#its less about like how i feel and more how good it feels that i can make others feel that way. its like. yeah

[gay-dorito-dust]

saja boys manager walks in unexpectedly to find a big blue tiger in the living room, they’re in a state of internal panic thinking their cover is blown…

Reader? Couldn’t care less, big fluffy blue tiger demands snuggles immediately.

Now they gotta deal with a completely separate issue… reader spending more time with tiger than them…

I just love that big goofy baby 💙

‘Alright boys good work today as usual. but please make sure you get some decent sleep tonight because we’ve got a hefty amount of press junkets to do and I don’t want to be the one to-‘

The words seemed to die on your lips the second you stepped into the living room. You’d have expected to see the boys you were lumped with managing, not a blue furred tiger with amber eyes that gave it a slightly demonic look, and a permanent Cheshire like grin as it lounged it’s large body on the floor comfortably. Everything about this blue tiger should’ve had your mind screaming danger, have you running away but when it’s big amber eyes landed on you, it’s mouth already stuck in a permanent Cheshire smile only seem to grow wider as it slowly waddles it’s way to you out of curiosity.

When within proximity to you the unusually blue tiger sniffed and pawed at your legs softly with it’s paws, looking at you as it blinked slowly, almost expecting something in return for bothering to get up from it’s comfortable position on the floor. You smiled and allowed a hand to brush through the thick fur atop of it’s head, scratching behind the ears as the tiger purred in content as it rest it’s body against you, it’s tail swaying in content before moving to hold onto your ankle.

‘You’re a cutie aren’t you?’ You said softly as you shifted the scratching to the tiger’s chin where you could feel it’s powerful purrs just beneath your fingertips as it’s eyes closed to indulge as your snails scratched places they couldn’t before. ‘Yes you are, the cutest cutie there is.’ You cooed at the beast as it slowly moved to lay on its back, showing you it’s stomach which was a lighter shade of blue compared to the darker shade of cobalt, paws closely tucked to it’s body as it looked at you with big eyes and a impatience you only see in animals that wanted more affection the second they get it.

‘Okay! Okay some belly rubs and pats coming right up for the blue cutie!’ You laughed as you set aside your tablet, kicked off your aching shoes and kneeled next to the tiger and began to rub its belly like you would a cat or a dog, switching to patting it’s belly when you felt it was growing bored and then switching back to rubs once more. You didn’t know why you didn’t seem scared of this creature, after all a tiger was a predator by all means but this one had the scare factor of a small kitten, it looked at you in awe and it’s ears would twitch at the sound of your laughter as it’s tail swished happily.

It didn’t give of signs of being an actual threat towards you in anyway and that’s probably why you didn’t feel the need to run away and hide -not that you could ever hope to out run it- but instead spend time giving it the love and affection like you would to anyone else, whispering sweet words to it despite knowing it wouldn’t understand and struggling to hide your cuteness aggression when it bats your hand with it’s paw, showing off it’s toe beans.

Meanwhile the Saja boys were loosing their shit. Jinu had lost his tiger companion, which they suspected was loose within the apartment, where you were also happen to be to go over the itinerary for tomorrow.

‘How can you miss a demonic blue tiger?! It’s big and blue and did I forget to mention demonic!’ Abby says as he, baby, mystery and romance followed Jinu further into the apartment as quickly as they could in hopes they’d find Jinu’s companion before you did. They’ve came this far in their mission and it wouldn’t work out well for them if Gwi-Ma was ever to find out their true identity was figured out, and all because their human manager came across a unusually blue tiger within the apartment.

Jinu groaned as he -much like the rest of the group- was growing more and more frustrated the longer his search went without seeing his tiger companion, the dread growing within his stomach as each door they opened they were greeted with nothing big or blue or tiger looking in appearance. He had been specific about them staying in his room -especially if you were within the apartment- until further notice but it seemed as though the tiger had devolved a rebellious streak as of late and decided to leave the room on it’s own accord, which only made things worse for the demon boy band who were slowly losing their minds the more time passed and no blue tiger was in sight.

Time was of the essence and unfortunately they didn’t have enough of it before you realise what you were managing.

‘What if they found them?’ Romance asked, looking between Abby and Jinu as Mystery seemed to be sniffing the air as if he could find traces of the tiger by doing so, or by chance notice something that none of them could that would greatly help them.

‘Wouldn’t we have heard (name) screaming or shouting by now if they did?’ Baby replied, raising his brow as he pops his lollipop back into his mouth, acting as nonchalant as he could about the entire situation but internally he was just as on edge about their secret being exposed as the rest of them. He liked you- they all did- but the mission came first and foremost, and if you had figured out what they were, nothing good would come from it and all would be lost for them.

Jinu was about to say something when your laugh reached his ears and he was quick to pick up the pace, rushing towards the living area of the apartment as the sound of your laughter grew, followed by a familiar purring of a certain companion of his that had been the cause a lot of the chaos and uncertainty up until now. Abby, Mystery, Romance and Baby followed suit after having heard the sound of your laughter as clear as day, also curious as to what was making you laugh like that which brought about feelings of territory and protectiveness out of them, after all you were their manager not someone else’s and they wouldn’t take too kindly to someone else taking away your attention from them.

Yet what they saw was what they expected, yet not at the same time. The blue tiger had found you like they feared but instead of screaming and running away like they thought you would, you were cuddling by the blue furr ball, burring your head into it’s neck as a sigh of relief left your lips and acting like all of this was as next to normal to you.

‘You’re comfy.’ You said, the tiger huffed as though to say they were in agreement with you. ‘Like really comfy and I don’t feel like moving anymore. I’ve done enough work today don’t you think?’

‘(Name)?’ Jinu called.

You groaned as you lifted your head from the tiger’s neck to look at the group of bewildered men, staring at you as though you had grown a second head. ‘What? Can’t you see I’m trying to destress here!’ You tell them, but before Jinu or the others could voice their reasoning for interrupting you, you continued as you rested your head against the tiger’s neck once more, softly toying with it’s toe beans. ‘Besides where were all of you! I came here to tell you about the press junkets and that’s when I found this cutie lounging on the floor, looking as though they could use some company. Didn’t you big guy?’

The tiger huffed, not caring that it subjected Jinu and the rest of the group to a full blown panic, looking rather content as your pillow more so than anything as it intentionally looked from Jinu to Abby, Mystery, Baby and Romance as though intentionally showing how they were getting what they couldn’t without having to try.

‘We were-‘ Romance was about to come up with an excellent excuse, when it was cut off by you waving your hand lazy as sleep called your name.

‘I honestly don’t care, just don’t be late for the early morning press junkets, good night.’ And with that you were out like a light and the tiger beneath you slowly rose up onto it’s legs, looking back at you to make sure you were on it’s back before prodding past the bewildered men and off in the direction of your room.

Jinu, Abby, Romance, Baby and Mystery were left to watch as the tiger disappeared from their sight yet again, no longer filled with panic or worry but instead an overwhelming sense of confusion at your lack of reaction, but also a feeling of calm as their identities were safe for now and that you would probably think of the weirdly blue tiger as a figment of your imagination. Their alibi was solid should you ever tell them such the next morning when you were fresh of mind.

Yet there was one thing on their minds.

‘Jinu?’ Abby asked.

‘Yeah?’ Jinu replied.

‘How does the tiger know where (name)‘s room is to take them there?’ Romance adds, crossing his arms over his chest as Baby, Abby and Mystery also look to him for a response.

‘Probably by scent.’ Jinu lamely answers.

The boys weren’t convinced by that at all.

[lymtw]

Sweetness

(Toji and His Shy Girl)

It's two in the morning when your eyes blink open from your very brief slumber. Your eyelids feel heavy as you hold them open, but it's nothing compared to the grip your strong craving for something sweet has on you. Toji's soft snores fill your ears, along with the rustling of the blanket as you flip over onto your other side to face him. You move slowly, careful not to make any disruptive movements.

Your vision is limited in the darkness of Toji's room, but the few minutes that you've been awake now has allowed your eyes to somewhat adjust. You can see how handsome he is, even while he sleeps. His lips form an involuntary pout, his dark eyelashes rest against the bags under his eyes. You don't feel as nervous to proceed with your plan of getting your early morning craving handled.

'He's not awake, he's not looking at you...' you think to yourself as you lean forward to press a light kiss on his cheek. Your heart stutters as you lean back to see if that did anything.

Nothing.

So, you go again, with less caution this time because he's in a deep sleep. You leave a few more kisses on his cheek, a couple on his chin, and then, one on the tip of his nose, before leaning back to see your progress. His quiet snoring has subsided, leaving only soft breaths to escape his nose.

You continue on with the soft butterfly kisses on his face. Your lips brush the point of his nose once more, and then you leave the ghost of a peck on his lips, before going to his cheek, again.

This time he hums, right before pulling you in and holding you like a bear protecting its cub.

"Toji," you whisper, tilting your head to try and look at him.

"Mm," he simply grunts, not opening his eyes.

"Can we go to the store?"

He sighs through his nose, a sound riddled with the sleep that held him just a couple minutes ago. "You sleep talking, baby?"

The thought makes a faint smile appear on his lips. You? Dreaming about going to the store with him? It's adorable.

"No, something sweet sounds really good right now. Like some fruit or... I don't know."

A soft hum is his initial response, before the fogginess of his sleep ridden brain clears a little more. "You can't wait a few more hours, doll? It's pretty early and you won't go back to sleep if we get you something sweet," he tries to reason.

He's right. The fact that you woke him up for this makes you feel a little guilty. "Oh... yeah. That's fine. I can wait," you mumble, ready to curl up and try to sleep off your want for something to snack on.

Now he feels guilty. You hardly ask him for anything, and though he feels strongly about you getting a consistent amount of sleep, he knows that it wouldn't kill him to let you have this.

A few seconds go by and you've settled in his arms, again. "Hey, baby," he calls, dragging his fingertips over your lower back. "Gimme a kiss." It's not a test or a way to persuade him. The delicacy of your sweet kisses is not to be taken for granted, but maybe it made him feel worse when you slowly scooted forward and met him halfway for a little peck. You didn't even hesitate to fulfill his request.

"Another one," he murmurs, allowing himself to be selfish with this seemingly endless fountain of your affection. Normally, you're hesitant or nervous, but with you being half asleep, you must not really be thinking about it. "One more," he hums, awaiting the feeling of your lips pressed on his, again. "Mm... that's good stuff, pretty baby. Always the sweetest thing for me, so I think..." he murmurs, his voice audible only between you and him, "...we should go get you something sweet, hm?"

"Are you sure? I really don't mind-"

He cuts you off with another chaste kiss. "I'm sure. You should wake me up like that all the time."

You laugh. "But I don't usually wake you up."

"Well, I like the way you did it just now. All kinds of soft. You wake me up like that and we can do whatever you want whenever you want."

"Okay, then," you agree.

"Put on the dress and we'll head out," he says, referring to his hoodie that you spent most of the night in before you climbed into bed with him. It looked like you were drowning in fabric and Toji was loving every minute of the view. The sleeves hid your hands, effortlessly, and the hem reached your thighs. It fit like a short dress on you.

Toji watches you after putting his shirt on, as you lift the almost heavy material over your head and pull it down, your arms not filling the sleeves once again and your shorts getting lost underneath the fabric. You pull the hood down and it sticks out behind you on its own.

"What?" You ask, in response to the smirk curled on his lips.

"You're not real," he says, stepping towards you. "You just get devoured by my hoodie." He tugs at the front a couple times, observing your face as it slowly deflates and presses against you again. "That's fucking precious."

You're speechless. Your cheeks feel like they've been scorched. You can still vividly feel the way he pulled on the front of the hoodie, gently grazing your stomach.

"I won't forget my sweater next time," you say, deflecting his affectionate words.

He sighs, heavy, pretending to be conflicted. "It'd be a shame if it just... I don't know, got lost when you thought you left it on my couch. Don't you think that would be so unfortunate, doll?"

You hum affirmatively, unable to suppress your grin at his mischievous plan.

"So, I think it's safer to leave your pretty sweaters at home and i'll keep you warm here. I'm doing a pretty good job so far, huh?" He says, letting his eyes roam over you from head to toe.

"Okay, fine," you agree, leaving the room with Toji to retrieve your shoes.

"Fine?" Toji says, entertained as he watches you float along in his enormous hoodie, towards the mat where your shoes and his shoes are. A low, amused chuckle leaves him as he slides into his slippers right beside you. "Sassy baby."

"What? I'm not sassy," you defend.

Toji loves how you look in this moment. Your tired eyes, the smallest, practically nonexistent tinge of hurt in your expression, like you can't stand the idea of being anything other than sweet to him. It's like he bopped you on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and called you a bad girl.

"Not often, but i've witnessed you in sassy mode a few times. You mimic people under your breath when they're being annoying, make a little face and everything."

You thought you were being sly, turned away from him each time you did it, too, but clearly you've underestimated how much of his attention goes to you.

"Oh," you utter, mildly embarrassed.

"It's funny," he says, reaching behind you to grab his keys from the hook they hang on. "You're still my sweet girl... even when you wake me up for snack runs." He mutters the last part, and grins when your expression goes guilty.

"We don't have to," you say, again, smiling softly to show that you really would be okay with him changing his mind and crawling back into bed.

"I'm just messing with you," he says, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "It's gonna cost you a kiss to get that door open, though."

You're tentative about the price. It's a trap. You know it, he knows it, even the walls know it.

"One kiss?" You ask, even when you see the deceit in his eyes and his sly smirk.

He nods. "Just one."

"Okay," you agree, voluntarily walking into that trap you had acknowledged.

The second you feel his arms around your waist, you know you were right. It starts out as promised, a single quick peck, but it quickly turns just as you thought it would. It's as if that single kiss activated his addiction, because one kiss turned to two, then three, until the fourth when you couldn't hold back your giddy giggles. You lean back, never really leaving the cage that is Toji, because he just leans forward and chases after more of your sweet kisses until you can't reciprocate them anymore, completely overtaken by his affectionate attack.

With a final elongated kiss, planted smack on your lips, he lets up and allows you to recompose yourself. It's one of his favorite things to do for a reason—you glow like the sun right in front of him, your unabashed laughter is fueled by something so pure and genuine. You know he's greedy with your affection, and yet you still take that chance every time he says "one kiss."

"W-Was that enough?" You tease, struggling to hold back your laugh.

"To open the door? Yeah. For me? Mm..." He smirks. "Not even close, doll."

So you do him one better, and stand on your tippy toes, a signal Toji picks up and acts on. He leans down again, doesn't cage you in this time, and waits. You close the distance between your lips and his, once more, holding it for a few seconds to ensure that your affection is properly sealed and felt by him. When those few seconds are up and your feet are flat on the ground again, you smile through the nerves. Your cheeks grow warmer as you wait for Toji to unfreeze and say something—anything.

"We're leaving, but when we come back, I want at least twenty more of those. Got it?" He says so seriously that anybody else would think he was scolding you for what you did.

"Got it," you respond, lips twitching amusedly.

"Alright, let's go," he says, nodding towards the door, feeling more motivated to get you that sweetness you craved than before.

[muli-wam]

⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo was unhinged. Unfiltered. Extremely forward.

Sure, he was able to be serious, but 99.99% of the time, chaos followed him like a fly on shit.

Starting drama was his specialty, something he never failed at—though, Satoru Gojo never fails, period (His words not mine).

Like when he's in the middle of a game. His team is winning and he's sprinting across the field, kicking the soccer ball with him.

Opponents are flying here and there, legs just barely missing on attempt to steal the ball but Satoru was just too fast.

And the entire time he's running, there's only one guy who can keep up with him, which kinda pisses Satoru off.

"How are you able to keep your huge head up while you run?" Satoru shouts mockingly.

His opponent ignores him, but Satoru is unrelentless.

"Is that a shit stain on your ass?"

"Y'know you're really fast for a short guy."

"Oh, you look tired there bud. Need a break?"

He says all of this while running. Which is something only Satoru Gojo can do.

He ends up scoring the goal and his team wins, once again, adding another point to their winning streak.

The guy he was verbally harassing—bless his soul—was just about ready to strangle Satoru.

He just laughed and walked away in typical Gojo fashion—its hereditary.

Although, Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo's off-field dramatics was even worse.

Which is why he's here, laying right in front of your feet after Chiyo, his elderly team manager/Jujutsu tech's Soccer team Grandma, told the boys she would be retiring from team manager, now passing the baton to you.

Satoru did not take this information well, he was yelping and clinging on to Chiyo's fragile frame, begging her not to leave.

In the midst of his meltdown, he swung his leg too high and tipped over the Gatorade jug, him going down with it.

Satoru stared up at you, wide eyed and drenched in Gatorade, like he's just seen God himself.

"Mommy?" He breathes.

Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo can't believe his beautiful blue eyes.

How can someone be so beautiful?

So kind?

So perfect?

I mean, you literally offered to help him up despite him calling you mommy 10 seconds ago.

You gave him a towel, and plucked grass out of his hair, all while Chiyo was scolding him and hitting him with a clipboard upside the head.

You truly were an angel.

Or he's delusional.

Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo hears your name and immediately puts his last name behind it.

Y/n Gojo ♡

Mr. And Mrs. Gojo ♡

Y/n, the wife of Satoru Go-

"Gojo." Chiyo says, flicking his forehead.

"H-huh?"

"I said, I hope you all will be very agreeable to her. She deserves your utmost respect," Chiyo beams up at you and clasps your hand in hers.

Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo assures Chiyo that he'd be more than agreeable.

Which is why he pulls you to the side, away from his other teammates, with one goal in mind: bragging about how amazingly awesome he is until you fall to your knees begging him for a chance and making him feel less vulnerable because his ego was insanely bruised...

Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo who decides the best ice breaker should be, "Did y'know that I once scored 10 consecutive goals in only 8 minues?"

You raise your eyebrows, amused.

"Yup. Fastest match recorded in history actually. It was 15 minutes long," Satoru boasted.

"Wow, good for you Satoru," you chuckle.

He frowns, realizing that his plan wasn't working, and decided to take a different approach.

"Do you like boba?" He blurts.

"Um...yeah, why?" You furrow your eyebrows in confusion from the abrupt change of subject.

"Wanna like- go get some? I'm parched," he moans, dramatically bringing his arm up to his forehead in faux exhaustion.

"You know, normal people drink water when they're dehydrated," you laugh.

"Well I'm not 'normal people', I'm Satoru Gojo and I want boba. With you," he mumbles the last part.

"Liiiike a date?" You tease, smirking at him while rocking back and forth on your feet.

"No, no, pfffft, not a date. That's...unprofessional," He smirks, pausing before adding, "okay maybe like a date..."

"Well, I have some stuff to finish up with Chiyo—y'know, Team Manager Duties," you laugh.

"But we can meet up after?" You ask.

If Satoru's brain was put on a screen projector right now, you would see him prancing gracefully in a field of wildflowers, giggling and singing in pure bliss because life is so good right now.

Who wouldn't be happy? His adorable team manager said yes to a boba date with him and you guys barely just met less than 30 minutes ago.

At this rate he might just get down on one knee-

"Sure! Yeah, totally, uh—I'll just meet you back here in say..." he briefly glances at his non-existant watch.

"An hour and a half?"

"Sure," you smile softly, backing away slowly, your eyes not yet leaving his.

"M'kay, see you then," Satoru tilts his head, smiling.

"'Kay," you say before turning to walk back to Chiyo.

"Who knew someone was able to tame the wild ferret," Suguru says as he approaches Satoru from the top of the bleachers.

"Shut up Suguru," Satoru rolls his eyes.

"Oh? No snarky comeback? You're not gonna tackle me this time?" Geto laughs.

"Oh what about that girl you saved at the pool? You in love or something? you talk about her an awful lo- AHH HE'S TRYING TO KILL ME," Satoru screams when Suguru lunges at him, chasing him across the soccer field.

Soccer Player!Satoru Gojo knew that Suguru was right. You had an effect on him that was foreign to satoru.

But he didnt try to run from it, no. He craved that feeling you gave him and he was going to chase it until the day he died.

⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

A/n: srry for the long wait 😓 I hope you guys likeee, and boxer toji is coming out next 😌↕️

Series Masterlist

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[cheerfulmelancholies]

Elliot stared at the blurry mass of writhing shadow and smoke, indifferent to the power of the being before him. It wasn't that he wouldn't feel threatened by an immensely powerful being beyond the realm of humanity's conceivable physics—rather, because the entity was so outside the range of human understanding, all Elliot could do was tilt his head at it in befuddlement.

"I don't get it," he said plainly as the massive being shifted about almost as if it were vibrating in place. Its only discernible features were the several ruby red eyes dotted about its form. "You made it sound like just looking at you would cause complete agony, but you're just, like, a giant blob of darkness. With too many eyes." Said eyes narrowed at him as a voice echoed both within his mind and the air around them.

"You should be trembling in fear, paralyzed by the mere sigh of me," it rumbled, observing the tiny speck of the mortal standing beneath itself with rare curiosity. "Yet you gaze upon me like I am little more than one of the fauna of your world."

"Well…" Elliot started, trailing off as he scratched the back of his head. "I'm just not sure what exactly I'm looking at here. I know being incomprehensible is the point and all, but… maybe you're doing too good a job at that."

Quaz'el'Far, in all its infinite wisdom from eons of roaming realities on a whim, for once felt unsure of what to do. What a strange statement. It had never witnessed a mortal with immunity to its unknowable horror, much less one that would act so calm in the face of something like itself. "I do not understand," it admitted, reluctant to make such a statement.

"Welcome to the club, buddy," Elliot sighed. He glanced around at the empty space he'd been brought to, a pocket dimension that was supposed to be punishment for the human mind. Apparently. Though it was rather lackluster. While he'd heard of white rooms being hell on the psyche, he didn't think an eldritch being would rely on something so… boring. If he strained his eyes hard enough, he could almost make out the faint shapes and colors dancing around the white void, but even then it did little more than give him a slight headache from the effort.

"How is it that you see me, yet you remain unaffected by my presence?"

Elliot redirected his attention to the mass of shadow, matching the slow blink of its eyes with his own. "Look, Quail-uh, Que-hmm… Listen, Q, I'm sure whatever freaky powers you have outside of teleporting people to empty voids are absolutely terrifying. It's just… looking at you, you just look like a vibrating blob of shadows and eyes. That's it. Maybe you're supposed to be more than that and my tiny human brain can't handle it so it just… fills you in with stuff it does know."

The human brain was funny like that.

It was an interesting statement, and one that Quaz'el'Far spent considerable time pondering. These humans had evolved to such a state that they could simply ignore its mind-shattering form in favor of something they could understand? A sharp jolt pulsed through its body, the feeling unfamiliar until it recalled the reactions of the many mortals it had destroyed.

Fear was an unfamiliar concept to the unknowable being, and it found that it did not care for the feeling.

Elliot, growing bored of both the conversation and being stuck in the nowhere space, continued. "If, uh, if we're done here, can I maybe go now? I'm gonna be late for work…"

What nonchalance! As if an all-seeing god meant nothing! Quaz'el'Far drew itself back from the perplexing mortal, eyes gazing through the timelines in an attempt to pinpoint when humanity had begun to obtain this… this disgusting indifference.

No matter how many timelines it parsed, how many universes it peered into, there was no other mortal with such mental fortitude as this one. The concept that one mere human could be capable of such an ability staggered it. If this human could withstand its presence, what else was it capable of? It didn't want to learn.

Inhuman eyes blazed as the great Quaz'el'Far stared down at the mortal in fear and disgust. "You may return to your life, mortal," it began as it opened a portal beside the horrid abomination. "My apologies for having kept you."

"Oh! Uh, no worries. Thanks, mate!" With a wave, Elliot stepped through the swirling mass of color and warmth. As it closed behind him and he found himself back in front of his apartment complex, he wondered if the portal was also supposed to be some incomprehensible horror his mind shouldn't have been able to fathom. It was a good thing humans were so good at putting things together with limited info. So when he glanced at his phone and saw the time, he already knew before he started jogging to the bus stop that he'd be late, would walk in mildly sweaty, and John would chew him out for his tardiness yet again. The entire interaction with the weird shadow monster was already pushed to the back of his mind, waiting to be forgotten like his lunch box already had been.

You bear witness to a horror beyond your comprehension. However, because you don't comprehend it, you....just don't get it. The horror in question is terrified by this.

[wrotebymii]

EVERYTHING HAS A PLACE | Date Everything x Autistic!gn!reader

Summary: How life is with the objects and their autistic homeowner.

Warnings: Fluffy, minimal angst, reader doesn’t know their household necessities are sentient at first, I’m autistic but low-functioning so a lot of what I wrote is how I go about my day/how I act. Not edited. Reader is also slightly demi-romantic coded. Lost the plot a few paragraphs in I’m sorry I’m sleep deprived.

Timothy, Penelope, and You are like three peas in a pod. Using each keeps you relatively relaxed for the upcoming day or eventual break in your neatly put together schedule—which gets increasingly difficult to think about when said break comes.

Sorry, Sam, but your hang session is place obscurely in our data monthly pin board since it’s pushing too close to workout and the everything shower. —Signed Penelope

They all try to accommodate your needs; Kopi making the coffee the exact same every time, Freddy keeping the fridge nice and cool so your comfort foods don’t spoil just yet, Teddy being found under your bed when you’re having a difficult time regulating, even Lux and Barry collaborating reluctantly together to find the perfect hand lotion that doesn’t give you sensory headaches.

Everyone thinks you’re charming, not in an infantilizing way. Every single person adores you but with respect and understanding.

Most of them love that you have a routine you stick by, it’s easy to remember and gives them chill periods in between. Its a nice break because they too can get tired, so when there’s a detour in the schedule that wasn’t place advanced. They worry.

Koa and Mateo would immediately be there with you, letting you curl in the comfort of your bedding and focus on yourself. While Telly puts on a rerun of your favorite show.

But this time it’s different. An immediate change in your entire routine when you got the Dateviators. Forcing yourself to ignore the urge to clean the broken glass of your door window because a drone had so rudely forced the box in. You picked them up, they were cute a little tacky but cute nevertheless. Internally, you were still freaked out that an unknown person knew your address and sent you a pair of sungla— holy shit.

You put them on and you’re not sure how it happened but there was a very beautiful smiling pinked haired stranger standing a few feet away from you. She was practically buzzing in excitement as she explained what was happening. Causing you to…

Quickly take the glasses off and pace.

You couldn’t believe it, almost didn’t want to believe it. Within the comforts of your own home every object, appliance, knicknacks, and the literal embodiment of concepts are all sentient. It made you feel all types of ways wrong that you quickly took laps around the house before collapsing on the floor of your living room.

…this could be a good thing? You mean…it could help with your social skill and facial recognition. Hell, maybe you’ll get a friend out of this?

Slowly you put them back on, your world being brightly lit up by rose tinted specs. It hurts your eyes. Though, Skylar shows up again, looking down at you with a strained smile and wave. Easying you up without touching you to your feet and continuing what she was saying. Before another bomb shell hit you.

Dateviators…dateables

The whole point of these glasses was to date multiple of your household items which freaked you out more. However, you were truly thankful that you met Dorian first. His announcement that friendship was also an option made it less daunting on you.

Thus began the 102 way to get everything to be friends with you!

Sure, the first few days was stressful and near exhausting but long talks with Timothy and Pen helped greatly. They helped with creating an entirely new schedule color coded as well that allowed time for your humanly needs and getting to know everyone.

Jerry and You got along great, earning his friendship fast when you told him to up-cycle.

Lux was easy to hate, but with your inability to know when you’re being insulted you became their unlikely friend they hurt your eyes.

Teddy was amazing, you were little embarrassed that he knows deeply about your breakdowns but the silly advice and stories made it go away.

Barry is probably your best friend, you help him with his memory by saying he can use things he’s interested in to aid him in keeping track of things.

Chance is your second bestie, nearly tackling him in feral hyper fixation so you could yap his ear off about the game you both like. He’s the most likely to fall for you. Besides Wallace.

However, the best place is Break Box Club, but only when it’s after hours. You can only sit through terrible act before you want to put cotton in your ears. The club is soothing at closing, lights dimmer Volt and Eddie do that just for you and you get to drink a lot of mocktails Eddie teases you.

You do your share, of course. Not wanting to free load off the two. You have knowledge on the breaker box because you were frantically cleaning one day and found the manual which you spent the next hour reading through and forgot the cleaning which you regretted later.

Currently, you’re seated at the bar working on a project you and Jerry are doing while chatting to Eddie about a new dateable, questioning the person initial reaction to you. Volt was to your right.

“They were flirting…” He said, cleaning a glass with a shake of his head. The corner of his lips turning up. You give him a once over and hum in thought.

