#just passing the days. another days go by and you wait for another to go by and thats it

[lizardho]

I took a human development class at BYU. It was a good class. The guy who taught it did a great job with it, he was passionate, he was curious, he was kind, and to top it all off he was a fabulous Mormon. I had to sign up for his class the night it opened and I only barely made it into his lecture it filled so fast. I cannot for the life of me remember his name, but I remember how he challenged the class in some peculiar ways.

A funny experience of challenging the class was when we had our lecture on conception and development in utero. He taps the microphone like a comedian who just bombed a set, asks if we can hear him, get’s a resounding and excited “yes!” and says “Ok! Ok! Y’all sounds excited! Let’s do a chant, see if that helps with some of the other energy. Are you ready?”

Of course everyone cheers yes, we’re Mormon, being in a room of people saying the same shit over and over is our jam. So he nods, gets a beat going by clapping, and starts chanting the word “sex” into the microphone. The claps die. The chant doesn’t start. But he keeps going, and going, until he gets half the class chanting with him by brutal shameless persistence. Then he changes the word. “Vagina!” And resumes until he has half the class. Then “clitoris!” then “penis!” then finally when he has half the room chanting he stops the chant and says “I only ever go until I can get half of y’all chanting because this is BYU and I’d be here all day if I waited for everyone to be comfortable even saying the word “sex” out loud which is INSANE because today we’re talking about how life begins and I guarantee you almost every woman who flinched away from chanting “penis” wants to have kids and most of the men who couldn’t pronounce clitoris want to have at least two kids and that does not work out in my head! We need to get over this fear to talk about conception openly.” He talked about sex as a biological phenomenon and as a fun thing to do sometimes and it was a transformative experience for me, and it was very funny as an opener.

He challenged us academically too, though. He assigned us the task of observing children at the campus daycare and told us he wanted to know who we had observed just by our behavioral observations. He meant it, too. He didn’t want us to just know about kids he wanted us to be able to see kids as distinct people and that was amazing. He pushed us out of the mindset of “how do I pass this assignment” and challenged us to internalize “how do I learn to do this in real life?” and he pushed us to observe children as people and not as science experiments or obedient joyful output machines.

Another way he challenged the class, and this one sticks with me tbh, is he told us stories. His technique is one I often utilize as a therapist. He tells a story that’s related *enough* to keep you aware of how your question or need is related, but just unrelated enough distract you from the question so when he brings it back to you it hits as an experience instead of a verbal response to an inquiry. He did this sometimes in response to questions from students and it was always an interesting way to experience learning. One day a student, a worried newlywed man who JUST found out his wife was pregnant, asked what he could do to help her because he felt so excited and overwhelmed he couldn’t think clearly. And the professor stops the lecture and thinks about it, like, REALLY thinks about it, and he leads into his story - it starts with a brief discussion on the complexity and uniqueness of fingerprints. Then he tells us about how one of his graduate students a few years back came into his office complaining that his wife was getting lazier. Him, being a therapist and a curious man by nature, asked the student what he meant. The student responds by saying that he felt “duped” by his wife because she’d been energetic and motivated and passionate and attentive until she got pregnant and now she “doesn’t do anything” and “has no ambition” and “doesn’t even cook dinner anymore” and “always says she’s tired even though she hasn’t DONE anything” and how he felt like it was all an act to pretend to be a good wife until she got pregnant and had him hooked forever.

And this guy is reacting to this in real time - he goes point by point through this graduate student’s complaints and nods patiently, curiously, then sinisterly as he understands the situation. He tells the grad students to come a little closer so he can show him something in a book, then whaps him upside the head with the book.

The grad student of course reacts with shock and anger and demands a justification for being whacked with a book and the professor responds with “how far into the pregnancy is your lazy lazy wife?” The grad student gives a response to he opens the book and slaps it on the desk and says “at that point in pregnancy your child’s fingerprints are developing. Do you know how complex and detailed fingerprints are? Do you know how much time and energy it would take to make that from nothing? That is what your wife is doing all day. She’s making your child’s fingerprints. Get that in your head and get over yourself.”

He then stops the story, looks at the guy who asked the question, and asks how far along his wife is? And the student responds, and he says “if you go home today and your wife is tired, it’s because she was growing functional kidneys for another human being all day. So tell her you’ll do the dishes, and don’t whine about it. And remember that any time you’re doing any chore or task you’re not accustomed to for the next few months, any time you’re eating an uninspired dinner, any time you’re rubbing her feet or helping her get to sleep and thinking “oh geez she’s so dramatic” remember she is growing another person and ask yourself if your dinner or unfolded socks are more valuable than a functioning kidney or a distinct fingerprint because I guarantee you it is not. She is engaged in the act of creation, fold your own socks.”

Y’all I mean the fucking CRICKETS in that room. My ears were ringing from the revelation he had just unleashed into my brain. There was not a single body in that room that was not GRIPPED by the response to this question. And I fully recognize that he was asking for fairly little, like, yeah, you should be an involved parent and partner because “for time and all eternity” means “even when she won’t have sex with me,” but he was saying it as a Mormon man talking to another Mormon man and that was so exciting and new to me that it stuck with me. I remember this story in a myriad of ways - it’s a good example of using privilege to challenge privilege, for example. It’s a good example of “lifting where you stand,” so to speak, by making a difference where you are instead of making a hypothetical “bigger” difference elsewhere. It helps me remind myself that neutrality is progress, too, and that the best time to do something I should have always been doing is now. It also helps me be patient with myself when I am sick - healing is work, recovering is work, resting is work, even if the demanding husband in my head can’t see it yet.

If y’all are struggling to get better and feel your frustration building as each possibility of action passes you by while you’re stuck healing, you can ask yourself if making an amazing dinner is more important than having a healthy body, then eat your “guilty”/“easy”/“uninspired” Mac n cheese or delivery pizza or peanut butter and jelly sandwich because it’s not. If you find yourself struggling because your body is not behaving like a successful experiment or an obedient joyful output machine, try seeing yourself as a full person and not an assignment you’re failing. And if you’re embarrassed about sex, chant “penis” over and over again or something. The metaphor’s falling apart, so I’ll end with my typical advice: Be gayer, be good to each other, read more Terry Pratchett, and treat people as people.

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

Bob’s reaction when reader gets hurt??

A/N: I have another version of this with sassy bob <3

You never cried.

You refused especially not over a mission gone wrong, or a few cracked ribs and a shoulder that felt like it was being held together with duct tape and pride.

You limped through the compound like you’d rehearsed it. Steady steps. No flinching. A polite smile if anyone passed you. Straight to your room. Door shut. Done.

Except Bob was already there. Sitting on your bed, criss cross applesauce, waiting for you. You stopped in your tracks, breath caught mid-chest. "Shit" You mutter under your breath knowing you've been caught.

His eyes flicked up the second you stepped foot into the room. Calm at first. Measuring. Then narrowing in on every detail; the way you were holding your side, the smears of dried blood on your sleeve, the way you wouldn’t look at him.

“You’re hurt,” he said. Not a question. Not even surprise. Just… certainty. You tried to shrug it off, winced, and immediately regretted it. “It’s nothing.” Bob stood slowly. “You know you keep saying that. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

You didn’t answer. You just sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing again as your body protested every inch. And then he was in front of you. Kneeling. One hand reaching out but not quite touching, waiting for permission. “Let me see,” he said softly. You hesitated. Then nodded. He pushed your shirt up gently, careful of your bandages half-rushed, it really wasn't your best work. The bruise on your ribs had already darkened, angry and raw. His jaw clenched the moment he saw it.

“Fucking Christ.”

“It looks worse than it is,” you whispered. “No. No, don’t do that.” His voice was quiet, but sharp. “Don’t minimize it just because you think it’ll make me feel better. I don’t need you to be invincible. I need you to be in one piece.” You looked at him then, really, truly looked at him.

And God, the look in his eyes.

Like he was angry at the world for even thinking about hurting you let alone doing it. Like he wished he was the one in pain instead. Like if he could take that bruise and wear it for you, he would no hesitation.

“You scared me,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Scared the shit out of me. I waited. I paced. I kept checking the door. I kept telling myself you’d come back, but you were late, and then you come walking in pretending nothing’s wrong with your arm hanging off like a goddamn scarecrow—”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well, mission failed.”

Your breath caught. And then Bob sat beside you, closer now, his hand finding yours, threading his fingers through gently like he was afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. “You don’t have to hide it from me, you don't get to hide it from me.” he said, softer now. “Not the bruises. Not the bad days. Not when you’re tired. Not when the fight got a little too close to your heart.” You blinked hard. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“See everything.”

Bob smiled, just a little. “I pay attention. Especially to important things like you.” You looked down at your intertwined hands. Felt the warmth of him seeping into you like sunlight through the cracks. “Thank you,” you murmured. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “You just have to come back to me in one piece.”

And then, quieter: “If I had it my way, you wouldn’t ever go out there alone again.” You nod softly before saying, “I know.” in a whisper as if you were scared you'd break the tension between you.

“You gonna let me take care of you tonight?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned into him. Tired. Hurting. Soft in the way only Bob could pull from you. And he wrapped his arms around you so carefully, so fully, it almost didn’t hurt at all.

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[maskedbyghost]

last part of toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader

You weren’t even sure what you were supposed to feel anymore, and maybe that was the worst part of all of it, because at least when you were angry, you had direction, something to aim at, something to burn down, but now everything just felt kind of… flat.

You were tired in places you didn’t even know could get tired, your body was carrying weight that didn’t belong to you anymore, and your brain kept trying to replay every fight, every night you waited for him to show up and he didn’t, every time you thought maybe this time, only to realize he hadn’t even noticed that you were hoping.

You weren’t sad, because that part had already happened, that storm had already come and gone and ripped through every soft part of you, and now there was just this… this weird emptiness. This dull ache that sat in your chest.

And the worst part was that you still kind of missed him. Or not even him, really, just the idea of him. The idea of someone who used to know how to make you laugh without trying, someone who used to touch your back in passing like he couldn’t help it, someone who used to say your name like it tasted good in his mouth. You missed the version of him that only existed in your head now, the one you used to imagine was just hiding under all the bullshit if you could dig deep enough to find him.

But you weren’t stupid anymore. At least, not in the same way.

So when the first text came through, just a short, careful message that read: Morning. Hope you slept okay. Don't worry, I’m not expecting a reply. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you—you didn’t answer it.

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, heart doing that annoying lurch it always did when his name popped up, and then you locked your phone and tossed it on the bed.

You weren’t going to do this again. Not for a text that took five seconds to type.

And when he sent one again the next day? Same thing.

Made coffee and thought about how you always put way too much sugar in yours. Miss that.

Still no reply.

The third day?

Morning, love. I just opened a cupboard and found one of your hair ties. I held it like a grieving Victorian widow for three minutes. So that’s fun.

You almost smiled at that one. Almost.

But you still didn’t answer.

He didn’t double-text. Didn’t follow it up with a question mark or a “Did you get my message?” or anything that would’ve given you more reason to roll your eyes. He just sent one a day. Always in the morning, and a little nervous, like he was scared you might actually block him again, but was still doing it anyway.

Day after day, for a full week. You didn’t block him this time. But you didn’t answer either.

Because part of you wanted to see how long he’d keep doing it without getting what he wanted. How long he’d be willing to sit in the quiet. How long he’d go before breaking the pattern and asking for more.

And honestly? You didn’t even know what you wanted him to do. You just knew you weren’t going to make it easy.

Not this time.

It had been a long week, and you weren’t even really in the mood to go out, not at first, not when your friends were pulling outfits out of your closet and hyping you up while you just stood there pretending like you weren’t still kind of hollow inside, like your stomach didn’t still do that annoying twist every time you saw his name pop up in your notifications, even if it was just another one of his dumb, soft morning texts that you still hadn’t replied to.

But they didn’t let you stay home. They dragged you out, shoved a drink in your hand, and told you you were hot and you deserved to feel good again. And honestly? After the second drink, after the third song, after the lights started to feel warmer and your feet started to move on their own, you started to believe them a little.

You danced, you smiled, and you let your body move without thinking too hard. And when some guy stepped close and started dancing with you, you didn’t say no.

It wasn’t anything crazy. You weren’t grinding on him or making a scene. You were just letting yourself feel something that wasn’t grief or guilt or the hollow ache of remembering someone who used to know every inch of your skin and now felt like a stranger who texted you about breakfast.

And then you turned.

And you saw him.

Simon.

Sitting at the bar.

Alone.

He wasn’t drinking. There was a beer in front of him, but he wasn’t touching it. He wasn’t watching the game on the screen behind the bar or scrolling through his phone or pretending not to notice you. No, he was just sitting there with his forearms on the bar, that stupid hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the goddamn room.

You froze for half a second, caught mid-step, one hand still raised like you were about to toss your hair back and laugh, and your heart just… stopped. Because there was something in his face that made your chest feel like someone had wrapped their hands around your ribs and squeezed.

And he didn’t look away.

Not when you turned back toward your friends. Not when the guy you’d been dancing with leaned in to say something. Not even when your friend grabbed your hand and spun you around, laughing. Simon just watched quietly.

Like he’d seen everything he didn’t want to see and couldn’t look away from it.

You didn’t go over, you didn’t acknowledge him, you just danced. Let yourself move more freely. Let yourself pretend that he wasn’t sitting twenty feet away, like he was reliving every mistake he ever made and feeling every single one of them hit all at once.

And when the night ended, when the music died down and your feet were sore and your throat ached from yelling over the speakers, you walked out into the cool air with your girls, arms linked, laughing and stumbling a little, too tired and tipsy to care.

And there he was again.

Leaning against his car, hands in his jacket pockets, hair slightly messy, that same unreadable look on his face, but softer now, just tired. He’d been waiting there for hours and would’ve waited longer if he thought it meant you’d speak to him.

“Need a ride home, ladies?” he asked, voice low but smooth, but he didn’t look smug, didn’t look flirty. He looked like someone who knew exactly where he stood and was offering anyway.

And your friends?

Oh, they swooned.

One of them leaned in and whispered, “Is that the Simon?” like he was a celebrity instead of your ex. Another one literally fanned herself with her hand and said, “He could drive me home any night.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t say no.

He opened the passenger door for one of your girls, helped another into the backseat, didn’t comment when they giggled a little too loudly or gave you a look that said this is so not over. He didn’t push. Didn’t even try to talk to you, really. He just drove.

Like he wasn’t breaking apart slowly behind the wheel.

He dropped them off one by one, and every time one of them got out, she’d turn and give you a look—one of those do you want us to wait? do you want us to make an excuse? kinds of looks—but you just shook your head.

Until it was just the two of you.

The silence filled the car, awkward and pressing down on your chest until it was hard to breathe. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. He just kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly on the wheel like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

He pulled up to your building and parked, let the engine idle for a second too long.

Then he looked at you

“I wasn’t there to ruin your night,” he said finally, voice rough and low like it hurt to talk. “I didn’t even know you’d be there, swear to God. I just… I haven’t seen you laugh like that in months. I didn’t know if I should feel happy for you or fucking sick.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out like a confession or a slap.

So he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and then added, even softer:

“You looked happy. That’s all I’ve wanted. Even if it’s not with me.”

You still didn’t speak. Your hand was already on the door handle.

But before you stepped out, he leaned slightly forward, not close enough to touch, just enough to say it:

“I’d rather watch you be happy from a distance than fuck up your peace again. But I’m not gonna stop hoping you let me try.”

Then he leaned back, hands back on the wheel. And you opened the door and stepped into the night, heart pounding, head spinning, trying to decide if it was anger or longing or both curling up in your chest.

You didn’t look back until you reached the door to your building.

And when you did?

He was still there.

There were moments when the world slowed down and no one was talking and nothing urgent needed doing, where you’d stop and realize you didn’t actually know how you felt anymore. Some mornings, you woke up feeling like maybe you could move on. Other mornings, you missed the shape of his arms around you so badly you had to physically sit on your hands to keep from texting him first.

And through it all, Simon kept texting.

Every single day.

Not demanding, not pushing, not trying to force a response. Just… there. Sometimes it was early in the morning, sometimes mid-afternoon, sometimes twice a day if he thought you’d had a bad one. And even though you never replied, not once, you read every single one.

Morning. Hope today doesn’t suck. I mean it. Go drink water or something.

Dropped my toast butter side down. Is that karma? Did I deserve this?

Just walked past a couple holding hands. I don’t wanna talk about it.

There was a dog outside the bakery this morning. I told him about you. He seemed supportive.

And you’d always read them.

Eyes rolling, lips twitching, heart doing that annoying little ache that you swore you were done feeling. But still, you didn’t reply.

Not until the bookshelf.

You got home late one night, tired and irritated and already half-ready to crawl into bed and ignore the world. Your bag dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and you kicked off your shoes, not even looking up as you walked toward your room, fully intending to faceplant and scroll TikTok until your eyes hurt.

But then you looked up.

And froze.

In the corner of your bedroom was a brand new bookshelf. Not a flimsy little piece from a discount store. No, this was beautiful, tall and dark-stained, filled with books so neatly arranged you thought you might be hallucinating for a second.

“What the fuck,” you muttered, stepping closer, blinking hard like the furniture might vanish if you stared at it too long.

And then you saw the note.

Taped to the shelf with one of those dumb gold star stickers.

A gift for you. I found your Goodreads account. (Your friend helped me. I bribed her with cupcakes. She’s disloyal.) These are all from your TBR list. Yes, all of them. No, I don’t want to talk about how long I was in that store.

Also, a real question... Did you mean to save the one where the guy kidnaps her and she calls it romance?? Are we not calling the police in these?? Also what is a ‘reverse harem’ and why is there a dragon on the cover?? I’m not kink-shaming, I swear. Just... blink twice if you need help, or like... a stable relationship?

