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filmstarved · 3 months ago

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i can fix him and fuck him.

18+ [logan x female!reader]

nobody can break through logan's walls with ease like you can. and he actually lets you, welcomes it even. he needs it to breathe and when he's ready to walk out of the gifted youngsters door, there you are again.

word count: 5,737

logan sulks. he’s so devoid of love and compassion that he sulks. he’s confused most days, too. unsure of who he is and what he even wants. the people who are somehow closest to him can’t even find their way past the fire breathing dragons that guard the drawbridge to his heart. (scott jokes that he doesn’t have a heart and that the adamantium replaced it and he’s fully pumping cold, hard metal).

logan is a man who answers to himself and doesn’t give people even the slightest chance to ask him a dumb fucking question because he’s not in the fucking mood. he’s never in the mood…unless you put him in one. usually a good one.

you earn a smile from logan as easy as the sun makes it seem to rise every morning and the moon to take its place at night. it leaves the team dumfounded. they believe if you weren’t here, logan would have left a long time ago. they’re right. logan used to search high and low for any excuse to leave. he never knew where he’d go, he’d just…go. but you didn’t dare let him out of your sight. not ever since the professor had brought you to what you call home a little over a year ago now.

deep down, he wanted reasons to stay. somewhere deep inside that metal frame…he wanted things to be right again. he’d find it tiring most days to carry around his grief and anger. but you gave him reasons to stay just one more day.

“so we’re working on that thing for charles together tomorrow right?” you asked on a wednesday, standing so cutely in the threshold of his door that it was almost annoying to him.

“so we’re catching that movie downtown with ororo and hank tomorrow right? it starts at 6!” you asked on a thursday.

“heeyyy, lo…do you possibly, maybe think you could sub for scott’s morning classes tomorrow? he has a dentist appointment…,” you shyly asked on a very late sunday night. (logan heard scott’s jokes about his heart so he made you ask. logan was the only one available.)

but behind his stoic stature and intimidating glare fixed on his face accompanied by knitted brows, he’d always say yes…to you. you were his reason for staying. he knew it but would never admit it. you knew it but played the oblivious part well. and the rest of the team would gossip about it when you two weren’t around. but as long as you were here, logan has nowhere else to be.

although as of late, you’ve been busy. much busier than usual. charles has you creating plans for a mission happening soon. when you’re not teaching mutant ethics 101 to freshmen, you’re hauled up in the lab or library; sometimes darting back and forth between the two multiple times a day leaving very little time to worry about logan.

tonight, you brought your work back to your dorm. as you cleaned up a rough draft of an exit strategy, rain began to tap lightly on the window. you had lit candles littered around the room as well as grouped on your table, a small desk lamp illuminated the surface further. as you reached up to stretch your aching back muscles, you were startled by the sound of a throat clearing.

your eyes shot to the sound at your door where logan stood, leaning against the frame; arms crossed and still like he had been glued to the spot.

“hi lo,” you say. “y’scared me, heh.” you aren’t used to logan greeting you often, especially not this late. he’s over 150 years old, of course he’s grumpy and an early bird. you’re usually the one at his door with requests and invitations to social events he assumes can be nothing short of insufferable. he sighs, his stare dropping to burn holes in the ground. “logan, are you-“

“i think i’m gonna get out of here, bub.”

those words felt like an arrow hitting the bullseye in your chest and then another splitting the first one right through the center.

“wha-what do you mean?…you’re leaving?” you asked, confusion and frustration trembling in your voice.

“it’s too hard being here.”

with that, you stood up from your chair, beelining to him. “c’mere,” you say hushed, pulling on his leather clad arm, trying to unfold them and get him out of the door frame. he doesn’t budge and you pull “the look” that you know he can’t say no to. “come sit with me please, lo.”

he unfolds his arms which allows you to grab his hands to lead him to take a load off on your bed. your bare feet pat on the hardwood floor as you quickly go back to close the door.

you walked back over to him, assessing his body language. ever since he let you use your mutation to “read him” a few months ago, you told him you’d never do it again without his permission. one gaze into his eyes and a touch of his skin and you could feel everything wracking around in his head. anxiety, rage, hate but love, pain. it was hard to feel just for a moment and your heart cracked knowing he was riddled with those feelings constantly.

but right now you couldn’t help it, he was slouched on the edge of the bed, his head dropping to rest in his large hands, and apparently ready to walk right out of the door. your powers are amplified with a touch and even more when you can look into their eyes. from a distance, you could feel a sense of unease and something else… a pressure…built up in your stomach as you surveyed your friend. it didn’t feel bad though…it felt familiar. a good familiar. you stopped reading him and did your best to shrug off the aching stomach feeling and care for your disheveled logan.

he wasn’t emotional, like ever. he hid all that, only showing you what you wanted to see; what he believed you wished him to be — happy, whatever that was. but that couldn’t’ve been farther from the truth. sure, you want him to be happy but also just whatever he wanted to feel, you wouldn’t suppress it or try to change it to fit some ideal of who people on the outside want him to be. yes, he was one of the meanest motherfuckers you had ever met but he was your mean motherfucker. (whatever that means because nothing has ever really been clear between you two).

you walked closer to him, forcing yourself in his diabolical bubble. you stood between his legs, removing his hands from his face to wrap them around your waist. you scooped your hands under his scruffy chin, pulling up to get a look into his bloodshot eyes. oh, he’d been crying.

“lo…,” you muttered. “why were you crying, wolv?” you slide a thumb across his cheek where tears had stained the skin. “why do you want to leave?”

he pulled his face away, breaking his stare with you. he dropped his head forward to rest on your stomach, wrapping his arms around your legs so his hands rested on the back of your thighs. he began to slowly rub the exposed skin of them that your very short night shorts didn’t cover. he lifted the hem of your shirt slightly to press his hot face into the soft, cool skin underneath. he hummed into it, allowing you to feel the vibration.

“logan,” you softly moaned his name under your breath. his fingers press firmly, inching closer to the crease in the skin where your ass meets thigh.

“is this okay?” he asks lowly, when he looks up for confirmation to keep going, you’re already looking down at him nodding. “say it’s okay for me to touch you like this, bub.”

“yes, keep going, logan,” you said curtly. in your voice there is a hint of need. you hadn’t been touched like this since jean’s christmas party, tipsy off spiked egg nog in the garden with a guy whose mutation was a very wet, long tongue. flirting with him seemed intriguing in the moment, but five minutes later, it rendered itself utterly useless due to user error. the sexual tension between you and logan is so potent it usually clears out a room. aside from accidental brushes of hands and quick looks at each others lips mid conversation, neither one of you has acted on it.

his hums turn to growls and soft whimpers as your hands ran through and tugged his hair. your fingers found their way to his nape, splaying out to grip the hair there in your fist. he managed to place a single kiss on the skin right above the elastic of your shorts before you pulled his head back to scrutinize his face.

“you don’t have permission to read me,” he groaned. before you could ask how he even knew that’s what you were doing he said, “you get this serious, focused look in your eyes. i can feel you in my head.”

“logan, what are we doing?” you ask, releasing his hair and stepping out of his bubble.

his hands drop from the absence of your thighs onto his lap and his sighs frustratingly.

“what do you mean?” he asks, admiring your body in the dim light with a semi pressing on the denim of his jeans through his boxers.

“i’m…not doing this with you…if you’re just gonna disappear from my bed before the fuckin’ sun comes up. i’m not doing this,” you said, with your hands on your hips.

he pressed his hands into his knees to push himself up to tower over you. he took two big steps forward and stood in front of you. his hand raised up to brush the back of his fingers across your cheek to cup it and rub his thumb over the warm skin.

he pressed his lips to yours, skillfully allowing his tongue access to it. you let him. “i give you permission,” he moaned in your mouth. “read me. feel how i feel about you…how i’ve always felt about you.”

he welcomed the hesitant slip of your hands past his jacket and under his shirt, shivering and chuckling “mm, cold” into your mouth. you rested your cool touch on his hips and with his mouth obsessed with yours, you read him.

your head dizzied instantly and the hair on the back of your neck stood up. you had never felt anything as strong as this. you could almost taste the colors in logan’s head. your heart dropped to your stomach like you were on a rollercoaster, feeling sick from adrenaline in the best ways. and then, returned that good familiar feeling. this time buried even deeper in your stomach, moving it’s way lower…and lower until logan was swallowing the noises escaping you. before you literally passed out, you dropped your hands and took back ownership of your lips and tongue. breathing heavily, you moved away from him to collect yourself.

a beat of silence followed by a heavy sigh and a “well, say something” from logan passed and you opened your mouth to speak before shutting it again.

that…was the best thing you had ever felt. no drug could compare to the euphoria that a minute of kissing logan could bring. you could practically feel yourself lubricating and your upper thighs unconsciously squeezed together as you scrambled to find thoughts.

there were none. your mind already dumb and wanting more of him…more of the feeling. your fists planted firmly on both your hips as if you were grounding yourself to the floor to avoid buckling. you eyed the ground, looked back up at him and forwarded with another heated, taking-in-each-others-breath kiss. your hands found their way to the same place gripping the hair on his nape to which he praised the tug with a moan. he supported your balance as your whines got more whiney and needy and your hands held onto him like life support.

“lay down,” he said into your kiss. it wasn’t really a command, more of a warning because he tossed you on the bed like unfolded laundry.

he stood over you as you collected yourself, darting your tongue out to taste the spit he left behind. you propped yourself up on your elbows to get a look at the man casting a shadow over you. without the sounds of pleasure exclaiming in each others mouths, your ears absorbed the comforting sound of the battering rain. a tree branch smacked the window as thunder rumbled outside.

logan took a moment to admire your presence. starting at the top, he gazed upon your hair that he associates with vanilla and roses and the times he’d touch himself wondering how it’d feel being wrapped around his hand and pulled.

as he removed his leather jacket, he took his time mentally undressing you. feeling even more pressure build in your clit, you bore your hips down into the mattress, rolling them in circles to stimulate the swollen nub. he beheld your tits, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip at the sight of your hard buds under your very thin, white tank top. he threw his heavy jacket to the side, letting it thud in a ball on the ground.

“you look so beautiful, sweetheart,” he said, deeply enthralled by your scantily clad figure laid out in front of him. unable to stop staring, you could see the bulge in his pants get larger and it ridiculously turned you on. with you making eye contact with the crotch of his jeans, he effortlessly unfastened his belt buckle. the metallic buckle clanked to the floor as his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles.

he stroked himself while he looked upon you. it was like you could read his mind, because you began to touch yourself. the twitch of his lips and darkening of his eyes validated your teasing. letting yourself drop back on the bed, you caressed your body for him. one hand occupied by cupping your tit and pinching and twisting your nipple while the other is exploring the wet spot left on your panties. not being able to handle eye-fucking you any longer, he dropped to his knees on the edge of the bed between your legs. logan hooked his arms under your knees, pulling you close which in your intoxicatingly lustful brain you found funny, so you laughed.

logan spread your thighs open so he could fit in between them to leave wet, sloppy kisses all over your skin. he nibbled here and there, earning soft hisses and hums from your parted lips.

kiss kiss nibble hiss mmm kiss hum nibble nibble bite kiss suck

he spent about a minute just doing that, leaving warm welts in his mouths wake. “i need these off of you, princess.” once he had kissed his way up to the elastic of your shorts, he snapped it. you nodded and he did the honor of pulling them down and flinging them across the room like he was opening presents on christmas morning.

he let out an amused scoff as he ran his trembling hand down his face, caught between ecstatic disbelief at the sight of your black lace panties with little black bows adorning the seams. you mentally thanked your past self for slacking on doing laundry and only having your “special occasion” panties left to wear.

“d’you know how pretty you are,” he said. his eyes traced over every inch of you in excitement like you were artwork he stole from the louvre and made out like a bandit with.

his hand disappeared to slickly stroke himself, his mouth watering in anticipation for your taste. his chest heaves as he takes in the sight of you, studying every curve prettily laid out before him; thinking about every position he wants to see you in and every way he wants to please you. without another groan inducing thought, he lunged forward to press a kiss to your lips, his tongue demanding attention. you drink his breath like liquor becoming completely intoxicated by him. he needed this, he needed you.

“need…to taste…you,” he breathed in between kisses. with this mouth obsessed with yours, his hands caress your tits, his thumbing circles on one of the nubs while he’s pinching and pulling on the other. your head falls back and your neck rolls at the sensation, earning profanities from your pretty, swollen lips. your tit misses the hand that he proceeds to run down and up your thigh to locate the spot in your panties you were playing with a moment before. as he parts from your kiss, he’s hooked two fingers under the elastic, pulling those off swiftly.

you yelp when he pushes your torso down. you stare up at the decorative ceiling as he savors you, kissing and massaging your thick thighs. he’s enjoying playing with you as much as possible before allowing himself any pleasure. he wants your juice to cover his face…his neck…his arm…the bed…the floor too when he gets you to pop like a water balloon.

“logan…please, please,” you beg, pawing at his hair. you lift your head to watch the man between your legs taking in the sight and smell of your pretty, wet pussy. even in the dim light, he could see how much you ached for him. he not so secretly got entertainment from watching you lightly buck your hips up to his face and he would’ve let it continue but your pheromones became overwhelming for him; engulfing his head in it’s enchanting aroma.

like fresh pie on a windowsill, he was drawn into you. logan opened wide to swipe one flat tongued lick up your slit. he had one goal — to knock all sense out of you, to fully engulf you in pleasure. he wants you dumb and begging for him to stay right where he is — at the mansion and also all over you.

logan audibly sucked and popped your clit in and out of his mouth, teasing the most sensitive bit. he’d suck and pop and then lick up your slick, repeating the act. one of his big hands reached up to cup your tit, pinching and twisting and circling. from his hair to the tit he wasn’t playing with, you clawed at whatever would ground you. being eaten by logan felt like floating above the stratosphere.

your wet soaked his beard and it only made him more horny, his cock dripping and throbbing in his fist. tasting you, inhaling you, winning pretty sounds from you, knowing he’s the one making you buck up and fuck his nose only made his appetite for you insatiable. he let go of himself to push his pointer and middle fingers into your needing pussy. you hissed and cursed. the thrill of him devouring you began to reach its peak. his fingers pumped relentlessly into you, curling them to stimulate your g-spot. moans, curses, the gushing of your wet cunt, his sucking and popping and vibrating moans mixed with the rain and thunder grumbling outside filled the dorm like mozart’s symphony no. 25.

he wanted to kiss you, so he did. with his fingers still coaxing an orgasm out of you, he shared the sweet taste. he got back on the bed with you, sliding his free hand under your back to push you up to further to see the mess you were making on the sheets.

“look at how good you’re taking my fingers,” he groaned, inching closer to your ear so you could hear his dirty language loud and clear. “you can come for me, baby.” he peppered a few kisses to your forehead, removing his hand from behind you so he could press it into your stomach. this only heightened the overwhelming wash of pleasure coursing through you.

“lo…logan, i’m-“

“fuck my fingers, baby. use them…oh that’s it…that’s it…i feel that clenching, c’mon you can do it for me. go big baby, make me happy.” his dirty mouth and sporadic clit circling and pumping in and out of you with his tireless wrist pushed you over the edge. you cowered into his neck, pulling on his white tank top and biting the salty skin below his ear as your pussy obeyed, erupting with your juices. out of breath and fucking dumb already, you could feel the wet soak the sheets under your ass.

logan pulled his fingers out of you, landing a light smack on your pussy before licking you clean off of his digits. you fell back on the bed, your arms above your head as you heaved and saw stars.

“‘m not done with you, princess.” he slid off the bed, still delighted by your taste and engulfed in your aroma.

“fuuuck,” you groaned. the pulsing lightning feeling spread throughout both legs as an effect of your rocking orgasm. logan was wicked with his tongue, a devious magician with his fingers and you were his sole audience member wondering about his tricks for sleight of hand.

he quickly tossed his tank, that had tug marks from your attempt to ground yourself, to the side, his muscles flexing under his skin. as he let your post orgasm, cock-dumb brain fog clear, he spit in his hand to fuck his fist. his saliva mixed with the pre-cum leaking from the head, he groaned and sighed heavily at the feeling of giving his dick some sort of relief. you, needy for another hit of him, propped yourself up on your elbows to watch the most delectable creature pleasure himself.

just the sight of him illuminated by candles and flashes of lightning outside as he gets off to how fucked out and dumb you look was enough to have you open up again and play with yourself. the sensitivity from your swollen nub required a delicate touch but your pussy ached, clenching around nothing. his knitted brows relaxed, eyes darting from your pretty face, to your tits, to your fingers rubbing circles where his mouth resided moments ago back to look longingly into your eyes.

“you’re gonna stay,” you said. your hand reached your mouth, your tongue swiping a lick up your middle and ring fingers, wrapping your lips around them to coat them in your saliva. “tell me you’re going to stay for me,” you elaborated. your wet fingers found your aching center.

“there’s no where else i want to be,” he answered. he paced closer to the bed where you laid, his dick basically making eye contact with you as he stopped a few inches away. “you’re mine, you know that?” he noticed your hand slow, “keep going,” he commanded. logan reached out to cup your face, tilting his head to get a look at you obeying his every request. “your face…your mouth…,” his thumb swiped across your lips as he spoke. “your body…your cunt.” he leaned down to kiss your mouth, leaving a string of spit attached to your lower lip. “your laugh…your heart,” he said kindly, his hand massaging your scalp. moans earned from his praise escaped you. “you’re all mine. is that okay with you, baby?”

you’re so bewitched by his aura and his subtle touches make your heart race so fast that you can’t do anything but try to maintain his torrid eye contact and nod.

“use your words, honey.” his thumb returned to the softness of your parted lips.

“i’m yours, logan,” you said, taking his thumb in and closing your lips around it. “if you’ll stay with me, i’ll be yours forever,” you breathed around his thumb, speaking from a mix of eager lust and the terrifying need for him to not to be an asshole, just once.

“i’m not going anywhere…i promise,” he said matter of factly before leaning back down to hungrily devour your kiss. “i need to…fuck you…now,” he cursed in between swallowing moans.

“do what you want…i’m yours,” you said just clearly audible over the storm rumbling outside. you two shared eye contact so intense that you noticed his dick twitch from your peripheral. you took his dick in your drooling mouth, reaching up to squeeze the base of him. it twitched from the warmth, pressure and tongue swiping rhythmically around his angry, red tip. you kept yourself enveloped around his length, bobbing your head to hit your gag reflex. the added lubrication drove him crazy, his abs twitching under the toned skin of his abdomen. you moaned around him purely from the enjoyment you got out of having him stretch the corners of your mouth, feeling the sting from it.

logan reached down with both hands to hold your head steady while he sped up thrusting into your throat. your gags and gasps for air, his praise and the storm filled the room beautifully.

“fuuuck, baby, keep that throat open for me please,” he begged. his hands left their position to find a new one — one supporting his thrusting hips, the other petting your head. “oh, you look so fuckin’ pretty with my cock down your throat…you’re taking me so good, sweetheart.”

he pulled his dick out of your mouth to smack it on your face, complimenting how gorgeous you look. he kissed and licked the mess off of your mouth.

“mm, baby i need to know how good you feel.” with that, he rounded the bed to lay down. “c’mere, baby.” you turned around, crawling on all fours to obey him. his cock in its usual place to be, in his fist, leaks pre-cum in anticipation for you to smother it with your warm, clenching pussy.

“lay down,” he said.

“damn, yes sir,” you say, jokingly annoyed with all of his demands. you lay down next to him, your knees instinctively parting slightly. he lays on his side, resting his hand on your stomach, rubbing his large hand in flat circles.

“d’you know how long i’ve thought about this moment with you?” he asked, leaning in to kiss and suck the skin in the crook of your neck. you lustfully sighed at the sensation of his hot breath. his hand finds its way between your legs again, tickling and tapping at your slit. “i want you to read me the whole time i’m inside…can you do that?”

“are you—“

“yes i’m sure, i feel so fucking good right now and i haven’t even felt you. i want you to feel that and more,” he explains, pulling your chin in to taste the desperation on you.

before he came just from your kiss and rutting against the sheets, he hovered above you. his lips stayed attached to your chest, kissing lower and lower to suck a tit into his mouth, flicking your nipple with his tongue then biting softly on the nub. his hand disappeared from the side of your head to grab hold of his shaft, flicking his tip against your clit. his head dropped as he watched and listened to your slick coating his cock. he quickly swiped up and down your pussy trying to savor every fold and feeling. his brows furrowed, not being able to resist your warmth, he lined himself up with your hole, using his hand to guide just the tip into it.

“oh…fuck,” he groaned in excitement. he pushed in just a little more which caused you to hiss. his head shot up and eyes scanned your face for any sign of regret or unsureness. “are you okay? d’you want to stop?”

“no, baby,” you giggled, lifting your arms rest around his neck, one hand always finding a way into his dark locks. “just been a while…keep going, i’m okay.”

with your permission, he pushed in a little more. he let out a deep groan at the feeling of you stretching to form perfectly around him. you gasped, pressing a hand into his chest, feeling a similar sting to the one you felt in the corners of your mouth earlier. against his want to start thrusting his whole length into you, his went slow, watching your demeanor for cues to keep going.

“you feel…fuck…like it was made for me,” he said which caused the butterflies in you to flutter their wings even faster. “are you okay?” his chest heaved and his breath fanned your face.

“fuck me…please logan,” you said. your hands reached his hips, pushing them down onto you. without wasting another minute, he did.

he bent your knee more to press it into your chest as his hips repeatedly slammed down hard, his balls smacking your ass. with one hand giving him better access by positioning your leg higher, the other cupped and squeezed your bouncing tit.

“oh my…fucking god,” you moaned. you had let the walls of your mutation down, allowing yourself to be flooded by not only your pleasure…but the love logan feels for you plus the absolute sheer euphoria that he was experiencing deep inside of your pussy. it coursed through your body like a steam engine leaving the station. it had felt like you had been brought to five earth shattering orgasms before the one that was bound to shake you again soon.

“you know you feel so good, look at that fuckin’ fucked out smile. can you feel it? can you feel how good you make me feel, baby? don’t stop readin’ me, princess. it’s all for you,” he praised for you to hear every word.

“holy shit…mm fuckin’…ahh!” your hands couldn’t help but find their way above your head, subconsciously reaching for the bed post for something to ground you again.

“here, baby, hold onto me.” logan grabbed your wandering wrist with his free hand, slapping your hand on his chest which you pressed into as if you were pushing him away. before your cock drunk mind could register what happened, he had flipped the two of you so you were on top.

logan looked so fucking pretty under you. you took a second to breathe and take in the view before bending your knees to put yourself in a squatting position on his cock. you placed your hands on his heaving chest for support as you started to bounce your ass on him. ‘oh this is so fun’, the thought making you giggle in elation as you drilled down your hips, rocking them back and forth to feel him stimulate the deepest parts of you. his thumb bored into your clit, drawing circles on it.

as you kept bouncing your wet pussy on him just how he liked, logan lifted his knees up behind you and pushed you back onto them. he moved his hand away from your clit and picked his head up to watch his dick disappear deep inside you. then, he spit. his saliva landed on your pussy and stomach. he went back to stimulating you, fully realizing how much that turned you on from the tight clench around him and the extra juice running down his ass onto the sheets under you two.

he, still playing with your clit, summoned your face closer to his with the middle and ring fingers on the other hand. once closer, he grabbed your neck to kiss your fiercely.

“you’re my good girl, huh?”

‘mhmm’ was all you could muster with his hand around your throat and his hips still ramming his cock into your stretched out hole.

“use those words for me, baby. are…mm, fuck…you my good girl?”

“ye…sss, baby i’m your…good…oh my fucking…girl!!”

“open your mouth.” he fucking spit in it. you moaned tasting him again and feeling it on your face. “good…fuckin’ girl,” he complimented, kissing you and then squeezing your cheeks to spit on your tongue again.

your body started to go limp and your eyes were practically glued together. you could feel the searing hot orgasm burning up inside. you could feel logan in a way that you never thought possible. everything.

his love, his passion, his longing, his fear, his anxiety, his lust, his heart…everything was yours in this moment. high on his feelings, you let your head fall back coming undone on top of him.

“oh you’re so pretty…that’s pretty, baby, keep…fuck…use me, it’s all for you.” his words took you further and further into ecstasy. it was a really good fucking trip that you never wanted to end. the pain of his cock fucking you out and his grip clutching your skin like he’d fall off earth without doing so made you moan so intensely that not even the thunder outside could compete.

he could tell you were a few fucks away from collapsing but so was he.

“baby…you keep clenching around me like that…i’m gonna fuckin’ fill you,” he said. you kept bouncing on it, wanting him to even feel a fraction of how he just made you feel. he closed his eyes trying to last as long as possible in the heaven that he found in you. his thumbs bore into your hips as he used them to ground himself.

“i want it, baby…fill your good girl up.” you leaned down to speak into his ear and then carry on kissing his neck, letting him claim your moans as trophies.

“fuuuuck…fuuuck,” he moaned as his thrusting became sloppy and you weren’t bouncing as much anymore. his abs twitched again along with his face.

SNIKT!!

you hissed at the cool metal of his claws against your skin and the feel of him throbbing severely inside you as he let himself paint your walls. you thanked him in pleased moans before falling on his chest. still semi-hard inside, he kissed the top of your head to which you looked up and he gave you a proper kiss. he let himself twitch out a few more dribbles of cum inside you before pulling his claws back in to carefully rub your back.

a few beats of silence went by as you listened to each others hastened breaths and the rain tapping the glass.

“…i love you, logan.”

“i think you know how much i love you, baby,” he said, smugly remembering how you looked coming on his dick, further escalated by his letting you read him.

you two snuggled naked under the covers and as you laid on his chest and listened to his light snoring, you read him again.

ease and silence…and love.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #xmen fic #wolverine smut #i hate everyone but you #logan howlett #wolverine #hugh jackman

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comicaurora · 2 days ago

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So uhh. If you feel like talking about it. As someone who lives in the US, how are you being kind to yourself on this upsetting morning <3

Checked in with my loved ones first and foremost.

It's interesting. The vibe I've been getting from my circle is very different from 2016. Much less… dread and horror at a realignment of the understanding of what can and can't happen here, now, in this place and day and age. More "fuck, guys. again? whatever. enjoy your consequences, maybe you'll manage to learn something this time."

Frustration and anger is not the most positive feeling, or even the most fair one to express, but it is a protective one. It hurts a lot less than most alternatives.

And it's quite a shift. It was earthshattering back then. How could this have been allowed to happen? Why couldn't it be stopped? Why couldn't we stop it? Why couldn't I stop it? Why couldn't everyone see what this meant? Why couldn't I make them understand? Did they really not care? What did that mean about humanity as a whole? Were we so thoughtless? How could anyone be trusted?

It seems… much less earthshattering to see it happen twice. Disappointing, sure. Frustrating. But nowhere near as devastating as the first time I saw it unfold. We already knew it could happen. I've already had time to digest the implications. Now I'm just freshly disappointed.

It also feels less indicative of Crushing Truths Of Reality this time. We've seen shit get bad. We've also seen shit get better from here! We know both outcomes are possible, even inevitable. We know hoping for a better future is always worthwhile. This isn't the apocalypse. It's an unremarkably bad turn of events brought on by unremarkably self-centered well-documented human impulses. It's utterly mundane in its unpleasantness. It doesn't need to be dignified with despair.

A democratic election, no matter the outcome or the side we're on, makes us all acutely aware of how outnumbered we are by people whose worldviews and priorities are demonstrably incomprehensible to us. And the first time you get outnumbered, it's a shock. Defeat is haunting. It didn't matter how badly you wanted it; by the very function of democracy, you do not have the power to override greater numbers. (insert electoral college caveat here)

The second time through, I find myself focusing on a different facet that has dramatically reduced the amount of spiralling I'm doing. I don't expect this to work for everyone, but for me specifically, it helped to crystallize a few thoughts:

You don't have the power to control anyone else. You don't. You can't share your worldview and your revelations with them. You can't make them think or understand anything. You can lay it all out for them, but you can't make them listen, and you can't make it click. A mentor can't make their student learn a lesson; that's why teaching is so complicated and hard. An active choice must be made by the person to enable themselves to understand, and they must put the pieces together in their own mind before it makes sense to them, and the pieces must have been presented in a way that makes sense to them in the first place. Lead a horse to water, can't make them drink.

These elections highlight a disconnect in what different groups of people care about; and no matter how clearly you explain yourself or how passionately you perform, caring cannot be forced on someone. Understanding and connection cannot be forced. You cannot make anything or anyone matter to someone. They have to choose to see how it matters in order to internalize it. If they choose not to, that is not your failing. You couldn't have made them do it by just Explaining Better. They are not your responsibility. They make their own choices. You can't reach inside their head and connect the dots for them.

I'm a storyteller. I make stories and put them out into the world. I hope people get something good out of them, but I have no control over what that something is. I want people to be thoughtful and kind and compassionate and hopeful and see themselves reflected in stranges, no matter their differences. I can craft stories that I hope encourage this. But that is the extent of my ability and the extent of my responsibility. I control no-one's actions but my own, and so while I am not having the best day, I am at least content that I am doing what I can, and I am not shattering myself against impossibilities trying to control the things I can't.