“Nah” You say flatly, not believing it.

“The hell you mean nah?” He raised an amused brow. You shrug and sit up straight, gathering your words.

“They seemed…rude? And pushy” You concluded.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t…” Eddie pauses and places the glass down, rubbing between his eyes like he has a headache.

“Sometimes…insults can be meant in different ways, live wire.” Volt says, chuckling. They aren’t teasing you for your like of awareness but amused by the conversation overall.

“But, that’s not how it’s like in Betty’s books” You say, maintaining strict eye contact with Eddies hands as the wipe down the counter. Enjoying the rhythmic nature of it.

“How was it shown in these books?” Volt asks with more interest.

“Flashy, and oddly poetic. Like you’d sing a ballad if you saw your lover in front of you” You say remembering the way Betty gasp and sigh wishfully when she read it out loud. You thought it was pretty, and by definition romantic, but not something you think you’d like.

“Ah of course, lovey-dovey shit…” Eddie mumbles, he leans on the bar his hands on the counter supporting his weight. Volt hums.

“Betty is the overtly romantic type.” Volt looks at you, multitasking on the project and the conversation.

“-what about you?”

“Huh?”

“What is your romance like, your love language?”

“You don’t have to answer, tap your fingers twice if you want me to stop him” Eddie teases, his voice drowning out with Volts as they banter back and forth.

What is your romance like? Love language? You aren’t sure, but you know you like foundation a connection to someone. Similarities but not too many.

“I think I like just being near someone…we don’t have uh-don’t have to speak or do anything but just be there in each other presence, I enjoy that. Looking up and seeing that they’re there and I get to be there with them…” The room is silence, it’s not awkward but settle.

Then it’s broken.

“I enjoy the firey and beautiful passi-“

“You ruined it” Eddie huffs.

“Oh-ho I did not, I’m merely adding onto-“ Volt defends himself, electricity tingling over his arms—the zapping noise of it pleases you.

You giggle as they continue, adding the last bit to the Jerry project. Watching as Eddie and Volt blabber on as Eddie begins to walk away from the conversation to go on and do workaholic things.

You might not fully understand where you are in romantic relationships but you’ll take anything if it meant being in the presence of any object within this house. If they’re flirty, hateful, passive, aloof.

You don’t mind, being around them is enough for you.

[dollfacefantasy]

dont think ive ever tried requestig from you (hello i love the way you write) and if its okay could you write old man logan with like a daddy kink... or one where hes being a little cocky or teasing her about liking it while shes sat on his lap

older bf!logan howlett x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fingering, daddy kink, in public, slight intoxication a/n: thank you so much <3 i hope you like it, i feel a little rusty with logan lol

i just can’t get you out of my head.

the words blared through the club’s speakers with a beat of drums thumping behind it. pink and blue lights swirled around the dance floor to the rhythm.

normally, logan stayed outside places like these. he sat in the parking lot behind the wheel of the limo until the bachelorette party or group of drunk twenty-something’s came staggering out, ready to be driven to their next destination.

but tonight he’s inside. he’s in a booth in the back corner of the room, drink in hand. that group of drunk girls with IDs that show they’re not far past twenty-one are here too. half of them are seated at the table next to him. the others are out on the dance floor, hips rolling and arms raised as they dance along to the song.

his eyes lingered on one in particular. you.

you’re out there in your shimmery dress you’d bought last week, heels on your feet that boost your height several inches. he watched from a distance as you laughed and spun around to the song. your hand stayed linked with your friend while the two of you danced.

he had tried to get out of coming here with you tonight. as much as he loved you, he was often wary of flaunting your relationship to your friends. he didn’t need people seeing you, young and vibrant and in the prime of your life, with him, someone who couldn’t be hurdling any faster towards the end if they tried.

but you’d begged and pleaded, thrown in some puppy eyes and claimed that some of your other friends would have plus ones as well. so here he was.

and even though this wasn’t really his scene, he couldn’t deny that he liked watching how your skin glowed under the lights. and how your body bobbed around in perfect time to the music.

when the current song ended, another one started up, but your dancing came to a slow stop. your eyes found his across the room. you grinned before starting to make your way back to him.

your walk was bouncier than usual, still going along with the beat of the music. you did a little spin and swayed your hips extra. your friend trailed along behind you, but she diverted in paths to go to the booth beside the one logan occupied.

“having fun out there?” he asked once you were within range of his voice.

you nodded quickly. “mhm,” you hummed, doing one more twirl before plopping down in his lap.

his arm came to loop around your waist while his other hand smoothed out the skirt of your dress, making sure it wasn’t riding up and giving a show to any other set of eyes in this place.

you smacked a breathless kiss on his cheek. “did i look good out there?” you asked above the loud music.

“‘course you did. you even gotta ask?” he said. his voice was much lower than yours. husky and rough, spoken right into your ear.

that same coy smile you had out there reappeared. “i know i did. i saw you watching me. and you looked less grumpy than normal,” you teased.

“oh yeah?” he said, raising his brows to indulge you. “well, knowing i have the prettiest girl in this place all to myself does make things a little more tolerable i guess.”

that brought a giggle out of you. you looked away and brought your drink to your lips, swallowing down some more of the bright green liquid inside.

maybe if logan had a better head on his shoulders he’d tell you to ease up on the drinking since you were clearly already a little buzzed. but at the same time, if you wanted to get tipsy and cute, who was he to tell you no? he’d be the one taking care of you anyways.

you plucked the cherry out from your glass. sucking it into your mouth, you detached the small bulb from the stem. he watched you swallow it down before you tugged on his collar and brought him in for a kiss.

that saccharine syrup was all he could taste as your mouths made contact. you weren’t being coy about this. the kiss wasn’t a chaste peck, far from it. your tongue swiped against his own as your breath fanned out over his face.

“you gettin’ antsy? feeling ready to leave soon?” he murmured as you began to pull away.

“maybe…” you said.

“ah-ah. not gonna be a maybe if you’re kissing me like that,” he said, taking hold of your chin.

you bit your lip and looked at him, lashes fluttering over your dilated pupils.

“but i might wanna dance more…” you said.

“really?” he asked, his voice lilted enough to let you know it was a challenge. his hands came to grab your waist and boost you to your feet. “be my guest.”

“wait-“ you whined, hooking your arm around his neck to keep you there. “not yet.”

“and why’s that?”

“causeeee…” you said with a subtle pout.

his hand delved south to give your thigh a rough squeeze. “what’d i tell you about whining?” he asked, his voice quiet and raspy.

he could see that switch flick in your eyes, that spark that would soon be a full-fledged flame.

“because…” you went to correct yourself. “i’m still catching my breath from before… and i want daddy to take care of me.”

you were so easy. he shook his head slightly and let out a low chuckle.

he hummed in feigned realization. “i see,” he said. his hand on your waist slid around, rubbing over the small of your back down to your hip in a massage of sorts.

“mhm. my legs are tired. and i missed youuu while i was out there,” you mumbled, slotting your face against his neck.

“my poor baby,” he said.

he shifted a little in the booth, shifting his position enough that your lower half would be almost entirely shielded by the table. you were already separated from your friends by the partition between booths. and two of them had made their way over to the bar again, meaning you’d have a couple of minutes to yourselves guaranteed.

his fingers dipped underneath your skirt and found your panties in seconds. he wouldn’t waste time while you were out in public. they swiped over the cloth a few times, almost testing the waters.

“you��re lucky you have me, huh?” he said as his digits hooked under the garment and pulled it to the side. “i don’t know how you get through nights out on your own.”

you whined softly against his throat, spreading your thighs a few inches.

“i know,” he whispered. “daddy’s got you right now. you don’t have to worry.”

his fingers slid into your slick warmth. you inhaled sharply as he filled you up in one go. he just held them there for a few moments. you wanted more though, and you wanted it now.

you tried rocking your hips a bit to get some friction, but his other hand held you still.

“be good or you’ll have to wait until you get home,” he said.

it was quiet and curt, but it was the only direction you needed. from then on, you kept still.

you gasped quietly as he drew his fingers back and then pumped them in again. your body remained motionless though. you stayed in the same position as he began thrusting them at a consistent rhythm. in and out, in and out.

the music in this place was loud enough to conceal any tiny noises you let slip. all your little squeaks and whimpers were reached logan’s ears only.

“i can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he mocked quietly. “never knew my little girl could be so dirty.”

your nails dug into the shoulders of his suit. “fuck, just need it,” you whimpered.

“i bet you do. if i made you go out there to dance for me some more, you’d be lost, wishing my hands were all over you, giving you something to grind on instead,” he rasped.

your own hand flew to your mouth to muffle the noise threatening to come out that would undoubtedly be louder than the others.

his breath on your neck combined with the music thumping throughout the place and the liquor in you had your head spinning by now. even through the haze though, you could feel release creeping up on you.

you looked at him, wide eyes pleading for permission.

“ask me, baby. ask like you’re supposed to,” he said.

you peeled your hand an inch or two away from your mouth. just enough to squeak out. “please, daddy. please. please. need to cum.”

“good girl,” he praised. “let go, sweetheart. let me feel it.”

your legs went taut beneath the table and your hand clamped over your lips once again. you could only hope no one was looking over here as you let yourself hit the high. your eyes rolled back as you melted into his strong arms.

he held you close and worked you through it. he turned enough that you weren’t exactly in plain view of just anybody. his fingers kept at their task until your walls no longer spasmed around them.

“atta girl,” he said, pulling them free. he gave you a squeeze to coax you back down to earth. “did so good for me, honey.”

you sat up just a little bit before nuzzling further into his neck. he chuckled and wrapped both his arms around you, giving you a couple of moments to calm down.

after a minute, you pulled back and looked at him. your forehead shined slightly with a sheen of perspiration while your eyes had that faint fucked-out look.

“you still want that last dance?” he asked knowingly.

as he expected, you shook your head. you were more than ready to stand from the booth and head home now.

[misaerabl]

Beso De Tres

ellabs x reader

CW: three-way kiss, ELLABS MAKING OUT (insert loud, unhinged cheering), sexual tension, oral sex, threesome, sexual exploration between "friends", orgasm

The thing about Ellie and Abby is that they’ve always had… a thing.

Not the romantic kind. Not even the flirty kind. But something crackling and combative, loud and close enough that it loops back around into intimacy if you tilt your head and squint.

Right now, that something is echoing through the Airbnb’s living room. You’re all post-beach lazy — still sun-warm and sandy in clothes that don’t quite belong to any of you. Abby’s tank clings to her back, damp at the spine. Ellie’s wearing your shorts.

They’re arguing again.

“Just say it,” Ellie says, smirking over the lip of her beer. “You were wrong about the fight choreography.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “No, I said it looked good. I didn’t say it made sense. A guy doesn’t just get up after taking a rebar to the ribs.”

Ellie shifts where she’s sitting on the couch, her knee pressing into yours as she turns toward Abby. “Jesus. It’s a movie. Suspend your disbelief for five seconds.”

You snort. “Okay, mom and mom, calm down.”

They both look at you. Their brows raise in almost-perfect sync.

You grin, a little tipsy, a little mean. “I’m just saying… if you fight any harder, you’re gonna end up making out.”

There’s a beat.

Then Ellie huffs, looking away, but not before you see the way her ears turn red. Abby’s expression shifts. It was faint, but noticeable if you know where to look. Less annoyed. More… curious.

You sip your beer again, lips tugging upward. “Honestly? Just kiss already. Might shut you both up for once.”

Silence.

Then Ellie looks at you, eyes narrowed. “Don’t be weird.”

You shrug, fully leaning into it now. “What? You don't think she’s a good kisser?”

That earns you a scoff from both of them. Abby leans forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. “You really want us to kiss? Is this like… a fantasy thing for you?”

You blink. “I was joking—”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Ellie mutters, watching you over her bottle. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That one.” Her voice is quieter now, but not softer. Her eyes flick down to your lips.

Your stomach flips.

“I dare you,” you say, tone light but heartbeat anything but. “Prove me wrong.”

More silence. Tension thick enough to swim through.

And then Abby turns to Ellie. “Well?”

Ellie licks her lips. She looks between the two of you. Her eyes dark, unreadable. Then she mutters, “Fuck it,” and leans in.

Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s not tentative, but not gentle either. It’s exploratory. Firm. Abby’s hand moves up to cradle Ellie’s jaw, her thumb brushing the edge of Ellie’s cheekbone. Ellie lets out a soft noise — surprised maybe — and tilts her head.

It’s a real kiss.

And your throat goes dry.

They pull back slowly. Ellie’s lips are pinker now. Abby doesn’t move her hand.

You can’t breathe. You’re flushed down to your toes.

Then Ellie turns to you. “Still think it’s just arguing?”

You blink. “I mean—”

Abby moves first. Her hand drops from Ellie’s cheek and brushes your thigh instead, featherlight. Her gaze is unreadable, curious but restrained. “You’re the one who brought this up.”

You look between them. The air feels different now. Not heavy, exactly, but charged. The room tilts on its axis, slow and sure.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

Ellie cuts you off by crawling toward you, closing the space so naturally it barely registers as a decision. “You think we haven’t noticed how you look at us?” she asks quietly, face so close you feel her breath.

Abby’s behind you now, knees pressing in at either side, her warmth steady at your back.

“You’re not that subtle,” she murmurs against your neck.

You let out a shaky exhale.

“I—” you start, but Ellie kisses you before you finish the sentence.

Her mouth is warm and insistent, lips parted just enough that you fall right into the rhythm of it. Your hand flies to her waist, holding tight. Her kiss isn't slow nor fast, just close.

Then Abby’s mouth brushes your shoulder. You shudder.

And when Ellie pulls back slightly, Abby tilts your chin toward her and kisses you too.

It’s different. Heavier. She tastes like citrus and sunscreen. Her hand cups the back of your neck and holds you in place like you’re something precious... or something she’s finally allowed to touch.

You’re breathless when she pulls away.

They’re both watching you now. Ellie’s thumb is stroking lazy circles along your thigh. Abby’s lips ghost your jaw.

You barely have time to catch your breath before both of them lean in.

Their mouths find yours at the same time. Clumsy at first, but eager. It’s heat and breath and the low sound of someone moaning into someone else’s mouth. You can’t tell who.

You’re caught between them. One hand in Abby’s hair, the other gripping Ellie’s arm. Their tongues brush over yours, over each other’s. It’s messier than you expect, wetter, hotter, and entirely consuming.

You lose yourself in it.

You’ve kissed people before. You’ve even been reckless before. But never like this. Never sandwiched between two women who had wanted to fight just to get here.

And somehow, despite how chaotic it all feels, the three of you fit.

Like the kiss had been waiting for an excuse.

You don’t know whose hand moves first — Abby’s, maybe — brushing under your shirt, fingers skating over your ribs like she’s mapping new territory. You suck in a breath, your back arching into her touch. Ellie shifts closer, sliding between your legs, her knee pressing up and into you just enough to make your thighs tighten.

It’s dizzying. Their mouths trading places, Abby kissing down your neck while Ellie finds your lips again. She kisses softer this time. Focused. Like she wants to memorize the shape of you.

Your hands move without thought. One buried in Ellie’s hair, the other splayed on Abby’s thigh behind you. It’s instinct, to hold, to anchor but it only fuels the fire spreading beneath your skin.

“You’re warm,” Abby murmurs into your shoulder, voice low and wrecked. Her teeth graze just beneath your collarbone. “So fucking warm.”

Ellie’s hands are bolder now, dragging up beneath your borrowed shirt, her shirt. Until her thumbs brush the underside of your bra. She waits, watching your face. When you don’t stop her, she slides her palms up, cupping you over the fabric, and you gasp into her mouth.

“You good?” she asks, voice barely audible.

You nod — desperate, breathless. “Yeah. Please—”

That’s all they need.

Ellie tugs your shirt up and over your head, her knuckles brushing your sides, and Abby makes a soft sound when she sees you, equal parts reverent and hungry.

“You’re beautiful,” she says. Quiet, but certain.

Then her mouth is on you, open and slow, kissing over the top of your breast as her fingers work the clasp of your bra. Ellie’s still between your legs, still watching, her hands smoothing up your thighs.

The moment your bra slips off, Ellie leans in, kissing just above your sternum, her breath hot as she moves lower. Abby's mouth moves to the other side, and suddenly you’re surrounded. Lips and hands and heat everywhere at once.

Your head tips back. Your hips rock forward without meaning to.

And they groan. Together.

Ellie hooks her fingers into the waistband of your shorts and glances up. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

They undress you slow, like they’re savoring the process. Like every new inch of skin is a reward.

Ellie leans in to kiss the inside of your thigh, and you twitch, the sensitivity already unbearable. She smiles against your skin.

Abby slides a hand between your legs, cupping you through your underwear. “So wet already,” she says, almost to herself. “Shit.”

You whimper when she rubs slow, teasing circles against you and your hips lift, chasing more.

“Lie back,” Ellie murmurs, her voice soft but commanding. You do. You’d do anything right now.

Abby shifts beside you, kissing your temple while her hand slips beneath your underwear. Ellie lowers herself between your thighs, exhaling hard the second you’re bare to her.

“Fuck,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the crease of your thigh. “You smell so good.”

Then her tongue is on you, slow and deliberate. One long, flat stroke that has your whole body tensing. Abby kisses you to swallow the moan that escapes your throat.

“Relax,” she whispers.

Ellie eats you like you're the answer to her hunger, her hands gripping your thighs to keep you still. Abby’s fingers find your breast again, rolling your nipple between her fingers while her other hand strokes your hair, her lips never far from yours.

You writhe between them, pleasure building fast and thick in your stomach.

Ellie moans against you, the vibrations sparking through your core and you cry out. Your hips buck, your thighs shake, and Abby holds you tighter.

You’re so close you’re barely breathing.

“Ellie—” you gasp, but your voice is gone.

She looks up, lips shiny, eyes dark. “Come on.”

Then she sucks your clit and you fall apart.

Your whole body locks up, white heat pulsing from your core outward. You cry out something. Maybe a name, maybe both. They keep going, slow and gentle now, drawing it out, letting it crest and fall and bloom again in aftershocks.

You’re floating. Boneless. Sweaty and trembling and fucked-out in the best way.

They kiss you after — Ellie from below, Abby from the side — their lips soft now, reverent.

You taste yourself on both of them.

Eventually, Ellie flops beside you, her hand finding your waist. Abby curls against your back, wrapping her arm over your stomach.

None of you say anything. You just breathe.

And smile.

[lemonfizzyy]

You thought I was done? No, I have more to add.

I never explained exactly how Dick ended becoming Nightwing but it was similar to how Bruce becomes Batman in the OG universe. He's angry at how unjust the world can be, and how his parents' murderer was never caught.

Similarly, he starts to build an idea of a protector, the type who would've stepped in and saved his parents. He still doesn't leave Haly's though. Not because he still wants to be an acrobat full-time, but because leaving the circus behind feels like betraying his parent's legacy.

Now, around the time Dick is like 20, he's still touring the world. Meanwhile, Clark Kent is around his twenties and traveling the world as a freelance reporter. (Yes, I read Superman: Birthright. I contain multitudes.)

Long story short, they run into each other while they're both trying to not get involved but also very much get involved with a local [insert crime here]. In the process Clark accidentally reveals his powers (Something that happens in Superman: Birthright as well.) and after initially being rightfully frightened, Dick is pretty darn impressed and thinks its cool. That never happens to Clark since everyone else who's ever gotten an inkling of his powers reacts with fear and never really warms up.

Even longer story short, they become good friends and exchange information before parting ways. They do a whole email pen pals thing, it's cool.

Blah blah blah, a month or two later, Superman is created and Clark learns more about his heritage and Krypton. He shares this with Dick and... Well, Nightwing. Dick really likes it, and he's further inspired by Clark's initiative to become a hero.

From there it's straight pipeline from leaving Haly's, making the Nightwing outfit and going on a soul-searching training journey that is reminiscent of the one in Batman: The Knight. (Which I read as well. I'm becoming a certified Canon Knower, it's crazy.)

Except Dick's journey includes less dubious teachers and romantic relationships with extremely untrustworthy people. (Dick is older than Bruce was and way less actively-desperate/willingly-emotionally-stunted/sheltered-via-extreme-wealth.) Dick overall has a more soul-searchy/make-a-bunch-of-unlikely-allies type journey that is more befitting of the Nightwing brand.

(You might be thinking: "Oh, is he trained by Slade like in the hit animated tv show Teen Titans?"

And my answer to that would a no. He doesn't give a hoot about Dick because he's not young and impressionable, and a host of other factors. He'd only give Dick a second glance if he were hired to kill him. He'll be a villain later, just not as nemesis level as in the OG universe.)

And the rest is normal nomadic-vigilante shenanigans until he decides to go back to where it all started... Gotham.

Update on Alfie and Dick: Now, I believe, would be a good time to inflict you with some psychic damage in the form of a fact. In this AU, Alfred is around 30 and Dick is like 24... They are only 6 years apart. Only a year more than the age gap between Dick and Jason.

So... yes, Alfred and Dick they become like brothers, as cursed as it is.

Alfred's the dry responsible older brother to Dick's chaotic younger brother, and Dick eventually moves in.

(It's a slow process, first Dick keeps his vigilante stuff in the Manor so he can train Bruce, and then he had to stay there after an injury he needs supervision for and then Alfred angrily insists he actually come for medical help instead of being an idiot and bleeding out somewhere and... Yeah, well, it's a whole thing but yeah now Dick and Alfie are co-parenting this kid while being the strangest pair of brothers you've ever met.)

I’m like 6 days behind on my self imposed AU challenge so I’m gonna queue them throughout the night lol…. Day 4: Bruce and Dick role swap….

Alfred is appointed as Bruce’s guardian like usual but the boy can’t get the man that held him and covered his eyes from his dead parents out of his head. The little detective tracks him down to a gym in the Narrows, where he’s been working since he aged out of the Gotham foster care system. Guess where Bruce wants to take self defence/gymnastics(?) lessons now.

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[tarotwithavi]

What lie have you told yourself in order to survive?

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Pile 1

you might be telling yourself it’s safer to just stay still. like if you don’t move, nothing can go wrong. if you don’t choose, you can’t mess up. But so you know choosing nothing means you're choosing the wrong side. you say you’re just resting or waiting but deep down you know you’re just hiding. i know comfort zones seem safe and secure but they are suffocating. They kill your potential. I know you’re scared and i get it. change is loud and messy and terrifying. so you pretend it’s peace. you say “i’m fine.” or “its okay” but we both know you’re not fine. you’re stuck in that in-between space where nothing’s horrible but nothing’s really good either. you told yourself that if you just hold it in a little longer, it’ll pass. you’re not meant to hold it all in. you’re meant to feel it. cry if you need. scream into your pillow. laugh when it doesn’t make sense. be a damn mess. that’s how healing actually starts. not through silence. not through pretending. you keep saying you’re not ready. but what if you are? what if you're not unprepared, just scared? you don’t have to keep lying to yourself just to get through the day. you’ve done that. you survived. now it’s time to live the life you want . even if you have no idea what you’re doing. you’re allowed to want more than survival.you’re allowed to want to be alive and not just exist.

You might also want to read pile 3

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Pile 2

I feel like you have always tried to make everyone feel happy because you believe that if others are happy that you will automatically be happy. And you’ve been putting so much energy into growing things, relationships, family, friendships, watering everyone else’s garden while letting your own dry up. because maybe you thought that’s what love is, sacrificing or being the “strong one.” being the one who forgives first. Being the one who lets things slide. Being the one who doesn’t react. But it’s killing you deep inside because a part of you wants to dream but another part of you is always fighting to keep the peace outside, even if it means destroying the peace inside. Tou have told yourself that you’re noble for doing it all and asking for nothing. but that’s not strength. that’s survival mode. you’ve also been lying to yourself about how much you need. like you tell yourself, “i’m fine with less” or “i don’t need much” but baby, you do. you need space to feel. you need people who pour into you, not just take. you need softness. and you deserve all of it. you’re not just meant to be the healer. you're meant to be healed too. you’re not just meant to help things grow. you’re meant to bloom too. it’s okay to want more. it’s okay to rest. it’s okay to stop being the fixer for once.

it’s okay to be the one who’s held

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Pile 3

okay so I am getting that you’ve been telling yourself that you have to carry it all. like every responsibility, every emotion, every burden is somehow yours to take care of. you convinced yourself that you’re strong because you don’t ask for help. that struggling in silence is just what strong people do. that if you just keep pushing, keep learning, keep improving, maybe one day you’ll finally be “enough” to rest. you have been feeding the lie that you have to earn peace. that you have to fix everything before you can allow yourself to breathe. you don’t. you’re allowed to be in progress and still give yourself softness. life isn’t a test and you’re not being graded. Another part of the lie is this pressure you’ve put on yourself to get it all “right.” like, “i can’t look stupid,” or “i have to keep it together,” or “if i mess up it means i am a mess.” but you’re human. ita okay to mess it up sometimes and the truth is, you’ve always felt like there’s something big inside you something you’re supposed to find or chase or become. and that’s true but somewhere along the way, you told yourself that you had to suffer in order to get there. that the struggle makes it more valid. You need to understand that you don’t have to climb every mountain alone. you don’t have to break yourself just to prove you're worthy of the thing you’ve always dreamed of. you’re not behind. you’re just in the middle. and the middle is messy and full of questions. you’re learning. and you’re allowed to take up space while you do. just breathe. let some of that weight go. you were never meant to hold it all anyway

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[mariasont]

clothing optional

a water mishap leaves you in hotch's pajamas and confronting some awkward, fluttery feelings.

pairing: aaron hotchner x intern!reader warnings: age gap, fluffity fluff, mentions of hotch’s clothes being oversized, spencer being a shit, reader being overstimulated as hell by hotch (i get it girl) prompt: here! wc: 0.5k

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are.”

He was. Or maybe not in the auditory sense, but in the molecular sense. You could see it in the shimmering vibration beneath his words and the glimmer of copper-lit eyes you lately lose entire moments looking at, seconds bleeding into eternities.

One glance in the mirror, unfortunately, provides clarity as to his suppressed shit-eating grin. The proportions are laughable, almost abstract. His shirt hangs from your shoulders like it's trying to remember what structure is, and you... you look like a squid caught mid-metamorphosis, limbs lost somewhere under sleeves and pants designed for someone who probably has double your muscle mass. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a small person. You’re not. Aaron Hotchner just seems to take up space in every sense of the word.

“I have better manners than that,” he murmurs, and the subtle rasp in his voice skims across your nerve endings like sandpaper dragged gently across glass. Unexpected friction, oddly delicate.

“You know," you begin, "good manners are... kind of arbitrary. Historically speaking, etiquette was less about kindness or decency and more about control. Upper-class individuals engineering performative social rituals to differentiate themselves from, well, everyone else." You pause. "So... you know. Arbitrary."

Your hands make a vague gesture you hope reads as so there, but it probably just looks like mild jazz hands.

“Guess I’ll have to find new ways to assert my social superiority."

“I mean, you could always fall back on that whole commanding presence that makes people immediately defer to your authority thing you’ve got going.”

You make the executive decision to ignore the increasingly obvious fact that whatever neurological response his authority presence triggers — elevated heart rate, dermal sensitivity, slight auditory lag — is highly specific to you. Which is probably just some sort of... psychological imprinting effect. (Or a crush. Which you cannot examine too close.)

He fixes you with a look you’ve come to label as his patented active refusal to entertain nonsense, though you haven't shared that classification with him. You're ninety percent sure he uses it more on you than anyone else.

“How’s your bag?”

“Better now that it’s away from Spencer,” you say, rolling your eyes, “He got it in his head that he could prove a theory about water displacement using my travel shampoo and a bathtub. I think he tried to recreate Archimedes' moment but with my Pantene and a plastic mug."

He plucks at the T-shirt draped over you — his shirt, which you're still trying not to think about too much, because it smells like him and feels incredibly intimate in of itself.

“Tomorrow we can go into town and get you something less susceptible to Reid’s aquatic experiments. Unless you prefer permanently borrowing my clothes.”

“Tempting offer,” you joke, cheeks flushed with heat (vasodilation, your brain supplies, ever helpful in its commitment to observation). “But, um, if I keep borrowing your clothes, we'll have to start accounting for tensile decay. Cotton's only got so many wash cycles in it. Not that I've... calculated the exact threshold. Yet.”

He chuckles, the sound rolling pleasantly through your stomach.

“Good point,” he says, and then, because apparently, he hasn't done enough damage, adds, “But just so you know, I’m perfectly fine with a few compromised T-shirts if you are.”

Your heart flinches. Or flutters. Violently. Like a firework that went off two seconds too early.