You stood there for a full minute just staring at it, at the books, at the note, and at the fact that he had spent God knows how much time and money finding your unread books and building you a whole-ass bookshelf and then roasting your taste in spicy novels like that would somehow soften the blow.

And then?

Then you laughed.

Like, really laughed. Loud and unexpected, almost wheezing as you reached for your phone and opened his message thread for the first time in forever. Your fingers hovered for a second. Then typed:

I read the smut so I don’t text you ‘come ruin my life again’ at 2am. It’s called coping. Don’t judge me.

His reply came instantly:

Okay, well now I have 4 tabs open trying to figure out why that man in your book liked being stabbed. You scare me. I miss you. It’s confusing…

And that night, you fell asleep with a stupid smile on your face for the first time in forever.

Some days, it felt easier. You could get through a full twenty-four hours without thinking about him every time your phone buzzed, or without letting his name run laps through your mind just because you saw someone wearing his cologne at the store, or caught the tail end of a song he once hummed under his breath while cooking eggs at 2am in your kitchen.

Other days it was still a mess.

He still texted. Every morning without fail, like some broken record that somehow never made you roll your eyes hard enough to block him again. Sometimes you answered, short and sarcastic “wow you’re up early” or a “why are you telling me about your toast again.” Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes you read his messages and stare at them for too long, and lock your phone before you can type something you’d regret.

Sometimes you laughed out loud when he sent you a picture of a dog in a sweater and said “he said he misses you, not me, just you.” Sometimes you wanted to scream when he followed it with a soft: “I miss you too though. Every version of you.”

You didn’t know what you were doing. Not really. Letting him text you, not shutting it down completely, letting him hang in the doorway of your life like he was waiting to be let back in if you just gave the word.

And today, it all felt like too much again.

So you left your apartment, pulled on a hoodie, headphones in, and wandered out until your feet took you to the park. You didn’t have a plan. You just needed to be somewhere else, somewhere quiet. You sat on a bench near the edge of the lake, watching ducks paddle around, watching couples walk hand in hand, the same aching scene you thought you were done getting crushed by.

But it still hit you.

The soft stuff always did.

A girl sat across the path with her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder while he played with her fingers. An older man helped his wife sit down carefully on a bench, then pulled a thermos from a bag and poured her something hot while she smiled at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

It made your chest tight again, that type of wanting that snuck up out of nowhere and sat on your ribs. Not for someone in particular—just for something that didn’t make you feel like you were bracing yourself all the time. Something that didn’t break and beg and promise, only to leave you rebuilding everything from scratch again.

And then you felt it. That weird shift in the air. The kind of awareness you’d only ever felt when he was near.

You turned your head. He wasn’t moving toward you, just standing there a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking at you like he didn’t know whether he was allowed to come closer or not.

You didn’t speak, didn’t wave, but you didn’t leave either.

So he walked over. Sat on the opposite end of the bench, he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

You didn’t say anything for a minute. Just sat there, watching the water.

And then he spoke.

“I’m not trying to win you back in some big dramatic way,” he said, glancing over at you now. “No grand gesture, or some stupid speech. Just… me. Every day showing up and being better. Whether you want to forgive me or not.”

Your throat felt tight, and you hated that.

You hated that your first thought was that he looked tired. Not messy tired, not in a falling-apart way, just like someone who hadn’t had a full breath of air since you told him to leave.

You looked back at the lake, arms crossed over your chest like that would keep anything else from slipping out.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” you said eventually. “I don’t have a big answer for you. I don’t even know if I trust you again, or if I should.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Simon said. “I mean, I hope. But I don’t expect. I just wanted to see you, even if we just sit here in silence and you never text me back again. This is enough for me.”

You both sat there quietly, for a long time of nothing but wind and leaves and distant laughter from a kid feeding the ducks with too much bread.

“I still think about it, you know,” you said suddenly, almost surprising yourself. “Everything. But I also think about the nights I cried myself to sleep, and how exhausted I was all the time from hoping you’d show up the way I needed you to.”

Simon flinched a little, like your words landed right where they were supposed to.

“I know,” he said. “I think about that too.”

You let your eyes close for a second, just to breathe through the ache.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, softer now. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to, or if I even want to.”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

You turned to look at him, finally, really looked at him, and he didn’t smile or try to touch you or do anything that would tilt the balance.

He just looked back.

And then you stood. Brushed off your jeans, adjusted your hoodie, and slung your bag over your shoulder.

Simon stood too, but didn’t reach for you.

“I’ll see you around,” you said, voice unreadable.

He nodded. “I hope so.”

You gave him one last look, something tired and unsure but not entirely closed off, then turned and started walking down the path.

He didn’t follow.

And maybe you’d text him tomorrow, or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe this was a step forward, or maybe it was the start of goodbye.

But either way, for now, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

And that was enough for now.

----------------------------------------

I left the ending open on purpose because honestly it’s up to you. Maybe she forgives him eventually. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she texts him back that night, or maybe she blocks his number the second she gets home. Either way, I wanted it to feel like those unfinished things we all go through sometimes. So whatever ending you pick in your head? That’s the right one.

Thanks for reading. <3

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[ilovebabyonboard]

The Vitals Don't Lie

PAIRING: Bob Floyd X Nurse!Reader

CATEGORY: Fluff

SUMMARY: At the San Diego base infirmary, the nurse quietly observes the Top Gun recruits, especially Lieutenant Robert “Bob” Floyd, whose reserved nature and subtle glances don’t go unnoticed. When Bob is rushed in after a bird strike and emergency ejection, vulnerable and injured, the nurse’s concern deepens. Amidst medical checks and quiet moments, a fragile connection forms between them—an unspoken promise of something more once he recovers.

WORD COUNT: 2.7K

WARNINGS: Might be repetitive

The San Diego base infirmary woke slowly with the day, the pale light slipping in through the windows, catching on metal trays and the sheen of freshly mopped floors. It smelled like antiseptic and bitter coffee, a scent you’d grown accustomed to — strange, maybe, but comforting in its own way. It meant routine. Order. A kind of quiet before the flight-line chaos.

You sat behind the familiar white desk, clipboard balanced against your knee, absently spinning your pen between your fingers as the next round of Top Gun recruits shuffled in for their flight clearance checks. The room was filled with the usual blend of testosterone and early-morning haze: boots scuffed against linoleum, flight suits half-zipped, adrenaline simmering just beneath the surface.

You’d seen it all before. This job — this room — it was muscle memory by now. Wrap the cuff, listen for the heart beat, mark the chart. Most of the pilots were in and out before you could blink, barely sitting long enough for the vitals to stabilize, too preoccupied with thoughts of sky-high speeds and maneuver sequences to care much about blood pressure.

But then there was him.

Lt. Robert Floyd.

Bob.

Bob was never loud. Never jockeyed for attention like the others. He didn’t crack jokes or lean too far into the flirtation that usually buzzed around the exam table. Instead, he always waited patiently. Quietly. Shoulders squared, posture careful, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for a final exam, eyes avoiding yours except in passing — but when they did meet yours, there was something there. Brief. Gentle. Intentional.

You, the only nurse stationed at this base, had come to recognize the patterns of the recruits.

Where Hangman flirted, Phoenix smirked, Rooster teased and Fanboy whistled low when you passed —

“Think she’d know if I fake a sprain?” "If I knew there was a hot nurse here, I would've come sooner." “Out of your league, bro. Like… multiple atmospheres out.”

Bob never said a word. Not once.

But he looked.

Not even when you took his blood pressure last month and he had to pretend it wasn't alarmingly high.

You’d seen him stumble a little over his words once, trying to thank you for handing him his completed chart. Another time, you watched his ears turn scarlet when your fingers brushed his while wrapping the pressure cuff. And last month, when you read off his blood pressure — unusually high — he’d just mumbled something about too much caffeine and looked anywhere but at you.

"Must've been the coffee."

You weren't stupid.

You knew it wasn't coffee

Today, the recruits filtered in one by one, lining up neatly by the wall as you moved down the row. Clipboard in hand, gloves snapped into place, you carried yourself with the same quiet confidence you always did. It was part of the job—being composed, a little distant. Untouchable.

Hangman was the first to pipe up, his voice coated in lazy amusement.

“Didn’t know Top Gun had perks like this,” he said, nodding toward you with a grin, his eyes sliding over to Bob. “No wonder Floyd’s always early.”

Bob didn’t look up. Just kept his hands folded neatly in his lap.

You didn’t look up either—but the twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

You moved through the line with practiced ease. Hangman rolled his eyes when you handed him a hydration pack.

“Try drinking something that isn’t jet fuel,” you said, scribbling on your clipboard.

“Only if you’re the one pouring it,” he shot back.

You gave him a pointed look and moved on.

Then it was Bob’s turn.

He didn’t move until you lifted your eyes to his. That’s always how it was—like he was waiting for permission.

“Your turn, Lieutenant,” you said gently.

He stood, slow and careful, posture straight but not stiff. His movements were always so measured, like he didn’t want to take up more space than he deserved. He lowered himself onto the stool, not letting his knees bump yours.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” you said softly, voice lighter than before.

“Morning,” he replied, just as soft. His eyes flicked up, then quickly down again.

You wrapped the pressure cuff around his arm, your fingers brushing against the skin of his forearm. He didn’t flinch — but he did hold his breath. Just for a second.

The room fell into a still kind of quiet, the kind that made you hyper-aware of every detail. His pulse thudded against your fingertips — steady, but fast. Too fast.

You didn’t look at him right away. You listened. You let the quiet stretch out, linger, become something intimate. Not awkward — just aware. There was always a hum around Bob. A tension made of things unsaid.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, low and teasing:

“You nervous, Lieutenant?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Just… long run this morning.”

You glanced at his chart. Tapped it lightly.

“No PT logged,” you said with a knowing smile.

Bob exhaled a short laugh — quiet, almost shy. “Guess I forgot.”

You looked up.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

The weight of it—the eye contact—felt heavier than it should’ve. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. There was something about Bob that always made you want to pause. He never took up space the way the others did. But he held it. Quietly. Unshakably.

“Heart rate’s a little elevated,” you note, jotting it down. Then, without thinking, you murmur under your breath:

“Easy, flyboy.”

Bob blinks. Caught. You see the faintest twitch of a smile tug at his mouth—like he’s not sure he imagined it.

Behind you, someone snickers. Probably Fanboy or Phoenix. You don’t turn to check.

Instead, you hand Bob his chart, letting your fingers brush his for just a second longer than necessary.

“All good,” you say. “But next time, don’t forget to log that mystery jog.”

He nods. Quiet. Composed.

But when he stands, you catch it—that half-second pause, like he wants to say something else.

Then: “Thank you, ma’am.”

Simple. Respectful. But it lingers in the way he says it. In the way he walks a little slower than usual on the way out.

He walked a little slower than the others on his way out, but you pretended not to watch.

When the last chart was filed and the tray was wiped down, you sat alone again behind the white desk, the coffee cooling beside you, the quiet returning.

And for the first time in a while, you hoped someone’s vitals were just a little too high again tomorrow.

The hum of the infirmary felt different this morning—restless, urgent. You were organizing supplies when a sharp knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.

A flight medic hurried inside, eyes wide with concern. “We’ve got an emergency. Lieutenant Floyd was involved in a bird strike and emergency eject. They’re bringing him in now.”

Your heart stopped.

Bob.

The name echoed like a jolt through your mind. You barely registered the medic’s next words—something about a possible concussion and bruising—but your world narrowed to a pinpoint of worry.

“Where is he?” you asked, your voice tight.

“ER. Down the hall. You’d better get ready.”

Without hesitation, you grabbed your coat and rushed toward the emergency room, each step pounding with urgency. The corridor stretched endlessly, sterile walls blurring past as adrenaline flooded your veins.

You pushed through the double doors—and there he was. Bob, usually so composed and confident, now lying still beneath the harsh hospital lights. Monitors beeped steadily, but his face was pale, bruised, and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze as you stood there, overwhelmed by relief that he was alive—and fear for what the injuries might mean.

You moved closer, your presence calm but urgent.

“How are you, Lieutenant?” you asked, voice soft but edged with worry. You pulled the curtain aside and stepped closer, careful not to startle him.

Bob’s gaze lifted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Morning, Nurse.”

The words were simple, but the warmth behind them caught you off guard. You quickly masked it behind a professional smile as you reached for the blood pressure cuff. “It’s the late afternoon, Bob,” you teased lightly.

“Oh.” Bob said sheepishly, his glasses slightly askew. He reached up slowly, fingers fumbling to adjust them, wincing when the movement tugged at a fresh bruise along his temple.

You caught the motion, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady his wrist—light, tentative. “Easy there,” you said softly.

He allowed you to hold his wrist a moment longer than necessary, eyes searching yours like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

You cleared your throat and slipped the cuff gently around his arm. The warmth of his skin under your fingers sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, but you kept your tone steady. “Let’s see how you’re doing.”

Bob’s usual calm was replaced by a quiet vulnerability you’d never seen before. His breath hitched slightly as the cuff tightened, and for a brief second, your eyes met, holding a fragile exchange neither of you spoke aloud.

The monitor beeped steadily as you jotted down his readings—heart rate elevated but stable, likely a mix of adrenaline, pain, and something unspoken between you.

You finished noting his vitals and set the cuff aside, your eyes softening with concern.

“Alright, Bob. I’m going to check you for a concussion now,” you said gently, pulling on your gloves. “I need to see how your reflexes are, check your pupil response, and ask you a few questions. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Bob nodded slowly, his usual composure giving way to something more fragile. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, a stark contrast against the bruises on his face. He blinked a bit more than usual, his gaze drifting, unfocused.

You started with the basic checks—light reflex with your penlight, following your finger with his eyes, simple coordination tests. His responses were delayed, and his hands trembled slightly when you asked him to touch his nose then your finger.

“Bob,” you said quietly, concern threading your voice. “How are you feeling? Any headaches or dizziness?”

He swallowed hard, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “Wait... I’m sorry,” he murmured, eyes flickering up to meet yours briefly before dropping away. “I can't focus- You're just... You're really pretty.”

Your breath caught at the unexpected confession, but you kept your expression neutral, professional, though your heart thudded faster than it should.

It’s okay,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You were equally as flustered, but quickly reminded yourself he was clearly out of it—his brain scrambled from the injury and adrenaline.

Bob’s cheeks deepened to a richer shade of red, and he looked down at his hands, fidgeting awkwardly on the thin hospital sheet. He let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, wincing again as he shifted slightly. “I think I’m making a fool of myself.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering up shyly, searching yours like he wanted to say more but was tangled in his own nerves. His lips parted slightly, then closed again without words.

You found yourself leaning in just a fraction closer, the space between you shrinking, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re doing great,” you assured him gently, “but you need to rest. It must be the concussion messing with your thoughts?”

“You always look nice,” he said, voice barely audible. “I just… I don’t say it.”

You fought the urge to reach out, your fingers itching to brush a stray hair from his forehead, but you kept it professional. You had too.

He blinked slowly, eyes heavy, then half-closed. “Maybe... after all this, you could show me how you stay so calm. Teach me to be like you.”

Your breath caught, a delicate warmth blossoming deep in your chest. The quiet hope in his voice made the sterile room feel suddenly intimate, like you were the only two people in the world.

You gently squeezed his wrist, your smile soft and full of promise. “I’d like that, Bob. When you’re ready.”

His tired smile deepened, genuine and vulnerable, and in that moment, the space between you seemed to shrink until it disappeared entirely — a quiet, tender understanding passing between you.

For now, rest was what he needed most. But soon, you knew, there would be time for more—time for laughter, for stolen moments, for something real and lasting. And when that time came, you’d be there. Right beside him.

Because some connections were worth waiting for.

[em-orald]

“Give me another one.”

I gave the bartender my most pathetic look as he passed me a glass of water. I took a small sip and let out a heavy sigh, slumping in my chair.

“Are you sure you don’t want a whiskey like usual?” he asked me, genuine concern in his eyes.

“No. It’s just not the same any more. I don’t know what to do with myself. I hate being sober, but it’s impossible to get drunk ever since I met that fucking fae.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but if you’re going to sit here for another two hours and not order anything I have to ask you to leave.”

He gave me a pained smile, which I returned.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, putting on my coat as I stood up slowly.

I staggered towards the door in my best impression of a drunk, but halfway there I stopped, shook my head, and walked the rest of the way like normal. Even that wasn’t fun any more. I got to the door and stopped to look around, taking in the familiar surroundings. It all looked oddly distant, like a fond childhood memory I could only look back on and never touch. A group in the corner broke out into a cheer and started singing loudly, and I couldn’t help but think they were being foolish. To think that just a few days ago I would have gladly joined in on their revelry without a care. The faint smile on my face at this thought quickly faded, and I turned back towards the door. God, I could use a drink right now.

But before I could open it, it swung open from the outside with a loud bang. Two pairs of eyes stared at me in confusion. It was a couple of my best drinking buddies coming in for a raucous night at the bar.

“Oi, what are you doing leaving so early? The night just started!”

“Sorry, I can’t join you tonight. Or ever. I don’t think I’ll be coming around here again.”

They stared at me blankly and then at each other, not knowing what to say. I sighed and pushed past them, walking outside into the dark.

“Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” I replied without turning around, still walking away. “Off to find another vice, I guess.”

I was too lost in thought to hear what they said after that. I just kept walking into the cold night, with no destination in mind. I could try any number of substances, I figured, as long as I could find out where to get them. But in the back of my mind lingered a fear colder than the chilly air around me.

What if the fae stole those from me too?

In a deal with a fae, you must give up something you hold dear. Whether it be your name, your first born, or something else, it must be held dear. You, gave up your addiction. It worked.

[kaayyyys]

hii dear, can you write something with daryl x reader in a relationship where he had just gotten used to receiving physical affection from his gf and since then he cannot stop holding ou being clingy with her even in public? it could be at the prison bc i miss earlier seasons daryl😭

We love clingy relationships .