Sometimes, people make decisions that I think are really bad. I can't make that not happen. All I can do is try to make decisions that will result in things I think are good. Today, that means checking in on people, and not assigning too much dramatic narrative weight to an ultimately mundane set of unremarkable bad decisions outside of my control. We'll take life as it comes and help each other out when and how we can. Everything else is out of our hands.

#asks #not aurora #i'm also watching lots of star trek tos #it is helping considerably

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torpublishinggroup · 1 year ago

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"5 Tips for Dating a Werewolf" by TJ Klune

1. If a werewolf has locked onto your scent, it is best to let them get as much of it as they can. If they are in shifted form, it might mean a wet nose to your face or a tongue in your hair. Fear not! They are, in a way, like a large dog, if a large dog were capable of human wants and whims. If you find yourself in such a position, do not move! Let the werewolf finish its scent-marking. It could take anywhere from five minutes to six days, so get comfortable!

2. Should you find yourself in possession of a dead animal left upon your doorstep, don’t scream and/or vomit! Chances are, it is from the same werewolf who sniffed you, wanting to make sure you are provided for. This is how a lycanthrope expresses interest. Be careful not to offend the wolf, as they might be watching from behind a tree or a bush. If you are averse to blood and gore, pretend someone dropped a cherry pie filled with bones on your porch.

(On the off chance that the dead animal was left by a cult and not a werewolf, please be prepared in case you are marked for a ritual sacrifice.)

3. Going on a date with a werewolf can be a fun event! Given that you might be in public, it would be best not to ask your werewolf suitor to “shift in the middle of an Applebee’s just to see if it scares the server into giving free appetizers.” While many people enjoy mozzarella sticks (especially when given under threat of fangs), using your werewolf in such a way to get fried cheese is considered bad form. Your werewolf has feelings, and no one likes to be used.

(If your werewolf does shift to get you cheese, reward them by telling them you think they are the greatest creature in existence. Positive reinforcement goes a long way!)

4. Uh oh. Your werewolf has driven you home, arches a single, devastating eyebrow, and says, “Are you going to invite me inside?”

Remember, werewolves aren’t vampires, meaning they do not need permission to enter your residence. However, good wolves always wait for permission before entering a dwelling that is not their own.

In this case, given the arched eyebrow, the werewolf is hoping to be invited inside for “adult activities.” This might include rolling on the carpet or having sex in the kitchen and/or up against a wall. If you choose to do this, you might see the werewolf’s eyes flashing. Good news! This means the wolf is having a wonderful time.

5. Your wolf stayed the night! How lucky are you? If you wake up the next morning with the shifter lying on top of you, it is very important that you do not move until they have decided to move on their own. Waking up a sleeping wolf can sometimes be difficult work, but if you keep a squeaky ball next to your bed, now is the time to put it to good use. Squeeze it near the wolf’s ear and ask, “Who’s a good boy? Who wants to play with the ball? Is it you? Is it you?” Your wolf will most likely glower at you and threaten your life, but if you squeeze the ball three times, the wolf will be distracted. Throw it to the floor, and as the wolf chases after it, consider making waffles! Werewolves love waffles.

(God help you if you make pancakes. You have been warned.)

If you have survived these first five steps, you are to be commended! That means you most likely will have a werewolf for the rest of your life. A werewolf is a commitment. Adopt, don’t shop!

#tj klune #wolfsong #ravensong #green creek #werewolf #werewolves #fantasy romance #death of an animal #booklr

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nivisdreaming · 1 year ago

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Kinktober Day 1: Size - Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

WC: 1.1k

CW: Size play, predator/prey dynamics, established relationship, piv penetration, no protection, creampie, teasing, praise, sub!reader, dom!miguel, subspace implied, reader gets fucked so good she passes out, aftercare is included

Notes: first time writing for miguel? pog? also welcome to kinktober everyone its gonna get freaky >:)

Miguel is constantly pinning you to things. He’s not even doing it on purpose necessarily, he’s just so big.

It’s not his fault that he’ll reach for something over your head, or try to scooch behind you in the kitchen or hallway, and all of a sudden you’re pushed against the nearest surface being towered over by a 6’9 spider hybrid.

What is his fault is how he abuses it once he realizes how flustered it makes it. He’s always been very perceptive when it came to you. He knows how your cheeks flush red with embarrassment, how your breath hitches, and your thighs squeeze together in need, right as you look upward to view him caging you in. It always gives a sickening ego boost. You’re just so small compared to him. Breakable. Fragile. Delicate. Delicious.

He starts subtlety. Sneaking behind you when you’re making morning coffee, hovering behind when you work at your desk, and of course, getting you down on your knees for him whenever possible. It doesn’t take long to escalate however, coming to a head one night before he is set to attend a Spider Society gala with you as his plus one.

You slide the dress up your body carefully, allowing the snug material to cling tight around your breasts in its strapless style. You straighten it out and peered over your shoulder to call, “Miggy? Can you come zip me up please?”

You adjust your hair and makeup in the mirror as you listen to his lumbering footsteps, smiling when he appears behind you, his eyes tracing over your curves in the reflection. He takes a step closer, and the way his shoulders dwarf yours causes your breath to hitch. He slides a hand up your side and another comes to rest on the back of your neck. You open your mouth to make the request again, but the air is knocked out of you as he pushes forwards, pinning you firmly to the floor-length mirror without looking away from his scanning of your body.

“Sweet, tiny little thing. You’re so easy to push around, aren’t you, mi princesa?” He pushes his hips forward to rut against your ass, and your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head from the combo of his growling tone and his hot erection against you. He leans down to nip at your earlobe before muttering, “I know you love how much bigger than you I am. Does it make you feel all funny? To know how I could wreck you, how I could turn you into my cowering prey, stuck underneath me? It makes your brain all fuzzy. And it makes your cunt dripping wet.” He uses the hand on your side to tug up the dress, exposing your bare ass. He scoffs at the lewdity and gives one of the round globes a spank, forcing a whimper from you.

You watch him in the mirror as he blocks you in on all sides while running a finger down to your folds, teasingly sliding it against your entrance before bringing it to his month to suck off the slick. He hums in approval and moves his arms to sit on either side of your head, leaving you boxed in but free to move against him.

“Spin around. I wanna look you in the eyes while I stretch your tight pussy to it’s breaking point, and if I see you look away I will make sure neither of us sees this event tonight.”

You gulp and slowly twirl around, having to crane your neck to meet his eyes even as he leers down at you. He places a hand over yours and coaxes it to the front of his crotch, using you to squeeze at his bulge before instructing you to undo the zipper and pull him out. You obey without hesitation, allowing him to tug down the top of your dress and reveal your tits as you do. His cock springs eagerly from its confines, precum already leaking from the tip that has flushed a deep purple.

Instinctively you try to drop down to your knees, your clouded headspace demanding that you needed to gag around him as soon as possible, but he manhandles you back up and off the ground with your wrists above your head and legs wrapped around his slutty waist. The rough force has you moaning softly, eyes already glazed over despite the lack of direct stimulation. It makes him chuckle darkly.

He lines his tip up with your entrance and gives no warning before sliding in with a single thrust. The slick dripping down your thighs is plenty of lube as he begins an earth-shattering pace, hips slamming into yours and tip kissing your cervix with every thrust. He leans down and vigorously sucks and bites around your breasts, littering them with hickeys while you cry on his cock, sobbing hysterically from pleasure.

He pulls away from his marking to take in your appearance, at the fat globs of tears gathering on your cheeks make his hips stutter and his abs tense. “God, princesa, feels so good to corrupt you like this,” he switches his grip from your hip to your tummy so he can thumb at your clit, “So ruined for me. Molded this tiny cunt to my dick, so it’s perfect just for me.” You whimper at the praise, jaw dropping open and tongue lolling out as he slides against the spongey spot inside you and rubs fast circles around your bundle of nerves.

“That’s it, my good little girl. So delicate, just gotta take care of you by breaking that poor little brain every once and awhile. Go ahead sweet thing, cum on me, show me how good little prey thank the predators.” His words send you spinning into the abyss, everything in your body pulling taunt and then snapping back as your vision goes from white to black and suddenly you’re so light and floaty that you can’t feel the way you soak Miguel’s cock, nor the way he cums deep inside you as your walls milk him dry. You don’t feel him carry you to the bed, or feel him drag the damp cloth between your legs. You don’t feel how he kisses both your cheeks in hopes of getting your eyes to flutter open, to no avail.

What you do feel is when he pulls your trembling body against his broad chest, rubbing up and down on your arms softly and whispering to you. “Mi amor, you gotta come back to me now. Open up those eyes for me. You did so good for me baby, surprised you made it as long as you did without passing out on my dick. C’mon, wakey wakey corazón.” His words are encouragement enough to float back downwards, settling into his touch until you have enough strength to pull your eyelids open and peer up at him with large doe-eyes. “Aw, welcome back little girl. Te amo.”

#kinktober 2023 #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel smut #miguel o’hara smut #dom!miguel o'hara #sub!reader

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that-fic-girl · 10 months ago

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HAZBIN HOTEL X READER HC #1

Head canon: what it would be like to date them.

characters: Alastor, angel dust, husk, vox

disclaimer: everything i write about these characters might not be accurate to the actual story, please take everything in the fic with a grain of salt, none of this is canon!!

Alastor

he hasnt been in an actual relationship in a while so being close and vulnerable with someone is quite hard for him, especially as someone who associates emotions with weakness.

First off, its safe to say he adores the ground you walk on. He's in love with everything about you, your clothes, the smell of your hair, your sickly sweet voice. his loves it all.

If there was ever a problem you needed fixing, a person you needed taken care of or even a errand you needed to run he would tend to it himself. he would not let you lift a finger.

PDA is a iffy thing for him, he wouldnt do grand big gestures but maybe a hand on the hip or a few words of affirmation.

everyone in the pride ring quickly learned of yours and radio demon's relationship. And no one dared to mess with you, ofcourse there was people who wanted to test their luck but they would have to pay the price later.

his love language is definitely words of affirmation, he will sweet talk the shit out of you. At night when it's just you two in bed, he will have his hands stroking through your hair whilst you rant to him about your day and he'll reply with sweet nothings

"oh darling, i've missed you all evening"

"you looked ravishing today my dear.."

"mm your hair smells amazing, my love"

Angel Dust

Angel is one of, if not, the horniest mother fuckers out there but somehow, he manages to somewhat make a healthy relationship with someone.

you two are seen as "the bad bitch" couple. you're always out together, always getting into dumb shit together. You'll get yelled at by vaggie at early hours in the morning because the two of you where playing a childish game of tag in the hotel halls.

his love language is definitely physical touch, he'll have his arms slung around your waist almost all the time. Kisses are a MUST every 5 minutes, like this boy will NOT part from you. especially in the mornings when you have to leave for work;

"mmnnnnoooooooo...stayyy for five minutes pleasseeeee"

"but sweets..you're soooo warm"

"sweetheart please, you feel so comfy"

yeah good luck with that.

nights with him are VERY eventful, if it wasn't obvious. You two would usually be at it late hours into the night but sometimes, when you two where too exhausted to fuck like rabbits, he would be sprawled across your lap whilst you stroked his fur.

Husk

Despite his harsh tone and uncompromising demeanor, you understood that Husk wasn't trying to be malicious towards you. It was simply his way of communicating, and you knew that his behavior wasn't personal. Even though he could be abrasive at times, you loved him for his rough edges and authentic personality

You and Husk's time together was mostly spent at the bar. You didn't like to drink much, but you loved seeing him work and make cocktails like a pro. You didn't mind that it wasn't considered a typical date, because you liked spending time with him in whatever way he felt most comfortable.

Husk is not used to receiving compliments, as he didn't often receive them in his past life. When you complimented him, it caught him off guard and he was surprised. But he eventually learned to appreciate it, and it even made him feel a little sentimental.

Despite the difficulty, you were able to help Husk realize that you genuinely cared about him. He had been used to being surrounded by dishonesty and hypocrisy, but you were always sincere and real. He held you in high regard, as you were the only source of light in his life, and he didn't want to lose you.

vox

You were known as a strong and independent person who didn't need assistance from others. You knew how to stand up for yourself, despite being harsh and tough at times. Despite your exterior, no one was aware of the soft spot in your heart that Vox's affection and touch alone could melt away your severity.

He appreciated seeing your affectionate side, as it felt special and intimate, like a shared secret between the two of you. He knew you valued your privacy, and he respected it by never sharing photos or other details on social media. He didn't want to betray your trust.

You were often feared and respected when you were with Vox. People found it hard to believe that someone as intimidating as yourself could have a tender, caring side that was kept hidden from most. Vox was glad that he was the only one who got to see that side of you. He didn't want to share something so special and personal with anyone else.

Quite often, he would call you on the phone, knowing that sweet words could be just as effective as a kiss. He enjoyed hearing how your voice softened from its usual seriousness to a more affectionate tone. He was aware that when he said loving phrases to you, you would blush and smile shyly, and sometimes he even regretted not being able to witness it in person.

"i've missed you today babe.."

"mhm look at my pretty girl/boy!"

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel x Reader #Hazbin Hotel headcanons #Alastor #Alastor x Reader #Vox #Vox x Reader #Hazbin Hotel oneshots #Husk #Husk x Reader #angel dust #angel dust x reader #vivziepop\

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f14fun · 4 months ago

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my own pastry (!baker x op81)

synopsis: in which case y/n meets the infamous racecar driver oscar piastri as she works in her family-owned pastry shop, and she pretends not to know him. little does he know, she's idolized him for the longest time.

smau + prose (2.9K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

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yourusername

liked by yourbff1, yourbff2 and 58 others

yourusername: the feminine urge to own a bakery

view comments:

yourbff1: alright no need to brag, you were blessed with an amazing family business and i'm here stuck with a desk job

yourusername: you laugh at me everytime i come home with flour stuck on my face.

yourbff1: well...😁😁

user1: wait this is so aesthetic

user2: drop the location of the bakery now! i wanna visit 🫶🏽

yourusername: 5512 streetname, monte carlo monaco!

user2: thx babes you will be seeing me in the next week

yourbff2: so we are not going to talk about the mystery guest that showed up at the bakery today...

yourusername: HE COULD BE LURKING. STAY ALERT. DO NOT MENTION HIM.

yourbff1: you mean osc*r p**str*?? 😝😝🥳

yourusername: ASKJAKJEJAE HE'S GOING TO FIND ME NOOO

yourusername: pls delete your comment i BEG.

yourbff2: @/oscarpiastri @/oscarpiastri @/oscarpiastri

yourbff1: @/oscarpiastri @/oscarpiastri @/oscarpiastri

user3: oh my, bless her poor soul 😭

yourusername: DELETE YOURSELF OH GOD

yourusername: I FEEL A SINISTER PRESENCE COMING

oscarpiastri: my presence was called upon?

yourbff1: LMFAO POINT AND LAUGH 🫵🏻🫵🏻🫵🏻

yourusername: hey-y-y oscar... 🥹

oscarpiastri: did you just stutter over a comment 💀

yourusername: i can explain!! 😁

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To be frank, it's honestly quite difficult to explain the series of events that happened about twelve hours earlier.

6:58 AM ~ l'orchidée bakery shop

It was right before opening. Maman had entrusted me with opening shop and making sure it was running smoothly, and knowing that the fate of our family bakery was in my hands today was especially important to me.

It was 6:58 AM, and since business was typically slow in the first half hour of shop opening, employees showed up half an hour after opening. So there it was me all by myself, until 7:30 AM.

I showed up at the bakery much earlier than normal, at around 3 AM, prepping for the day. The first task was to turn on the ovens, letting them reach the perfect baking temperature.

While the ovens heated up, I took out the baguette and croissant doughs that had been proofing overnight. The doughs were soft and slightly cool to the touch, with a subtle yeasty aroma that promised delicious results. I placed the doughs on the floured countertop, feeling their smooth texture as I gave them one last gentle knead, coaxing out any remaining air bubbles.

Shaping the doughs into their final forms was almost meditative. The baguette dough stretched and folded under my hands, forming into long, slender loaves with tapered ends. The croissant dough was rolled and folded into layers, ready to be cut and shaped into crescents. With each turn and fold, I could feel the anticipation of the final baked product growing.

Next, I mixed batters for cakes, muffins, and other pastries, carefully measuring each ingredient to ensure consistency and quality. The rhythmic motions of stirring and mixing were comforting, grounding me in the early morning quiet of the bakery.

With the ovens now hot, I slid in the first trays of bread and pastries. The smell of baking bread began to fill the bakery, a comforting scent that promised a successful day.

On and on I went prepping, while simultaneously listening to music. One thing about L'Orchidée Bakery, is that our surround sound system that covers every square foot of the little coffee shop, works its magic everyday. It is very difficult to hear many outside noises at that.

So imagine my suprise when I'm singing "Slut!" by Taylor Swift on full volume and I turn around, to only find myself face to face (well, behind a sheet of glass) with none other than Oscar Piastri.

"But if I'm all dressed up, they might as well be looking at us, and if they call me a SLU AHH!-"

I screamed slut, as I spun around and ended up making obnoxiously close eye contact with a boy in a black hoodie and unruly brown hair.

The broom in my hand that I was using to sweep the floor crashed to the floor, a one, big, sweeping motion. Scaring myself, and the boy, we both aggressively lurched back.

This is when I got to take a closer look, and I had just realized that Oscar Piastri had just scared the shit out of both of us.

And I was even more embarrassed to see that poor little Oscar was just trying to look at the bakery's menu, only to get a terrible birds eye view of my horrid singing and dancing.

He started to chuckle, his hand brushing against the faint stubble of hair that was growing across his chin. Sheepishly knocking on one side of the glass that separated us, I gestured for him to come in.

A customer is a customer! (even if he does happen to be the Formula 1 driver I absolutely idolize, and on any given normal day, I would be too shy to even make eye contact with him)

Running to the front entrance of the shop, I reach in my pocket to pull out the plethora of keys that dangle from my measly keychain. Fumbling with a golden key with the letters LB engraved on the key's front, I unlock the door.

"Hi, hello! Welcome to L'orchidée Bakery, so sorry for the little jumpscare you got there," I timidly trailed off.

"You mean the singing, dancing, or both," he joked back. Immediately, my discomfort shifted, as the environment had turned playful. Smiling, I responded.

"Hahaha, you think your funny," I rolled my eyes, as we made our way to the register.

"What can I say, I might just be a stand-up-comedian in disguise," he joked, arms crossed, and his eyes crinkled into a vibrant eye smile.

"Well, are you?" I asked, pretending to genuinely not know his occupation.

"Are what?" He nervously chuckled.

"Are you actually a stand-up-comedian?" I asked.

"Wait, are you serious?" His eyes bulged out, not able to hide his surprise, he fumbled with his phone.

"A hundred percent," I replied, playing the game. Trying to make it believable, I put up a mask of utter confusion. "What's your job?"

"Oh, um, I drive?" He lowly said, he voice trailing off, confused.

"You think you drive of you know you drive?" I barked out a laugh, finding it funny that he ended the sentence in a questioning tone.

"Oh yes, I definitely drive," He nodded his head vigorously.

"So like, Uber, Lift, valet services?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, something like that, yup," Oscar replied. It took everything in me to not burst out laughing from his god-awful acting. This boy couldn't lie for shit, his eyebrows and eyes immediately betrayed him.

Pretending to believe him, I continued our conversation.

"So...do you liked driving around everywhere?" I asked. If this boy kept on lying, I just knew the conversation would get so funny.

"Yeah, it's pretty fun, you know? Getting to meet different people, seeing new places," he said, trying to keep up the charade.

"Interesting! Must be quite an adventure. Any memorable rides?" I prodded, enjoying the playful banter.

"Oh, definitely. Had a guy once who insisted on singing Taylor Swift songs at the top of his lungs," he quipped, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Holding a laugh in, I'm not sure whether he was referring to me, Lando, or Daniel.

"Really? What a coincidence," I said, smirking. "Sounds like my kind of passenger."

We both laughed, the initial awkwardness completely dissolved. It was surreal, chatting casually with Oscar Piastri, as if he were just another customer and not the famous Formula 1 driver I admired.

"So, what can I get for you today?" I asked, ready to actually do my job.

"Surprise me," he said, leaning on the counter. "I'm in the mood for something new."

"Coming right up," I said, turning to grab a fresh-baked strawberry-chocolate croissant and a steaming cup of coffee. As I handed it to him, I couldn't help but feel a sense of triumph. Today was already shaping up to be unforgettable.

Looking around, there didn't seem to be anyone approaching the bakery, so as he sat down at the breakfast bar and asked whether I wanted to sit next to him, I immediately took his offer. (I mean seriously, who would not take the offer?)

"So, what brings you to this little bakery?" I asked, curious.

"Well, I heard a lot of good things about this place. Plus, I'm always on the lookout for a good pastry," he replied. "Figured I'd check it out myself."

"Glad you did," I said warmly. "We do our best to keep the reputation up. And hey, if you ever need more Taylor Swift serenades, you know where to find me."

"Good to know," he said with a laugh. "I'll definitely keep that in mind."

The playful banter made me forget, if only for a moment, that I was talking to a celebrity. It was just a normal conversation, easy and light-hearted.

"So, where do you usually drive?" I asked, pretending to be completely unaware of his true profession.

"Oh, you know, here and there," he said, trying to be vague. "Mostly around the city, sometimes longer trips."

"Must be fun, getting to see different places and meet different people," I said, keeping up the act.

"Yeah, it's interesting for sure," he agreed. "And sometimes you get to witness some pretty crazy stuff."

"I bet," I replied. "Like what?"

"Well, there was this one time I drove a bunch of guys to a music festival. They were already half-drunk and started a karaoke session in the backseat. It was wild," he said with a laugh.

"Sounds like a blast," I said, laughing along. This definitely felt like a recounting of a true story, probably along the lines of something that Yuki or Lando would do.

We continued the conversation, laughing and chatting, flirting here and there for the next half hour until my coworkers arrived. When they did, it gave Oscar and I quite a fright, as we both were mid-conversation when the front door swung open.

My coworker gave us morning blessings, and a blush blossomed across Oscar's cheeks, shy, that he got caught. Crumbling up his paper cup and paper wrap that held what used-to-be a croissant, we both knew it was time for him to leave.

"Wait," I said laughing, "We just had a whole conversation and I still don't know your name," I said, still playing into the role.

"Oscar," he said, genuine, and for a second I felt bad for lying to him. But then again, not really, he played into the banter as well.

"Will I see you here again, Oscar?" I asked.

"You might just have to wait and see," he winked. As I held the door open for him as he left, his hand brushed against mine, and goosebumps rippled across my arm. I felt a swirl of butterflies in my stomach when he smiled and wished me a heartfelt goodbye. Oh, brother.

This is not going to end well.

Snapping me awake from my daydream, my coworker whisper shouted. "You do know that was just Formula One driver Oscar Piastri, right girl? You definitely know who he is."

"Oh of course," I laughed, speaking at a normal volume. "But he doesn't know that I know that," I replied.

"Oh good God, this might end horribly, or become an extremely funny story that one tells at family dinner," my coworker said.

"Do you think the next time he comes he will sign my Oscar Piastri poster hanging in the janitorial closet?" I jokingly asked.

"Y/N!!!" my coworker scolded.

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oscarpiastri

liked by yourbff1, user1 and 303,199 others

oscarpiastri: special treat, special day

view comments:

user1: i hate this cryptic ass caption-

user1: OSCAR WHAT DOES IT MEAN

user2: alright we get it oscar, you had some good food and your big backedness made you have a good day

user3: wait... this pastry shop looks so good i might check it out

user4: oscar giving a bakery a free shoutout, absolutely unheard of

user5: the bakery is called L'Orchidée Bakery, and they are based in monaco! hope this helps 🧁💗

liked by oscarpiastri

user6: wait imagine if oscar's sneaky link worked there, that would be hella funny

user7: ainnoway that man pulls 🧍��

user8: honestly, you never know 😭

landonorris: we get it, you would not stop yapping about your amazing strawberry chocolate croissant this morning

landonorris: and how amazing, stunning, and beautiful that one girl was-

logansargeant: you forgot to mention that he was practically drooling everytime he spoke of her

landonorris: and he didn't even get her name 😝🫵🏻

logansargeant: what an absolute LOSER 💀

oscarpiastri: DELETE THIS.

oscarpiastri: DELETE THIS NOW.

oscarpiastri: i am not a loser. i very much win in life.

oscarpiastri: PLEASE DELETE THIS.

this comment thread has been deleted

user9: SKSKKSKSREJAJA did you guys see the deleted comment thread omg

user10: that is not real omg, oscar rizzing finally??!

user7: @/user6 i'm so sorry you were so right 😭😭

user6: i just know he pulls hella bitches

user6: you guys are just unfamiliar with his game (awkward white boy rizz)

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff1 and 101 others

yourusername: la dolce vita (he bought me books and flowers, and baked for me)

view comments

yourbff1: yada yada yada, no need to rub it in you bagged your longtime bae

user1: WAIT THATS HER NEW BOYFIE??

yourbff2: what in the soft launch, CALL ME NOW-

yourbff2: PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE

oscarpiastri: no can do cuz 🥳😝📢

oscarpiastri: i fear she's cuddling with her man right now

yourbff2: YOU STOLE MY GIRL, you GIRL STEALER 🫵🏿

yourbff1: out of context that sounds so, so wrong 💀

user2: babe, your new boyfie is oscar mf piastri. 🧍🏻‍♀️

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri: so sad that you lied to me when we first met

oscarpiastri: heart❤️ been broke💔🤕 so many times⏰ i don’t know❌🤷‍♀️ what to believe 🍃🙏 yeah👍 mama🤰say it’s my👧😣fault🥺😢 my fault😭😞 i wear my heart💝 on my sleeve👕

yourusername: SO SO SO SORRY BABE XX

user3: she's just a girl, oscar 🙄

oscarpiastri: i hope the date was amazing, you cutie patootie

yourusername: of course it was, my hubby bubby

oscarpiastri: ugh, my teddy bear honey bee is so cute in this

yourusername: you're definitely cuter sugar plum baby bear

yourbff1: YOU DIGUST ME

yourbff1: GET TS OUT OF THE COMMENT SECTION

user4: ^^ and INTO the bedroom

liked by oscarpiastri

yourbff2: @/user4 @/oscarpiastri aw HELL NO ❌❌👈🏿

yourbff2: she is my ROOMATE and the walls are THIN 🧍🏿‍♀️

oscarpiastri

liked by yourusername, yourbff1 and 487,120 others

oscarpiastri: i just got wined and dined

view comments:

user1: two posts of the same bakery in a row?! yeah, somethings up

user2: the jig is up oscar! reveal your girlfriend

landonorris: ohhh, so that's why you were gone for dinner

logansargaent: L to you, because i knew where he was the whole time

landonorris: not fair @/oscarpiastri, not fair 📢📢

charles_leclerc: who is this lovely woman oscar?

charles_leclerc: hello?? do not ignore me

user3: LMFAO oscar ANSWER UR FATHER

charles_leclerc: it says that you are active on instagram, i see you

charles_leclerc: i just want to know who my son's girlfriend is

user4: girlfriend?!?!? what have i missed omg, i just left insta for a week

user5: oscar's soft launch era 💀 LMAO, we think he's dating a girl who works at a bakery

user5: he thinks he is being sneaky and subtle but he's really NOT.

user6: wait guys i think i found her @, its yourusername i think

user7: wait it totally is, in one of her posts, she's wearing that exact same white shirt

user8: and the bakery looks EXACTLY the same in both of their posts

user9: SKMSJEOAMSKK SHE'S IN THE LIKES YOU GUYS YOURUSERNAME IS IN THE LIKES

user10: @/yourusername girl stop lurking in the comments i know your reading them 🧐🤨

liked by yourusername

user10: SJEHLSHEILA SEE I TOLD YOU SO

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 28,991 others

yourusername: dinner with a side of formula one pic creds: my boyfie ofc 💗

view comments:

yourusername: chat, i blew up so much omg

yourusername: in my famous era i guess

user1: you mean your WAG era ofc...

liked by oscarpiastri

yourbff1: i'm single, and my fist is ready to mingle in your face

landonorris: so this is the girl, huh, she's pretty

oscarpiastri: HOWDIDYOUFINDHER

oscarpiastri: she's MINE to call pretty btw. 🤬😡💢

landonorris: stole ur phone hehe

yourbff2: rip my ass for having to take all these lovey dovey disgusting pics of them.

yourbff2: DO NOT BREAK HER HEART OSCAH 🍴🍴🍴

yourusername: DO NOT THREATEN HIM PLEASE 😭 (ty for taking these pics omg tysm)

oscarpiastri: I PROMISE I PROMISE TO LOVE MY SUGAR PLUM FAIRY SO VERY MUCH

yourusername: awww, i love you too my honey bear bee

yourbff1: and they're back.

charles_leclerc: omg guys i found her instagram @/logansargeant @/georgerussel63 @/lewishamilton

oscarpiastri: PLEAASEEE NOOOOO

yourusername: what, afraid to show your girlfriend off 🤨🫵🏽

oscarpiastri: whatttt, nooo

georgerussel63: i like you @/yourusername, you make oscar scared

yourusername: awww, thx george <33

oscarpiastri: not funny george

oscarpiastri: are we still ignoring the fact that you lied to me when we first met 🤬🧐

yourusername: are we still ignoring that you ALSO lied to me?!

charles_leclerc: kids, kids, get along please!

oscarpiastri: yes, father

yourusername: yes, father-in-law

yourusername and oscarpiastri

liked by yourbff1, charles_leclerc and 1,220,151 others

yourusername and oscarpiastri: hard launches, only.

comments are disabled

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

author's note: ty guys for reading this fic! 😍🫶🏾

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andhumanslovedstories · 2 days ago

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I am not closely following the election results tonight, but I am occasionally seeing flashes of them out of the corner of my eye. The most obvious sign that things aren’t going well right now is the complete lack of celebrating on my dash. I know what tumblr looks like when it’s happy. Maybe I’ll go to bed tonight and see something different in the morning. I hope to god that is the case. But I’m thinking about the way I’m thinking right now, and I want to get some stuff down before the future kicks in.