“Well, technically I guess the degradation would depend on washing frequency and detergent alkalinity levels, because pH can break down cotton fibers over time, and if we factor in the mechanical action of the washer drum —”

“Hey.” There's patient amusement laced through his tone. “Do you need a second?”

You press your palms against your cheeks.

“Yeah. I — Yeah, I think that would be good. Thank you.”

He turns, pausing in the doorway.

"I'll tell the team not to jump to conclusions," he says. "But I doubt that'll help."

It's fine. You'll recover. Probably. Someday.

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

maria's red, white and bau masterlist

[xylatox]

your heart got teeth || cyj

Super excited to read another fic from Ronnie :)) 

Some nights, you forget what peace feels like. And when silence finally settles, you start to miss the sound of violence.

I love this beginning oh my god, I love that the mc is so accustomed to the violence that peace is now foreign. Already love the way shes shrouded in mystery, it just makes it so much more exciting.

I like how everyone is introduced hehe, I like that Hee was with her since the beginning, it makes the dynamic despite the tense environment very cute. Def makes me super duper happy.

The intensity of everything has me so interested in whos leaking everyone’s supply lines ugh. Also the vibe of Yeonjun here is so chef’s kiss ugh

If Yeonjun’s lying, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth myself. And if he isn’t…” You glance at Beomgyu. “Then we send him a message too.”

Because you're not the girl he remembers. You're the Queen now, and your crown is carved from bone.

I love her ugh, shes such a badass <//3

“Maybe I like risky,” he says, voice smooth as velvet with a rip underneath. “Keeps things interesting.”

Giggling, I love when men say things that feel borderline irritating

I like that Beomgyu talks to her in a way that more or less tells her to “get cracking basically/ dont be careless”

“Then you need to start playing like the Queen you are. No more instincts. No more stunts. You want to beat Choi Yeonjun? You outthink him.”

Like it isnt in a way that feels like hes talking down on her, its just blunt facts and honestly, im loving it.

I also really like how you briefly talk about how each day passes so seamlessly and it just works so well

KANG TAEHYUNNN😭😭😭😭Oh my god the loml I cannot do this, I would fold so easy for him.

The dynamic between Yeonjun and MC is so good oh my god, I love them so much

“Talk so pretty,” he murmurs, lips curving slow. “But your heart got teeth.”

Oh my god the line hehe, totally not fangirlling right now.

Yeonjun finally glances his way, lip curling slightly. “I expect you to shut up when the grown-ups are talking.”

HELLO YEONJUN??? That was…kinda hot I cant even lie.

WAIT OMG EVERYONE THINKS SHES DEAD?? Bruh thats to tell you how slow I am, The Ghost Queen title makes so much sense now oh my god. Now I’d love to know her entire history of her life and with Yeonjun, ah im so excited ><

“I am thinking,” you snap. “I’m thinking that Soobin’s still alive. And if I waste another minute twiddling my fucking thumbs, he won’t be.”

I love the bite in her personality, you can tell all the experiences shes had has made her like this

Again, I think the banter between Yeonjun and her are so good actually, it drives me insane

“What? I like a woman who threatens me with conviction.”

Yeonjun and I relate on the same level with this

You scoff. “You wish.”

He leans in, lips barely brushing your cheek as he speaks. “I don’t wish. I get.”

I am going to scream the tension is so insane oh my god what the fuck

Behind him, Yeonjun shifts slightly in his restraints. Minjae crouches in front of you. “Tell me, how long have you two been shacked up? Does he cook breakfast? Call you sweetheart? Or is it all bullets and blackout sex?”

THE LAST LINE CAUGHT ME OFF GUARD HELLOOOO????? RONNIE WHAT THE FUCKKK

ALSO??? Yeonjun actually being the one behind intercepting the shipments??? Then Minjae stabbing him in the back and intercepting his too??? WHAT THE FUCKKKK

Man, I genuinely thought Minjae was just going to be an annoying lil shit nobody but hes so insane making deals with Yeonjun its p insane

But oh my god :( Gyu being so protective of her and his outburst making Yeonjun feel bad, my heart cant take it

Yeonjun looked at you, head tilted, lips twitching. “You know, if you married me, that would solve both our problems. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife.”

Oh my god, Yeonjun saying this as his younger self is actually so fucking cute

It’s actually so sad how her dad died :( but omg, they way her and Gyu became friends broke me and then finding Soobin after? They were just teens who wanted to survive ugh. My heart breaks so much for them

Okay, seeing their story I think i understand both sides; MC despite her dad wanting to marry her off and act like she doesnt exist will still have that bond with him regardless of how strained the relationship is so her hurt is valid, and Yeonjun, like her is loyal to his dad so it makes sense that he cant exactly say anything and hes right, he was fifteen. I understand’s MC’s grief as from her perspective Yeonjun didnt look for her and even despite his admittance of actually doing so I think to her he probably couldve done more in that regard? It is super sad from his perspective too since the comment about seeing her as his wife at that age shows that he truly cared for her despite everything.

That being said, theres such a complexity in what they went though that honestly, Yeonjun’s comment on her hiding behind a max and building an empire out of borrowed blood hurts. Yes, I get it that she left a scar, and I understand her because she was rightfully mad (but doesnt make it right). I just think considering her circumstances at that age she had to be extreme or else the world wouldve surely eaten her alive.

TLDR; I really appreciate everything just relating to their history and being able to understand both sides.

“Beomgyu,” you warned softly, not because he was wrong, but because this wasn’t the time. 

And you know what I love even more about her? Despite everything, despite knowing what Yeonjun initially did, she still has his sympathy (or is it empathy? I mix up the words) but basically I think she understands and feels for him because they were literally just in a scary and honestly quite shitty position

You didn’t answer that. Because part of you already knew: he was already there.

Ugh this line, im so insane about it

He didn’t move as you approached. Just raised an eyebrow and smirked, lazy and lethal. “No dog today?” he said. “I was hoping to see if he bites.”

You didn’t blink. “Beomgyu sends his regards. And his middle finger.”

Yeonjun smiled like you’d complimented him. “Ah, the language of love.”

I ALSO LOVE THE DYNAMIC BETWEEN YEONJUN AND GYU SO MUCH😭Its so them core i think and honestly, I am obsessed.

Minjae grinned. “You should take care of that scar. I don’t like damaged goods.”

You smiled at him, slow and dangerous. “Good thing I’m not yours, then.”

Hes actually so gross ew

When Minjae turned to greet someone else, Yeonjun leaned closer, breath brushing your temple. “Still sharp,” he murmured. “Still mine.”

You didn’t look at him, you didn’t have to. “You could never afford me.”

He chuckled. “Darling, I already paid in blood.”

I WILL PASS OUT I CANNOT DO THIS

“Smile, darling,” he murmured near your ear, smirk curling. “You look like you’re about to kill someone. Which, to be fair, would only make me love you more.”

RONNIE HOLY FUCK GIRL YOU WILL KILL ME

Their banter is genuinely driving me so fucking crazy I feel like ill start gnawing at like dry wall or something because what the fuck

Yeonjun’s hand moved again, but not away. This time it slid across your lap, over the silk of your dress, and came to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, like a warning. Or maybe comfort, maybe both.

I have ascended to heaven at this point because what

Yeonjun leaned in before you could speak, his voice brushing hot against your ear. “Give me one reason. Just one. And I’ll tear him apart.”

Super hot of Yeonjun to say this

He always did that—wrapped barbed wire in silk and called it love.

Oh my god, I love this line so much what the heck

Yeonjun tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “Then why are you still wearing my necklace?”

AHHH????????

“Of course, it was. I picked it out when I was younger and so fucking in love with you I couldn’t think straight.”

I will start freaking sobbing because how can se say this so casually

“Funny thing is…” His gaze dragged up to your lips, then your eyes. “Even now—after all the blood, the lies, the shit we buried—I still look at you and want to fuck you against the nearest wall.”

Jesus take the wheel i cannot take this anymore

Yeonjun smirked. “Baby, if that’s a threat, I’ll fucking beg for it.”

Ronnie i will pass out oh my god

“And I still could—maybe I should ask your little dog to watch us. What’s his name again? Beomgyu?”

Literally how I feel right now I cannot

“I hope so,” he said, smiling wider. “Because nothing makes me harder than a girl who might slit my throat after fucking me.”

I genuinely cannot think straight

Yeonjun is so downbad for her and like same but my god this is genuinely so insane

WAIT RONNIE OH MY FUCK???? OH MY GOD/??/ YOURE WORKING ON A PART 2????😭😭😭😭😭😭THIS WAS SO GLORIOUS OH MY GOD.

Girl. I am so glad I finally got to read your work because honestly, this isamazing, your work is truly amazing. I love the way you took a dive into the mafia genre and the execution was so goddamn becautiful. I dont think I will ever get over this

YOUR HEART GOT TEETH | CHOI. YEONJUN ⨾

SYNOPSIS ٬⠀⠀✦ in a world ruled by blood and territory, you built your empire from ash and betrayal. years ago, yeonjun shattered your life with a single lie — and vanished. now he’s back, offering salvation laced with secrets, handing over pieces of your land to save the very people he once left to die. old scars reopen as you're forced into an alliance stitched together with memory, resentment, and the kind of tension that never really left. while danger brews at every border and loyalty crumbles beneath ambition, you must decide if the devil you once loved is worth trusting again — or burning with everything else.

PAIRINGS 🗝️ mafia! yeonjun x fem! reader

WARNINGS ❜୧ violence, mafia themes, enemies to lovers, stabbing, blood, grief, all kinds of illegal activities, death of father figure, smut, dry humping WORDCOUNT ''. 28k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ٬ ✦ this is my first time writing a mafia fic and ngl i was super nervous 😭 i’ve never touched this theme before and i was so scared it would come off super cheesy or over-the-top but honestly?? i’m really happy with how it’s turned out so 🖤 hope you guys enjoy it!! Hi guys! this is rain @heesmiles, i'm making this layout for ronnie; i made the header too ! like this its so cutie core

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#nowplaying - teeth by 5 seconds of summer

Some nights, you forget what peace feels like. And when silence finally settles, you start to miss the sound of violence.

That’s the first thing you think when the cold of 3:17 a.m. presses into your skin like a warning. It’s quiet, but not the good kind. This silence has sharp edges. Because you’re standing on the rooftop of a building that doesn't belong to you but answers to your name. The city stretches around you, lit up like a lie, glittering and full of ghosts. Somewhere out there, someone is bleeding. Somewhere out there, someone’s praying they never hear your name.

You light a cigarette you won’t finish, you never do. Smoke curls between your fingers like it’s dancing for you, like it knows you’re the queen here. The Ghost Queen, that’s what they call you. No face, no past, and also no mercy. No one knows you’re you, the daughter of the man who burned half the underworld down before disappearing into his own flames. No one knows you were born in blood and named after betrayal, and you like it that way.

Behind you, the rusted door creaks open, but you don’t turn around. You already know it’s Beomgyu, your second-in-command, and the only person in this city you’d trust with your back turned. “They're calling again,” he says. Voice quiet, always calm. “Third deal this week gone sideways.”

You don’t answer right away. You exhale, watching the smoke dissolve into the night. “Same buyer?” you ask.

Beomgyu steps closer and leans on the ledge next to you, the city lights flickering in his dark eyes. “Different face. Same pattern. Military-grade weapons intercepted. Police got there too fast. Like... too fast.”

There it is, the rot you’ve been sensing all week. Something is off, and now it’s crawling into your business. “Is it local?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

Beomgyu hesitates. “Maybe. But it’s spreading. Not just us.”

You glance at him and he meets your eyes. And you both know what name you’re not saying.

Choi Yeonjun.

You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you were teenagers. But you push the memory down like a knife you’re not ready to twist. Instead, you focus on the facts. If someone’s feeding intel to the police, they’re not just targeting you. They’re tearing a path through the power lines of the city. And eventually, that path leads to the Crimson Order, Yeonjun’s organization.

You stub out the cigarette on the concrete ledge. “Let the others know,” you say. “We don’t move anything for the next 48 hours. Nothing leaves the vault unless it’s fireproof and untraceable.”

Beomgyu nods, but doesn’t leave. You can feel him watching you. “You think it’s him?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You don’t answer, not directly. Instead, your eyes drift toward the horizon, toward the part of the city where red lights burn hotter than the rest, his territory. You think about a scar on someone else's skin. A knife in your own hand. The way his eyes looked the last time he saw you — not scared, not angry, but betrayed.

“I think,” you say slowly, “if it is him... he’s about to wish it wasn’t.”

You turn away from the edge. And behind you, the city keeps burning, because it usually burns like this. Most nights, the city is a machine of smoke and steel, humming with secrets too loud to keep. Your world lives in the cracks — the places where rules bend, loyalty bleeds, and every smile hides a blade. You don’t live, you move, you calculate. You don’t love, you protect, you bleed. And you only bleed for a few.

Downstairs, the lights are low. This is home, if you believe in that kind of thing. This is where you chose to stay with them. 

Next to Beomgyu, Choi Soobin’s on a laptop, legs pulled up on the couch like he lives there, because he kind of does. He’s the quiet one, the one who smiles the least and notices the most. He tracks shipments, hacks through government walls like it’s a game. Lee Heeseung walks in with two guns and a bag of dumplings. He places the guns on the table like offerings and tosses you the food like it’s more valuable. He’s been with you since the beginning, an he still calls you “Boss” but smiles like you’re just yourself and that’s why you trust him. Park Jay and Huh Yunjin are arguing over blueprints at the far table. It’s not real fighting, it never is. They’ve known each other too long to mean it. Yunjin is lethal in heels and poetry, and Jay’s the kind of man who doesn’t speak unless it’s necessary, but when he does, people shut up. They were the last to join you, but they fell into rhythm like they’d been there from the start.

This is your family. No blood, no birthrights, only fire and choice. And every person in this room would kill for you. Every one of them knows exactly what you’ve done and why. They don’t ask questions, but they’d follow you into hell. 

There’s a map on the wall. Red pins, black threads, coded notes. The whole city, a body open for surgery. Beomgyu stands beside you, arms crossed, eyes on the patterns. “Third deal,” he says. “Same setup. Same leak.”

“Where’s the weak point?” you ask.

Soobin answers from the couch without looking up. “It’s not us.”

You nod once, you didn’t think it was. That’s when Heeseung speaks, voice low. “It’s coming from across the river.”

Across the river. Yeonjun’s territory. You feel it before you hear it, that low thrum in your chest, but it is not anger or fear. It is recognition, like something crawling back out of your bones.  “Gear up,” you say. “We’re not waiting to get burned. We’re going to find out who’s lighting the match.”

Your family starts moving. You send Heeseung and Soobin the next morning. Heeseung wears his leather jacket like it’s a second skin, and doesn’t ask questions. Soobin taps his fingers against the grip of his gun while scanning the coordinates, already thinking three moves ahead. They’ll take an unmarked car and rotate comms every two hours. They’ll report directly to you, always. You don’t need to follow them, because you never micromanage blood.

The days pass slowly, so you keep your hands busy, meet with suppliers, cut ties with a contact who got too loud, relocate a storage unit after a whisper of police movement near the docks. You don’t sleep much, but that’s normal. Sleep is a luxury for people who don’t have targets on their backs or memories carved into their ribs.

By the third day, Beomgyu starts getting twitchy. He hates silence, especially when it stretches too long and sounds like a setup. Heeseung and Soobin send in updates, but they’re dry — trail’s cold, warehouse clean, contacts nervous. You get the sense that something is missing. Something’s being wiped before they get there. And on the seventh day, everything shifts. You’re sitting in the back room, cigarette lit, going over surveillance notes with Yunjin when the alert pings. Intercepted frequency. Jay bursts in without knocking, holding a black phone like it’s about to explode.

“Got something,” he says. “Encrypted, but Soobin cracked it.”

You stand slowly, taking the phone from his hand. The message is short, just a few lines, but they slice clean through the room.

to the ghost queen. someone’s leaking our supply lines too. if it’s you, run. if it’s not, stay out of the way.next time, we won’t send a warning.

— ㅊㅇㅈ

Choi Yeonjun. Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say a word.

Beomgyu lets out a low whistle. “Bold move. Must think we’re the ones playing rat.”

Yunjin leans against the table, arms crossed, voice cold. “Or he’s deflecting. Trying to pin it on us so we back off and stop sniffing too close.”

Heeseung, now back and leaning in the doorway, shrugs. “Or he’s bluffing. He wants to see how we move.”

But your head’s already spinning faster. You know Yeonjun, you know how he plays. Or at least, you knew him. He doesn’t know who you are now. To him, you’re just the Ghost Queen — the nameless, faceless woman who rose out of nowhere and carved a throne in the darkest corners of his world. He doesn’t know you were once just Y/N. The girl who ran barefoot through his father’s garden, who once made him get a scar that still splits his left eyebrow in two.

He doesn’t know you’re the reason he can’t look in the mirror without remembering betrayal. And now he’s threatening you? Bold move.

You toss the cigarette into the sink. “He thinks I’m behind this,” you say, voice low.

Jay steps closer. “Or he wants you to think he thinks that. To distract us while he closes in from another angle.”

“No,” you reply. “He’s angry. You don’t write a message like that unless you’re cornered.”

Beomgyu leans in, resting both hands on the table. “So he’s losing product too. Question is—who’s behind it? Because if it’s not him, and it’s not us...”

“Then someone else is cleaning the city,” Yunjin finishes.

It could be another player. But still, you don’t like this, you don’t like being warned. Especially not by someone like Choi Yeonjun, who speaks in threats and smiles like he wants to see your throat split open on marble. And maybe that stings more than it should. You built a name that erased everything you were before. And now, the boy with the scar you gave him thinks you’re just another myth he wants to destroy. So, let him try.

You straighten up, eyes sharper than the knife tucked in your boot. “Let’s make something clear,” you say, voice slicing through the room. “If someone’s feeding the police, we find them first. If Yeonjun’s lying, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth myself. And if he isn’t…” You glance at Beomgyu. “Then we send him a message too.”

Because you're not the girl he remembers. You're the Queen now, and your crown is carved from bone.

It’s been nine days since the first message. Fourteen days since someone started slicing through your shipments. Ten days of second-guessing routes, switching hands last minute, cutting corners and biting your own tail to stay alive. And still, they get to you.

This morning, another one of your cargos is seized. The police raid the docks just before sunrise, like they were handed a map and a schedule. Two of your men are arrested, one doesn’t come back. You hear the news in your office, mid-call, with one hand resting over a blueprint of a nightclub you were planning to take over next quarter.

On the fourth day of that same week, you decide to visit one of your quieter fronts — a gas station on the edge of the city, off a highway no one pays much attention to unless they need fuel or a place to bury something. It’s clean, minimal, looks just like any other rundown 24-hour joint, but it moves more money in a month than most luxury clubs. You pull up in a car no one would suspect. Hoodie up, sunglasses on, no guards this time. You walk inside, nod to the clerk — he knows not to speak unless necessary — and head toward the back, checking the logs.

Your phone rings just as you're thumbing through the most recent drop. Beomgyu. You answer without a word. His voice comes fast, low, urgent. “I found something,” he says. “Someone’s been rerouting the trucks before they even leave the safehouses. Which means whoever it is — they’ve got eyes inside.”

You still and your pulse slows. “Inside?” you echo, cold.

“Not ours,” Beomgyu says. “Or at least, not directly. It’s third-party tech. Someone piggybacking our routes, cloning trackers, feeding fake data. They’re making it look like both our sides are fucking each other up — but it’s neither of us.”

You’re about to ask who, when the sound of an engine makes your skin pull tight. A car rolls up outside, not just any car. Matte black, sleek body, custom license. It purrs into the lot like it owns the place. You don’t need to ask, because you know who it is before the door even opens.

Choi Yeonjun steps out of the driver’s side like he’s in a goddamn movie. Hair red like a warning, he’s wearing a long coat and sunglasses, but his scar is still pretty visible. He doesn’t look your way, he doesn’t know to. But he looks around the station, just once — a subtle glance, head tilted slightly like he knows exactly whose turf he’s standing on.

You press the phone closer to your ear. Beomgyu keeps talking, unaware of what’s unfolding in front of you. “I traced the breach back to an old supplier. Guy named Kang Minjae. He used to deal with Kim Mingyu’s crew before it fell. Now he’s freelance. Works with cops, rivals, whoever pays more. Guess who he’s been talking to lately?”

Your eyes stay locked on Yeonjun as he pops the gas tank, leans against the car. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t recognize the girl who split his eyebrow open thirteen years ago. The one whose last name he still associates with betrayal. The one who’s now watching him from twenty feet away with the quiet rage of a storm about to break.

You whisper, “Tell me.”

Beomgyu answers. And your world shifts again. “It’s him,” he says. “He’s the one working with Kang Minjae. I double-checked the comms log. That message he sent last week? It was a bluff. He’s trying to pin this whole thing on you while bleeding you dry.”

You don’t say anything at first, just watch him from the other side of the gas station glass. Still leaning against the car like he’s waiting for something, or someone. So you think, of course it’s him. Of course it’s Yeonjun. The one person whose silence you still carry in your bones. The one boy you hurt enough to leave a scar, and the one man who turned that scar into a warning sign. 

You end the call without a word. Then, quiet and calm, you step into the backroom, peel off your hoodie, and pull your hair into a loose ponytail. You find one of the spare uniforms hanging behind the door, a faded blue jacket with an old patch on the sleeve. You smear a thumb under each eye, rubbing out whatever leftover makeup you had on. Just your face now, just your skin, just your eyes.

Let’s see if he remembers. So you walk outside, heart steady. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, voice casual but clear.

Yeonjun looks up, slowly. His sunglasses are still on, but his jaw tenses the moment your voice hits him. Something flickers. He straightens up just a little, head tilted like he’s trying to place you. The way your shoulders square. The curve of your mouth. Your eyes. 

“I’m good,” he says, but his voice is slow. Not arrogant, not yet. “Just filling up.”

You glance at the screen, and see the tank’s already full. You nod and move to ring him up inside. He follows, steps behind you like a shadow. You tap the register. “Card or cash?”

“Card,” he replies, watching you more than the screen.

You swipe it. Let it beep, pass it back with a steady hand. Up close, it’s easier to see the details of him, even with the sunglasses still on. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the light cuts through the red in his hair, the scar across his left eye like it was drawn there on purpose. It should’ve ruined his face, but it didn’t. If anything, it makes him look better, meaner, more interesting. Not that you’d say that out loud.

You allow yourself one second too long looking at him, cataloging the face you haven’t seen in years, now grown into something more dangerous, more defined. The mouth you remember yelling at you in a warehouse soaked in blood. And yet now, he stands there like nothing ever touched him.

So you smile, controlled. Tucked into the corner of your mouth. “Car like that?” you say, tilting your head toward the blacked-out Mercedes behind him. “Little risky to bring it to this side of town. People might start thinking you don’t know where you are.”

It’s not a threat, but it tastes like one. He lowers his sunglasses just a little, just enough to actually look at you properly this time, and something shifts in his expression. Not shock or recognition, but something close. His eyes drag across your face like they’re chasing a memory. He hesitates, just enough for you to catch it, before smirking, lazy and sharp.

“Maybe I like risky,” he says, voice smooth as velvet with a rip underneath. “Keeps things interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. You’re good at silence, better than he is. He lingers for half a beat too long, then slips the sunglasses back up, nods once, and heads for the door. The bell jingles as he exits, like it’s mocking you for letting him walk out so easy.

You stay behind the counter. Heart slow, breaths slower. He doesn’t know it’s you, but he looked at you like he almost did. And that’s worse than anything else, because now, he’ll start remembering. And if there’s one thing you know about Choi Yeonjun, it’s this: once he starts digging, he never stops.

The garage door slams shut behind you with that low, dragging creak that always feels too loud at night. The sound echoes through the old warehouse and you shrug off the jacket, throw the cap onto the nearest couch, and run a hand through your hair like it might wipe the whole evening clean. It doesn’t.

Beomgyu’s already waiting by the maps on the wall, arms crossed, head tilted, that focused look on his face he only gets when he knows he’s about to tell you something you won’t like. You don’t give him the chance to start. “I fucked up,” you say, blunt. 

Beomgyu doesn’t even blink. “Define fucked up.”

You pace. “I saw him. At the station. Just pulled in like he owned the place.”

“The car?”

You nod once. “Blacked-out Benz. Had to be him. And I—” You stop pacing and let out a breath. “I went to him. In disguise, just to see.” Beomgyu’s expression barely shifts, but you know him well enough to read it. He’s not surprised, just disappointed you didn’t tell him earlier. “He didn’t recognize me, or if he did, he didn’t show it. But still—” You sigh deeply. “It was stupid. I acted on instinct. That’s not how I do things anymore.”

You go quiet, the room does too. Then Beomgyu steps forward, flipping a paper file onto the table in front of you. Names, numbers, a few blurred photos stapled to the corner. “I found something,” he says, tone low. “He made a deal with Kang Minjae. Three weeks ago. Off the books, hush-hush, no lieutenants present. And guess who’s been quietly partnering with the militia to wipe competition out and feed the cops enough bait to look clean?”

You stare at the papers, your mouth goes dry. “So he is behind the intercepted shipments.”

Beomgyu nods once. “Looks like it.”

You lean forward, hands braced on your knees. “Then I was right. He didn’t go to that station for gas. He was sending a message. He wants to be seen. Or worse—he wanted me to see him.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Maybe he suspects the Ghost Queen’s closer than he thought.”

That makes your stomach twist. You’ve built this empire in shadows, piece by piece, and no one ever tied the Ghost Queen to Y/N. You made damn sure of it. But today, you played with fire. “I can’t afford to be found,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Not by him. Not yet.”

Beomgyu crouches down in front of you, voice quiet but grounded. “Then you need to start playing like the Queen you are. No more instincts. No more stunts. You want to beat Choi Yeonjun? You outthink him.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s no fear there, not in him, but there’s belief in you. And you’re going to need that—every ounce of it. Because the closer Yeonjun gets to the truth, the more dangerous this game becomes. And if he remembers who you are? It’s not just your empire at stake, it’s everything.

You tell yourself it’s just another week. Another cycle. Another set of moves on the board you’ve been playing for too long to lose now. You and Yunjin meet in one of the upper rooms of the safehouse—no names, no phones, just the two of you and the map on the wall. Routes are rerouted, codes are changed. You think, maybe this time, you’re a step ahead.

Tuesday brings in a storm. You send Heeseung and Soobin out again. A small job, just a tail. Follow a man who’s been asking the wrong questions in the right places. He’s tied to Minjae. You’re sure of it, you just need proof. They leave before the sun’s up, but they don’t come back that night.

Wednesday, you don’t sleep. You sit in your office, boots up on the edge of the desk, the dim light of the monitors painting your face in cold blue. Beomgyu doesn’t say much, just brings coffee, updates, silence. Every phone buzz makes your pulse spike, but you don’t show it. 

Thursday morning, Heeseung stumbles through the gate, half-carried by Jay and bleeding down the side of his arm. No Soobin.

Your chest collapses in on itself the second you realize it. Heeseung’s face is torn, his voice barely works. “They knew we were coming,” he rasps. “They weren’t following us. We walked into it. Trap.”

He looks at you like he’s sorry, like he failed. You don’t say a word. You just turn, walk straight past everyone, slam the door behind you, and scream. You hit the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then another. You don’t care. You don’t even notice the blood on your knuckles until Beomgyu’s there, catching your wrist, holding it firm. “Y/N,” he says, voice low but grounding. “We’ll get him back.”

You shake your head, blinking hard. “No. I’m not risking anyone else. This time, it’s me.” 

Beomgyu doesn’t argue. He sees the fire in your eyes and knows better, so does everyone else. 

Thursday night, you sit alone in the old car parked on the edge of the city, staring out at the skyline. Your fingers tap the steering wheel, and you remember Soobin’s laugh in the safehouse kitchen. The way he always made sure you ate something, even when you were too caught up in work. The way he smiled like he didn’t belong in this world, like he was born for something softer, but he chose this. Chose you, and now he's gone. Taken. Probably tortured, maybe worse.

Friday morning, you open the vault. Pull out the black case no one’s seen in months. The one with the custom-made Glock, etched with your mark. You strap it to your side like a second skin, then tie your hair back with steady fingers. Jay says nothing when you pass him by. He just nods once, knows what this means. Heeseung sits on the couch, still stitched up, eyes hollow. You stop in front of him, crouch down to his level.

You press your forehead against his for half a second. “You did good. Rest now.”

He squeezes your hand, weak but alive. Then you stand. And for the first time in a long time, you feel it again—the burn in your chest, the ice in your spine. The part of you that built all of this from nothing. The part of you they call Ghost Queen like a prayer or a warning. You don’t wait for vengeance, you bring it.

