as it vanishes from your palm. your hands are shaking.

“he left because of me,” you say softly, turning to mira. “because he didn’t want to make this worse.”

mira’s mouth presses into a line. her eyes scan you again, searching for something — guilt, maybe. clarity. regret. something that would make this feel easier. but you don’t give her any of it.

you step forward.

“i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i didn’t even know how it was happening,” you admit. “but it was real. or at least… it felt real to me.”

silence.

then mira lifts her eyes.

“you don’t get to live in both worlds.”

the words hit harder than her spear ever could.

you blink. “what?”

“you can’t fight beside us with your heart somewhere else,” she says, voice firm. not cruel. not yelling. but final. “you want him? fine. that’s your choice. but don’t expect to come back and hold a blade next to mine if you’re still dreaming of kissing him.”

your chest tightens.

“mira…”

“choose,” she says. “the team. or him.”

you feel rumi shift at the stairwell, her fingers twitching slightly like she wants to intervene — but she doesn’t. zoey looks down, suddenly fascinated with the floorboards.

no one’s going to make it easier for you.

you’re standing on a knife’s edge. between what you know, and what you want. between your blood and your betrayal. and the worst part?

you still don’t know your answer. and you don’t say anything as you grab your shoes by the door.

not even when mira calls your name behind you — low, hurt, commanding in that older-sister way that used to make you freeze in place.

but not tonight.

tonight you just… walk.

barefoot at first, shoes dangling in your hand. the floor cool beneath your feet, your breaths still uneven from the fight — not just the physical one, but the one behind your ribs. the one you’re still losing.

you step outside and the air hits your skin like a slap.

it’s cold. humid. full of tension, like the world itself knows what you’ve done.

your eyes sting, but you blink fast. you don’t want to cry. not yet.

you walk for what feels like forever — no destination, just the need to move. to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like blood or regret.

you didn’t even realize where your feet were leading you until you looked up and saw the small stone archway, fog curling out like smoke from the cracks of the wooden door.

a bathhouse.

quiet. tucked away in the edge of the neighborhood. warm light glowing through the windows like an invitation to forget.

you slip inside without a word, barely nodding to the old woman behind the counter. she doesn’t ask questions.

thank god for that.

you strip down. wrap yourself in a towel. grab a robe and let the fabric cling to your damp skin as you make your way toward the steaming baths. the warmth is already seeping into your bones — gentle and forgiving in all the ways your world hasn’t been lately.

your muscles ache. your heart aches worse.

you find a corner tub, one of the smaller ones tucked away beneath a low-hanging lantern. the water bubbles quietly as you step in, slow and careful, the heat kissing your legs, your waist, your collarbones — until you sink into it fully, robe tossed nearby, steam curling up around your face like a veil.

you let your head fall back. close your eyes.

breathe.

just breathe.

and try — desperately — to forget the way mira’s voice shook.

the way rumi wouldn’t meet your eyes.

the way zoey stayed silent, like silence would save you.

two weeks ago, you would’ve chosen the team without question. would’ve stood at your sister’s side, sickle raised, swearing loyalty with no hesitation.

so why now?

why him?

why does your heart burn at the thought of his hands, his mouth, his voice — the way he always called you trouble with that soft grin like he hoped you’d never stop being it?

why does your body ache for someone you were trained to destroy?

you press a hand to your chest. it’s too much.

you just wanted a moment to breathe.

to forget.

to feel clean.

but nothing’s ever that easy anymore.

the steam curls around your shoulders like silk, heavy and soothing, your limbs loose and warm beneath the surface. your lashes flutter as your body begins to sink into that liminal place — not quite asleep, but somewhere distant. somewhere quiet.

the weight of the night drifts from your chest in slow exhales.

but then—

fingers.

light. familiar.

trailing through the steam, slipping against your collarbone like the start of a secret.

a palm ghosts over your chest, gentle and deliberate. not rushed. not mistaken.

and then — lips, just beneath your jaw.

soft. coaxing. too warm to be a dream.

you blink, barely breathing, and your eyes meet the impossible.

him.

baby’s face half-shrouded by mist, hair damp and falling near his brow, smirking like he never left.

“miss me already?” he murmurs, voice soaked in teasing, low and infuriatingly calm. “can’t seem to stay away from hot water, huh?”

you inhale sharply, but your body doesn’t flinch. it recognizes him.

every cell of you remembers.

your brain screams to say something — to tell him this is too much, too dangerous, that you’re barely holding your world together — but his hand doesn’t stop, gliding across your ribs with the kind of reverence that makes you shudder.

you close your eyes again for one stolen second.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“and yet…” his fingers brush your lips. “here i am.”

his mouth returns to your throat, slower now. like he’s daring you to push him away. to follow through on every rule and warning drilled into you since the day you joined HUNTR/X.

and maybe you should.

maybe you really should.

but the heat of his breath on your neck pulls you into a spiral.

and the way he says your name — soft, like a confession — makes your pulse skip.

you can’t keep doing this, you think.

but your hand finds its way to the nape of his neck anyway.

and suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re sinking into the bath — or into him.

his breath brushes your ear, hot and damp like the steam curling around your shoulders.

his touch is still feather-light on your skin, reverent in a way that drives you mad, even as your chest tightens with everything you can’t ignore.

“why did you disappear?”

the words come out like a crack — sharp, but soft. a break in your throat you can’t patch over.

he pauses.

his hand doesn’t move, but you feel him exhale against your neck, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw.

“gwi-ma called for us,” he says finally, voice low, unreadable.

“for what?” you ask, your tone firmer this time. trying to hold onto reality.

he pulls back just enough for your eyes to meet.

“don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. his fingers linger at your cheek, trailing down your jaw like he’s tracing something precious.

“but i am worried,” you breathe. “what was it for, baby?”

his eyes flick away for the briefest second.

“it’s part of the job. demon business.” he says it casually — too casually — like he wants to pretend it’s no more serious than a trip to the store.

but you know better.

you know what your sister’s files say about the gwi-ma. what their missions mean.

your hand presses gently against his chest — not pushing, but grounding.

you search his face.

“what kind of business?”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, his lips crash into yours — warm, full, silencing the question with something much heavier than truth.

and for a moment, your thoughts tumble. you fall into it.

his kiss is hunger disguised as comfort.

gentle pressure behind your neck, his other hand curling at your waist like he’s trying to erase the distance between what you are and what he can never be.

but you pull back — barely. your lips still touching his.

“you can’t keep doing that,” you murmur, forehead pressing to his. “i’m a hunter.”

his grip on your waist tightens.

“and i’m a demon,” he whispers back, “so what?”

his voice dips, deeper now — velvet and iron.

“that only matters on the battlefield. out there, it’s war. here, it’s just us.”

you shiver as his hand trails lower, not rushing — just being there. present. grounding. sinful.

you know this is wrong.

everything in your training says you should be running. or fighting. or calling your team.

but he’s looking at you like you’re the first thing he’s ever wanted.

and for once, you don’t feel like a soldier.

you feel like something worth wanting.

“relax,” he murmurs again, his voice softer now, lips brushing your shoulder like a prayer.

“cmon, for tonight. just… focus on me.”

and somehow —

you do.

you let yourself lean into the warmth of him, your worries floating in the steam, weightless for just a little while longer.

your back hits the edge of the tub, water lapping at your skin as baby leans in closer, chest brushing yours, fingers splayed across the curve of your thigh. it’s dizzying, the way heat blooms under every point he touches — like fire coaxed into a slow, steady burn.

“first time in a tub for me,” he says, breathless, with that teasing smirk that makes you want to curse and kiss him all at once.

you blink at him. deadpan. flushed.

“shut up.”

and then — you kiss him.

slow at first.

then deeper.

hungrier.

you move without thinking, legs wrapping around his waist, water sloshing with every shift between you. steam curls between your mouths as you breathe each other in, your hands threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. always closer. as you slowly sit down.

his lips find your collarbone. your shoulder. your pulse. soothing you.

his hands roam — careful but aching, like he’s been waiting. like he hasn’t been dominating you for two weeks. like you’re hidden in shadows, untouchable.

but now you’re here.

on him.

around him.

like you belong to no one but the heat between you.

the bathhouse echoes with your quiet gasps, the soft sounds of breath and longing ricocheting off tile walls like a hymn.

your head drops to his shoulder. his name on your lips, a whisper.

every movement feels like giving in. like letting go of every line you’ve drawn between right and wrong.

and for a moment — in the heat, in the water, in the hush of this stolen world — you do.

you give in.

completely.

the steam kisses your skin like a secret.

his hands move like they already know the map of you, like they’d memorized the terrain long before ever touching it.

fingers press like whispers against pages — each turn, each stroke, unlocking verses only your bodies understand.

you shift in his lap, water rippling around you like silk torn in slow motion.

his name hums beneath your breath, not a sound but a surrender, like the world was always meant to fall quiet beneath it.

his mouth finds your shoulder — then the hollow between your collarbones,

drinking you in like you’re something sacred, something forbidden,

and the taste alone might damn him.

you move together like waves — sometimes slow, sometimes desperate,

sometimes like two things trying not to drown each other.

his grip tightens at your waist.

you arch.

a temple built in motion.

you feel yourself unraveling in pieces,

like threads pulled by candlelight — careful at first, then all at once.

and every place his mouth finds becomes a question

you never want answered.

you’re not even sure where you begin and he ends.

not in this heat.

not in this moment.

all you know is that the line between hunter and demon is blurring.

and your pulse is singing hymns you were never taught to understand.

your breath is a rhythm now — stuttering, breathless, caught between disbelief and desire.

and you don’t know when the words start pressing against your chest — just that they’ve been living there, coiled beneath your ribs like something wild and caged, scratching to get out. every time his fingers dig into your hips, every time his lips brush your throat, that truth pulses louder beneath your skin. it builds with every movement, every breath, every aching push of your body against his, like the rhythm between you is conjuring something ancient and holy and completely terrifying.

you’re losing yourself in the way he watches you — like you’re both the sin and the salvation. your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, grounding yourself in the texture of him. steam clings to your skin, to his chest, rising like incense around your joined bodies. everything feels slow, stretched thin — like time itself is caught in the heat of this tub, afraid to move forward and ruin the moment.

and then you say it.

you don’t mean to. not really. but it leaves you anyway, a soft and shaky breath against the shell of his ear, your voice trembling as much from the confession as the sensation curling in your stomach.

“i love you.”

everything stills.

his breath catches like he’s been struck. and then — he groans. deep and wrecked, as if the sound was torn from somewhere he never meant to show you. his fingers clutch at your waist harder than ever, like you’re slipping through his hands and he can’t bear it. his eyes flare — not dimly, not faintly, but bright and golden and undeniably demonic, the glow of something ancient and overwhelming rising just beneath his skin.

“say that again,” he growls.

his voice is low, broken, almost disbelieving. there’s something desperate in the way he looks at you now — like he’s starving, not just for your body, but for the truth of you. for the part of you no one else gets to see. the part you swore you’d never give to anyone like him.

your breath stutters, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the water sloshing around you. his hands don’t stop moving — gripping, stroking, urging — but it’s the look in his eyes that holds you still. not the yellow glow of a demon, not really. but something softer beneath it. something broken. something that hopes.

you could lie. you could laugh. you could change the subject and pretend it never happened.

but you don’t.

you only lean in closer, forehead pressed to his, your lips parted just enough to whisper the words again.

not because you should.

but because you mean them.

and somehow, that’s even more dangerous than everything else you’ve ever done.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, WAS THIS UP TO EVERYONES EXPECTATIONS ?? WAS THE ENDING OKAY ?? HELP PART TWO WAS REALLY REQUESTED SO I HOPE THIS SATISFIES YALL ??? i will SCREAM if yall ask for part three, atp just make it a series 😭 (i wont say no though, luv yall too much to deny yall) IMA START WORKING ON A TWIN SIN CONTINUATION !!!!

update : PART THREE HAS BEEN REQUESTED AGHHHG

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @aspensnowwalker @strawbeii @chiharuhashibira @ateezswonderland

ko-fi 🎧

next read recommendation :: the twin sin (jinu nsfw)

look here for other reads 📚 !!

[pitlanepeach]

Figure It Out | Prologue

Max Verstappen x Isla Harrington (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Isla Harrington’s life is upended after a one-night stand with Max Verstappen leaves her a single-mom. Four years later, Max decides that he wants in — and neither of them are ready for what that means.

Warnings — Surprise baby trope, one night stands, co-parenting, grovelling, bullying and harassment, coming of age, angst and fluff.

Notes — Welcome to the Figure It Out universe!

January, 2025

The sauce was nearly ready.

Isla gave it one last stir, the wooden spoon scraping softly along the curve of the pan. The scent of garlic and crushed tomato clung to the air, tempered with basil, warm and sun-heavy like the late afternoon itself. Outside, the Tuscan hills rolled lazily toward the horizon, golden light pooling across the fields like spilled honey. The cottage windows were thrown open to the breeze, gauzy curtains fluttering like breath.

Inside, it was chaos.