In 2016 I was in a period of my life I affectionately refer to as as my fuckup era. I wasn’t even fucking up really. More just chilling out and falling short of the vague expectations I’d had about what I was supposed to be doing after I graduated college. While my friends from college rented apartments in the city and got jobs that didn’t supply you with a uniform shirt, I lived at home and worked as a barista at a fancy movie theater. That’s a real job you can do for almost five years. I didn’t have a clue what the back half of my twenties should look like. The only long term plan I had in my life was moving out west with my best friend, and my plan for finding a job once I was out there was basically to cross my fingers and hope.

Those days weren’t bad on the whole, but it felt like I was not actually living a life so much as I was goofing off in the waiting room. Sometimes that felt embarrassing, sometimes it felt fun, and sometimes it felt like I was completely pointless to the world.

On 2016’s Election Day, I went to bed early. After watching the votes come in, I needed the night to be over. I woke in a world that felt different than it had been the night before—not just in the actuality of who would be president but down to its foundations. I realized for the first time how much hope I’d had in human nature because now I didn’t feel it anymore. It’s almost silly when I think about it—so many horrible things had already happened that year, people had done horrible things as long as there have been people, and I didn’t think I was naive to that—but something clicked into place that morning.

It felt the same way my world had changed a year earlier, in 2015 during my last semester of college. My college victory lap felt like a prolonged downward spiral. Very early in the morning on a Monday, after pulling an all-nighter and overwhelmed by self-loathing that I could not just motivate myself to work on a paper that had been my only thought all weekend, I self-harmed for the first time in a way that was impossible to pretend it was anything else. Earlier that weekend, I’d tried staving off the urges drawing or writing on my arm, something that did (and does) usually work. I’d written this quote in silver sharpie on my forearm: “Good is not a thing you are. It's a thing you do.”

I picked that quote from the Ms. Marvel comics and liked the words so much, I thought that I wouldn’t be willing to purposefully mess it up by hurting myself there. Didn’t work. They just made me feel more ashamed of myself as I did it.

That was the worst I had ever felt. Then, on the Friday of that week, a friend of mine was senselessly, brutally murdered.

It doesn’t feel now like there was ever a time before her death. My memoir class is now where I wrote about her. My favorite professor is now the one who held me as I cried. My final thesis, the culmination of my history degree, never got finished and certainly never got polished. I turned it what I had and got an A minus. Sometimes I think of rereading that paper to see if that’s the grade it actually deserved. We hadn’t been the closest friends, but my name was still on the email admin sent to professors, listing students who might be emotionally affected by this tragic event. Grace’s murder hangs over every memory I have with her and everything she ever touched. It feels like its own type of obliteration to leave her reduced to her death.

Grace wanted to be a lawyer because she believed in justice and also liked arguing. She could be rude when she wasn’t interested in what you were saying. When you caught her attention, you felt like the most fascinating person in the room. She was so proud of being Jewish. I watched her become proud of being gay. She was so universally friendly that it took me a year to realize that she actually liked specifically me. She had a somewhat silly laugh and an astonishingly luminous smile.

I thought less of the world and the people in it because of how she died. Trump’s election in 2016 felt like that.

After he won, I left stasis. From November through December, I thought harder about my future than I ever had before. Who did I want to be? What did I most value? What did I think was worth protecting? What work wouldn’t kill me to do? At one point, in presumably a fit of madness, I thought, “what if I got into politics.” Epiphany eventually hit me. By the time of Trump’s inauguration, I was already enrolled at community college, getting my pre-reqs for nursing school.

Now it’s election night again, eight years later. I live on the west coast with my best friend, in a house that we bought together. I work as a nurse in a hospital in a city where there are homeless encampments off every highway and someone begging for change on every corner. Meanwhile, there’s Palestine. Meanwhile there’s Sudan. Meanwhile refugees drown in the sea and border patrol shoots jugs of water. Even hurricanes have human cruelty now.

I don’t think people are inherently good or the universe inherently kind. But I am very good at tricking myself into thinking it for a little while, and when I do, I can remember the a specific feeling from Friday of my senior year, from that morning in November— how fucking hard the disappointment hit me because I had expected people to be better than this. It makes me want to be better than that.

I believe, and hope that I always will, that we can make a better world. I don’t know what it looks like, but I think I will see it in my lifetime. Those of us who can believe such things owe a bit of that naïveté to the world—not to excuse atrocities or think them impossible but to believe that we can stop them at all. You have to have a couple people sprinkled around who are genuinely shocked when people do bad things. It’s not that the pessimists are wrong, but you need the occasional counterbalance. I want to be a reasonable cynic’s pleasant surprise.

Every shift, I interact with people at their lowest and worst. I see the direct pipeline from pain to anger to violence, and how fragile that pipeline can be. So many situations can be changed by things as small as a warm blanket or a kind word. Violence can be quite easy to avert. Crises can be quite simply to resolve. Even when I know that whatever I do that shift will not change the circumstances of a person’s life, I think that what I do that shift still matters.

I’m lying in bed, writing this post instead of looking at the news. I wonder how tonight will change me. Been thinking about what I’ll do if Trump wins. Been thinking about how whatever I think I need to do under Trump will still need to be done if Harris clutches out a victory. I guess this is a pessimist’s optimism: to a degree the election doesn’t matter. Good is not a thing you are. It is a thing you do. Our better world will always take a lot of work.

But please god please, why can’t it be just a little easier to do it?

#b.#this is about the election and also some past self harm and a murder #nursing tag

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where-does-the-heart-lie · 19 days ago

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Sabo analysis time!!!!

Do you guys ever think about how Sabo didn't visit Dressrosa to see Luffy again? And him meeting up with Luffy was probably his very last option to secure the fruit, otherwise he would probably avoid it? Cuz i do…

Let me elaborate.

So here's what we know from the source material:

We know Sabo and the other revolutionaries were there since the early morning since Hack was already inside the coliseum for RevArmy snooping reasons.

The prize of the Tournament was revealed after the Revs were already there.

Sabo/Koala were not in contact with Robin to know if the straw hats were anywhere near Dressrosa as seen by Koala saying "I hear Robin-san’s here in this country, too."

Sabo confronted Luffy about getting the Mera-Mera No Mi only after Hack lost during Block B and Luffy got out of his own block.

I had always assumed that Sabo showed up to Dressrosa for the Mera-Mera No Mi and meeting Luffy, but that really isn't the case. Idk why it took me so long to figure that out, it’s literally shown in the Episode of Sabo (EOS) explicitly. Although, the EOS isn't exactly source material. I cant find anywhere stating whether its canon or not, but I cant find anything that would have it conflict with the original plot so i see no reason why it wouldn’t be. All that evidence from before is canon though so even without the EOS, this claim still holds water.

Speaking more of the evidence we have from of the episode of Sabo, we see him snooping around the Colosseum during the tournament, we see the moment he realizes that Luffy is participating in the event, and we see the moment he realizes that Luffy cant participate any further.

Like look at him here. He looks absolutely unprepared for what he knows he has to do. And after this in the scene right before he starts talking with Luffy, he’s like literally walking to him as slowly as he possibly can. Taking pauses in his stride to probably think about how much of a bad idea this is.

Plus, at the beginning of the episode when he’s visiting Ace’s grave, he says “I guess both you and Luffy are both mad at me.”

Sabo has had so many opportunities to meet up with Luffy before he actually does, both in Dressrosa and since he regains his memory. But he doesnt. Because he cant. Because he’s terrified of being met with scorn, anger, or even violence from his beloved little brother.

Finally, we see him plucking up the courage to walk over to luffy. All surroundings are silent besides the loud footsteps coming from his approach echoing in the hallway.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

Then he stops.

Its dead quiet.

Sabo has been pretty much deadpan this entire time, but he then smiles before he says

“I wont let you have the Mera Mera No Mi, ‘Straw hat’ Luffy.”

This is a fairly serious thing that he’s saying to this man in a fake beard and outrageous helmet, and he’s terrified of this meeting with his brother, but he cant help but smile when he’s talking with him.

The conversation that continues is very confrontational, but suddenly something clicks in Luffy’s mind. His body relaxes from it’s tense posture, he starts to tear up, his speech slows,

Then he starts to scream with recognition.

That’s his big brother.

He’s alive…

He’s Alive!!!

He’s here! Right here! Right where he should be!

Alive. Living. Free!

Luffy GRABS Sabo’s face and propels himself towards him. Suffocating and probably giving his brother whiplash in that second within that assault-hug.

All of a sudden, Sabo’s fears of scorn, anger and violence all wash away.

Luffy loves him.

They have each other now.

And now, Sabo is on his way to get that god damn fruit.

Sabo absolutely didn’t think he was ready for this re-connection, but he’s so glad he went through with it.

He has his brother back, his other brother’s powers, and the bragging rights of being able to flaunt both.

This is what I'm sayin with the "seems like fire favors these brothers" post I made. The fact that both the mera mera no mi and Luffy and Sabo were all in the same place to come together at once is a crazy coincidence. How many coincidences does it take, for a happenstance to be Fate? Probably that amount.

In conclusion:

Get this man a therapist. Please.

Heres another sabo analysis if you wanna hear more

Thank you for reading my ramblings about a fictional man. I think about him a completely average amount.

#this has been in my drafts for a while so i cleaned it up and added pictures n junk #whery thoughts #one piece #sabo #monkey d. luffy #asl brothers #one piece fan art #portgas d. ace #sabo the revolutionary #long post

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peachdues · 2 months ago

Text

COMPASS / CHAPTER 2

bad boy!Sanemi ♢ modern gang AU

A/N: oh boy oh boy! It only took me four months to write this, and I still had to split it in half.

This is a very Sanemi-focused chapter. Enjoy seeing some other characters and everyone's favorite little brother. Smut enjoyers have no fear, there are plenty of references to sex this chapter, and the next installment will be fucking filthy. For now, enjoy pining bitch boy Sanemi, some humor, and a whole lot of self-hatred.

CW: 17k. MDNI. Morning-after awkwardness. Humor. Gang-related violence. Brief description of bones being broken. Gun violence. Masturbation. Somewhat explicit references to sex that occurred in the previous chapter. Mentions of blood. Angst.

chapter one // masterlist

Sanemi doesn’t remember ever having woken up as peacefully as he does that next morning, with you in his arms. His hands are resting against the curve of your spine, his fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin even well before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

You’ve remained tangled up with him throughout the night, your legs intertwined and you, laid out against his torso. A small smear of your drool has dried on his skin, right beneath where your cheek is mashed between his pectorals where you snore softly.

If he could, he’d stay like this forever; warm and wrapped up in blankets that smell distinctly of you while you remain asleep on his chest. No outside world to speak of, no debts to collect or bones to smash. Nothing beyond the parameters of your bed, and the way your body fits so perfectly against his.

Sanemi is acutely aware of your mutual nudity. The luxurious feel of your bare skin pressed to his ushers in a flurry of images from the night before, each snap shot flashing through his mind, a montage of naked limbs and breathless moans.

He’d fucked you — though some small voice in his head quips that he’d done something more than just fucking, but he resolves to ignore that for now. Worse (was it?), he’d done it without using protection — and he came in you.

Whatever rule book he’d played by before, it no longer mattered. It’s been thoroughly shredded, cast aside along with every last fragment of common sense he’d had, its remnants strewn somewhere among his clothes where they lay discarded on your floor. He should feel horror; should feel guilt and shame for being so fucking reckless with you despite having committed to doing everything in his power to be more careful with you than he is with himself, and yet, Sanemi cannot seem to find a morsel of regret.

Instead, all he can feel is bliss. He can focus on nothing more than how warm you are, how your soft breasts are squished against his abdomen. How sweet your hair smells, how silky your skin is beneath his greedy fingertips. How badly he wants you again; selfishly. Completely.

And despite knowing he’s in the wrong, Sanemi can’t help but be struck at how right this feels. So right, in fact, that his body is quickly coming to life the longer he spends beneath you, his blood hot and full of need.

He shifts under you, gnashing his teeth together as your lower belly rubs right against his groin. His morning wood is almost painful, and he half contemplates waking you up to see if you’re willing to go for a second round, but he refrains. While it wouldn’t be out of the realm of reasonability for him to ask for more, given the events of the last twelve hours, he knows it wouldn’t be smart.

More importantly, Sanemi doesn’t want you thinking he feels entitled to your body — or your affection — now that he’s had a taste of both, no matter how addicted to you he is.

Gently, he untangles himself from you and lays you back against your pillows. Once he ensures the blankets are pulled up over you, he peels off the bed to search for his pants. He finds them a few feet away and tugs them on, though he leaves his belt unfastened. He forsakes his shirt, too, at least until you wake up, not wanting you to feel overexposed in your nudity while he’s fully dressed.

Sanemi quietly pads into your kitchen and begins fumbling around for your coffee machine. He pulls two mugs from your cabinet and finds your stash of coffee beans shoved on a random shelf, and he sets to work, doing his best to keep as quiet as he can.

He hears you stirring from the kitchen right as your mug of coffee finishes brewing.

He lingers in the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey.”

You sit up in your bed, clutching the blankets to your chest. His heart throbs. You’re beautiful like this, unfairly so, despite having just woken up. Your hair is a little messy, but your eyes are bright, and your bare skin glows softly in the morning light streaming through your windows.

“Hi,” you say shyly, eyes tracking him as he crosses the room, mug in hand. You gratefully accept the coffee he hands you, but you keep one hand fisted around your blanket, holding it tightly to your chest.

He grimaces. Even though Sanemi has now seen every inch of your body, you seem committed to shielding as much of it as possible from him.

Whether it’s out of insecurity or morning-after regret, he can’t say.

“I wanted to wait ‘til you got up before I left. Didn’t want you to think I just dipped.” Sanemi runs an awkward hand through his hair. “But now that you’re up, I can run down the street. Grab ya the morning after pill.”

At your questioning look, his cheeks redden. “Since — y’know —“

He gestures lamely at you, as though that somehow is enough of an explanation. But it’s apparently successful, because your eyes blow wide with understanding, a twin blush creeping up your neck.

“I don’t need it.” You squeak, ducking your head, your fingers tightening around your blanket.

Sanemi blinks. Great, he groans internally. He knew you were a virgin, but he’d assumed you knew the risks associated with fucking raw.

“Yeah, you do,” he corrects, and his stomach flips as the memory of last night — of how tightly you’d gripped him as he came, of your soft moan as you’d felt the first spurt of his cum fill you — flashes through his mind. “We didn’t use protection, and I assume you know how babies are made —“

“I don’t need it.”

Your insistence sets off alarm bells in his head. Maybe he should’ve explained to you his stance on children before he came in you, but he’ll be damned if he lets you baby trap him now.

No matter how in love with you he is.

“Yes, you do. I’m not lettin’ you get pregnant —“ he starts hotly, his temperament shifting into something dangerous.

With a huff, you reach over to your nightstand and yank on a drawer. You root around inside it for a moment before pulling free a small card lined with neat rows of pills.

You wave it at him, sarcastic. “No, I don’t, dumbass.” And you busy yourself with popping one of the pills free to swallow. “I’ve been on birth control since high school.”

Sanemi blinks. “But you’d never —“

You toss your pills back into your drawer with a groan. “You don’t need to be sexually active to be on birth control, Sanemi. It has other uses.” You chew on your lip as you stare down at the mug balanced between your legs. “My periods are horrible. It helps me manage them.”

He stares at your bedside table for a long moment, feeling decidedly stupid.

“I can still take it if it’ll make you feel better,” you offer. “But I’ve been consistent with taking my birth control for years.”

“Nah,” he clears his throat. “If you think the pill is enough, then that’s fine by me.”

Silence, tense and stiflingly awkward settles between you once more, and Sanemi feels damn near ready to jump out of his skin.

“Feel okay?” He asks after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blush again. “I think so,” you pause and stretch, testing your limbs, though you manage to keep that blanket locked tight against your chest. “Maybe a little sore, but I guess that’s normal, right?”

“Yeah,” and to his embarrassment, Sanemi finds himself needing to clear his throat again to cover up the way his voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Sanemi blinks. “Well — yeah.” It’s not a lie. Physically, he feels phenomenal. How he feels internally, however, is a whole separate matter, and it’s not one he’s particularly keen on exploring at the moment.

Absently, you tap your thumbs against the ceramic lip of your coffee mug. “So —,”

“—So,” he starts, but he falters just as you do, the two of you looking quickly away from one another in mutual embarrassment.

This would be far easier if you were just another hookup. He would’ve already left, would already be on another job, riding his post-sex high for the remainder of the day. He wouldn’t feel as he is now, full of doubt and oily shame for having to leave you now, naked and vulnerable as you are.

“I should go,” he finally offers after another unbearably awkward moment. The phone in his pocket is a burning weight he cannot ignore, one that’s started buzzing with an incessant demand that he answer; that he collect.

You nod, your gaze almost reproachful as you watch him retrieve the gun he’d laid on your kitchen table the night before and tuck it into his waistband.

“Will I hear from you?” Your voice is soft, almost imperceptibly so.

The guilt in Sanemi’s knotted stomach turns sour. He shouldn’t be surprised — he can’t be, really. Not when he knows you’ve heard the rumors of how he acts with other bed partners.

Still, your quiet, resigned assumption that he might treat you the same way — that he was satisfied with using your body and would now would fuck off and do whatever — stings.

“‘Course you will.” And he means it — and not just because he knows he said a lot of things last night while between your legs and damn near delirious with pleasure. He told you things he’d meant; things he doesn’t want you chalking up to passionate outbursts brought on by the heat of the moment.

But he also said things that probably mean he’s fucked himself over, and now, he needs to figure out what he’s going to do about it.

Sanemi fishes his shirt from its discarded place on your floor and tugs it over his head. He can feel your eyes tracking his every movement, and he feels near ready to burst into flames as he crosses the studio to your bed.

He stoops down to press one, soft kiss to your forehead. “‘Til next time.”

You don’t respond; you only remain there, sitting still in your bed, your sheets clutched to your chest. The scent of your hair ushers a flood of memories from only a few hours earlier, and the way they blur together make his head hurt and his heart ache.

Mine. He’d said to you, just before you shattered so prettily against your sheets as he fucked you. You’re fuckin’ mine.

Yeah, he thinks as he closes the door of your apartment behind him. Yeah, he’s fucked.

—

When he was a boy, Sanemi always imagined what it would be like to fly.

Life in the Silo was suffocating and he’d often found himself turning his face up toward the sky, savoring the wind as it rustled his hair and carried leaves off into horizons he would never see. He envied the pigeons that always clustered near the overfilled trash cans spilling out onto the streets, pecking at molded scraps of food because they could take off at any moment. One loud noise, one obnoxious asshole barreling through them, and they could launch right into the sky, their wings beating as they rode the breeze to seek out safer sidewalks.

He’d never join them; he knew that. But on his bike, Sanemi feels like the wind itself, and he supposes it’s the closest he’ll ever be to flying free.

He finds his bike where he always parks it – in a back alley behind your apartment, tucked behind a dumpster far out of sight. Straddled upon it, his helmet secure, he keys the ignition and it roars to life beneath him, its engine a steady rumble that echoes off the pavement. The moment he releases the clutch, he is soaring. He drives, the wind whipping at his clothes, his knuckles, until it sings in his blood and he feels weightless.

He tears down streets, darts between honking cars slowed on the freeway as he makes his calls, collects the Corps’ dues. And in those moments when he zips and speeds through throngs of traffic, sometimes narrowly avoiding clipping a side mirror or two, he can almost forget the magnitude of his royal fuck up with you.

Almost.

—

It’s nearly midnight when his bike gutters to a stop in front of the dingy shoebox he calls home. Not that this mildewed apartment complex has ever been anything close to such a thing, but it’s one of the few things in his life Sanemi can call his own.

No matter how shitty it is.

Deep down, he knows the closest thing to home is back at your apartment, likely wondering when the fuck he’ll shoot you a text. Not even he knows the answer to that; all he knows is that he hasn’t spoken to you since shutting your door behind him this morning, and he has no idea how to start if he did.

So, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t text you even as he strips himself of his clothes, readying for his shower. Nor does he so much as glance at his phone when he catches the whiff of you on his body as he kicks off his pants and underwear, the faint, lingering scent of your pleasure redirecting his blood flow straight to his cock.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to reach out — he does, very much so. He’s wanted to talk to you the moment your apartment building faded from view, his fingers itching to reach for the phone buried in his pocket and send you something, anything, so you might know that he has no intention of treating you like any of the others. Even if he ultimately decides that he can go no further with you, that last night can only be a one-time indulgence, he will give you the courtesy of telling you as much. It was the least you deserved.

Sanemi tries his best to keep thoughts of you and this wonderfully fucked situation at bay, focusing entirely on the way the water burns his skin, a thousand needles of flame licking at his face, his scalp, his back. He scrubs hard at his hair first, then his face. He leaves washing his body for last, unwilling to soap over whatever invisible marks still linger upon his skin, left behind by your hands and lips. Only when he cannot possibly procrastinate the task any longer does he pump a generous amount of soap into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it turns frothy and thick.

As he washes himself, Sanemi manages to avoid thinking of the way you touched him the night before, soft and tentative and yet passionate. He thinks he might just make it through without his mind wandering too far away, but then his fingers brush over the odd, raised lines of the mark branded between his shoulder blades. A sudden thread of images from the night before unspools in his mind: your hands, dropping from his hair down his back, resting over the ugly scar seared into his skin. Your nails, raking along his spine as you gasped his name. The flutter of your hands against his abdomen, exploring him; how they gripped his backside and pulled him hard into you.

An arm braces against the cold, sud-scummed tile of his shower and Sanemi’s forehead follows. Even the hot beat of the water can’t un-work the tension in his muscles, the way his body now demands to be reunited with you. He is powerless against this onslaught of memory; the flashes of you tangled up so perfectly with him; the scent of your hair. Your voice, God, your voice, sighing and moaning in his ear until he could focus on nothing but how to make you cry out louder, call his name –

With a frustrated grunt, Sanemi takes his stiffened cock in his hand and he works his frustration – and longing – out under the roaring spray of the shower until his spend washes with the soap bubbles down the drain.

—

Showered and dressed in nothing but his underwear, Sanemi paces his apartment.

It’s not that he regrets doing what he did with you – he doesn’t, not by any means. And that’s exactly what makes him so selfish.

Deep down, he’d wanted to be the one to do it – taking your virginity. For whatever reason, the universe decided to give him you, had brought you back into his life after years of him not sparing you so much as a passing thought. And he’d been weak, unable to stick to the code he’d sworn his blood, his body, to upholding. He’d broken it at the first opportunity, all but jumped at the chance of human connection after years of being starved for it, only to find that the first person he latched onto was also the one person who ever actually saw him; saw past the mask forged out of cruel rumors and his own blood-stained hands.

He should’ve known the moment you expressed anything more than mild interest in him that he was in danger. His impulses scream that he should run before the fallout of last night can catch up to him. To you.

Running is a temptation more dangerous than any of the heists or debt collections he’d ever carried out, even the one that left his face half-ripped open and bleeding. Dangerous not just by the amount of consideration he gives the idea of leaving the Corps and this rotting city behind, but dangerous because if he runs, he’s taking you with him. And that means exposing you not just to his enemies, but to all the consequences dealt to those who dare try and leave the Corps.

Sanemi paces and paces until he finally wears a tread into his shabby bedroom and collapses on his bed. He recites to himself the tenets of the Corps that he’d abandoned – namely, the rule for not getting attached – before a crude voice in his head sternly reminds him of the most important rule of all. The one even he doesn’t know if he can bend, let alone break.

Number one: once you’re in, you’re in.

No one leaves the Corps unless it’s in a body bag or because a higher-up forces your retirement, and the latter is usually reserved for those who survive bullets meant to kill. Those who will never be the same, if they even made it out of the hospital at all.

There is no room for deserters, and none are tolerated. Whispers of plots to abandon the Corps were sniffed out and reported, the conspirators dealt with severely. They usually fell back in line once the reminder of the fate that awaited them should they try was thoroughly beaten into them – usually by one of the Hashira (including him). And Sanemi has shattered his fair share of the bones of those starry-eyed juniors stupid enough to think they were the exception.

In any event, leaving itself was only half the battle. Evading capture was a whole separate beast. The Corps didn’t take well to losing its investments, so their recovery was entrusted only to one person: the most senior of the Hashira.

A man Sanemi only knew by surname and his massive, hulking size, reserved primarily for guarding the Boss and his family.

Himejima’s success rate in tracking down and dealing with deserters is perfect. The few who’d tried since Sanemi’s own initiation had managed on their own a few days at most before they were caught.

Bitterly, Sanemi supposes their wishes were granted, in a way. They did get out – but in a body bag, a bullet-shaped hole between their eyes.

Without fail, photos of their lifeless faces – blood soaked, portions of their skulls missing – were circulated through the Corps’ networks, popping up on phones from unknown numbers.

A warning. A reminder.

It is not just a risk – it is a guarantee, a nuclear bomb designed to snuff out any hope that other Corps members might follow in place. And even if he could try, Sanemi does not know how to ensure you won’t be caught in the blast zone. No Hashira has ever tried to escape, but he can imagine if any of them dared, they’d be made a bigger example out of than some rank-and-file Corps member. There is a mythos surrounding the Hashira even among the junior ranks, a sort of air that they carry. In his own days as a junior, he’d heard whispers comparing his now-equals to gods, because really, what else could not just survive, but prosper in a place that claims far more lives than it produces?

That very mystique is why he can almost guarantee his defection would be met with a retaliation proportionate to the level of his betrayal. There would be no quick end for him; it would be brutal and drawn-out, his death a kindness they would make him beg for.

No one leaves hell in one piece and Sanemi is no exception. He knows better than to think – than to wish – for different. The Corps will swallow him whole, suck the marrow from his bones and turn him to dust before that happens.

But as the memory of your skin beneath his fingertips and your lips moving with his beckons him to sleep, he’d be damned if he said the idea of trying wasn’t tempting as hell.

—

The days mount alongside Sanemi’s self-loathing until almost a week has passed without so much as a word from you – or him, for that matter.

It’s likely you’re only parroting his own radio silence, giving him space he’s made you think he needs. But the lack of your name above any notifications on his phone grates at him.

It’s hypocritical of him to be bothered at all, given that he could just as easily pick up his phone and shoot you a text or give you a call. He knows that. But he sulks all the same.

He sulks and sulks, his mood souring with every passing minute until not even his fellow Hashira risk triggering his bitchy attitude. Just when he thinks he might cave, might actually pick up his damn phone and put an end to the nonsense he’s created, Uzui dings him with a job, and all thoughts of you come to a grinding halt.

The job itself seemed straightforward enough: go to a pawn shop and collect on a payment owed by its broker. When the orders initially came through on his phone (always an unknown number, never the same one), Sanemi at first, was confused. He’s used to being called upon to help other Hashira on their jobs; used to being the extra muscle, the extra layer of intimidation needed to ensure promises were made good on. He looks terrifying; Sanemi knows this. His scars are just another weapon for the Corps to use, and it is not wasteful. Deals tended to go smoother, debts were paid, when they shook hands under the eye of the Corps’ boogeyman; the monster who’d come knocking should they forget their obligations.

Customers don’t know how to see past his scars. Not like you do, anyway.

But the job Uzui has sent him on isn’t like the others; for one, the obnoxious peacock isn’t accompanying him. Nor is the pawnshop broker in default yet on his payments, and the amount Sanemi’s been tasked with collecting isn’t particularly large. More perplexing, the instructions sent from the anonymous number were specific to direct him to pick up a burner car from Rengoku’s garage, an unusual command that made him click his tongue in annoyance. Sanemi doesn’t do cars.

It’s not his place to question orders, however, so he doesn’t. He merely picks up the piece of shit car from its designated spot and tries not to put his fist through the dash when he struggles to figure out how to drive the stupid thing. As it stands, Rengoku currently owes him a favor, and he’d rather not waste it by having him forgive damage Sanemi does to his inventory.