You don’t say much on the drive there. Beomgyu’s hands are steady on the wheel, the engine humming under your feet like something alive. Jay sits beside you in the backseat, silent, but his eyes flick to yours every now and then, reading the mood. He knows, they both do. You’re not going in to play tonight.

The car turns onto a narrow street lit by red neon and the low buzz of cheap pop music leaking through walls. There’s no name on the building, just a flickering sign shaped like a crown, bent at the edges. Everyone in the city knows what it is. One of the quieter spots owned by Choi Yeonjun’s empire. A place where people talk when they’re not supposed to. A place that only exists because Yeonjun wants it to. You know it’s not a front, but it’s a center. Information moves through this place like blood. And tonight, you’re here to bleed it dry.

Beomgyu kills the engine. You step out of the car, heels hitting the ground like a rhythm no one dares interrupt. You’re dressed like you mean it—tailored black, gold at your wrists, your presence sharper than the weapons you keep hidden. Your eyes lined dark, mouth cold and still. You don’t wear your name on your face, but it clings to you anyway. And people turn to look, they always do.

Jay walks to the bouncer first. The guy’s thick, tattooed, wired on something too cheap to be clean. He squints at the three of you like he’s trying to put the puzzle together. But before he opens his mouth, Jay leans in and says one word, a password. You don’t know how he got it, but you trust him with this.

The bouncer stiffens, then he steps aside. You walk through it like you’ve been here before—which you haven’t, not like this. Not as yourself. You’ve sent people and you’ve heard stories. But this is you, in person, in full view.

And it doesn’t take long. You step into the main lounge, the music drops, low bass humming under the floor. Laughter dies in someone’s throat, glass clinks against tile, and then silence. You don’t have to say who you are, you’re not wearing a name tag. But Jay and Beomgyu are flanking you like twin wolves, and their faces are too well known to mistake. Ghost Queen never shows her face. But if they’re here like this—shoulders squared, eyes sharp—then everyone knows exactly who you must be.

In the far corner of the room, someone’s already moving. Calm, fast, precise. You spot him instantly—Kang Taehyun, right-hand to Yeonjun. He’s not dressed for war, but he’s always ready. His eyes land on you, then Jay, then Beomgyu. You can see the calculations spinning in his head, and then he moves. Not toward you, but toward the bar. With one sharp wave of his hand, he clears the place. Quietly, efficiently, like pulling a fire alarm with no fire. The girls disappear first, then the customers, then the staff. Soon, it’s just you, and Taehyun, and your two.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing just inside the circle of light that frames the empty dance floor. The music shuts off completely. You watch Taehyun’s posture shift, guarded, still polite, but alert. Always alert.

He speaks first. “Well,” he says, voice low and calm. “Didn’t think you’d ever step out of the shadows.”

You tilt your head. Don’t smile. “I thought you might appreciate a house call,” you answer. “Seeing as your boss likes sending threats through back channels.”

Jay doesn’t blink. Beomgyu rolls his shoulder, one hand casually near his waist, close to the blade you know is strapped under his jacket. Taehyun smiles, just a little, not kind. “He didn’t know who he was threatening,” he says.

“Neither do you,” you reply.

And for a second, just one heartbeat, the room feels like it’s holding its breath. You let the silence stretch. Let it cut. You’re not here to bluff. You’re not here to talk things through. You’re here to make sure they know what’s coming if this war keeps building. And Taehyun, smart as he is, knows that too, so he doesn’t speak again.

You take another step forward. “They took one of mine,” you say, voice low but steady. “I want him back.”

There’s a flicker in his expression, barely there. “You’re assuming we have him.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’d come here without knowing?”

Taehyun’s gaze narrows. “Even if you know where he is… what makes you so sure we’re the ones holding him?”

You smile, sharp and humorless. “Because he wouldn’t have gone down easy. And because whatever game you’re playing with these intercepted shipments, it’s gotten messy. Sloppy. And I know Yeonjun doesn’t like messy.”  Taehyun’s silence drags out a little too long. You sigh. “I’m not here to talk circles with lieutenants. If I came here in person,” you say, voice colder now, “you should know I came to talk to your boss too.”

Beomgyu finally breaks. “Are you sure about that?” His voice is low, close to your ear, but loud enough to carry. You glance at him, and it’s not even a smile this time, just a look, calm and certain. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That’s when the air shifts. The lights don’t change, but everything else does. A shadow unsticks itself from the far corner of the room, like it had been there all along. Leaning, watching and waiting.

Choi Yeonjun steps into the light like a punchline you should’ve seen coming.

He’s wearing all black, something tailored and expensive, hands in his pockets, and a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s been entertained for hours. His eyes settle on you instantly, curious, sharp, and already amused. “Well,” he drawls, voice smooth, deep, familiar in a way that makes your spine lock. “If I’d known you were gonna show up looking like that, I would’ve cleaned the place up a little.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t blink. “Yeonjun.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know my name. I’m flattered.”

You arch an eyebrow back. “You should be.”

Beomgyu takes a step closer, but you raise your hand again. Yeonjun’s eyes flick over him, then Jay, then land back on you with an edge of something darker. “So,” he says, voice lazy like a slow burn. “You want your boy back.”

“I do.”

“And you’re sure I have him.”

“I’m sure someone in your chain does. And if he’s not back by the end of the week, I’ll tear your operations down brick by brick until I find him.”

Yeonjun smiles wider, slow and amused, like you just told him a joke he wants to hear again. “Fight so dirty,” he says, almost a whisper, “but you love so sweet.”

Your blood goes still. It’s not the words, it’s the way he says them. Like he knows something he shouldn't, like he remembers something he can't place. Like he’s talking to the stranger you used to be. So you meet his eyes, hard. “You have no idea who you’re talking to.”

He studies you for a long beat. Then he shrugs, the smirk still curling at his mouth like it’s carved there. “Maybe not. Or maybe I do, and you just don’t want me to.”

Your jaw tightens, but your face stays still. This is what he does, gets under skin, lingers where he’s not welcome. “Get him back to me,” you say. “Unharmed.”

Yeonjun tilts his head slowly, his eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to peel something back. “You know,” he says, voice smooth, laced with amusement, “I thought it was kind of cute. You, playing dress-up at that gas station. Hiding behind a hoodie like you were just some bored girl with a job to do.” His gaze sharpens. “But I’m not stupid. That face... it’s too familiar.” You say nothing, let him keep talking. His smile widens, all sharp teeth. “You ever work here before? Place like this? You’ve got the look. Maybe you were one of the girls. Back in the day. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Beomgyu steps again, this time, sharper, but you lift a hand and stop him without even looking. One slight move, and he stills, but the anger radiating off of him is palpable.

Yeonjun laughs, low and cruel. “You should keep your dog on a tighter leash.” He looks Beomgyu dead in the eye, then flicks his gaze back to you. “Lucky guy. Not everyone gets to have someone so beautiful and so... bossy.”

You tilt your head, slow, unimpressed. “I didn’t come here to listen to you flirt badly.”

He smirks. “I’m just saying, I like to know who I’m dealing with. And you’ve got secrets, sweetheart. Big ones.” His tone drops into something darker. “Like how you knew we had your guy.”

“I want him back,” you say, firm. “I don’t care who took him. If he’s in your territory, he’s your responsibility.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “Unfortunately, wasn’t me. I’ve got no reason to touch your people. Unless, of course, you’re working with the cops. Then we’ve got bigger problems.”

You blink once. “I’m not working with the fucking cops.”

He raises both eyebrows, mocking. “Could’ve fooled me. They’ve been intercepting my shipments. Getting real cozy with someone, and it sure as hell ain’t me.”

“I was going to say the same thing about you,” you snap, stepping forward. “Maybe you should look in the mirror before pointing fingers. You’re the one making deals with Kang Minjae. You think I don’t know?”

His smile falters just a fraction, but it’s there, and you catch it. The briefest glitch in his mask. “You’re bluffing,” he says, but there’s less certainty behind it now.

“So are you,” you fire back. “And here we are.”

Silence stretches between you like wire, razor-thin and ready to snap. The whole place feels tighter, tense. Taehyun is on edge, Beomgyu is burning beside you, and Jay’s eyes haven’t left Yeonjun once. But it’s just you and him in this moment. Two predators playing at civility.

“Talk so pretty,” he murmurs, lips curving slow. “But your heart got teeth.”

You stare at him, eyes cold. He still doesn’t know who you are. But he’s close, too close. And you can feel your past creeping in, inch by inch, on the heels of a boy with red hair and a scar you gave him.

Yeonjun exhales slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze. “Well,” he drawls, almost bored, “unless this is just your very dramatic way of asking me out, I’m starting to think we’ve got a problem, sweetheart.”

Beomgyu scoffs under his breath, mutters something you catch just barely—“prick”—but you shut it down with a look.

Yeonjun doesn’t even glance his way, his entire focus is on you. “See, here’s the thing,” he goes on, voice low and almost amused, “I thought you were just fucking with me. And maybe you still are. But there’s one tiny detail I keep coming back to.” He leans forward just a bit, elbows resting on his knees. “My shipments are going missing. Yours are too. That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”

You don’t blink. “No. It doesn’t.”

“So either one of us is a very good liar,” he tilts his head, mock-thoughtful, “or we’ve got an enemy in common.”

Beomgyu shifts beside you, stiff. “You expect us to believe you’re not behind it?”

Yeonjun finally glances his way, lip curling slightly. “I expect you to shut up when the grown-ups are talking.” Beomgyu starts forward, but your hand lands on his chest, firm and contained. You shake your head once, and he steps back, jaw tight. “Cute,” Yeonjun murmurs. “Protective. You trained him well.”

You take a slow breath and turn to him fully. “We need to talk.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“Alone.”

He lifts a brow, clearly amused. “Wow. So forward.”

Taehyun looks at you, then Yeonjun, then you again. “Boss?”

Yeonjun shrugs, standing. “Why not? Let’s see what the queen has to say when she’s not hiding behind her princes.”

Beomgyu steps in immediately. “Gyu,” you say, calm but sharp. “Wait here. If I scream, kill everyone.”

That gets a reluctant laugh from Jay. “Subtle as always.”

You follow Yeonjun down a narrow hallway that leads to a private back room. He walks slowly, shoulders loose, like nothing in the world could touch him. Like he owns the floor and the city beneath it. You wonder, as you follow, how many people he’s fooled with that walk. You wonder how many more he’ll fool before someone finally gets to him.

He holds the door open for you, exaggerated and mocking. “After you, Your Highness.”

You brush past him with your chin high, and he shuts the door behind you. The room is dim, velvet-draped, stinking of expensive liquor and older secrets. You stand in the center and he leans on the edge of the table, arms folded, watching.

“So,” he says, that smirk never quite leaving his face, “what’s this? A truce? A confession?”

You cross your arms. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

You sigh, tired already. “Look. I don’t trust you. You don’t trust me. But if you’re telling the truth—if you’re really not behind this—then someone’s running both of us in circles.”

“And you think pillow talk’s gonna fix it?”

You step closer, tone steady. “I think two people with a common enemy have two choices. Work together, or let the enemy win.”

He laughs. “Work together?” he echoes. “That’s rich. Tell me, sweetheart, how do I team up with someone who won’t even tell me her name?” You don’t answer, not yet. He watches you, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to draw your outline in his mind. Then: “I know I’ve seen you before,” he says quietly. “Not just the gas station. Somewhere else.” You lift your chin and he studies your face. Silence lingers a little too long, and then his voice cuts through it. “You’ve got a war in you,” he says, slowly. “And I’m starting to think I like it.”

You almost smile. Almost, but not for him. Instead, you say, “If I’m here, it’s because someone I love is missing. And if I find out you had anything to do with that—”

Yeonjun cuts in, voice low and wry. “You’ll burn my empire to the ground? Sounds exhausting.” He tilts his head. “How about we skip the empty threats and you just tell me the truth.” Your expression doesn’t shift. He takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the smugness radiating off of him. “I’ll help you,” he says, voice casual, almost bored. “I’ll find out who took your boy and who’s fucking with our shipments.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what’s the catch?”

Yeonjun’s smile sharpens. “Tell me how we know each other.”

“We don’t.”

“Wrong answer.” He clicks his tongue. “Come on. You recognized me at the gas station. You came straight up to me wearing that little worker costume like you were playing a part. But you knew exactly who I was.”

You scoff, folding your arms. “The red hair, the expensive car, the scar. People talk.”

His eyes narrow, and he doesn’t believe you, not really. But he doesn’t push yet. “Hm,” he hums. “Yeah, people do talk. That’s the problem.” His gaze drifts over your face again, lingering. There’s something behind it now, not just arrogance. “You look like her, you know.” You stay still, too still. He keeps going, voice lower now. “The one who gave me this.” He gestures lightly to the scar slicing through the skin just above his left eye. “Never saw her coming. But when I did—she smiled. Just like you did. That kind of smile sticks.”

Your mouth is dry. “Sounds like she was smart.”

He tilts his head. “She was. Dead, though.” He shrugs, mock regretful. “Shame. She was pretty. Kinda looked like you.”

You shrug too, cool and detached. “Pretty girls die every day.”

“Mm,” he smirks. “True. But they don’t all pull blades on me and vanish.” You hold his stare. Let the weight of it settle between you. If he knows, he’s playing a long game, but you’ve been playing longer.

“Do we have a deal or not?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip, just briefly. “I’ll help,” he says finally. “We both want the same thing. Whoever’s behind this is making a fool out of both of us. And I don’t like being made a fool.”

“Neither do I.”

“So,” he says, pushing off the table, standing to his full height, “you’ll give me updates, and I’ll give you mine. We trace the leaks. We find your boy. We kill whoever’s responsible.” You nod, slow. “Temporary alliance,” he adds. “Don’t get clingy.”

You almost laugh at that. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Yeonjun grins again, dark and satisfied. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

You lean in close, just enough that your lips almost brush his ear. “Would ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?”

And with that, you turn and walk out, leaving him standing there, half-sure he just made a deal with the devil. And maybe a little intrigued by the fire still burning behind your eyes.

Jay and Beomgyu are standing where you left them with shoulders tense, gazes sharp, like they’ve been waiting for a gunshot. You don’t have to say much, you never do. Your heels click softly across the velvet floor, past flashing lights. You stop only when you’re close enough for them to hear you without raising your voice. “Let’s get out of here,” you say, smooth and low. 

Jay doesn’t say a word, just nods once. Beomgyu exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you walked in. As you reach the main doors, pushing past the heavy curtains, the air changing from incense and heat to something colder, Yeonjun’s voice calls out from across the club.

“Your Highness!”

You don’t flinch, but you stop. When you turn, he’s leaning lazily against the far wall, arms crossed like he’s got all the time in the world. Lit from behind, half in shadow. “Taehyun’ll be your point of contact,” he says, like it’s a gift. “He’s good with updates. Polite, too. I’m sure your boys will love him.” You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. He adds, “Try not to miss me too much.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just turn on your heel, long coat brushing your calves, and disappear into the dark.

The next few days move slow. Taehyun reaches out first. He’s cold and precise, just like Yeonjun promised. Every message comes through clean, encrypted. You assign Jay to keep the line open, Beomgyu to cross-check everything with your own intel. Heeseung handles the shadows, the street-level whispers, what people don’t say out loud.

There’s a name that keeps surfacing: Kang Minjae. You already had your suspicions, but now the links are undeniable. Minjae’s been moving like a roach in the walls, playing every side that lets him breathe a little longer. Yeonjun’s people confirm he’s got connections in the militia, and that he’s been sniffing around routes that were meant to stay quiet. Some of the evidence leads to areas only your own crew had access to — which means the leak might be internal. That truth burns worse than anything else.

You’re careful, never in the same place twice. Your face remains out of sight, your name still a whisper wrapped in fear. But inside your core, something's cracking. Soobin is still missing. His trail is faint, but not cold. Some surveillance footage caught a convoy passing through a border checkpoint under fake credentials, days after he vanished. The timestamp lines up with the night you lost him. Jay triangulates the route. Heeseung maps it. It points to a facility miles outside the city — nothing official, but everyone knows who controls it.

Militia. And you know who’s protecting them.

So you wait. You sharpen your knives in silence. Every meeting with your crew is sharper, tighter, more desperate. You sleep less, smoke more. And every time an update comes in from Taehyun, you read between the lines, looking for Yeonjun’s voice in the spaces where it shouldn’t be. He stays quiet. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad, but you’re sure of one thing: this isn’t over, not even close.

It’s a Tuesday. You head to one of your quieter spots, a laundromat tucked behind a strip of closed-down shops, one of your smaller fronts. No one’s supposed to be there but your crew. You’re not there for show, you’re there for air. Heeseung walks a step behind you, always watching. You push through the metal door, let it clang shut behind you, and immediately feel that slight shift in energy. Someone’s sitting on one of the folding tables near the back, legs swinging lazily, fingers drumming on the edge.

You know that face. Hueningkai. He shouldn’t be here.

Heeseung stiffens behind you before you can even whisper. Your body moves before your mind does, in casual steps, but the kind that keep your right hand free. Kai’s head lifts when he sees you, and he smiles. Bright, almost naive. “Didn’t know this place was open to the public again,” he says, voice all sunshine and breathy charm. He looks between you and Heeseung like you might be siblings, or hired help. “Nice jacket.”

You lean back against a dryer. Calm, but your pulse is sprinting. He doesn’t know you, not yet. But you know him, you’ve read his file. The boy with the baby face and the mind like a minefield. He works for Yeonjun. Keeps his hands clean, his lips looser than they should be. He plays dumb, but he isn’t.

You don’t answer him. Instead, you tilt your head toward Heeseung, eyes sharp. Handle it.

Heeseung steps forward. “What are you doing here?”

Kai shrugs. “Waiting for someone, I guess.”

“Someone sent you?”

“Kind of. We’re looking into something. One of Minjae’s old associates might’ve used this building a few weeks ago. It’s near the harbor.”

Your breath catches, because the harbor is too close, too damn close to where Soobin’s trail last pinged. If they think there’s a hideout nearby—you cut your own thought off. Your eyes snap back to Kai, who’s now looking at you more closely. Heeseung’s moved into a partial block, but it doesn’t matter. You can feel the recognition click behind Kai’s irises like a switch flipped without permission. His smile fades.

“Wait,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’re her.” Heeseung shifts, ready. Kai doesn’t move, but something in his whole posture turns glassy. “The Ghost Queen,” he murmurs. “Huh. You’re prettier than they said.”

You want to ask who said what, but you don’t. You’re too busy trying not to tip into a panic. Soobin. If Kai’s here, if he knows this spot’s hot, how long before they relocate Soobin? Or worse?

You step forward. “How close is the location?”

Kai blinks at you. “Close enough that you being here just set off some very loud alarms.” His smile returns, but it’s hollow now. All teeth, no warmth. 

You swallow hard. Rage pressing tight behind your ribs. You glance at Heeseung — you could go. You could move now, you could flip the building upside down, if Soobin’s that close. 

“You really shouldn’t let your emotions make your calls for you,” he adds gently, like he’s offering advice. “Someone could use that.” You should answer him. But then Kai reaches for his phone, calm and polite, and you don’t stop him. He dials fast, brings the phone to his ear with a sweet little hum. 

“Hey,” he says into the receiver. “It’s me. Yeah, no — I’m fine. But she’s here.” There’s a pause. His eyes stay on yours the whole time. “She’s nervous,” he says. “Like, the bad kind of nervous.” Another pause. Then: “No, no. She hasn’t done anything. But she might move before she should.”

He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Your throat is dry and your fists ache from clenching. Kai slides off the table and stretches like he’s just woken up from a nap. “Anyway,” he says brightly, “you should probably clear this place out. I’d hate for things to get messy again.”

Then he waves, cheerful and friendly. Insane. And walks out like he owns the air. Heeseung watches the door for a full minute after it closes, and you’re shaking slightly. Not from fear, from fury and desperation. From the suffocating ache of knowing that Soobin could be so close and you’re still one step behind. You exhale. 

“Heeseung, call Beomgyu. Jay. Everyone. Now.”

You’re already moving. Your voice comes out sharp, controlled, but barely. Your heart’s not in your chest anymore, it’s somewhere else, screaming. You shove open the back door of the laundromat and suck in air like you’ve been drowning. Heeseung’s at your side in an instant, grabbing your wrist. “You can’t just storm into this,” he says. “You’re not thinking—”

“I am thinking,” you snap. “I’m thinking that Soobin’s still alive. And if I waste another minute twiddling my fucking thumbs, he won’t be.” Your chest heaves. “He’s not just crew, Heeseung,” you whisper. “He’s family. He’s mine. If they kill him just to send me a message—” You cut yourself off, jaw tight. “I can’t live with that.”

Heeseung hesitates. He wants to fight you on it, but he sees your eyes. The shaking in your hands. The fear twisting beneath all your armor. “I’ll call them,” he says finally. “But if you’re wrong—”

“I’m not.”

He doesn’t argue again. You pace like a storm while he makes the calls, and twenty minutes later, you’re piling into two black SUVs with Beomgyu, Jay, Heeseung, Yunjin and three others you trust with your life. Nobody talks much. There’s no plan, just a location and a name and too many emotions to fit inside one car.

Beomgyu drives like he’s got something to prove. You’re in the front seat, fingers twitching in your lap. The closer you get, the more it feels like your skin’s turning inside out. “Are we sure this is it?” Jay asks from the back. “No chance it’s bait?”

“It’s always bait,” you say. “But sometimes the mouse still has to bite.”

The harbor comes into view, with containers stacked in quiet patterns, dim lights humming, the water black and endless. Beomgyu slows down before turning in, park just behind a half-burned warehouse a few blocks from the drop point. Everyone starts checking weapons. You don’t even glance at yours, it’s second nature by now. What you do look at, though, is the sleek black car that turns the corner right as you do. Expensive. You don’t need to see the plates because you know exactly who it is.

Beomgyu sees it too and his mouth twists. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

You stare as the engine cuts. The car door opens, and Yeonjun steps out like a goddamn ghost from a fire. Hair tied back, long coat, no urgency in his bones — just that unbearable swagger that you want to tear off his face, again. You exhale through your teeth. Beomgyu mutters something violent under his breath, already half-reaching for his gun. You stop him with a look.

“We might need him,” you say.

“Yeah? Or maybe he’s just here to gloat when they drag Soobin’s body out of the water.”

“Either way,” you say coldly, “we’re finding out.”

Heeseung joins you as you step out of the car. “You still wanna go in with no plan?”

You glance at the harbor, the shadows waiting inside it, then at Yeonjun, who’s now leaning against his car like he’s posing for a magazine cover. “No plan’s ever survived the first bullet,” you mutter. “Let’s move.”

And you do, straight into the lion’s den. You and your team stand near a stack of containers, weapons visible, eyes sharp. Five figures emerge from the far side, shadows peeling off the darkness like it’s nothing. Taehyun walks first, with Hueningkai at his side, bouncing slightly on his heels. Behind them, Chaewon moves like a ghost, quiet and deadly. Sunghoon stalks a few steps behind, all tension and watchfulness. And then, at the center of it all — Yeonjun.

He moves like he owns the ground beneath him, like the night shifts to make space for him. Of course he would show up with a team like that. He stops a few feet from you. No gun drawn. Just that infuriating smirk pulling at his mouth.

“I should’ve known you’d beat me here,” he says, voice low and amused. “But damn. No plan? No scout? Just vibes?”

Beomgyu growls beside you, but soon he steps back with a glare, jaw tight. You turn to Yeonjun. “I don’t have time to wait. Soobin’s in there. I can feel it.”

Yeonjun tilts his head, studying you with those sharp, calculating eyes. “And what? You were gonna run in, guns blazing, and hope for the best?” You don’t answer. He chuckles — soft, infuriating. “You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being desperate,” you say. “And I don’t have the luxury of pretending otherwise.”

That makes something shift in his expression. The smirk falters for a breath, then curves back up, softer this time. “You care about him,” he says. “That’s cute.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” he replies, surprisingly sincere. “I think it’s admirable. The way you fight for your people.” You say nothing. Yeonjun glances toward the maze of containers behind you all. “I know this place. Minjae used to run small trades out of here — weapons, mostly. Smuggled in, offloaded straight into trucks by the south gate.”

“Does he still use it?” Jay asks, stepping forward.

Yeonjun nods. “Sometimes. When he doesn’t want attention. He’s got a room near the waterline. Old office converted into a holding space. I’d bet money that’s where he’s keeping your guy.”

“What else?” you ask. “You don’t come here without more than a guess.”

Yeonjun flashes a grin. “You wound me.”

Taehyun sighs beside him. “There’s always at least three lookouts. Usually on the cranes, plus one by the west exit. If they spot us, they’ll burn whatever evidence they’ve got. People included.”

Your stomach clenches. Heeseung steps up beside you. “So what do we do?”

Yeonjun exchanges glances with his team, then he looks back at you. “We go in quiet. I’ll send Taehyun and Sunghoon up the cranes, take out the eyes. If we’re lucky, we’ve got five minutes before someone inside realizes we’re here.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Beomgyu asks.

Yeonjun smiles. “Then it’s a bloodbath. But hey—” he looks at you, all charm and teeth “—at least we’ll get matching scars.” You glare at him. Yeonjun’s eyes slide back to yours, glinting with something that feels like amusement laced in real calculation. “We don’t have time to execute anything fancy. But I’ll make you a deal.”

You arch a brow. “This should be good.”

He smiles, slow and smug. “We go in together. Just the two of us. No noise. If we run into someone, we say we’re here to negotiate.”

Beomgyu steps in immediately, tension rolling off him. “No fucking way.”

“You trust him?” Jay asks you quietly.

You look over your shoulder. Everyone’s waiting on you. “No,” you admit. “But I trust that he doesn’t want to die tonight either.”

Beomgyu looks at you like he wants to argue more, but he knows better. His jaw ticks. “You sure about this?”

You nod. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says. Not a threat, but a promise.

Then you turn to Yeonjun, who grins like this is a game he’s already winning. “Let’s go,” you say. You and Yeonjun move through the outer edge of the harbor in silence, sticking close to the rows of containers. The metal is cold against your back every time you press into the shadows. You keep your pistol tight in your grip, the weight grounding. 

Yeonjun glances down at it, amused. “You don’t strike me as someone who handles her own mess.”

You don’t look at him. “That’s because I never had to appear in person. Until now.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Right. Ghost queen. Rarely seen, always whispered about. Real dramatic branding.”

You side-eye him. “You’re just jealous no one whispers about you. Only bitches.”

That makes him smirk. “Bold words for someone walking into a lion’s den with me.”

“I’m not afraid of lions.”

He hums, ducking beneath a rusted staircase, motioning for you to follow. You do, close enough to feel the heat off his body, but not close enough to lose your head. “Funny,” he says, leaning into the next bit of cover, “you never gave me the vibe of someone who’s reckless for people.”

“And you never gave me the vibe of someone who thinks before speaking.”

Yeonjun turns slightly, facing you under the shadow of the catwalk. “I think a lot of things. Especially when you’re around.”

You roll your eyes, scanning the area. “Focus.”

“I am,” he says, voice dropping low. “Laser sharp. Just distracted by the company.”

You adjust your grip on the pistol. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”

“Right. Your guy. Soobin.” He squints toward a building near the edge of the water. “If Minjae’s keeping anyone, it’ll be in that one. Windows are blacked out. No patrols near it.”

You glance toward it too. “We get closer. Quietly. Check it first.”

He starts forward again, and you follow. His hand brushes yours at one point — maybe by accident, maybe not. You don’t pull away, you keep moving. As you creep past an open bay, he says, almost casually, “You really would’ve killed me the other night if I’d been involved.”

“No hesitation,” you answer.

“That’s hot.”

You stop and glance at him, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“What? I like a woman who threatens me with conviction.”

You almost laugh. But instead, you focus ahead, heart pounding a little too fast for comfort. The door to the building is twenty feet away. The only thing standing between you and Soobin might be whatever trap Minjae left behind, or nothing at all. But either way, you’re not walking away until you know.

And then a sudden voice breaks the silence, too close, echoing faintly between the steel containers stacked around the edge of the dock. “Shit,” you whisper, grabbing Yeonjun by the arm and pulling him back fast. He doesn’t fight you, doesn’t speak either, he just follows.

You both slide behind a rusted container, low to the ground, barely a foot between you. The voices grow clearer. Two men, laughing about something. Footsteps scraping against the concrete. Yeonjun presses close, chest against your shoulder as you crouch beside him. His breath hits your jaw. The scent of him—something clean and expensive—wraps around you like smoke. Your pistol is still firm in your hand, the safety already off. His fingers graze the small of your back as he shifts just slightly to look around the edge. Too close. Too fucking close.