Not the wild kind — not sharp, not overwhelming. Just the clutter of a life that had roots. Shoes by the door. A scattering of crayons under the table. The low hum of music playing from the Bluetooth speaker, some lilting Italian folk song with too much accordion and far too much heart. It made Isla smile as she stirred. She knew every word now, even if she still stumbled over the verbs.

Finn sprinted barefoot into the kitchen, limbs flying, cheeks flushed with delight. “Time?” he gasped, clutching the bright orange stopwatch in his hand.

Isla glanced at it, though she hadn’t pressed the button. “Four-point-one-two,” she told him gently.

He dropped to the floor with a dramatic sigh. “Nooo,” he groaned, flopping backwards. “I was faster last time.”

“You were,” she agreed, crouching beside him, tucking a damp curl behind his ear. “But that’s what happens when we run too many laps before dinner. You’re fast, sweetheart. You don’t have to be fastest every time.”

He tilted his head up, eyes wide and gleaming — Max’s eyes, painfully so. “Faster than a cheetah?”

She gave him a soft smile. “Definitely faster than a cheetah.”

He grinned, already bouncing back to his feet, stopwatch in hand.

Isla straightened up, ducking automatically as he flew past, a blur of socks and determination. She moved to the stove, twisting the knob slightly, and stepped over one of the toys littered across the floor.

It chirped to life as she nudged it accidentally — a plastic truck with mismatched wheels and a cheery voice that sang in tinny, chipper Dutch. “Ik ben jouw vriend! Zullen we samen spelen?"

Isla paused, her smile curving without humour.

It wasn’t the only Dutch toy in the house, but it was the first. A gift from the elderly couple who ran the toy shop near the piazza — kind and soft-spoken, with their thick Limburg accents and insistence that “a boy should always know where he comes from.” Isla hadn’t protested. She hadn’t explained.

Just nodded, and let them hand her a cardboard box full of their grown sons’ old toys.

She’d never pretended Max didn’t exist.

How could she? His presence — or his absence — bled through everything. Finn’s eyes. His competitive streak. His tantrums when he came second place in any competition.

But Isla had never spoken Max’s name aloud in front of their son. Not because she was angry. Not even because she wanted to protect Finn from him. It was more complicated than that. A grief with too many edges.

She gave Finn the parts of himself she could. The Dutch words she learned from books. A flag beside his Italian and Welsh ones on the shelf. Stroopwafels once a month, and a lullaby she couldn’t sing without her voice catching in her throat.

She’d filled the space Max had left — not with silence, but with softness. With enough love that Finn never asked why it was only the two of them.

He didn’t know what was missing.

And Isla had made peace with that.

Or at least… she thought she had.

Until the dog three doors down started barking. One short, frantic burst. Then another.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp taps.

Measured. Intentional. Not the kind you heard in a sleepy Italian town where people let themselves in with wine and gossip.

Finn stilled mid-sprint.

“Is that Granny?” He asked hopefully.

Isla wiped her hands on a tea towel, heart suddenly too loud in her chest. “I don’t think so, baby,” she said, voice soft. “Probably someone who needs directions. Go in the living room and stay there, please.”

He nodded and ran off, a blur of red and blue and coconut scented body wash. 

She moved toward the door slowly. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know why.

The sky had turned lavender now, streaked with peach. A breeze lifted the hem of her white cotton shirt as she reached for the door.

She opened it.

And the world stopped.

Max.

He looked older. Not drastically — the same strong jaw, the same defiant posture — but the sharpness in his expression had deepened. His hair was shorter, tidier. His hoodie was dark, hands shoved deep into the pockets. His eyes, those eyes, flicked up the moment the door swung open.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

She felt everything all at once. Four years collapsing into a single breath. The weight of the choice he’d made. The ache of the years she’d survived without him. The instinct to shield, to protect — flaring up behind her ribs like fire.

Behind her, a toy crackled to life.

"Zullen we samen spelen?"

Max’s gaze flicked past her, into the soft, warm chaos of her kitchen. At the little boy who was peeking around the threshold of the hall — brown curls, tomato sauce on his chin, stopwatch clutched in his hand.

At the life he hadn’t touched.

At the son he’d never met.

Max didn’t speak right away. His gaze stayed fixed past her shoulder, into the warm hum of the cottage, where a little boy’s laughter still echoed faintly from the other room. The sound cut through him. Not loud — but sharp in its innocence.

And Isla watched his face shift.

Watched something in him unravel at the edges, just for a second.

“What—” his voice broke, just a little, like he hadn’t thought this part through. “What’s his name?”

Her chest tightened. She hadn’t heard his voice in person for over four years, and now here he was, asking the question he’d once never wanted answered.

“I-” she stammered. And then firmer, the words hardening in her throat. “Finn. His name is Finn.”

He flinched. Barely. But she saw it.

Isla drew in a breath, steadying herself against the ache rising too fast beneath her ribs. “Why are you here?”

Max looked at her then. The Max she remembered — sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, the kind of stillness that came from holding too much back. But there was something else. Something quieter. Like guilt had found a permanent place in his posture.

“I made a mistake,” he said.

Isla laughed — not cruelly, just bitter, broken at the edges. “Really?”

Silence.

“You didn’t lose your passport, Max. You didn’t miss a flight or accidentally insult your waiter.” Her voice rose, just slightly, the first crack in an otherwise calm exterior. “You told me not to have him. You told me you couldn’t be a father — wouldn’t be. No matter what I decided to do; you didn't want any involvement.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She stepped out onto the stone step, closing the door slightly behind her. Not all the way — never all the way, in case Finn needed her — but enough to put space between her family and the man who’d chosen to be a stranger.

“Do you know what it’s like,” she said, voice tight, “to raise a child knowing the one person who shares his blood decided he didn’t want him before he ever met him?”

Max’s eyes flickered. Shame sat heavy in them now, dulling the sharpness she remembered from the media pens and post-race paddocks.

“I didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know what?” she snapped, her control finally fraying. “That he’d be kind? That he’d be brilliant and fast and funny? That he’d love go-karts and make little pit stop noises when he runs around the kitchen?”

The air between them felt suddenly thin.

“You didn’t want to know,” Isla continued, softer now, but fiercer. “You made it so clear. I didn’t beg. I didn’t ask for help. Not a single penny. I just walked away, Max. And I’ve made a life for him without you.”

Her eyes shone, but she didn’t let herself cry.

“I gave him everything I never had. Warmth. Stability. A home, a full fridge, warm water. He has a solid bedtime routine and a bookshelf full of stories and three different languages swimming around in his head — including Dutch.”

Max blinked fast.

“You think you can show up now because your career’s in a quiet spot? Because the champagne’s dried and the next title doesn’t feel urgent anymore?” Her voice broke, not from anger, but heartbreak. “You don’t get to claim him now that it’s convenient.”

She felt her bottom lip wobble a little. “You didn’t want to be his father, Max. I made peace with that. And it was so hard, but I did. I did it for you, because that's what you wanted.” She whispered. 

Behind her, Finn giggled — a breathless, delighted sound, probably finding new ways to time himself on his sprints.

Isla turned her head, just slightly, at the sound. Then looked back at Max, her eyes wet, gut twisted painfully. “Please, Max. Don’t confuse the sound of a happy child with an open door.”

Then she stepped back inside and closed it; gently. Not with a slam. Just with quiet finality.

Max stood alone on the doorstep, the Tuscan sun bleeding gold against the hills behind him.

And inside, a little boy with his eyes (God, with his face) started to laugh. 

[kukinkrim]

okay but here’s a fun thought

Saha boys x Siren reader

Comedy story of both parties trying to pretend to be human

and imagine they have a sit down to talk because they have to tell the other the truth (both completely expecting this to go so far south because what would their darling human companion think!)

and it comes down to “I have a secret I can no longer keep. I’m not human” the other just laughs a bit too hard dropping their own illusion like “BRO ME TOO. Oh that’s so much better than what I thought, I thought we were breaking up or somthing!”

I just think it be really neat

oops, what's a human?

saja boys x siren!reader

themes: polyamory (?), fluff, romcom

the dorm you shared with the boys were unusually quiet for the night. too quiet that it made the tension in the air all the more unbearable.

you gulped down the lump in your throat, pretending not to hear your own heart racing harshly against your sensitive ears.

your five boys sat infront of you, sitting on the couch; eyeing each other as they quietly signalled one another to start talking and ask you what the meeting was all about.

you stirred your drink slowly, nervously, trying to act normal. but it was hard when all five pairs of eyes were watching you like a hawk right now.

you’d been holding it in for weeks.

the truth of it throbbed under your skin like a second pulse—an ache that twisted every time one of them called you their favorite human. you'd laughed along, of course. nodding and telling them that they were your favorites too; which isn't a lie.

but the guilt of letting them call you a race that wasn't your own was eating you alive.

you felt like you were betraying them for keeping it to yourself for this long.

you weren't a human. you were born out of seafoam and lived in the sea, yet you suddenly found yourself on land with legs that did not quite fit you. you were a siren. a real one, even if you have no tail to show for anymore. you still had your voice. dangerous and alluring—the kind that lured people into the sea centuries ago with sweet songs and sharp teeth.

you weren’t proud of it, but you didn’t have much choice in the matter either. you sang for survival. it was in your nature.

but then, you became human. with no actual human skills to show for other than your voice, you were scouted. you managed to debut under a no-name label. a poor company that couldn't afford fancy music videos or world tours or even just a dance crew of your own.

yet you still managed to garner the love of the people. your voice reached so many and over time, you had built a loyal fanbase of your own.

the saja boys were one of them.

a couple of variety shows and collaborations later, you became close with the five. the next thing you knew, you're visitting their dorms three times a week and cuddling with them on the couch.

but the truth is still there, ever so present and persistent: you weren’t human.

and every second you spent smiling with them, joking around in practice rooms, stealing fries from jinu’s plate and letting baby mess with your vocal warmups—you felt like a fraud.

they trusted you.

that’s what made it worse.

so here you were, after putting it off so many times and crying over it at night, you sat infront of them ready to open your heart and accept the worst.

what if they hated you? that’s what haunted you the most. not being found out, but for being pushed out.

because they were your everything now. your safe space in a cruel, unpredictable industry. in this world that, no matter how many years had passed, you still couldn't get used to.

ah. this is so stressful.

you fiddled with your cup and cleared your throat. "okay. so... uh, i have something to tell you guys. and like… no interrupting until i finish. got it?”

five demon idols blinked at you, unusually solemn. their shoulders slumped and it looked like they were about to burst into tears. before you could even utter the next words, your confession, abby was the first to break their silence.

"this sounds like a breakup," he says as he looks at you with a pout. he has his arms folded across his chest.

“are you dying?” romance asked, sniffling as he clasps his hands together.

“is it cancer? it’s always cancer in dramas,” baby added, glaring at the floor. it looks like he's mutterimg something along the lines of 'fuck cancer' 'i hate cancer' or something.

your eyebrow twitched as they all started muttering amongst themselves, clearly invested in their own little theories. even jinu, the most levelheaded among the five, seemed to be convinced you were sick. it looks like mystery was about to cry once he hears the word cancer one more time so you sighed, putting the cup down before you accidentally smash it on the wall.

forget being guilty at this point.

“i— NO, shut up! i said no interuptions!” you shouted, holding your hands up. “let me say it first!”

you inhaled slowly once everyone'a eyes were all on you, "i have a secret I can no longer keep.”

the five of them leaned forward.

“i’m not human.”

pause.

the room fell quiet for a hot minute you almost wanted to throw up.

“BROOOOOO—” it was romance who broke the silence with an uncharacteristic scream, as he exhales dramatically in relief, clutching his shirt. "i thought you were going to break up with us or something. THANK GOD."

jinu choked on his drink and slapped baby in the chest, who was, somehow, already laughing like he found all of these amusing. to his credit though, it probably is.

"so what are you, then?" mystery was the ome who asked what they were all thinking. "a demon like us?" he pointed to himself as he stares you at you eagerly. for some reason, you could tell he was rather excited to hear your answer-

wait.

demons? like us?

"wha-i'm a siren. wait. demons? excuse me?" you stumbled on your words, not sure if you heard it right.

“dude,” baby gasped between coughs of laughter. “we're demons."

the four nodded as if it was not the most surprising thing in the world. well, you suppose, it means you're not the only one keeping a secret this whole time; afraid to be judged and hated on by your own lover.

"i knew you were too good during karaoke nights!" romance pointed an accusing finger at you and you chuckled, rubbing your nape sheepishly.

"so, you're all demons. all five of you."

jinu laughs, nodding. "we were actually coming up with a plan on how to tell you but it seems you made a move first. i didn't really take into account that you'd be a siren, though."

"i thought sirens were a myth!" abby was now looking at you with awe in his eyes and you could tell he had so many questions about your origin. it was kind of cute to see him so excited?

“this is so much better than what i initially thought." mystery hummed as he slumps against the couch, tension rolling off his shoulders now that everything was known.

“wait,” you frowned. “what did you think?”