Yesss the prison era was soon memorable it's been on my mind recently

The watchtower creaked a mournful song in the wind, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their sanctuary. But tonight, in the relative quiet of the prison block, the sounds felt distant, muted. Daryl sat beside you on the edge of your cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort but enough for the two of you to huddle together. The ever-present tension that coiled tight in his shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly as his calloused hand found yours.

It was a marvel, really, how far they'd come. Just months ago, the idea of Daryl Dixon, the gruff, solitary hunter, initiating any kind of physical contact beyond a necessary pat on the back would have been laughable. Now, he sought it out. Not with words, of course. Daryl wasn't one for grand pronouncements or flowery language. But the way his eyes followed you, the way his hand instinctively reached for yours whenever you were within reach, the almost imperceptible softening of his features when you touched him… it spoke volumes.

The change had been gradual, almost imperceptible at first. A lingering brush of his hand against yours as he passed you a knife, a shoulder bumping yours a little harder than necessary as you walked side-by-side on a scavenging run, a fleeting touch to your back as he guided you through a crowded room. Each small gesture a tentative probe, a silent question: Is this okay?

And you, understanding the vulnerability hidden beneath his rough exterior, had answered with gentle smiles, a returning squeeze, a comfortable lean. You understood that for Daryl, physical touch wasn't just a sign of affection; it was a language he was only just beginning to learn. A language of safety, of trust, of belonging.

The prison, for all its grimness, had fostered a strange kind of intimacy. Shared hardships, the constant threat of death, the necessity of relying on one another… it had stripped away the layers of pretense and forced them to confront their rawest selves. You had seen Daryl at his most vulnerable, witnessed the pain that haunted his eyes, the scars, both visible and invisible, that marked his past. And he, in turn, had seen your strength, your compassion, your unwavering hope even in the face of despair.

Tonight, the silence between you wasn't uncomfortable. It was a companionable quiet, filled with unspoken understanding. Daryl’s thumb traced circles on the back of your hand, a small, repetitive motion that was strangely soothing. The gesture grounded you, reminding you that even in this broken world, there was still tenderness to be found.

He hadn't always been so open, so… clingy, as Carol had teasingly called it the other day, earning her a glare that could curdle milk. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Daryl wasn't used to having someone to hold onto, someone who wanted to be held. He'd spent so long pushing people away, building walls around his heart, that letting someone in was a completely foreign concept.

And now that you were in, now that he had finally allowed himself to be vulnerable, he seemed almost desperate to maintain that connection. It was as if he feared that if he let go, even for a moment, you would disappear, vanish like a mirage in the harsh desert of their reality.

The hand-holding had started subtly. A brief clasp of fingers during a particularly tense moment on a supply run. A comforting squeeze when one of the younger children had a nightmare. But lately, it had become almost constant. Walking through the prison yard, waiting in line for food, sitting around the campfire at night – Daryl’s hand was invariably intertwined with yours.

At first, you had found it endearing, a sweet and awkward expression of his affection. But now, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in his demeanor when your hands weren’t connected. A furrowing of his brow, a slight stiffness in his posture, a barely perceptible unease in his eyes. It was as if a part of him felt incomplete, adrift, without that physical connection.

You had noticed this most acutely on a recent scavenging run to a nearby town. The streets were eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the crunch of their boots on shattered glass and the distant moans of walkers. Daryl, as always, was in the lead, his crossbow raised, his senses on high alert. You walked close behind him, your hand hovering near his, but not quite touching.

You wanted to give him space, to avoid being a distraction. He needed to focus, to be aware of his surroundings. But as the minutes ticked by, you could feel his anxiety growing. He kept glancing back at you, his eyes searching your face, a silent question in their depths.

Finally, as they rounded a corner and encountered a small group of walkers feasting on a fallen corpse, Daryl stopped abruptly, his hand shooting out to grasp yours. His grip was tight, almost painful, but you didn't pull away. You understood. It wasn't just about physical comfort; it was about reassurance. It was about knowing that you were there, that you were safe, that he wasn't alone.

He dispatched the walkers with brutal efficiency, his movements swift and precise. But even as he reloaded his crossbow, his hand remained firmly clasped in yours. It was only when they were back inside the relative safety of the prison walls that he finally released your hand, but not before giving it a lingering squeeze, a silent thank you.

Now, sitting beside you on the cot, you knew you had to address it. You couldn't let him continue to rely on you so heavily, to use physical touch as a crutch. It wasn't healthy for either of you.

"Daryl," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tensed, his eyes darting to yours, a flicker of apprehension in their depths.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice gruff, his hand tightening its grip on yours.

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. "Everything's fine," you reassured him, "But... I've noticed you've been... needing to hold hands a lot lately."

He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. "So?" he mumbled.

"So," you continued gently, "I love holding your hand, Daryl. I really do. But I also want to make sure you're okay. That you're not relying on it too much."

He remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on your intertwined hands. Finally, he looked up, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and defiance.

"It makes me feel better," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Makes me feel like... like I ain't gonna lose you."

Your heart ached for him. You understood his fear, his need for reassurance. But you also knew that he needed to learn to trust, to believe that you weren't going anywhere.

"I'm not going anywhere, Daryl," you said firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "I promise. But you need to know that you're strong enough to stand on your own, even without me holding your hand. And I'll always be here for you, whether we're touching or not."

He searched your eyes, his expression searching, questioning. Then, slowly, a flicker of understanding dawned in his eyes.

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Okay," he said, his voice stronger now. "Okay, I'll try."

You smiled, relieved. "I know you will," you said, leaning in to kiss him softly. "And I'll be right here, every step of the way."

As you pulled away, he hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was a sign of trust, of vulnerability, of a love that was growing stronger with each passing day, even in the face of the apocalypse. And as you leaned your head against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you in a comforting embrace, you knew that even without holding hands, they were still connected. Connected by something far deeper, far more profound. Connected by the unbreakable bond of love and trust that had been forged in the fires of their shared survival. The prison might be a cage, but within its walls, they had found freedom in each other.

[ashtxrie]

get your rizz game up! (jeongin)

PAIR. non-idol!jeongin x f!reader GENRE. crazy fluff, all stray kids members included, at the end of the day they're just eight guys, aura losses across the board WORD COUNT. 1.75k WARNINGS. none (failed rizz attempts) NOTES. this absolutely happened i was the coffee table IN WHICH: jeongin is down bad for the huzz but he needs to consult his 7 rizz counselors first…!!

it's not every day that eight guys crowd around the phone screen of their youngest member, projected on the big television screen in their living room ─ but when they do, they're either completely locked in, or locked the hell out.

yang jeongin was absolutely cooked.

"GUYS listen to me. just send a simple 'hi!'"

"felix NO remove that exclamation mark right NOW—"

pulling down a very impassioned minho back to the couch, seungmin crossed his arms, unimpressed. "so... how did we get to this situation again?"

it all started two months ago, when the exact same formation was assembled to delude jeongin into sending you a follow request on instagram. it was, by far, the longest three hours of his life.

after arguments ("HE'S GOING TO SOUND DESPERATE"), insults ("maybe she's into guys who have a bit of loser in them!"), and a near mental-breakdown ("GUYS SO YES OR NO" "YES!" "NO!"), the poor ginger-haired boy was as conflicted as ever to press the not-so-simple blue button.

it's not like you were strangers either — he's definitely made eye contact with you upwards of five times in class! he was basically halfway there! you were falling in love with his charms for sure...

right when jeongin was about to give up and shut down his phone for the day, a notification brought him out of his misery. [@ your name] has requested to follow you.

and the crowd goes WILD!!

claps on the back, wiping fake tears from their faces as the seven other boys embraced one another, as if they were the ones who manifested this absolute alignment of the universe.

jeongin didn't care, nor did he notice, as he was taking a million screenshots of the screen before the notification disappeared. finally liberated from the fear of being accused of instagram stalking, he confirmed your follow and followed you right back — not caring about jisung's protests in the background talking about how he should probably wait a few more minutes. true love doesn't wait, jisung!

but maybe true love does wait. because it has been a whole week since you guys last spoke through instagram, and even that seemed like a stretch for conversation. this was it; jeongin had finally ran out of topics. he had exhausted his (very limited) list of conversation starters — putting his dignity on the line by asking you what the calculus homework was from time to time, stopping only when seungmin laughed at him as he asked the same question for the third time in a week ("DUDE she's going to think you're a D1 slacker").

it doesn't help that your interactions in real life have dwindled as well, other than jeongin's pre-mapped route on campus that allows him to cheerfully wave 'hi!' to you on your way to class. the last time he truly had a conversation with you, you had complimented his shoes (it wasn't the diabolical jurassic stompers 1 2 unbuckle those shoes this time guys trust... or maybe it was) and he had nearly passed out. if he hadn't been keeping his aura in check by monitoring his own movements, he definitely would have stared at you, open-mouthed in shock right then and there.

but that was two weeks ago. the jeongin lore environment is now drier than the sahara desert. we need improvement, now!

so that's how we get seven self-proclaimed top-of-the-line rizz counselors, hooking up jeongin's phone to the television through airplay to cook up something foolproof.

unfortunately for jeongin, there is a lot of debate on what foolproof looks like.

"whatever you do, just don't send the exclamation mark," minho warned.

"i still stand by my 'hi!' idea," felix advised.

a series of "NO!"s were yelled out.

"too simple."

"too bland."

"what about a 'how ya doin?'" chan offered. "with a winky face?"

they all cringed simultaneously.

"by far, that is the worst idea..."

"chan... i think you're in the wrong generation to be giving advice," seungmin deadpanned.

jeongin put his head down. and they said chan was supposed to be the best at this!

"it's time to be a man," changbin laughed, putting both hands on the coffee table. "just be more dominant."

"dOMINANT?!"

and the room erupts in chaos again.

"okay wait, how about you just write her a long, heartfelt message about how you feel about her?" hyunjin cut in, grinning deviously.

the boy looked terrified at the suggestion. "definitely not. that's so out of character for me."

"everything about this is out of character for you," shrugged hyunjin. "look, how about you post a fit check and put some cryptic lyrics over it. it always works, trust."

and that's how the youngest found himself digging through his closet for the most mogalicious outfit he will cook up for 2025.

under usual circumstances, this would've been right up his alley. but the stakes were higher than ever today, and jeongin found himself being rushed with "BROO just take a photo already" after his eighth outfit change of the day to find the best effortlessly-trendy-but-not-too-aloof combination for the most important post of his entire life.

cooking takes time.

hyunjin was nominated to be the designated photographer of the day, clicking the shutter button at millisecond intervals and praying that one of them was the shot. the older boy was having the time of his life, twisting his hand at every angle (while doing dramatic back bends), sniping jeongin like no tomorrow.

"you're doing great sweetie!" minho yelled from the other room.

"how's it going guys?" bang chan peeked through the doorframe, holding the bowl of instant noodles that he had made at the beginning of this makeshift runway show. the noodles have since cooled down, with chan's chopsticks sticking out precariously from the near-empty bowl.

"OH MY GOD YOU'RE PLOTTING MY DOWNFALL," jeongin cried, swiping through five consecutive photos of himself mid-blink.

"oh. yikes i really caught you lacking with that one... keep swiping i swear there's beautiful ones too."

it then took fifteen more minutes of jeongin analyzing song lyrics with full rhetorical analysis before he had a postable instagram story. he even recruited seungmin to help him press post.

"AAAND... POSTED!"

and now we wait.

not even a whole minute had passed before you liked his story.

"HOLY SHIT IT'S HAPPENING."

"JEONGIN YOU BETTER LOCK THE FUCK IN."

"that response time is genuinely CRAZY."

then you started typing.

[[your name] sent a message].

the living room exploded with yells, with each member pointing at the tv screen with their own piece of (contradicting) advice.

"OPEN IT OR SHE'LL THINK YOU'RE UNINTERESTED."

"DO NOT OPEN THAT—"

"HE HAS TO."

"THAT'S WHY YOU CAN'T PULL."

"OH SHUT THE HELL UP—"

chan decided to save poor jeongin. scooting over, he told the youngest of the secret method: looking at the preview without opening the message itself.

except that backfired.

because it said 3 new messages. dammit!

ignoring the chaos surrounding him, jeongin's eyes flickered around the room to decide his next move. should he risk it all?

"JUST OPEN IT ALREADY!"

so he did.

and oh my god. this is not real.

"fit is FIREE 🔥🔥"

"as always tbh"

"lock your closet tonight"

your messages rocked jeongin's world, i fear. jeongin's world was also literally being rocked by the sheer decibel level vibrating through the house at that exact moment.

"SHE WANTS YOU," yelled changbin.

felix nodded aggressively. "SHOOT YOUR SHOT NOW."

jeongin looked up, exasperated, with ears burning red. "but. WHAT do i say?!"

"ok look," said minho, swinging his leg over the couch to sit next to the youngest. "she swiped up on your story, which, by the way, has already exceeded my wildest expectations. you can say anything at this point and she'll still be halfway in love with you."

jisung shrugged. "i think you should send 'ouuu do you fw me.'"

"might as well send 'you DON'T pmo ❤️' then as your next message," groaned seungmin.

"yes! and top it off with a 'will you be my huzz ❤️' too!"

"STOP."

"at least i'm offering suggestions—"

jeongin was on his own.

his fingers started typing before he could form coherent thoughts. (thankfully, he did hear bang chan telling him that "whatever you do, just don't stop at liking the message" #blessed him up)

"haha thank you"

"that means a lot to me!"

"also wdym your outfits are crazy good too"

it was a little awkward, a little cute, but very organically jeongin.

"is this tuff," jeongin whispered to chan.

"very," chan affirmed.

the crowd, however, was not impressed.

"we take our eyes off the screen for FIVE seconds and he's already fumbling."

"TRIPLE TEXTING???"

"JEONGIN PAUSE—"

jeongin didn't gaf. because his target audience was REACHED.

the moment he saw you typing, he was back at the edge of his seat. "omg thank you," you sent, before your three typing bubbles appeared again. "funny story but remember the shoes that you wore two weeks ago? i actually got the same one!!"

the word count of your messages (and the shoes comment) made jeongin turn around to the rest of them with a smug smile on his face.

"and you all were massive haters about my footwear," he huffed. (he was hyperventilating)

"HURRY UP AND REPLY, DAMMIT!"

he was too invested. jeongin continued to type. "no way."

minho facepalmed. "and we've entered sahara territory again."

jeongin didn't know what came over him as he typed out the sentence and pressed send. "we could twin if u wanted to hangout sometime??" in fact, he typed it out at record speed just so he wouldn't process his own actions and stop himself from the top 1 riskiest text of his entire lifetime.

the room was silent.

at last, all eight boys huddled around the tv screen froze mid-action, eyes widening as they witnessed what had just been done.

"oh shit," whispered jisung. "we should've went with my idea."

it was agonizing. then eight unison gasps. the typing bubbles were back!

you replied."what about tomorrow?"

jeongin jumped up, staring at the message with wide eyes. then he locked the fuck in. "12 pm?"

ding! "i'm down :)"

and that's how yang jeongin, the youngest of his friend group, secured his first date.

he blinked.

then it hit him.

"oh my god it happened. IT HAPPENED!"

"WE are locked in twin. WE are pulling the huzz."

little did jeongin know, seungmin was recording. the entire time. he's totally playing this at the wedding.

TAGLIST: @enhacolor

[tarotwithavi]

What lie have you told yourself in order to survive?

Like and reblog for more readings ✨

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Masterlist

Extended masterlist

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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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[girliism]

punk!partick zweig x jock!art donaldson

-

“twenty-five”

“oh fuck off. since when did you up prices?”

“since i needed a new drumset.”

it was in between fourth period right before gym that every wednesday art would meet patrick on the side of the school to get his weekly order of weed. which was usually only fifteen dollars.

“i’m not giving you twenty-five dollars for a baggie of prerolleds.”

“what? mommy and daddy not give you enough today?” patrick pouted sarcastically, and art had to resist to urge to punch his face. “fuck you zweig.” art spit out. “we agreed from the beginning it was fifteen” patrick let out an obnoxious groan throwing his head back, the bell was gonna ring soon and he couldn’t afford another late mark.

“look, dude are you gonna pay me or not?”

art paused, contemplating. this last week was incredibly stressful. back to back test, practice every day after school, he need this. plus it was just twenty-five dollars…

“fuck, fine.” art huffed, pulling out his wallet and placing twenty-five dollars in patrick’s hand making the trade. “pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

“wait.” art called, stopping patrick in his tracks. “there’s only 4 joints in here. i gave you more money so i want more product.” patrick sighed. “i don’t have more on me you’d have to come over and pick up.” art nodded, “ok, i’ll be over after school.”

“i’ll be waiting.”

art watched patrick stomped his way to gym class. his big combat boots slamming against the pavement.

-

three hard knocks hit patrick’s door, and when he opened a tired looking art dondalson stood in front of him.

“just in time dondalson.” patrick moved out the way letting art step into his home. taking a look around art felt bad for assuming patrick had lived in a dump. it was your typical upper middle class family home. professional family photos along with candid ones lined the walls, and it smelt like…. cinnamon?

“my parents aren’t home so you don’t have to worry about autographs or anything.” patrick joked.

art was somewhat of a home town celebrity. he was the star player in all the major sports, he volunteered at the local church’s events, had the perfect all american boy thing going for him. tall, athletic, blonde. everyone knew and loved him.

patrick silently lead the way up the stairs and to his room. art tried to keep his focus anywhere but patrick’s naked back that was on display.

instantly the smell of marijuana and the sound of bodies by sex pistols invaded art’s nose and ears.