Your eyes catch on the faint silver scar above his eyebrow, half-faded now, but still familiar. You left it there. You remember the way his skin broke open, how red his face had been after. Yeonjun catches your staring.

“What?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You like my face that much?” You don’t answer, and his eyes narrow. The corner of his mouth lifts, sharp. “If I didn’t know she died… I’d say you look just like the girl who gave me this.” You stiffen, he sees it. “You even look at me the same way,” he continues, voice a little too soft now. “Like you’re already planning where you’ll leave the next one.” Still, you say nothing. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “Interesting.”

“Back off,” you mutter, but you don’t move. Can’t. The space is too tight. The air’s too charged.

He leans in instead, just slightly, close enough for his words to press against your ear. “It’d be poetic, wouldn’t it? If the girl who carved my face turned out to be the one I keep thinking about every time I get bored at night.”

You shoot him a glare. “You’re disgusting.”

The voices outside fade, footsteps drifting elsewhere. But neither of you moves. His hand finds your waist, steady, possessive. 

“You hate me,” he says.

“More than anything.”

“Then why are you looking at me like you want me to kiss you?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

He leans in, lips barely brushing your cheek as he speaks. “I don’t wish. I get.”

There’s a fire in your chest. Not soft, not romantic. Not even something you’d name. It’s sharp and twisted and dangerous. The kind of tension you don’t survive if you indulge. You push him back — just enough to breathe. “We’re not here for this.” He doesn’t fight you, but he smiles like he knows something you don’t. “We’re here for Soobin,” you snap. “Focus.”

His gaze lingers on you a second longer. Then he nods, finally looking away. “Right,” he murmurs. “Let’s go find your boy.”

But even as he turns, you feel his eyes still on you, even when they’re not. Like he’s still working out the puzzle, and like he already knows the answer.

The door creaks as you and Yeonjun slip inside the warehouse. It smells like rust and oil, stale water and something older. The air is thick with the kind of silence that doesn’t sit right. Every step echoes a little too loud. You move slow, pistol raised. Yeonjun does the same, behind you. Your breath catches. Something shifts.

And then—

“Drop your weapons.”

Two clicks. Cold steel against both your temples. Fuck.

You don’t see them, but you feel them, the men behind you. You and Yeonjun exchange a glance, and with a slow, calculated movement, you both lower your guns to the ground. Boots scrape across the concrete. A shadow moves forward from the far end of the warehouse. Minjae.

He steps into the flickering light above, dressed in black, expression dark with something dangerous. “I expected more from you,” Minjae says, eyes fixed on Yeonjun. “Showing up here with company.”

Yeonjun lifts his brows, casual as ever, like he isn’t surrounded by armed men. “Relax. I came to talk. Thought we could work something out. You know, just… friendly business.”

Minjae doesn’t smile. “Who is that?”

Then Yeonjun shrugs. “My girl.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t even blink. The lie slides off him easily. There’s a beat of silence. Minjae’s eyes shift to you, cold and calculating. “I know why you’re really here,” he says. You stay silent. Let him keep talking, and he steps closer. “He’s Ghost Queen’s, isn’t he?”

Yeonjun gives a short, forced laugh. “You think I’m dumb enough to come here for her people? Come on. I don’t work with her.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Minjae snaps. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? That I wouldn’t find out?”

He signals to his men. A moment later, you feel rough hands wrench your wrists behind your back. Zip ties cut into your skin. Yeonjun resists for half a second before giving in with a bitter smile. “No need for the theatrics,” he mutters. “You could’ve just asked nicely.”

“Shut up,” one of the guards snaps, forcing him to his knees.

Minjae looks down at the both of you, satisfied. “You didn’t come here to talk. You came to find him.” Your jaw tightens. “I knew someone would come looking. I just didn’t think it’d be you. And certainly not with company.” His eyes scan your face again. “She’s too pretty for this life, don’t you think?”

Yeonjun’s smirk returns. “I like pretty things.”

Minjae crouches, eye level with you now. “Tell me, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

You don’t answer, but Yeonjun does. “She doesn’t need one.”

Minjae laughs. “Of course she doesn’t.” He stands. Pacing, thinking. Then he turns to one of his men. “Lock them up. Separately.”

Yeonjun tenses beside you. “That’s not necessary.”

Minjae smirks. “Oh, I think it is. Let’s see how long the Ghost Queen’s new pet lasts without his little gun.”

You clench your fists, biting back every instinct to fight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. But now you’re in Minjae’s hands, and whatever game he’s playing — it just got personal.

The room they put you in is small, metallic, no windows. Bare walls, one buzzing fluorescent light that flickers above you like it’s mocking your silence. It smells like mold and blood. You’ve been in worse places, but not many. You don’t know how long you sit there, could be minutes, could be hours. Then the door groans open and a guard steps in with rough hands, cold grip, and he yanks you up without a word and drags you down a narrow corridor.

You’re shoved into a larger space with a concrete floor. A single chair bolted to the ground. Your wrists are still zip-tied. A second later, they shove you down onto the chair and bind your ankles. And that’s when you see Yeonjun again, across the room, tied up to a pipe against the far wall. His head is tilted slightly down, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. His shirt is ripped at the shoulder, his face bruised, but his eyes don’t leave you. He looks at you like he never stopped.

Then the door creaks again, and Minjae walks in. He looks completely at ease, smug even, his black boots echoing off the concrete. “Well, well,” he says, circling you like a hawk. “Yeonjun’s girlfriend. I’ve been dying to meet you.” You glare up at him, jaw locked. He smirks, stopping right in front of you. “Can’t lie. I get it. Sharp mouth. Killer stare. I’d probably throw a few alliances in the trash for you too.”

“Choke on it,” you mutter.

Behind him, Yeonjun shifts slightly in his restraints. Minjae crouches in front of you. “Tell me, how long have you two been shacked up? Does he cook breakfast? Call you sweetheart? Or is it all bullets and blackout sex?”

You roll your eyes. “Go to hell.”

“Touchy,” he says, and then, click. A blade appears in his hand. Small, curved. Clean, at least for now. “Thing is,” Minjae says, voice light and casual, “you’re lying to me. I can feel it. And I don’t like being lied to.”

You keep your expression neutral, but your pulse spikes as the cold flat of the blade presses against your cheek. You don’t flinch, you refuse. “Maybe you’d look better with a scar. Right here.” He taps the tip against your cheekbone. “Something to match your boyfriend’s. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

“Get that fucking thing away from her.”

Yeonjun’s voice slashes through the air. Low, furious and dangerous.

Minjae stills. Turns his head slowly, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Yeonjun grits his teeth, jaw tight. “I said—get it away from her.”

The room falls quiet. Even you are surprised, but you still freeze, heart hammering.

Minjae’s smirk wavers. He straightens up, turning to face Yeonjun. “Interesting. You didn’t seem this protective when you walked in here like an idiot.”

Yeonjun breathes hard, nostrils flaring. “You want the truth? Fine.” He lifts his head slowly, eyes on Minjae, but you know he’s talking to both of you. “I was intercepting the shipments. All of them. Yours. Hers. Everyone’s. For weeks.”

Your blood runs cold. Minjae’s whole face shifts. “You what?”

Yeonjun continues, voice steady. “At first, I was helping you hit Ghost Queen’s routes. You paid well. You gave me access. I knew her ports, her blind spots. So yeah—I made it easy for you.”

You feel like the floor shifts under you. Your blood runs cold.

Minjae raises a brow, amused. “Right. So what changed?”

Yeonjun’s jaw ticks. “I started losing my own shipments.” That wipes the smirk off Minjae’s face. “Big ones,” Yeonjun says. “Routes only you knew about. Timings only you had.” Minjae stiffens. “I thought maybe Ghost Queen had found out and was hitting me back. I figured it was retaliation. But it wasn’t her.” Yeonjun finally lifts his eyes. Not to Minjae, to you. “It was you.”

Minjae’s amusement snaps in half, replaced by something sharp. “So what, you came here to cry about it?”

“No,” Yeonjun says, voice cold. “I came to fix it. That’s why I turned to her.”

Minjae’s head tilts. “Who?”

Yeonjun murmurs. “Ghost Queen. We’re working together. She wants Soobin back.”

You flinch, just barely, but enough. And when Minjae glances at you, you plaster on the most confused, irritated face you can, like none of this makes sense, like you have no idea what they’re talking about. “Wait,” Minjae says slowly. “That little shit was with her crew?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says. “And you took him because you thought he was with me. My guys said he was snooping around your port. You assumed he was part of my team.”

Minjae runs a hand down his face, pacing once. “Fuck. Thought you sent him to steal my shipment.”

“I didn’t,” Yeonjun says. “You were already stealing from me. Why would I send someone into your nest without backup? I just didn’t stop you when you grabbed him—because I knew whose he really was.”

You blink hard, chest pounding. So he knew, he knew the whole time that Soobin was yours, that he worked for you, and he let Minjae take him anyway. Used it to his advantage, he let you panic, let you come running. So you stare at Yeonjun, heat crawling up your neck, your fists clenched in the zip ties until your fingers start to go numb. Rage is bubbling under your skin, sharp and hot, but you hold it down — because Minjae can’t know who you are. Not yet.

Minjae exhales harshly, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. You two are a goddamn mess.”

No one speaks. He finally looks back at you, eyes narrowing like he’s reassessing everything. You force your expression blank, neutral, disinterested. Because Yeonjun may have just saved your cover, but he also sold you out. And now you owe him nothing.

Minjae’s boots echo as he crosses the room again, slower this time. You try not to shift in the chair, even as the plastic zip tie cuts into your wrists, even as the ache in your ankles pulses with every second. Then he’s in front of you, and the knife is back. He drags the flat of the blade along your shoulder, then up, slow, until the cold steel rests just under your chin, the sharp edge kissing the soft skin of your neck. You hold your breath.

Across the room, Yeonjun tenses so hard you swear the veins in his neck might snap. “Don’t,” he bites. “Minjae—”

But Minjae doesn’t look away from you. “You lied to me,” he says quietly. “You played me for a fool. I don’t like being made a fool, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun swallows hard. “I gave you information. I did my part.”

Minjae presses the blade in just enough for you to feel the sting. “No, no. You sold me a story and sat back while I bled for it.” He finally turns to look at Yeonjun. “Now you owe me.”

Yeonjun breathes through his nose, jaw locked. “What do you want?”

Minjae doesn’t blink. “Who else is at the port?”

Yeonjun hesitates. Then: “Just us.”

Minjae’s smile is thin and humorless. “Funny. Because my guys saw someone else.” Your stomach drops. “Skinny little bastard. Long black hair. Looked like a rat cornered in a trap. He was hiding inside one of the containers. Now he’s out there, making a fucking mess.”

Your heart drops so hard it might crash through your ribs. Beomgyu. You force yourself not to react, not to blink, not to move, not to scream. 

The blade is too close, the stakes are too high. Minjae tilts his head, still looking at you, but now his voice is directed at Yeonjun. “You really gonna sit there and keep lying to me? When I just watched that kid shoot two of my men and crawl back into a crate like some street dog?”

Yeonjun doesn’t answer. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding so loud you can almost hear it. His fingers twist against the restraints on his wrists, blood already seeping around the plastic. Minjae lets out a long sigh through his nose. Then the knife shifts — not cutting, not yet — but pressing. Just enough for you to feel the weight of it against your pulse point, enough to make you swallow reflexively, and feel the sting.

Yeonjun’s voice is gravel. “Let her go.” Minjae raises an eyebrow. “She has nothing to do with the boy,” Yeonjun continues, voice tight, almost strangled. “She’s not part of this.”

Minjae chuckles dark and bitter. “No? You’re dragging her around like a trophy then?”

Yeonjun’s eyes flash. “I said let her go.”

Minjae doesn’t move. “You want the kid back?” he asks. Minjae smiles, all teeth and violence. “You want her to walk out of here with her face intact? You want me to call off the guys who are probably about to blow your little container rat’s head off?” He steps back finally, pulling the knife away from your neck slowly, like it’s reluctant to leave. He wipes it casually on your shoulder, like you’re nothing but a napkin, and turns to face Yeonjun properly. “Then give me something.”

Yeonjun lifts his head. “What do you want?”

Minjae’s expression hardens. “Territory.” Yeonjun doesn’t flinch, but you can see it hit him like a punch. “You’ve got a route down south,” Minjae continues, pacing now, loose and dangerous. “Quiet. Prime for expansion. I want it.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Yeonjun growls.

Minjae shrugs. “Yeah, well, the deal changed when you lied to my face. When you helped the Ghost Queen behind my back. When you kept secrets.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You keep your expression neutral, though inside your blood is boiling. He knew, Yeonjun knew exactly who you were, and still played both sides. And now Beomgyu is out there, alone, likely cornered. Soobin is still missing. And your cover is hanging by a thread.

Yeonjun’s chest rises and falls with shallow, restrained breath. “You think you can just take a route from me?”

Minjae smirks. “I’m not asking. I’m offering you a trade. The kid for the route. Their life for peace. Simple math.”

Yeonjun’s jaw ticks as he breathes in slow through his nose, chest rising once, twice. You can see the calculations behind his eyes. His silence isn’t hesitation, it’s rage, controlled, deadly rage.

But Minjae mistakes it for weakness. He turns back to you without warning.

“No—”

Yeonjun’s voice is hoarse and sharp, but it’s too late. The blade slices across your cheek, clean and fast.

Pain blooms white-hot as your head jerks to the side, breath catching in your throat. The sting is immediate, followed by the slow warmth of blood slipping down your skin. It’s not deep, not fatal, but it’s a message. And Yeonjun receives it loud and clear, because he roars. A guttural sound tears out of his chest as he lunges forward against the restraints. His wrists strain, veins bulging, teeth bared like an animal ready to rip someone apart.

Minjae watches him, amused. “There it is,” he mutters, low. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

“You’re dead,” Yeonjun growls. “You’re fucking dead.”

Minjae raises the bloody blade, twirling it lazily in his hand. “Not if we make a deal.” Yeonjun freezes. “I want the southern route,” Minjae says again, calm now, like nothing just happened. “And I want access to one of the Ghost Queen’s ports. Not the main ones—something smaller. You can get it for me.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flick to you, your cheek slick with blood, your expression still and cold despite the pain. He doesn’t speak, but his silence this time means: yes.

Minjae grins. “There we go. Knew you had a rational side.”

Then he snaps his fingers, and two of his men appear instantly, grabbing you roughly by the arms. One of them mutters something about not getting blood on his jacket.

Yeonjun fights the bindings again. “Where are you taking her?”

“You’ll see,” Minjae replies, stepping aside. 

You don’t speak, and you don’t look at Yeonjun. You just let them drag you down a long, dim corridor. Every step makes your face throb, your jaw stiff from clenching. They push you through a rusted metal door and slam it shut behind you. And for a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing. The metal room is dim and cold, reeking of rust and sweat, but you barely register any of it—because right in front of you, alive but wrecked, is Soobin.

Your knees hit the floor hard as you scramble toward him, your throat catching on a sound you hadn’t realized you were holding back. His name leaves your mouth like a prayer, like it means something more than just syllables. “Soobin—”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes half-swollen and glassy, but he smiles, barely. “Hey.”

Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You cup his face in both hands, thumb brushing over the bruises on his jaw, and you press your forehead against his like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. “God,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I thought—I thought you were—”

“I’m okay,” he rasps, but it’s a lie. He’s not okay, he’s barely breathing, but he’s alive.

“Y/N,” Beomgyu’s also there, and his voice is soft but urgent beside you. “You’re bleeding.”

You blink, disoriented, then remember the cut—your cheek throbs, the blood sticky and warm. You pull back just enough to see Beomgyu crouching beside you, eyes wide with panic. Before you can say anything, he’s already yanking at the hem of his shirt, tearing off a strip of fabric with his teeth. “Hold still,” he says, his hands trembling a little as he presses the makeshift cloth to your face. “I swear to God, if they touched you again, I’ll—”

“I’m okay,” you whisper again, voice thick, but you don’t stop him. He’s too focused, too gentle, like he’s trying to fix something with his bare hands. His fingers brush your jaw as he ties the cloth in place, the fabric warm from his skin. You glance between the two of them, heart racing. “Where are the others?”

Beomgyu exhales, sitting back on his heels. “Gone. Got out before things got ugly. I stayed because of Soobin. I couldn’t just—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t know they’d catch me too.”

Relief washes through you in waves, so overwhelming it makes your limbs weak. You sit down fully, still close to Soobin, the burn in your chest finally settling. But the weight of everything you’ve just been through presses in. You swallow. “It was Yeonjun,” you murmur, voice tight. “He was behind it all. From the beginning.” Both boys look at you, stunned into silence. You continue, barely able to meet their eyes. “He helped Minjae steal from me. From us. He lied about everything.”

Soobin flinches, like he didn’t want to hear that. Beomgyu clenches his jaw, fists tightening on his knees.

“I was going to kill him,” you say, raw and bitter. “I wanted to. I was so angry I couldn’t see straight.”

Beomgyu exhales through his nose. “We should kill him.”

But you shake your head. “He saved our lives.” They both blink at you. “If he hadn’t made a deal with Minjae, we’d be dead right now. All three of us. He gave up part of his territory. Maybe even part of his crew.”

Beomgyu and Soobin don’t say anything at first. Just sit there, taking it in. You’re curled between them, one arm still wrapped carefully around Soobin’s shoulder, the other resting against Beomgyu’s thigh. It’s the only way you can stay grounded, with touch, warmth. The knowledge that they’re here, really here.

Beomgyu scoffs beside you, shaking his head. “Yeah? Great. And what did we give up? You almost got your face carved off.”

“Almost.” The word slips out before you can stop it. You’re tired, so tired, but you cling to the sliver of logic that’s keeping you upright. “He didn’t have to do it. Yeonjun could’ve let us all die. Would’ve been easier for him.”

“Don’t care.” Beomgyu shifts beside you, folding his arms across his knees, his voice sharp. “Doesn’t erase everything else he did.”

You don’t argue. Because he’s right, too. 

It’s not long before the silence turns tense again. The door clangs open, sharp and sudden, and all three of you tense instinctively. Heavy boots scrape against the concrete, and a shadow moves inside. Yeonjun. They throw him in without ceremony. He stumbles forward, hands no longer bound but arms limp at his sides, and hits the ground with a harsh grunt. His clothes are soaked with sweat and grime, his face smeared with dirt and blood, not all of it his. His jacket’s gone, his knife, gone. The glint in his eye? Also gone. He’s empty now, hollowed out.

Beomgyu surges forward before you can react, fury written all over him. “You bastard—”

You grab his arm mid-motion, holding him back with both hands. “Beomgyu. Don’t.”

“Let me go!” he snaps, voice cracking, muscles tense under your fingers. “Look at her! Look what you let them do to her!”

Yeonjun doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise his head, he just breathes slowly, like each inhale costs him something. “Could’ve been worse,” he mutters finally, voice hoarse. “Could’ve been all four of us in body bags.”

That does it. Beomgyu stops fighting, but he’s still vibrating with rage, breathing like he’s ready to explode. You stay between them, hand still clutching his wrist. Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes go straight to your face—and linger on the bandage Beomgyu tied around your cheek. You watch something in him twist, and it’s not satisfaction, it’s shame. 

“No one else is coming,” Beomgyu says from the wall, voice dull. “So what now?”

You turn to Yeonjun. “Yeah,” you echo, still holding Beomgyu back. “What now?”

Yeonjun sighs and sits back against the wall, dragging his knees up to his chest. “They’ll keep us here a little longer. Keep us guessing. Then they’ll probably dump us in the middle of nowhere. Maybe in enemy territory. Maybe not.”

Beomgyu snorts. “How thoughtful.”

You frown. “And then what? We walk?”

“If we’re lucky,” Yeonjun mutters.

“If?”

He looks at you again, his expression unreadable. “I burned my deal to get you out alive. That’s all they wanted. Leverage. A show of power. Now that they’ve made their point, keeping us any longer is just a waste of resources.”

“And if they don’t let us go?” Soobin asks.

Yeonjun closes his eyes. “Then I’ll find another way.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Yeah? With what army?”

But you don’t join in the cynicism, not this time. Because you saw the look in Yeonjun’s eyes when Minjae pressed that blade to your throat. That wasn’t strategy, that wasn’t calculation, that was something else. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that. But for now, you do the only thing you can—lean against Soobin, keep one hand wrapped around Beomgyu’s, and stare at Yeonjun like he’s both the reason you’re alive and the reason you’ll never sleep the same way again.

They don’t come for a while. You lose track of the hours, and it’s always cold, always quiet, except for the occasional drip of water somewhere behind the walls, or the sound of Beomgyu pacing like a caged animal. Soobin sleeps most of the time, his head on your lap. You run your fingers through his hair and try not to cry every time he winces in his sleep. Yeonjun doesn’t speak. He stays on the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes half-closed. Watching everything, but saying nothing.

It’s Beomgyu who breaks the silence most often—jokes, insults, wild theories about how you’re all going to die in increasingly dramatic ways. But even he starts to get quiet as the hours drag on.

Then, suddenly, without warning, the door slams open. You don’t even have time to stand. Boots thunder in, and black fabric is yanked over your head. You hear Soobin growling, and Beomgyu cursing. Someone grabs your arms, too rough and fast, and you’re being dragged, stumbling blindly, unable to see or fight back. The floor changes beneath your feet, concrete, gravel, then something smooth. A van. The ride is short, bumpy, silent. Then the doors open, and you’re thrown out like trash.

You hit the ground hard, gasping as the sack is ripped from your head. Cold wind, empty road. Forest on both sides. Nothing else. Soobin lands next to you with a grunt, then Beomgyu. Then Yeonjun. 

It’s only once you’re all out that you realize someone slipped something inside your pocket before throwing you out: your phone. So you scramble to unlock it, signal's weak, but it’s there, and you hit the contact you’ve called more than anyone else in your life. “Heeseung,” you breathe when he picks up. “It’s me.”

“Y/N?” His voice breaks. “Holy shit. Are you okay? Where are you? What happened? I’ve been going crazy—”

“We’re alive,” you say, eyes scanning the empty road. “They dumped us in the middle of nowhere. But we’re out.” You tell him everything, about Minjae, the deal, the betrayal, the scar on your face that’s still fresh and stinging. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens. You hear the way his breathing falters, like he’s struggling not to break down.

“Stay where you are,” he says finally. “I’m coming.”

The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, still kneeling in the dirt, and then you turn. Yeonjun’s sitting nearby, arms resting lazily over his knees like he’s on a fucking picnic. Something in you snaps. You’re on your feet before you realize it, storming toward him.

“You lied to me.” He doesn’t move. “You used me.”

Beomgyu grabs you around the waist just as you lunge forward, arms locking around you from behind. “Don’t,” he mutters. “You’re already hurt.”

“I don’t care!” you shout, struggling in his grip, blood rushing in your ears. “I should kill him right now—”

“I know,” Beomgyu says softly, tightening his hold. “But you won’t.”

Yeonjun finally looks up at you. And for the first time since this whole nightmare started, he speaks with a calm so cold it makes your stomach twist.

“You think I don’t know who you are, Y/N?”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You think I don’t know exactly who you are?” His eyes drop to the cut on your cheek. “You think I don’t remember the night I got this?” He lifts his hand, fingers brushing over the faint, jagged scar that cuts through his eyebrow. 

Silence. Beomgyu’s grip goes still around you. Soobin’s head lifts. The wind whistles through the trees, like even the world wants to know what you’ll say next. But you don’t say anything, because the past just walked out of the shadows, wearing Yeonjun’s face. And suddenly, this isn’t about survival anymore. It’s about everything you thought you’d left behind—coming back to bite.

You were fifteen the last time you saw Choi Yeonjun.

Not this version of him — not the man with blood on his hands and a scar running down his face like a warning — but the boy. The boy in the silk shirts and the too-expensive shoes, the boy who rolled his eyes at banquet speeches and snuck you stolen desserts under the table. The boy who knew what it meant to feel trapped in gold cages.

You weren’t supposed to be friends. Children like you were meant to become weapons, not companions. But when you were forced into that same gilded room week after week, dressed like pawns in a game you didn’t ask to play, it was hard not to notice each other. He was magnetic, even then. All sharp smiles and lazy charm, already too good at getting what he wanted. You were colder, quieter. You watched more than you spoke. You already knew you were disposable — illegitimate, your father’s sin in a pretty dress. You had no seat at the table. No name that mattered.

Except to Yeonjun. He used to call you Ghost. You didn’t know if it was a compliment or a curse, but you liked it. It felt like something that belonged to you.

The night it all burned down started like any other. 

You were at the Choi estate, the grand mansion at the edge of the city, the one with the koi ponds and the marble floors and the halls that echoed when you breathed too loud. Your father, Kim Mingyu, was in meetings with Choi Hyunwoo, Yeonjun’s father. Talks of expanding routes. Sharing ports. Making more money off the war brewing overseas. You and Yeonjun had been shoved into the side parlor to stay out of the way. The windows were tall and the fireplace glowed, but the tension was always heavier when your fathers were close. Yeonjun sat sprawled in an armchair, and you were lying on the rug, arms crossed, counting each second you weren’t being used like leverage.

“I heard your dad wants to marry you off,” Yeonjun had said suddenly.

You didn’t flinch. “He wants to pretend I don’t exist. That’s not the same thing.”

Yeonjun looked at you, head tilted, lips twitching. “You know, if you married me, that would solve both our problems. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you keep talking, I’ll be the one killing you.”

He laughed, you almost smiled. Almost.

Then— gunfire.

The kind that doesn’t echo through halls like thunder. The kind that thuds, short and final, and you both froze. 

Yeonjun stood first. You followed him to the door, but before he could open it—click. It locked from the outside. Someone didn’t want you to see what was happening. You banged on the wood. Nothing. The quiet that followed was worse than the gunfire.

After a while, the door opened. Yeonjun was expecting a servant. Maybe one of the guards. But it wasn’t that, it was a man you didn’t recognize. Pale skin, black suit, eyes like ice — too still, too calm for a house that had just swallowed gunfire. He stepped into the room and leaned down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. You were still by the window, but you didn’t miss the way Yeonjun’s entire body went still. The way his jaw tightened, then clenched, like he was trying not to scream.

“Yeonjun?” you asked, turning toward him. “What is it?” He didn’t answer. You stepped closer. “What happened?” Nothing. No movement. No sound. You were standing right in front of him now. He was pale. His hands trembled. “What happened?” you asked again, more forceful, but still nothing. You raised your voice. “Yeonjun, what the fuck happened?”

And that’s when you saw it, the flicker of something in his eyes. Not grief, but guilt. Your chest dropped. “What did your father do?” you whispered.

Yeonjun looked at you then, finally. But not with answers, only silence. That was enough. Your hands slammed into his chest. Once. Twice. He let you, he didn’t even flinch. “You knew,” you spat. “You fucking knew, didn’t you?!”

His hands caught your wrists mid-swing. Not hard, just enough to stop you. “Y/N—”

And that’s when your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife. It was small, thin, sharp, hidden in the side of your boot. A gift from your real mother. The only thing she ever gave you. Your hand moved before your brain did. You slashed upward, sharp and fast, not caring where it landed. All you saw was red. All you heard was your father's voice, echoing in your skull. “Trust no one in silk.”

The blade caught him across the face. A clean, slicing arc from brow to cheekbone — just above his left eye. Blood bloomed instantly. Yeonjun stumbled back, gasping, a hand flying to his face. It came away red. He stared at you in disbelief, chest heaving. You didn’t flinch.

“You let them kill him,” you said, your voice shaking. “You let them kill my father.”

Still, he said nothing. And that silence was the last answer you needed. So, you ran. You didn’t stop to look back. Not when the door burst open again. Not when footsteps thundered after you through the corridor. Not when you reached the side gate and scaled it like a girl possessed. You ran until your legs gave out. And even then, you crawled.

It took them three days to declare you dead. A fire in your house. Charred remains. No doubt it was you. Probably suicide, probably shame.

But you weren’t dead. You were lying in a pool of garbage behind an abandoned noodle shop, ribs cracked, blood soaked into your shirt, half your face bruised black. You couldn’t see straight. You couldn’t move. That’s when Beomgyu found you. He was stealing food. That’s what he told you later, just trying to survive like everyone else. He could’ve run when he saw you, most people would’ve. But he didn’t. He swore at first — loud and panicked — then knelt beside you, pressing a shaking hand to your neck to find a pulse. You tried to speak, but you couldn’t. He carried you anyway.

You woke up two days later in a basement with a blanket over you and a bandage around your ribs. There was a sandwich on the floor. He was sitting in the corner, arms crossed, watching you like a stray that might bite. “I thought you were dead,” he muttered.