“we thought you were going to say you were leaving us,” jinu replied with his eyes wide. "or worse!"

abby chirped in, "like cancer!"

there was a brief silence before you all broke into laughter again—relieved and a little hysterical. it felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders now that you've told them the secret you've been keeping for so long.

you exhaled, dragging a hand down your face. “oh my god. i actually thought i was gonna confess i was a monster and then cry, maybe scream, and lose you all forever."

"nah, you're stuck with us now. you eat souls too, right?" baby asks as he relaxed on the sofa, propping his feet up the coffee table on the center of the living room.

you raised an eyebrow, but nodded anyway. "yes. i eat souls. before i became human, i usually ate lost sailors across the sea. now i just eat pathetic humans. they actually taste a bit disgusting.”

“see?” romance gestured with a grin. “you’re one of us. you’re like… demon-adjacent. an honorary hellspawn.”

“more like a morally flexible ocean cryptid.”

“that too.”

"for our next collab, you have to do the bridge." baby chirps, smiling smugly at his own idea. "your riffs actually make humans cry and cough up mild trauma. it was pretty funny to watch."

"i thought you were just a super talented human that can make grown men lose their minds," abby laughs loudly.

ah, thinking about your next comeback.

it would be a ride.

the industry better watch out. these six hellspawns were looking at a #1 billboard award.

and honestly?

you were going to look damn good on that red carpet—with your demons matching themed outfits. you can't wait.

[flowergirl1243]

soft launch season - [part six]

SUMMARY: when Lando Norris' notorious party boy reputation may be too far out of control to save, you step in to save his image (and maybe his heart).

PAIRING: lando norris x fem!reader

part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven

ACT 6: CRASHING DOWN

The wall didn’t come out of nowhere.

But the silence after did.

One moment, he was fighting the car, tires going, rear twitching, and the next, he was staring at a cracked front wing, breathing hard, listening to the static in his ears.

"You okay?" "Yeah," he said. Automatically. "Yeah, I’m fine."

He wasn’t.

Physically, sure, the impact hadn’t been bad. Not like it could’ve been. But mentally?

He was unraveling.

By the time he got back to the garage, everything was too loud. Too bright. Too fake.

The pats on the back, the “unlucky, mate”, the way the team immediately started spinning it into strategy and silver linings, it all made his skin itch.

He sat in the back, helmet still on, visor down, and let the noise wash over him like water he was drowning in.

He should’ve seen it coming. Not the crash, the rest of it.

The slow build. The spiral. The consequences of pretending he didn’t care.

Because the truth is, he hasn’t been driving the same since Monaco. Since he let her slip through his fingers with a half-assed text and a silence he thought would protect him.

But you can only outrun the ache for so long.

And today?

Today it caught up.

The second the car slid out, the second the world tilted and the corner bit back, he wasn’t thinking about tire temps or weather windows or goddamn points.

He was thinking about her.

About the way she used to squeeze his hand before races. About the look on her face in Monaco, equal parts pride and fear. About the message she sent, “just tell me if this got too real. i can handle it”, and how he’d replied with “don’t worry” like a fucking coward.

He peels the helmet off eventually. Sets it down like it’s fragile, like he’s fragile. His jaw aches from clenching it too long.

He stares down at his gloves.

He doesn’t feel unlucky.

He feels like he deserves this.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He stripped off his gloves minutes ago, but the tremble was still there, twitching in his fingers, in his wrists, crawling up his arms like static.

He hated this feeling. He hated how familiar it was. How it pressed into his lungs and made everything feel like it was closing in.

He should’ve been better at this by now.

But the crash, the loss, the silence he’d wrapped around himself like armor, it had all cracked.

And now he was just...sitting in the back of the motorhome with his head in his hands, sweat cooling on his neck, trying to breathe.

Trying to think.

Trying not to think.

But her face kept flashing through his mind.

How she looked that night in Monaco. How quiet she’d gone since. How he let her walk away without a fight.

And it hit him, sharp and sudden: She doesn’t know I’m okay.

She doesn’t know. Because he never gave her a reason to ask. Never gave her a place to stay.

He reached for his phone before he could talk himself out of it.

Found her name. Stared at the screen. Thumb hovering.

His heart was beating way too fast.

He almost texted. Can I call you? Something simple. Safe.

But instead he hit call.

Straight up.

Raw.

The dial tone rang once. Twice.

Then again.

His breath caught.

Four rings.

Five.

He was about to hang up when—

“...Hello?”

Her voice was soft. Distant. Like she was somewhere quiet. Like she didn’t expect it. Like she maybe hadn’t wanted it.

He swallowed hard. His voice cracked on the first syllable.

“It’s me.”

A pause.

“I know,” she said. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

“I, um…” He ran a hand through his hair. Pressed his fingers into the back of his neck like it might hold him together. “I crashed. In Canada.”

She went still on the line. He could feel it, the pause. The breath she held.

“Are you...are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Physically. Just—” His throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

She didn’t say anything.

So he kept going.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he admitted. “I mean, I did. There’s like a hundred people who would’ve picked up. But I didn’t want them. I just wanted...”

He trailed off.

She let him sit in it.

Then, quietly: “You should’ve called me days ago.”

“I know,” he whispered.

Another beat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For Monaco. For pulling away. For making you feel like none of it mattered. Because it did. It does. I was scared. I am scared.”

She was quiet. He heard the sound of fabric shifting, maybe her curling into herself the way she always did when she was trying not to cry.

“I thought you didn’t feel it,” she said finally. “I thought I made it up in my head.”

“You didn’t.” He was already crying. Quietly, tears slipping down his cheeks without permission. “I felt everything. That was the problem.”

He heard her breath catch.

“I miss you,” he said, broken. “And I don’t know how to undo what I did. But I know I don’t want this to be where it ends.”

A pause. Soft. Fragile.

Then: “I don’t want that either.”

And for the first time in days, his hands stopped shaking.

She barely had time to say hello before he had his arms around her.

No hesitation. No pause. Just Lando, breathing unevenly, pulling her to him like she was the only solid thing in the entire world.

And she let him.

Of course she let him.

His arms were around her waist, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his whole body shaking with the kind of pressure that only comes when someone’s been holding it together too long.

“You came,” he whispered, like he didn’t believe it yet. “Fuck, you came.”

“I told you I would.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, hands still clinging to her like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t keep touching her.

He looked awful.

Not the kind of awful you see after a crash, but the kind that comes after a crash you walked away from, only to realise what it could’ve taken from you.

His eyes were red-rimmed and tired. His jaw tense. His voice cracked when he tried to speak again.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

She reached up, brushed her fingers gently through his hair. “Start anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Immediately. Urgently. “For everything. For Monaco. For going quiet. For making you feel like you imagined all of it. You didn’t. I promise you didn’t. I was just—”

He stopped, like the words physically hurt to say.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “And I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I felt everything too much, and I didn’t know how to hold it. So I dropped it. I dropped you.”

Her throat tightened. “Lando—”

“I crashed in Canada,” he said, cutting her off. “And it wasn’t even bad, not really, but the second the car hit the wall, I didn’t think about the points or the standings or what the team would say. I just thought, I never called her back. I never told her the truth. And that if something worse had happened, you’d never know.”

His hands found her face now, both of them, holding her gently, but so close, like he needed to memorise the exact shape of her just in case the universe tried to take her again.

“You’re it for me,” he said. “And I’ve been too much of a coward to say it. You’ve been patient and kind and everything I needed, and I gave you silence. I gave you space when all I wanted was this.”

He kissed her, not soft this time, not like before. This kiss was frantic, apologetic, aching. Like he didn’t trust words anymore.

And she kissed him back, hands sliding beneath his hoodie to feel the heat of his skin, to ground him.

He was still talking, even as he kissed her, whispering broken things into her mouth like he’d fall apart if he didn’t say them now.

“I missed you.” “I couldn’t sleep without you.” “Every time I turned around, I wanted you there.” “I don’t want this life if you’re not in it.”

She pulled back gently, forehead resting against his. Her hands cupped his jaw, her thumbs brushing the tears beneath his eyes that he was too tired to hide.

“I’m here,” she said. “I never stopped being here. I just needed you to see it.”

“I do now,” he breathed. “I swear to God, I do now.”

He clutched her to him again, tighter this time, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he was trying to crawl inside the quiet safety of her.

They sank to the floor together, backs against the wall, limbs tangled.

He held her in his lap, arms wrapped fully around her middle, his face pressed into her shoulder like he was finally letting himself rest, really rest, for the first time in weeks.

And she didn’t speak.

She just let him hold her.

Let him whisper thank you over and over into her skin.

Let him fall apart, finally, because this time, he didn’t have to fall alone.

Liked by ynusername, oscarpiastri and others lando where i'm meant to be 🤍

ynusername my favourite place, always

user31 I can breathe again, thank god.

user32 My parents are finally back together. I can sleep at night now.

Well! I think I'll do one more part and then close it off, unless you have any suggestions for what you want to see??? Let me know! As, always, the taglist is always open! Thank you so much for your love and support, I appreciate you so much!! taglist

@sol3chu, @charlesgirl16, @motorsp0rt, @imdyinghelpplease, @vampgege, @angeltroian, @ceekokocee15, @esw1012, @charlottes-ngvot, @janonymus0, @gigigreens, @hymntostars, @imagine-it-was-us, @meahel13, @milkiane, @hi26loveie

[arixella]

Hii! I love your fics so much it’s crazy 😭 Can I request maybe a OP character (anyone, strawhats if possible..👀 like Zoro for example WHO SAID THAT??) where reader is such a yapper, like they never stop talking and one day the character had like a bad day or sum and they got annoyed at reader speaking too much so they tell them to shut up or like something like that, but then reader gets hit by a devil fruit ability and gets mute for some times?? It would be very appreciated thank youu😙

The Silence Between Us

╰┈➤ pairing: Zoro x gn! reader

a/n: hey yall ive been on vacation sorry but im working on everyones request and the request box is closed rn 😭

summary: After Zoro snaps at your constant talking during a bad day, you're struck by a Devil Fruit power that renders you mute — forcing him to confront just how much your voice, and your presence, mean to him.

wc: 2.0k

contains: Hurt/comfort, angst with fluff, emotional vulnerability, soft romance, slow-burn tone,

You always had something to say.

From the moment the sun peeked over the horizon to the late hours of the night, you filled the air with words — stories, questions, dreams, wild thoughts, jokes (some good, some terrible). You talked to Chopper while he worked, to Robin while she read, to Nami while she navigated, and especially to Zoro while he trained.

He pretended not to listen most of the time, grunting or responding with “mm” or “tch,” but you kept talking anyway, never really needing a reply.

You didn’t notice the tension until it broke.

The crew had returned from a rough skirmish on a new island. Everyone was exhausted. Zoro had taken the brunt of it — again — after shielding a village from a collapsing cliff with nothing but his swords and his own body. He hadn’t said much the whole walk back. You followed him onto the Sunny, chattering all the way.

“And then Sanji totally panicked when the lady offered him ten kids in exchange for soup, did you see that? And oh my god, did you catch Usopp trying to bribe the snake guy with candy? Also—”

“Can you just shut up for five seconds?”

You froze mid-sentence.

The words landed like a slap, not loud, but sharp. Zoro didn’t yell. He didn’t even look at you. His brows were furrowed, jaw tight, eyes shadowed by frustration and fatigue.

“I’ve had a shit day,” he muttered, turning away. “I can’t deal with your constant talking right now.”

You stood there, mouth slightly open, hands half-raised in some unfinished gesture. The silence that followed was deafening. For the first time, you didn’t have a comeback. You didn’t even try to laugh it off.

“…Right,” you said quietly, backing away. “Sorry.”

You left him on the deck without another word.

The next day, you were on a scouting mission with Luffy and Brook when it happened.

You were talking — of course — something about the shape of clouds looking like mashed potatoes when a strange-looking woman stepped out from behind a tree, pointed a finger at you, and said:

“Silencio.”

A ripple of air hit your chest. You blinked.

Nothing felt wrong… until you tried to ask Luffy what just happened and—

Nothing.

Your mouth moved. No sound came out.

Panic set in quickly. You clutched your throat. Tried again. Nothing.

Brook gasped. Luffy shouted something incoherent and charged after the enemy Devil Fruit user. You were left there, speechless in the most literal way, voice stolen.

By the time the crew returned and explained what had happened, you had already started writing notes to communicate. Chopper confirmed it: a Silence-Silence Fruit. The mute effect would wear off — eventually — but no one knew exactly when.

Zoro found out later that evening.

He saw you at dinner, sitting quietly at the table. Not talking. Not laughing. Not making a single comment about Sanji’s overly decorative dessert or Franky’s attempt at sea-cucumber cola.

It was Nami who finally said it.

“They got cursed or something by a Devil Fruit user,” she muttered, stabbing her food. “They can’t speak for a while.”

Zoro nearly dropped his plate.

He stood slowly, heart pounding, and stepped out onto the deck.

You were there already, sitting on the edge, knees pulled to your chest, the waves reflecting in your eyes. You heard his footsteps and looked up, giving a small smile, polite and distant.