“you can have a seat anywhere.” patrick gestured around his room.

art took his hands out the pockets of his lettermen jacket, and took a seat on the ground at the foot of patrick’s bed looking around. it was made up of dark colors like reds and blacks, there were posters of various bands up on the wall, and small drum set sat in the corner of his room by the window. piles of most likely dirty clothes lingered in different places. art’s mother would have killed him if his room looked like this.

“here you go.” a bag of four joints came into art’s view. he mumbled a thank you looking up at patrick who was now wearing a black t-shirt with a hole in the neckline.

“do you mind if i?” art motioned to the joint now out of the bag and in between his fingers. patrick shook his head, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and the sparking it. art leaned forward letting the rolling paper catch fire.

art never really gets high with other people. he liked to save this activity for himself, but he felt weird not at least offering. which he did, and patrick accepted.

inhale, hold, exhale, pass. inhale, hold, exhale, pass.

it continued on like that, back and forth. the two of them sitting side by side mindlessly watching beavis and butthead. with every pass and of the joint their fingers brushed sending shocks through art’s body. he blamed his reaction on the weed.

“you know you’re like my most loyal costumers. every wednesday without fail you’re always there.” patrick randomly blurted. “always wonder why a perfect kid like you needs to get high so badly.”

perfect kid like you. the description made art want to scream. “yeah—well, being the perfect kid gets tiring.” patrick scoffed around the joint in his mouth. “oh yeah, i’m sure being loved by everyone is so tiring.” his eyes rolled and art sent him a dirty look. “it is actually. doing and being everything everyone expects of you is exhausting, this is the one thing i have to myself, for myself. i’m not looking for you to understand, ok. you asked and i answered.” art inhaled the smoke a little longer than this time.

patrick watched him with a tiny ounce of pity. “hey, i didn’t mean anything by it-” art cut him off. “it’s fine.” they finished off the joint leaving them sitting in silence through their highs until patrick spoke again.

“i did the whole conformity thing too. i wore my polos and khakis, i smiled and laughed with everyone then talked shit behind their backs. but i got tired of acting, so i stopped.” patrick looked over at art. “you don’t always have to be what they what you to be.” and art wished that was true, but he was in too deep. art shook his head and shrugged. “wouldn’t even know where to start.” he mumbled, blue eyes staring into patrick’s green ones.

the flick of art’s gaze going from patrick’s eyes to his lips was almost missed by him, but patrick managed to catch it. “start here.”

in a blink of an eye patrick’s lips crashed into arts. the cold metal of patrick’s lip ring pressed against art’s skin. art has only done this, kiss boys, a few other times and he was drunk for all of them. but even now high out of his mind he felt more sober during this than the other ones.

their mouths moved messily against each other’s. patrick taking the lead with confidence while art fumbled behide him trying to overpower but failing. it wasn’t until art felt patrick’s tongue push into his mouth that he remembered patrick wasn’t some guy at some party next town over. he went to school with him knew who he was. he was a conflict of interest.

art pulled away out of breath. “wait—wait. i’m not like gay or anything, ok?” patrick stared at him, chest heaving. “okay. me neither, at least not fully.” patrick added with a smirk, and before art could decipher what he ment their lips were connected again. patrick’s hand on the back of art’s neck pulling him closer then sliding down the front of his chest and stopped at his belt buckle. art took the hint and moved to undo his belt and zipper. patrick kissed his necks leaving marks behind while his hands moved to pull art’s cock out his jeans.

“oh, fuuuuck.” art’s head fell back onto the bed behind him as patrick’s warm wet mouth engulfed him. out of all the blowjobs art had gotten this was probably the best, but that could’ve been the drugs in his system talking. he doubted it.

patrick bobbed his head at the perfect pace, jerking with his hand what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. out of instinct art’s hips bucked up causing the head of his cock to hit the back of patrick’s throat. patrick reacted with a gag turned moan around him that sent vibrations through art’s body.

“god, you’re so whiny.” patrick said mainly to himself as he came up for a breather. art proved him right by responding with a low whine. patrick took art’s dick back in his mouth but not fully, only focusing on the tip. wrapping his mouth around it suckling. letting his pink tongue slide against the slit, collecting the salty precum that sat there. and when his redden eyes looked up into art’s the blonde almost came on the spot.

“can i fuck you?” patrick asked, keeping a slow jerking hand on art’s dick.

art has never gone that far with a guy before, but something about patrick had him agreeing without without hesitation. the next moments were a blur of clothes being shed and thrown around the room. patrick guided art onto his hands and knees, reaching over from behind him into his nightstand for a bottle of lube and a condom.

patrick ran his hands up the backs of art’s thighs and over his ass trying to soothe him. art flinched at the cold wetness of the lube that hit his hole.

“ok, you gotta relax and just breathe.” patrick said softly, rubbing his fingers against the tight ring of muscles. art took a deep breath in and on his exhale out patrick pushed his finger in.

“o-oh!”

a broken moan fell from art as patrick worked his pointed finger in and out slowly.

“you’re so fucking tight.”

patrick managed to get his second finger inside, and art was already a mess. lips red and swollen from him biting back his sounds, his cock twitching at every drag of patrick thick fingers along his inner walls. “put it in. need it, please.” art begged, stopping patrick in his tracks. never in a million years did he think he’d have art dondalson, golden boy, in his bed. let alone begging for his cock.

patrick pulled his fingers free, and opened the condom rolling it on. “who knew you were so needy.” he teased. more lube was poured on art’s hole and then onto patrick’s covered dick. it was messy, but patrick liked it like that.

the tip of patrick’s cock probed at art’s entrance, and for a second art was regretting this. but then patrick pushed in, slowly feeding the length of his cock into art’s body, and his mind went to mush.

“holy shit you’re even tighter around my dick than my fingers.” patrick spoke like he was holding his breath like his was holding back fucking into art at full speed. art could barely speak more than incoherent mumbles. “big, so—fuck. s’big.” patrick finally bottomed out and stilled inside letting art get used to the stretch. his big hands held onto art’s waist. “your waist is so small, art. like a girls.” the comments caused art to moan and push back on patrick, signaling that he could move now.

patrick pulled all the way out til just his tip was in before thrusting forward hard. twin moans fell from both the men. if patrick was any other guy he would have gone slow for art’s first time, but he was the complete opposite. he liked to fuck how he played his drums. fast, hard, and punishing.

“taking me so fucking well. you sure this your first time getting fucked?” patrick thrusted into him to with a bruising grip on his waist. art’s tongue felt paralyzed in his mouth. all the words he tried to say just coming out as moans and whimpers. “feels good doesn’t it?” one patrick’s hands left art’s waist and traveled to his hair grabbed the strands and pulling. “feels good to let go for once.”

“u-uh huh.”

the sounds of patrick’s hips smacking against art’s ass and the obscene squelching noise from the lube echoed throughout the room. art could feel himself getting closer to his orgasm that’s been building. “p-pat-patrick!” the headboard beat against the bedroom wall drowning out his cries.

“so perfect. perfect fucking hole. s-shit!” patrick’s hands moved from art’s hair to the back of his neck, pushing art’s face into the pillows below. the new angle had patrick hitting against art’s prostate. he knew he’d found it when he felt art tightened around him and he saw his fist hit the mattress.

“holy fuck, shit, oh god!” art’s eyes squeezed shut so tight he saw stars and then. “p-pa-” the name died on his tongue as his orgasm rushed over him in a silent scream. the black comforter now stained with his cum and patrick pillows stained with his tears and slob. art’s body twitched from overstimulation as patrick continued fucking him, chasing after his own orgasm.

a low strained groan sounded from behind art as patrick stopped moving inside him. “f-fuck, a-ah!” thick white ropes of cum filled the condom.

patrick pulled out taking off his condom, tying it and tossing it into the trash can by his bed.

the two of them laid side by side, catching their breath. art on his front patrick on his back. teenage lobotomy by the ramones came on and patrick looked over at art. his face was flushed and tears were drying on his cheeks, he was on the verge of falling asleep when patrick said. “you hungry?” art muttered something along the lines of yeah so patrick got up to go downstairs. when he returned, a plate two sandwiches and a bottle of apple juice in hand art was completely knocked out. mouth hung open and snoring.

-

[savyindeepspace]

Letting Go

Description: Caleb, always taking the lead, always the protector. Letting you take care of him for once.

Tags: fem reader x Caleb, smut, edging, teasing, whiny-breathy-whimpery Caleb, slight plot building and angst

(I’m edging y’all too sorry)

*MDNI* 🔞

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The Colonel pinched the space between his furrowed brow, expelling a breath that carried exhaustion. Another file to read, another report to send, another failed mission from the Fleet who worked below him. Each moment driving him into regret. Regret of falling into this position—this god awful title. Then there was you, his treasure he’d sworn to protect. The weight that balanced his scales. After the explosion of your childhood home, losing his arm—becoming partly machine in the process, he remembered his purpose, which made it seem worth it.

A purpose you never asked him to choose. Always hovering in your presence, waiting for the hat to drop, to be a savior. It didn’t matter how often you reassured him, Caleb fought to be by your side into adulthood. Then there’s you, a strong force of your own. Having survived trials that could only be written in fiction—your reality. Brave wasn’t enough of a word to describe your level of resilience through pain you should have never been given. Yet, you lived—spitefully so. Caleb knew this, he never doubted your ability, but his insecurities plagued him into this mess of a man who thought that was what you needed, a guardian. A knight.

“I don’t need saving, I need a partner. Someone who will stand beside me.”

A phrase you grew to repeat, one he winced at, one that he didn’t want to absorb. Yet, you watched him come home every day, fading from the vibrant Caleb you grew fond of—fell in love with. His eyes were dim and bloodshot, skin dulled from his usual rosy flush, lips chapped. He barely took care of himself aside from basic needs. He attempted to eat, went for his morning runs that usually became walks, sleep a rare luxury. All from inside a shell he wouldn’t let you crack. “I just think you should take some time off, even a few days. You look…unwell, Caleb,” you expressed with worry lingering on your voice. His fingers gripped the fork in his hand a little tighter, “you know I can’t do that—,” “why not? Are you just going to work yourself to death?,” you argued, slamming your glass against the kitchen table with more force than you intended.

You stared at your plate of barely picked over breakfast, heart flickering behind your ribs. “Why don’t you let me help with anything? I’m more than capable…” Caleb mirrored you, pushing his scrambled eggs dismissively with his fork. It was quiet between you for too long, you sighed, scraping your plate into the trash and closing yourself in the bedroom. His head hung, palms rubbing against his temples. There was a lot he needed to let go of and it worried him that you wouldn’t be present when he did.

He lightly tapped the door with his knuckles, “Pips—honey,” he caught the familiar, but juvenile nickname on his tongue, an attempt at leaving the past behind. “Headin’ out…love you,” he murmured. Your back was pressed against the other side, letting his words sink into your skin. Caleb waited for a reply, a hum—anything. “Be safe,” you uttered, the sting of your voice felt like road rash, but he’d take it anyway. You heard the front door close softly with hesitation, like he was waiting one last time for you to come to him. Guilt crawled over you like ivy, ‘I should have said it back’, the thought droned in your ears like a siren. Reaching for your phone, you hurriedly typed an ‘I love you too’ and hit send. A soft smile lifted the frown Caleb wore, “see you tonight,” he replied, taking to the skies in a Fleet aircraft.

The same monotonous day passed for the both of you, and although the morning carried a tension like thick fog, you wanted to resolve this unnerving feeling. Because at the end of the day, you needed each other equally as much—the thread of your fates tied in a perfect knot. When Caleb stepped through the threshold of the front door, a relieved sigh blew from his nose. In his arms were paper bags filled with groceries. You met him half way between the living room and kitchen, where carpet met hardwood. He looked at you apologetically, “I got ingredients for that dish you had at the restaurant we went to on my birthday..and your favorite candy.”

The bags crinkled as he set them on the counter, stepping closer to you and taking your hands. His were still covered by his leather gloves, the material was smooth and cool. Caleb’s thumbs rubbed small circles on the back of your hands, “I’m sorry…for not letting you in and making you think you’re not strong enough to help me,” his voice was low, filling the space that closed between you. Stepping closer, he continued, “I let my insecurities get the best of me for too long, not wanting to give up the role of protecting you,” his sunset eyes lifted, meeting your gaze. You hummed kindly and nodded, urging him to continue. “Sometimes…I think you’re stronger than me,” the warmth of your bodies was grounding when his arms finally pulled you in, “but I know now not to overstep, not to smother you.” His hold traveled down to your waist, your fingers traced his back.

“I do want to be taken care of sometimes…to be vulnerable,” he rasped, the breathy confession swept over your ear like a warm breeze, “I didn’t realize how much I needed it until now.”

You smiled, cupping his sharp jaw, “that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do for you, Caleb.” Hugging each other tighter, you felt his biceps squeeze you with confirmation, reverence—your fingers dug into the rough fabric of his Fleet uniform. “Why don’t you go take a shower, I’ll put everything away,” you encouraged, giving him his first glimpse of care. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes and flinch of his muscles almost took over him by instinct, then he nodded, breaking your embrace. ��Thank you, I won’t keep you waiting,” “it’s okay if you do.” His silhouette disappeared down the hallway, before he slipped into the bathroom, Caleb looked at you one last time, before he’d return someone new, and grinned.

The scalding stream of water poured over his frame, reddening his skin like a liquid brand. Caleb was always seeking sensation, yearning for touch. When his arm was replaced with the bionic prosthetic, he lost the ability to feel everything, including you and that hurt him the most. Always the thrill chaser, pain was the only way his mechanical nerves would respond. So that’s what he asked for, to bite him, pinch him, scratch ruddy marks into his back. To claim him as yours. You were reluctant at first, but the yearn in his gaze and need of his touch broke you.

Tonight you wanted to touch him softly, tenderly—to melt his tension off the bone.

You waited for Caleb on the bed, legs tucked to your side. He walked in the bedroom in only his boxers and a towel draped over his shoulders. His soft brown hair was slightly damp and plastered to his face. Shamelessly you let your eyes roam over his body, drinking in every muscle, scar, bruise—biting your bottom lip at the sight of his happy trail peaking from the waistband of his underwear. Caleb sat at the edge of the bed, ruffling the towel over his chestnut locks. “You feel better?,” you asked, your voice carrying a warm, soft hint of mirth. “I do,” he sighed, craning his neck with a brief stretch. Taking notice of his discomfort, you crawled behind him, sinking your thumbs into his traps. A satisfied groan reverberated from his chest, his head fell back from relief. “That feels so good…could you do it harder?,” he asked sheepishly. You hummed, sitting on your knees and bracing yourself to massage him firmer.

“Like this?,” you cooed, lips brushing his ear. It was subtle, but your tone changed, just enough to sound sensual rather than soothing. Caleb reached back, palming the flesh of your thigh to ground himself. “Y-yes…and my neck too, please.” Your movements moved with a gentle flow, like ocean waves lapping the shore. He melted under your molten palms, letting a pleasured sigh break from his lips. “I needed this…,” his voice a trembling murmur. You kissed between his shoulder blades, “I know…” Your fingertips smoothed over his abs, making his breath hitch. “I want to give you more.”

“Honey—,”

“Shhh…you make commands every day, Colonel. Let me take the reins.”

The low purr of your voice loosened his tightened muscles, sinking him deeper into the mattress. You pursed your lips along his upper back, up his neck and against his earlobe. It was astonishing, for the first time, feather–light touches brewed something in him that pain didn’t. “Alright…” he breathed as he surrendered to your touch, leaning a little heavier against you, pressing into your bosom.

“Good boy,” you praised, making the first crack in his mirror of resolve.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, slipping your arms through his elbows to have a better reach. It started with teasing patterns on his chest, making him gasp when you’d “accidentally” graze a nipple. You moved down the rolling hills of his abs, then lightly sinking your nails in on the way up. Caleb hissed through gritted teeth, “baby—“ You pressed a finger to his lips, “you’re doing well, just relax.” He swallowed, fingers still digging into your thigh, his other hand fisting the sheets. A small flame began to rise in his gut, he felt hot—feverishly hot. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, and you licked it away swiftly with your tongue. He moaned, quietly, but it was the first pleasured sound that really made your ears perk up. “D’you like that?,” “mm-a lot,” his voice shook, a rosy blush blooming across his chest.

Boldly, you ran your finger under the elastic band of his boxers. Caleb almost caught your wrist, his arm twitched with anticipation. You noticed and grounded him with a trail of chaste kisses down his spine. “Keep going?,” you whispered against his skin.

“Please.”

You moaned, smoothing over his groin. He ached behind the thin fabric, so hard and desperate for friction. With your free hand you gave his clenched fist a reassuring pat, “I got you…” his fingers unfurled, a sharp gust of air broke from his lips. With one finger at a time, you breached the cotton barrier, tugging it down over his toned thighs. Caleb bit back a moan when the cool air met the heat of his throbbing length. You traced the prominent veins with your finger, “you’re so hard for me...” His cock twitched and breath stuttered, there was a slight curve in his back as he arched against you. A soft giggle vibrated through you, then you pushed him further, gliding a slow pass over his glossy tip with your thumb. Your lips closed around it, savoring the heady flavor.

“Can—can you hold it, please?”

You laced your fingers around the base, “of course I can, baby…,” he squirmed as you teased him with a single stroke, “can you spit on it for me?” A thick web of spit hung from his lips, your pupils dilated as it fell, making a wet plop against his crown. You let it run down the length before spreading it evenly with several languid pulls. “Haah—fuck…,” Caleb’s grip moved to your thigh again, his short nails slightly pinching the flesh. He grew more in your hand, you could feel his pulse fluttering against your palm. There was something so intoxicating about the drag of time you let pass between each stroke, it was a saccharine kind of addiction he could get used to. Caleb’s mind was murky, eyes screwed shut, breaths uneven. The contrast of your torturous ministrations paired with soothing praise made the hair on his nape stand.