He didn’t ask your name, you didn’t ask his, but from that day on, he stayed close. You healed together. Then Soobin found you. He was older, smarter, calm in a way that made you wary. The three of you weren’t a gang. Not at first. Just strays with nothing left to lose. But slowly, you became something else. You started calling in debts. Digging up secrets. Using what you knew and what your father taught you — and twisting it into something deadlier.

A whisper started in the streets. A name, passed like a warning: The Ghost Queen.

No one knew it was you, not until the summit. Not until you walked into that hall like you owned it, head high, mask off, eyes colder than anyone remembered. Not until Yeonjun saw you again for the first time in a decade.

And in that moment, the scar on his face felt fresh again. Because the ghost he thought was buried, was standing in front of him. And this time, she wasn’t running.

The silence on that empty road was the kind that clung to your skin. You stood there, the black sack they’d shoved over your head was now on the ground, forgotten. The ache in your body didn’t matter anymore. Yeonjun sat a few steps away on the edge of the road, face bloodied, exhaustion sinking into his bones, but like none of this was new to him, like losing everything was just another Tuesday. You turned to face him, jaw clenched, hands shaking.

“So you know,” you said, voice low but laced with venom. “Good. I'm glad you know.” Yeonjun arched a brow, slow, like he was waiting for the punchline. “You know what you did. You know what I lost. You know what I had to survive after that night.” You gestured toward Beomgyu and Soobin. “These two? They saved me when you destroyed everything I had left. And even now, you’re still screwing me over.”

He let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered. He stood, brushing dust off his pants. “I’m the reason all of us are still breathing. I gave up part of my territory, part of my crew. If we’re keeping score, I’d say we’re even.”

Beomgyu stepped forward, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “You’re lucky she wouldn’t let me get to you. Because if it were up to me, you’d be face-down on this road spitting teeth.”

Yeonjun sighed like he was bored. “Ah, great. The dog keeps speaking.”

“You have no idea what you did to her,” Beomgyu snapped. “You think one scar makes it even? You sleep at night with her blood on your hands?”

Yeonjun’s gaze flicked to you, then to Beomgyu, then back. And then, quiet, cold: “She left a scar on me too. Don’t forget that. She knew exactly where to put the knife.”

You stepped forward before Beomgyu could explode again. “You deserved that knife, Yeonjun. Because when I needed you, you chose silence. You let them kill my father. You sided with yours.”

“I was fifteen, Y/N,” he shot back, eyes sharp now, voice rising. “I was locked in that room with you. I heard the gunshots the same as you. You think I had a choice?”

“You had a choice to follow me!” you shouted, your voice raw. “To help me. To find me. But instead, you left me to die. You let them burn me!” 

He flinched—not visibly, but you felt it. “I did look for you,” he said, voice low. “For years. I searched for your body. For any sign you might’ve lived. And all I ever found was ashes.”

You barked a humorless laugh. “How convenient. No need to deal with me. No need to face what you did. What you didn’t do.”

He took a step closer. The scar over his left eye caught the fading light. “And you? You hid behind a mask. Built an empire out of borrowed blood. Turned yourself into a ghost so you wouldn’t have to remember your own sins.”

“I survived,” you hissed. “That’s all I had.”

Yeonjun didn’t answer. For the first time in the entire fight, he looked like he didn’t have a comeback. And then, the rumble of an engine. Headlights broke through the dust cloud on the road. A black car, old but fast, came flying toward you like salvation itself.

Soobin turned. “It’s Heeseung.”

Beomgyu relaxed—just slightly—but his eyes stayed locked on Yeonjun like a loaded gun. The car skidded to a halt. The door flew open. Heeseung bolted out, panic and relief battling on his face. “You’re alive,” he breathed, rushing to you.

You didn’t speak. Just let him wrap his arms around you, just this once. Yeonjun watched from a distance, eyes unreadable, expression carved from stone. And you didn’t look back at him. But you knew he was looking, because he always was.

You stopped with one hand already on the van door, your other resting against the frame like it was the only thing holding you up. You didn’t turn immediately, but you felt him behind you. Heeseung turned too, halfway into the driver’s seat, brows rising with amusement as he saw who had the audacity to still be talking. “You need a ride, Your Majesty?” he drawled, mock-serious. “Plenty of room in the trunk.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes with a muttered, “I’ll manage.”

Beomgyu didn’t even attempt to hide the snarl curling on his lips. “We should’ve left him in that ditch.”

“Beomgyu,” you warned softly, not because he was wrong, but because this wasn’t the time. He huffed, shooting Yeonjun one last glare before climbing into the van, slamming the door harder than necessary. You lingered a second longer, eyes locked on Yeonjun. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, half in shadow, half in the hazy morning light. His red hair looked more copper than flame now, but that scar — your scar — cut through it like it had the day you gave it to him. Time hadn’t softened him. If anything, it had carved him into something even sharper.

The dust had barely begun to settle when Yeonjun’s voice cut through it. “Y/N. We need to talk business,” he said, not with force or threat, just fact. You didn’t respond at first, just looked at him. And in that moment, something cracked. Not in your expression, because you were too well-trained for that. But behind your ribs, in that locked box you thought you’d buried. Because the worst part was that you remembered. You remembered everything.

Not just the betrayal. Not just the blood, but the moments before it all fell apart. You remembered silk shirts and wide staircases, sneaking out of boring banquets with Yeonjun to sit on the roof of his family’s estate, trading secrets under a sky too vast for two children bred for war. You remembered him giving you half his dessert when your father ignored you at dinner, remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he made you laugh. You remembered the hours spent in quiet competition — chess matches, blade training, stolen books you both claimed to hate but always finished anyway.

You remembered him grabbing your wrist in that room, trying to stop you, begging you not to open the door. You remembered the look in his eyes after you cut him. And you remembered running, not just from his family, but from him. Because he was the only person in that world who had ever seen you. And you didn’t know if you hated him more for failing you — or for still seeing you now.

“Come find me when it’s time,” you said finally, voice steady, chin high. 

You turned and climbed into the van. Heeseung looked at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t speak. Soobin passed you a water bottle, quiet and steady as always. Beomgyu just shook his head like he still couldn’t believe you let that man live. You didn’t explain yourself. You just leaned back into the seat as the van pulled onto the road, the rising sun spilling gold across the horizon like the world hadn’t just tried to kill you again.

Behind you, Yeonjun grew smaller in the rear window — a figure carved out of memory and regret. But he wasn’t gone. He never really was.

The week that followed was full of antiseptic, quiet rage, and the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep — but from surviving something you shouldn’t have.

The first morning back, you woke in your own bed, in your safehouse buried deep in the outer rings of the city. For a split second, you thought it had all been a nightmare. Until you turned your head and pain bloomed sharp across your cheek. You hissed, and before your fingers could even brush the wound, Beomgyu was already there.

“Don’t touch it,” he muttered, crouched beside the bed, eyes bruised with worry and zero sleep. “You’ll reopen the cut.” You tried to bat him away. He glared. “I swear to God, Y/N. Sit. Still.” So you did. Beomgyu cleaned the wound every morning, careful but muttering curses the whole time, most of them directed at Yeonjun. “You should’ve let me beat the shit out of him,” he grumbled more than once, dabbing ointment against the split skin like it was a battle tactic.

“I think your fists were too busy protecting my ribs,” you replied dryly, and he scowled but didn’t deny it.

Soobin, meanwhile, spent most of the week in bed. He had a cracked rib and a deep bruise on his thigh that turned every shade of black and blue before it started to fade. But he took it in stride, quiet as always, and only winced when Beomgyu wasn’t looking. You checked in with him often, more often than he liked. “I’m not dying,” he’d mutter, and you’d answer with, “Good.”

You didn’t mention that you barely slept. Or that some nights you stared at the ceiling for hours, replaying Yeonjun’s words, his voice, that look in his eyes when he said he knew who you were. Because the truth was, you didn’t know what haunted you more: the past, or the fact that he had lied.

By the third day, your inner circle had rotated to secure-mode. All comms were rerouted through Soobin’s backup systems, deep-web tunnels and burner signals only a handful of people in the world knew how to follow. Even then, everything was reduced to code. You stopped saying names. You stopped trusting phones. You stopped breathing easy. Because if Yeonjun was right — if Minjae had more planned — this wasn’t over.

You adapted quickly, you always did. You started giving orders again, rebuilding connections, tracking every whisper that floated through the city. You wore a hood every time you left the house, and your knife stayed strapped to your thigh. The cut on your face ached every time you moved your mouth, but you didn’t complain. Beomgyu did enough of that for both of you.

On the seventh night, you found a message waiting in your most encrypted channel. No name, no signature. Just coordinates, a time, and one line of text.

You're coming with me. Try to look like you like me.

You stared at the screen for a full minute before even breathing. The coordinates were downtown — one of Yeonjun’s more luxurious clubs, the kind that didn’t even have a name on the front, just a line of guards who knew when to keep their mouths shut. The time was just before midnight.

He was making a show, of course he was. You already knew what this was: he had something planned. A meeting, a gathering. And clearly, Yeonjun wanted to look like he had you in his pocket, because Minjae still thought you were his girlfriend. That was your leverage, that was your shield, and Yeonjun was cashing in.

“Absolutely not,” Beomgyu snapped, the second you brought it up. “I’m not letting you go parade around on that bastard’s arm like this is fucking prom night.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” you said calmly, sitting across from him. “I’m going. I’m just telling you in advance so you don’t explode and level the building.”

“You say that like it’s not still an option,” he muttered.

Heeseung, lounging on the couch nearby, raised a brow. “So we’re crashing a party now?”

“More like we’re playing pretend,” you said. “Yeonjun’s meeting with some major players, and he wants me there to make it look like we’re together. I’m not going in alone, though.”

Beomgyu narrowed his eyes. “You better not be suggesting—”

“I’m taking Jay and Heeseung.”

Jay blinked. “Wait. I am?”

You nodded. “Minjae hasn’t seen either of you in person. As far as he knows, you’re just… hot background noise.”

Heeseung grinned. “I am great at that.”

“Figures,” Beomgyu muttered. “You’re picking the two most reckless ones.”

“They’re unpredictable,” you said. “Which makes them valuable. And I trust them.”

Beomgyu didn’t argue. He just nodded. “Just don’t let Yeonjun get in your head.”

You didn’t answer that. Because part of you already knew: he was already there.

The club didn’t have a name. From the outside, it looked like a museum built for gods — all black marble and gold trimming, slick columns, a single brass door guarded by men who wore tuxedos carrying pistols under their lapels. There were no signs, no posted hours, no public records. If you were meant to be inside, you already knew. If you weren’t, you never found the door.

You stepped out of the black car just before midnight, heels clicking against the stone, silk brushing against your thighs. Your dress was fitted, ink-black, slashed low at the back, and a single necklace at your throat. Jay and Heeseung stepped out behind you, both in tailored black suits and matching expressions: calm, unreadable, dangerous. Bodyguards. Ghosts. Whatever you needed them to be.

The guards at the door let you in without a word. And inside, the bass was low, the air perfumed, gold lights flickered across the ceiling and the whole place smelled like heat, power, and money. There were no screams, no dancing, no crowd. Just whispers. Just very rich, very dangerous people pretending they weren’t afraid of one another.

You scanned the room, and of course, he was already watching you. Leaning against the bar like he owned it (which he did), Yeonjun was dressed in charcoal grey, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, his rings glittered when he lifted a glass to his lips, and his eyes burned through you even before you took your first step.

He didn’t move as you approached. Just raised an eyebrow and smirked, lazy and lethal. “No dog today?” he said. “I was hoping to see if he bites.”

You didn’t blink. “Beomgyu sends his regards. And his middle finger.”

Yeonjun smiled like you’d complimented him. “Ah, the language of love.”

You took the drink he offered, mostly for the excuse to put something in your hand that wasn’t a gun. “Cut the bullshit, Yeonjun. Why am I really here?”

“Because you like looking at me,” he said smoothly. “And because Minjae thinks you’re mine. So, you play the part, he doesn’t question why I kept the West docks. He thinks he’s dealing with me. Not with Ghost Queen, and that keeps you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive.”

“No,” he said, leaning in, “but you need me to keep your empire breathing.”

You hated how close he was. Hated how calm he made you feel. Like standing in the eye of a hurricane. Everything around him was chaos, but he — Yeonjun — was composed destruction. A man who smiled while the building burned and said, You’re welcome for the warmth.

“You think all this justifies what you did?” you asked, eyes sharp.

He raised a brow. “What I did, darling, is what keeps your little boyfriend patching up Soobin’s wounds instead of burying him.”

You smiled without humor. “Careful. Your jealousy’s showing.”

“You always say that like it’s not part of my charm.” Yeonjun laughed like he actually liked his answer. You turned away, about to walk, but he caught your wrist lightly, easy, no force behind it. “You are wearing my necklace.”

Your hand rose instinctively to your collarbone. Shit, you hadn’t realized. Your body betrayed you before your mind caught up. Instinctively, your hand flew to your collarbone, the simple chain, delicate and old, still resting just beneath the neckline of your clothes. You hadn’t realized. Or maybe you had, and just refused to admit it to yourself. The weight of it had been familiar, comforting, buried beneath all the armor you’d learned to wear since that night. The night you gave him that scar.

Yeonjun was watching you closely. His eyes didn’t move from your face, but you could feel his attention shift from the necklace to the faint scar just beneath it. The bruise on your jaw was fading now, but the laceration across your cheekbone was angry and fresh, the stitches tight and unkind. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his gaze darkened, something unreadable moving behind it.

And then: voices behind him. Shoes on marble. Laughter and steel wrapped in suits. You turned just as Yeonjun did, instinctively stepping a fraction closer to him without meaning to.

Minjae arrived with men with cold eyes and colder hands behind him. His presence filled the room before he even spoke. Expensive suit, louder than the lighting. Yeonjun straightened, casual as ever, all lazy charm and mask-perfect posture.

“Minjae,” he greeted, voice like a blade in velvet. “Right on time.”

The older man’s eyes swept the room and landed on you. His gaze took its time, drinking you in with the kind of arrogant slowness that made your stomach turn. Yeonjun’s hand brushed the small of your back. A show, but also a claim. So you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. You felt Heeseung and Jay nearby, playing their roles well, quiet and watchful from the far end of the room. 

Minjae grinned. “You should take care of that scar. I don’t like damaged goods.”

You smiled at him, slow and dangerous. “Good thing I’m not yours, then.”

There was a beat of silence. Yeonjun laughed first, then Minjae. The tension melted into something easier, at least on the surface, but the scar still burned, and the necklace still sat heavy on your skin. And Yeonjun’s hand, even though it barely touched you, felt hotter than it should.

When Minjae turned to greet someone else, Yeonjun leaned closer, breath brushing your temple. “Still sharp,” he murmured. “Still mine.”

You didn’t look at him, you didn’t have to. “You could never afford me.”

He chuckled. “Darling, I already paid in blood.”

And you both knew — neither of you were bluffing.

You could tell by the way the staff glanced at him like he was both owner and threat, the way people stepped aside when he moved, always a beat too late. Power had its own gravity, and he wore it like silk. He walked beside you with a drink in hand, not drinking it, just holding it like an accessory. His other hand occasionally brushed your back, your arm, your wrist. Always light, always casual. Always enough to remind you he could still find your pulse without trying.

“Smile, darling,” he murmured near your ear, smirk curling. “You look like you’re about to kill someone. Which, to be fair, would only make me love you more.”

Your eyes flicked sideways. “Do you flirt with every woman you’ve sold out to a warlord, or am I just special?”

Yeonjun tilted his head, feigning thought. “Definitely special. Most of them don’t survive long enough to flirt back.”

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t look away either. That was your power — the stillness. The knowledge that if Minjae, who scarred your face with the back of his ring-heavy hand, had any idea who you really were, this place would be on fire by now. And Yeonjun was playing the long game, he always was.

Jay leaned against a pillar in the far corner, glass in hand, posture loose but eyes hard. Heeseung was by the staircase, casual enough to pass as bored muscle, but watching every move Minjae made. They hadn’t said much since you arrived, because that was the deal. Stay close, stay quiet, intervene only if necessary.

Yeonjun led you through the crowd, nodding at names you half-recognized. He led you to a private balcony overlooking the main floor. Not far enough to be hidden, but high enough to feel untouchable. You leaned against the railing and he stood beside you, close. His gaze dropped to your scar again, thumb brushing your cheek before you could stop him. You didn’t move or flinch, but something in your stomach twisted tight. “I’ll kill him for you,” he said, tone too casual.

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t get to kill people for me anymore.”

His smile was sharp. “Who said it would be for you?” The silence stretched. He took a step closer, and your breath caught before you could help it. You turned your head, his hand dropped. Downstairs, Minjae laughed at something. Jay’s eyes flicked toward you, just once. Yeonjun leaned in again. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

His voice dipped low. “Being mine.”

You didn’t answer him, just stared. The kind of stare that had made men confess, cry, crumble. But Yeonjun only looked back like he’d been waiting years for it. “I was never yours,” you said finally, voice like smoke.

His smile didn’t falter. But something beneath it twisted, just a little. “You were supposed to be.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I was. If your father hadn’t murdered mine. If you hadn’t locked me in that room.”

Yeonjun’s smile faded at the edges. He leaned on the railing with one elbow, gaze dragging over your face. “Well,” he said after a long moment. “I guess we’re even. You gave me this one, after all.”

He tilted his face, and there it was — the faint but brutal line running along his eyebrow. Your work, your rage. Your proof that love could rot. “And now I’ve got this one,” you muttered, tapping your cheek where the newer scar still pinked beneath makeup. “Thanks to you.”

He looked at you like he might shatter the balcony glass with his bare hands. “Minjae did that. Not me.” You looked away and Yeonjun stepped in, voice dropping, a hiss. “He’s going to pay for putting his hands on you.” You scoffed. “I’m serious,” he said, closer now. “You think I’m gonna let anyone leave a mark on that face and walk out breathing?” You turned to snap at him, but froze. He was inches away, his mouth too close. “Though I have to admit… you wearing a scar that matches mine?” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then climbed slowly back up. “It suits you. Makes us look coordinated.”

Your glare sharpened. “Fuck you.”

He smirked. “Do you want to?”

You shoved him lightly, but not enough to make distance. He didn’t budge anyway. From the far end of the balcony, Minjae’s gaze found you both. You felt that chill like fingers down your spine. He was watching, curious. Yeonjun caught it instantly. His hand slid to your hip. Not forceful, just a gentle pull to remind you of the lie you were supposed to be living. “Eyes on us,” he whispered. “Play the part, sweetheart.”

“I’d rather jump.”

“Okay… but try not to bleed on the carpet. It’s imported.”

He leaned in then slowly, theatrical, intense, until his face was right there. His nose nearly brushing yours, his lips a breath away. His eyes locked on yours with that too-familiar glint: part hunger, part mischief, part ruin. And Minjae was still watching, waiting. So you didn’t flinch when Yeonjun’s mouth brushed your temple, your cheek, and hovered by your ear.

You didn’t mean to stare. But once you did, it was impossible to stop. Yeonjun’s face was older now, of course, but under the dim golden light of the balcony, you could still see the shadow of the boy he used to be. The one who smirked too easily. Who whispered reckless things when no one was listening. The one who used to lean so close you thought he’d kiss you, but never did. He was always just a breath away, dangling the possibility like a blade over your throat. 

You used to wonder what it would feel like — his mouth on yours. You were fifteen. A girl made of rage, and Yeonjun was a fire you wanted to hate but kept reaching for. You never let yourself find out, never crossed that line. But now, standing in the heat of his stare, you didn’t know why you ever thought you were safe from it.

Your gaze flicked up to the scar that split the edge of his left brow, faded now, but unmistakable. You’d given it to him in a moment of betrayal so bright it still burned behind your eyelids when you closed them. Funny. You'd thought it would make you feel powerful, seeing it. But it only made your chest ache.

“Still staring, sweetheart,” Yeonjun said, low and smug. “If you want to touch it, you can just ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You say that,” he said, leaning closer, “but your breath hitches every time I talk like this.” He wasn’t wrong. “I could make you forget who you’re pretending to be,” he whispered, mouth ghosting near your jaw. “One touch. One word. You’d remember exactly what it feels like to be mine.”

You turned toward him, mouth parted to curse, or worse, but the sound of a cough cut through the tension like a knife. Yeonjun didn’t even flinch. His gaze flicked lazily over your shoulder. Minjae stood by the balcony doors, watching you both with eyes too polite to be innocent.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Minjae said, though the smug twist of his lips made it clear — he wasn’t. His gaze lingered far too long on your face, right where the scar cut across your cheekbone. “But we’ve got business to discuss.”

You didn’t flinch, but your heart, however, knocked once, hard against your ribs when Minjae’s eyes landed on your face again. You knew that look. That casual cruelty, the one that reminded you exactly who gave you that scar, and exactly who still believed you were nothing more than Yeonjun’s favorite toy.

The corridor to the private lounge was quiet, lined with dim lights and mirrors that made everything seem hazy. You saw Jay just before you entered, leaned against the wall in black, dressed like security, his mouth set in a practiced scowl. If you didn’t know better, you’d believe the act yourself. Taehyun walked beside Yeonjun with silent confidence, his sharp eyes sweeping every shadow. And you played your part.

Inside the lounge, everything was low light and dark velvet. Minjae sat first, sprawling like he owned the room, and maybe, in some ways, he did. Jay stood near the door, eyes on you. On Minjae. On everything. Yeonjun didn’t sit until he’d guided you down beside him, his hand still warm on your waist. His thumb brushed up once, just a fraction, grazing your ribs through the fabric of your clothes. You gave him a warning look, and he only smirked.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” Minjae said, lighting a cigar like the caricature of a villain. “I want to finalize the territory shift.” 

Yeonjun smiled lazily. “Of course.”

“Must be nice,” Minjae said after a beat, changing topics. “Having someone so pretty that devoted.” His eyes flicked to your face again, and something uglier bloomed behind his grin. “Though I don’t remember that scar being there last time.”

Yeonjun’s hand moved again, but not away. This time it slid across your lap, over the silk of your dress, and came to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, like a warning. Or maybe comfort, maybe both. You swallowed, eyes trained forward. You weren’t sure if it was your own pulse you were hearing, or Yeonjun’s.

Business was discussed, territories laid out. Taehyun handled most of the numbers, Jay nodding occasionally as if he were part of the team. But through all of it, Yeonjun never stopped touching you. His hand drifted to your knee, your waist, your back, in a casual, intimate, possessive way. Like he meant it, like he wanted Minjae to see.

And you let him, because Minjae couldn’t know the truth. Because Yeonjun was playing his role. Because, somewhere deep down — under all the betrayal and blood and broken pieces — you remembered what it was like to be touched by him and believe it was real. And maybe some part of you still wanted it to be.

The meeting ended, Minjae stood first, adjusting the lapel of his tailored jacket with that same smug smile glued to his face since the start of the night. He looked at Yeonjun, and then at you, lingering a second too long. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Getting territory from the Ghost Queen isn’t a small thing. You must have a special talent, Yeonjun. Or she must really like you.”

Yeonjun didn’t flinch, he just smiled dangerously slowly. His hand tightened slightly at your thighs, grounding you, warning you, comforting you. Almost like he was saying, Let it go. I’ve got this.

Minjae took a couple of steps toward the door, tossing a final comment over his shoulder. “I hope the scar makes your girlfriend even prettier.” A smirk. “Take good care of her, Yeonjun. Women like that are hard to find… and easy to mark.”

Your entire body stilled. Not from fear—you’d burned that out of your system years ago. But from the kind of fury that didn’t flash, it simmered, low and dangerous in your veins.

Yeonjun leaned in before you could speak, his voice brushing hot against your ear. “Give me one reason. Just one. And I’ll tear him apart.”

You didn’t answer. The tilt of your chin, the ice in your gaze, it was enough. Minjae left with his goons, the door swinging closed behind them like the end of a nightmare that didn’t know it was over. But Yeonjun didn’t step away, not even an inch. If anything, he pulled you closer, with his hand drifting up your back to rest at the back of your neck, thumb gently brushing just beneath your jaw. Possessive, protective and dangerous. Not for show this time, even if the performance had technically ended.

Jay let out a slow breath and finally stepped forward from the shadows, pulling out the earpiece he’d worn for the entire meeting. “Well,” he said, with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if hell had a homeowners’ association, I think we just sat through the board meeting.”

Taehyun snorted quietly, heading to the table to collect the documents Minjae had left behind. “He really thinks he’s winning.”

“Let him,” Yeonjun said, fingers still tangled in your hair. His tone was calm, but it carried an undercurrent of violence. “The higher he thinks he is, the harder the fall.”

Jay crossed his arms and finally looked directly at you. “You alright?”

You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the door. “Yeah. The worst part’s over.”

Jay looked back at Yeonjun. “We need to get the logistics in place. Can’t hand over territory without locking in transport, security, collection.”

Yeonjun gave a small nod, finally turning, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers stayed interlaced with yours, like the truth was still too dangerous to set down. Like he needed them to know you were his, even if it was still just pretend. Even if it never really was.

“Let’s handle that tonight,” he said, looking at the two of them. “But first…” He turned to you again, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. His expression softened only slightly—only for you. “I want to make sure she has what she needs. And that no one—ever—lays a finger on her again without bleeding for it.”

For a moment, it sat in your chest like warmth. Like safety. Like the kind of thing you'd once dreamed of when you were a teenager and he was still the boy with fire in his eyes and a promise on his lips. But then it cracked. Because it hit you, all at once—there was no one left to pretend for. Minjae was gone. The room was full of allies, no one was watching. You weren’t his girlfriend. And he wasn’t your hero, not anymore.

You stepped away from him like waking from a dream, the trance shattered. You didn’t even meet his eyes when you stood up. “You don’t need to worry about me, Yeonjun,” you said, voice cold. “I’ll handle it.”

There was a silence. Jay raised an eyebrow, halfway to speaking when you reached over and plucked the drink from his hand without asking. He didn’t stop you, just tilted his head slightly, watching as you started toward the door. “You need anything?” he asked, cautious.

You didn’t look back. “Yeah, to be alone.”

And then you were gone. You went straight to an outside balcony, the cold air outside hit you like a slap. You lit the cigarette with fingers that didn’t shake, but only because you wouldn’t allow them to. The burn in your chest wasn’t from the smoke. It was the memory of his hand on your waist, his voice in your ear, his lie living under your skin like a second pulse. He always did that—wrapped barbed wire in silk and called it love.

You heard the door open behind you ten minutes later. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. No one else had that kind of presence. That specific gravity.

“What the fuck was that?” Yeonjun’s voice was low, sharp, laced with confusion and something angrier underneath.

You didn’t turn. You exhaled, slow and bitter. “What was what?”

He stepped closer, not touching you now, not daring to. “You walking out like that. The attitude. The—” He stopped himself, like he wasn’t sure what the hell he was trying to say. “I’ve been protecting you all goddamn night. And now you're acting like—”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.” That made him pause. You turned to face him finally, eyes dark. “I didn’t want your protection, Yeonjun. And especially not after everything you did.”

His jaw clenched. “I did what I had to do to keep you alive.”

“No,” you said. “You did what you had to do to keep yourself alive. Don’t rewrite history just because I’m standing here again.” He didn’t answer. You stepped closer, enough that your breath could find his collarbone. Enough to remind him that once upon a time, you wanted to be close. “You had years, Yeonjun. Years to come clean. Years to fix it.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice cracked barely. “You let me rot.”

“You think it didn’t kill me? I thought you were dead!”

“I think you lived just fine with it.”

He looked at you like he wanted to tear something apart. Maybe you. Maybe himself. “You think I wanted this?” he hissed.

“I think you let it happen,” you snapped. “And I think it’s too late now to play the good guy.” There was a silence. He stared at you with that same infuriating expression—equal parts regret and arrogance. The one you used to fall for. “I don’t need you,” you said, finally. “And I sure as hell don’t need you pretending like we’re anything anymore.”

Yeonjun tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “Then why are you still wearing my necklace?”

The question landed like a slap. And you didn’t have an answer.

Before you could even breathe, he was stepping closer. Each step heavy with something darker than tension, something primal. You stayed still, partly because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of moving. Partly because your legs didn’t fucking work when he looked at you like that. He stopped only when his chest nearly brushed yours.

His eyes dropped to your collarbone and he towered you, looking down at you. “Still fits you like it was made for you,” he murmured, voice honeyed and low. “Of course, it was. I picked it out when I was younger and so fucking in love with you I couldn’t think straight.” You blinked. The weight of that sentence crashing into you all at once, but he didn’t give you time to recover. “Funny thing is…” His gaze dragged up to your lips, then your eyes. “Even now—after all the blood, the lies, the shit we buried—I still look at you and want to fuck you against the nearest wall.”