The ramshackle store he’s been forced to pay a visit to teeters right on the edge of the Western Wing — Kizuki territory.

Confusion gives way to suspicion the moment he steps inside the pawn shop. Throughout his gruff conversation with Uzui’s client, Sanemi is unable to shake the prickle at the back of his neck that only ever came from being watched.

Survival, as he’d learned, was in the details. It was about noticing the gaps between the counters, the foggy reflections in the display cases. He’s survived this long because he knew when a silent door had opened, could feel the slight shift in the air as it warmed a couple of degrees even when his back was turned.

It is these very observations, this very compulsion to be hyper vigilant every hour, every second of his life, that has Sanemi’s hand flying to the gun tucked into his hip the moment he sees the shadows in the glass ripple.

It’s drawn and cocked, his finger ready to jump the trigger without a moment of hesitation, but no one ever comes inside. If the pawnbroker is taken aback, he doesn’t show it, and tensely, Sanemi reholsters his gun, though he keeps an eye trained on the front door.

The moment he exits the pawn shop, Sanemi knows he’s being followed.

It starts with a pair of headlights that flash in his mirror. Though evening is rapidly approaching, it is still far too light outside for the lights to be necessary, and Sanemi isn’t stupid enough to think they’re trying to signal that something is wrong with the burner car, piece of shit though it is. Helpful drivers don’t lay on their horns and whoop taunts out their windows.

His suspicion is confirmed when a second car jerks over into the opposite lane and rides even next to the one tailing Sanemi. It lingers for a moment, keeping pace with the other car before it falls back behind it.

Well, he knows that move; they were talking. Plotting.

That’s when all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the job clicks into place. Small job though it was, Sanemi knows anyone ranked lower than him would’ve already been sporting a bullet hole in their head.

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised by the tail, and it’s even less of an oddity that he’d been instructed to take a car to pick up rather than his bike. Uzui had known he’d need the cover.

They keep their distance while Sanemi weighs his options. He could try and lose them, but Sanemi is far better at ditching tails when he’s on his bike. This body hunk of metal on the other hand is foreign, its dimensions unfamiliar. Survival meant taking risks only when there were no other options, and he’s not there. Not yet.

There’s a sharp pop and the glass on his side mirror shatters.

“Fuck.” His low growl slides out through clenched teeth. Sanemi throws his body down, willing the high back of his seat to give him the cover he needs.

It was a warning shot; the chase is up and now, the cats are ready to catch their prey.

The tires squeal over the pavement as he wrenches the steering wheel sharply to the left, gunning down a side alley nestled between the high rises of the business district. He’s too landlocked in civilian territory to risk anything more; he’ll have to try and lose them.

Good thing Sanemi knows these streets like the back of his hand. He can only pray his tails aren’t as wise.

They know he’s affiliated with the Corps but not who he is; if they had, there would be no play, no production. These are lower-ranked Kizuki members — pathetically named Demons — who think they’ve caught themselves a fun little Corps member to toy with.

Sanemi lays his foot out on the gas. He’s no fucking mouse, and he’ll be damned if he end up in their trap.

His eyes flick to the rear view mirror. All he can see are the two sets of blinding headlines rapidly gaining behind him.

He slams down on the accelerator as far as it will go, yanking the steering far to the right. The car Uzui had given him may look like a piece of shit, but right now, it’s his best shot at getting out of this in one piece. So far, Sanemi’s lifeline is holding fast, the tires squealing only slightly as he veers sharply off the freeway and flies down First Street.

Somewhere over the cantankerous hum of the engine, his phone rings.

“What.”

“Looks like you’ve got a demon on your tail, Shinazugawa.” A familiar voice intones through his speaker.

Sanemi smirks into the phone. “Two. You offerin’ to help, Uzui?”

There’s a crackly laugh on the other end. “Go south three blocks and take the first right. Gun through the light and then get down. It’s a straight road.”

Sanemi’s mouth thins. Three blocks south is Market Street, dangerously close to Center City — a hotbed of civilian activity, especially on a summer night like this.

“No innocents,” he warns. “We ain’t them.” The implication is clear: we only kill the bad guys.

A banal moral line, but they’ve got to draw one in the sand somewhere.

“Just focus on getting back to base without a bullet in your skull,” Uzui dismisses, but his tone loses that playful edge as it always does when he means business. “We’re stretched thin enough as it is.”

“I’m in this shit because of you.”

“And I’m the one getting you out of it.” Uzui finishes smoothly. “Be grateful I was tracking your ass.”

Sanemi doesn’t know if he likes the idea of having his movements scrutinized but he can’t worry about that right now. He clicks his phone off and tosses it to the side, not caring whether it lands on the passenger seat.

Right now, he needs to get the fuck out of here.

A deft twist of the steering wheel enables him to narrowly avoid smashing into a minivan that tries to ease into the intersection Sanemi guns through.

If he’d been hoping the pedestrian van might slow down his pursuers, he is bitterly disappointed. They pull the same stunt, the poor driver of the van laying on his horn that no one pays any heed toward.

He shakes it off; doesn’t matter. He just needs to drive.

An unfamiliar beep sounds, further fraying his nerves. His eyes find the gas on the dashboard, and Sanemi unleashes a new string of vicious swears as he realizes the low light is dinging its warning. Leave it to fucking Uzui to stick him not just with a piece of shit, but a piece of shit with a low gas tank.

Fuck, he hates driving cars. His bike allowed him to be far nimbler, to soar away from enemies as fast as the wind could take him. But his bike is back at the garage, so for now, he’s stuck with this lumbering hunk of rusted metal.

If by some miracle, it does its damn job and keeps him from having to make another unexplained trip to Tamayo to get a bullet fished out of his flesh, Sanemi swears he’ll never shit talk a car again.

Another sharp crack of gunfire rips through the evening air, and Sanemi grinds his teeth at the sound of his tail light shattering. They’re getting bold; Uzui’s assistance will mean jack shit if he doesn’t get to Market soon.

He whizzes by the signposts marking Central Avenue and Main; one more block to go.

Behind him, an engine revs and Sanemi doesn’t have to look in his rearview mirror to know the tail is nearly at his bumper. He shifts forward in his seat, ruching his shoulders up as he guns harder for Market, the demarcating stoplight growing closer, closer –

The light turns red but he does not slow; he sails through the intersection, jerking the car sharply to the right. The tires squeal and groan beneath him but the vehicle does not give. Turn cleared and hands glued firmly to the steering wheel, Sanemi throws himself to the side, ducking down below the dash.

A half second later and the telltale spray of bullets nearly shatters his eardrums.

Adrenaline vibrates in his veins, forces his foot down harder on the accelerator. He doesn’t dare breathe, and doesn’t think he could try even if he wanted to; the air is lodged in his throat, a bubble threatening to choke him. Though his ears ring, it is not enough to drown out the screeching of tires against pavement, nor does it muffle the sudden, sickening crunch of metal as the car tailing him veers off the road and slams into something hard. Half a heartbeat later, the other car meets the same fate.

The gunfire ceases for a moment and only the eerie echo of a horn lingers in the air, growing more distant with each inch he gains.

Sanemi counts the seconds. One, two –

Three gunshots fire in rapid succession, now much more muted than that first initial barrage. Only when they fade does Sanemi chance pushing himself up, allowing himself to return to his normal position the driver’s seat, the car’s speedometer hovering somewhere near eighty. Somewhere in the distance, Sanemi hears the familiar wail of police sirens, no doubt already speeding for the chaotic scene that just unfurled behind him. Swearing, he eases his frantic hurtle down Market Street, falling in line behind a string of traffic flooding out of a nearby baseball stadium, its attendees blissfully unaware of the violence that nearly followed him into their midst.

Three shots; three bodies between the cars behind him, now splattered across the interiors. Those final bullets were more a formality than anything; Sanemi suspects most if not all the car’s inhabitants had been killed in the initial blitz, but being in the Corps means being thorough. There are no survivors among enemies.

His phone bleats its shrill ring and Sanemi’s hand shakes as he lifts it to his ear.

“Clear.”

Uzui hangs up and Sanemi finally exhales.

—

He coasts back to base on fumes, but manages to sneak into a garage fashioned out of a converted warehouse, one made to store stolen vehicles like the one now guttering under the steering of his sweaty palms.

The car screeches to a stop the moment he guides it into the safe shadows of the garage, the door quickly lowered behind him by a greasy-haired Corps member whose name Sanemi can’t be fucked to remember. Fighting to quell the faint tremor lingering in his hands, Sanemi pitches himself out of the driver’s side of the car and throws the keys at the kid, kicking the door shut behind him.

Fuck, he hates when he’s rattled.

He swallows his anxiety, forces it back into whatever bottle it slipped free from as he crosses the alley toward the faintly glowing purple neon sign that marks his target location.

The Wisteria Tree is a deceptively whimsical name for the grungy den of iniquity that serves as Uzui’s homebase. The club is one of three located in the Silo and one of many that are operated throughout the city, each location ranging from cheap strip joints to upscale nightclubs, making Uzui the biggest money-maker among the Hashira. Sanemi supposes that makes sense; as long as humans have lived, there’s been a market for selling bodies.

At least Uzui takes care of his workers – pays them well, makes sure they’ve got the healthcare they need. He kept their bellies fed, and made sure Sanemi was on speed dial to take care of any customers who forgot that their dollars didn’t entitle them to rough up the merchandise.

Whores, some might call those who danced atop the sticky, sleek bars inside Uzui’s joints. Not Sanemi. Long ago, his mother had worked the streets of the Silo, trading her feeble body for spare change that she devoted to the baby boy her bastard husband had saddled her with. Sanemi’s birth had weakened her already fragile health; Genya’s arrival a few years later was the nail in her coffin, their mother being found dead on a sidestreet not three months after he’d been born, half-dressed and a crumpled twenty-dollar note in her hand.

Perhaps if she’d been employed by someone like Uzui, she would’ve lived. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t, and Sanemi had long-since learned that if he let himself mourn every life stamped out by the Silo, he’d never stop. Surviving meant letting bygones be bygones, so Sanemi locked away his sadness for his mother in the space between his ribs, right alongside his love for Genya and you.

And no matter; Uzui’s whores are all fiercely loyal to him and serve as the Corps’ best source of information in the City. People have a tendency to forget to watch their tongues when they believe themselves to be surrounded by nothing more than stupid whores.

Time and time again, that was their mistake.

It is dark inside The Wisteria House. The only light comes from clusters of strobing lights with colors that pulse and change in time with the beat thundering over the speakers, so loud that Sanemi can scarcely hear himself think. Though the night is young, the way the darkness inside the club swallows up any and all trace of the world outside its doors is enough to convince him he’s fallen down a rabbit hole into a land of perpetual midnight. Then again, the club thrives on sensory deprivation, relying on its ability to trick customers into thinking it’s still the wee hours of the morning, when alcohol flows freely and dollars rain from the ceilings to be tucked into the waistbands of non-existent thongs and the linings of jewel-crusted bras.

When people lose track of time, they lose track of their own inhibitions; it’s a smart business tactic on Uzui’s part. Already there are patrons lining the massive bar that sits in the center of the club’s main floor.

Stuffed far in the back behind the bar is a small hallway, nearly hidden from sight. Sanemi shoves his way back, stopping only before the unassuming door leading to the club proprietor’s office to allow the guards standing by to pat him down.

Uzui prefers the company of women to men, and it’s that preference that has Sanemi on edge. While he’s certainly never been shy around handsy women, Sanemi feels wrong allowing them to touch him, though protocol demands it.

Their hands aren’t yours.

The guards in question are two of Uzui’s favorite girls — Suma and Makio, if memory serves him correct. But neither are gentle as they search for wires Sanemi wouldn’t dream of being stupid enough to wear.

Rough hands dip into the pockets of his jacket, his pants, before sliding down his legs. “You wanna check between my ass cheeks, too?” Sanemi snaps irritably. “Or under my balls?”

“If you’re looking for someone to make you bend over, Shinazugawa, then you’ve come to the wrong place. Uzui doesn’t mix business and pleasure.” A gruff voice — Makio’s, he thinks — chuffs back.

He rolls his eyes. “Pleasure is his business.”

Neither woman bothers with an answer.

“Clean.” One confirms to the other. Sanemi does not allow himself to breathe until those hands withdraw from him.

Makio shoves open a door leading into Uzui’s office and waves him through. “Hina’s inside. Don’t linger.”

“Never do,” Sanemi grumbles, and he breezes past the two bodyguards without another word. The door swings shut behind him, muffling the thumping bass and grating dub music crackling through the club’s surrounding speakers.

For all the flashy glitz and seedy glamor of The Wisteria House, Uzui’s office is surprisingly subdued. Like the rest of the club, the small room is dark, but absent are the neon lights pulsating in time with overloud music. Instead, the office is lit by a handful of dimmed lamps and the few computer screens idly displaying the club’s logo.

A large desk stands at the back wall, flanked by one considerably smaller — more a repurposed table than anything. And behind the empty, high-backed leather computer chair neatly pushed in stands a large safe. Its door is an austere slate gray steel, one that gleams even in the muted overhead lights and takes up almost the entire back wall. The stout, wheel-turn lock looks untouched, and it’s just as much a silent brag that no one is stupid enough to fuck with it when they shouldn’t as it is a subtle dare that they try.

But Sanemi knows better.

It’s a decoy; no matter how much Uzui liked to make a spectacle of himself, he isn’t stupid enough to keep cash in such an obvious place. At least, not the type of cash that matters; not the kind Sanemi risked his neck to bring here.

Another notable thing about this hole notched in the back of the club’s sticky walls? How neat everything is. Unlike the rest of The Wisteria House, the floor here isn’t tacky from spilled alcohol and god knows what else. The surfaces of every desk, of every cabinet is free from dust and smudged fingerprints, everything properly in its place and out of sight.

It’s a rather stark contrast to the debauched chaos that plagues the rest of the club. If Sanemi were a betting man, he’d wager a fair amount of cash that the office’s tidiness had less to do with the club’s loudmouth owner, and more to do with the the pair of luminous violet eyes tracking his footsteps across the neatly swept floor.

“I’m glad to see you made it back in one piece, Shinazugawa.”

Sanemi snorts, but gives the woman seated behind the smaller side desk a tight nod. While Uzui may have expressed that sentiment with a hint of the dry sarcasm that he never dropped, Hinatsuru – the third of the silver-haired Hashira’s favored girls – was never anything short of genuine.

If he were honest, the pretty, dark-haired woman reminded him a great deal of his mother. Her face was kind in the same way Shizu’s had been, unhardened by the hollowness of her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. And, just like his mother, she always found the time to spare him a soft smile, one that seemed far too out of place in the dump they’d had the misfortune of being born into.

But where Sanemi would have normally been a bit more subdued around her, the afternoon’s events had left him far too unsettled, and he cannot remember how to blunt his bite.

He only hopes she understands.

Crossing the space between the entryway and Uzui’s great, paper-covered desk, Sanemi pulls the envelope free from the inside of his jacket and dumps its contents over the desk’s surface. “Here’s his fuckin’ money.”

The stacks thump pathetically against the stained wood, and Sanemi feels no compunctions about selecting the one nearest the top and shoving it into his pocket. He doesn’t bother counting out the amount; he knows how Uzui demands to have his cash delivered. Bundles of twenties, a hundred bills per strap.

Sanemi’s brush with the enemy will cost his fellow Hashira two grand.

“Tell him I took my cut. If he’s got an issue with it, then he can go get shot at next time. I’m outta here.”

If Hinatsuru disapproves, she says nothing. “You’re not going to lie low?”

“Fuck that.” Sanemi is already halfway out the door, his beaten leather jacket slung over his shoulder. “I’m goin’ to Kasugai. If you need anything, make it someone else’s problem.”

He’s out the door before she can say goodbye.

—

Kasugai is the nearest dive bar firmly nestled within the Corps’ territory.

While he certainly has his vices (an entire contact list of them, at that), alcohol has never been one of them. But right now, the promise of a stiff drink is calling his name, and since he hasn’t been able to indulge in any of his past dalliances in the months since you became the only thing on his mind and heart, Sanemi is desperate for a distraction.

By no means is it a respectable joint, but Kasugai is full of Silo rats like him, which means it’s the closest thing to a safe house that he has, apart from base. Not that anywhere in this City is safe for someone like him, but Sanemi takes his silver linings when and where he can.

He coasts his bike to the alley behind the dive and kills the engine. The faint scent of oil and grease lingers in the air, signaling it needs to be serviced soon.

Great. He’ll be sure to pencil that in between smashing femurs and pathetically pining after you.

The back door opens filling the air with a sudden rush of stale beer and the loud, slurred voices of the bar’s patrons. His irritation flares at the thought of having to shoulder through a throng of sweat-stained bodies sardined inside, and Sanemi decides he needs to take some of his edge off before he reaches the sticky bar top inside. He’s in no particular mood to smash in anyone’s teeth.

Good thing he’d stopped to pick up a new pack of cigarettes on his way over; a few, quick puffs is sure to calm his agitation enough to allow him to avoid picking any unnecessary fights. Though he'd brazenly insisted to Hinatsuru that he didn’t care to lie low following the brush he’d had with the Kizuki, he knows better than to make a public spectacle of himself. If word got around that Sanemi Shinazugawa, the most brutal of the Corps’ Hashira, was getting drunk at shitty bars and starting brawls with the first scrappy asshole that made the mistake of looking at him the wrong way, more of those Demons would come sniffing, eager to make a name for themselves by taking him out.

And Sanemi has no intentions of turning his recklessness with you into a greater pattern. He still has some interest in living, after all.

He thumps the sealed carton of cigarettes against his palm, loosening the tobacco before flicking the lid open and thumbing one free. Stuffing the pack back into his jacket, Sanemi rummages through his pockets for his lighter. Once lit, he brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long, indulgent drag. He holds in his breath for a moment, loosing it only when his lungs burn, the smoke curling delicately around his head.

The rush of nicotine eases some of the jitter in his limbs, quiets his racing thoughts. He needed this; if he can’t get his fix of you, then the cancerous little stick wedged between his lips is the next best thing. Puffing lightly on his cigarette, Sanemi pulls his phone free and flicks through his notifications. An update on a new shipment of fine jewelry from Iguro. A report from Genya’s school — his midterm grades. Gambling tickets that need collecting for Rengoku.

Not a single notification is from you. Just like the yesterday; just like the day before that.

Annoyed, he shoves his phone back into his pocket. Sanemi takes another harsh drag before flicking some of his ash to the ground. His irritable mood isn’t your fault, he knows; it has everything to do with his inability to make a fucking decision about if or how he moves forward with you.

I love you, Sanemi.

You’ve laid all your cards out on the table already; it’s his own damn fault he hasn’t figured out how to show his hand. So no, he can’t be surprised you haven’t reached out, considering he hasn’t been able to say a damn thing at all.

Since you’re already on his mind, he figures he might as well indulge himself and think about you some more; what you might be doing right then, on the other side of town. It’s Thursday, so you’ve already dealt with your weekly shipping orders, no doubt each box already inventoried, its contents swiftly organized and shelved. He wonders whether that new release he’s been waiting on has come in; the next installment in a series you’d turned him on to, one he’d stayed up for nearly a week straight devouring in the few precious moments of free time he’d squirreled away.

Do you feel his absence as keenly as he feels yours? Since that night, there have been no movie nights, no cheap, greasy takeout dinners that he usually insisted on paying for in light of your pitiful earnings and inability to cook for yourself. He wonders whether you’ve settled back into your pre-him routine of relying on cereal for sustenance, and his mood sours even further when he realizes you probably have. After all, you’ve never shown a particular interest in your own well-being, as evidenced by your inexplicable attraction to him.

Fuck, he shouldn’t be here. He’s not in any mood for watered down liquor, and he knows better than to try and drown his feelings into a glass. If he drinks, he’s liable to act like an idiot, calling you or showing up at your place without first taking all the precautions he normally does before opening you up to the risk of his presence.

No, drinking is the last thing he needs to be doing right now, no matter how it might dull some of his edge. And unfortunately for him, the only thing he truly wants is exactly what he can’t have.

He takes one last, heavy drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. No sex and no booze; he really needs to come up with better vices.

A quick glance at his phone confirms it’s late and he should probably fuck off home before he lets temptation entice him any further. He eyes the date on his home screen and thinks about the inquiry he put in with that firm in that obsolete, faraway city.

He’ll need to pay it a visit soon; he’s got more shit to give them and, with any luck, a new account to open. But it’s been a few days since he’d received the confirmation that his query was under review, and the lack of response has him even more on edge.

If his ruse is discovered, after all, it’s not just him who’s fucked.

Sanemi leans against the solid body of his bike and retrieves his helmet. He’ll give them another couple of days to respond. In the meanwhile, he needs to come up with Plan B, C, Plan whatever-the-fuck to ensure that all his soul-shredding work doesn’t go to waste once a bullet gets shoved through his brain. And perhaps sometime in between all his violence and plotting, he’ll grow a pair and figure out what the hell he’s going to do about you.

—

Crunch.

“P-please! I’ll p-pay, I s-swear —“

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi dismisses. The skin on his knuckles split a while ago, but he’s long since stopped being able to feel the sting. “Heard it all before.”

Crimson spills down the man’s face, drips down his front from his nose, flattened on its side. His plea is garbled by the blood filling his mouth, quieting into a single, wet rasp as Sanemi socks his fist hard into his soft gut.

When it came time to collect on the Corps’ debts, Sanemi finds he no longer needs to think about the how. How he breaks bones; how exacts the vengeance of his fellow Hashira when their ventures were taken for granted. Even the crow bar or steel pipe that inevitably ended up in his hand felt like a mere extension of his body, every swing, every crush of metal into flesh, pure instinct. Slipping back into this cool detachment is easy; it is a transition ingrained into his bones, the product of having spent years contorting himself into the perfect toy soldier.

The man is still doubled over, choking and sputtering to catch his breath, when Sanemi throws him back against the wall.

Blood bubbles in the corner of his busted mouth. “P-please — tell Mr. Tomioka it was a b-bad bet, b-but the next one —“

“Mr. Tomioka said you could take that bad bet and shove it up your ass.” Not exactly how the dull waste of brain matter had put it, but close enough. “Where’s his money?”

The customer babbles some pitiful excuse Sanemi can’t be bothered to piece together. He takes note only of the number of stuttered syllables, none of which point to any drawer or lockbox, and all of which stack up to reveal the admission he’s so desperate not to make.

He doesn’t have the cash to fork over.

His hands are tied, then. Sanemi has to do what only he can.

Fingers tight around the man’s collar, Sanemi spins them away from the wall. The entire room shudders when he slams Tomioka’s bloodied patron down on his own desk, the wood creaking and groaning beneath the man’s mashed cheek.

Before he can finish moaning his pained grunt, Sanemi takes his right arm and twists it sharply behind his sweaty back.

“Fifty grand to The Striking Tide. One week.” He gets the man’s arm into position. “Last warning.”His target tenses beneath him, whimpering under the mounting pressure in his arm. “Or else the next time you see me, it’ll be at the Wisteria overpass.”

The answering gulp of fear is confirmation that he understands Sanemi’s threat. All those dumb enough to dip their toes in the Corps’ Acheron learn rather quickly that the Wisteria overpass is where bodies go to disappear. Perhaps the taunt is overkill; after all, fifty grand isn’t worth the bullet. But it’s effective, judging by the trickle of urine that puddles on floor by the man’s feet.

If he thinks that’s the extent of his warning, however, he’s sorely mistaken. Sanemi doesn’t deal in empty threats.

Sanemi’s grip tightens. The arm joint pops and the man begins to beg. He knows what comes next; what Sanemi means to do, as he wraps his hand around the man’s wrist.

Blood spatters across the desk as he coughs his last plea. “N-no —!”

But there’s nowhere to run; nothing the man can do but scream as Sanemi gives a single, harsh jerk, snapping the bone.

Message received; job done.

So, Sanemi takes and he takes, and with every job completed, he reminds himself that this is what he truly is. A monster. A fiend. Not someone who might build a better life elsewhere, who could live normally – peacefully.

Not someone who deserves to have you.

As usual, the numbness doesn’t set in until after he’s finished, while Sanemi scrubs blood from hands he knows will never fully be clean. It starts as a pit deep within his stomach, but it quickly blooms into a terrifying knot of twisted brambles that takes root in his veins. Before long, Sanemi is immune to the sting of cold water on his skin as he washes and washes, unable to hear the curses being spat in his direction by his bleeding, broken target with a hatred he can’t feel.

“Fifty grand.” Sanemi repeats as he departs. His final warning sounds faraway, a disembodied voice that does not feel entirely his own. “One week.”

That unfeeling continues seeping into his bones until he’s heavy with it. By the time his bike roars through the rusted shipyard buttressing the Silo, Sanemi can’t even feel the wind whipping at his face.

The numbness follows him inside the shitty box he hardly calls home and Sanemi knows he needs a fix, and fast. A monster with a conscience is one thing; one without is a nightmare he’d prefer to avoid.

Your face flashes through his mind and some of his paralysis eases, but Sanemi pushes you away. Not now; not while he’s like this.

Though the practice of slumping on his couch and reaching for his phone feels familiar, Sanemi does not dabble in old habits. That particular cure for the gaping, gnawing paralysis that’s taken him over is one Sanemi hasn’t had the stomach for even before you’d so sweetly offered yourself to him. Now that he’s had you, he is doomed never to go back, and right now, you’re not an option.

And so, Sanemi scrolls through the contacts on his phone, his eyes glazing over at the series of entries marked by random emojis denoting his past distractions. He almost gives up, but then his half-hearted perusal turns up one name that sticks out over all the others.

Sanemi’s thumb is tapping the phone icon before he can question whether he should. It’s been too long, anyway. More than three weeks, for that matter, so he’s due to make a call.

Besides, it would do him some good to hear the little bastard’s voice. Especially right now, when his head and heart are so delightfully fucked.

He waits only two rings when the other line answers.

“Aniki?”

“What are you doing?” Sanemi glances at the tiny clock on his microwave. “You just get outta class?”

It’s a question Sanemi already knows the answer to given that he has every detail of his little brother’s schedule committed firmly to memory, but it’s an easier opener than hey, I miss you, you little shit.

“Yeah,” Genya confirms and there’s a rustling on his end, like a bag being shifted between shoulders. “I’m on my way back to the dorms now, and then – uh, practice.”

Sanemi snorts into the speaker. “You don’t have practice on Wednesdays. Try again.”

While Sanemi knows he wields far more responsibility for Genya than most siblings would claim, he tries to toe the line between responsible older brother and overbearing parent as much as his paranoia will allow. So while he may know the first and last name of every person his brother associates with, their backgrounds, his teacher’s backgrounds, and every detail of his brother’s time at school, outwardly, Sanemi makes an effort to appear like he’s not butting too much into Genya’s life.

But he won’t tolerate lying; especially not when it comes to Genya’s activities. His safety.

His brother makes a disgruntled sound. “Well – I’m – we’re going to Tanjiro’s. For dinner. A few of us.”

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I give a shit if you hang out with ‘im. As long as he ain’t gettin’ your ass in trouble.”

Not that Sanemi would be too concerned about Genya’s ability to handle himself – after all, his brother was raised in the Silo, just like him.

In his youth, Genya had been as hot-tempered as his older brother; prone to thinking his grievances had to be aired out through his fists. As Sanemi grew older, he realized how much Genya resembled his father when he had his fist cocked back, towering over some kid who’d run their mouth for too long. And while Genya hated the old man as much as he did, Sanemi couldn’t help but wonder if his brother’s resemblance to Kyogo had come from Sanemi himself.

At the rate his anger had been progressing, Genya was on the path to a one-way collision with the Corps, just as Sanemi had been. The difference, however, was that as much as Genya resembled their father when enraged, he’d always known his little brother had their mother’s heart; her gentleness. He never would have made it far in the Corps, and Sanemi would be damned if he’d had to bury his brother, too.

No matter how Genya idolized his elder brother, Sanemi would not allow him to follow in his footsteps.

It wasn’t long after that he started swiping brochures for different boarding schools from the city library. The moment their old man turned cold, Sanemi shipped his younger brother away.

Genya’s reproachfulness pulls Sanemi back out of his head. “He really is a good guy –”

“I told you, I don’t give a shit if you hang out with him as long as your grades stay up and you’re keepin’ your nose clean.” Sanemi crosses his kitchen and yanks open his fridge, eyes narrowed as he scans the half-bare shelf for something to distract him. “I just think he’s annoying.”

He settles on a beer and closes the door. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, he twists the cap off and takes a hearty swig. “I wanna come up this weekend. See ya for a bit.” And to sweeten the pot, Sanemi adds, “Dinner on me. Anywhere you want.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “I – sure!”

Though his brother cannot see him, Sanemi frowns. “What, I can’t come see you all of a sudden? Too cool for me?”

“No!” Genya’s voice cracks slightly and for a moment, he sounds every bit the dumpling-faced, starry-eyed boy of Sanemi’s memory rather than the nearly grown sixteen-year-old he knows him to be. “I always wanna see you – but – I mean, is everything…good? With you?”