“So good for me,” stroke “so patient,” you curled a second hand around him, increasing the pace, lightly squeezing his head at the top. A pained whimper caught in his mouth, “mmn, o–oh my god…!” His body leaned back, fully submitting to you. The tip of his cock wept with precum, the clear essence trickled over your fingers. “Yes, just like that baby, let it out for me—let it go,” you praised, your voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. Caleb’s hips began to roll and buck, a stinging heat was crawling up his body and his climax approached—and then you stopped. “Mm!, w-why’d you stop…?,” he whined, chest heaving and sweat rolling down the valley of his spine. You rubbed soothing patterns on his thighs, “I know baby, I know…just trust me.”

He sighed, conflicted with how intoxicating it was to be pent up, adding coals to stoke his flaming arousal, while begging—aching for release. This was just a taste of the kind of control you were exhibiting. You rested your hand on the planes of his throat, pulling his head back and melting a deep kiss against his parted lips. Just as he was feeling the high of your swirling tongues, you gripped him again, making him moan into your mouth. His noises were needy and desperate as you focused on the head, pumping it with reckless abandon. You could tell by the way he writhed when he was close—so you stopped again. “Please…just let me, I-I can’t take it,” his voice was raw with desperation. “Oh but you can, you’ve been so good up until now, don’t give out just yet,” you purred, petting his hair and kissing his neck.

There wasn’t much restraint left, Caleb was chipping away like a marble statue weathered by time and age. A part of you was proud of him for lasting this long, while something darker coiled in your belly. You tested him again, tapping his length firmly against your open palm. “Just,” slap “a little…” slap “longer.” Caleb chewed on the insides of his cheeks, trying to choke back the sounds erupting from his throat. Your fluid movements continued, increasing the pressure and speed as each minute passed. His breathing became erratic, he couldn’t help but thrust into your fist. You sank your teeth into his arm, pinching the flesh with your canines. “Don’t help me, you’re almost there…,” you said, keeping your voice at a sultry murmur.

“S’close baby, please—,” he pleaded, fighting back the urge to grind into your hand, to reach bliss at his own command. Holding him in both hands, you brought him closer to the edge, creating friction so delicious—so achingly tangible, he could taste it on his tongue. His moans were breathy, pretty and soft as you milked him dry, enough to finally reward him with release. “Ah—mmm, yes…like that. Please don’t stop again, baby.” You guided him to lean into your embrace, pressing your breasts against back. “That’s it, let it go, be a good boy for me and cum okay?”

The last crack split across his crumbling resolve. You felt his whole body tighten as he came. “F-fuck…I-I’m cumming so much…,” he gasped, spilling over your curled fingers like a geyser. Your hands kept their pace with each wave washing over him, allowing Caleb to finally grind through every pulse and throb. When the final ripple dissolved, his body fell slack in your arms, head resting on your shoulder. As he wound down, his breathing became more measured and calm, chest settling from its frantic heaving. You pursed reverent kisses to his temples, his jaw, his neck; peppering words of praise against his sweat dampened skin. “I’m so proud of you.”

Caleb felt a tight pull in his chest where his heart strained. He regained a hair of strength, pulling you into an impassioned kiss. Your lips swept over each other’s like a slow dance, swirling your tongues and panting softly. A rosy blush warmed your cheeks as you pulled away, taking in his glazed expression. He pressed his forehead to yours, finally mustering his worn vocal cords to speak, “thank you…I love you…” “I love you too. I’m glad you let me show you.”

His hand slithered up your thigh, “but…I still feel like I have so much more to give you,” his voice no longer whiny, but dark and husky. “I’m still so full.”

Your cheeks became hot, there was a glimmer of something behind his eyes that sent a shiver through you. “Oh…,” you swallowed, inching closer to his lips, “what should we do about that?” When he heard the submission return in your tone, he moved with urgency, an insatiable hunger that tore through his body. Caleb caged you under his arms, “let me take care of you now…,” he growled, grazing your throat with his teeth. A soft moan fell from your lips, you couldn’t deny the heat blooming between your legs, how your arousal left a sticky mess in its wake.

Meeting his lidded gaze, you nodded, inviting him to take the lead. Caleb filled you deliberately again and again, indulging your deepest desires with his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Your bodies stayed intertwined for what felt like hours. When you finally collapsed on the bed, the hint of dawn’s light leaked through the curtains, emitting a soft glow over your dewy skin. You were lulled to sleep by the soft combing of Caleb’s fingers through your hair.

A staticky sound filled the space, his Fleet signal rang in his ear, “Colonel, your feedback is needed on an urgent matter.” His gaze fell to your sleeping form nuzzled against his chest, your words played over repeatedly in his mind as his adjutant waited for a response. He brought a small device to his lips, speaking in a low, yet commanding tone, “this matter can wait,” “but sir—.” The signal was abruptly cut.

He held you tighter, choosing to be by your side. Not to protect you, not to smother, but to rest by your side. For once he was also choosing himself.

End.

*~*~*~*

Writers note: thank you so much for reading. :) Please do not steal or repost. More LADs Fics are pinned on my profile.

[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 ꒱

[prettygirl-gabi]

What’s so funny

Pairing: KK Arnold x Reader

Fandom: UConn’s Women’s Basketball

Summary: While visiting home for summer, you are caught in a storm of jealousy and assumptions after a picture with an old friend gets back to KK.

A/N: thanks for being my pawn again @thatonesuschix

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav , @liloandstitchstan , @kaliblazin

I hadn’t been home in months.

There’s something about coming back to your old stomping grounds that makes the world feel smaller, familiar, even when you’ve outgrown half of it. A

few days into my summer break, I let myself unwind — no press, no schedules, no facetime calls to reschedule missed ones.

Just sunshine, the ocean, and some good drinks with people who knew me before the spotlight hit.

That’s how I ended up barefoot in the sand, hair still damp from swimming, dancing around a bonfire like a teenager. The music was too loud, someone passed me a bottle I probably shouldn’t have taken, and I laughed harder than I had in months.

I didn’t even know the picture existed until it hit my phone the next morning — or more accurately, until KK sent it.

KK [9:12 AM]:

Where were you, last night?

I wiped sleep out of my eyes and squinted at the screen. Her name already made my heart sink a little. I hadn’t texted her last night, but we weren’t officially on bad terms. We were just… distant. Busy. Whatever.

Me [9:14 AM]:

Was hanging out with some friends, why?

A minute passed. Then two.

KK [9:17 AM]:

She doesn’t look at you like you just friends, lol

My brows furrowed as I sat up in bed, the air suddenly thick.

The picture came through right after: Me laughing, head tilted back, while my friend — Lena — was doubled over, face practically in my chest. I knew the moment.

I’d said something stupid, she’d tripped trying to twerk on sand, and we’d lost it.

But of course, out of context? It looked wild.

I stared at KK’s message again.

Me [9:19 AM]:

What’d you just say?

KK [9:20 AM]:

She doesn’t look at you like you just friends.

No lol.

I scroll to her contacts in my phone and hit call.

She answered on the second ring. “Hey.”

“What did you say at the end of that sentence?”

She paused like she didn’t know exactly what I meant. “I don’t know… nothing, really. Just said she—”

“No, the end, KK.”

Another pause. Then, like it was no big deal: “Lol?”

My jaw clenched. “What is so funny about what’s happening right now?”

“Nothin’s funny.”

“Then why the fuck are you ‘lol’ing?”

I didn’t wait for a response. I ended the call and tossed my phone onto the bed like it had burned me.

Two days passed.

I didn’t text her.

I didn’t post.

I barely looked at my phone, trying to stay unbothered while lying on pool chairs and watching sunsets with the same people who used to sneak beers behind gas stations with me.

Until I walked back from the pool, towel over my shoulder, sunburn on my nose, and heard someone go, “Damn, Y/N… who’s that?”

I followed their gaze and my stomach dropped.

KK.

In jeans and a hoodie — in the middle of a hot-ass summer day — standing by my porch like she belonged there. Her arms were crossed. And she was looking directly at me.

I blinked and tried to play it cool. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes flicked down to the shirt I was wearing.

It was Lena’s. Oversized, soft, white with a faded logo on the front. I’d spilled something on my tank top and Lena tossed it to me without thinking. Now I saw the way KK looked at it. Like it was a scar.

“You wearing her clothes now?” she asked, not loud, but not quiet either.

I could feel everyone watching us — a mixture of nosy concern and oh-this-about-to-be-messy curiosity.

“I spilled something. It’s just a shirt,” I replied.

“You always hold hands and laugh like that when it’s ‘just a shirt’?”

I crossed my arms. “Don’t start with this.”

She took a slow breath. “Can we talk? Inside?”

I looked around at my friends, trying to give them a quick smile. “I’ll be back.”

The second I closed my bedroom door, it was like a dam broke. The air got heavier, my pulse louder.

“You just flew out?” I asked.

KK didn’t sit. She just stood near the wall, eyes still on me. “You weren’t answering. You looked like you were having the time of your life with someone whose face was in your boobs.”

“It was a joke,” I said, voice tighter than I wanted. “It wasn’t anything. You think I would cheat on you?”

“I don’t know, Y/N,” she said quickly. “You don’t call, you don’t check in, and then you’re laughing with some girl who clearly wants you.”

“She’s gay and she’s my friend!”

“She looks at you like she’s in love with you.”

I didn’t mean to step closer, but I did. “You think that’s funny, too?”

Her jaw clenched. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“Then what were you laughing at?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe because it’s easier than thinking about someone else touching you.”

And that broke something open.

I stepped toward her again, voice softer but still sharp. “I’ve been trying, KK. But you don’t trust me. You assume the worst and then you act like you’re above feeling anything about it.”

“I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m not above anything when it comes to you.”

My breath caught. Then, without warning, she stepped forward, grabbed my face, and kissed me.

Hard. Needy. Like she had something to prove. Like she didn’t want me to disappear.

I didn’t push her away. I couldn’t.

Her mouth moved against mine like an apology.

Her hands framed my jaw like she was trying to remember every inch of me.

And when I melted into her, when I let her press me back until the backs of my knees hit the bed — neither of us broke the kiss.

We just dropped.

Onto the mattress, onto weeks of distance and unspoken things.

She was above me now, kissing slower, deeper. I wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled her closer, moaning softly into her mouth. When her lips left mine, they trailed down — to my throat, my collarbone, the edge of Lena’s shirt.

She sat back just enough to tug it off of me, her eyes dark.

“You mad about the shirt?” I whispered, smirking faintly.

“Yeah,” she murmured, leaning down again. “Wanna erase it.”

Then her mouth was back on me — lower this time. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my swim bottoms, and I lifted my hips for her. She kissed the skin there like she was worshiping it.

I let out a shaky breath. “KK…”

She didn’t answer. Not with words.

Her mouth did all the talking now.

Slow.

Soft at first, then deeper — like she wanted to remind me exactly who I belonged to.

My fingers tangled in the sheets, then her hair.

My breath hitched again, and I swore I saw stars.

I gasped her name again, and she hummed against me. It sent a shiver through me so sharp I thought I might float.

When I finally came down from my orgasm, chest heaving, thighs still trembling, she was kissing her way back up, hand cradling my face again.

I looked up at her and whispered, “That why you flew out here?”

She nodded, forehead resting against mine. “That… and I missed you.”

I smiled through the afterglow. “Could’ve just said that instead of lol’ing through an argument.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. I’ll work on that.”

I cupped her cheek. “Good. ’Cause next time? I’m flying to you.”

And this time, we kissed like we meant it — with no room for miscommunication, no audience, no tension.

Just us.

Finally on the same page.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[jareaufiles]

SWEET SURRENDER • e.prentiss, j.jareau

PAIRING: jemily x female reader

PREMISE: JJ and Emily have been gently falling in love with you for a while and when they find out you’ve never been with anyone before, they take their time showing you what it means to be touched, loved, and cherished. It’s soft, overwhelming, and full of praise. Just pure, beautiful first-time sex — the kind that ruins you for anyone else.

WARNINGS: explicit sexual content featuring a first-time experience with two experienced partners in an established, deeply emotional relationship. includes intense emotional vulnerability, mutual possessiveness, and tender yet raw intimacy. scenes contain detailed cunnilingus, fingering, strap-on use, praise, slow, deliberate oral and fingering leading to intense orgasms, marking through kisses and gentle biting, and explicit, sensory-rich descriptions of wetness, slickness, and physical reactions. aftercare involves careful cleaning, physical closeness, and soft, loving pillow talk. the story emphasizes emotional connection, trust, and care throughout the intense, immersive erotic scenes.

WORD COUNT: 10K

A/N: requested! i hope this is along the lines you were thinking of <3

masterlists

You could feel it in the air every single time Emily’s gaze found you across the room. It wasn’t fleeting or casual like anyone else’s.

No.

Emily looked at you like she was reading you, memorizing every inch of skin beneath your clothes, mapping out all the places she’d one day touch, claiming you in secret.

Her dark eyes would linger just a second too long, dragging down the slope of your throat, the soft swell of your chest, the curve of your hips when you shifted in your seat.

It made your pulse skip every damn time. You could feel the heat of it, that steady, possessive hunger burning in her gaze like a secret promise you weren’t meant to see, but she made sure you did.

And then there was JJ.

God, JJ.

She wasn’t quite as obvious as Emily, but she didn’t need to be. JJ’s touches lingered in a different way. Fingertips ghosting along your forearm when she passed behind your chair, brushing against the curve of your wrist when she handed you a file, her palm settling at the small of your back with a warmth that made you shiver.

It wasn’t innocent, not in the slightest. You felt it in the way her thumb would stroke over your pulse point like she was soothing you, like she was checking how fast your heart would race under her touch. And it always did.

They teased you in the kind of way that wasn’t really teasing at all. Little smirks passed between them over the rims of their wine glasses at dinners, quiet laughs when your voice caught mid-sentence, when you stumbled over a word because Emily’s fingers brushed your lower back or JJ’s perfume hit you just right.

Filthy little comments meant to sound innocent but soaked in suggestion, remarks about how good you looked tonight, how soft your skin seemed, how you smelled so goddamn sweet. They were subtle enough no one else noticed. But you did. You always did.

And God, you felt it.

Every single word, every look, every brush of fingers across your skin. It burrowed deep, left you aching in ways you didn’t have the vocabulary for, made you feel dizzy and weightless and so hopelessly out of your depth.

You’d never wanted anything the way you wanted them. Not in this overwhelming, suffocating, gut-deep kind of way. Not when no one had ever touched you like that before, not when no one had ever kissed you the way you ached to be kissed, not when your body had never known what it meant to be wanted like this.

Because they didn’t look at you like you were just another pretty thing in the room. Emily looked at you like she was going to swallow you whole. Like she’d been waiting for someone soft, someone untouched, someone pliant and good to finally let her hands on.

JJ looked at you like she wanted to ruin you gently, like she’d ease you apart and take her time savoring every sound you made, every stuttered breath, every shiver in your thighs. And you, trembling and naïve, you couldn’t pretend not to notice.

And they noticed your nervousness. They saw how your breath would hitch when one of them stepped in a little too close. How your eyes dropped to their mouths when they licked their lips, how your hands fidgeted in your lap during dinners because Emily’s voice went low and rough when she spoke to you.

JJ saw how you bit your lip when she tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, how your skin flushed so prettily when she teased you about being too sweet for the kind of conversation happening around the table.

They noticed all of it.

Emily especially. She’d lean back in her chair during those late nights at the round table, swirling her glass of scotch, her gaze steady on you while the rest of the team argued over case details. She saw how your throat worked when you swallowed hard, how you squeezed your thighs together under the table when the conversation dipped a little too close to something dirty. She smirked to herself, already imagining what you’d look like with your legs spread for her, your face flushed and wet, your body trembling under her hands.

And JJ?

JJ was softer about it, but no less possessive. She clocked every shy glance you threw her way, every flinch of your pulse under your skin when she touched you. She noticed how your breath caught when she laughed a little too close to your ear, how you couldn’t seem to stop your eyes from dropping to the line of her throat, to the delicate chain that rested there. JJ would lean in, murmur something low and teasing just to watch your skin heat, just to feel your body tense with something you didn’t know how to name.

And God, it made them want you more.

Because you weren’t just sweet. You weren’t just pretty. You were untouched. Soft. Nervous in a way that made their blood thrum. A virgin, though you’d never said it out loud... but they could tell...

In the way you reacted, in the innocence in your eyes when the teasing got too sharp, in the way your hands trembled slightly when Emily’s voice dropped that octave lower.

They wanted you because you were theirs already. You just didn’t know it yet.

Rossi’s house was warm with the kind of easy, familiar noise that only happened when the team gathered like this. Drinks in hand, music low in the background, the sound of someone’s laughter echoing down the hallway.

The living room smelled like wood polish and whiskey, the fireplace crackling in the corner, casting flickering amber light across half-drained wine glasses and abandoned poker chips on the table.

You’d settled on the far side of the room, perched on the edge of the couch with a drink Penelope had insisted on mixing for you; something sweet and pink, with a sugared rim and a cherry dropped at the bottom like an unspoken dare. The taste was sticky and syrupy on your tongue, fizzy enough to make your head swim a little.

Penelope had plopped down beside you like she always did, a warm presence, smelling like coconut lotion and vanilla perfume. She looped her arm through yours, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Okay, so,” she murmured, voice dropping to a giddy whisper meant only for you. “Tell me who you’re crushing on, cupcake. I see those big doe eyes of yours bouncing between our resident tall, dark, and deadly duo. Spill.”

You felt your stomach swoop, the heat of the alcohol mingling with the sharper, intoxicating burn of embarrassment. You ducked your head, sipping from your drink to buy yourself a second, but it was pointless. Penelope could always read you too well.

“I… it’s nothing,” you tried, your voice already soft and uncertain.

She gave a scandalized gasp, bumping her shoulder against yours.

“Don’t give me that,” she laughed, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “Honey, the way you look at them? you’re practically a romance novel waiting to happen. I mean, Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau? Baby girl, you’ve got dangerously good taste.”