He hated it.

“I… didn’t know,” he said quietly. “They just told me.”

You nodded.

Zoro stepped closer. “Was it when you went with Luffy? That’s when—”

You nodded again, slower this time.

He stopped beside you and sat down, his jaw clenching.

“You’re not talking,” he muttered. “Feels weird.”

You gave him a small shrug. The silence stretched.

Zoro stared out at the water. “…I didn’t mean what I said yesterday.”

You didn’t look at him.

“I was tired. In pain. I snapped. That’s not an excuse, but…” He ran a hand through his hair. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You hugged your knees tighter.

“You talk a lot,” he said, a little helplessly. “But I like it. I got used to it. It’s just—sometimes my head’s too full. And I took it out on you. That was my screw-up.”

He glanced sideways at you. You were listening, really listening — but your expression was unreadable. He sighed.

“I miss your voice,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

You blinked, surprised.

“I mean it,” he said, meeting your eyes. “This silence? It’s worse than the noise.”

You looked down, then slowly reached into your pocket, pulling out a folded scrap of paper and a pencil stub. You scribbled something and handed it to him.

“It’s okay. I know I talk too much sometimes.”

Zoro stared at the words, then looked back at you.

“No, it’s not okay,” he said firmly. “You talk because it’s part of who you are. It’s how you connect with people. It’s how you make the ship feel… alive. I was just too selfish to see that yesterday.”

You wrote something else.

“Did you mean it, though? When you told me to shut up?”

Zoro flinched. He didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the deck, fists clenched.

“I meant I needed quiet. I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I could take it back…” He exhaled hard. “You’re the last person I’d ever want to silence.”

You were quiet for a beat. Then, slowly, your hand reached over and took his — fingers warm and soft around his calloused ones. You gave it a small squeeze.

Zoro looked at your joined hands, then at you.

“Next time I need space,” he said quietly, “I’ll say it without being a bastard. And when you get your voice back… I hope you’ll talk even more, just to punish me.”

That made you huff — soundless, but clearly a laugh — and you leaned against his side, resting your head on his shoulder. He let you, turning slightly so he could rest his cheek against your hair.

The sea rocked beneath the Sunny. The stars blinked quietly above. And even without words, everything you needed to say was there — in the silence, in the shared warmth, in the way Zoro held your hand just a little tighter.

And when your voice finally came back days later, the first thing you did was say his name.

Zoro turned immediately, eyes wide, and you smiled and whispered, “Still love you, even when you’re a jerk.”

He didn’t answer.

He just pulled you in and kissed you like your words were the only ones that mattered.

♡♡♡

© 2025 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 01. The start of a second chance

PREV PART Trigger warnings: medical emergencies, past neglect, internalised ableism, (reader) cannot make up their mind main m.list       series m.list

Conner can’t believe it,he’s at the hospital because of aunt Lois as she broke her arm and he finds the person who he loves the most. You.

You, who disappeared so long ago. You, who haunted the Bat family as if you’re a ghost. A ghost who uses their mother’s legacy to torture their father. Something that he greatly admires if he were to be honest, he’s never seen Tim pull his hair out when searching for someone.

While being unaware of who your family truly is you can still avoid them. Something that even John giggles about as he tells their family about them Damian’s rants. Conner doesn’t understand what he sees in that Gremlin, but it’s better than him being amazed by Jason Todd.

But that isn’t what matters right now, first he needs to be there for his aunt (more like surrogate mother, but he isn’t ready to call her mom quite yet). Then he can find you again and figure out what’s going on. So he’ll wipe his tears and pretend nothing is going on, yet nothing goes by Lois. She isn’t an award winning journalist for no reason, she can see all that her children and husband hide. Especially now that she’s been married to Clark for a while.

Conner is truly half a replica of him, they both have the same anxious tick of darting their eyes around and humming a small tune to stabilize their breathing (and powers at times).

“That’s Bruce’s missing child, aren’t they?” Lois asks, as her eyes lock with her clone son. Even if Clark has issues with viewing him as a child, he still is and he deserves to be treated like one. And with that comes her motherly privilege of teasing him about his crush. “Don’t you have a crush on them?”

Conner’s mouth falls open as he blinks in shock. “Don’t tell Bruce,” is all he can say. For he knows why you ran, and your ‘family’ doesn’t deserve you. They don’t deserve your warmth, your smile and most importantly your forgiveness. “I’ll see if their safe, and if they aren’t then you can tell Bruce.”

Lois laughs as she fills in the papers needed to get an X-ray. She does so clumsily, it’s both amusing and painful to watch so Conner takes over.

“I am sure they had a good reason to run away,” she promises him with a small smile. A smile that looks way to teasing and mischievous. “however that doesn’t change the fact that you have a crush on them.”

“Please,” he groans as he hides his face in the papers he needs to fill in. “I would like to not think about that.”

As if on cue Clark walks in, worried and dishevelled. “Are you alright, dear?” he asks Lois as he takes in her appearance. But he acknowledges Conner with a stiff nod, a nod that hurts him ore than it should.

“I’ve experienced worse,” Lois teases Clark, but before she tells him more she tilts her head towards Conner. “go find out what’s going on with them. I’ll be alright.”

Those words were enough for his feet to start moving as he hands Clark the papers, he walks towards the nurse and asks for you. But he doesn’t ask for (Name) Wayne, no, he asks for (name) (last name).

And when he’s guided towards your room? His eyes fill with water once more, as they always have done whenever he sees you in such pain that your face scrunches up. His hands trembling as he pulls out a chair to place it next to your bed, unsure of what to say so he simply greets you.

Something that startles you, your eyes shot open as you suddenly sat up straight. It would have been amusing if Conner didn’t hear you whimper in pain, he would call it karma if he didn’t see your body tense as another wave of pain spreads through your body. He knows he should be used to it by now, especially when he was there when it first flared up, but you’ve always just showed him the service. All you have ever allowed him to do was come to check up.

You were terrified of him seeing something too dangerous, you were terrified of him snitching to Tim. And Tim snitching to Bruce.

Unbeknownst to you, Tim’s guilt would make keep your secrets for all of entirety if that what it took for his heart to feel lighter.

“You scared me,” you say the moment your face turned passive. A habit of yours that truly pissed him off, but it didn’t make him angry at you. No, it makes him angry at Jason, for even him who doesn’t know the full story. He knows Red Hood is wrong, he knows that his actions shouldn’t have been excused due to pit madness.

Not when you practically lost your soul.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, but even he knows the apology is half-arsed. You do as well, your eyes show your emotions even when your face doesn’t. He can see the amusement in your eyes, so at least you’re not angry. “see it as karma for disappearing on me.”

Conner regrets uttering those words the second you look at the floor, the corner of your mouth drooping ever so slightly. Sometimes he curses himself for still being unable to guess when it’s appropriate to tell a joke. He curses himself for being like Luther (even when he truly isn’t).

“I needed to get away,” you say, your voice soft as your mind wanders. But Conner doesn’t notice, it’s better that way. “I couldn’t stand being there any longer so I did the only thing I could think off. I’m not sorry about that.”

Your words cut him deeper than they should, he knows it. He knows it isn’t personal but he still feels his chest tighten in sorrow.

“But I am sorry about hurting you in the process,” you admit, and for a second Conner allows his heart to soar. For a second he allows himself to believe that you love him the same way he loves you. You don’t, as you are not him, but you do adore him. You do wish that crush and platonic love for him can grow into something romantic. But you would never tell him that, not when there is no life to live with you, for you will need care when you grow older. Perhaps you need care even now as you can barely keep your own body afloat. “it might be best if we don’t interact.”

“Why?” Conner asks, his voice betraying his desperation. He saw a new expression, he saw a look in your eyes he had yet to see or notice. A look that makes him belief you might like him the way he loves you. “I won’t tell your family where you are, besides Tim and I aren’t on the best of terms currently.”

A tiny smile appears on your face as you try and think of reasons for you two to avoid each other. Conner always believed that relationships should be easy and perhaps a bit blunt.

He’s always been completely honest with you, you have just been too blind to see it. His lingering eyes and his careful touches. But now that you can see it, you can’t accept it.

“Let’s have this conversation when I’m not high on pain medication,” you deflect, turning the palm of your hand upward. “for now please stay with me and tell me why you are.”

Conner will grant you this request, but he won’t let you go. Even if you beg him to, now that he knows you are close enough to Smallville to go to the local hospital, he knows you are close enough to travel to. Close enough to monitor, but not in a creepy Tim way. No, to protect you.

You don’t know the bats are getting desperate, that they are getting reckless.

So he’ll be you’re shield as he figures out how to get close to you once more.

NEXT PART The pacing of Conner and (name) meeting is quicker than me sneezing. (I'm not good with au slowburns) forgot tags so added those

[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 06

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, arguing :’(, jk’s an asshole in this i’m sorry, (eventual) explicit sexual content, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.6k

notes: okay first of all, i’m SO sorry for the wait. second of all, this chapter was meant to be much longer but i split it into two :< anyways, likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are sooo appreciated!! enjoy (?) reading my angels <33 (and pls don’t hate me </3)

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⤷ chapter six — tv

“and i’ll be in denial for at least a little while / what about the plans we made.”

The kitchen is quiet, only filled by the soft buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of waves. You take a slow sip from your mug, fingers curled around the ceramic.

The coffee's still warm, just the way you like it — strong, slightly bitter, just enough milk to soften the edge. You’d made Jungkook’s the same way you always have. You didn’t even think about it. Just moved through the motions like you’ve done a hundred mornings before.

But that was nearly half an hour ago.

His mug is still sitting on the counter. Steam long gone, surface barely warm. You glance at it for the third — maybe fourth — time, as if expecting it to have vanished. It hasn’t. It’s still there, untouched.

And so is the space beside you.

You haven’t seen him since waking up.

You’d stirred sometime around eight, alone. No arm slung over your waist, no weight shifting the mattress beside you, no sleepy grumble against your shoulder. Just cold sheets and a quiet room. The fan was still spinning overhead lazily, and the only thing on the nightstand that hadn’t been yours was a single bottle of water.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a few minutes after that.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t let yourself get used to waking up like that again. If you hadn’t let it feel like something.

But you did, because you always do, with him. Even now.

So when you eventually got out of bed, you made two cups of coffee. One for you. One for him.

You tell yourself it was just habit. But that’s only half-true.

Because the other half — the part you don’t say out loud — is that you were kind of hoping he’d show up.

That you could sit across from him, trade casual conversation, build your way back into something steady enough to finally ask the things you’ve been swallowing down since the breakup. Finally ask the things you wanted to ignore last night when you kissed him.

What happened?

What changed?

Why did it feel like he was ready to spend the rest of your life with you, and then suddenly, he wasn't?

You’ve been sitting with those questions for weeks. Letting them settle into your bones. Last night had started to smooth out the edges. That kiss, the way he held you, the weight of him tucked against your back — none of it felt like someone who’d let go for good.

But this morning?

This morning feels like the reset button was hit again. Like you’re back at square one.

And it’s starting to scare you.

You take another sip from your mug.

It’s not just that he left. It’s the fact that you have no idea where he went, or why, or when he’s coming back. It’s that your questions are still sitting in your chest, unanswered. It’s that his coffee is still sitting in front of you, lukewarm.

It’s that you keep hoping for something that keeps slipping away.

And sure, it could be nothing. He could walk into the kitchen any minute and prove that all of your overthinking was for nothing and place a kiss against your temple as he silently confirms that you guys are finally okay again. But as you stare down at nothing in specific, eyes unfocused on the ground, you can't ignore the feeling that it's not going to be that easy.

A hand waving in front of your face breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello? Earth to ___?"

You blink and turn to find Kiara standing in front of you, one brow raised, one hand waving dramatically in front of your face.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling back a little, caught off guard. “You scared me.”

She grins. “I said your name twice. Thought you died standing up.”

You force a breath through your nose, trying to ease the tension from your shoulders. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Kiara says, folding her arms as she leans back against the island across from you. “You were staring at that coffee like you were possessed or something.”

You glance back down at Jungkook’s mug. The coffee inside has gone a dull, murky brown. It's oddly fitting.

“Just thinking,” you murmur.

Kiara gives you a long look, tilting her head slightly. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You expect her to pivot the conversation, maybe ask what time you’re heading to the beach, or what’s for breakfast.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, softer now, “Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?”

Your stomach drops, and you're too slow to catch the surprise on your face before it shows.

She doesn’t look accusatory. Just curious. Maybe a little concerned.

You think about what Jungkook said — that your acting sucks.

Clearly, he was more right than you gave him credit for if this is the second time someone has thought that something was off between you two.

You give Kiara a tight smile, trying to play it off. “Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end and Kiara’s face shifts. Her eyes narrow, expression flattening just a little.

God. You suck at this.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

And when you glance past her, you realise Ari and Yasmine are both in the kitchen now too. You didn’t even hear them come in. They're hovering by the counter, not pretending they didn’t hear the conversation. Yasmine raises her eyebrows at you as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

You laugh, the sound a little too loud and a little too fake.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing going on. We’re totally fine,” you insist. You try to make it sound breezy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But there’s this edge of strain in your tone that even you can hear now.