Sanemi can’t help his rueful smile as he sets his beer on the counter. His brother knows him too well. “Yeah. I got some things I gotta talk to you about.”

“Okay,” Genya sounds skeptical. “You sure you’re good?”

Your face flashes through his mind. “Yeah. It’s just nothin’ I wanna discuss over the phone.”

It’s not a lie; Sanemi has wanted to see his brother for a while, but there’s an ulterior motive to his spur-of-the-moment decision to make the three and a half hour journey to Genya’s school. One that has little to do with his brother and everything to do with you.

“Okay,” Genya repeats again, though he still sounds uncertain. “Sanemi –”

“I’ll meet you at the campus entrance at five. Don’t be late, alright? I’m gonna be hungry.” Sanemi cuts his brother off. He’s not chancing bringing you up over the phone; not when enemies might be lurking in corners he hasn’t yet checked. Not after he’s spent most of his life living with one eye always open.

It’s his brother’s turn to sigh through the phone, Genya knowing better than to try and argue. “Okay. I’ll see you then. I gotta get back —“

“Yeah, yeah, to the Kamado shithead. I know.” Sanemi snatches his beer up and takes another swig. “I’ll see ya Friday. Keep your nose clean.”

His brother grumbles his goodbye and Sanemi hangs up, more at ease now. Talking to Genya was the right call; his younger brother had a special talent for brightening his day, whether or not the little dumbass knew it.

Now that he’s confirmed to be visiting Genya in a few days’ time, Sanemi knows he needs to plan for a stop along the way. It would be real fucking nice if the notice he’s been waiting on would come through. In fairness, it’s been a few days since he’d last checked for it, so Sanemi leans against his counter and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through the rest of his notifications and once he’s sufficiently depressed over the lack of any from you, he tabs over to a hidden folder.

To the untrained eye, the private folder is unassuming; a collection of apps marked “Misc.,” hidden behind a single passcode. And even those who might be nosy, who might be too curious as to the type of shit Sanemi Shinazugawa stored on his phone would be sorely disappointed. In fact, they might write him off as no better than any other young, single man upon discovering a folder full of apps labeled as popular porn sites, their icons tiny thumbnails of their logos.

Anyone who sought access to his phone would look for contacts, financials, some details about his involvement with the Corps or its overall operations. They would search his texts, his contacts, his photos, even. That was expected; anticipated.

But Sanemi can’t imagine anyone — cop or Kizuki alike — who would give two shits about his porn habits.

He taps the icon marked “BustyBeauties” and waits for the app to direct him to the first password screen, and then to a second. Only after he’s entered both passwords (separate, of course) does his secret email account finally open, its inbox barren save five entries.

Right there, at the top, is the message he’s been waiting for. Eagerly, Sanemi opens and reads the letter, mentally tallying every instruction, committing each detail to memory.

His impending visit to Genya really couldn’t be at a better time. He’d strategically chosen this firm because it is exactly halfway between here and the school.

A quick confirmation back to his agent later, and Sanemi has his scheduled appointment time slotted just over two hours before he’s due to meet Genya for dinner. He then opens his contacts and finds the number saved under a single flame emoji, and brings his phone to his ear, waiting.

The line picks up on the third ring.

“Rengoku?” Sanemi tips his head back and swallows the last contents of his beer in a smooth gulp. “Remember that job I did for ya a few weeks back? Got a favor. I need a car.” He pauses before adding, “And a suit.”

—-–

Life as a Hashira with the Corps entails few luxuries, but the one Sanemi appreciates most is the discretion.

When he was a lower-ranked initiate, Sanemi couldn’t so much as shit without someone knowing about it. Time was money, and every moment not spent chasing paper for the Corps was money wasted. At best, that meant a dock in pay; at worst, you’d be treated no better than any other run-of-the-mill debtor.

As a Hashira, however, he’s allowed a fair degree of wiggle room on his leash to do as he pleases, so long as a job doesn’t crop up. And even then, all it takes is a smooth lie or two to buy him some extra time, and that’s exactly what he gives Rengoku when he stops by his main hub that Friday morning to pick up his goods.

“Recon,” Sanemi says simply, catching the keys to one of Rengoku’s many vehicles that he tosses his way. “Gotta blend in, y’know?”

“Apologies for not being able to reserve something nicer,” his flame-haired comrade nods at the keys Sanemi twirls around a finger. “I’m afraid my luxury fleet is occupied at the moment.” Rengoku offers him a megawatt smile that reminds Sanemi of the flashy, bright billboards that dotted Center City — a product of top tier orthodontia, no doubt bankrolled by his family’s long-standing ties with the Corps. “Though I doubt anyone will notice while you’re wearing that suit.”

Sanemi waves him off. “Don’t sweat it. As long as I keep stickin’ my nose up, I’m sure I’ll fit right in with those rich fucks.”

Rengoku laughs heartily in response and Sanemi smirks. Though their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, Rengoku has always had a good sense of humor about the nature of the elite he’d been born into. It’s a good thing, too; after all, Rengoku’s silver spoon hadn’t prevented him from being sold off to the Corps, the same way Sanemi was.

He follows Rengoku down to a secured garage, one insulated by three, pass-code locked doors, and guarded by a handful of junior Corps members.

Despite his fellow Hashira’s apologies, the car reserved for him is a luxury model, even if Rengoku didn’t seem to think so. Then again, Sanemi supposes he and the burly blonde have very different definitions as to what constitutes high value transportation.

Whatever. It certainly isn’t the tin wad of junk he’d been forced to drive while getting shot at for Uzui, and that alone means luxury, at least to him.

Sanemi hangs the suit bag from Rengoku in the back seat. He leaves his fellow Hashira behind with a firm handshake before lowering himself into the driver’s side and closing the door.

Owlish, ochre eyes track him as Sanemi pushes the start button (of course it’s a push-start), the engine purring quietly to life. Mirrors adjusted and the A/C cranked low, Sanemi glides out of Rengoku’s garage as silent as a shadow, setting off down the road leading out of Center City and to the freeway.

The car’s interior is all rich leather and gleaming accents, the dash controlled by a sleek touchscreen that Sanemi doesn’t dare sully with his fingerprints. The car is undoubtedly a brand new model; one any average Joe would jump at the chance to drive, and yet, Sanemi remains unimpressed.

He still prefers his bike.

He stops at a gas station once he’s about sixty miles out from the city, eyes carefully scanning the parking lot as he totes the garment back inside. This particular rest stop has only single bathrooms, a preference of his when he travels. Better to have a door that locks out the rest of the world than to have to risk sidling up to some unknown enemy at the urinal.

The suit borrowed from Rengoku fits him like a glove, a serious but trendy shade of dark blue. The crisp white button down he wears beneath has been starched to perfection, and the glossy brown leather shoes he wears likely cost more than his monthly rent.

Sanemi Shinazugawa’s childhood had been anything but typical. But if he’d been normal, he imagined this is what it would’ve felt like to play dress-up. Though everything has been perfectly tailored to him, he feels like a clown.

No matter; he has a part to play and the success of his performance heavily depends on his appearance. So, Sanemi swallows his pride in that gas station bathroom, dressing quickly in his costume. He leaves the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but makes sure the collar is precise and properly frames the lapel of his jacket.

His choice of forsaking the gold tie clipped inside the garment bag is intentional; while his normal appearance would certainly raise red flags among the upper echelon of the society he’s about to pretend he’s a part of, so too would him being overly polished. Thus, this small act of intentional dishevelment only serves to further his own ruse, helps him assimilate into a world he has never once been a part of.

Besides, Sanemi doesn’t do ties. He can’t stand the tightness at his throat, choking off his air; the way it feels like he’s being strangled by blended silk.

Dressed, Sanemi considers his reflection in the bathroom’s age and mildew-spotted mirror. It’s a miracle, the difference a tailored suit can make; he scarcely recognizes the face grimacing back at him.

The sink tap squeaks as Sanemi runs the water, dampening his hand and smoothing it back through his hair. There. Now he looks passably proper, no hint of the brutish thug he knows he is in sight, save for the silvery scars that cover half his face. Jack shit he can do about those though, so Sanemi stuffs his discarded clothes back into the garment bag and shoves out of the bathroom, the tap on the sink still running behind him.

—

Another half hour passes before Sanemi takes the exit leading to a small town, about ten miles off the freeway.

It’s almost jarring how quickly the world around him shifts from an endless stretch of asphalt to finely crafted brick and limestone. This town is a far cry from the gilded glamor of the City. It’s respectable; clean, without so much as a hint of an overfilled trash can in sight. Once he steps outside, he knows he will be greeted by the faint, lingering scent of summer magnolia blossoms, rather than the familiar, urine-soaked sulfur which encases the Silo.

The median household income of this town is triple than that of even the City’s dwindling middle class. But the wealth of its residents is precisely what makes this town so unassuming. No one would suspect a gang rat like him would ever set foot in a place like this, let alone know how to blend in, and that is exactly why he chose this place to begin with.

Sanemi cruises down a familiar cobbled street, passing stately brick townhomes that look more like mini mansions than the law offices and specialty practices he knows them to be. Then again, the people who live here wouldn’t deign to live in something as small as a townhouse, what with their sprawling estates on the other side of town, locked behind the safety of tall iron gates.

It isn’t long before Sanemi slows to a stop right outside yet another colonial mansion. Car parked and engine turned off, Sanemi steps out and fastens his suit jacket with an off-handed ease, as though the motion is second-nature. As though he is used to traversing through wealthy streets in a custom suit.

Gloved security men open the building’s double doors to him the moment his foot hits the first stair.

The inside of the bank is all rich wood and high ceilings. The wide floor is flanked by rows of tidy desks, each topped with antique banker’s lamps. Glass-walled offices line the perimeter, reserved for only the highest-value clients who wish to deal privately with their assets and away from any overly-curious ears. It’s toward these offices that Sanemi strides, his face schooled carefully into a mask of neutrality even as his pulse quickens.

“Mr. Masachika,” a receptionist outside the furthest glass office nods to him, rising from her desk to greet him. “Punctual as always.”

Sanemi returns her welcome with a closed-lip smile that makes her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. The guilt he’d once felt over using the surname of a long-dead friend had run out years before, when he’d been young and desperate to get his brother the fuck out of the Silo.

Besides, he didn’t think Masachika would mind, if he knew his reasoning.

Behind the glass wall, Sanemi spies the familiar face of his accountant. Her secretary pokes her head inside the door and murmurs his name, and the accountant’s eyes rise over the top of her computer. The receptionist is dismissed with a curt nod, and she steps aside.

That’s his cue; Sanemi mutters a small thank you and the door behind him is pulled shut. He returns the accountant’s firm handshake and settles into the small, leather chair that sits opposite of hers, and waits.

The entire office is encased in glass, offering both the accountant and every visitor a perfect, three-sixty view of the entire bank. From a practical standpoint, Sanemi can understand its use; this bank handles considerable assets, so it’s no wonder that even the accountants want to be able to monitor every movement, every face, which passes through its doors.

Still, though, something about it sets him on edge; makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A lifetime spent operating in the shadows means Sanemi hates feeling too exposed, and this fishbowl of an office is about as comforting as a helicopter searchlight.

The accountant’s clipped voice snaps him out of his mounting paranoia. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Masachika. I see you’re here for an asset transfer, and perhaps to discuss a new account?”

“Indeed I am,” the formality with which he speaks feels foreign, and yet, the words roll easily off his tongue. “The Principal’s estate has generated some new revenue, and it is his desire to add another family member as a beneficiary.”

“I see.” The accountant’s fingers move quickly over her keyboard. “Before we begin, I will need to verify your identity and your legal authority.” Her eyes flash to his and she offers him an apologetic smile. “It’s an annoying formality, I know, given how familiar we are with you. But our system won’t allow me to proceed until I re-enter the information.”

“Of course.” He presents her with the documents he’d had forged assigning him power of attorney over one Sanemi Shinazugawa (“the poor bastard was in a nasty car wreck. Practically a vegetable,” he’d told the accountant more than two years ago), and he waits.

His palms are sweaty where his hands rest in his lap, but Sanemi resists the urge to fidget. His nerves are nothing new; he always feels anxious here, when he’s wearing the mask of another, more so than he would back home. At least his Hashira mask is not all that different from the core of what he is; here, the identity he assumes is his exact opposite, and the microscope he operates under feels more intense.

The accountant enters the information with a punctual tap of her finger on her computer key, and turns her attention back to him. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, how may we be of assistance?”

“Fifty thousand split between the two trusts for Genya Shinazugawa,” Sanemi says smoothly, reaching into the suit jacket pocket to produce an envelope full of a thick stack of cash and a folded piece of paper. “And another fifty into a new account, to be opened under this name.”

The accountant unfolds the sheet and skims the information, her lips pursed.

A bead of sweat slides down Sanemi’s spine, the skin over his knuckles nearly turn white where his hand clenches in his lap, hidden from sight.

“Very well, Mr. Masachika,” the accountant nods before she begins promptly typing the information into her computer. “And we thank Mr. Shinazugawa for his continued business. Ms. Y/L/N’s trust will be active within the next forty-eight hours.”

Beneath the ledge of her tidy little desk, the hand fisted on his thigh relaxes and Sanemi conceals his quiet sigh of relief by feigning a sneeze.

A contingency; Sanemi always has a contingency.

—

It’s a quarter til five when Sanemi rolls to a stop outside the pristine entrance of his brother’s school. Classes have just let out, and already he can see the flood of boys rushing the courtyard and the quad, laughing away the stress of the day.

Car parked, Sanemi stretches and waits.

He finds Genya easily; the boy sticks out above the others mulling about the campus in the late-afternoon sun by his height and brawn alone, but his mohawk is what really sets him apart. For as long as he could remember, his brother had always worn his hair like that – a mop thick, dark hair carefully arranged, the sides of his head always sheared close to his skin. The school’s dress code had initially prohibited it, and ten-year-old Genya had thrown himself a right little temper tantrum when he was ordered to shave it.

A well-placed bribe by Sanemi enabled the admin to overlook it. He hadn’t been able to eat more than a can of beans for an entire month after, but it was worth keeping his brother happy.

Genya loiters under one of the campus streetlamps, his arms folded over his chest, his face set into what he must imagine is a menacing scowl.

Sanemi snorts to himself. What a little showoff.

He types a quick text to his brother and watches as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, his head shooting up. All of that feigned coolness melts away the moment Genya spots him standing at the bricked archway marking the school’s campus. In an instant, Sanemi’s little brother is bounding toward him with a lopsided grin, half-stumbling over his feet in excitement.

With his uniform rumpled, a casual carelessness only a teenager could spare, Genya looks every bit the boy Sanemi himself never got to be.

It is not self pity that sinks into his gut at the thought; it’s relief. Because that means Sanemi has at least done something right in his life.

“Aniki!”

“Hey, brat.” Sanemi returns his brother’s wide, toothy grin with a half-smirk of his own. “How’ve ya been?”

Genya skids to a halt in front of him, his arms half raised as though he means to hug his brother, before they drop back to his sides. When he was a boy, Genya was prone to throwing his arms around Sanemi’s neck whenever his brother returned home with a small bag of candy, or a cheap little toy car he’d managed to swipe from the corner store, pealing with laughter and gratitude that always left Sanemi feeling slightly embarrassed, even as he’d pat his brother’s back.

That impulse, it appears, still lingers, but Genya tampers it down, perhaps too aware of the number of curious eyes that watch the two of them. Sanemi resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, his brother has an image he wants to maintain. Probably the same tough-guy bullshit he liked to front in his youth, when he pretended like he didn’t beg his big brother to tote him around on his back.

“‘M fine,” Genya rocks back and forth on his heels. “You?” His eyes are wide as they count the new scars peppering the skin of his exposed forearms, some snaking their way up to his elbow before disappearing under the rolled cuff of his sleeves.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sanemi cuts off his brother’s question before the boy can find the nerve to ask it. “Side effect of the gig. You know that.” He tugs at the shirt’s starchy collar in discomfort. “Where’d ya wanna eat?”

“There’s a good breakfast buffet a few blocks away. All you can eat.” Genya rubs the back of his neck, shy. “Good for the dollar too.”

Sanemi scoffs. “We’ll stop there on the way back. I’m takin’ you to get something decent first.” Sanemi throws an arm around his shoulders and tries not to scowl at the fact he has to stretch up somewhat, his brother now standing a good inch taller than he. “They feedin’ you here? You feel scrawny.”

Not entirely true, but Sanemi feels rather bruised that his brother has surpassed him in height. Now, the only thing he has over him is his own brawn, though from his cursory squeeze of Genya’s shoulder, he finds that his brother runs the risk of catching up to him in that department as well.

It takes no time for them to fall into their respective roles: Genya, immediately launching into a rambling play-by-play of every single thing he’s done since they’d talked a few days later, so animated he hardly remembers to take a breath. And Sanemi easily assumes his role as the listener, occasionally scoffing or rolling his eyes as his brother recounts his antics.

As they walk, Sanemi supposes that from afar, they look more like friends than a pair of brothers. But despite having the advantage of height, Genya’s youth is betrayed by the way he curls in on himself as he walks, his shoulders slumped and his head half-pulled in like that of a turtle.

Normally, he’d admonish his brother’s poor posture, but he lets it slide. Because, despite the mildly disinterested set of his mouth, Sanemi is far too happy to see his brother’s unscarred, smiling face.

—

Despite a rather extravagant meal at one of the best steakhouses in the area, Sanemi knows his brother is still hungry, and that is how they end up at Genya’s suggested diner not twenty minutes after Sanemi had paid their first bill.

“Seriously, the hell am I payin’ them an arm and a leg for?” Sanemi scowls as Genya lopes back to their table booth, the plate in his hands piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon, enough to give anyone the distinct impression his brother had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. “Thought their big braggin’ point was the gourmet dining hall they have. Buffet style and shit.”

“Yeah, but they cut you off after fourths.” Genya’s eyes gleam, his fork hovering over his bounty as he decides what to start on first. “It’s okay though. Zenitsu and I sneak food back to the dorms all the time.”

He settles on his pancakes right as a waitress brings over their drinks — a soda for him and a hot tea for Sanemi.

Genya points at the empty stretch of table before his brother with his knife. “Not hungry?”

He lifts his mug by its steaming rim and blows on the liquid. “Not like you.”

Genya shrugs and tears into his pancakes with the same vigor as a hyena does its prey, forgoing his knife in favor of ripping off large chunks of the sweet with his teeth.

Sanemi waits until his brother has chewed his first mouthful before he speaks.

“I saw your midterm grades. Good work.”

Genya’s head shoots up from where he inhales his food, his eyes wide. Just as quickly he straightens and drops his gaze again, his cheeks, red.

“Thanks, Aniki.” He murmurs after a thick swallow, bashful. “I know my math grade wasn’t the best —“

“It’s an improvement from last term. That’s all I care about.” Sanemi takes a measured sip of his tea and scowls. Too weak. He’s been spoiled; you always know how to make it the way he likes.

But there’s nothing else he can distract himself with in the periods of silence in which his brother shovels his food into his mouth, so Sanemi forces himself to drink it. The liquid is still piping hot, enough so that it burns his tongue, but he pays it no mind. His scorched taste buds just make it easier to choke it down.

“You hangin’ with anyone else? Or just Kamado and the other shits?” He asks after a moment, his eyes sharp over the lip of his mug. Anyone new? Anyone I haven’t properly vetted?

“Still ‘em,” his brother answers through another garbled mouthful of pancake. “Muichiro ‘n Zenitsu, too.”

“What about the other one?�� And when Genya raises a confused eyebrow, he clarifies. “The one with rabies.”

His brother snorts and swallows half a piece of bacon. “Inosuke?”

“Yeah. That thing.”

“He doesn’t have rabies — he wore a taxidermied boar head one time —“

“Yeah, and you dumbasses ended up in the Dean’s office because he’d stolen it.” Sanemi narrows his eyes, annoyance flaring at the memory of the phone call he’d received right in the middle of breaking Maeda’s left leg. He’d had to shove the toe of his boot into the rat’s mouth to keep him quiet while he’d borne the brunt of the Dean’s condescending lecture about why it was unacceptable for students to break into the science and tech building mess with the school’s natural history displays.

As though he’d been the one to break curfew and at least half a dozen other school rules, and not his shithead brother.

Genya only shrugs and returns his focus to his food. He hunches over his plate, leveling his mouth with its edge as he shovels in the rest of his pancakes.

Sanemi watches in muted distaste as his brother shifts to attack his eggs with the same ferocity, only remembering to come up for air to take a long gulp of his drink.

“There’s a girl, Gen.”

The boy’s head snaps up, his jaw slack enough that a dribble of his soda escapes down his chin.

Sanemi wrinkles his nose. “Close your mouth.”

“Sorry,” Genya swallows thickly and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “A girl?”

“Yeah.”

“A real one?”

Sanemi chokes on a slurp of his tea. “The fuck does that mean?”

“N-nothing!” Genya turns bright red and shrinks beneath Sanemi’s accusatory glare. “Just, you’ve never — at least, you’ve never told me about anyone you’re seeing —“

“That’s ‘cause I don’t see anyone.”

His brother eyes him carefully. “But…you are now?”

For a moment, Sanemi says nothing; he only plays with his unused knife, spinning it on its tip as he considers his words.

“Things…escalated. Between us.” Sanemi frowns. It’s the most judicious way he can put it; he doesn’t exactly air the details of his sex life to his younger brother on principle, but at the same time, there’s no other way he can phrase it. “And I don’t know what’s gonna happen going forward.”

The implication of exactly how things between Sanemi and you changed is not lost on his brother, and Genya’s cheeks turn a faint red. He focuses hard on his half-eaten eggs before him, pushing them around with his fork.

“You…like her though, right?”

Sanemi grimaces. Far more than that, actually. It’s a truth he’s hardly been able to admit to himself, save his silent utterance against your hair long after you’d fallen asleep on him that night.

He’s in love with you. And fuck if that’s not the most terrifying damn thing in the world.

Genya must realize it too, for he only offers a soft “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Sanemi leans forward on his elbows, his hands folded under his chin. “And fuck if I know what to do about it. Woulda been easier if I hadn’t crossed the line, but well,” he gives his brother a wry grin. “Since when have I ever made shit easy for myself?”

For a moment, there’s no sound but that of Genya’s fork scraping across his plate. “What does she think?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”

Genya’s eyes widen in something like horror. “You mean - you all —“ he turns scarlet. “You all did — whatever — and you haven’t talked to her since?”

His face heats and Sanemi disguises his discomfort with a cough that he tucks into his mug as he forces himself to drink the watery tea.

Only when he can’t avoid his brother’s discerning look any longer does Sanemi set his cup down. “Shit, Gen,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what to do about her at this point.”

The boy turns his fork over again and again, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “You want to be with her though, don’t you? Like, date and stuff?”

Sanemi scowls. “I don’t know. I’ve never really dated anyone. You know how shit is. The risks. I can’t even be a normal brother to you, so I sure as shit ain’t boyfriend material.”

Genya chews on his lip and then shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission, I guess.” He glances up and this time, he doesn’t cower under the intensity of his brother’s gaze. “Are you?”

But Sanemi doesn’t know the answer to his brother’s question, and if he did, he supposes he wouldn’t still be stuck in this limbo.

“You’re allowed to be selfish, Aniki.” Genya’s voice softens to something almost gentle. “You’re allowed to do things that’ll make you happy. I wish you would.”

Sanemi doesn’t have many memories of their mother, but he does remember how she spoke to him. Always kind, always loving in a way that made him feel a flutter of happiness; a warmth, even when the lights at home had been cut off, and they were slowly freezing half to death.

That’s exactly how Genya speaks to him now, and it makes him want to squirm. He’s already feeling too emotionally exposed thanks to his feelings for you; he doesn’t need to turn to mush in front of his baby brother simply because Genya managed to inherit all the good of a woman he’d never known.

Gruffly, Sanemi clears his throat. “I’m tellin’ you all this for a reason. You know how I’ve got stuff for you, if somethin’ happens to me?”

His little brother scans anxiously behind him, before answering in a hushed voice, “The accounts?”

“Jesus, be more obvious, why don’t you?” Sanemi rolls his eyes and brings his mug to his lips. He tips his head back and swallows the rest of the cup’s watery contents in a single gulp. “Yeah. Those. You still got that lockbox with all that shit in it?”

The one Sanemi had brought to his brother’s dorm in the dead of night and had him shove beneath his bed. Genya nods.

“Good,” Sanemi reaches into his jacket and pulls free a small envelope folded twice. “Put this in there, too. It’s for her. You know the drill. I wrote down all her info on the cover sheet. If anything happens, give her a call and have her meet you outside the City. I don’t want you going near it, understand?”

Genya nods and accepts the parcel Sanemi slides across the table, tucking it safely into his own jacket lining.

A waitress brings them their check and Sanemi tosses a few bills onto the table. They wait for Genya to chug the rest of his drink and then the two set off, the bell above the door chiming as it swings shut behind them.

It sounds just like the one that dangles above your store door.

—-

The walk back to Genya’s campus takes considerably longer than it should, though the diner is only about four blocks away. Not that Sanemi minds; in fact, he’s purposefully walking slower, wanting to stretch out the minutes until he has to bid his brother goodbye as long as he can. Whether Genya knows, or whether he’s simply acting on his own hesitancy, he can’t say, but his brother seems not to be in any more of a hurry than he is. God knows the next time Sanemi will get to see him.

If he’ll see him again at all. This single day of pretend away from the Corps hasn’t changed shit about his life expectancy, and Sanemi wants to savor every moment he can.

All of it is for him, after all.

Soon, far too soon, the iron and stone gates of the school come into view, and Sanemi steels himself against the impending goodbye. His brother never failed to look at him with the same, wide-eyed trepidation he’d had the very first time Sanemi had brought him here; a child-like fear of the unknown, even though Genya was all-too aware of his brother’s likely future. It was an anxiety that never failed to make Genya hug him harder, cling on longer than he should, until Sanemi was forced to push him away.

It killed him, every time.

He won’t get choked up in front of Genya – he won’t. He’ll swallow his heartache, choke it back until only a tear or two escapes down his cheek as he drives away, the school and his brother safely in his rearview mirror.

Sanemi turns to his brother, dread curdling in his stomach. He parts his lips, ready to give him the gruff, guess I’ll be headin’ out, that always precipitates this most dreaded goodbye, but his brother speaks up first.

“I think,” Genya hesitates, his mouth opening and closing before his lips press into a firm line. “I think you should decide what you want. Our whole life, you’ve been making decisions to survive, y’know?” And he shakes his head. “You’ve never done what you wanted. I’m grateful for everything you’ve given me but —“

Genya trails off for a moment and looks out to the proud, stately campus quad sprawling before them. “I think it’s time to be selfish for once, Aniki. You’ve earned it. You can’t survive on your own.” He turns back to his elder brother with a wan smile. “You know that better than anyone. Used to tell me all the time.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting Genya to say, but it sure as shit wasn’t that. It isn’t often that he’s caught off guard; even less than he’s left at a loss for words, and for once, Sanemi finds it difficult to meet his brother’s eyes. “It’s not that simple. Me bein’ selfish has consequences.”

“But — I mean, you’ve already made a choice in a way, right?” Sanemi’s gaze snaps to him as Genya’s hand pats his jacket, right over where the envelope bearing your name sits. “You might as well enjoy it.”

He stares at his brother for a long moment until Genya’s cheeks turn pink. “When the fuck did you get so grown?”

“Yeah, well,” his brother shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks at a stray pebble. “Maybe you just needed to hear you’re allowed to be a little happy.”

“You sayin’ I’m a grouch?”

“Yeah,” Genya admits with a toothy grin. “You’re a real asshole sometimes, y’know? Maybe she can make you nicer.”

Sanemi mirrors his shit-eating smirk. “An asshole, huh?” With a viper-like swiftness, he locks an arm around his brother’s neck and yanks him down, mashing his knuckles into Genya’s head. “Still an asshole when I let you eat a hole through my wallet?”

“Ani — Sanemi —!“ Genya wrestles with Sanemi’s arm, helpless against his elder brother’s playful assault on his carefully-styled mohawk.

Sanemi lets himself indulge in this brief moment of rough-housing and for a second, he imagines this is what it would’ve been like had life dealt them a less-shitty hand. Just two brothers, wrestling on the lawn, laughing with a freeness neither one of them had ever known.

Just two boys.

But like all good things in his life, the moment ends, and Sanemi straightens, his grin sliding from his face. Genya sorts himself out, too, though his eyes turn sad.

“Guess you gotta hit the road, right?”

Sanemi swallows around the lump growing in his throat and nods. “I’ll text ya when I’m back.”

As tall and brawny as his little brother is, Genya looks every bit a kicked puppy as he stares hard at the ground, his lips mashing together in an effort Sanemi knows is meant to keep himself from crying.

“Stay safe, Aniki.” His voice is small.

A hand reaches out and clasps the boy around the shoulder, pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll try,” Sanemi says roughly, clearing his throat. His brother’s arm squeezes tightly around his neck, and Sanemi closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that they are kids again.