Your cheeks burned. God, you could feel it, the flush rising up your neck, settling hot in your face. You let out a helpless little laugh, covering your mouth.

“I’ve… I’ve never really…” you hesitated, biting your lip. It felt easier with the buzz of the drink in your veins, the protective closeness of Penelope beside you. “I haven’t… done anything. Not with anyone. And they’re… I mean, look at them.”

Penelope’s expression softened immediately, squeezing your arm.

“You sweet, precious thing,” she cooed. “Honestly, baby, it’s kind of perfect. I mean, those two? They’d ruin you .. in the best, most worship-you-forever kind of way.”

You laughed, the sound a little breathless, a little panicked, but undeniably giddy.

What you didn’t realize was that across the room, Emily and JJ had been watching you the entire time.

Emily leaned back in the leather armchair, glass of scotch balanced between her fingers, the firelight catching in the streaks of silver in her dark hair. Her gaze kept flicking to you, drinking in the sight of your flushed cheeks, the nervous little smile you gave Penelope, the way your fingers toyed with the cherry stem in your drink.

“She’s blushing,” Emily murmured under her breath, her voice low enough only JJ could hear, a crooked grin tugging at her lips.

JJ glanced over from where she stood by the mantle, cradling a glass of wine. Her eyes softened immediately when they landed on you, your expression shy and overwhelmed, your body practically curling in on itself while Penelope teased you.

“God, she’s adorable,” JJ said, her voice husky with something far darker than fondness.

They didn’t need to say it aloud, both of them knew. They’d known for weeks. The way you reacted to them, the way your eyes lingered just a little too long on Emily’s hands when she flexed them, how your breath caught every time JJ brushed past you in the hallway. The way you’d stammer through conversations, your eyes wide and wanting and so desperately innocent.

They’d noticed. And it had been driving them both fucking crazy.

“Penelope’s got her talking about us,” Emily smirked, sipping her drink, watching the color rise higher in your cheeks. “Look at that face. Bet she’s got no idea what to do with herself.”

JJ grinned, leaning in close enough for Emily to catch the scent of her perfume; something heady and soft, with a bite underneath.

“She’s ours,” JJ murmured, her voice low, meant only for Emily. “Just doesn’t know it yet.”

Emily’s eyes darkened, her smirk sharp and slow.

“She will.”

You, oblivious to the quiet, possessive conversation happening about you, took another sip of your drink and tried to will the flush from your skin. But it was impossible. Not when you could feel the weight of their gazes on you, heavy and thick and unrelenting.

Every time you dared glance their way, one or both of them was already looking. Emily with her half-lidded, knowing stare. JJ with that slow, honey-sweet smile that made your stomach flip.

And the touches. God, the touches.

JJ passed behind you to get another drink, her hand brushing the curve of your shoulder, her fingers squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

Emily came to lean against the back of the couch a little while later, her knuckles ghosting along your neck under the guise of tucking your hair aside.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Emily murmured, her breath hot against your ear.

You nodded quickly, feeling like your heart was about to punch through your ribs.

“Good,” she smiled, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “Stay close tonight.”

And then she was gone, leaving you trembling, your skin prickling in her absence.

Penelope grinned, watching the whole thing, leaning in to whisper.

“Told you,” she teased. “You’re so fucking theirs.”

And you didn’t. Well. Couldn’t deny it.

Not anymore.

The cab ride felt like an extension of the night. Thick with the smell of perfume, alcohol, and something heavier you didn’t have a name for. You’d ended up between them in the back seat, sandwiched between Emily’s long, warm body on your right and JJ’s softer, toned frame on your left. The leather seats stuck to the backs of your thighs, the air conditioning doing nothing to cool the flush still lingering on your skin.

Emily had insisted you ride with them, and it wasn’t a question. A hand on your lower back, that steady, unrelenting presence as she murmured in your ear, “You’re not going home alone tonight, sweetheart.” The words alone had your stomach swooping.

Now, in the cab, it was worse. Or better. You weren’t sure which.

JJ’s thigh pressed against yours, firm and warm, her hand resting casually on your knee. Every so often, her thumb would stroke slow circles there, light enough to make your breath catch, to send a pulse of heat between your legs. She was looking at you like she could read every filthy little thought tumbling through your head. And God, maybe she could.

Emily’s arm rested along the back of the seat, fingertips playing with the ends of your hair. She leaned in close, her voice a low murmur meant only for you.

“You nervous, baby girl?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you gave a tiny nod, your pulse pounding so loud in your ears you almost missed the low chuckle she gave in response.

“You should be,” Emily smirked, her fingers brushing the side of your neck, grazing your pulse point. “We’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

JJ grinned, her hand sliding a little higher on your thigh, her pinky brushing dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

“Can’t wait to see what you sound like when we finally get our hands on you,” she added, voice thick and syrupy, the kind of teasing sweetness that made you feel drunk before the alcohol even had a chance.

The cab driver said nothing, the hum of the car and the occasional flicker of city lights washing over you, blurring into the background. You barely noticed when the cab slowed, when Emily rattled off their address with a practiced ease. All you could feel were their hands, the heat of their bodies bracketing yours, the low, filthy promises tangled in their voices.

When the cab pulled to a stop outside their house which was a beautiful old two-story with ivy trailing up one side and soft porch lights casting everything in a buttery glow; Emily slid out first, reaching back for you.

Her hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you out with a firm, possessive grip. JJ followed, pressing up behind you as you stood on the curb, the night air cooler against your flushed skin.

Emily’s arms slid around your waist from behind, her chin resting on your shoulder. You could feel her smile against your skin.

“Welcome home, baby girl,” she murmured as JJ moved to unlock the door.

Inside, the house was everything you’d expect from them. Warm, dimly lit, the soft scent of candles and something floral hanging in the air.

The hardwood floors creaked faintly underfoot. A sleek fireplace framed one wall of the living room, a plush gray sectional facing it, scattered with soft throws. Books lined the shelves in the corner, a few old case files stacked neatly on the coffee table.

It felt lived in. Comfortable. And yet… there was something about the place that made you shiver. Like it had seen things, known things. Like it was about to witness something else tonight.

“Upstairs,” JJ said, her voice thick, and Emily’s hands guided you forward.

You didn’t even hesitate. Their touch was steady, their hands constant. JJ’s palm at the small of your back, Emily’s arms still around your waist, steering you through the house like you belonged there. And God, you wanted to.

Your stomach fluttered as you climbed the stairs, the faint sound of your own heartbeat loud in your ears. The upstairs hallway was lined with framed photos — old team pictures, candid shots of Emily and JJ with their arms around each other, smiling wide and reckless. The sight made your chest ache in some tender, secret way.

At the top of the stairs, you reached without thinking, your fingers brushing against JJ’s hand as she led you. Her skin was warm, her palm steady as she caught your hand properly, threading her fingers through yours.

She glanced over, her lips curling into a slow, soft smile.

“Couldn’t resist, huh?” she teased, but her thumb stroked the back of your hand, her grip firm. It wasn’t mockery, it was possessive, protective.

Emily smirked from your other side, her hand sliding down to squeeze your hip.

“God, she’s so fucking sweet,” Emily murmured, voice low and rough, meant for JJ but you caught it anyway.

JJ’s gaze darkened.

“Ours,” she said quietly.

You didn’t know where this hallway ended, what room they were guiding you toward but you knew, deep in your chest, you’d follow them anywhere.

The bedroom was dim, bathed in amber from a single lamp glowing in the far corner, shadows dancing lazily on the walls. Outside, the city murmured beneath a soft night breeze, but in here, the air was heavy, almost sacred, with heat and something electric, like the whole room was holding its breath just for you.

The door clicked shut behind you, quiet and final, and in that stillness, your own pulse thundered in your ears. Emily’s hands found your waist, firm and warm, sliding upward with maddening patience until she was pulling you gently into her.

She kissed you first. Deep, slow, confident. Like she’d been waiting to do it for years and now that she had you, she wasn’t wasting a single second. Her lips moved with a hunger that made your knees go soft, mouth coaxing yours open, tongue flicking against yours in teasing strokes that made your stomach swoop.

Her fingers tilted your chin up, controlling the angle, deepening the kiss until your head spun and your hands clung to her like she was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

And then JJ was there. Her palm skated along your hip and up your spine until it tangled gently into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. She leaned in, brushed a kiss to Emily’s lips right in front of you.

It wasn’t performative, it was raw and honest and so goddamn hot, the kind of kiss people gave when they knew exactly what each other tasted like, what each other sounded like when they came.

Your breath stuttered.

JJ turned to you, her eyes all stormy-blue heat and sin. That little smirk tugged at her lips. The one that always made your thighs press together helplessly.

“Let’s see you, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice all warm molasses and dirty promises.

You didn’t trust your voice, so you just nodded, raising your arms for her. She peeled your top off inch by inch, eyes drinking in the newly bared skin.

Emily was already working the button of your skirt, dragging it down your hips in one practiced move, like she’d undressed you in her mind a thousand times. And maybe she had.

Now you stood between them in just your bra and panties, skin flushed and breathing shallow. The cool air kissed across you, drawing goosebumps in its wake, your nipples hardening through the lace like they knew they were being watched.

“Fucking stunning,” Emily whispered, her gaze slow and reverent, as if she was cataloguing every curve and freckle.

JJ stepped closer, fingers tracing the edge of your bra so gently it made your skin twitch in anticipation. “These need to come off, baby,” she said, low and rough, like it pained her to wait another second.

You nodded again, fingers trembling just slightly as you reached behind you and unhooked the clasp. The straps slipped down your shoulders, the lace falling away like a secret being told for the first time.

And God, the way they looked at you...

JJ exhaled sharply, her eyes darkening, and Emily immediately cupped your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple with practiced finesse.

“So soft,” Emily murmured, lips grazing your ear, her breath sending shivers down your spine. “I knew you’d feel like this.”

You were soaked. You could feel it. The fabric between your thighs was clinging, your panties damp and stretched tight against the ache of you. JJ’s gaze dropped, and her smirk deepened.

“Look at this, Em,” she murmured, her thumbs hooking into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down slow enough to kill you. Her nails skimmed your hips on the way down, making you twitch, breath shallow. “She’s already fucking dripping.”

The air hit you, cool and electric against your slick folds. You should’ve felt shy, bared like this, exposed under their hungry gazes… but you didn’t. Something hotter, braver, curled in your belly and made your hands reach out, seeking skin.

You tugged lightly at the hem of JJ’s shirt, a silent ask.

Her eyes softened, and she let you undress her. Emily stepped out of her blouse with elegant efficiency, revealing that long, lean frame that had lived in your fantasies for months. JJ’s breasts were full, high and perfect, her nipples a dusky pink and already hard.

Emily’s were smaller, sculpted and smooth, with faint silvery scars across her ribs that caught the light. Her nipples were dark, tight with arousal. They were goddesses, both of them.

You reached out, reverently brushing your fingertips across JJ’s chest, and she caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm like it was sacred.

“See?” she said to Emily with a grin. “Not shy now.”

They stripped the rest of the way, jeans, underwear, until all three of you were bare in the low light, bodies humming with heat. Emily’s pussy glistened between her thighs, dark curls neatly trimmed, her lips plump and slick. JJ was just as wet, her folds swollen and flushed, that intoxicating scent of arousal threading the air around you like perfume.

Emily sat back against the headboard and opened her arms, legs spread just enough to show the wet shine between them. She patted the space in front of her.

“Come here.”

You did, climbing into her lap, your back to her chest, your body cradled by hers. She wrapped her arms around you, her skin blazing-hot against your back, her breath brushing your ear as she kissed your neck. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that made you squirm.

JJ climbed onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and her hands? God, her hands, slid up your legs so slowly, so deliberately. She parted you with her thumbs, exposing your slick folds, the glistening pink heat of you.

Her breath hitched.

“Jesus, baby girl,” she whispered, voice rough as gravel. “You’re so fucking pretty down here.”

You gasped. Her breath hit your center like fire. Your folds were parted, wet and needy, glistening in the lamplight. Your clit was swollen, flushed with arousal, peeking out like it was begging to be touched. Your lips were puffy, flushed and soaked, your entrance pulsing visibly with every beat of your racing heart.

Emily held you tighter, her voice a breathy rasp. “So wet for us already. You want her mouth, sweetheart?”

JJ looked up at you with that filthy, reverent hunger. Her smile was all sin.

“Can I taste you, baby?” she asked, voice thick with need. “I wanna make you cum on my tongue.”

You nodded, the word catching in your throat like it was sacred. “Yes,” you breathed, your voice barely more than a tremble but it carried all your need in it, heavy and desperate.

JJ’s face softened like you’d just handed her the stars. She leaned forward and kissed your inner thigh, her lips warm and reverent against your skin. “That’s my girl,” she whispered.

Emily’s arms around you felt like silk and steel, grounding and safe. Her mouth brushed your ear, her voice a low hum that sank straight into your bones. “She’s gonna take it slow,” she murmured, her breath tickling the sensitive skin just behind your jaw. “You’re doing so good. Just let her show you how it feels.”

JJ moved between your legs like she’d been there forever, like she belonged there. Her hands were warm, steady as they slid up your thighs, and her eyes dropped to your center with something close to awe.

You were soaked, undeniably, shamelessly soaked. Your folds were soft and flushed, slick with arousal that glistened in the lamplight. Your lips were swollen from want, parted just enough to reveal the deeper pink of your entrance, pulsing with every thrum of your heart. Your clit peeked out from its hood, tight and needy, already swollen and begging for touch.

JJ dragged her fingers along your slit, gathering your wetness, and her lips parted in a quiet groan. “Fuck, baby,” she said, voice thick. “Look at you. You’re dripping.”

You whimpered at the contact, your hips twitching as her fingers slipped lower, parting you gently. Your pussy was glossy, flushed, impossibly soft—slick folds gliding under her touch like silk soaked in heat. The way you clenched, even around nothing, had JJ sucking in a breath through her teeth.

Emily’s hand stroked your stomach, keeping you anchored. “You feel that?” she murmured. “How open you are for us? How perfect?”

JJ started with her mouth. Her lips brushing your inner thighs, then the outer edge of your heat, kissing you like you were breakable and divine all at once. And then her tongue was there, barely a flick against your clit, and the shock of it made your whole body jolt. She moaned low in her throat, like the taste of you was something she felt in her soul.

She licked you slow, one long stroke from your entrance to your clit, parting you with her tongue until every inch of you was glistening and pulsing under her mouth. She traced the outline of your lips with the tip of her tongue, teasing around your swollen clit without settling on it, building your need higher and higher until you were gasping.

And when she finally sealed her mouth over you and sucked—just a little, just enough—your whole body went tight.

“Oh my God.” you gasped, your hips jerking up, only to be caught and held by Emily.

“Shhh, baby,” Emily soothed, voice low and steady, lips pressed to your temple. “Let her take care of you. You’re so good. So perfect like this.”

JJ’s fingers returned, trailing through the slick between your folds before circling your entrance. She didn’t rush. She waited, watching your body for permission. And when she finally pushed one finger in, your breath caught in your throat.

The stretch was slow, gentle, just enough to make you tremble. You were tight, unbelievably so, and she worked you open with practiced patience, her mouth never leaving your clit.

“Jesus,” JJ groaned, her breath hot against you. “You’re so tight, baby. So warm. You’re sucking me in.”

You moaned. Helpless, overwhelmed. Your hands clutching at the sheets. She moved slowly, curling her finger gently inside you, stroking along your front wall while her tongue began to work your clit in soft, steady circles. The pressure built fast, your body pulsing around her, already close, already right there.

And then a second finger joined the first.

You gasped, high and breathless, but Emily was right there, holding your jaw, turning your face to hers. “It’s okay,” she said, her lips brushing yours. “You’ve got this. Let it feel good.”

JJ’s fingers filled you, stretching you open with such care it made your heart ache. She pumped them slowly, shallow and patient, curling them just right, hitting that sweet spot over and over while her tongue flattened against your clit and flicked.. steady, controlled, just enough to make your legs shake.

The orgasm hit like a wave dragged out to sea — slow, overwhelming, inevitable. You couldn’t stop it. You didn’t want to. Your pussy clenched tight around her fingers, your whole body convulsing as the pleasure broke over you. You came with a cry, hips jerking up, JJ’s mouth locked on your clit as she coaxed every last quake out of you.

You were cumming all over her, throbbing around her fingers, dripping onto her tongue, soaking her hand with the rush of release. And still, she didn’t stop. She worked you through it, fingers easing up just as your body started to come down, her mouth slowing against you until you were gasping and trembling, every muscle limp.

Emily kissed your cheek, brushing your hair back, murmuring softly, “That’s it. That’s our girl.”

JJ finally lifted her head, her lips and chin slick with you, her eyes half-lidded with heat. She slid her fingers gently from your body, and your pussy fluttered around the absence, still aching with aftershocks. She crawled up the bed, meeting Emily with a look that sent a shiver down your spine.

And then they kissed.

It was slow, indulgent, messy in the best way,JJ letting Emily taste you on her tongue. Emily moaned softly, curling her fingers in JJ’s hair and deepening the kiss, like she wanted every last drop of you. When they finally pulled apart, their lips were wet and swollen, their eyes locked in something silent and intense.

You lay there between them, skin flushed, thighs slick, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

And the way they looked at you? Like they were just getting started.

You shifted in Emily’s lap, the aftershocks still whispering through your limbs, but the tremble wasn’t from release anymore. It was from something else, something sharper, heavier. The need to give back. The urge to touch, to taste, to make JJ feel what you just did, to make her unravel because of you.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking toward her where she sprawled on the sheets, blonde hair wild and tangled across her shoulder, her lips pink and slightly parted, watching you with a hunger that hadn't dimmed in the slightest.