Yasmine exchanges a quick glance with Ari. Ari raises a single brow.

“____,” Kiara says, and her voice almost sympathetic. “We love you to death. If anything if going on, you can tell us. We will fight that man if needed.”

You snort at the ridiculousness of the offer, trying to ignore the way they're all watching you.

“Okay, maybe don’t plan my best friend’s murder right in front of me,” Jimin says around a half-yawn, wandering into the kitchen. His hair is a mess — flattened on one side and fluffy on the other — and his hoodie is inside out. His expression, though, is amused as hell.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It’s half a laugh, really — short and quiet, but enough to break the tension hanging over you. Your shoulders drop just slightly.

“No one said murder,” Kiara replies, looking entirely unbothered. “We said ‘fight.’ With fists. Maybe knees.”

“Maybe a little arson,” Yasmine adds, chewing on the edge of a strawberry she pulled from the fridge.

Jimin walks past them and reaches up to grab a granola bar from the top shelf. “You know I’m contractually obligated to defend Jungkook’s honour,” he says through a yawn, unwrapping the bar. “Even if he’s being an idiot. Which, to be fair, is frequent.”

“Then maybe pass that message along,” Ari says, deadpan.

He finally glances toward you then, eyes briefly scanning your face. He doesn’t say anything — and thankfully, he doesn’t ask — but something in his expression softens. Like he can see the way you’re slightly curled in on yourself, even if you’re trying to fake calm.

The semi-circle of concern around you shifts a little to make room for him, and he steps into it without hesitation, granola bar still in hand. It’s oddly comforting, how casually he folds into the space — like maybe if he acts normal, things will be normal.

And you’re grateful for it. The way attention slides off you and onto Jimin’s sudden presence.

You sip your coffee again, and it tastes slightly better now. Or maybe it’s just that your heart’s not pounding against your ribs anymore.

“Actually, I actually need to tell you guys something,” Jimin says once he’s halfway through the bar, mouth still kind of full. “Before everyone disappears into the sand for the rest of the day.”

You tilt your head, turning slightly more in his direction.

Jimin finishes chewing, wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie — inside-out tag flipping up in the process — and leans casually against the counter.

“Okay,” he starts, tone turning slightly serious. “This doesn’t leave this room. At least not yet.”

Immediately, all of you perk up.

“Oh my god,” Kiara says, leaning in. “Are we finally getting the tea?”

“Someone’s pregnant,” Yasmine whispers like it’s a wild theory, eyes wide.

“Wrong group,” Ari deadpans.

You snort.

“No one’s pregnant,” Jimin says. “But something is happening. And it’s big. So, swear you won’t say anything to Haeun.”

You all nod in varying degrees of seriousness. A chorus of “obviously” and “duh”s.

“Seokjin’s proposing.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Not because no one saw it coming — but because even when you expect something, hearing it said out loud hits differently.

“No way,” Ari breathes.

“Finally,” Yasmine grins, clapping once. “She’s going to lose it.”

“I knew it,” Kiara says, not even pretending to be surprised. “He’s been acting weird since we got here.”

“Super obvious,” Ari agrees. “He kept spacing out yesterday during volleyball. I asked him if he was okay and he just said, ‘Just picturing things.’ I thought he meant, like… strategy?”

You set your coffee down, half-smiling. “That man has never strategised a day in his life.”

Jimin nods, serious. “Exactly. So, the plan is— he’s doing it the day after tomorrow. Right at sunset. On the back deck. He wants to keep it lowkey but still romantic. Just the group, nothing flashy. He’s got this whole thing with the fairy lights and stuff. It’s very... Jin.”

Yasmine clasps her hands together with a little squeal. “Do we get to be part of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her. “Actually, he wants you to take pictures. Nothing major. Just candids. And the rest of us just need to, like, not make it weird.”

“What do you mean not make it weird?” Ari asks.

“I mean like… don’t swarm them,” Jimin says. “Don’t make it a whole scene. Just let it happen and then we can scream after she says yes.”

You all nod.

“God, they’re gonna be so annoying and in love,” Kiara sighs. “Good for them. Can’t wait.”

Jimin’s expression softens as he talks — and you can tell how much this means to him. How long he’s probably been sitting on it. How relieved he is to finally let it out. He’s one of Jin’s closest friends — the fact that Jin looped him in says everything.

“Wait, does Haeun know anything?” Ari asks.

“Not a clue,” Jimin says, grinning. “She thinks she’s just getting a sunset drink on the deck with Jin tomorrow before dinner. Meanwhile, he’s been carrying around the ring like it’s a live bomb.”

“She’s gonna be a mess,” you say quietly, voice warm.

"They're both gonna be a mess," Kiara replies, and you smile.

Honestly, it feels good to think about something else — to imagine someone else’s future for a while. One that's good and certain.

Not murky. Not lukewarm. Not tangled up in old habits and unfinished questions.

And just as that lightness settles in — just as you feel your chest unclench, just a little — the glass doors behind you slide open with a low hiss.

Everyone freezes.

The sliding door clicks back into place, the sound of it too sharp in the sudden stillness. Jimin’s eyes dart past you. Kiara, mid-sip of her drink, lowers her glass. No one says anything.

Your breath catches as you look over Yasmine's shoulder.

Please not Haeun, you think. Pleasepleaseplease.

Jungkook.

Helmet in one hand, motorbike keys hooked around two fingers on the other.

You're heart tugs with relief.

You’re glad he’s here.

Not because things are fine. Not because you know what you’re going to say. But because not knowing where he was all morning had started to eat at you, slow and annoying and persistent. Like something you couldn’t scratch out of your skin.

Jimin’s the first to speak.

“Fuck, man,” he says, twisting toward the door. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Haeun.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

He steps further into the kitchen, the door soft-clicking shut behind him, and sets the helmet down on the island with a dull thud. The keys land beside it with a jingle. The whole group relaxes and the conversation starts backs up, but you’re barely tracking it.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook.

And his eyes don’t quite stay on you, but they flicker. Once. Then back down.

He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a mug from the same shelf you used earlier.

You pause, glancing at the mug still sitting beside your own on the counter. You hesitate for a second before you slide it toward him with your fingertips.

“Here,” you say. “I made one for you already.”

He pauses mid-motion, the clean mug in his hand, and his eyes drop to the one you nudged forward, then back up at you.

“I’m fine. Thanks though." He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe he just wants tea or something. You've never known him to be a tea person, but you don't dwell on it that much.

You're already moving to shrug it off when you catch a glance — just over the rim of your mug — of him moving back toward the coffee pot, and you watch, with a slow-burning disbelief, as he starts making the exact same cup of coffee that’s still sitting in front of him.

Same brand. Same scoop. Same splash of milk from the fridge. He reaches for the sugar and adds the same amount.

You stare.

Seriously?

You don’t say it out loud, but it hovers in your expression. Long enough that Ari, who’s been half-listening while peeling a clementine beside you, gives you the smallest nudge with her elbow.

You don’t even glance at her.

Your eyes are still on Jungkook.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

The air shifts around you and it feels like you’ve suddenly dropped into a scene you weren’t given the script for. Because it’s not about the coffee, really. It’s never just about the coffee.

It’s about how easily he dismissed it. Dismissed you so easily, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

And maybe it’s petty, but come on. You made that cup for him. It wasn’t some random gesture. You got up, went through the routine, thought about what he’d want, even left it sitting there like a peace offering. And he’d rather go through the whole process again himself than take what you’d already done for him?

Fine.

You sip your own drink again, and try tune back into the conversation.

Jimin is talking about how Seokjin tried to smuggle the ring through airport security without Haeun seeing. Kiara makes a joke about hiding it in his shampoo bottle. Yasmine laughs so hard she nearly drops her bowl of strawberries.

And for a moment, it’s fine.

You even smile a little. Force yourself to pull your eyes away from Jungkook and land somewhere safer — like Jimin’s dramatic re-enactment of Seokjin’s TSA panic face.

But when your gaze flicks back, just for a second, you find Jungkook leaning against the opposite counter, sipping his freshly made coffee like he didn’t just say a whole lot by saying nothing.

And you don’t say anything either. Because what are you going to do — call him out for rejecting your cup of coffee?

So you let the conversation keep moving. You nod along. You laugh in the right places. You keep your expression neutral. Maybe a little too neutral.

But your jaw is just the tiniest bit tight. And your fingers wrap around your mug a little firmer than before.

Guess you weren't just overthinking after all.

The rain starts as a mist before quickly turning into a steady downpour.

You and Haeun are halfway back from the beach by the time it hits properly. She doesn’t bother running, and neither do you. You just glance up once at the thick, grey sky and laugh a little under your breath. She grins beside you, jogging lightly as she shakes water out of her ponytail.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she says, smug.

You’d been adamant about it, insisting that it would be warm as usual when you asked Haeun to come swim with you. She’d shown you her weather app and you’d waved it off with a dramatic, “Those things are never right.” Now, soaked halfway to the bone and blinking through the drizzle, you’re starting to eat your words.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

By the time you step inside the house through the glass sliding doors, your legs are lightly dusted with sand and your hair is sticking to the sides of your neck, still damp from the ocean, and now slightly tangled from the breeze.

It’s warmer in the house, and for the first time since the trip started, everyone is inside. No one has slipped off to the beach or disappeared with a book to some random corner of the deck.

You brush your fingers through your hair absently as you kick off your flip flops near the threshold. Haeun’s already moved toward the kitchen, mumbling something about tea, leaving you to linger for a second by the open space where the wooden floor transitions into the living room rug.

Jimin and Taehyung are on the floor by the coffee table, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with miserable aim and laughing at their failures. Ari’s curled up with Namjoon on one end of the abnormally large couch that takes up almost half of the room, the two of them watching something muted on the TV while Kiara and Yasmine scroll through their phones on the floor beside them, bickering about which photos to post later.

And there's Jungkook.

He's sitting on the other end of the couch, knees propped up, thumbing idly through something on his phone.

He looks calm. Not relaxed, exactly — Jungkook doesn’t really do relaxed when he’s spaced out, but his shoulders aren’t hunched like they were this morning, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He just sits there scrolling.

You hadn’t seen him on the beach. You’re not even sure where he’d gone off to all morning, after the coffee exchange that had been awkward enough to replay itself in your brain on loop.

It’s not that you’re trying to obsess, but it’s hard not to notice when someone you used to know inside out starts moving like a stranger.

You take a slow breath, brushing your hand down your thigh once — a nervous gesture you don’t bother disguising — and cross the rest of the living room, stepping carefully over Taehyung’s outstretched legs as you make your way toward the couch.

There’s an open space beside Jungkook and you decide take it.

But before you can even properly sit down or bring up your knees to get comfortable, Jungkook's already standing.

You watch as he crosses the living room and drops down into the armchair beside Yoongi without a single word, disbelief painting your features for a second before reel your expression back to neutral.

You don’t look at anyone.

You definitely don’t look at Jungkook.

Instead, you keep your gaze pinned to the muted television in front of you — some vaguely familiar movie playing with the subtitles on — and try to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up in your ears.

It’s not a big deal. Not technically. Maybe he just wanted to sit by Yoongi. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Again.

But still.

Still.

You cross one leg over the other, trying to breathe through the stiffness now crawling up the back of your neck. You can feel a strand of hair clinging to your collarbone. You reach up and tuck it behind your ear just to do something with your hands.

“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly from the floor, glancing back toward you, “you two get caught in the rain?”

You force your mouth into a small smile. “A little.”

“Dumbasses,” Taehyung says fondly, tossing a kernel of popcorn that smacks Jimin square in the cheek. “Told you it was gonna pour.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Haeun calls from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled from the distance.

You hum in agreement, mostly to say something, but your voice barely makes it out. You don’t think anyone notices.

Except maybe Kiara, who glances at you briefly from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to make you shift in your seat.

You try not to look again. At him.

You fail.

Jungkook’s posture hasn’t changed — one arm resting on the armrest, the other slung low in his lap. He’s facing the TV, but his gaze isn’t fixed on anything in particular.

This isn’t normal. Not even close.

Not that anything has been normal since the breakup, but this is different. Cold in a way he’s never been with you — even when you fought. Even when you broke up.

It’s the kind of distance that doesn’t come from anger. It’s more deliberate than that.

And you really don’t know what you did to deserve it.

The rain doesn’t last. It trails off sometime after the movie ends — not that you can remember a single scene of it — and by the time it does, the sky outside is starting to dip in colour.

You keep your eyes on your hands, loosely folded in your lap, while the rest of the group starts to migrate back outside into the pool and the beach. Someone tugs open the back door and lets the salt-heavy breeze rush back in. Kiara walks past and ruffles your hair lightly, says something about joining them soon. You nod, even though you’re not sure you will.

You don’t even register Jungkook until he’s moving past the arm of the couch.

“Jungkook,” you say.

He stops just in front of the door to the front.