You sucked in a breath.

“I still think about what your mouth would feel like saying my name the way you used to—sweet and desperate.” He tilted his head again, like he was admiring the way you looked pissed off and frozen in the same breath. “Still think about what your skin tastes like under all that attitude.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “But you’ve always liked me that way.”

And the worst part is that he wasn’t wrong. You hated the way your body reacted to him, how your pulse betrayed you, how your mind told you to step away and your feet stayed planted.

His eyes dropped again, this time to your mouth, and lingered. “Do you even know what you look like right now?” he whispered. “All cold and fire at the same time. Like you want to punish me for wanting you.”

“I should punish you,” you said, finally finding your voice again, though it came out rough.

Yeonjun smirked. “Baby, if that’s a threat, I’ll fucking beg for it.”

That made you flinch, just a little. But he saw it. Of course he saw it. And that was all the invitation he needed.

He tilted his head, watching your every breath like a predator. Then, slow as sin, he leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the shell of your ear when he spoke again. “Tell me something.” His voice was a hushed rasp, too close, too deep. “In all these years… did anyone make you feel good?” Your lips parted, but he didn’t wait. “I mean—really good,” he continued, his mouth dragging close to your cheek. “The way I would’ve. The way I still want to.” A pause, his lips ghosting over your skin, not quite touching. “The way I will.”

You turned your head sharply, eyes slicing toward him. “You talk like I was yours to begin with.”

Yeonjun only smiled. “You were.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “We were young. You don’t get to rewrite that.”

“Young and stupid, yeah,” he agreed. “But you never stopped looking at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And you think I didn’t see that? You think I didn’t feel it?” He stepped in even closer, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head. “I’ve had to live with that image in my head for years. The way you looked that night you cut me. Face flushed. Hands shaking. Breathing like you’d just—God, I wanted to taste the blood on your fingers.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay cold, unbothered. “You’re sick.”

“And you love it.” He leaned down, murmuring right against your ear again. “Tell me, baby. Did anyone ever get to have you? Did they get to fuck that attitude out of you, or did they all fail?”

“Yeonjun—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I’d ruin you,” he said, voice low and steady. “So slow, so good, you’d forget your own fucking name. You’d forget who you are—Ghost Queen or not. You’d just be mine.”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t answer, because you hated that a part of you was imagining it. His hot skin, rough hands, his mouth on your throat, dragging out every gasp like it belonged to him. You could almost feel it. The pressure, the filth of his words against your ear, the pull of him unraveling you. So you clenched your jaw, locking it in place. “You never had me.”

Yeonjun stared, quiet for a breath. Then the corner of his mouth curled. “But I could’ve,” he murmured, leaning in, lips brushing dangerously close to your cheek. “And I still could—maybe I should ask your little dog to watch us. What’s his name again? Beomgyu?”

You didn’t even think. In one clean, practiced movement, your hand slid from beneath your sleeve, the blade catching the low light as you slammed him back into the wall with your forearm to his chest and your knife pressed right to the hollow of his throat. The force of it knocked the smirk off his face, but only for a second. Then it was back, wider and hungrier.

“Well, well,” he breathed, tilting his head against the blade. A bead of blood bloomed at the contact, but he didn’t even flinch. “There she is.”

Your eyes were all fire, teeth clenched, breathing sharp. “Say his name again, Yeonjun. Say it. I fucking dare you.”

His hands didn’t go up, didn’t push you off. He stayed still, almost inviting the cut. That damn smirk still plastered across his lips. “You know,” he drawled, voice barely above a whisper, “you holding a knife to my throat is hotter than anything I’ve ever jerked off to—and I’ve had years to imagine this.” Your grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. But his gaze didn’t drop, it burned into yours. “I missed you,” he whispered. “You insane, deadly little thing.”

You hated the way your pulse betrayed you. How your body thrived off the proximity, off the danger. You could kill him, right here, right now. You wanted to. “You think you scare me?” you snapped.

“I hope so,” he said, smiling wider. “Because nothing makes me harder than a girl who might slit my throat after fucking me.”

Your blade was still slick against him, your chest rising and falling. But you didn’t need to move, because he did all the work for you, leaning in just enough so his lips hovered by your ear, voice thick with venom and something far more dangerous.

“What’s the matter?” Yeonjun said, low and sickeningly sweet. “Afraid I’ll say something else that gets you all worked up?” The weight of his body so close, the smell of his cologne crawling under your skin. “I've got a thousand fantasies about you pressing that knife a little lower.” He exhaled like he was enjoying himself. “God, I missed you. Every version of you. The girl who kissed my cheek once and made me lose sleep for a week, and the one who nearly slit my throat just now. They both get me off.” Your grip faltered for half a second, just enough for him to feel it, and he grinned. “Don’t know if you love me or you want me dead.”

You stepped back like the words were a punch to the chest. His gaze followed you as you turned, fast and sharp, like you had to run before your legs gave out. Before he said something even worse, or something you wanted to hear. You shoved the blade back into the sheath under your sleeve and stormed toward the club’s hall, the music echoing louder the closer you got. You thought you could lose him in the noise, that maybe if you slipped back into the crowd, back into the role, back into your armor, he’d vanish with the bloodlust and the memories.

But of course not. You’d barely made it to the bar when you felt him again, his hand finding your waist from behind like it had belonged there all along. His chest pressed to your back, lips brushing against the shell of your ear with that voice, that stupid, dangerous voice—

“We still have to sell the story, baby,” he whispered, shameless and slow. “Minjae’s watching. Don’t make me hold you tighter.”

“You keep touching me like that,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “And I swear to God, Yeonjun—”

“You’ll what?” He cut in, nuzzling against your hair. “Make me beg? Scream? Kill me in front of everyone?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe all three,” you said.

His smile was pure sin. “Fuck, I hope so.” But then he leaned in closer, voice a breath over your skin, lips ghosting the shell of your ear— “Truth is,” he murmured, slow, filthy, “I think about it every night. What would you let me do to you if my father didn’t kill yours.”

Your brain short-circuited. There was no time to think, just movement. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, hard enough to make him groan, and yanked his smug, beautiful face toward yours. His smirk only widened. You didn’t waste a second, you shoved him back across the room, until his back slammed into the wall near the nearest private door. You didn’t even check if anyone saw you twist the lock.

The second the door clicked shut, you spun him and slammed him against it, fingers still tight in his hair, breath heaving. He was grinning. “Knew you missed me, princess.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You grabbed his jaw, nails biting into his skin, and forced him to look at you. He was already hard, cocky as ever, eyes gleaming like he’d won some twisted game. But he didn’t say another word. You pressed in close, body flush to his, letting him feel every inch of your control. “You talk too much,” you muttered, dragging your mouth along his jaw—not kissing, just hovering and teasing. “Always did.”

“I can shut up,” he said, already breathless. “If you sit on my face.”

“Quiet,” you hissed. You slammed him back against the wall again, just to feel the sharp inhale he took. His eyes fluttered, and for a split second, the mask cracked, just enough to show how gone he was for you. How long he’d been starving for this. “Tell me you missed me,” you demanded.

He licked his lips, eyes blown wide. “I missed the way you make me fucking weak.”

You didn’t give him time to breathe. Your lips crashed against his jaw, not soft, not sweet. You sank your teeth into the sharp edge of it, biting down until his whole body jolted under your hands, a strangled groan ripping from his throat. You could feel him trembling. “Fuck,” he hissed, head tilting back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fucking bite me again—”

“I said shut up,” you growled against his skin, your breath hot and ragged. You licked where you’d just bitten, then bit again, just below his ear, harder. “God, you’re pathetic.”

He let out a low, breathy laugh, already wrecked. “Only for you.”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “I think about it every day, Jun. Every fucking day.” He stilled, but you didn’t stop. “The sound you made when I cut your face. That pitiful, shocked little gasp. You looked like a kicked dog. And I swear I wanted to kill you,” you whispered, pressing your mouth back to that same spot on his jawline, biting again. “After my father died, and your father left me rotting—you just let it happen. You walked away. You knew.”

“Y/N—”

“No.” You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You let me starve. You let them humiliate me. And I swore—every fucking day—that I’d make you pay for it. I built myself from blood and ash, and you? And now you are fucking stealing from me.”

Yeonjun stilled. For one long, charged second, he didn’t move or speak. Then his eyes darkened and everything snapped. With a brutal sort of grace, he grabbed your wrists and spun you, slamming your back against the wall in a single, fluid motion. His breath was hot at your throat, his body crowding yours, his thigh sliding precisely between your legs until it was pressed against your heat firmly and deliberate. Your breath caught and you hated how fast your body betrayed you.

“You think you’re in control?” he growled, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, while the other slid down your side, fingers dragging painfully slow. “You think you built yourself?” His thigh pressed up hard, just enough friction to make you gasp, and he chuckled. “I love it when you look at me like you want to kill me—and fuck me in the same breath,” he hissed, lips brushing your jaw. 

You choked on a sound, part fury, part need, grinding involuntarily against the pressure between your legs and he smirked. “I bet you ache,” he whispered, mouth moving to the shell of your ear. “Bet you’ve always ached. You try to fall asleep at night, and you squeeze your thighs together, pretending it’s nothing. Pretending it’s not me you’re thinking about.” His voice dropped lower and meaner. “Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “When you touch yourself—because I know you do—do you pretend it’s my fingers? Or do you imagine me throwing you against a wall like this, fucking you so hard you forget your own name?”

His thigh flexed against you again, and your hips bucked helplessly in response. He grinned, dark and wolfish. “You hate that you want it. That you want me,” he breathed. “But you always have. Even back then. You were mine long before you knew what that meant.”

His hand slid under your dress, fingertips teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh, just barely skimming where you needed him most. “You wanna know what I think about?” he asked, voice rough and sinful. “I think about spreading you open. Holding your legs apart while I taste every inch of you—slow. So slow it hurts. I wanna hear you whimper. Wanna ruin you so completely until you cry for my dick. Again. And again.”

You gasped as his thigh pressed up again, harder, firmer, angled just right. It sent a jolt of pleasure through you so sharp your knees nearly gave out. His hands clamped down on your hips, tight and possessive, guiding you against the flex of his thigh. The friction sent another sharp jolt of heat through your core, and you cursed under your breath, biting down on your lip hard enough to hurt.

“That's it,” he rasped, grinding you down with purpose. “So eager now, aren’t you? I can feel how wet you are through your panties, baby. You're soaking me.” You clenched your jaw, trying to hold on to that last shred of control. But he was relentless, dragging your hips with a slow rhythm, the pressure maddening. “Go on,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy. “Use me. Ride my thigh like the needy little thing I always knew you were.”

“Shut up,” you spat, even as your hips betrayed you, rolling down against the muscle of his leg with pathetic desperation.

He chuckled, dark and hungry. “Shut me up, then. Or are you too busy soaking my pants like some spoiled brat in heat?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moons in his skin. You hated him. You hated how he knew exactly what to say. How your body responded to him like it had never belonged to you in the first place. “I should’ve slit your throat the day I found out what you did,” you hissed, breathless.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You should’ve. But you didn’t. And now look at you.” He leaned in closer, closer to your mouth, his lips almost touching yours. You turned your face at the last second, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw instead. You can’t kiss him right now. You don’t know how you feel about this. And he notices it, that resistance in you. So he rolled his thigh up again, harder this time, making your head tip back against the wall as a ragged moan escaped you. “You're grinding on me like a whore,” he murmured, leaning in close. “But you won't even let me kiss you?” He barked a laugh. “That’s cute.”

One of his hands slid up your back and tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. “You're so good at pretending you're above this,” he whispered against your cheek. “But I can feel how close you are.”

Your lips parted, a breath catching, but no words came. He pressed his forehead to yours, keeping you pinned, his thigh flexing beneath you in slow, deliberate circles. “You're shaking. You gonna come just from this?” he whispered, tone wicked. “Gonna fall apart without me even needing to touch your pussy properly?”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, even as your fingers clutched his shirt like a lifeline.

“We already are,” he breathed. “You just don’t wanna admit it.” You tried to snarl something back, anything brutal, but all that came out was a broken whimper when he angled his leg just right again and ground you down on it hard. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me to ruin you.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

You hesitated. His grip on your hips tightened, and he dragged you over him again with a force that knocked the breath out of your lungs. “Say it, or I’ll stop.”

You looked at him. At the flushed skin, the blown pupils, the restraint in every muscle of his body barely holding back his own hunger. And something in you snapped. Not from surrender, but from something darker, older. Something forged in every time you’d had to bite your tongue, bury your desire, and walk away from him when all you really wanted was this. The way he looked at you now—wild, worshipful, starved like you were a sin he’d been denied too long—it ignited every sharp, burning edge of you.

You gripped the front of his shirt and yanked him closer, your breath brushing his lips. “You think you’re in control now,” you whispered, voice low and trembling with fury and want. “But you’re not. You never were.”

He grinned, teeth flashing, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Respect, maybe, or awe. “I’ve always been in control,” he murmured, dragging his thigh up again between your legs. “Even when I wasn’t touching you. Especially then.”

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead pressing against his for a beat. Your hips rolled of their own accord, chasing friction like your body had given up waiting for your mind to catch up. He hissed. “Fuck, that’s it. Keep going. Let me see what that perfect little cunt does when you stop pretending you don’t need me.”

His hands moved like instinct, one cupping your jaw, the other sliding down your spine and grabbing your ass as he ground you even harder into his thigh. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned into yours, the sound deep and guttural like he’d been dying for this. “You like that?” he rasped, mouth so close to yours. “Like grinding that soaked little pussy on me while I whisper every filthy thing I’ve ever wanted to do to you?”

You gasped as he rocked you forward again, the pressure brutal, perfect. “I wanna wreck you,” he said, voice like smoke and sin. “Wanna fuck you in every way. Wanna hear you beg for it, cry for it—thank me for it.” Your head tipped back, a raw sound catching in your throat. 

His thigh flexed under you again and your whole body jolted. “You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, hand sliding between you to press against your clit through the soaked fabric. “So desperate you’ll cream on my leg like a needy little slut?” You whimpered, you fought not to, but your hips bucked against his hand. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine. Say it and I’ll make you come right now.”

Your lips hovered near his, breathing him in. His breath ghosted over your mouth, but still—you wouldn’t kiss him. Not yet. That, you’d keep. That was your line. And then you whispered: “…I’m yours.”

He exhaled, like the words physically undid him. “That’s my fucking girl.”

His mouth was everywhere but your lips. He kissed your neck like he wanted to brand you, tongue dragging over your pulse, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot below your ear, making you shudder so hard it nearly hurt. You didn’t mean to move, but your hips ground down on his thigh anyway, desperate for friction, for relief. Yeonjun’s hands locked around your waist dragging you even closer. He rolled his thigh up hard, and you choked on your breath, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s right. Use me,” he whispered, and then, closer to your ear, darker: “But if you think I’m just gonna let you come without claiming every inch of you first, you’re fucking dreaming.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs shaking, brain fogging fast with the pressure building between your thighs. “I can feel it,” he groaned. “You’re right fucking there. Gonna soak my leg like a needy little slut, huh? Can’t even wait for my cock—just wanna make a mess on me.”

“Yeonjun—” you breathed, but you didn’t know what you were begging for.

He bit down gently on the curve of your jaw, just enough to make you whimper, then spoke so close to your ear it sent a bolt of heat down your spine. “You don’t wanna kiss me?” he taunted. “Fine. But you’re gonna come like this—shaking, grinding on me, moaning my name like a fucking bitch.”

You broke. The tension snapped like a rubber band. Your body convulsed, the orgasm tearing through you so hard you nearly sobbed. Your hips jerked once, twice, before collapsing into him, legs weak, chest heaving, mind blank with the force of it. You were screaming his name. And Yeonjun held you through it, strong and steady, one hand firm on your back, the other gently stroking your thigh, lips brushing your ear.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice smug and thick with hunger. “That’s my good fucking girl.”

And still, he didn’t kiss you, not yet. Instead, he held you there for a moment longer, letting your trembling body press against his as your breath came in broken, uneven bursts. One hand stayed planted low on your back, grounding you. The other trailed up slowly, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. “You came so hard, baby. Rubbed your needy little cunt on my thigh like you were made to be ruined by me.”

You twitched at his words, still raw from the high, but your body reacted anyway, too sensitive, too aware. He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes half-lidded, drunk on power and lust. And then he leaned in, his mouth angling toward yours, lips parted, close enough that his breath mingled with yours.

But something snapped. Reality slammed back into you, all at once—your heartbeat still frantic, your skin still hot, your body still aching... and all of it because of him. The person you swore you’d never let close again.

So you shoved him hard. He stumbled back a step, blinking in surprise, before a slow, amused grin curled his lips. “There she is,” he said, breathless, a dark chuckle in his throat. “My little hellcat.”

“Fuck you, Yeonjun,” you spat, fury and embarrassment colliding in your chest.

He tilted his head, eyes flicking to your mouth. “You bit your lip so hard, you’re bleeding.”

You reached up instinctively and sure enough, your fingers came away red. Yeonjun moved fast. Before you could stop him, he was already close again, hands on either side of your face, and he leaned in—not to kiss you, no—but to drag his tongue slowly along your lower lip, tasting the blood like it was something sacred.

You flinched. “Don’t—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a wild gleam in his own. “Even your blood tastes good,” he murmured. “Bet I could get addicted to you.”

You shoved him again, harder this time, and he let you. “You don’t get to kiss me,” you snapped, breath still unsteady.

His smile was crooked now, smug. “Baby, I already made you come. With your clothes on. Grinding on my fucking thigh like a bitch.”

Your face burned fiercely—flushed with a storm of anger, humiliation, and something darker, more twisted beneath it all. “You’re disgusting,” you spat, jerking your dress down, trying to steady the ragged gasps that threatened to spill from your mouth. “This was a fucking mistake. It should’ve never happened.” You whipped around, ready to escape, to put miles between you and the man who’d just unraveled you without even shedding your clothes. But before you took two steps, his hand slammed down on your wrist. “Don’t,” you warned, voice sharp but shaky, refusing to turn back.

Yeonjun didn’t care. He yanked you back with a brutal ease, pressing you flush against his chest. His body was a furnace behind you, hot, and that unmistakable hardness pressed right where it needed to, digging into you. You froze, breath hitching, every nerve screaming. His fingers spread over your waist, gripping with possessive force, anchoring you.

“You really think this ends here?” he growled, voice thick. “After how soaked your panties got, creaming on my leg like some desperate little slut who can’t get enough?”

A shiver ran down your spine. Your fists curled, but you stayed rooted, helpless to deny the truth in his words. His voice dropped lower. “Run if you want. Go ahead. But I’m the only one who knows how to touch you like this. You are fucking mine, queen.”

Your breath caught, eyes burning with a mix of defiance and desire. Your body betrayed you, frozen against his relentless hold. His chest pressed heavier against your back, his hot breath trailing down your neck like liquid sin. “You’re gonna fucking replay this in your head,” he whispered, cruel and sweet all at once. Then, just like that—he released you.

You didn’t look back. But his voice echoed in your mind as you walked away, the filthy promise dragging after you like a shadow:

“You’ll come back. You always do. And next time? I’m gonna make you scream my name while I ruin you completely.”

You hated him, you did, you hated everything he had done, the lies, the pain, the silence. But you didn’t hate the way his touch made your pulse skip. You didn’t hate the way his voice, low and wrecked, had said: You are fucking mine, queen.

Yeonjun was a mess. A walking, bleeding contradiction. He was dangerous, infuriating even. But you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Because Yeonjun fought so dirty, but he loved so sweet. He talked so pretty, but his heart got teeth. And you’d never, never, never let go.

author’s note: okay confession time: this was my very first time diving into the mafia genre and honestly, i always avoided it because i was scared it would come off too cheesy or overdramatic. but somehow, with these two, everything just clicked. so i ended up really liking how everything aligned in the end because some loves don’t fit into the rules AND THAT being said… if by any chance you’d like to see what happens next, i’m already working on a part 2!! but it will take a while :( if you want to be in the taglist, let me know in the comments! ok byeeeeeee

my masterlist | last fic 🕷️🖤

taglist: @lovesickchoi @biteyoubiteme @heesmiles @xylatox @soobinieswife @deadlykitten404 @fancypeacepersona @zoemeltigloos @choibona14 @iyoonjh @usuallyunlikelyfox @cristy-101 @stormy1408

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures ꒱

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Heyyy

If you are accepting request could you do a chubby! Student bucky? Who got stood up on a date or maybe his date leaves in the middle of it. So he is all sad but then the reader sees him and joins him and makes him have a good time

Pretty pretty pls? With Cherries on top🥺💗

haiiii anon!! omg okay i swear im getting caught up on my requests and starting with this and omg this was the cuteest most sweet thing and turned out to be a full oneshot when i planned a drabble leaning lenght LOLL but omgg its so cut so sweet and thank you anon for sending this to me and trusting me with your idea!! REQUESTS ALWAYS OPEN (and if you want to use an emoji anons none are taken and i love those personally hehe okay okay enjoy!)

Sweet Tooth

Pairing: Chubby!College AU!Bucky Barnes x Reader (gender neutral)

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings/Tags: Negative self talk , rude side character , body image talk , a kiss , sweet sweet fluffff cutest little fic!

Authors Note: ive been so focused on my series that i frogto to check my inbox and im working on finsihing all the requests right now and here is the first!!! i hope you like it anon and all :33

REQUESTS ALWAYS OPEN <3

The little golden bell over the door jingled softly as Bucky stepped into the local ice cream shop two blocks from campus. It was a cozy little place with pastel painted walls and scuffed wooden padded booths , the kind of spot that tried too hard to look vintage without looking effortless. 

But he liked it. The booths were roomy enough for him to sit comfortably , and the place was cheap compared to the fancy Italian ice or gelato places farther into the city. Plus , he’d heard pretty good things about their double fudge brownie sundae special on Saturday nights .

He adjusted his polo shirt—the one with the soft barely there floral print that made him feel less boring , and scanned the room looking around.

And no one met his eye. He looked down and checked his phone for the third time that evening. The screen glowed back at him the time , 7:12 p.m.

She was now twelve minutes late. That wasn’t a big deal though. Maybe she got caught up , maybe car trouble. 

He her a quick text: “Hey! I’m here at Lenny’s. Let me know when you’re close :)”

He added the smiley face so it didn’t sound needy or complaining.

Then he chose a booth in the corner , facing the window sitting down. From here , he could see the string lights twinkling and glowing above the sidewalk , kids on scooters buzzing by , a guy walking a corgi with a bowtie collar and an older couple walking hand in hand.

He tried not to look around too much. Tried not to notice when people came in and weren’t her. Tried not to keep refreshing his messages and checking his phone every few seconds..

It was now 7:28 p.m. No reply.

The server came by with a small menu and a polite smile tugging at her apron with a little ice cream logo detail on the front. “You wanna wait to order , hun?”

“Um…Yeah,” Bucky’s eyes darted agin hearing the bell but once again now her , he cleared his throat. “Just a few more minutes.” The waitress nodded with a soft smile and walked off.

But when 7:45 rolled around and the place got a little busier and more full with students and kids alike , he gave in and ordered his sundae anyway not waiting any lomger. 

He splurged and got a big one. It was stacked and topped with whipped cream , sprinkles , hot fudge and brownie chunks. Go big or go home , right?

Except he already wanted to go home. How did this happen again to him? He should have known when one of the school's most likeable and popular girls asked him out , that it wasn't real or sincere.

He stirred his sundae more than he ate it , picking at it with a sigh. The whipped cream melted into a sad white creamy swirl , and his spoon clicked against the glass. Around him , couples laughed and shared bites and spoonfuls. Friends played cards at the table near the front of the place. And he was just… this kinda chubby guy in the corner , eating a sundae alone in a shirt that felt too tight all of a sudden as he looked around.

It sucked.

He’d never been good at dating. His confidence came and went , usually depending on who was looking at him or speaking to him. Sometimes he felt cute or decent about himself. Sometimes he felt like a walking afterthought. But this? Sitting here with a cold sundae and colder silence in his inbox?

This was a whole new level of pathetic.

He was pulling out his phone to maybe fake an emergency call in front of everyone and leave when he heard a chirpy yet soft voice speak.

“You’re not gonna eat that whole thing by yourself , are you?”

He looked up—and blinked.Then blinked again.

You stood beside his booth , hands in your jacket pockets , head tilted like you already knew you’d caught him off guard. You weren’t a server. You weren’t someone he recognized from class. Just… a stranger. With this warm , easy grin like he wasn’t some sad sack , killing time.

“I mean,” you went on gesturing to the table, “unless you want to. I respect that. I'm personally a big solo sundae person myself.”

Bucky laughed—short , surprised and breathy.

You nodded toward the other side of his booth that sat empty. “Mind if I sit?”

He blinked and glanced around looking for maybe a group of people watching , maybe you were sent as a dare or something…it had to be a reason right? But he saw nothing , no eyes on him or you. 

“You wanna sit here?” He blinked again.

“Well , yeah. You look like you could use some company. Unless you were expecting someone?” You pointed your thumb over your shoulder turning about to walk away worried you crashed a date or hangout.

His eyes dropped to the half-melted sundae then back at you.

“Oh,” you said softly , sliding into the seat across from him without waiting for his response , knowing. “Well… it's her loss. That’s a solid dessert and you're a good guy.”

He opened his mouth but hesitated, brows furrowing. “You don’t even know me.”

“True. But I figure you can tell a lot about someone by what they order. And I respect a guy who isn’t afraid of hot fudge and sprinkles.”

He snorted through his nose , and his shoulders finally relaxed dropping a little. “I'm Bucky.”

“Hi , Bucky” You smiled and gave him your name right after. “I was actually just on my way back to the dorms when I saw you through the window. Looked like you could use somebody.”

“I’m not usually this—uh… sad or pathetic looking.” He chuckled ,  self-deprecating.

“Well, I am usually this bold , so we’re a good combo,” you chirped , grabbing a spoon from the little dispenser. “Mind if I help out with this sundae? We don’t want it to go to waste.”

He motioned to it with a mock flourish. “Be my guest.”

You took a generous scoop of the sundae on your spoon , making a pleased hum as the fudge and dairy hit your tongue.

“Okay , this is stupid good. They put salted carmel on the brownie. That’s next-level.”

Bucky nodded , smiling for real now kinda toothy and kinda lopsided , it was cute. “Yeah. That’s why I picked this place.”

“Good call. So , you go on a lot of ice cream dates , or was this a special occasion?”

He shrugged, smiling dropping , then shook his head. “First one in… a while.”

You didn’t press , but your eyes were kind looking at his. And that made it easier for him to admit , “It was a friend of friend type of thing. Thought she seemed cool. We messaged for a few days , set this up….But guess she changed her mind.”

“Then she’s dumb,” you cut him off without hesitation , licking the rest of the whipped cream off your spoon. “Honestly , if I saw you sitting here with her , I’d think, ‘Damn, lucky girl.’”

Bucky’s cheeks turned pink as he looked down at the sundae , embarrassed but clearly flattered. “You’re… smooth.”

“I’ve been told,” you smile into your next bite.

The booth started to feel less cramped. The fluorescent lights didn’t buzz as loudly. And Bucky , sat up a little straighter. Even made a joke about how his shirt looked like a grandma’s tablecloth , and you said that was hot , in a retro kind of way.

By the time the sundae was long gone , you were both laughing like friends who’d known each other longer than what was actually only half an hour.

You glanced out the window then right back at him. “Sun’s still out. Wanna walk off that sugar crash before it hits?”

He hesitated for a beat. But when you smiled brightly at him —like this wasn’t pity , like this was fun—he nodded agreeing. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Outside , the summer evening was warm without being unbearable or sticky. A cool breeze rolled through the trees as you crossed the street toward the small park that curved behind the edge of west campus.

Bucky fell into a rhythm of steps beside you , his hands stuffed in his jean pockets kicking a rock or stick every now and then. You noticed how he kept checking his pace to match yours. Like he didn’t want to crowd. Like he was being careful. But wanted to be by you.

“So You always approach sad-looking strangers in dessert shops on your Saturday nights?” he asked , glancing sideways. “Or just me?”

“Only the handsome ones ,” you replied easily.

He laughed , cheeks still flushing pink.

“Seriously,” you added , nudging him lightly with your elbow , “I know what that kind of night looks like. I’ve had them too. It just feels nice to not have someone sit in that alone.”

Bucky nodded. His voice was quiet when he spoke up again, “People don’t usually say yes when I ask them out. Or they do then don’t show. Sometimes I think maybe they think I’m just… a joke.”