Your throat felt tight, but you spoke anyway, voice barely more than a breath. “Can I… touch her too? I want to. I want to make her feel good.”

JJ’s smile was slow and sultry, stretching across her face like the sun coming out after a storm. “God, yes, baby,” she said, her voice low and wrecked. “Please.”

Emily, still behind you, her body curled around yours like a warm blanket, pressed a kiss just behind your ear. “She’s yours,” she murmured, her voice smooth as silk and wine. “Take your time.”

You moved carefully toward JJ, your legs still shaky, your skin still thrumming with leftover heat. She shifted to meet you, propping herself up slightly, offering herself without shame. Her body was beautiful in a different way than Emily’s, softer in places, stronger in others, her stomach flexing slightly as she adjusted, her thighs parting just a little as you leaned closer.

You started with a kiss. Tentative, searching. She met you halfway, her hand cupping the side of your face, guiding you in. Her mouth was warm, lips soft and already slightly swollen. She kissed like she meant it, open-mouthed, a little hungry, a little dirty.

She let you explore her, let your tongue push into her mouth, tasting the faint tang of your own arousal still lingering on her lips. It made your stomach flip in the most sinful way.

You pulled away, trailing kisses down the line of her jaw, then lower, brushing your mouth along the column of her throat. Her pulse fluttered beneath your lips, and you couldn’t help yourself.. you sucked. Just a little too hard. A small, sharp gasp escaped her, and your body stiffened instantly, pulling back with wide eyes.

“I—I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Emily let out a soft, amused huff from behind you. “No, baby. You’re good.”

JJ chuckled low and throaty, her eyes warm. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice all heat and rough edges, “I love being marked up. You leave anything you want on me.”

You blushed hard enough to burn, your heart thumping loud in your ears, but something warm and heady settled into your chest. Confidence. Permission. You nodded and bent your head again, pressing your lips to the same spot, this time slower. You kissed, licked, sucked until her skin flushed red beneath your mouth. JJ’s hand threaded into your hair, not to control you, but just to feel you. To keep you close.

Your kisses trailed lower, brushing across her collarbone, the swell of her breast. You took your time, learning her skin by taste and touch. She sighed when your mouth finally closed around one of her nipples, and her fingers tightened just slightly in your hair as you licked over it, then sucked it in fully.

Her nipple was already hard, a deep rose color that stood proud against her skin. You sucked harder, letting your tongue flick against the tip until JJ’s hips shifted beneath you, a low moan vibrating out of her chest.

Emily’s voice was a murmur in your ear again, sweet and dangerous. “Use your teeth, baby. Just a little. She can take it.”

You hesitated for only a heartbeat before gently scraping your teeth across the peak. JJ gasped, her head falling back, and you swore her back arched just for you. You bit - soft, careful - and she groaned, long and low and filthy.

“Fuck yes,” JJ panted. “That’s it. Just like that.”

You switched sides, giving her other nipple the same attention. You kissed it first, then sucked, then bit, and each time, JJ rewarded you with a sound that made heat pool between your thighs all over again. You didn’t stop until both her nipples were wet and flushed, standing stiff in the cool air.

When you finally pulled back, your lips shiny, your breath shaky, you looked up and saw her watching you with eyes heavy-lidded and blown dark with lust. Her thighs had fallen open fully now, her cunt glistening in the lamplight. Wet and aching, flushed and perfect. You couldn’t look away. Her folds were glossy and slightly parted, swollen with need, her clit peeking out at the top, pulsing with every beat of her racing heart.

Emily reached out, her hand brushing down your back, her voice soft. “You ready to taste her, baby?”

You nodded, your breath catching. “Yeah. Please.”

JJ leaned back on her elbows again, spreading her legs wider, offering herself up like something sacred.

You settled between her thighs, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her. The scent of her was warm and musky, and so fucking inviting, flooded your senses, and it made your mouth water.

“Start slow,” Emily said, her hand resting gently between your shoulder blades. “Lick her like you’d kiss her. She’s sensitive.”

You leaned in, your breath fanning across JJ’s soaked pussy. You flattened your tongue and dragged it up from her entrance to her clit, tasting her for the first time. She gasped, her hips twitching, and the taste — earthy and slick and her — shot through you like lightning.

You licked her again, slower this time, gathering the wetness that clung to her lips, savoring every drop. You circled her clit with the tip of your tongue, and JJ moaned, her hand sliding into your hair again, anchoring you.

“That’s it,” she groaned. “God, you’ve got such a good mouth...”

You kept going, letting your mouth explore every inch of her. You licked along her folds, circled her entrance, then flicked your tongue over her clit again and again until her breath hitched.

Emily whispered in your ear, “Add a finger, sweetheart. She’s ready for you.”

Your fingers were shaking, but you reached down, sliding one through her folds, finding her entrance. She was so wet you didn’t even need to try. She took your finger easily, her body welcoming you in. You pushed in slow, feeling the way she clenched around you, the heat and tightness of her pulling you deeper.

You started moving your finger inside her, curling it slightly like you remembered she’d done to you. Your mouth never left her clit; licking, kissing, sucking gently until her moans got sharper.

“Another,” JJ gasped, “please, baby.. more...”

You slid in a second finger, and her body clenched tight around you, so fucking hot and snug it made your head spin. You pumped your fingers in a slow rhythm, curling into that spot that made her hips jerk. Your tongue circled her clit faster now, sealing your lips around it and sucking, desperate to give her what she gave you.

JJ cried out, her thighs trembling. “I’m gonna cum. don’t stop, don’t fucking stop..”

You didn’t. You sucked harder, your fingers fucking into her just right, and she came hard. Her whole body arching, back bowed, hips grinding into your face as she shouted your name. You felt the flood of wetness around your fingers, tasted the sharp salt of her release, and you didn’t stop until she finally sagged back into the pillows, chest heaving, sweat shining on her skin.

You looked up, your mouth and chin soaked, your fingers still inside her. JJ was staring down at you, dazed and flushed and absolutely wrecked.

“Holy fuck,” she whispered. “You were made for that.”

Emily leaned over and kissed you full on the mouth, slow and deep, moaning as she tasted JJ on your tongue. And you melted between them, your body humming, the night far from over.

Emily was already lying back against the pillows by the time you caught your breath. The shift had been quiet but purposeful, long legs spread open, one hand stroking through JJ’s hair as the blonde kissed down her stomach like she was about to worship her.

You were still between them, dazed and flushed, your lips slick from JJ’s cum, your hands unsure of where to go next. But Emily reached for you with that same deliberate, grounding grace she always had — her fingers brushing gently along your jaw as she tugged you forward to sit beside her, then kneel next to her on the mattress.

Her skin was warm under your touch, a slight sheen of sweat clinging to her chest, her nipples tight and dark. Her breath was slow but not calm. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and filled with heat, but still steady on yours.

JJ kissed the inside of Emily’s thigh, nuzzling there with open adoration. She looked completely at ease between her legs, like that was her natural habitat, tongue out, breath already warming the slick between Emily’s folds. You couldn’t stop staring at them, at the contrast between JJ’s golden hair and Emily’s pale skin, at how Emily’s trimmed dark curls framed her pussy, already wet and pink and shining, clit peeking out like she was waiting for more.

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” JJ murmured against Emily’s thigh, not looking up. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You nodded, cheeks hot. “A lot.”

Emily smiled lazily and reached out to stroke your cheek again, her fingers threading through your hair. “Then come here,” she said softly. “You don’t just get to watch, sweetheart.”

JJ looked up briefly, eyes gleaming. “You’re gonna want a front-row seat for this, anyway.”

You crawled closer, unsure of where to settle — until Emily shifted her hips and patted her chest, then pointed upward, her smirk growing.

“Come sit on my face.”

You blinked, breath catching in your throat. “W-What?”

Emily tilted her head, that maddeningly sexy smirk still there. “I want you to sit on my face while JJ’s eating me out. Think you can handle that, baby?”

You swallowed, a little dizzy from the image that sparked in your head — your thighs bracketing her face, her tongue deep inside you while JJ licked her clit. The idea made your whole body flush hot, your pussy throbbing in fresh want. But it also made your stomach twist with nerves.

You laughed softly, a breathless little sound. “I—what if I hurt you?”

Emily actually chuckled — this low, rich sound that vibrated all the way up your spine. She sat up slightly, her fingers trailing down your back as she pulled you toward her.

“Sweet girl,” she said, voice rough now, eyes locked on yours, “you could grind that perfect pussy on my face until I can’t fucking breathe, and I still wouldn’t want you to stop.”

JJ snorted into Emily’s thigh. “Trust me. She loves it.”

You giggled again, still nervous, but there was something grounding in how sure they both were. You let Emily guide you, your knees sliding over her shoulders, your thighs trembling as you straddled her face.

It felt filthy and impossibly intimate, the position putting you fully on display — open, wet, exposed. But Emily didn’t hesitate. She gripped your hips, strong and sure, and tugged you down the second you were close enough.

Her mouth met your pussy like she’d been waiting all night for the taste. Her tongue was firm, deliberate. Not soft and slow like JJ’s had been, but insistent, greedy. She licked you from your entrance to your clit in one long stroke, moaning into you like you were the treat. You cried out, your hands flying to the headboard to brace yourself as she sucked your clit between her lips and started devouring you.

Beneath you, you could feel every breath she took, every hum against your folds. You could feel her nose nudging your slit, the occasional flick of her tongue dipping inside you before returning to swirl around your clit. You couldn’t believe she could breathe, let alone enjoy it, but the noises she made — desperate, ravenous — left no doubt in your mind.

And then JJ moved.

You watched as she finally leaned in, her mouth parting Emily’s folds, her tongue dragging upward in a slick, practiced stroke. Emily groaned into you the moment JJ touched her, her hips twitching beneath both of you, her hands tightening on your thighs. You felt her moan vibrate against your clit, and the sensation made your entire body seize with pleasure.

JJ’s tongue worked in lazy, deliberate circles, curling against Emily’s clit while her fingers slid between her folds. You saw how wet Emily was — glistening and flushed, her pink slick contrasting against the dark thatch of curls — and JJ made it even messier, mouth wide, tongue lapping, sucking, teasing. And through it all, Emily never stopped licking you.

Her hands guided your hips into a slow grind against her face, her thumbs digging into the curve of your ass as she helped you ride her mouth. You couldn’t hold back the moans spilling from you now, gasping, frantic little cries that only made both women smile harder.

“That’s it,” JJ said breathlessly, watching both of you from below. “Let her fuck you with her mouth, baby. Let her have you.”

Emily growled into your pussy, the sound sending another pulse of pleasure through your core. You were soaked, your folds slippery against her tongue, your clit throbbing with every pass of her mouth.

You could barely hold yourself up anymore, not with Emily’s tongue working your clit like a vice, not with the heat of JJ's lips wrapping around hers in a messy tangle of pleasure at the base of it all.

You looked down between your thighs, saw JJ’s blonde head moving slowly between Emily’s legs, heard the slick sounds of her mouth, the wet suck and slide of her tongue as Emily’s hips rocked against her face. JJ was moaning into her, and Emily was moaning into you, and the whole thing felt like some kind of fever dream — endless, breathless, sinful.

You ground down harder against Emily’s mouth, your clit caught perfectly between her lips, and she hummed in approval, her tongue dragging over you faster now, more focused. You felt the telltale tightening in your belly, your thighs shaking.

And you weren’t sure which of you was going to cum first.

Your thighs were shaking violently now, muscles locked and trembling as you rocked against Emily’s face. You couldn’t stop the way your hips moved, guided first by her firm hands, then by the rhythm of your own frantic need.

Her tongue never let up, curling around your clit, pressing flat against it, sucking you in greedy pulls that sent sparks up your spine. Every moan from her was a vibration against your heat, and you were unraveling under it — nerve by nerve, breath by breath.

Beneath her, JJ was devouring Emily like it was her last meal. You could feel every movement ripple through Emily’s body, the twitch of her thighs, the arch of her back, the way her moans deepened into growls.

JJ’s fingers had disappeared inside her, curling in steady, practiced thrusts, and her tongue flicked fast and filthy over Emily’s clit with a confidence that bordered on feral. You watched the way Emily shook, how her hips stuttered, how her lips stayed locked around your clit even when she was clearly fighting her own orgasm.

It was too much. The sight of it, the sound, the wet slick friction of Emily’s tongue circling your clit, the way she held you down, greedy for every drop of your pleasure.

You cried out, your hands tangling in her hair, hips jerking helplessly as the wave built, and built, and broke.

“F-fuck, I—Mommy—!” you gasped, the word slipping out like it had been buried inside you for years, raw and trembling on your tongue.

The second it passed your lips, your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing. You clamped down around nothing, your pussy fluttering wildly as you ground down on Emily’s face, your slick spilling freely over her mouth, your body shaking in a full-body, messy, overstimulated quake. Your thighs clenched around her head as you came, mouth open in a silent scream, heart thundering in your ears.

And Emily — fuck, Emily — groaned at the sound of it.

She moaned so hard it vibrated into your clit, sent a second shockwave through your already shaking body. And then you felt her seize beneath you. JJ didn’t let up, her tongue relentless against Emily’s clit, her fingers curling deep and Emily came with a choked gasp into your pussy, her hips bucking, legs flexing, fingers digging into your thighs like she never wanted to let go.

You stayed there, breathless, dazed, barely able to hold yourself upright as the aftershocks twitched through you both.

Eventually, with trembling limbs and flushed skin, you began to lift yourself off Emily’s face, knees unsteady, core still pulsing from the sheer intensity of it. You collapsed to the side, half on the mattress, half leaning into JJ’s warm, strong frame. Your heart felt like it might beat out of your chest. You blinked up at the ceiling, your body boneless and slick with sweat, and then your brain caught up.

“I—I didn’t mean to..” you blurted, cheeks flooding with color. “I didn’t mean to say ‘mommy.’ I don’t even know where that came from. Shit—sorry—”

JJ cackled, genuinely delighted, her arm sliding around your waist to pull you close. Emily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest still rising and falling with exertion, a crooked, thoroughly satisfied smile on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Emily said, voice ragged but teasing, “why on earth would you apologize for that?”

JJ leaned over you, nuzzling your cheek with a grin. “She came harder when you said it. I heard it.”

“I felt it,” Emily added, licking her lips. “And if you think I’m not going to make you say it again next time...”

You groaned, hiding your face in JJ’s shoulder. “You two are evil.”

Emily tilted her head, smug and ruined and glowing. “We prefer ‘effective.’”

There was a beat of silence as you caught your breath. Then, feeling reckless and high on whatever hormone cocktail was crashing through your veins, you mumbled without thinking, “I… kinda wanted to call JJ ‘Daddy’ too.”

JJ froze.

You could feel the way her whole body reacted — the immediate stillness, the subtle inhale. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, that wolfish smirk sliding across her face like honey over a blade.

“Oh, baby,” she said, low and smooth and deadly sweet, “you say that to me while I’m inside you, and I swear to God—”

“Language,” Emily deadpanned, eyes still closed, lips twitching.

JJ just growled and bit your shoulder, enough to make you squeak and then laugh breathlessly into her neck. The three of you collapsed together in the sheets — tangled and sticky and sated, limbs overlapping, mouths still tasting of each other.

And as the afterglow wrapped around you like silk, you realized something else entirely:

You hadn’t even gotten to watch them fuck each other yet. On the sidelines at least. This didn't count.

The silence that followed was thick. Not with finality, but with the weight of anticipation. It pressed down on the room like heat after lightning. Emily lay on her back in the mess of pillows, flushed and breathless, her legs still parted slightly, twitching with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Sweat clung to her chest, hair fanned around her like a dark halo, lips parted, gasping. You lay curled against JJ’s side, your cheek pressed to her shoulder, the skin there warm and slick. Her arm rested lazily around you, casual and possessive, fingertips tracing small shapes against your hip.

But then JJ shifted. Slowly. Deliberately. That post-orgasmic softness evaporated as tension re-coiled in her muscles, every movement suddenly charged. You felt the moment it happened, the moment she decided she wasn’t done with either of you.

Her fingers slid from your waist, and she sat up, her body a silhouette in the low light, lean and gleaming with sweat. She moved to the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer without saying a word.

You blinked, dazed and pliant, as she pulled out the harness — matte black leather with soft but strong nylon straps, gleaming subtly as she threaded it through her fingers. Already buckled into the center was a thick strap-on — dark red, bold and intimidating, with the kind of curve that made your mouth go dry. The colour alone was lush and mean, like wine spilled on silk, and the shaft bounced slightly in her grip as she adjusted the fit around her hips.

It wasn’t oversized — but it was thick, heavy-looking, with veins that stood out faintly beneath the smooth, glossy finish. JJ stood to slide it on fully, tightening each strap with the ease of practice, the harness molding to her hips like it belonged there.

Her thighs flexed with each movement, the muscles lean and tense, and the toy hung heavy between them, swaying as she tested her stance. You could barely look away. The sight of her, bare from the waist up, nipples stiff in the cool air, harness snug across her hips, the red strap jutting forward — was dizzying.

You stared up at her, heart kicking hard against your ribs. She looked like danger wrapped in silk. JJ caught your expression and smirked. A lazy, knowing little thing — before turning her gaze to Emily. The shift was immediate. You watched her eyes darken as she looked down at the older woman, still flushed and spread out across the sheets like a gift.

Emily was watching, too — her lips wet, eyes hooded. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She simply dragged one knee higher, then the other, parting her thighs slowly in open invitation. Her body was languid but deliberate, the kind of confidence that came from experience, from being wanted like this before. Her hands slid above her head, wrists resting over the pillows like she was offering herself up for whatever JJ wanted.

JJ moved onto the bed like a predator, slow and controlled, the mattress dipping beneath her knees as she settled between Emily’s thighs. Her hands found Emily’s knees, firm and steady, and she spread her wider with a pressure that brooked no argument.