He doesn’t turn fully. Just glances over his shoulder, enough to let you know he heard.

You stand before your courage can second-guess you. “Can we talk?”

A beat of silence passes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

It takes you a second to process his words.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting.

“I just—” Jungkook shifts, hand flexing at his side like he’s trying not to clench it. “I think we’re handling things fine. Everyone still believes us, right? That’s the whole point.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He exhales, but doesn't respond.

“I’m not talking about the deal. I’m talking about you— us— and the fact that you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “You wouldn’t even look at me this morning. You’ve barely said more than three words since last night.”

“I thought you wanted space,” he says quietly, finally turning around to face you. “I figured, after yesterday, that it’d be easier if I just gave you room.”

“Easier?” you echo. “For who?”

He swallows. His gaze drops. You can see the tension in the way his shoulders pull in slightly, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.

“I’m just trying not to make this harder than it already is."

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising behind your ribs. There’s a line between being careful and being cowardly, and you don’t know when Jungkook crossed it — only that he’s already miles past it now, still walking away from a conversation he won’t even let you have.

“And moving when I sit beside you— what’s that supposed to be?” you ask. “Because if that’s you being careful, it really fucking sucks.”

His jaw twitches.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Jungkook? Because you’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me.”

His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself.

You wait, but he doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in silence, eyes unreadable, like he’s scared whatever comes out of his mouth next will be the wrong thing.

And that frustrates you more than anything else.

Because you just want the truth, not silence. Even if it hurts. Even if it means hearing him say that he doesn't love you anymore. Because at least, then you’d know.

You cross your arms slowly, swallowing the lump that has started forming in your throat.

“You can’t just fucking kiss me one day and ignore me the next.”

“Look, I’m—” He exhales harshly. “I’m sorry the kiss didn’t mean anything, okay?

You freeze.

Something inside you falters, buckles under the weight of it. You try to breathe around the burn clawing up your throat, but the room suddenly feels too stuffy.

You press your nails into your palms. You can feel your pulse there — quick, shallow, and it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment. You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.

Jungkook's voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “We only have to do this shit for one more day. That’s it. I’ll stay out of your way until then, and when it’s over, we can pack our bags, go home, and you never have to talk to me again.”

You stand there for half a second too long. Long enough for the silence to feel thick again. Long enough to think — maybe he’ll take it back, or stop you. Maybe he’ll say something else.

But he doesn’t, so you turn.

You walk away, footsteps too loud against the hardwood. Your throat is tight, your chest worse. You make your way outside and up the stairs into you room, shutting the door with a quiet click — not because you're calm, but because slamming it would mean he still matters enough to make you angry.

And right now, you're trying not to let him matter at all.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall, trying to will yourself not to cry.

You don’t win that one. Not completely.

But you wipe away your tears before they can stain your face, because if anyone comes looking, you’ll lie. If he comes looking, you won’t open the door.

Still, you wait for the sound of footsteps outside the room.

None come.

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

[andy-15-07]

Hi love. Can I ask for some old Joel smut. Maybe after they get to Jackson safe, grumpy old Joel asks for something back since he basically saved her life and now they live together. He wants to release tensiin and stress. He wants to have free use of her, get to touch her and ask for things like that whenever he wants. He is nice and loving eith her, except when it comes to that, he is pervert, likes it rough, etc.

Something lime that. Thank you

What You Owe Me

PAIRING:Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 886| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

You owed Joel Miller your life.

And he never let you forget it.

It wasn’t like he held it over your head every day,not out loud, anyway. He’d just glance at you sometimes, sharp and unreadable, the way a wolf eyes something it’s already claimed.

You still remembered that night. The scream. The clicker lunging at you in the dark. The blood splatter. And Joel standing over the body, chest heaving, bloodied crowbar in hand.

He didn’t even look at the corpse,just looked at you. “You okay?”

You’d nodded, trembling. “I owe you.”

And he’d said: “Damn right you do.”

Now you lived with him. Shared food. Shared warmth. Jackson was safer than anywhere you’d ever been,but Joel? He wasn’t safe at all.

He was brooding, gruff, territorial. He didn’t talk much. But when he looked at you, it was with heat. Hunger. Frustration.

He wanted you.

And he was tired of pretending he didn’t.

It started with a knock on your door.

It was late,after midnight. You were in bed, half asleep when the heavy knock startled you upright.

You cracked the door open.

Joel stood there in a worn shirt, boots still on, eyes shadowed. Jaw tight.

“Joel?” you asked, voice hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

“Need you to come with me.”

Your heart jumped. “What,what happened?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked down the hall.

You followed, pulse thumping.

He led you into his room. Shut the door. Locked it.

Turned to face you.

"You remember what you said?” he asked. “That you owed me?”

Your stomach twisted. “Yeah.”

His voice was low. Rough. “Time to collect.”

You froze.

His gaze dropped to your body,bare legs, old shirt hanging off one shoulder. He stepped closer, tilting his head.

“I saved your life,” he said. “Put my ass on the line. Nearly got bit.”

“I know,” you breathed.

“And you been sleepin’ in my house. Eatin’ my food. My bed, when you get nightmares.”

You swallowed hard. “What do you want, Joel?”

His eyes burned.

“You.”

A pause.

“I want to be able to touch you,” he said. “Whenever I need to. Take what I want. Use you when this world gets too fuckin’ heavy.”

Your thighs clenched. You hated how much you felt that in your gut.

“And if I say no?”

He didn’t move. “You can. Always. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Your voice shook. “You want… free use?”

He stepped in, voice dropping to a growl. “I want that tight little body on your knees when I come home angry. I want your mouth when I wake up hard. I want you bendin’ over when I say now, no questions.”

His hand cupped your cheek,gentle, almost sweet.

“But only if you want it too, baby.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You dropped to your knees.

Joel groaned.

“Good girl.”

Your shirt was gone in seconds. Joel gripped your chin, thumb sliding along your bottom lip.

"Open."

You obeyed.

He unzipped himself, cock already hard, leaking.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Mouth’s too fuckin’ pretty not to use.”

He shoved in slowly,groaning as your lips stretched around him, hand curling into your hair.

“Take it. All of it. C’mon, baby, let me fuck that sweet mouth.”

You moaned around him. He started to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper,grunting with every stroke.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled. “Been thinkin’ about this since you moved in. Knew that mouth’d feel like heaven.”

You gagged as he pushed deeper.

“Good girl. You let me do this when I need to, yeah?”

You nodded around him.

He pulled out suddenly, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet.

“Get on the bed.”

You scrambled up, chest heaving, and lay back. He yanked your panties off, pushed your knees apart, and stared.

“Fuckin’ soaked.”

His thumb slid through your folds. You whimpered.

He leaned in, voice hot against your thigh. “You like bein’ used, huh?”

You gasped. “Yes.”

“You like knowin’ you belong to me?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, Joel,please.”

He growled. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Then he was inside you.

No teasing. No patience.

Just thick, hard cock splitting you open as he groaned into your throat.

“Shit, you’re tight.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

He fucked you hard, rough, like you were a pressure valve for everything he’d ever felt and never said. His hips slapped against yours, his hand gripping your throat,not choking, just holding. Possessive.

“Gonna fill you up,” he snarled. “Gonna use this pussy whenever I fuckin’ want.”

You arched under him. “Joel,please,”

“Please what?”

“Please come inside me. Use me. I’m yours.”

He came with a low, broken growl,burying himself deep, pumping you full.

You moaned as his seed spilled into you, thick and hot, your own orgasm pulsing through your body seconds later.

He collapsed over you, breath ragged against your ear.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then,

“You did good,” he murmured. “Took me real well, sweetheart.”

You blinked up at him.

His face softened.

“You still okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah. I… liked it.”

He smiled, small and rare. “I know.”

Then he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “You’re mine. I’ll take care of you.”

[akkaweo-akkaweo]

Overtime

Hong Eunchae x Jang Kyujin x Kang Haerin x M!reader

Tags: daddy!kink + praise!kink, blowjob

WC: 3.3k

—————

"Enter," you called out.

Your face was buried in your hands. Work was unbearable, checking paper after paper after paper. Classes left and right that you barely had time to do anything that didn't involve reading a boom, and even less time to read books that weren't academic.

Of course, Kyujin, Eunchae, and Haerin knew all that.

"Ladies," you groaned. "Thank goodness you're here."

Without saying a word, Haerin moved behind you and started massaging your shoulders. She never really was a talker, but she didn't need any direction from you.

"Are you okay, sir?," Kyujin asked with concern, crouching to meet your downward gaze. The more outward-going type, she always approached you with casual friendliness. And you weren't against it – you needed a break from formalities.

"We can go out for some jjigae," Eunchae offered. She was the type to do that – think of literally anything else that wasn't the droll of your struggles.

Honest to goodness, you felt smothered in the presence of these three. Nothing negative about it, if only you weren't so damn into them when they were under your charge. But earlier last year, by then a year since they graduated, they approached asking for work. You offered a meager salary shared between the three of them, in exchange for not needing to do anything other than be around at the end of the day. You were about as surprised that they all said yes, hoping they'd be pushed back instead by the insanity of the setup.

Yet here you were, one year later, sat, pampered, and attended to by your three assistants.

"Thank heavens this term is almost over," you remarked. "I thought it'd never end."

"Tell me about it," Haerin remarked. "I swear I saw posters about the commencement exercises just two weeks ago. Turns out it's been two months."

"It's okay, sir," Eunchae continued, "me and Kyujin can deal with this stack of papers in the morning."

"I don't pay you for the morning," you commented. "I pay you for keeping me company."

Kyujin playfully slapped your leg. "Sir, I'd think it's fair that we actually do the job of the assistant you paid us to be."

"I just want to destress, that's all," you laughed dismissively. "So, jjigae, right, Eunchae?"

Haerin wrapped her arms around your neck. "Actually sir, we were thinking something else." Kyujin and Eunchae sat on either of your legs, as if on cue.

You'd given up on pretending these three were nothing more than friends for hire. The only reason this setup was acceptable to you in the first place were three things: first, they were the closest students you've ever had, bar none; second, they were persistent, even in their academics; and third, you unapologetically found the three of them beautiful. Still, one must pretend for posterity.

"Ladies," you said sternly. "I am your boss. I was your teacher."

"Oh come on," Eunchae teased. "You're barely our boss and not our teacher anymore. So that makes us friends."

"'Friends'," you emphasized in air quotes, "don't offer what I think you're offering."

"And what would that be, sir?," Kyujin teased, now kneeling at your feet, between your legs. Haerin joined in, while Eunchae locked the door before placing herself with the crowd.

"This is very compromising, ladies," you chuckled. The jig was, unquestionably, up.

"Would you prefer sir or daddy, daddy?," Haerin asked. You rolled your eyes.

"Daddy it is, then," Eunchae said, before undoing your belt buckle. Kyujin and Haerin worked your pants off your legs until they were on your feet. Unsurprisingly, you were very much hard for them already.

"How'd you it figure out?," you asked. "I must know."

"Because we love it when you call us pretty, daddy," Kyujin replied. Caught you there.

"So then," you asked, "what's the actual plan for tonight?"

"The three of us will suck your dick, daddy," Eunchae responded.

"We'll take turns, then make you cum," Kyujin continued.

"We'll let you use us," Haerin concluded. "Facefuck us, daddy."

Fuck. Your dick trembled in anticipation. The three of them still sat pretty before you; you assumed it was your pick. Whoever you chose first determined how exactly this would go down; you needed to choose wisely.

You took Kyujin's face in both your hands, rubbing a thumb on her cheek. She laughed, her face transforming from the casually seductive to the innocently playful. Despite her grin, she opened her mouth – not wide, but equally inviting – silently waiting for you to drop her between your legs.

Haerin and Eunchae both took a leg, resting their heads as their gazes were completely transfixed on your erect member. Breaths held, eyes wide, they waited with anticipation – partly yearning to taste the fruit laid before them, partly to see their friend take her first bite. They didn't look it, but it felt like a pair of lionesses were waiting for their turn to start digging into their prey.

"Ready?," you asked Kyujin tenderly. She nodded, eyes burning into yours.

You led her head down, and without struggle she fit all of you in her mouth. You felt your tip reach the back of her throat, making her gag, and you took her off of you.

"Are you alright? Did you like that?," you asked.

"Please be careful, daddy," Eunchae pouted.

"No, it's okay, I can take it," Kyujin reassured. "Please don't rush, daddy."

You fixed her hair and led her down your shaft again. She slowly closed her mouth over you, the warmth enveloping your cock like velvet. You lifted her head, and already the sensation had you weak.

"She takes you so well, daddy," Haerin purred.

"Fuck, Kyujin," you swore behind clenched teeth. Her head stayed right over your tip, spit now slowly dribbling down your shaft.

"She's waiting for you to use her," Eunchae reminded, rubbing your thigh. It felt wrong to violate such a pretty face – and yet, precisely because you were determined not to, there was a sense of excitement to be fully in control.