He claps Genya on the back and pulls away. “Go on,” he juts his chin toward the dorms. “Not having you gettin’ your ass chapped over missing curfew on my account.”

The boy rubs at his eyes and fakes a yawn to cover how they water. “I know. Thanks, Aniki. For visiting.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi waves him off, flashing him a crooked grin. “Don’t get all mushy on me. Get back to your studies.”

With that, Genya turns and shuffles back toward his dorm, periodically looking over his shoulder. Sanemi holds his arm up in farewell, and stays there until his brother is safely inside and out of his sight.

And only then does he lower his hand to wipe at the tears misting in his eyes.

–

The entirety of the more than three-hour drive back to the City is completed in total silence.

It’s done out of preference, more than anything. Sanemi is too used to his bike’s lack of a radio, the rumbling purr of its motor, the only noise that accompanies him on his rides. The radio carries too much potential for distraction, and Sanemi won’t impair his senses if he can help it.

Besides, after Genya’s too-shrewd observations of the shitshow that is his lovelife, Sanemi needs the hours to think.

The day he’d been initiated as a Hashira was the day Sanemi’s future had ended. The moment he’d been pushed to his knees, his shirt stripped from his back, he understood that his life began and ended with the Corps. As he’d searched the faces of the other Hashira, noting the youth in each of their features, he’d known that his expiration date was likely sooner rather than later. It was only logical; to rise up to the level of Hashira meant you had skills that painted a target on your back. To claim a kill on one of them meant solidifying your own status within whatever fringe group you belonged to. When the Kizuki came along, they’d only upped the ante, offering exorbitant payouts to even non-affiliates who could deliver on a Hashira’s head.

So yeah, Sanemi had known his chances of making it out of his twenties were slim to none. He thought he’d given up any idea of growing old the moment Uzui placed that searing hot iron between his shoulders, every trace of a future untainted by blood sizzling away under the pop and crackle of his burning skin.

Until you.

Your simple existence had been a seed that was cultivated the longer he’d gotten to know you, one that blossomed into a portrait of what his life might be, rather than what it is. And once he’d seen it, he’d not been able to look away. It was a life of happiness; unshackled and unburdened by the Corps, the stains of his misdeeds finally washed from his skin. One that ends not in a spray of gunfire and an unmarked grave, but when he’s old and gray, surrounded by kids and grandkids, tangible proof of a life long-well lived.

A life created out of his love for you. With you.

It was one thing for him to keep these reveries locked tightly in his heart, only to be taken out under the dark cover of solitude and handled carefully, a fairytale like those in that book with the story of the beauty and the beast. To keep them confined to a secret sanctuary for him to retreat into whenever he needed to pull himself out of that gaping numb chasm that always opened in his chest after a particularly bad job. He’d never need to seek comfort or distraction in the arms of another again, not as long as he had this small dream of what could’ve been to keep him warm. There would’ve been no need to get you involved at all, save the permanent place you’d hold in his heart.

You would be safe and he would’ve been alone, as intended. As needed.

But he’d gotten greedy; and when you’d looked up at him, sweaty and naked and vulnerable, and told him you loved him, Sanemi had seen how that small, glowing dream of his was more than what could have been. It was what still could be.

Sanemi rests his hand on his fist, his left arm propped on the ledge of the driver’s window as his other guides the steering wheel. Never before has he felt so torn between two paths. Then again, he’s never been presented with a choice; he has only ever been forced to adapt to the shit life hurled his way.

And it had thrown one hell of a wrench at his head through you.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Sanemi sits up, eyes widening in thought. His brother’s question packs more punch than he’d initially realized, settling over him like a weight as he drives.

Is there any choice left to be made at all?

Perhaps the part of him that has screamed and cursed his stupidity for doing the one thing he’d sworn not to do hadn’t been his own conscience at all. Perhaps it had been the Corps’, and Sanemi, too accustomed to being an extension of its will, had simply been unable to know the difference. After all, wasn’t that the entire reason he’d let himself be forced to his knees all those years ago to be branded – in order to forsake his own identity so he might be re-forged into a weapon through burning hot iron? Had he not whored himself out, allowed himself to be bent and molded and beaten into the perfect shape of a soldier in exchange for the promise of a filled belly and the chance that Genya might be free of the cage they’d been born into?

That had all been before; he’d lost himself somewhere between the stench of his burning flesh and the black, twisted underbelly of the Corps. And it wasn’t until you appeared that Sanemi had dared to wonder whether he might find his way back to himself.

You were the comet that streaked across his perpetual gray sky; the light in the dark whose fire revealed the beauty in the shadows of his small world that he hadn’t known existed. Was it selfish of him to want to pluck you from the horizon and tuck you into his pocket, for keeps? Perhaps. But Sanemi had spent so much time alone in the dark that he hadn’t been able to help wanting to cling to what little brilliance had been brought into his life.

I don’t think you would’ve brought her up if you weren’t looking for permission. Are you?

Genya had hit the nail right on the fucking head. All this time, he has been agonizing over what he should do without any consideration as to what it is he wants. After a life of having to make decisions to survive, he really shouldn’t have expected anything less — he simply didn’t know how to do anything different. But he’d made a choice the moment he’d laid you back against your blankets, drunk on your lips and ensorcelled by the feel of your skin sliding with his.

So what does he want?

The answer is easy; so easy, in fact, even his kid brother could see it.

He wants you. Only you.

Don't worry, he's gonna go get her.

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#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi shinazugawa #kny #kny x reader #kny sanemi #sanemi x reader #kny fanfic #kny smut #demon slayer smut #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x y/n #sanemi fanfic #sanemi smut

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runariya · 18 days ago

Text

Crash Course in Love • 2

pairing: snowboard instructor!Jungkook x ex-gf!female reader (feat. platonic OT6) genre: rom-com, Exes 2 Lovers, slow-burn, angst rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: strong language, slow burn, angst, fluff, tension, bad communication skills, jealousy, alcohol, smoking, heartbreak, lmk if I forgot smth word count: 17.3k

a/n: 19 days later and here's part 2 at last! hope you like it still and I can't wait to see your reactions lol DON’T HATE ME! LOVE YOU ALL 💕 ENJOY

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

01 • masterlist • 03

Day 2

There’s something about the way you crash after a day that’s drained you not just physically but emotionally too. After your bath and after you grabbed your luggage when you were sure Jungkook wouldn’t be in his room anymore, and with your stomach still full from the Korean BBQ at Tae’s, you passed out immediately. Yoongi’s snoring didn’t bother you in the slightest—if anything, the vibrations seemed to massage your sore body through the mattress.

You feel even more lost when you wake up just after 5:30 in the morning, fully rested but with muscles still stiff. You’re not sure if Tae’s smoothie did anything or if you’d feel completely dead now without it. It’s not that you want to go back to sleep either, knowing you’ll just wake up even more tired if you try, experience showing that extra hours do more harm than good.

Not wanting to listen to Yoongi’s ongoing snoring any longer, you carefully slip out of bed without waking him and reach for the book you brought with you. But just as you’re about to head out of the suite, you stop, eyeing Yoongi’s coat.

Should you?

You quit smoking months ago, only started when you broke things off with Jungkook, but just thinking about everything that was said yesterday—and what’s still to come—makes you struggle. You’ll probably hate yourself for it afterwards, but still, you go back to his coat and rummage for his cigarettes and lighter.

Realising you only brought one pair of boots, which are currently at Hope’s, and there’s no way you’re stepping out into the snow in slippers or your snowboard boots, you grab Yoongi’s spare designer boots and your snowboard jacket as well.

It’s impressive, really, that you manage to carry everything out of the room without dropping anything, and that Yoongi stays sound asleep despite the obvious rustling of your coat as you move.

You’re thankful Namjoon kept his word about keeping the fireplace lit, not just because its warmth meets you in the corridor but also for the soft glow it casts along the way to the main area.

Pausing for a second, you can hear Yoongi still snoring through the door, along with louder, muffled snores further down the corridor, which must be Namjoon’s. And, who would’ve thought, you hear some very light snoring coming from Jungkook’s room too.

It feels like you’re walking past caves in some forgotten time, surrounded by Neanderthals who snore more to fend off predators than from sinus problems. It’s funny in a way, you reckon. That’s just how biology works, even if you and every other woman in this world are the ones who suffer through the night because of it.

As you reach the main area, of course, you can’t manage all the things you’re holding, and your book falls to the floor, the sound louder than it should be. You think it didn’t wake anyone, but you’re not sure—Jungkook might be awake, he’s always been a light sleeper, though Namjoon’s snoring is too loud now to tell.

Not bothering to pick it up, knowing you’ll drop something else if you try, you kick the book towards the couches, hoping none of the great authors are cursing you for it. The heat of the fireplace, even though it’s only simmering, pulls you to sink back into the cushions once you’ve set your things down.

The hostel feels so much cosier than by daytime, long shadows casting a warm, festive glow like Christmas morning. You almost wish you’d spent the holiday here instead of alone at home.

Just yesterday, you longed for Jungkook to be by your side, to experience this place and this town with you. But now, even though he is here, it doesn’t feel as fulfilling as you thought it would.

Obviously, he’s been here before, and even when he’s spending time with you, it’s under circumstances you wish were different. It destroys you how things are, how you’re treating each other, how much hatred he clearly has for you now, just at the sight of you.

You understand his bitterness though, understand that he probably wishes he’d never seen you again. But what can you do? It’s not like you booked this hostel on purpose, as if you orchestrated the whole thing just to run into him.

No, it’s all just a coincidence. A brutal one at that. You didn’t have time to prepare yourself, didn’t have time to think about how you’d approach him after all this time, or what you’d say.

You reckon he feels the same—blindsided, overwhelmed, hurt. And he has every reason to be. Still, it hurts so deeply, so excruciatingly, that you just want to leave and never look back. It feels like there’s no saving your relationship with Jungkook, not even the hope of being friends.

Or maybe this trip will be the closure you need. Maybe it’ll be the final heartbreak, the one that’s been dragging on for far too long, but now will come to a head and let you move on, even though deep down you don’t want to. You’re sure Jungkook was the one for you—a love once in a lifetime, the one who got away.

Tossing the book from one hand to the other, your eyes can’t help but linger on the pack of cigarettes lying on the table in front of you. It’s dumb, smoking—you know that, always have. But God, you’re broken. You’re so, so sad, it’s suffocating. And you know it won’t help.

You know smoking, like any other addiction, is just a result of loneliness. That doesn’t make it any easier to resist.

You set the book down, slip into Yoongi’s boots again, and pull on your coat, ignoring the voice in your head telling you not to backslide, not to undo months of progress. But still, you ignore that voice as much as you ignore Namjoon’s snoring, and grab the pack and lighter and stand to head outside once you’re fully clothed.

You’d forgotten about the chime when you open the front door, pausing for a moment as if it’s trying to stop you, but you keep moving, letting the door shut behind you as the early morning greets you.

The streets are empty, the air biting cold. But the fairy lights are still on, their glow reflecting silently off the snow and ornaments, but you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it.

Your breath fogs with every exhale as you slowly open the cigarette pack, your hands turning rosy in the cold, warmth steaming off them like dumplings.

You take one out, slip the pack into your coat pocket, and toy with the cigarette between your fingers.

Should you?

You know you shouldn’t.

You.

Know.

But no one’s here to stop you. Who would even care? So you put it between your dry lips and light it, guarding the flame with your hand as if to stop it from dying the way your heart did.

The first drag is equal parts disgusting and relieving, and soon, your thoughts start to fade. Your chest feels lighter, despite the toxins filling it. Maybe breaking up with Jungkook was the first step towards your own downfall. Maybe it was always meant to be.

The front door opens behind you when you’re halfway through your cigarette, but you don’t turn around. There are only three options for who might join you—Yoongi, up for his first smoke of the day; Namjoon, woken by the chime and curious to see what’s going on; or Jungkook. Though you wouldn’t know why it’d be the latter.

“Smoking kills.”

“So does snowboarding,” you reply through the puff of smoke escaping your lips.

“Fair.”

Silence. You can’t bring yourself to look at Jungkook, now standing beside you, both of you staring at some distant ornament, avoiding each other’s gaze.

“What are you doing out here this early?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious.

“Thought I’d get some fresh air.”

There’s no humour in your tone, just defeat, and those few words seem to sap the last bit of energy you have. You feel like you’ve had the same effect on Jungkook—his voice is as dry as yours.

“Funny.”

You know you can’t undo all the damage between you and Jungkook, but still, you want to at least be civil.

“I’m sorry you have to be our instructor. I didn’t know.”

“Sounds like you wouldn’t have booked it if you’d known.”

You shrug. “Probably.”

“Is seeing me again really that unbearable?”

It is.

Of course it is. But only because you can’t bear seeing him having moved on. So you shrug again.

“I see.”

You take the last drag of your cigarette, drop it into the snow, and stomp it out before immediately reaching for another.

“It’s really bad for you.”

“Why do you care, Jungkook?”

“Because you—”

“Please, just let me be, Jungkook.”

It’s desperate, your plea, resigned. And when you finally lock eyes with him, it almost hurts as much as on the day you broke up with him. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of a dream, the smoke from your cigarette swirling up into the sky between you. He’s so beautiful, especially in the morning when he’s just rolled out of bed. But his hurt eyes—hurt that you caused—are something you can’t handle.

“I never did you wrong.”

His words hit like a slap, and you reckon you deserve it, deserve even more, so you let him continue, knowing he’s far from done.

“Why did you leave me?”

You can’t meet his eyes now. Not just because tears burn in the corners of both yours and his, but because you can’t bring yourself to tell him the truth—that you were never worthy of him. That you were never the one for him, not when he’s found someone like Hara, who fits him so much better. So you shrug again, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as your shaky hands lift the cigarette to your lips for another long drag, hoping he’ll think it’s just the cold affecting you, not the emotions welling up inside.

“God, ___.” You see Jungkook look up at the dark sky, rubbing his hands violently against his face and eyes in your peripheral vision. You’re not sure if it’s out of anger, frustration, or pain, and you’re not sure you want to know.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, losing the fight against your tears as they silently roll down your cheeks. Quickly, you turn around, trying to make it back inside before Jungkook notices your breakdown.

“For leaving me, or for being with me in the first place?”

“Both.”

You don’t stop, can’t stop even if you tried. Bolting straight into the hostel, you leave your book where you placed it earlier, your only aim to escape, to get to your suite as fast as possible. Away from all you’ve done and can’t take back.

It’s not like it’s really possible for you to get away from Jungkook, not when he’s still not only very much physically present but still consumes every thought and every space in your heart. It breaks you to see his pain, breaks you even more because you don’t know how to fix it. You’ve created a mess, of the whole situation and of your and his heart, that’s impossible to mend now.

Even if you could, the hurt has left wounds and open scars, which won’t ever heal, especially on Jungkook’s soul, and you reckon he’ll never want you back to begin with.

The door to the suite slams shut behind you, waking up Yoongi, who just turns to look at your broken self, tears still running down in waves.

“Talked to Jungkook?”

“Yes,” you sob.

“Next time, try at daytime, it’s not as emo.”

Well, thank you very much. As if that would have changed a thing. But you don’t bicker this time, knowing that somewhere in Yoongi’s words lies the truth, even if you’re not able to accept it in this moment.

Kicking off his boots and yeeting them across the room where he placed them before you took them, and letting your coat fall off your shoulders, you don’t pay attention to Yoongi’s scolding, disappearing into the bathroom to take a cleansing shower, or rather, to let all the emotions and tears out without being bothered and without being a bother to Yoongi.

It doesn’t take long before the hot water mixes with your tears and for you recognise that you need to somehow get your head straight, or get it checked, because it’s only the second day. A lot more is to come, and you’ll be regretting it if you just wave the white flag and leave. If there’s nothing else you can do, nothing that can help you heal and move on, you want to at least help Jungkook to do so.

You owe it to him, and frankly, that was the main point of why you broke up in the first place. You’ll need to forget your own hurt for the time being, answer all his questions without breaking down again, and you’ll start with that as soon as you’re out of the shower.

“Hurry up! I need to take a piss!”

You’re glad you had half a mind to lock the door, but still, the banging of Yoongi’s fist disturbs you so much, you won’t be able to neither cry nor think in peace.

“Ten more minutes!”

“I’ll piss on your pillow! Open the fucking door!”

Ew. Sighing, you rinse the rest of your shampoo out, hurrying to at least wrap a towel around yourself before unlocking the door. You’re not able to push the handle down because Yoongi bolts inside, ripping his pants down and immediately starting to empty his bladder.

“Ew, gross!”

“Next time, your pillow, ___,” Yoongi sighs, but you’ve already fled the scene. As relatives, you’re close, yes, but not that close.

Nonetheless, you’re thankful for this distraction, even if it just helped you not be dragged further into the blue.

Hearing Yoongi close and lock the bathroom door and turning on the shower does the rest as you now stand fully dressed, with dripping wet hair, in the middle of the suite.

You know there’s no way he’ll open that door back up again, even if you’d knock as violently as he did just now. He simply doesn’t give a fuck. So you see no other option but to get some breakfast with wet hair, knowing there’s not much time left before you’re back on the slopes, or rather the beginner’s hill.

The corridor is empty again, though you hear some chatter from Namjoon and Jungkook down the way. Taking a very deep breath, you try to school your face into happiness, or at least neutrality.

You find both with Jimin in the dining area, the latter unpacking his bread and some pastries onto the table.

“Good morning,” you try to sound as cheerful as possible, but as you lock eyes with Jungkook, you know he notices the red rim around your eyes.

“Hey! Look what I’ve got for you.” Jimin practically explodes with happiness as he gets a see-through box of macarons out of his paper bag.

“No way! Jimin, that wasn’t necessary! Thank you!” You can’t help the genuine smile that spreads across your face, hands eagerly grabbing for them as you unbox them against your stomach, too occupied to even sit down.

“But I wanted to. I’ve never seen someone so obsessed with these.” Jimin laughs his beautiful laugh at your already stuffed smile, as Namjoon just smirks, and Jungkook, well…Jungkook just seems odd.

“Here, at least sit down.” Namjoon offers you the chair beside him, and to be honest, you’d much rather sit somewhere else than face Jungkook, but there’s nothing you can do.

You don’t thank Namjoon this time when he pushes the chair for you to sit down, too embarrassed by your chewing. You shouldn’t have put two macarons in your mouth at once.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Jungkook stays silent throughout it all, just watching you, especially watching Namjoon carefully, while you avoid eye contact. Jimin, on the other hand, can’t keep his eyes from flickering between you and Jungkook with a broad smile, as if he senses something’s wrong. He takes the last empty chair at the small table and sits between you and Jungkook.

“Black, so you’re not overdosed.” Namjoon places your coffee in front of you as his eyes also flick to Jungkook, and you’re not sure what’s happening right now.

“Hold up, hold up, I’ve got my favourite with me. Just for you, ___. You liked it the first time, right?” Jimin pulls out a cup of iced Americano from his bag, this time in a fitting container, but you can’t seem to understand why he’d bring you this when, despite you loving it, it hurts you just as much and he knows it.

“You know,” Jimin continues with a glint in his eyes that not only makes you uneasy, but clearly Jungkook as well, the latter looking two seconds away from punching Jimin square in the face. “It’s called ‘Only Love’. Right, C? You created it.”

Ah, that makes a lot of sense now. What doesn’t make sense is you choking on the macaron. You should have put two and two together, to be honest, should have seen the connection the moment Jungkook appeared in front of you with everyone in this forsaken town being friends with him, but frankly, you didn’t.

You haven’t been thinking clearly for years, and you reckon it has something to do with Yoongi, who, even though he’s the only constant in your life now, is equal parts disturbing and unable to help you balance your emotions. Not that it’s his job, but being a bit less insufferable would be nice and a welcome change.

Jimin’s still holding the cup towards you, for longer than would feel just friendly, but now you see all the evil clearly. You don’t really know what to do, especially when you look at Jungkook and see him more pissed than you’ve ever seen before. Should you even take it?

“I… I think I’ll stick to black. Not that I really overdose on sugar or anything.” You stammer, wanting the earth to swallow you up rather than this shit morning continuing into a day full of hatred towards you.

Jungkook just scoffs at that, and you’re sure you hear him mutter “of fucking course, perfect timing” just as Yoongi enters the dining room.

“Morning,” Yoongi mumbles, and right as he’s about to sit at another table, Jimin places the Americano in front of you and gets up.

“No, please, sit down. I was just about to leave.”

Jungkook attempts to call Jimin out on his bullshit, but shuts his mouth in an instant when Yoongi claps Jimin on the back and sits down between you both. Turning to Namjoon, he’s still very much smirking as if he’s figured out the whole situation with you and Jungkook, especially when both his legs nudge yours and his, as if daring you both to say something.

“Bye!” Jimin sings as he’s out of the room before anyone can even breathe.

“You forgot your phone in our room.” Yoongi grumbles, stealing some macarons from you as if they were M&M’s, and preparing his plate. “A coffee please.”

“Black?” Namjoon’s grin spreads across his whole face as he gets up to fetch Yoongi’s order, because, dear lord, it wasn’t a kindly meant request.

“You got it.”

As if the morning hadn’t already strangled your emotions enough, your blood’s now boiling because Yoongi couldn’t just bring your stupid phone with him as if that would have been the greatest task in the world. But somehow, seeing Jungkook’s mood crash even more, you’re glad to have a moment to escape the scene, hoping that when you return, it won’t be with police tape around the place.

You don’t have the faintest idea what’s up with him. It’s not like he’s just mad at you—although you know he definitely is. Hell, you’d be mad at yourself if you were him. But something else must’ve happened, something that’s got him this wound up, not only at the sight of you and Yoongi, but his friends too.

It’s no surprise to find your phone where Yoongi said it would be, and seeing it now, face down, you’re beyond thankful he didn’t just hand it to you in front of everyone.

You just want to grab it quickly and shove it into the tight pocket of your leggings, thinking it’s lying on the info sheet from Namjoon, when Yoongi’s handwriting catches your attention. Black ink, neatly written down for all time:

‘Future’s gonna be okay.’

It soothes and breaks your heart all at once, especially when you spot a teeny tiny black heart too. Yoongi might argue it’s just a splatter from the pen, but you know better. Being close to your cousin is a rollercoaster in every imaginable way, but it’s worth it. Because he cares. Because he’ll understand, even if he doesn’t always show it the way you need.

Taking a very, very deep, steadying breath, you leave the note where it is, knowing you’ll definitely need it when you come back tonight, after what will surely be a wonderful day with Jungkook. You just hope you survive it.

Snowboarding doesn’t even scare you as much as Jungkook does. But you steel yourself not to panic, not to freak out about how clueless you are. Time will tell. Future’s gonna be okay.

And with that thought, you head back to the others, wanting something more substantial in your stomach than sugary sweets.

“Odd?”

“Yeah, odd,” Jungkook growls, and you stop short before entering the room again.

“I think I’m treating her just right for who she is to me,” Yoongi laughs, and you can hear the mischief in his voice, full of shit and in full wind-up mode.

There’s no way you’re really letting this turn into a crime scene, so you march into the room, eyes boring into the back of Yoongi’s head, knowing he’ll feel it.

Thankfully, no one says anything, but the looks speak volumes. Jungkook’s glaring daggers at you, Namjoon’s got that worried, torn look like a parent watching their toddler near the stairs, and Yoongi’s just…amused.

Frankly, your appetite’s vanished, and you don’t want to risk sitting down and getting dragged into whatever mess you’re missing today.

“When do we leave?” You ask Jungkook directly, using a tired, fed-up tone you haven’t dared yet.

It seems to do the trick, sobering everyone up as they take their last bites and gulps of coffee, getting ready to move.

Namjoon, ever the sweetheart, hands you the americano, and this time, you’re grateful for it. Screw the memories—you need caffeine to get through this day. A shot of something stronger in it might’ve been better, but alas.

“Thanks, Joon.”

That, of course, earns you a dirty look from Jungkook and an amused one from Yoongi.

“I’ll just grab my stuff real quick.”

“Yeah, we’re waiting in our slippers,” Yoongi says drily, overtaking Jungkook by the door, who looks at you like he can’t believe this is happening.

You ignore them both, turning to Namjoon to escape the drama, but only stumble into another one instead.

“So he’s your ex.”

You groan, shoulders slumping along with your coffee, exasperated as you realise Namjoon’s got you alone.

“Kinda obvious.”

“It is. Some other things are obvious too.”

You give him a long stare, the kind of stare you’ve perfected from hours of silent contests with Jungkook, but Namjoon, who’s obviously used to this too, isn’t fazed the slightest.

“Spill.”

“You’re both adults. Talk.”

Yeah, like it’s that simple. Sit down, have a rational, level-headed chat with Jungkook? Not likely.

“Thanks for breakfast. I’m out.”

You throw a peace sign over your shoulder, knowing you’re not getting anything more out of him, whether he’s right or wrong.

Being civil with Jungkook would be step one before you could even dream of a productive conversation. But based on how this breakfast is going, hell, the whole stay up until now, it’s clear that ‘civil’ is something you’ll never be when it comes to Jungkook.

“Here.” Yoongi’s brought you your boots and gear, and the reason is instantly clear when Jungkook reappears, glaring at Yoongi like he’s about to snap.

“Could you both please be civil? I’d like to enjoy this holiday,” you snap, so utterly fed up, wishing you could put them both in time-out.

“Sorry,” Yoongi and Jungkook mumble in unison, but the looks they exchange right after make the apology feel pointless.

Even though you’re still struggling way more than you should with these snowboard boots—which surely came straight out of hell just to make your life that little bit more difficult—you still don’t let anyone help you. Not Jungkook, who stopped moving towards you after you shot him an evil glare, and not Yoongi, who suffered the same fate.

Eventually, you manage, somehow. And when you’re ready to go, the three of you grab your snowboards, which are leaning against the wall near the fireplace. It’s not easy to carry yours on your own, especially when the sharp edge cuts into your gloved palm and your other hand is occupied with your Americano. The bindings are digging into your forearm with their stupid weight distribution, but there’s no way you’re going to drag it any other way. Not when you’re not willing to sacrifice your caffeine—that’s just not happening in any lifetime of yours.

Yoongi, for once, is chivalrous enough to open the door for you, but you can’t really appreciate it like you would under normal circumstances. Your nerves are running thin—so thin you’re half-tempted to just smash the chime to dust with your snowboard to shut it up yourself. But you’re not strong enough, and with your luck, Jungkook—who’s walking right behind you—would probably end up on the receiving end of your terrible aim.

No one says a word during the entire walk to the hill, which, now that you think about it, feels worse than all the snide remarks. It’s not like fighting—or going straight for each other’s throats—is the best solution, but this simmering tension isn’t much better either. And you reckon it’s only a matter of time before someone goes off like a bloody nuclear bomb.

Though the real question is, who?

You’d love nothing more than to get inside Jungkook’s head, to take a peek at whatever thoughts are running through his pretty head and figure out why he’s been acting like this—irrational around others, but all sentimental when it’s just the two of you. It’s starting to seriously grate on your nerves.

Seeing that he wants to talk about everything that went down between you both is something you never thought would happen. But his approach? Not ideal. There’s no way you’re having a deep conversation with him before the day has even properly started, and definitely not in the middle of the street. And you’d much rather not have this conversation with others around too, thank you very much.

But the thing is, you’re still not sure if you want to be alone with him. What if your resolve to be all mature and talk like adults crumbles the second he looks at you with those sad eyes again? What if he’s just looking for answers so he can have the closure you know you’ll never get?

The thought feels selfish in every possible way. It disgusts you too, but you’re only human, not some robot who can function without feeling, without knowing what love or losing it is.

You let out a loud sigh, no longer able to bear the weight of the world—or the burning gaze of Jungkook boring into your back.

“S’up?” Yoongi nudges you causing you to sway, the heavy drag of your boots not helping either.

“Just enjoying the fresh air.” You bullshit, stepping right up the snow at the base of the beginners hill.

“The only thing getting fresh air are my middle ears. Fucking feel the inflammation building.”

You’re sure Jungkook hadn’t intended to snort at Yoongi’s remark, but even he can’t seem to resist the humour in the nonsense that sometimes escapes Yoongi’s mouth.

“Some air gonna knock you out?” you tease, trying to nudge Yoongi back, though you fail miserably.

Thankfully, Jungkook’s quick enough to steady you with a free hand before you face-plant into the snow, which is far from the fluffy stuff it was yesterday—now hard as stone.

“You know you’re old when air’s hurting you, ___. You’ll understand when you’re my age.”

You hope that‘ll not be true.

“Alright,” Jungkook claps once, and you and Yoongi fall into line in front of him after setting your boards and coffee aside. “Yesterday we covered most of the snowboarding theory. Three important things. What are they?”

Silence.

“Awareness, balance, control.”

It’s clear Jungkook’s waiting for something, and after a few agonising moments of just staring at each other, it clicks. He wants you to repeat what he said.

“Awareness,” you start, but Yoongi either hasn’t caught on or really doesn’t care, but you give him a nudge, and eventually, the two of you echo back Jungkook’s words.

“Awareness, balance, control.”