You stopped walking abruptly at that , making him run into you slightly.

He looked over , confused all over his face.

You turned to face him , standing on the park path , under a string of old lamp posts that hadn’t lit up their amber lighting just yet. 

“Can I tell you something, Bucky?”

He nodded.

“You’re not a joke. Not even close. Anyone who can’t see that is probably still stuck thinking hotness and the perfect guy means having an eight-pack and no feelings.”

He raised an eyebrow at your words. “You saying I have feelings?”

You smirked. “Deep , manly ones. Buried beneath layers of whipped cream and sarcasm.”

He grinned , teeth showing again. “You’re not so bad at this pep talk thing.”

“I moonlight as a professional hype person” You teased , picking up your pace again “Now c’mon. Let’s keep walking before that sundae settles in my bloodstream.”

You meandered through campus for a while , passing the student center, the little koi pond with a fountain by the biology building , and the quad where kids were tossing a frisbee and throwing corn sacks in the air playing corn hole..

Bucky talked more now as you continued walking side by side —about his classes you learned he was a history major, his roommates , one of them was trying to start a kombucha business from their shared very crowded mini fridge, and his childhood dog , a pug named Winston who he swore snored like a chainsaw.

You matched his stories with your own. At some point , your hands brushed while walking. He didn’t move away. Or say anything.

And then , too soon , you were in front of your own dorm. Ending your evening together.

You turned to face him , the warm porch light casting soft shadows over his handsome face.

“Thanks for not letting me sit there alone,” he almost whispered, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“Thanks for sharing your sundae with me , and your tragic dating tale.”

He smiled , sheepish. “Least it ended better than it started.”

You nodded agreeing , stepping closer to him . “I had fun.”

“Me too.” He smiled big , sighing.

A pause. A moment. Then you leaned up –slow , testing , and kissed his soft freshly shaven cheek. Smelling the after shave and cologne that lingered.

His breath hitched at the kiss. When you pulled back he looked at you like you’d just given him the most precious thing.

You took a step back just enough to say, “Give me your phone.”

He fumbled it out of his pocket  immediately , and you punched your number in, texting yourself to save it and handed it back.

“Text me when you get home?” you asked. “So I know you didn’t fall into a sugar coma on the sidewalk.”

He grinned and nodded. “You got it , doll.”

You gave him one last wave and turned for the stairs heading up , up , up. He stood there until you were out of sight making sure you got to your floor safely.

Your dorm room was quiet and calm , lit by the soft glow of your blue desk lamp hovering over texts and workbooks  and accompanying it , the city bleeding in through the cracked window. 

You kicked off your shoes , flopped onto your bed , and checked your phone.

Nothing yet. You smiled thinking. He was probably overthinking the text.

Sure enough , just two minutes later , your screen lit up with his name.

Bucky🍦 : made it back. no sugar coma (yet) also I can’t stop smiling and it’s kinda your fault

You grinned big, thumbs flying to reply.

You: if I say “guilty,” will you forgive me?

Bucky🍦 : depends.  what’s the penalty for stealing my night and making it amazing?

You laughed out loud , rolling onto your side on bed responding.

You: shared custody of future sundaes

Bucky🍦 : ...I accept these terms

Bucky🍦: for the record , I don’t usually click with people this fast

You: same maybe it was the fudge

Bucky: 100% the fudge and your smile and the fact that you didn’t treat me like a kicked puppy

You let that sit for a second.

You: not even close you’re funny. smart. way cuter than you realize. and I’d go on a lot more walks and sundae sat nights with you

Bucky🍦 : can we call them dates next time? just, like… real ones? me & you

Your heart stuttered. Blushing hard , good thing he couldn't see the goofy look that spread onto your face.

You: yeah. we can absolutely call them dates

Bucky🍦 : cool coolcoolcool

sorry I’m being awkward, just haven’t smiled this much in forever

You: awkward is endearing

Bucky🍦 : you’re gonna make me fall for you, aren’t you

You: Maybe , if i dont end up falling first

Bucky🍦 : I’d be okay with that ;)

You smiled and curled snuggling more under your blanket , cheeks surely bright pink and warm.

 Outside , campus was settling into the quiet of the night , but inside your chest , something buzzed bright and alive , light and real. Rising.

The date he was supposed to have? A total bust. But the night? Turned out to be something better. Something growing to be very sweet. 

-end

REQUESTS ALWAYS OPEN

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[cuppajj]

How do you feel, knowing that BURNING SPICE IS FINALLY GETTING LORE THIS AUGUST.

I can tell that you too are an advocate for more Burning Spice content. So I bring you good news! Might of the Beasts (roughly translating to "Original Calling") is real and is coming. Featuring Burning Spice and Mystic Flour. Be ready, we are almost certainly getting more (hopefully in-depth) info on Spice's past. Personally I could NOT be more excited, but what do you think?

BURNING SPICE LORE BLESS!!!!!!!!!! He needs it so bad, please please please Devsis English translation please show the depth and intelligence this man actually has 🙏🙏🙏🙏 if its 5 more cutscenes of spice going “man im bored i wanna destroy stuff” im gonna be so mad LMAO

I wonder if this is pre corruption or post corruption? It kinda looks like pre corruption since spice is rocking less gold, but if Might of the Ancients was about how they got the soul jam, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was about how the Beasts lost the soul jam? I hope its pre corruption though

Anyway spice gets love thank god 🙏🙏 hes my favorite beast i fear. so much potential. ough spice my beloveeedddd

[totallynottinsel]

🪻 The Secrets of Dwarf Ears

During their quiet vacation at Bag End, Bilbo realizes just how fascinated he is with Thorin's ears, and his piercings.

@acorn-and-oakleaves prompt: "The worst part is you didn't even notice."

TW: minor descriptions of, yk, piercing. But nothing crazy!

"Enjoy the bath?" Bilbo peered up from his book.

"I did. Though I could have done with less flower petals." Admitted Thorin as he walked along the end of the bed, running a comb through his damp hair. The petals were hardly the worst part, not after the bubbly wash that had him smelling of colorful florals he couldn't even name. He preferred it much more on Bilbo than himself.

"Oh, come now, it's good for you."

Thorin raised a brow to the hobbit. "How so?"

Bilbo's lips turned downward as he searched for his answer, now truly wondering why exactly he had those petals in the first place. "It just... is. And use a towel for goodness sake, your dripping all over the carpet!" He waggled the book in his hand to emphasize the severity of a soggy carpet.

Thorin had done so and slipped on his clothes for the night, wrapping his hair back in a low ponytail and making his way into bed. He sat shoulder to shoulder beside Bilbo, peering over to catch a glimpse of what he'd been so keenly reading for hours. The hobbit waved a hand at him to cease his snooping. "You've had your nose in that book all day."

"I've been reading up on crochet techniques, it's very handy when---" When Bilbo had looked up again from his pages, he'd just about dropped the book entirely at the sight he was met with. Thorin stared back at him in his usual radiance, though what caught Bilbo's eye were the small silver rings lining his ears. His ears. Bilbo hardly recalled spotting them on their journey, nor did he have the time to more often than not. Not to mention they were skillfully hidden behind his hair---which had been another thing in its own, as he rarely saw the dwarf styled differently. Yet upon seeing, he was absolutely taken by them. They were larger compared to hobbit's, more rounded and blunt and irresistibly endearing.

"Is something the matter?" Thorin asked, showing a face of natural concern as his partner blankly eyed him. He began to wonder if questioning that book of his offended him greatly somehow.

"Hm? Ah, no, no. It's only... your ears." He croaked, though it didn't seem to help Thorin understand what he was on about.

"What of them?"

"Well I... I've never seen them. At least not up close. And the---those rings? Can't say I've come across those either."

"Do those in the Shire not share the practice of bearing them?" Thorin didn't sound all too surprised, in fact---he was fairly amused by Bilbo's wide-eyed intrigue.

"Oh, no, certainly not." Bilbo shook his head, laughing at the mere image of his high-strung kin donning anything of the sort. "You'd never catch a hobbit wearing something like those. The thought alone would scare most to near death, I'd say."

"You are not like most hobbits."

"Suppose I'm not. May I... have a closer look at them? If that would be appropriate, of course." He quired, then feeling a sudden rush of giddiness strike him when Thorin nodded for him to continue. He snapped his book shut, placing it to the bedside table and inching himself closer to the other. He first laid a gentle finger over the cascading set of rings, which had felt like any he had touched before. Though some of them felt slightly bumpy, or jagged like a stone; upon further inspection, he spotted small and intricate gemstones settled inside.

"Do they hurt? Once you put them in, that is." He asked, turning his head to get a better look of the hollowed out spaces in his ear that allowed the silver hoops to lay. A quick chill ran down his back, surely knowing it must have been a painful ordeal.

"The first few, yes. I settled with the discomfort." Thorin explained. "They can be rather irksome to tend to, though you must to keep them from infection."

"Infection?" Bilbo teetered away, as if something contagious had been sprinkled in the air.

"Fíli and Kíli wish to have their own. I'm certain they would lose a whole ear each."

"They may have already. Now, wait a moment---when did you get these?"

Thorin cracked a telling smile. "Not long after I recovered."

"When you---" Bilbo's mouth dropped. "But that was months ago! Surely I... how--?"

"The worst part is you didn't even notice." Thorin teased, receiving a light smack to the shoulder. He caught Bilbo's hand as it fell back to his lap, his fingers mingling with the hobbits. "If I had known you would be so interested, I would have shown you them sooner."

"I blame this hair of yours," Bilbo took his free hand to tuck a few wayward strands of the dwarf's locks back behind his ear. As his fingers skimmed over, he softly brushed the top of the ear and the blank set of skin. "What of the other?"

"Not as many." Thorin turned his head to the side, where he only had a pair of two rings near the bottom. Bilbo simply frowned; even more he had failed to notice!

"Right, any more I should know of?"

"I'm afraid you will have to find out on your own."

"You are exhausting." Bilbo reached for the night table, being stopped soon enough by a hold of larger arms over his waist and under the open space between his back and the pillows---seizing him in a lazy embrace he welcomed the sudden warmth of.

"Must I compete for your attention against a book?" Thorin murmured as he leaned his head to the crook of his neck, leaving a small kiss there along with one to the hobbits bare ear.

"A book doesn't tease me nearly as often."

Thorin hummed a sound of acknowledgement, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the weight of Bilbo's head rest along his. It was then the question struck him, now elated with curiosity as the other had prior. "Would you consider having one of your own?"

"Have one of what?"

"The earrings."

Bilbo laughed. "I don't believe I'd look as flattering with one. Let's say, if all my goods from here make it to Erebor without a scratch, I'll get myself one!" Like that would ever happen, of course. How silly. He thought.

------

Erebor

"Ah, is the needle supposed to be that large?"

"Ey, this is the small!"

"The---oh my days," Bilbo swallowed hard, blowing out some air as he kept his eyes to the floor. Absolutely any single sight but that horrendous pointy stick.

"You do not have to do this," Thorin placed a hand to his shoulder, brows furrowing with visible concern. "In fact, I would have advised against it if I had known it would cause you distress."

"No, no! I will not back out now. I said I would do this, and I am a hobbit of my word." He proclaimed. "At least for the next few minutes."

"Bilbo..."

"I know what I'm getting myself into, Thorin. I'll be fine."

"Well, let's get to it then, shall we?" Said the dwarf in charge of the process. "I want ye' to take a deep breath in, then slowly out as the needle gets through, ye' see?"

"Yes, yes."

"I'll count to five. One---"

"No, no counting if you'll---"

"Anddd five!"

And that had been the day Bilbo Baggins, the first hobbit to date---had himself an earring, as they called it. Next thing he knew, he'd be wearing himself a tattoo to match. He was certain Thorin didn't have any of those to note, thankfully.

He didn't, right?

[divadepreshawn]

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader

Summary: You spent a large part of your life taking care of people. Between a test to grade, a phone call to calm Spencer down, and the problems of everyday life, there was never any time left. And honestly? You never cared about investing in your own love life. Love (in the intimate sense, between two people) was something for other people. But it seems that destiny had other plans. Warnings: This is part three, you can find the other parts here. I am in a terrible phase and my brain refuses to work, so if it sounds repetitive (which to me sounds a bit) just be kind and ignore - please. WC: 2 587

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It had been a few months since you had been in your new – now more like old than new – apartment. Even though you still had to make a mental effort to remember where some things were, this was a good place. It was actually safer than the old one, the acoustics were better, there was a grocery store a block away – that always saves you because, even with a list, you inevitably forget something. And best of all, it was only a few minutes from work, guaranteeing thirty more minutes of sleep, a decent breakfast and less traffic.

And the best addition to your routine that you could not even imagine.

Okay, maybe there are two additions: A little man with an adorable laugh – may he never hear this – Bert who is over six feet tall.

Even though, technically, you had met Aaron before – bumped into him, tripped, almost fell and knocked him over in the process. Feeling mortified with embarrassment. Does that count as meeting him? – Jack won you over first.

You didn't have much contact with children, except for Spencer, of course. Let's be fair, he's not an example of child development. He was affectionate, kind and curious like any child, but he had his own peculiarities that made him unique. Spencer didn't like playing outside, he had an aversion to sand and wasn't a big fan of the texture of grass, he hated any loud noise and it took him about six months to accept your hugs without feeling like he was being dipped in a tank of acid.

Jack, on the other hand, despite having a truly surprising vocabulary for his age, loves getting dirty, loves hugs and is naturally very affectionate – both in words and gestures. He would wait for you in the hallway to tell you about his day at school. He would draw little animals and slip them under your door. Would ask if you could go to the school presentation. Would invite you to go to the park, to accompany Jessica while he played with his friends.

How could you resist that?

Aaron, on the other hand… He was harder to read.

It wasn't that he was rude, far from it. He was always kind, respectful, and terribly polite. But he never got too close. It was as if, as the conversations in the hallway got longer each day, as soon as you shared some more personal information, he would hit an invisible barrier, and then retreat.

It was a slow dance, one step forward and two steps back.

You were walking back from the market, your arms almost giving out from the weight of the bags, gravity making sure to show its truth with every step. All you needed was some butter, it was the only thing you had forgotten on the list. A simple butter. But, of course, the market seemed to have conspired against you. The very day you decided to walk to the market, there were sales in practically every aisle – especially those huge aisles of cleaning products. And who can resist a good discount on detergent, degreaser, and fabric softener? That's not you.

You could feel the thin strap of the bag cutting into the flesh of your arms – but you ignored it, too proud to stop. After all, if you could walk from the market to the building, you would certainly be able to carry them to your kitchen, right? Wrong.

When you got to the elevator, pressing the button became an impossible task. You tried. God knows how much you tried. But your arm simply wouldn't obey your command – the more you tried, the more it shook from the effort.

You sighed, irritated. Mentally calculating the probability of falling if you tried to press it with your foot.

"Do you need help?", Aaron's voice sounded behind you, softly low, trying not to scare you.

You turned slowly, mentally thanking the divine entity that answered your prayers first. "I… Yes, please."

Without saying anything, he approached and took more than half of the bags from your hands. The tension in your arms disappeared immediately, replaced by the burning due to the effort. You let out a grunt of satisfaction, finally managing to lift your hand to press the button.

“Thanks,” you murmured, studying the small depressions in your skin.

“No problem,” he replied, his tone neutral and polite – as always, terribly polite – before nodding for you to enter the elevator first. “Did you walk a block with all that?”

You let out a short laugh, rethinking the route. “‘Walk’ is an optimistic word. I did what I could to get here.”

The corner of his lips lifted in a slight smile, he glanced at you quickly. “And why didn’t you drive?”

“Well, initially I went to the market to just buy some butter,” you glanced at the bags he was holding. “But the cleaning section was on sale.”

“And then you decided to stock up on a year’s worth of supplies,” he added, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t judge my logic for a sale,” you snapped, looking at him with mock indignation. “These are good brands and they were at a good price. A great price, in fact.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused by your ‘concept’ of a sale – everything in the bag would easily last a year. “Right… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude.”

“Oh, please,” you said, waving his apology away. “I see you more than I see my family. I understand that you’re a natural gentleman, but you don’t have to be so formal with me. I thought we were past that.”

He frowned, his smile almost overpowering his seriousness. “I’m not being formal. That’s my neutral expression.”

“Intimidating,” you corrected, without hesitation. A laugh escaped at the look of indignation on his face. “With all due respect, you are the epitome of the ‘angry dog: keep out of the way’ sign.”

Aaron snorted – the closest you’d ever come to laughing – shaking his head, in disbelief that he was being compared to a grumpy dog. “Angry dog? Seriously?”

The elevator dinged as the doors opened. You stepped out first, turning your back to the hallway, maintaining eye contact. “Ask any of your neighbors. I bet they’d agree with me.”

He sighed, carrying the bags, following you down the hallway, waiting patiently until you found your keys and unlocked the door.

Aaron paused in the doorway, looking around the apartment hesitantly. “Do you want me to put them in the kitchen or…?”

You smiled, appreciating his concern. “No need, I think I can do it now,” you murmured, holding out your arms for him to fit the bags back in.

He stood there for a moment, motionless, his gaze flickering between the heavy bags in his hands and your outstretched arm. “Are you sure?”

“No. But if it goes wrong, I can drag myself to the kitchen.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow, scolding you with his gaze. He took a second before giving in, moving slowly – as if that would lessen the weight of the bags. Carefully, he fitted the bags onto your arms, his fingers gliding delicately over your skin.

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “Seriously, we need to work on your sense of humor.”

“Well, I’m laughing inside.”

You just hummed in response, not trusting your brain to generate a coherent response. If he knew the whirlwind of thoughts and sensations that touch had stirred, sir, you’d be stuck.

—

“Come on, prettyboy,” Morgan approached Spencer as he walked through the glass door.

“The answer is still no,” he said, avoiding eye contact as he tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, quickening his pace to escape the conversation.

Spencer knew this was going to happen – it always did. He only had two certainties in life. The first was that one day he would die. And the second was the certainty that, as soon as Derek laid eyes on you, he would start teasing you.

No matter how much Spencer told himself that Derek didn’t look at you like that, he knew it wouldn’t stop the jokes, the smirks, and the nicknames that would come.

Morgan smiled, unfazed by the immediate denial. He followed Spencer to the table, crossing his arms and leaning his hip casually on the corner of the table. “Come on, Spencer. Give me a plausible reason why you don’t want to give me her number.”

Spencer sighed, placing her bag on the table with more force than necessary, sitting back in her chair before looking back at him. “Derek, you know I’d take a bullet for you. But… I’m not going to throw you to the lions.”

“Throw who to the lions?” JJ asked, her eyes flicking between Spencer and Morgan.

Spencer leaned back in her chair. “My sister.”

JJ raised an eyebrow in surprise before looking at Morgan skeptically. “You want to date Spence’s sister?”

Morgan shrugged. “Look at that face,” he said, pointing to himself –as if that were justification enough. “Just imagine our kids. They’d be beautiful and geniuses. A gift to humanity.”

JJ stifled a laugh, taking a sip of her coffee before replying. “Okay, ‘gift to humanity,’ let Penelope hear that.”

“I’m sure my Babygirl would support that.”

Spencer let out a muffled groan, resting his face in his hands. He would rather be dragged into a hostage negotiation, or even retake the physical fitness test, than continue this conversation.

“Derek, please. She literally took care of me… she’s like my mother. And you’re not going out with my mother.”

Morgan paused, pretending to consider what he’d said, and then smiled even wider. “Oh, I get it. You’re afraid of being promoted to big brother.”

“Shut up,” he snapped, burying his face in the files in front of him to end the subject.

“Good morning, my weirdos,” Rossi said, crossing the bullpen. He glanced around the group, quickly scanning their expressions. “Does anyone want to update me on…?”

“Just Morgan trying to destroy the peace in the Reid family,” JJ explained with a smile, as he walked away to his desk.

“Reid family?” Morgan repeated with a half smile. “Mrs. Morgan you mean.”

“I resign,” Spencer declared, rising from his chair with a grimace, starting to walk away towards the kitchen.

Morgan laughed out loud, the laugh so intense that his knees began to buckle, causing him to brace his hands on the table to keep himself upright. “Dude, I’m kidding! You know that, right?”

Rossi headed to his office, muttering “I don’t know why I even ask,” as he shook his head.

—

Aaron was going crazy, getting older, reaching senescence more quickly. He could almost see his gray matter shrinking considerably – which is, to say the least, ironic. He’s been dealing with mountains of paperwork, heinous crimes, serial killers for years, and until then he had managed to maintain his sanity at about seventy-five percent. But you managed to zero that in a few months.

It was almost funny. If it weren’t so humiliating.

All of this was unconscious at first, of course. He was worried about work, friends, his son, so it’s natural that he paid attention to you. But now? They’re frequent and painfully conscious.

He tried to rationalize this feeling, the only plausible explanation for him having liked you before knowing your name, profession, criminal record was the way you treated Jack.

Of course, it was all about that. It’s easy to like someone who treats those who are important to us so well, right? Every father would think so.

It wasn't because you were beautiful, incredibly beautiful. He certainly didn't notice how shy you are despite the perfect way you hide it, or how everything about your appearance is meticulously constructed.

The way he tried to push you away from his thoughts was pathetic. With each attempt, it was as if he reinforced each memory even more. The sound of your laughter, your heels hitting the floor in the hallway, the way you cursed the wind for messing up your hair, the way you talked to Jack.

Going crazy was the only plausible explanation for him liking you.

He was sitting at his desk, silent, mentally wandering. Was staring at the computer screen – for at least fifteen minutes. The more he tried to focus on work, the more his mind betrayed him with absolutely irrelevant memories.

“Hotch?”

You seemed genuinely happy to see Jessica this morning. Are you already friends or are you just being very polite? Maybe both, but Aaron senses that there’s something Jessica isn’t telling him–

“Aaron, are you okay?” Rossi’s voice interrupted his reverie. Aaron looked up slowly. He was leaning against the doorframe, holding a cup of coffee, his worried gaze analyzing every microexpression.

Aaron thought about changing the subject, disguising himself, making up any excuse to get him to leave. But if he was honest with himself, who else could he talk to?

“I need to make an appointment with a psychiatrist.”

Rossi arched an eyebrow, immediately walking into the office, sitting in the chair across from him. “Seriously? What’s going on? Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

Aaron rubbed his eyes, resting his face in his hands. “No. I don’t know, I’m exhausted, irritated. And tired. Yeah, I’m tired of her.”

Rossi blinked, pausing for a second to try to follow his train of thought. “Her? You need to be more specific than that.”

“My neighbor,” he replied with disgust, as if it physically hurt to admit it out loud. “The woman from the apartment across the street.”

Rossi took a sip of his coffee, waiting for Aaron to continue his explanation – but he remained silent, staring at the wooden table. “Right. And what exactly did she do?”

Aaron took a deep breath, pondering how he could describe you. “She’s inconvenient.”

Rossi stared at him for a second, processing. “Inconvenient, how…?”

“She… leaves the elevator smelling of vanilla. Every time. It’s agonizing the minutes until she gets to the lobby. And her laugh, lord, is too loud. You should see when Jack and her meet,” Aaron grimaced, trying to find an explanation for your relationship. "They go into their own bubble, and I watch from the outside, not knowing what to do. She walks past my door and wishes me good morning –even when I pretend to be on the phone. She's not intimidated by my dry comments."

He set his coffee cup down on the table, crossing his arms over his chest with a smile, having a vague idea of ​​what was happening to his friend. "Are you complaining about the fact that she's kind, has social skills, and is minimally hygienic?"

"No, you don't understand," Aaron retorted, in an exasperated tone. "This happens every day. Every. Single. Day. It's been four months. Four months. And she does the same things, always with the same smile, the same intonation as if it were the first time. If I close my eyes, I can still hear her heels clicking on the hallway floor."

Rossi no longer bothered to hide his amusement. It was almost charming to watch one of the FBI's most brilliant minds stumbling over his feelings like a teenager. How could someone whose job it is to identify the smallest patterns in details have missed the most obvious signs? All it took was a simple synapse – there was no ambiguity – one plus one equals two, simple as that.

“I need medication. Anything to make it stop,” Aaron muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. “She’s trouble.”

Rossi coughed to hide a laugh. “Aaron, mio ​​dio, are you listening to yourself?”

Aaron frowned. “What?”

“You don’t need a shrink, you need a date.”

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Tag: @presidentdangdang @dramioneforevertilltheend @esposadomd @hederahelix12 @cultish-corner @iyskgd @newavenger @khxna @anonymouse1807 @theprettyandthereckless @sabrinaselina55 @skull-centric @poseidons-lovechild @jaydaaasworld @questionably-intelligent69 @ninniesontheglass3 @herondale-lightworm @ampal98 @beesin03 @imgunnapayforthis @madnessinwrighting @mellyie @jorileychan @tessanikk

[max1461]

I don't have much to say to this as a whole because I don't feel that it directly contradicts my argument, but I have a bunch of random nitpicks and comments.

I don't think anyone is actually learning anything in the above exchange.

I agree.

These days, we might say, "That doesn't sound like it's going to survive the replication crisis," if centrist

This centrist would be correct—not for instrumentalist political reasons, as you suggest, but for underlying epistemic reasons (something far more important and timeless than petty Current Year political disputes).

a right-winger might dismiss almost the entire field of anthropology since 1970 based on new studies of historical migration patterns and then start challenging Mr. A on his other beliefs.

Only right-wingers know about the Caucasus-Lower Volga Cline... Only right-wingers know about Mal'ta boy...

No, the actually truth is that most right-wingers know jack shit about ancient population movements (just like most leftists, just like most people); a tiny group of online rightists keep up with archeogenetics so that they can be racist better, but with the overall left-wing bent of academia I'd wager the absolute number of left-wingers who know as much about the subject is higher.

Anyway, the ancient DNA revolution doesn't invalidate all of anthropology since the 70s, that's completely ridiculous.

A normie might just blow it off and then not comply, or might say, "Keep your hands off my wife." (Possibly followed with, "Can't you see you're making her uncomfortable?")

Outside the context of an intellectual debate of some kind, this would be objectively the most reasonable response. This is all that is necessary. No evopsych required.

Someone with less tact and/or less personal experience might answer, "Haven't you heard of paternal uncertainty, dumbass?" (i.e. "It's normal and healthy for a male to have relationship jealousy.")

This person would actually be invoking a lot of unstated and easily-contestable philosophical assertions (normal=desirable, normal=healthy=desirable, etc.) in addition to the unnecessary invocation of evopsych. It's the single least-sensible response in your list!

Personally, I don't think you can really learn human nature from the contemporary social sciences without discernment and going through the effort to check studies manually

I agree.

(although psychology should be OK in the field of mental illness,

This is one of the most methodologically shaky parts of psychology!

and economics is good until you hit the limits of its underlying basis).

My friend who is a mechanism design PhD would I think have a field day with the claim that econ is good for learning human nature; he reads my blog so I'll see what he has to say.

Anyhow, having described the discursive front above, we can then think about how to shift it.

I would say that the way to alter the composition is to bring forth the better arguments (and better evidence) so that they are ready to hand, and cultivate improved social skills.

There is no reason to alter it. The normie already has a reasonable response, if he doesn't want to engage in polyamory or whatever. Just do that!

The contemporary right-wing position (depending on which part of the right we're talking about) is that essentially everything is subject to evolutionary dynamics. As I told Nick Land (not that it moved him very much), I think this undervalues the role of choice, and also undervalues the effects of friction across time and space.

I assume you're talking about some extremely online subset of the right. This certainly isn't the explicit position of the mainstream right (searching around, it seems less than half of US Republicans believe in evolution at all, although all the numbers I can find are a few years old). It doesn't seem like the implicit position, either, from anything I've observed. Far from it, the right has taken a major conspiracist turn, by which the view that everything in politics is caused intentionally by some conscious actor has grown extremely common. I would make almost the polar opposite diagnosis of the right.

In terms of how I would use evolutionary psychology, I might bring up the Gombe Chimpanzee War as evidence that organized war for territory is not unique to humans, and therefore likely not a product of contemporary ideology or social relations (at least, not entirely).

(On the other hand, the idea of "alpha wolves" is now said to have been based solely on the observation of wolves in captivity, and apparently isn't a good fit for wild wolves.)

This all seems perfectly fine and reasonable to me, but is fairly divorced from evopsych as a field or any of its issues.

Well, I think that's part of the appeal—believing unflattering stories about the world makes you feel privy to the Dark Truth that everything else is Too Afraid To Admit, while also giving you plenty of material to tar your opponents with, etc. etc. But really it's uniquely shameful for the rationalists, because evopsych is at the intersection of like three axes of epistemic shaky-ground.