You started to glide her head up and down your shaft, her lips squeezing out all the spit down to your base. So long as you didn't force it all the way through, she didn't falter in keeping your cock drenched. The temptation to ravage her pretty little mouth – and all the space you knew it could take – was a thought you had to shove aside.

Still, she had a bit more to learn.

"Baby," you moaned, "let me show you something." You guided your thumb again to her cheek. "Try to suck the air in, baby. I should feel this part fall inwards."

Kyujin tried, coughing for a second. "Sorry, daddy, I'm trying not inhale my spit." You kissed her on the forehead.

"You can do it, Kyujin-ie," Eunchae cheered. She tried again, getting a hang of how to grip you in her mouth; she got it after a few cautious strokes.

"There we go, fuck," you groaned. While you still had Kyujin's head in one of your hands, you let go, placing it instead on top of her head.

Kyujin moved with determination, as some halfway point towards desperation. Her pace was consistent, and after your reminder she moved even more confidently, taking you in. She even gagged a bit, though she would hold back right after.

That urge again to shove her down torturously sat in your mind, wishing for her to finish you sooner. The other two, it seemed, noticed.

"Please don't cum yet, daddy," Haerin begged, squeezing your thigh. "Save it for all of us."

"Let her edge you, daddy," Eunchae added. "We wanna feel it on all our faces."

Their mewling alone put you closer to the edge you needed to be on, and you let go of her as you held your breath. Kyujin's breath was fast, hot, and still expectant of you in her mouth. Instead, Kyujin rubbed her face along the side of your throbbing length. "Thank you, daddy," she purred.

"Do you wanna go first, Haerin-ie?," Eunchae asked. Haerin crawled to replace Kyujin, who took her place on your leg. She laid her head down, still catching her breath.

Haerin took your hand and placed it on the right side of her head, right over her ear. You ruffled it lightly as if to pet her , and she retreated into her shoulders. But without any prompting, her eyelids fell heavily, narrow – coaxing you to use her.

"I'm ready, daddy," she purred eagerly, licking her lips. How brazen, you thought to yourself – all these orchestrations of carnal hunger and lust almost felt rehearsed, debunked only by the subtle hesitations in their movements.

You led her head down, her lips and mouth learning from your pointers to Kyujin. Less spit, more tongue, aggressively twirling around your dick. Her pace was slower, focused more on exploring – more like wrestling – your member in her mouth.

The feeling was unprecedented. Of the three, Haerin was the one you thought to be the least aggressive, yet now she had you leaned back on your chair like you were on the ropes. Eunchae and Kyujin were ever the supportive ones.

"Keep looking at her, daddy," Kyujin teased. "Look into her eyes."

"Mmm, she really likes it, don't you, Haerin-ie?," Eunchae taunted. Haerin nodded, her mouth still full of you.

"Fucking–," you squirmed. "not too harsh, baby." You scratched her head to get her out of her trance; you swore her eyes rolled up, very much stimulated. "Savor it, Haerin. Feel how hard you make me."

You guided her head, dictating the tempo of her bobbing. At first she still fought against your grasp, frantically chasing after an invisible target. Still, you slowed her down. "Feel every muscle and vein. You have it, baby."

Haerin did slow her onslaught with her tongue, and a switch flipped with a single, deep moan. For once, she closed her eyes, as if to paint a relief of you in her mind. So focused was she that her mouth never hit the base of your hips, feeling instead the head of your dick and your frenulum rubbing all over her tongue.

"You want that dick so bad, Haerin-ie," Kyujin smirked. Eunchae bit her lip expectantly. "Are you gonna burst, daddy?"

You squirmed, even bucking your hips up. Haerin kept going, and you could feel your balls tense up.

Eunchae and Kyujin both reached out, the first time their participation was more direct: Eunchae gingerly reached for your balls, massaging them; Kyujin wrapped her dainty fingers around your base, not hard enough to deny your orgasm, but enough to stop the feeling pooling up where she held you.

You growled, the frustration of being edged a second time for these three needy brats slowly winning over. But those same brats looked at you almost apologetically.

"We're so sorry, daddy," Kyujin whined, kissing your thigh. Eunchae did the same on the inside of your thigh. While you were twitching at the electric sensation of their lips on your skin, you slowly lifted herself off your shaft, now coated in twice the spit.

With Haerin now stepping back, another lioness was ready to pounce. Eunchae's head perked up. "Is it my turn now, daddy?"

You laid a hand on her, guiding her head just like Kyujin. Haerin sat right beside Kyujin, wrapping herself over the more petite woman.

"You can do it, Eunchae-nie," Haerin cheered, before turning to Kyujin. "Daddy's cock tastes so good." Kyujin bit her lip, blushing at the memory.

"I wanna take it all, daddy," Eunchae begged. "Please take care of me."

You kissed her forehead. "Don't push too hard, baby."

Eunchae slowly thrusted your tip through her lips, intent to take you all the way to the back of her throat. She swallowed you in slowly, unsure of the many sensations: the mix of your hot shaft and cooled spit; the unavoidably strong smell of sweat, spit, and everything else coating you; and the taste, that ever addicting flavor of your precum now pulsing out of your very erect cock.

As you reached the back of her throat, she took a deep breath, slowly easing your dick in. Eunchae held it there for a few seconds, before starting to cough aggressively.

Kyujin and Haerin got up to support her on either shoulder, rubbing her back. You too leaned forward, ignoring the throbbing distraction between your legs. When Eunchae looked up at you once again, there were tears in her eyes, remorseful for her apparent failure.

"Please be gentle, daddy," Haerin said.

"It's not her fault, daddy," Kyujin defended. "She's trying her best."

Even if there was no ill feeling in you, you felt bad as Eunchae tried hard to fight back her disappointment. Even at their expense, they fawned over you, supporting each other as they tried to pleasure you. You weren't going to requite that with harshness.

You made Eunchae look up at you even as she shamefully tried to hide her face. "Eunchae, baby," you held her, wiping the tears with your thumbs. "Don't force it. Do what you want to do, but do it slowly."

"I just want daddy to feel good," Eunchae whined. "I can do it daddy, I promise."

"I know," you reassured, planting another kiss on her head. "I'll guide you, baby. Haerin, Kyujin," you looked at the two on her sides, "support her. Affirm her." Dissonance aside, your heart ached for these three.

Kyujin took a handful of Eunchae's hair and held it back. Haerin held her by the lower back of her head.

"We'll guide you, Eunchae-nie," Kyujin comforted.

Haerin guided her down your shaft once more. "You're doing great, Eunchae-nie. Take his cock good."

Kyujin whispered right in her ear. "Look at him, Eunchae-nie. Daddy really likes it," she breathed, as your mouth stayed agape with every inch she took in.

"Careful there," Haerin said, now on Eunchae's other ear. Eunchae's cheeks were flushed, likely from the praising and the slow success in swallowing you whole. Once she reached the back of her throat again and resurfaced, Kyujin and Haerin cheered her on.

"That was great!," Kyujin remarked.

"You're doing so great," Haerin added. "Tell her, daddy."

You prodded her chin up. "That felt amazing, Eunchae. Keep going."

Eunchae slowly worked herself back up to a steady pace, the sound of her gagging now being the dominant noise in the room. Unlike Haerin, it seemed she was determined to keep you exactly where you were in her mouth, deep down and close to your base. Spit now dripped down to your balls; sweat formed on your abdomen as the sensation felt like your tip was being massaged. You threw your head back again, lightheaded from the unceasing pleasure.

You let out a long groan. "Fuuuuck," you growled. Kyujin and Haerin, now retreated back to your legs, looked yearningly at Eunchae. Their breaths were warm to the touch of your thighs.

The real turn-on came from Eunchae staring at you, hungry not just for your cock, but for your favor. And you chose to feed well.

"You take me nicely, baby," you praised, and Eunchae smiled as far as a blowjob would let her. Fuck, she was adorably cute, eyes wide and mouth curled even with you fully in her mouth. Trying to take you in fully, her pace was easily the slowest, adding pressure on your already swollen head. In no time at all your orgasm came creeping back.

"Damn, ladies, I'm close," you growled again, lifting Eunchae off you. As she hovered right over your cock, the other two crawled in to surround you on either side.

"I'd like to cum now, ladies," you commanded.

Without any further instructions, the three of them made quick work of your cock. Kyujin kissed your balls and the underside of shaft; Haerin focused her lips entirely on the left side of your shaft and your tip; and Eunchae planted kisses all over the right and on your frenulum.

It was like clockwork: it was kiss after kiss after kiss, with not a single inch of its surface left unstimulated. Finally, the piece-by-piece meal had turned into a civil feeding frenzy, each leaving enough space for the others to feed on you unobstructed. You were no longer capable of commanding, because all you could groan out of your mouth was either surrender or a warning to finish.

And the ladies were very aware you were on the brink. Every giggle, every wet smack of lips, every moan into you cared less about the desire for their pleasure and more about the now insatiable urge to taste your seed on their lips.

Before you could issue that warning, however, the three of them stopped their kissing and moved down to your base. With a simple glance at each other, the three simultaneously licked upwards – Haerin on your left, Kyujin at the center, and Eunchae on your right.

That was it.

First it was one long stroke. Then another. And another. Then they took turns, pleading for your release.

"Cum for us, daddy," Kyujin begged.

"We wanna taste you, daddy," Haerin cooed.

"Give it to us, daddy," Eunchae whispered.

No matter what permutation their words came in, the end result remained the same: you released, almost too aggressively. One spurt, then another, pointing one each into their mouths. You thought nothing, saw nothing but the black of your eyes snapped shut by the sheer tension of your orgasm; all you thought was to point and feed.

When you opened your eyes, they were drenched in your load. Kyujin got some in her eye, Eunchae had a string from her nose to her bottom lip, and Haerin had one almost dripping down her jawline. Eunchae was the first to snap, practically pouncing on Kyujin to lap up her face. Haerin fingered the drop on her chin, before being interrupted by Kyujin. Eunchae wiped off with the side of her finger as much as she could, feeding it into Haerin's mouth. Haerin met Kyujin's lips, which met Eunchae's, which met Haerin once more.

To recall: whatever orchestrations were made prior were executed above and beyond what could possibly be expected. They deserved some form of encore.

You stroked off all the cum and let them lap it up before continuing to jerk yourself off. You felt your balls and shaft burn in protest, but you weren't empty enough to call it a night. And with one last groan, three last spurts, one each, as a parting gift. The three swallowed and moaned in unison.

You leaned back with finality. All tensions – from the stresses of labor to the snap of feelings unresolved – were dissipated. And no evidence of the ordeal to boot.

Eunchae and Kyujin shared your right leg, while Haerin kept your left all to herself, all still catching their breaths.

"Ladies, this was...," you trailed off, at a loss for words. "You were – are – all so pretty." A choir of giggles ensued.

"We'd do anything for more, daddy," Eunchae taunted.

Haerin kissed your thigh. "Daddy didn't even get to fuck us tonight."

"Your mouths did plenty of the fucking," you rebutted.

"Then we let you choose how to fuck us next time, daddy," Kyujin replied.

Haerin traced circles on your thighs. "I kinda wanna keep doing it here though."

"Same," Kyujin seconded. "It's hotter to do it like this."

"Guess you're gonna need a little bit of rearranging for us," Eunchae smiled.

This office was going to need a bit more than just rearranging for your needs.

—————

A/N: the amount of versions this story went through is almost frustrating. at least a goon session cleared it up no im just kidding seriously thats just a joke | edit: til bfh is a thing

[fleurbly]

part I

— he doesn’t take the breakup well. not even for a second. first night you’re gone, he rips the sheets off the bed like they betrayed him. kicks the mirror until it shatters, bleeding through his socks like he doesn’t feel it. throws shit at the wall, just so he can watch it shatter.

— he tells everyone he dumped you. loud. smug. “fuckin’ toxic, mate,” he laughs, drink in hand, mouth running faster than his head. but his eyes flick to the door every time it opens like he’s hoping it’s you.

— he shows up places he knows you’ll be. doesn’t even pretend it’s a coincidence. sits two tables over, staring dead at you with a look that says “you gonna come say hi or do i have to start a scene?”

— he talks about you like he owns you. “yeah, she used to beg for me. she’s got a temper though, fuckin’ mental. miss it, kinda.” smirks like it’s a joke but his knuckles are white around the bottle.

— and when you still don’t talk to him, that’s when the real shit starts.

— “remember that tape?” he says in a voice note you never asked for. voice all low and smug. “that one night. you in my lap, creamin’ on my cock… yeah. i’ve got that saved. crystal fuckin’ clear.”

— he doesn’t even have to leak it to ruin you. just lets the threat sit. lets you wonder. lets you sweat. “not gonna post it… unless you keep actin’ like this,” he shrugs. “depends how nice you are to me.”

— he knows your schedule. when you work, who you’re with, who you’re texting. starts sending cryptic texts like “he won’t fuck you like i did” and “bet he don’t know you cry when you come.” no name. no context. just venom.

— he flirts in front of you. touches other girls, loud and messy, eyes on yours the whole time. waits for your reaction. but you don’t give it. and that pisses him off more than anything.