“Right, now, while we’re at it—let’s talk a bit more theory. After awareness, balance, and control, it’s all about anticipation. You can’t just react to things at the last minute, yeah? You’ve got to anticipate the changes. Know what’s coming. Whether it’s an obstacle in your path, a turn, or… someone doing something you didn’t expect.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jungkook! Man up and say it to my face if you’ve got something to say!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Fuck you did! And you—shut your fucking mouth!” You jab your gloved finger at Yoongi, who stops laughing immediately.

You’re not sure what’s gotten into Jungkook to act so irrational again, but whatever it is, you’ve had enough. Either he stays professional during the lesson, or you’re out. This kind of treatment—whatever you did to him or not—isn’t something you’ll tolerate. Not from him, not from anyone.

Jungkook seems to realise his mistake, or maybe he just doesn’t have the guts to confront you directly about what’s been bothering him. You reckon after all these years, he still hasn’t learned how to communicate properly. Then again, you’re not exactly great at that either.

“How about you stick to teaching during the course and stay in your lane? How about I can at least enjoy this for a few hours?”

Jungkook just nods, not the least approving, and if it weren’t for Yoongi placing a hand on your heaving shoulder and sucking his teeth, you might’ve lunged at Jungkook and strangled him right then and there.

“Right, well, before we get onto the boards, we need to warm up. Can’t have you both pulling muscles before you even touch the snow properly.”

“Please, no running,” Yoongi mutters under his breath.

“No, no running. First up, let’s stretch. Loosen up those muscles. Very important. Otherwise, you might… strain yourself. And trust me, some people,” he side-eyes you, “have a habit of rushing into things without getting properly prepared or listening to what the other person has to say.”

You grit your teeth. Oh, you’re so ready to kill him. If looks could kill, both you and Jungkook would be dead by now. “What the fuck is your problem?” you seethe dangerously low.

“So, what are we doing first? Jumping jacks? Star jumps?” Yoongi asks sarcastically, more to defuse the situation than out of any real interest in actually participating in this course.

“No, mate. We’re not at boot camp. Just a simple warm-up to start. Arms, legs, get the blood flowing.” Jungkook begins rolling his shoulders and doing some arm circles. “Follow me. Arms out, nice and wide. Slow circles. Loosen up your shoulders. You need a good range of movement, especially when you’re… navigating tricky situations.”

You and Yoongi do your best to follow along, despite the thick jackets. Opting to be the bigger person here, you do your best to ignore Jungkook’s pointed glances and the occasional gust of cold air grazing your stomach whenever you raise your arms too high.

“Good. Now, bend forward, touch your toes—well, try to. Don’t force it. Some people are naturally more flexible than others, but hey, no rush.”

Throughout the whole stretching exercises, you keep your mouth shut, knowing that playing into his madness wouldn’t do either of you any good. You just can’t process it all at this point. And how could you?

Since the moment you stepped foot into this stupid little town, you haven’t had a minute to think. Especially not after Jungkook entered your life again. You’re jealous of all the people out there who can adapt to every moment, who aren’t as utterly pathetic at handling things as you are.

It must be genetics, because, dear lord, you’ve never been good at handling tricky situations, but the ones involving your ex are on another level. You can tell yourself to be cool and collected as much as you want, but at the end of the day, Jungkook will always trigger you.

And if it’s not with his passive-aggressive remarks, it’s with his broken sadness.

“Perfect. Let’s move on then. Before we get into the snowboards, I’ll just have to adjust your bindings real quick, and then we’ll start. For that, I’ll need to see which foot of yours is the dominant one.”

Jungkook walks silently behind you both, looking down at the snow with a slight frown on his lips while you follow his movements with your eyes.

“I’ll start with you, Yoongi. Relax your stance, I’ll push you from behind. Don’t think too much, just catch yourself, yeah?”

Jungkook’s now standing directly behind Yoongi, and as he raises his hand and places it on Yoongi’s back, right between his shoulder blades, your gut twists, fearing Jungkook might push him too hard, letting his anger out because he can’t restrain himself.

But to your relief, Jungkook pushes Yoongi ever so lightly, causing the older man to take a step forward, landing on his right foot.

“Right foot back, your stance is regular.” Jungkook just nods to himself, moving on to stand behind you now. “Your turn, ___. Again, just relax, don’t overthink it. I’ll push you now.”

How can you stay relaxed when Jungkook’s now directly behind you, when you not only feel the weight of his hand on your back but imagine you can feel the warmth of it too? It nearly leaves you gasping, not used to Jungkook touching you anymore.

“Relax,” Jungkook mutters ever so softly, causing your shoulders to drop as you take a deep breath, willing yourself to block him out as best you can.

The push is gentle, and while you take a step forward out of reflex, it’s the same reflex that misses his hand on your back.

“Left is your dominant foot, so goofy’s your stance.”

“Goofy?!”

It sounds offensive. Does it sound offensive? Because both Yoongi and Jungkook look at you, puzzled by your outburst.

Wasn’t that another jab?

“Yeah, it’s called goofy,” Jungkook says, Yoongi nodding as if to tell you to calm down.

“Oh. Okay.”

Jungkook pulls a tiny toolbox from the inner pocket of his jacket while you follow Yoongi, who’s picking up his board. He takes Yoongi’s snowboard first, placing it on his bent knee and unscrewing the first binding.

“Forefoot 18 degrees, back foot 7 degrees,” Yoongi mutters, not the least bit mocking.

You’re not sure why Yoongi has a preference, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to question it, just nodding and adjusting Yoongi’s bindings to his liking.

When it’s your turn, Jungkook still doesn’t say anything as he takes the board from your hands, and while the adjustments look just the same as Yoongi’s to you, it’s clear both men see the difference as Yoongi interjects, “Fix the left one a bit more outwards, it’ll give her more control.”

Jungkook looks up at that, not angered, not ready to snap, as his eyes flit briefly to you before he eventually just nods and does as Yoongi suggested. Maybe not playing into Jungkook’s remarks earlier was the right course of action, seeing that even though it’s still awkward between you three, it’s more civil than it was before.

Jungkook stuffs his toolbox back into his pocket and turns to grab his own snowboard. As he straps his right foot into the binding, he calls out, “Fasten your front foot onto the board. We’re practising gliding.”

Yoongi does as instructed without a hitch, but you’re struggling a bit. The straps keep getting in the way, making it impossible to secure your foot properly.

Without a word, Jungkook hops over, dragging his board behind him, and quickly fastens the bindings for you.

“Thanks,” you mutter, but he doesn’t meet your eyes, just nods before heading back in front of you both.

“So, it’s simple. Push yourself forward with your free foot, step on the board, and glide for as long as you can. It’ll help you get a feel for the board. And remember—where you look is where you go. Look down, you’ll fall. Look forward, and you’ll be fine as long as your balance is decent.”

Jungkook demonstrates the glide with ease, while Yoongi follows suit right after, looking like he’s done this before, making it seem like a breeze.

Alright, how hard can it be?

Turns out, pretty damn hard. As soon as you try, your arms flail like mad, desperately trying to regain balance. You stumble forward, managing to catch yourself at the last second, but not before the board lifts off the ground and slams right into your calf.

“Ouch!”

It hurts like hell, and you’re certain a bruise is already forming.

“Take it slow, no rush,” Jungkook says, not even glancing back.

You try a few more times, and while it feels like you’re going to lose a leg by the end of the day, you’re slowly getting the hang of it.

Yoongi’s already finished, standing beside Jungkook and watching you like some proud parent their child who’s learning to swim. You don’t mind though—better that than getting frustrated watching him nail everything effortlessly.

“That’s great, let’s move up the hill and practise side slipping. It’s like a lazy way to snowboard, but it’s useful.”

Dragging yourself up the hill feels like a workout in itself with your board still clasped onto your foot, your calf still throbbing from earlier.

“First things first,” Jungkook’s bending down to his board, “strap your other foot in as well. You want to be on your heel edge or your toe edge. We’ll start with heels, ‘cause if you start on your toes and mess up, you’ll just end up pissed off.”

Once again, Jungkook demonstrates the technique, and once again, Yoongi seems to pick it up straight away. Meanwhile, you’re down on your ass every other minute, frustration building but refusing to quit just yet. Jungkook lets you keep at it until you’ve finally got the hang of it, while Yoongi again just stands there with him, chatting the day away, apparently needing no extra practice.

“Why doesn’t he have to practise?” you yell down the hill.

“Because he doesn’t need to.”

You’re fuming, but deep down you know Jungkook’s right. Still, Yoongi’s supposed to be doing this with you, not just standing there like a supervisor. The anger helps though, because as you slide down the hill again, it’s smooth and controlled—and you feel damn proud of yourself.

“Alright, next exercise. We’re going to slide down on your toe edge now. Flip over so you’re facing up the hill, with your toes digging into the snow.”

You’re already panting from the climb back up the hill, but there’s no rest in sight. Jungkook leaves his board behind as you drag yourself up again, determined to finish this.

“Now,” Jungkook says, “bend your knees, lean forward slightly—like you’re bowing to a king. Lift your heels off the snow, so you’re balanced on your toes. And don’t panic if it feels weird at first. Yoongi, can you please demonstrate?”

“Sure,” Yoongi says, nailing the move effortlessly.

You can’t figure out why Yoongi’s suddenly Jungkook’s little helper, or why Jungkook’s board is still down the hill, but you focus on trying to imitate Yoongi’s technique. You get into position, dig your toes in, but the next second, you slip, barely catching yourself before faceplanting into the snow.

Jungkook’s by your side in seconds, pulling you up by the arms. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you pant, swallowing the panic that’s rising in your chest. But your grip on his arms gives away just how terrified you are.

“Come on, I’ll help you.”

Jungkook’s hands slide down your arms until he’s holding your hands securely, but just as quickly, he lets go. You immediately lose your balance, nearly falling backwards as your whole life flashes before your eyes.

“Shit!” His hands grab you at the last second, keeping you from toppling over.

“Don’t just let go like that!”

“Why are your gloves this wet?”

You don’t have time to defend yourself against Jungkook’s scolding as he abruptly forces his leg between yours, angling his heel between the snow and your board to keep you in place and balance.

The proximity to Jungkook has an instant effect on you. Your brain shuts down, and though your blood is rushing through your veins at an overwhelming speed, it somehow calms you down just the same.

Being this close to him, not only seeing him but feeling all of his body pressed against yours, mixed with his intoxicating scent, makes you never want to let go of him again.

“Hold onto me,” he murmurs softly, the closeness making it unnecessary to speak any louder than a breath.

You can’t help yourself, staring at his face, even though he’s avoiding eye contact as he removes your gloves, letting them fall silently behind him. You reckon he hasn’t changed much—just a few piercings and some faint lines caused by age now marking his otherwise mesmerising face. But still, he’s the same.

The same lashes framing his big eyes, the same kissable lips now a bit cracked from the cold, the same glowing skin with that faint scar on his cheek.

It throws you back in time but also makes you ache for all the time spent apart. It’s impossible to feel resentment for the harsh things he’s said, impossible to feel anything but the deep love you still have for him. It’s impossible to look away, even though he isn’t meeting your gaze, busy tugging off his gloves with his teeth.

When his hand reaches for yours, wrapping them in the warmth of his own gloves, you feel like you might break right then and there. You’ve been a fool for pushing him away, for ending things in the first place, when he’s always been this good to you—even now, after all these years.

When Jungkook finally finishes and his eyes meet yours for the first time, you don’t dare breathe, even if you physically could. It’s like the heartbreak never happened, healed by the closeness of two hearts that know they can only beat as one.

You see it in his eyes, like you always could back then, that he feels it too—or at least something close to what you feel.

“I never meant to hurt you,” you manage to say, your voice breaking ever so faintly, with a slight sheen of tears coating your eyes.

“I know,” Jungkook smiles ever so softly, as if he’s always known, as if he understands. But still, he steps back, leaving you cold and longing again, only holding your hands just firmly enough to help you keep your balance. “Try again, toes in the snow, knees bent.”

You swallow the hurt down, knowing you’ve got no right to feel this way, and with Jungkook’s help, you slide down the hill. You succeed, but as soon as you reach the base, Jungkook steps back completely, walking over to Yoongi while instructing, “Try again now on your own.”

And you do. Multiple times until you master it as best you can, all while you know you’re being watched by the two most important men in your life.

Lunch is spent in a tiny fast-food restaurant nearby, just because you’re so hungry you can’t wait ages for a proper meal. Jungkook excuses himself to take a phone call, and you notice a picture of Hara on his screen, though you weren’t fast enough to see whose name was at the top, or if it’s his lock screen or Hara’s contact picture.

“Why are you so good at snowboarding?” you try to sound angry, though your mouth is stuffed, hoping Yoongi can still make sense of the words.

“I’ve been snowboarding before.”

“You what?” You swallow the bite forcefully, needing space to articulate the insults he deserves. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I paying for a crash course for you?”

“I didn’t thi—”

“Why the fuck have I paid for and rented your gear?!”

Yoongi goes silent, eating his meal like he’s bored, giving you time to yell at him some more before he speaks. But you don’t, just widen your eyes and shake your head to emphasise how livid you are.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come alone.”

“That’s such a shit excuse, Yoongs. You should have at least paid for yourself. Fucking parasite.”

“Yo, show some respect. You said you’d pay for everything. It’s not like I forced you.”

“Forced me?! You wouldn’t have come otherwise!”

“I can still hang in our suite and leave you alone with Mr. Leaf-in-the-wind.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s true, and you know it.”

He’s kinda right. But you can see where Jungkook’s coming from, somehow understand why he’s acting the way he does.

You sigh at that, leaning back with another mouthful of food, knowing you should really work on your manners. “You’re not leaving me alone with him. No way.”

“If you say so.”

You startle slightly when Jungkook slides into the seat beside you, hoping he didn’t catch any of what was said while he was gone. And even though you’re dying to know who was calling, you’d rather strip bare in the middle of the restaurant than ask, not wanting to look like some jealous, controlling ex-girlfriend.

“Hara called,” you fucking knew it. “Said Namjoon’s arranged dinner at Jin’s.”

You and Yoongi just hum, though you reckon you’re the only one finding it rude. But who can blame you? You are jealous, you are a fucking control freak, and Jungkook looking the way he does definitely doesn’t help.

You hadn’t noticed before, thanks to his oversized clothes, just how buff he’s become. But seeing him now, his upper body hugged by thermal gear so tight it might as well be see-through, makes you even pettier than you already were at the mention of Hara. And how could you not be?

Clearly, he’s been working out more since you split. Maybe you were holding him back from getting in shape too. It’s funny—you always thought Jungkook peaked while he was with you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

You force the rest of your meal down in silence, occasionally glancing up at Jungkook and Yoongi, who are doing the same. It’s not like you want this silence to linger, but you don’t know what to say, and neither do they.

It’s slightly bothering you that both men were comfortable enough to chat the whole morning away while you were busy trying not to face-plant into the snow, and now can’t seem to say a single word with you around. Maybe you were the problem all along.

Ugh, you hate having those thoughts again, especially since you’ve made such progress with your self-esteem recently, and now it’s crashing back down, spiralling like something you can’t escape.

When everyone’s finally finished, you pack up your things and step back outside into the cold, hoping the rest of the day goes by as civilly as the last few hours have been.

Hours later, you’re spent. So utterly spent you’re sure you won’t make it to Jin’s without falling asleep midway through. Like Snow White, you want to lie down and sleep, and for no one to kiss you awake. Though, if you think about it, Jungkook would make a formidable prince.

Stop. You can’t think like this, you won’t allow such homewrecker thoughts. Not when things went well after lunch and there’s hope you can talk shit out.

After finally managing to learn how to take turns on that snowboard straight out of hell, and now being able to proudly say you can get down the beginners’ hill without breaking a single bone, you feel more accomplished than you ever have. Still, you hate snowboarding, and still won’t be doing it again once the two weeks are up.

“Why aren’t we eating at the hostel?”

You didn’t mean to say it out loud, not with Namjoon walking right beside you, and it might come off as though you’re calling him out for saying he’d be your chef during the trip, but hasn’t cooked a single thing for you yet. Namjoon’s blush only deepens your regret, though he takes it in stride.

“Well…uhm…I just thought that—”

“He can’t cook to save his life.” Jungkook interrupts Namjoon’s clear attempt to save face, and you’d never expected to see such a smug look on Jungkook’s face while throwing his friend under the bus.

“Oh, that’s cute. Plenty of women like to cook for their man.” You nudge Namjoon, hoping it’ll ease the tension just a little.

“Ah, I don’t know about that.”

“Did you watch the game?” Jungkook asks, louder than necessary, slowing his pace so he falls in beside Namjoon, forcing you to step aside to avoid colliding with his stupid back.

The glare he sends your way matches your own, and you’re sure you can read in his eyes that he wants you to back off from his friend. You barely register what Namjoon and Yoongi are talking about, something vivid about an epic basketball game, too caught up in a silent conversation with Jungkook about what his problem is—and yours. But it’s like you’re out of sync, all questions missed, and answers elusive throughout the whole short walk to Jin’s.

You hadn’t expected Jin’s to be such a lavish restaurant. Despite having the same rustic feel as the rest of the town, there’s a touch of poshness that makes it more enchanting than any other place you’ve been.

Jungkook wastes no time after stepping inside behind you, passing you to get to the bar where Hara and Hope are perched. Sadly, or maybe thankfully, you don’t see how he greets them, as a man steps into your view, broad shoulders blocking everything else.

“Welcome! I’m Jin! You must be ___.”

Jin practically squeezes you to death with his hug, your sore muscles protesting at how tight he holds you. You can’t hold back your laugh, not only because his greeting is the warmest you’ve ever received, but because you know the moment he lets go of you, he’ll do the same to Yoongi.

“Thanks for having us, Jin,” you squeak, tapping his back in hopes it’ll make him release you.

“Oh please, I’m so thrilled to finally meet you both.” Jin beams down at you before turning to throw himself at Yoongi, just as you predicted. “Yoongi, hi!”

“Please let go of me.” But Jin doesn’t listen, and you think he squeezes your grumpy cousin even tighter than before until he finally lets him go too.

“I’ve prepared a whole course for you three. I know Jungkook can be a bit demanding with his food, so I’ll make sure you’re well fed.”

Jin guides you to a table near the bar, and like the little control freak you are, you opt for the chair that gives you a view of the whole restaurant, including the bar. You don’t have a great view of Jungkook and Hara, though, as Namjoon is standing perfectly in front of them, but you think you see Hara leaning against Jungkook.

It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, twisting the knife of jealousy oh-so-slowly in your gut. You’re not sure how Jungkook could have found someone new so quickly, especially after telling you over and over again that you were the love of his life. Maybe it was just heartbreak that drove him to find solace in someone else. Maybe it’s just a hungry heart wanting to be fed with a fraction of love.

But you don’t want to assume that Hara’s love for him can’t compete with yours. Even though a part of you is certain that what you felt—and still feel—for him is beyond anything humanly possible. And even if her love for him is pure, yours will always outshine hers. Or maybe that’s just the green-eyed monster talking, infecting your thoughts.

But so be it. There’s nothing left to lose after you lost Jungkook, after you lost yourself, not just during your relationship with him, but in so much more.

Jin takes your drink order, and while at first you thought a Diet Coke would be nice after today, you opt for a whole bottle of wine. Not to share. Oh no, it’s entirely for yourself, because if you’re going to spend the evening witnessing Jungkook with his new flame, you’re definitely not doing it sober.

“You look jealous.”

“You don’t say.”

“Talk to him.”

“About what, Yoongs?” you snap as quietly as possible, fingers digging into the tablecloth to stop yourself from losing it. “How he’s fucking that model? Or how easy it was for him to move on?”

“That would be a start.”

“You’re ridiculous. Now shut up, they’re coming over.”

It’s not like you want to stare, but seeing Jungkook so at ease with Hara makes your stomach turn. And why Yoongi had to sit opposite you, leaving no other option but for Hara and Jungkook to sit on either side of you, is something you’ll never forgive him for.

“Hey!” Hara greets you both so warmly that you regret bashing her in your thoughts. Even if she’s Jungkook’s girlfriend, she’s always been nice to you.

“Hey, how have you been?”

Jin takes this moment to bring over a tray full of drinks. Yoongi has a beer, Hara a glass of water like Jungkook—yuck—and he sets the whole bottle of wine with a fitting glass in front of you. You should feel embarrassed, but you really don’t.

“You want some too?” you ask Hara out of politeness, knowing Jungkook never drinks during the week, as you pour yourself a generous first glass of your survival drink, wanting nothing more than to down it all before dinner starts.

“Oh no, thank you! I’m pregnant.”

The bottle’s still in your hand, but the glass is already at your lips with a hearty sip in your mouth, which you promptly snort back into the glass. You’re not sure if the tears springing to your eyes are just from the wine burning your sinuses and uncontrollably coughs or from your heart crumbling into dust at this revelation.

Jungkook—bless the tiny space you still occupy in his heart—is at your side in seconds, helping you recover from the near-death experience, but his touch feels scolding now.

Scolding in a way that makes you think back to all the times he said he wanted to be a dad, to all the times he fucked you raw and let his kink give you the best orgasms of your life. And eventually, you have to force yourself not to picture it—how he found all of that with Hara.

“Congratulations!” you manage to force out after everyone’s back in their seats and a bit of quiet has settled.

“Thank you! We’re all so happy, right?” Hara caresses her stomach, beaming at Jungkook, who looks just as thrilled as she does.

“Yeah! It’s going to have a wonderful mother.”

“Duh.” She laughs, sipping her water while you drown your glass, smiling and nodding as if you couldn’t agree more.

You don’t recall much of the conversations during dinner, don’t remember the sweet lies you told to hide how broken you are. But when Jungkook and Hara disappear into the kitchen after the meal, you grab Yoongi from his chair and drag him towards the door.

“Bye! Thanks for dinner!” you call to Namjoon and Hope, who look confused, but you’re too tipsy to care. Too tipsy to make out what Jin says to you as he rushes out of the kitchen, while you stumble outside.

“What was that?” Yoongi pulls his arm out of your grasp, hating it when you’re like this.

But you can’t hold it together anymore, alcohol always making you sad, emotional, and sentimental. Maybe it was the last straw—time to let Jungkook go, though him being so wound up this morning still nags at your mind.

“I’ve changed my mind.” You start walking towards the hostel, hearing Yoongi following, the snow crunching under your feet. “You’re free to do whatever you want.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Yes, you are. You need to end this limbo once and for all.

“I need answers, and I won’t get any if I’m not alone with Jungkook.”

Day 3

Maybe opting to spend the day alone with Jungkook wasn’t the best idea you’ve had. Not that it isn’t necessary to finally get the answers that have been piling up, but you’re not sure how to ask him without it turning into an interrogation.

Facing Jungkook first thing this morning would’ve been too much too, especially since you’ve barely had time to process the pregnancy bomb Hara dropped on you. So, sneaking out of the hostel it is.

You regret not stopping by Hope’s to grab your winter boots, but with no other option, you head out in full snowboarding gear, aiming to grab breakfast at Jimin’s.

What you didn’t expect was to spot Hara in the pastry shop as you stand outside, staring longingly at the treats like a starving kid. You can’t face her right now, so you quickly turn and decide to head anywhere else but here or the hostel, hoping there’s another bakery somewhere in town.

But of course, in your bulky snowboarding gear, you’re not exactly inconspicuous, looking more like an oversized ball of dark fabric against the snow. Naturally, Jimin spots you straight away, waving you in like you originally planned.

And of course, Hara notices too, her soft eyes and glowing smile radiating warmth as she waves at you.

Forcing a smile, you head to the entrance and with one deep breath, step into the lion’s den, thinking breakfast spent with Jungkook would have been the better option.

“Morning, ___!”

“Hey Hara. Jimin.”

You’re still a bit pissed at Jimin for being a little shit yesterday, stirring the pot between you and Jungkook for no reason. But seeing him now, friendly and without the evil glint in his eyes, tempers your anger just a bit.

“The usual?”

“I didn’t know I had one,” you laugh, now standing beside Hara, who’s practically pressed up against the glass display of sweets. It’s kind of cute, and you reckon the pregnancy hormones are hitting her hard, especially this early in the morning.

“I’d die for a coffee,” she mumbles, fogging up the glass and quickly wiping it clear again to not spoil her view.

Jimin’s back is to both of you, already busy with the coffee machine. “I could make you a decaf.”

“No, I read somewhere that decaf isn’t really decaf. And while nursing, caffeine stays in the baby’s system for up to three days. I don’t even want to think about how long it stays in their system when they’re still in the womb.”

“Oh, that’s wild. I didn’t know that.” You’re genuinely shocked by the news, and a little concerned for any women who don’t know either.

“Yeah.” Hara sighs, fogging the glass up again and immediately wiping it clean.

Why Jimin’s not serving Hara first and is making your coffee instead is beyond you, but you don’t say anything. Maybe she can’t decide what to eat just yet, or there’s something she’s avoiding. Either way, you don’t want to end up as the town’s biggest grouch.

“Aren’t you warm?” Hara asks, glancing at you, though her gaze keeps drifting back to the sweets.

“Yeah.” You stammer a little, awkwardly taking off your coat, walking back to the door to hang it up on the rack, which has been bodged together again. You realise quickly that Namjoon or Jimin clearly aren’t cut out for DIY which is definitely a pass.

“Something to eat?”

“Yes,” you and Hara answer in unison, though hers is more of a relieved sigh, making you giggle as you make your way to the table you sat at some days ago.

“What’ll it be then?”

“How about a bit of everything as an apology?” you tease, unable to let his mischief slide like you probably should.

“Touche.”

“What did he do again?” Hara’s now sitting beside you, both of you watching Jimin as he diligently piles treats onto a massive plate. A brief flicker of guilt runs through you as you think about the way you’ve been eating lately, except for that one perfect meal at Jin’s. But you’re only here for a few days, so you might as well make the most of it. There’s no way you’re saying no to all this food, especially when Jimin owes you more than that.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Mhm, sure,” you smirk, crossing your arms as you exchange glances with Hara, who’s clearly curious and ready for some gossip, even if it’s at your expense.

She looks stunning in the soft morning light filtering through the window, her thick black hair falling in loose waves like she’s fresh from a blowout. Maybe it’s just good genes, because her skin is flawless—no makeup, no blemishes, no dark circles.

Maybe, in another life, she could’ve been a friend. But there’s no way you could ever be close to someone who’s got the man you love.

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“What did he do?” Hara’s leaning forward now, elbows on the table, hands framing her perfect face as she eagerly looks between you and Jimin, clearly hooked on your tea.

“He’s been a little shit, stirring trouble.”

“I just brought you your favourite,” Jimin grins innocently, making his way to the table. But you can clearly see the mischievous glint in his eyes again, and before you know it, he’s setting down the dreaded americano in front of you. Hara’s already grabbed a macaron, barely waiting for the plate to touch the table.

“What’s so bad—” Hara starts, talking through a mouthful of food in a way only you could relate to, but Jimin cuts her off.

“She’s his ex.”

Hara’s reaction is immediate—she starts choking on her pastry, and you flash back to last night when you nearly drowned yourself with wine. You’re unsure what to do, hesitating with your hands hovering over her, worried about whether patting a pregnant woman on the back is safe as your panic rises. Luckily, Jimin sprints behind the counter, grabs a bottle of water, and leaps back over to hand it to her.

Thankfully, Hara recovers quickly, and your heart slows down as you see she’s alright.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”

That’s…not the reaction you were expecting.

“If you’d just checked the group chat, you’d know.”

“Wait, you have a group chat where you talk about me?!”

“Not important.” Hara waves you off with a hand, though the growing smile on her face makes the gesture anything but rude. She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through missed messages, clearly catching up on something you’re not privy to.

You try to sneak a glance at her screen, but she leans away, blocking your view. Instead, you watch her face as she scrolls—at first, there are little giggles, but soon her expression sours into a full-on pout.

What the hell are they texting about you? Isn’t that illegal or something?

“Why?” she whines, looking at Jimin while your confusion just deepens.

“Dunno. Ask Namjoon.”

“Namjoon?” The name slips out before you can stop yourself. It doesn’t make any sense for him to be involved in this.

Hara lets out an exasperated sigh, sinking into her seat like she already knows the answer Namjoon would give but is too drained to accept it. “Ugh, no way.”

You clear your throat, hoping to redirect the conversation, though the frustration is building. “Namjoon?”

“Yeah, Namjoon. Now eat before it gets cold.”

“Your pastries are cold,” you shoot back, but Jimin just waves it off.

“See? Now eat.” And with that, he disappears through the door leading to the back, leaving you stewing. You hate him for this—stirring up chaos and then vanishing as if he didn’t cause it in the first place.

Hara, meanwhile, seems lost in her thoughts, again eating, one hand’s wrapped around a croissant, the other clutches a muffin. How she manages to look like she’s stepped straight out of a commercial is beyond you, and somehow it fits that Jungkook would be with someone like her.

You hesitate, not daring to nudge her. You’ve never spent much time around pregnant women—how fragile are they, really? Better safe than sorry.

“Namjoon?” you ask again, more gently this time.