— “you were never jealous, were you?” he spits one night outside the pub, cornering you on the pavement. “too cold. too smart. thought you were better than me.” steps closer. “but you weren’t. you’re mine.”

— he gets mean. cruel in that quiet way. starts rumours about you. tells people you cheated. tells people you begged him not to leak the tape. even though he hasn’t yet— just to watch you squirm.

— he doesn’t sleep. not properly. when he does, he dreams about you. about your voice, your mouth, your laugh when it used to be soft. wakes up sweating. blames you.

— and if you ever try to call his bluff? ever look him dead in the eye and say, “do it then, post it”— he fucking falters. just for a second. because even at his worst, some part of him still thinks you’re the only real thing he ever had.

masterlinks

[niwaart]

I'm trying to survive in the academy

°Part1 °part2

Y/N couldn't sleep after the incident at the princes' building. How would she live now? She'd slapped Dick Grayson, the feared, unchallenged prince... no one ever raised an eye in his presence, let alone someone who raised a hand against him?

As she was choking on thoughts, she heard a knock on the door. Her blood froze for a moment.

'No... Did the prince come to kill me? Or maybe he brought his soldiers to finish me off in secret!'

But the person who entered wasn't the prince, nor a soldier who came to take her to court... it was her. Her sister.

"Ah, the room is really small, but it's okay... I'll put up with you being in it." The sister said with a fake smile, dragging her bag inside like a princess on a red carpet.

"The room is mine alone," Y/N muttered, getting up from under the bed and trying to hide the tension in her voice.

"Oh? Didn't you hear? I asked Dad to let me be with you, just to keep an eye on you... I know you need supervision after everything you did to me..." She said it deliberately loudly, so that the people in the hallway, where some students had woken up, could hear. Then she sat on the other bed and started pretending to cry.

"Please don't hurt me, sis. I just want to stay in the same room as my big sister... Don't hit me, sis!..." she said, burying her face in her hands and letting out a dramatic gasp.

Y/N stood there, her eyes widening...

'Is she trying to accuse me of hitting her in front of everyone?!'

Outside the room, Y/N heard whispers, whispers that would turn into rumors... rumors that wouldn't die here.

Y/N decided to get ready quickly and leave before the situation got any worse. As Y/N walked through the garden toward the lecture hall, the whispers followed her, and the students' eyes watched her.

"That's... the one her sister's afraid of..."

"She says she was tormenting her at the palace..."

"They must have sent her to the academy to be rid of the family..."

Every step felt like a stab in her chest, but Y/N held her head up; she couldn't break now.

She entered the first lecture hall... It was a huge room, reserved for public lectures, and filled with students from various buildings, including nobles, warriors, and mages.

She sat in the back, trying not to draw attention, until someone sat in the seat right next to her.

He was wearing an elegant outfit, simple but distinctly sophisticated... His hair was dark, and his intelligent eyes scanned the hall, then stopped on her.

Tim Drake.

The fourth prince of Gotham... intelligent, terrifying in his own way, capable of destroying an entire life with a single piece of information.

He didn't speak, just looked at her for a few seconds before smiling softly and returning to his notebook. But the smile wasn't kind... it was more like the smile of a thinker starting to tie strings in his head.

As soon as the class ended, Y/N stood up to leave as quickly as she could, as staying by a prince's side was considered a bad omen. On her way back, she found her sister talking to a group of students in front of the dormitory. She was crying, like a war victim.

"I'm just scared she'll repeat what she did to me when I was little... She'd lock the door and turn off the lights... She'd say she'd suck my soul out if I spoke..."

Y/N stood and watched silently, her heart aching... None of this happened. Her sister was spoiled, even when she cried.

But one of the students noticed Y/N and said loudly, "She's here..."

The group turned to her, their looks of accusation, pity, and horror.

Before she could say a word, a magical piece of paper flew by, stopped in front of her face, and opened.

It was a summons to appear before the Student Ethics Preliminary Investigation Board... under the direct supervision of a prince.

The name at the bottom of the paper was written in clear gold:

Timothy Drake.

Y/N sighed, then walked to the board, standing in front of the large door of the investigation room in the Behavioral Affairs building. This was still her first day at the academy, and here she was, caught in one of her sister's traps and deceptions.

The door to the room was surrounded by a cold aura... not climatic, but moral. A door through which everyone walks knowing they are leaving a part of their dignity outside, even if they are innocent.

Y/N looked at the magical paper again, even though she had memorized the words well.

"Official summons to attend a preliminary investigation under the auspices of Prince Timothy Drake. Attendance is mandatory. Absence is considered an admission."

Y/N took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The hall was larger than she expected. Its walls were made of black stone, decorated with the kingdom's crests. At the head of the hall was a long table, behind which sat a small council of five people wearing dark robes. A central chair was raised slightly above the rest. Prince Tim Drake sat there, completely calm, his face emotionless, as if this were just another simple task for him.

But his eyes? They seemed to pierce her chest, searching for something... perhaps a loophole, a hesitation, or a small lie.

In the corner of the hall, it wasn't difficult to notice the figure standing wordlessly, not sitting, just watching with deadly calm.

Dick Grayson.

The elder prince, his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on Y/N from the moment she entered.

'Why is he here? Did he come to watch me get crushed?' Did he come to smile as he saw me collapse, avenging the slap?'

The sound of knocking on the table brought her back to reality.

"Y/N, the new recruit, from Building Nine, Room Fifty-Five," one of the detectives said loudly.

"Do you know why you're here?" Tim finally asked.

"Yes, because of false allegations against me..." Y/N answered firmly.

Tim raised his eyebrow slightly, then gestured. Suddenly, her sister entered, clutching a tissue, pretending to be broken.

"I'm sorry... I didn't want it to come to this, but... she was always hurting me. No one knows what she did to me behind closed doors..." she said, wiping away nonexistent tears.

"Are there any witnesses?" one of the members asked.

"Yes," Tim said. Then he gestured, and three girls entered, all of whom confirmed that they had heard Y/N scream at her sister and even seen bruises on her sister's arm.

"Do you have anything to say?" Tim asked, leafing through some papers.

"Everyone here is basing their judgments on what they've heard... No one saw me hit her. No one saw anything but the charades my sister cunningly concocts. Where's the evidence? Where's the real evidence?"

Everyone was silent for a few seconds.

Tim didn't answer directly, but closed the file and said, "Since there's no concrete evidence, the verdict will be postponed until clear proof is presented. But... that doesn't mean you're innocent. The case will remain open."

Y/N felt as if a table had fallen on her heart. The verdict had been postponed, yes, but now she was stigmatized, and the rumors would devour her endlessly.

She left the hall silently. She didn't look at Dick, even though she could feel his gaze still burning her back. She knew he hadn't forgotten the slap.

She sat alone in the back garden behind the lecture hall, where almost no one came.

Her head rested between her knees, and tears finally escaped her eyes.

'I didn't do anything... Why doesn't anyone believe me? Why does everyone see me as a demon?'

"Are you okay?"

She quickly lifted her head, startled, and immediately wiped away her tears.

Standing before her was a tall young man with black-brown hair and an uncommonly warm expression.

"Don't worry, I... I saw you leave the interrogation room, and I thought a session like this never ended well." He said with a small smile.

She hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Who are you?"

"Conner. Conner Kent."

Her eyes widened. 'Conner? The son of the Emperor of Metropolis?'

"I don't believe rumors easily," he said, sitting down on the grass beside her, without asking permission.

"And I don't trust smiles easily." Y/N replied cautiously as she moved away from him. Enough trouble for one day.

He laughed lightly. "Fair enough... But sometimes, we just need one person to believe us, to survive." His words were simple... but they broke something inside her.

"I'm tired..." Y/N muttered softly, putting her face in her hands.

"I know," Connor said, then stood. "I won't pressure you, just... if you need an honest talk, I'm a good listener."

He walked off, leaving her behind, breathing slowly, as if she were drowning, and gave her one breath to last the day.

But far away, beyond the trees, Dick Grayson was still watching... his eyes reflecting neither mockery nor anger.

Only surprise.

'Is she really... not who they say she is?'

@rovcarmen @amber-content @kalea-gooch @mfreedomstuff @alleakimlala @cookiemonster3665 @xzmickeyzx

[tranquilreign]

J's Fan Fiction Recommendations

Hello lovelies! Here are just a few Fanfic Recommendations that I personally LOVE <3 Please enjoy!

THE ART OF PRETENDING - @ggukivrse ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

JUST THIS ONCE | JUST THIS... TWICE? | THIRD TIMES THE CHARM - @ggukivrse ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | mini-series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no. after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

HENNA KISSES - @ggukivrse ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | drabble ♡ fluff ♡ summary. in which you're stuck waiting for your henna to dry, and jungkook takes full advantage to pepper you with kisses

CALL ME YOURS - @iboozi ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | mini-series ♡ fluff, angst ♡ summary: In which he calls you by his name, and you call him by yours.

HOLD ON TO ME - @kooklovee ♡ jungkook x reader | oneshot ♡ fluff, angst, smut ♡ summary. Your husband forgets your second anniversary. What starts as disappointment and heartbreak soon spirals into doubt- about your love, your marriage & whether he even sees you anymore. But when Jungkook realizes his mistake, he’s willing to do anything to prove that his love has never wavered.

MARRIED FOR SEVEN DAYS - @kooklovee ♡ jungkook x reader | oneshot ♡ fluff, smut ♡ summary. Matching rings and a joke—your boyfriend says you're married. What he didn’t expect is for you to play along the whole trip... And the more you pretend...the less it feels like a game.

NO MERCY - @dailynnt ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | mini-series ♡ smut, angst ♡ summary: You are the heir to a clan that has been deposed. His name is on her death list. To avenge your parents' deaths, you play a game with the devil in an expensive suit. Use it - that's your plan. But what do you do when the enemy knows your every move... and your every fear? But there is a fine line between calculation and passion. And in this world, where betrayal is an everyday currency, the most dangerous thing is to lose control.

ONE NIGHT AS THE PRICE OF A REQUEST - @dailynnt ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary: You hate your neighbor Jungkook, but you have to ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend at a party to get rid of your annoying boss. He agrees, but you don't even imagine what you'll have to pay him with. Everything goes according to plan until Jungkook reveals his true price during the dance: one night with him or your life in the neighborhood will be hell.

A SECRET SPUN IN SILK - @spideyjimin ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary. loving jungkook was easy, he was the shy and nerdy guy no one really noticed, and that was fine for him. however, everything changed when a radioactive spider bite turned him into the city’s mysterious new hero. as a detective, you were quick to notice the shift. then, his mentor, Kang Sangmin, died in front of you. now, you’re hunting a killer and uncovering the truth about the man you thought you knew.

I WON'T STOP YOU - @imsarabum ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary. You drive to your boss‘s house with the intention of returning his wallet he left at the office. You feel uneasy, seeing his manor for the first time - Jungkook also feels uneasy, but for reasons that you could never begin to imagine.

MUTT - @letsbangts ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | mini(?)-series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary: when he’s with you, he’s like a dog with a bone.

MATURE - @jiminrings ♡ jungkook x reader | oneshot ♡ angst, fluff ♡ summary. the good thing about professing your feelings to jungkook is that it'd be over with, whether or not he likes you back — the bad thing is that he rejects you, even if you haven't confessed.

THE ALPHA OMEGA SERIES - @borathae ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | series ♡ smut, fluff, angst ♡ summary. Jungkook is the son of the pack Alpha and therefore heir of the titel. You are an omega and utterly out of his league. This is the story of how, against all odds, you and he became true mates.

VELVET WAVES - @gukcnt ♡ jungkook x reader | oneshot ♡ smut, fluff, angst ♡ summary. in which you go to a vacation in Maldives with your husband, where he shows his love for you by spoiling you with luxuries and passionate experiences that'll forever be in your heart.

SHADOWS OF OBSESSION - @gukcnt ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary. a criminal's obsession with a shy medical student starts a passionate mix of desire and darkness. As their worlds collide, secrets get exposed and possession turns into love. In a world filled with betrayal and the weight of their own pasts, can they find a way to survive together? or will their twisted bond ultimately destroy them both?

BAD CHEM - @muniimyg ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | mini-series ♡ smut, angst, fluff ♡ summary. after overhearing jungkook fuck someone else; you can’t help but want out of being his frenemy

PRIORITIES - @kookiesncreamri ♡ jungkook x reader - ongoing | series ♡ smut, angst, fluff, social media au ♡ summary. didn’t you both decide it’s just fwb? Then why does it feel like it’s more?

PALENTINES - @whyse7vn ♡ ot7 x reader | oneshot(?) ♡ fluff(?), social media au ♡ summary. n/a (all I know is that I loved this)

IN LOVE WITH LOVE (WITH YOU) - @pantoneyoongi ♡ jungkook x reader - completed | series ♡ fluff ♡ summary. you’re a romantic. jungkook? jungkook is not.

MORE WILL COME! (IF NO LINKS WORK PLEASE LET ME KNOW AND I SHALL SORT IT WHEN I CAN)