Her eyes flick up to yours, as if she momentarily forgot where she was. There’s no defensiveness in her gaze, only a soft apology. She places the muffin down and reaches out to touch your arm after wiping it clean on her sweater, her hand gentle and comforting like a mother consoling a child. She’s really going to make a great mum.

“I’m sorry, love. I can’t tell you.”

Surprisingly, it doesn’t make you angry. You should be furious, with how cryptic everyone’s being, and especially with how inconsistent Jungkook’s been treating you lately. But you can see the sincerity in Hara’s face. She really is sorry, and somehow, that makes it harder to be mad. She’s just…lovable in all the ways you’re sure you never could be.

So you just nod, defeated, and finally start eating your breakfast as well. Thinking about all the conversations you could have with Hara right now makes deciding which one you’d actually want to have not that easy.

Asking about her pregnancy could be a start, maybe how far along she is since she’s not showing yet. It would be a question asked just for the sake of it, to get to know her a bit better. Because quite frankly, even if you checked Jungkook’s or her social media to confirm if he was in town and might be the father of Hara’s child, it wouldn’t really help. The evidence wouldn’t be enough, seeing as he’d apparently be in Hawaii now if you took socials as proof.

Asking her how her relationship with Jungkook is? Not an option. Why would you willingly want to hear anything about their intimacy? Definite no.

Her childhood? Pass.

Her job? Don’t care.

Whether she has pets? Hmm, that would be nice to know. You love animals, regardless of their owner, so that’s where you settle.

This time though, you swallow the bite of food before speaking to Hara, who’s managed to eat half of the huge plate sitting before you both while you were lost in thought. Just as you part your lips, inhaling enough air to ask your first personal question, she freezes mid-bite with a half-eaten cinnamon roll in hand, her eyes wide.

“Oh no…” she breathes, mortified, cradling her stomach as she drops the roll and bolts towards the nearby toilet, gagging.

To your dismay, she doesn’t close the door behind her, and you can hear her throwing up everything she’s eaten so far, which sets off your own stomach. You start gagging too, barely able to stand, hating this reaction you’ve had since childhood whenever someone’s vomiting or even gagging near you.

You need to leave. Now. So you call out a quick “sorry” and “bye” with your hand over your mouth, grab your coat while passing the sad excuse of a fixed coat rack and rush outside. You’re not even fazed by the freezing cold, just relieved to be as far away from the sound of vomiting as possible.

Seeing no other option than to go back to the hostel and get your snowboard, you try to calm yourself as much as you can. It’s finally time to face Jungkook alone, how you’ll manage, you don’t know—but you’ll figure it out as you go.

When you enter the hostel, Jungkook’s already standing in full gear in the main area, turning his head from the hallway leading to the rooms when the chime signals your arrival. He looks confused for a moment, but as you approach your snowboard, you try not to let his presence faze you.

Though you fail miserably when your voice embarrassingly cracks. “Good morning.”

Jungkook still has the same effect on you. Anytime your eyes catch even a glimpse of him, whether in person or just a pixelated picture on the internet, he takes your breath away and makes you flustered all over again. It’s not like it’s something new—he’s had that effect on you ever since the first time you saw him, when he was tapping on your car window, asking if you needed help as you were clearly having a breakdown because you couldn’t, for the life of you, park in the narrow side street.

“Morning. Where’s your other half?” Jungkook’s voice turns slightly bitter, but as you look at him, you can tell he’s more irritated with himself than anything.

“He’s not coming.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow in question, walking towards the door to leave for the hill.

“He doesn’t need it. It’s just us. Or should we cancel the lesson altogether?” You grin at him as you walk beside each other, playful but secretly hoping for a way out that won’t involve you breaking a bone today.

“No, ‘s fine.” You think you catch a small smile tugging at Jungkook’s lips, but he quickly pulls his scarf up over his mouth, hiding it.

“Did you sleep well?”

You mull over his question, wondering if whining about being awake most of the night because of Yoongi’s snoring, which could probably warrant a sleep clinic appointment, and your own relentless overthinking about Hara’s pregnancy and Jungkook’s involvement, warranting an appointment with a psychologist, would be a good idea. But you decide against it. Not just because you don’t want to confront him yet, but because voicing a lie to explain why a whole bottle of wine didn’t lull you to sleep doesn’t cross your mind quickly enough.

“Perfectly. And you?”

“Yeah, though the beds are a bit too soft. You like them though, right?”

Nostalgia hits you like a snow storm—the fact that Jungkook still remembers such trivial details about you.

“Yeah, I even brought my snuggly,” you giggle, knowing he’ll definitely remember that as well.

What you didn’t consider is that the exact pillow you’ve been cradling every night since you got it was a gift from Jungkook himself. When his eyes snap to you, wide with recognition, searching your face to make sure he heard you right, you realise you’ve said too much.

He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. In fact, he doesn’t say anything, and you’re too caught up in your head to even attempt small talk. How could you, with Jungkook? The two of you have never been like this, never awkward. You were always at ease, immediately friends, then more, and eventually…nothing at all.

It’s only when you reach the dreaded hill, with Jungkook stepping in front of you like the instructor he is—and how you should be seeing him right now—, that you try to bottle up everything, telling yourself you’ll bring it up later, maybe over lunch. It’s already late morning, so it won’t be too long until you get the answers you’re desperate for.

“So, today we’ll be snowboarding for real,” he starts, but it’s so much softer than when Yoongi was with you. There’s a gentleness in his tone now, something quieter, like he’s trying to ease you into it rather than push. “But before we lift up and go down the slopes, I want you to get a feel for gliding with a bit of speed.”

Yeah, no. He’s not easing, he’s definitely pushing you. You don’t like where this is going.

“First with a rope, then we’ll use the hill a few times, and hopefully before lunch we’ll make our first descent down the blue slope.”

“Blue?”

“It’s the easiest one. I’ll explain it in detail once we’re up there.” He points with his thumb over his shoulder.

Following the direction, you notice multiple skiers and snowboarders already dashing down the slopes. You’re pretty sure you hear someone scream right before they fall, snow exploding around them like flour hitting the ground. You gulp dryly, but you nod all the same.

When Jungkook pulls a cut-off lift cord from his jacket, you’re equal parts terrified and impressed by how much he carries around without you noticing.

“Clip yourself in, please,” he instructs as he unwraps the cord, walking towards you with both ends in hand.

Of course, you do as he says, but you can’t help glancing warily at the cord, still unsure of exactly what he’s got planned.

Shifting awkwardly on your snowboard, trying not to fall while Jungkook messes with the lift cord, you try to ignore the racing of your heart as Jungkook’s gloved hands tug gently around your body to secure it. But all your attempts to focus on anything other than how natural it feels for him to be helping you again, are futile at their best.

„You ready?“ He’s got this grin on his face, one you recognise too well—the kind that usually means he’s about to do something reckless or ridiculous. It’s the same grin he had that time he convinced you to build a fort out of every cushion in his apartment, just because and why not.

“Not even a little bit,” you admit, but still, you’ve never been able to say no to that grin. Snowboarding is definitely not something you ever thought you’d be doing, yet, here you are, letting your ex teach you. It’s awkward as it sounds, except…it’s not.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I’m gonna start pulling now. Just relax, yeah?” he grins, his voice carrying that casual, teasing tone that makes your heart ache just a little bit too much. Swallowing hard, you adjust your stance, trying to keep your balance as he gets into position.

“Relax? You’re literally going to run while pulling me. How am I supposed to relax?” you shoot back, giving him a look. Your knees feel wobbly just thinking about it, and you’re not even moving yet.

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling ever so lovingly at the edges. ��Trust me, you’ll be fine. Just focus on staying straight and let me do the hard part.”

You shake your head, but deep down, you do trust him. You always have, even when you probably shouldn’t. Like that time he tried to teach you how to ride a bike after you told him you hadn’t been on one since you were a kid. He’d run alongside you, holding the seat, laughing the whole time while you screamed about how you were going to crash. And yeah, you did crash. But he was right there to catch you before you hit the ground.

“Okay, here we go!” Jungkook calls out suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. He grabs the lift cord a bit tighter, gives it a little tug, and then he’s off—actually sprinting through the snow, pulling you behind him like some kind of sled dog.

The board jerks beneath you as you’re dragged forward, and for a split second, you think you’re about to eat snow. But you don’t. Somehow, you manage to keep your balance, your legs flexing to stay upright as you glide over the snow. You can’t help it—you let out a yelp of surprise, half-laughing, half-shrieking, as Jungkook keeps running ahead of you, turning to look over his shoulder with a huge grin on his face, sparkling eyes, and a nose red from the cold.

“See? You’re doing it!” he shouts, his voice breathless but excited, clearly proud of you just for managing not to fall.

“Don’t distract me!” you yell back, laughing now despite yourself. The rush of the cold air against your face and the ridiculousness of the situation sends a burst of adrenaline through you, and for a moment, you actually feel like you’re snowboarding. Well, sort of. „I’m going to crash!“

„Nah, I’d never let you crash!“

You look up at that and he still looks annoyingly good, like he’s stepped out of a high-end winter sports ad. You wonder if he’s thinking about the past too—about the warmth you’d felt on those lazy Sunday mornings when you’d wake up next to him, the two of you tangled in blankets, sharing groggy laughter and sleepy conversation before starting the day.

Why did it have to end? That thought keeps creeping up, even though you tell yourself not to think about it. You weren’t right for each other, or maybe you were, but just not at the right time maybe. But there are still these little moments that get you. Moments like now, when he’s right in front of you, close enough but still far away.

Jungkook slows down a little, but his grip on the cord stays secure, guiding you as you slide behind him. It’s strangely easy, being pulled along like this. You’re not focused on your feet or the board or the fear of falling—you’re just…moving because of Jungkook. Making you remember all those rare times you’d dance around the kitchen with him guiding you in his sturdy arms, not caring if you looked ridiculous or if you were stepping on each other’s socked feet. Back when everything was uncomplicated, and just being with him made you happy.

“You’re not even trying to steer!” Jungkook calls out, teasing, his breath visible in the cold air. He looks over his shoulder again, his hair bouncing slightly as he jogs, and there’s something playful and secure in his eyes—something that makes you remember why you fell for him in the first place.

“I’m trying! Let me life!” you protest, though your voice is shaky from laughing too hard. It’s ridiculous, this whole thing, but you’re actually having fun.

“Alright, I’m gonna let go now,” Jungkook warns, slowing down even more. “Get ready to stop.”

You brace yourself, bending your knees just a bit more, trying to remember everything he told you over the last two days about controlling the board. But before you can do much more than panic slightly, he releases the cord, and you glide forward, the board still carrying you for a few more feet before coming to a slow, wobbly stop right in front of him, your snowboard between his legs.

You stand there for a moment, catching your breath, and when you turn your head up to look from Jungkook’s chest to his face, there’s nothing less than a satisfied smile on his lips.

“See? Told you it’d be fun,” he smiles, like this whole thing was a walk in the park for you. Honestly, it probably would be for him. He’s always been annoyingly good at making things look easy.

“Fun? I almost fell like ten times!” you exaggerate, but you’re still smiling. You can’t help it. It’s hard not to smile when you’re around him, even now, years later.

Slightly out of breath, he gives you that boyish grin that makes you swoon even more. “But you didn’t. And you were laughing, which means you were having fun.”

You want to argue with him, to say that just because you were laughing doesn’t mean you weren’t terrified, but the truth is, you did have fun. More fun than you’ve had in a while, actually.

“Okay, fine. Maybe it wasn’t that bad,” you admit, brushing some snow off your gloves. “But I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s the point. You don’t have to know what you’re doing. You just have to let yourself try.”

You stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s talking about snowboarding or —again—something else entirely. It’s funny how easily he slips back into your life like this when you’re alone and forget about the world, making you laugh, making you feel like things aren’t as complicated as they really are. It reminds you of all those little moments you had together—when you’d stay up late, talking about nothing in particular, just enjoying the sound of each other’s voice or binge-watching shows that neither of you were really that into but refused to stop watching because you both needed to see how ridiculous the plot would get. Or, even, those lazy afternoons spent cooking together, fumbling through recipes neither of you knew how to make, laughing at each other when you messed up.

Those days were safe, easy. And even though it’s over, you miss that ease sometimes—the way he’d make you laugh without trying, the way he’d look at you during the quiet moments when he didn’t think you were paying attention.

Jungkook steps back and bends down to pick up the cord again, glancing up at you with that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Wanna go again?”

You sigh dramatically, though you’re already nodding. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

He laughs, and the sound of it is oh so wonderfully warm. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

As he starts pulling the cord again, you feel that rush of excitement building in your chest, the same way it used to whenever he’d suggest something spontaneous or ridiculously dangerous. It’s easy to forget everything else when you’re with him—how things ended, how you’re supposed to be moving on. But for now, in this exact moment, with him pulling you along like old times, you let yourself enjoy it.

Because quite frankly, as soon as you have the talk with him, you’re sure there won’t be any of these shared moments anymore. Ignoring the ticking countdown inside your head is everything you’re willing to do for now, you’re not quite ready to let go of the ease that obviously can still exist between you, fragile as it may be.

Some time later, after you’ve been gliding—no, really snowboarding—down the hill a few times, you’re sitting on top of it with Jungkook beside you. Both of you are clipping yourselves in, facing the lift where you’re about to head up for your first proper descent.

“People are already off to lunch, so the lift’s going to be pretty empty. Try to stop right behind me, I’ve got the ticket for you.”

“Okay.” you hesitate, but maybe it’s the perfect time to clear some of your questions. “Uh, before we start, could you tell me what you’ve all been saying about me in the group chat?”

“What?”

“Yeah, like, what you’ve been talking about me. About us.”

Jungkook looks completely confused, muttering, “We don’t talk about you there,” but he pulls his phone from his pocket regardless, unlocking it and heading straight to the group chat. “What the fuck?!”

“What is it?”

You try to peer at his phone, but the sun’s too bright for you to make anything out.

“They’ve removed me from the chat.”

Frowning at his phone, Jungkook quickly types out a flurry of messages to all his friends, each one filled with the same curse words and passive-aggressive tone. But when you see him typing to Hara, it’s just a politely phrased question, before he puts his phone away and turns to you with apologetic eyes.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on with—”

“Jungkook!”

You turn towards the chirpy voice calling out, spotting two snowboarders decked out in pink, gliding effortlessly towards you. Their gear isn’t baggy, snugly fitting and showing off their slender physiques.

“Who’s that?” you mutter to yourself, still transfixed by how effortlessly they come to a stop in front of you. You think you hear Jungkook mumble something like no clue.

Both girls remove their scarves and protective goggles, revealing not only perfect features but also flawless makeup—more suited for a night out than a day on the slopes.

“Hey,” Jungkook greets them, confusion evident in his tone.

“It’s so dope to see you again! Right, Minji? Best instructor in the world.”

Both giggle, and you notice Jungkook shifting uncomfortably. Did he sleep with them? They look so young, he wouldn’t have…right?

“Oh, thanks. Minji and…uh…”

“Sora!” She winks at him, still ignoring your presence. “It’s been, what? Two years? We’ve grown up now, right?”

“The Cho cousins! Of course! Wow, you really have grown up!” Jungkook smiles now, no longer bothered by the obvious flirting, though your mood sours the longer the girls stare at him.

“You remember,” Minji breathes, looking at him like a lovesick puppy.

“You want to grab lunch with us? Catch up a bit?”

“We were just about to—” you start, but Sora interrupts you with a pout.

“Pretty please?”

“Are your parents with you?” Jungkook asks.

“No, just us.”

Jungkook turns to look at you, and you school your expression into neutrality.

“We could have lunch now and then—”

“Yeah, the lesson’s over for today,” you say flatly, unclipping your feet from your board and getting up immediately. “See you later.”

You’re not proud of how you’ve handled it, but you’re done. You’ve wasted the whole morning without getting any answers, and now there’s another issue you wouldn’t have wanted.

“Wait!” Jungkook calls after you, but you’re already at the base, not looking back as you head straight to the hostel, hoping Yoongi had the sense and decency to finally grab your stuff from Hope’s.

Hearing Jungkook trying to catch up with you gives you that extra boost, despite your muscles aching, pushing you to increase your pace. It’s pretty embarrassing how you’re practically fleeing from him, but you’re pissed, and you’re petty, and he knows it too. Jungkook definitely still knows how to handle you when you’re like this, but right now, you just can’t.

Luckily, he doesn’t speed up, and you make it to the hostel first, stumbling inside. Everyone, literally everyone, is scattered around the main area as if they’re plotting something you’re not in on. They all fall silent the moment you burst through the door, with a few empty takeout boxes on the table and Jimin holding a clipboard and pen.

“Uh, hello?” you ask carefully.

That seems to break their trance as everyone starts blinking and moving again. Yoongi gets up with a takeout box in hand and walks over to you.

“Want some takeout?” He’s being too nice, and the way his eyes shift over his shoulder to Namjoon and Hope does anything but ease your nerves.

“What’s going on here?”

No one answers. Jin even starts whistling while cleaning his nails, which earns him a swift kick to the shin from Hara, who’s sitting between him and Tae.

“Just getting things ready for tonight,” Namjoon finally says, though you can see in his eyes that he’s straight-up bullshitting you.

You don’t have time to push for answers as Jungkook bursts through the door too, looking just as confused. “What’s going on?”

“Preparations,” everyone except you says in unison, making them seem even more suspicious than they already are.

“Why are you back so soon?” Hara tries to distract, smiling as she glances between you and Jungkook.

That’s your cue to leave though. You’re not dealing with this today. “Thanks for the takeout, I’m off for a shower. Bye~.”

And with that, you grab the takeout box from Yoongi, swap it with your snowboard, and stomp off in your snow-covered boots towards your suite. Locking yourself inside, you decide to spend the day on some much-needed self-care before you have to face the party tonight.

Because finally having the time to think—or rather, not to think—and just get back to your inner zen, maybe even start acting a bit more rationally, is exactly what you need. You’re just relieved that everyone, even Yoongi, has left you alone throughout the whole afternoon, only briefly interrupting you so he could get ready for the evening as well.

You’re not sure why you opted for the clothes you’re currently wearing, feeling ridiculously overdressed for this town, but at the same time underdressed for the weather. Still, you won’t let every other woman around you push you into their shadows, knowing there’s a spotlight for you too, even though you barely take it.

If Jungkook’s the visual type, which you know for a fact he is, then you’ll damn well show him what he’s missing. Not just to give him a mental middle finger, but also for you to feel at least a bit more adequate.

Maybe there’ll be someone at the party who’ll appreciate your appearance, someone who isn’t familiar with your past or your sorry attempt at being something you’re simply not. Maybe tonight’s all about getting answers and a change, closing the book written by Jungkook.

Grabbing your small purse, you stuff your phone into it, pulling on your boots, which don’t quite match your outfit, but leaving with heels would be a death sentence with the snow-covered streets. It’ll have to do, especially when you’re hoping that Jin’s place is dimly lit, so no one notices your footwear anyway.

When you enter the main area, Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jungkook are already waiting for you, the latter two stunned silent as they take you in. It makes you blush, though you hope your makeup stays true to its claims and doesn’t let the pink show through.

Jungkook’s decked out in all black again, his fitted jeans straining against those massive thighs you’ve always had a weakness for. You think you spot a silver chain peeking out from his collar—it looks familiar, but you’re not entirely sure. You reckon it might be a new one; time has definitely passed, and it would be odd if he were still wearing jewellery gifted by his petty ex who dumped him.

“Finally,” Yoongi breathes, standing up from the couch with a clap to his knees.

Jungkook throws him an evil eye, though you chalk it up to his general hostility towards him rather than any real annoyance at the semi-rude comment about how long you took to get ready.

“You look beautiful,” Namjoon smiles, that dimpled smile of his, walking beside you as you head out to the party.

“Thanks, Namjoon, I like your hair.” You compliment him back, noticing the effort he’s put in as well, his hair now gelled back, showing off his forehead.

You’re glad Jungkook doesn’t butt in again, though the silent simmering isn’t much better. It’s kind of childish how he’s acting—not that you’re any better—but still, it grates on your nerves. At this point, though, you’re not even sure talking to him would help, considering how loaded everything is between you two, you reckon there might not be a way back to normalcy. Not that you know what normal would look like with Jungkook.

When you finally reach Jin’s, you’re pleasantly surprised by how it’s transformed—not just because the whole town’s there, but because the decorations are on point. Multiple mistletoe hang from the ceiling, with glittery ornaments reflecting the fairy lights, making the whole place feel more like a Christmas nightclub than the posh restaurant it was just yesterday.

You spot Hope, Hara, and Tae right away, deep in conversation in front of a makeshift stage, where several microphones and instruments are set up. Jungkook and Namjoon are swarmed within seconds by women swooning over them like starved cougars which annoys you just a bit more than usual.

It’s too much for you again—you can’t stand to watch—so you grab Yoongi’s hand and drag him to the bar, needing to drown a shot glass, even if it ends up filled with your tears by the end of the night.

“Hey!” Jin greets you from behind the bar, shaking up a drink for an older lady perched on a barstool, who looks like a cross between a crazy rich Asian and a fashion icon. You’re sure to see Jimin’s hair flopping at the other end of the bar, probably helping out in serving drinks tonight.

“Yo, Jin, what’s up?” Yoongi daps him up, and you sit down, swirling slightly while deciding what you’ll drink tonight.

“What can I get you?”

“A beer for me and…”

“A shot of vodka and a glass of wine, please.”

“Going hard tonight?” Jin laughs, but he prepares your drinks without much judgement.

“It’s a party, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Enjoy yourselves,” he winks, setting down the drinks before heading off to serve another customer.

“You planning on getting smashed?” Yoongi asks, right before taking his first sip.

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Just talk to him.”

You give him a silent glare, throwing your head back as the vodka disappears before you know it. When you get home, you’ll definitely need to cut back on the alcohol—it’s gotten out of hand, and you know it.

“Maybe you don’t want answers.“

„Maybe.“

„You coming over?” Yoongi nods towards the group of friends, Jungkook standing with them next to Hara but with his eyes locked on you, watching intensely as you turn.

You can’t look away, not when he’s hypnotising you the way only he can, making you feel exposed to the core, even from across the room.

“No, I’ll come over in a bit.”

“Suit yourself.”

And with that, Yoongi’s gone, pushing through the crowd while you turn back to the bar, watching Jin and Jimin work, taking gulps of wine one after the other, just as soon as you set the glass down.

You can’t help but take occasional peeks over your shoulder at the others, always laughing and having a good time. But every time, Jungkook’s eyes are already locked on you, refusing to look away even when you catch him staring. His confidence is bold, and he’s never been shy about it—or anything, really—which only stirs the fire inside you, the one only he could ever ignite.

After your second glass of wine, your mind wanders to fantasies that can only come true in your dreams. What if he’s not with Hara? If he’s not the baby daddy? Would there still be a chance for you? Would you be enough?

What if you are? What if everything goes back to how it once was? Would you be happy? Of course you would, how could you not. Even the toughest days spent with Jungkook aren’t as hard as being without him. You’d take fighting with him over being apart from him any day.

But the fact that you’ve been sitting here for what feels like hours, and no one has even attempted to make a move on you, destroys your pride even more. Maybe you’re just not desirable enough, and Jungkook, being the peak of human perfection, would see it that way too.

When he joins you at the bar after some time, you don’t even need to look to know it’s Jungkook standing beside you, leaning on the counter—his unique fragrance mixed with his scent gives him away instantly.

“A whiskey, please,” he calls over the music to the barman, Jimin and Jin by now replaced by two unfamiliar faces.

“Didn’t know you drink during the week.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticks ever so slightly, his head hanging low as his fringe hides his eyes.

“Can’t I enjoy myself too?”

“Go ahead, enjoy yourself as much as you like.” You can’t help the bitter tone in your voice, hoping he didn’t catch it, but Jungkook noticed.

When he’s handed his drink, he turns to you, and you can’t help but take him in. It’s instinct at this point, letting your eyes shamelessly stray over his build and features, though he’s just the same.

“You look like you’re doing just fine without me.” Ouch.

“Maybe you do too.” You try to safe face.

There’s silence now as Jungkook takes a sip of his whiskey, his darkened eyes flickering over your face as if trying to make sense of you.

But eventually, he just shakes his head. “Having to learn how to live without you is a lesson I never wanted to learn.”

He’s gone as quickly as he appeared, and you’re left alone again. You can’t spend the whole evening like a fucking loner at the bar, so you order another glass, and once it’s handed to you, you get up and head towards the others.

Just like the rest of the night, they’re loudly chatting and laughing away, now joined by Jin, who’s massaging Hara’s shoulders, and Jimin, who’s clearly annoying the hell out of Yoongi.

“___!” Tae shouts over the heads of the others, bulldozing towards you as you stand beside Jungkook, throwing himself over your shoulders.

The hug mends your broken heart just a little, and you regret not coming over sooner, realising you were once again stuck in your head, missing out on the easy fun that was waiting for you.

“Tae, hi!” You feel a bit of wetness on your back, probably from the drink Tae’s holding, but you don’t let it bother you, knowing it’ll dry in no time with the heat surrounding you.

“You left so quickly this morning,” Hara pouts, and guilt washes over you instantly.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve got a sensitive stomach and…well, you know…”

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

“No, it’s fine! Nothing you could’ve done,” you laugh, trying to brush off the awkwardness.

The chatter picks up again, and you’re relieved no one mentions you keeping your distance until now. Everyone seems pretty laid back, happy to let people take space if they need it. Well, everyone except Jungkook, who’s stepped a little away from you and closer to Hara.

It stings a bit—well, a lot—but you try to keep the tight-lipped smile intact, tuning into the conversations around you over the music.

“You ready?” Jin grins over Hara’s head at Jungkook, who shifts uncomfortably.

“Do I have to?”

“Course you do! It’s tradition at this point,” Hope laughs, and even though you have no idea what they’re talking about, his bright laughter makes you giggle too.

Jungkook still looks unsure, but when Hara nudges him, leaning away from Jin to whisper something in his ear while squeezing his bicep, he nods and hands his drink to Jimin, prompting cheers from everyone but you and Yoongi.

“What the fuck?” Yoongi mouths at you, and you just shrug, just as clueless.

“Here goes nothing,” Jungkook mutters, and as he and Jin make their way to the stage—Tae giving them both a hard slap on the ass—your own nerves start to flare up.

Hara stands right beside you, pulling you into a side hug. “I’m so proud of him.”

You don’t bother asking why; your question will be answered any minute now.

“Hello everyone! Thanks for coming tonight! And like every year, let’s kick off the real party with our babystarcandy!” Jin shouts into the mic, tossing paper hearts into the air as Jungkook grabs a guitar from the side, slinging the strap over his shoulder and stepping up to the mic Jin just left.

The room erupts into the loudest cheers you’ve ever heard, with Hara screeching the loudest. Jungkook glances at her bashfully with a small smirk.

“Hey, everyone.”

More deafening cheers follow, and you swear you see a black bra flying through the air towards the stage, though you’re not sure—your alcohol-hazed vision could be playing tricks on you at this point.

“What do you want to hear first?” Jungkook’s smooth voice reverberates through the room, and you realise he’s made for the stage. You’ve never seen him like this before.

The crowd shouts random song titles you’ve never heard before, but the loudest—and from Hara—is a request for a song called ‘Guillotine,’ one you’ve too never heard of. Jungkook locks eyes with her again and simply nods with cheeks dusted pink and a small smile.

“Alright, this one’s for someone special.”

As the first chords flow from his guitar, his tattooed fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, eyes closed as if he’s pouring his soul into the song, the entire room falls silent.

“Sleep on me, feel the rhythm in my chest, just breathe.”

You gulp, not just because his voice is beautiful beyond words, but because when you glance at Hara, you see her with glassy eyes, softly mouthing the lyrics. You feel yourself starting to break. The words rain down on you, pulling you under, making it hard to breathe without gasping.

“I will stay, so the lantern in your heart won’t fade.”

This can’t be happening. It really can’t. Jungkook’s found the true love of his life, and it’s not you. You were never meant to be—just a prototype, an example for the perfect candidate, but only a candidate.

It’s her.

Tears well up in your eyes, though for entirely different reasons than Hara, who’s now curled into Jin’s side, still singing along, cheering for Jungkook, who keeps glancing in her direction with that same soft smirk.

“I know that you love me, love me, even if I lose my head.”

And as the whole room joins in, singing, clapping, and cheering, you silently crash. Splintering into a thousand pieces, never to be put back together. Your wine glass slips from your hand and shatters on the floor, but the sound is drowned out by Jungkook’s guitar. Still, Yoongi and Namjoon notice. They see you gasping for air, breaking, spiralling, and finally turning to flee from the hell that you’re forced to see.

You push through the crowd, head down, trying to block out the sound of Jungkook’s voice, but it’s everywhere, even as you burst outside and run towards the hostel. It’s still there, screaming in your head, with no way to drown it out.

01 • masterlist • 03

a/n 3: lmk what you think in any way you like! 👀 If you liked what you read, pls consider buying me a ☕️ Ko-fi.com/runariya 💕

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