The strap-on brushed Emily’s inner thigh as she leaned in to kiss her, and the kiss wasn’t soft. It was filthy. Possessive. JJ kissed her like she wanted to eat the sounds out of her mouth.

Emily groaned low and rough against her lips, her hips twitching up on instinct, seeking friction. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as JJ reached down to grip the base of the toy and dragged it through the mess between Emily’s thighs — slow and cruel. The tip smeared through slick folds, gathering the wetness still dripping from her earlier orgasm, the noise obscene in the quiet room.

“Look at you,” JJ murmured against her mouth, voice all grit and velvet. “Still dripping. You want it again that bad?”

Emily gasped, eyes fluttering. “Fuck. Yes. Do it.”

JJ didn’t wait. She lined up the tip and pressed forward — not fast, but relentless. Inch by inch, the strap-on stretched Emily open again, sliding into her with delicious resistance.

You could see it all: how her folds parted, how her cunt fluttered and clenched, glistening and swollen, as the toy pushed inside. Emily’s head rolled back on the pillow, a broken sound punching from her chest as JJ buried the full length of it into her in one long, merciless thrust.

Her hips met Emily’s with a quiet slap, and she paused there — deep, steady — letting her feel every thick inch seated inside. The strain in her stomach was gorgeous, her abs tightening with the angle of the harness, and when she began to move, it was like a slow, controlled roll of thunder.

JJ fucked her with rhythm and intent, hips snapping forward with a force that rocked the bed. Every stroke was deep, dragging back just enough to build pressure before plunging in again.

Emily was a mess. Legs shaking, mouth open, one hand fisting the sheets while the other clawed helplessly at JJ’s shoulder. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples flushed and tight, the sweat on her chest catching the light. Her voice spilled out in fragments, curses, praise, gasped encouragement. Every one of them broken and desperate.

And then JJ turned her head — her mouth damp, her cheeks flushed, hair clinging to her jaw — and looked at you. Her eyes were feral, lips curling into something dark and hungry.

“Come here,” she growled. “Rub her clit for me. Make her cum on it.”

Your whole body jolted with need. You scrambled across the sheets, breath shallow, slipping into place beside them. Emily’s thighs were soaked now — slick glistening across the inside, the toy buried deep between them, JJ’s hips grinding down with obscene force. You reached between Emily’s legs, fingers trembling, and found her clit, hot and swollen, pulsing under your touch.

The second you touched her, Emily gasped, a strangled sound, all nerves and desperation. Her back arched off the bed, hips bucking, and JJ groaned low in approval.

“That’s it, baby,” she rasped, not slowing. “Just like that. Rub her nice and steady.”

You obeyed, rubbing tight, slow circles with two fingers, slick gathering and spreading beneath your hand. You could feel her close — her whole body shivering, muscles clenching as JJ fucked her through it.

The rhythm was relentless now, hard and fast, each thrust angled perfectly to drag across everything inside her. The toy glistened with slick as it drove in and out, Emily’s cunt stretched wide around it, walls fluttering.

Emily broke. She came with a sob, her body wracked with it, thighs squeezing around both of you as her climax tore through her like a wave. Her pussy clenched around the strap, sucking it in greedily, and you didn’t stop, rubbing her through it, keeping her there, her cries turning to whimpers and then laughter, high and breathless and overwhelmed.

JJ didn’t stop either. She fucked her right through it, hips snapping, jaw tight, her own orgasm clearly building as the base of the harness ground against her clit. Her breath went ragged, sweat dripping from her chest, until her thighs shook and she let out a hoarse, broken cry, coming hard against the strap, her whole body jerking.

She collapsed over Emily, forehead pressed to hers, laughing breathlessly, hips twitching a few final times before she stilled.

You dropped beside them, flushed and spent, one leg draped over JJ’s, your body thrumming with arousal and awe. Emily turned her head slowly, face glowing, lashes wet, and looked at you with something soft and dangerous all at once.

“You’re gonna ruin us,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You smiled faintly, lips tingling. “You’re the ones doing all the damage.”

JJ snorted, pulling you closer, her fingers already sliding between your thighs again. “Oh, baby,” she murmured, low and hot against your neck, “we’re just getting started.”

JJ hummed again. That low, deep sound that had trembled against your skin earlier when her mouth was between your thighs, but this time it held something softer.

Final.

She kissed your cheek, slow and warm, before moving her hand away from your still-twitching body. The loss of her touch was immediate and aching, a pang of emptiness so sharp it made your hips jolt after it on instinct. You whined, broken and breathless, a sound caught between need and protest, but you didn’t even realize you’d made it until you felt Emily’s quiet laughter against your skin.

She was behind you, curled into your back like a second heartbeat, her chest rising and falling slowly against your shoulder blades. Her lips pressed to your temple, the kiss delicate but grounding. “Shh, baby,” she murmured, voice worn to velvet. “You’ll survive. You’ve had enough for now.”

Enough, like that word could even apply here. Your body was wrung out, oversensitive, everything beneath your skin still humming from pleasure and adrenaline, but your mind was still open, spinning somewhere between arousal and awe. You could still feel the echo of JJ moving inside Emily, still smell sex thick in the air, still taste Emily’s sweat on your lips from earlier.

JJ, now sitting upright on the edge of the bed, stretched one leg out and flexed her toes as she reached down, fingers hooking through the black leather straps at her hips.

She exhaled, slow and steady, as she unbuckled the harness, the glossy crimson toy still glistening at its base with Emily’s slick. Each metallic click of the straps releasing was loud in the quiet room, and the way JJ moved was calm, methodical, a woman unwinding after total dominance, made something flutter deep in your chest.

She eased the strap-on off with care, setting it aside on the nightstand, and glanced over her shoulder at the two of you. You expected her to be smug, maybe teasing, but her gaze was softer than that. Warm. Protective.

“We just guided you through your first time, baby,” JJ said, her voice a little rough from exertion. Her eyes met yours like she wanted you to believe every word. “And you were so fucking good for us. You gave us everything.”

She leaned forward, brushing damp hair back from your forehead with gentle fingers. “But now it’s time to take care of that beautiful body. Clean you up, fresh sheets, water... and sleep. You’ve earned that much, haven’t you?”

You could only nod, your throat too tight to speak.

JJ rose and padded out of the room, still bare, the sweat on her skin catching in the light like gold. Her silhouette was breathtaking — the way her spine curved, muscles moving under damp skin, the faint strap marks along her hips where the harness had dug in. You watched her disappear into the bathroom and heard the faint rush of water and the clink of a basin being filled.

Before you could move, Emily stirred behind you, and her hands found your arms, firm but slow, coaxing. You let her pull you gently upward. Your legs were wobbly beneath you, muscles trembling with that distinct post-orgasmic ache, and Emily caught you effortlessly before you could even start to stumble.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, arms wrapping beneath your thighs and around your back in one smooth, practiced motion. You gasped, startled at the ease with which she lifted you.

“Em...”

“Shh,” she said again, amused but kind. “You’re not walking right now. You’re floating. And I want to hold you while you are.”

She carried you across the room like you weighed nothing. Strong arms under your thighs, your head tucked into the crook of her neck where her pulse beat steady and warm. Her skin still smelled like sweat and sex, but beneath that: the faintest trace of her perfume. Something floral. Powdery. Comforting.

Emily gently set you down on the ottoman at the end of the bed. The soft padding underneath you was cool against your thighs, a welcome contrast to the flushed heat of your skin. Your limbs drooped, loose and heavy, as if you were melting into the cushion. You blinked, dizzy, watching her move back toward the bed.

She began stripping the sheets with efficient, practiced hands — tugging away the damp, tangled mess that smelled like all three of you. There were smudges of slick on the cotton, dark patches of sweat, and your head swam just looking at the physical proof of what had just happened. You stirred, tried to sit up, guilt flickering behind your ribs as you pushed a shaky hand toward the nearest pillow.

“I can help—”

Emily turned her head toward you, and the look she gave stopped you instantly. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t harsh. It was just final, a warning made with nothing but her eyes and the firm set of her mouth. A single raised brow told you everything you needed to know.

“No,” she said, gently but firmly. “You just sit there, baby. Let us take care of you for once.”

You swallowed your protest, a little embarrassed, a lot relieved. JJ returned a moment later, a tub of warm water in one hand and a pile of soft towels tucked under her other arm. Her steps slowed when she saw you, her expression softening with something that looked like quiet pride.

“Still with us?” she asked, setting the towels down.

“Barely,” you whispered, eyes fluttering.

JJ smiled. “Good. Just let go.”

She knelt in front of you, knees brushing yours as she dipped a cloth into the tub. The water smelled faintly of lavender, something calming, and the towel came up warm and damp against your inner thighs. You twitched instinctively, breath catching as she cleaned you.

Her fingers were gentle, reverent, as she wiped between your legs, across the curve of your mound, the crease of your thighs. The cloth swept through the slick gathered there, your skin tender and raw, and yet there was nothing clinical about it. It was intimate. A ritual.

When you whimpered at the sensitivity, she paused, kissed your knee, and murmured, “Almost done, baby. You’re doing so good.”

When she was finished, she turned toward Emily and began to do the same, wiping her slowly, her hands never rushing. Emily let her, head tilted back, arms loose at her sides, eyes half-lidded. There was something deeply sensual in her surrender. In how she let JJ care for her.

Finally, JJ stood. Her skin gleamed under the dim lights, her thighs damp, the faint sheen of slick still streaked along her hips and down the insides of her legs. She hesitated, then cleared her throat.

“Um,” she said, suddenly uncertain. “I could clean myself, but… would you?”

You blinked, surprised — not by the request, but by the vulnerability in it. JJ, who had been so powerful, so in control earlier, now stood with one hand curled nervously around her opposite wrist. You nodded.

You stood, legs still trembling, and reached for a fresh towel, guiding her toward the edge of the bed. She sat, and you knelt between her legs, mirroring what she had done for you. You cleaned her with slow care, wiping the sticky sheen from her skin, watching her soften beneath your touch.

She let her head fall back, mouth parting, chest rising with every breath. You moved in gentle circles, catching every drop of dried sweat, every smear of wetness, until she was clean and blinking down at you with the most open look you’d ever seen on her face.

She cupped your cheek and kissed you. Sweet, no hunger behind it and then helped you back into bed.

You lay between them now, beneath clean sheets, your bodies warm and entangled. JJ curled around your front, arm draped possessively over your waist. Emily pressed close behind you, her hand tucked between your breasts, her lips brushing the nape of your neck.

The bed smelled like lavender, skin, and the lingering haze of arousal. Everything ached, but it was the good kind — the kind that reminded you of pleasure, of being filled and seen and wanted.

Silence blanketed the room like a balm.

“Still floating?” Emily asked after a while, voice hushed.

“Mm-hmm.” You nodded slowly, eyes closed. “But in a good way.”

JJ’s voice was a little rough, but still warm. “That’s normal. First time like this... it opens you up in more ways than one.”

You chuckled weakly. “Understatement.”

“You gave us everything tonight,” Emily whispered, her hand tightening slightly over your chest. “You let us see you. That’s the real intimacy. The rest is just… decoration.”

JJ sighed contentedly and nudged your thigh with hers. “If we weren’t already obsessed with you, we would be now.”

“Is this your version of pillow talk?” you mumbled, sleep tugging at your mind like gravity.

“It’s our version of saying,” Emily murmured, “you’re ours now.”

You blinked up at the ceiling, your body warm and safe between them. “I think I want that.”

“You have it,” JJ murmured into your shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere.”

You drifted to sleep surrounded by their warmth, their bodies tangled with yours like armor. And long after your eyes closed, their hands stayed right where they were, keeping you grounded, cherished, claimed.

Safe.

Loved.

[lupusaur]

your last fic had my climb the walls, i’m thinking shepherds dog! bob, shepherd! john, and ofc lamb! reader

i hear u sister and while i should be doing these 4 assignments due tonight #collegeprocrastinators im a whore for sentryagent !!

I didn't know if u meant Shepherd!John with Shepherd Dog!Bob or Shepherd Dog!Bob and Shepherd Dog!John so instead of asking u im showing my appreciation for ur art by doing both

Shepherd!John and Shepherd Dog!Bob w Lamb!reader

I'd like to think that with this pairing, John gets you later down the line for Bob. While the mutt is horny and he takes care of him, it's more to help ease Bob into herding animals. You're just a test run to see if Bob can do a job without humping John's leg.

So when he checks on him and sees the dog rutting into your pussy instead of helping you adjust to your new life, he isn't shocked. Just surprised that he's insatiable to the point that he found someone who won't make him wait until the day is over. John was told your kind wasn't the smartest, but was smart enough to help take care of your animal counterpart, so did you think Bob was a weird-looking sheep hybrid or did the horny mutt force himself onto you?

And when he walks up to the two of you, the first thing Bob does is apologize but his thrusts aren't slowing down in the slightest. “After ‘m done giving her my knot, I'll knot you later..promise! I'll be good, its just this pussy was taunting me. Had to show her who's in charge. Have to knot her. I can't— my job includes putting her in line right? I'm doing a good job right? Putting this pussy in line…you'll reward me lots right?” The dog was drooling at this point while you hadn't even noticed John until he tapped your cheek to check if you were still conscious.

“Master…? Master! S–Sorry for zoning— ah! Zoning out…please don't punish me I'll stay focused this time! Just no more biting please..!” Indeed, there were bite marks on your neck, shoulders, and even your arms. Bruised and bloodied. Bob must've reprimanded you when you fell unconscious, as he was usually on the receiving end of punishment when he slacked off, and thought you were slacking off and not being fucked silly to the point of passing out.

What a mess. John would've gotten another dog hybrid but Bob gets whiny and possessive at the mention of one, even if it's to help him do less work. And now if he brought it up, with you in the picture, he'd be lucky if the hybrid wasn't killed. Maybe he'll get two and pair them together so Bob can have both his cakes and eat them. For now, he reached between the two of you and gripped Bob's knot, applying pressure to stimulate and prevent him from knotting you.

Letting out a noise between a whine and a sob, he tried to push his knot past the hand into your warm pussy, desperate to tie the two of you together and prevent his seed from being wasted. “What— Why? I have to knot her! She needs it, look how badly she's squeezing me! So close please don't make me cum like this please don't—!” It only took a single finger in his ass to send him over the edge. Bob was crying now but it didn't stop him from licking all over your face and into your mouth, still attempting to push himself deeper into you like John's hand would magically let go. Instead, he was yanked away by his tail.

“Thanks to someone we're gonna be behind on schedule. Hope it was worth it, cause now you're on a ban until you do yer job properly, Bobby.” The pathetic shepherd dog watched as he picked you up, following him and begging for another chance. “Pleasepleaseplease I promise I'll finish quicker next time! Please don't be mad I'll make it up to you John just please let me knot you both I'll die if I can't!”

What a dramatic whiner. John wonders how such a strong and dangerous dog can be such a loser. It's a shame, but at least now John can fuck you in front of the mutt to rub salt on the wound.

Shepherd Dogs John and Bob w/ Lamb!reader

For this, I imagine that both John and Bob work under the shepherd lesbians Ava and Yelena(☝️🤓) or an unnamed shepherd who doesn't care what the two do as long as they do their job.

Surprisingly, the two are very good at it because John keeps Bob focused and they also explore each other's body during their ruts or when one gets horny (mainly Bob the Insatiable) and both of them usually have good recovery due to their enhancements, so there's no worry when it comes to wasting time or being slow.

Then enter you. Brought in as a gift from a friend when they heard that having a hybrid could help with communication for things the dogs couldn't pick up. John was offended that some idiot with wool in their brain could pick up something he couldn't, and Bob was happy to have another hybrid friend on the team that isn't John. It isn't until they see you look up at them with an innocent smile during introductions that something in them changes.

The size difference is obvious but it's how you're so vulnerable and a bit of an idiot that it tempts them to make a move on you. John shamelessly grabs your ass and rubs your pussy but you don't get mad and call him a pervert, you just tell him that you aren't a dog and that Bob is over there. “You're so silly, I'm a lamb!” And Bob, the certified humper he is, always pulls you close to him and ruts against any part of you he can. “H–Hey, I'm a lamb! John's over there!” It's cute how you think they're the ones who are dumb, but they'll play along until they both need to feel a release.

When that happens, you aren't saying “I'm not a dog” but rather “I don't want to get in trouble for slacking off”.

They both have their mouths on your pussy, licking up your juices and each other's spit until they deem you ready. But then they fight over who can have your pussy first. “Obviously me, I'm the one keeping everyone on schedule.” “But— I'm doing better! I deserve a reward for my efforts, and this pussy wants to congratulate me too...” It came to a point where you were able to get enough strength to (try to) push them away that John got an idea.

“Then we'll both do it. That pussy can fit us both, we can work on getting our knots in her down the line.”

Shaking your head, any reasonings and attempts to stop the dogs from both fitting their cocks into your pussy was ignored. Bob only shushed you, reassuring that “this pretty pussy is begging for us both, you don't wanna deny her right?” and kissing you to get your mind off of it. By the time they both were nestled into your heat, your brain was mush. Unable to properly form a sentence and speak coherently, but they knew what you wanted. Or rather, what you needed. While they couldn't fit both their knots into you yet, they were content at how tightly you squeezed them which only fueled into thoughts of how it'd feel if they did fit their knots.

It had to happen soon.

But after painting your body in bites and bruises, licking your face, and drooling into your mouth, they were satisfied. This new arrangement would be permanent, as they were more efficient in their tasks afterward since it meant having more time to stretch you so the day you would take both their knots at the same time would come soon.

[little-diable]

I’ve Got You Under My Skin - Dean Winchester (smut)

Written for the 5k celebration of lovely @zepskies - congrats again!! Inspired by the song "I’ve Got You Under My Skin" by Frank Sinatra. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Dean and the reader travel back to the 1950s to kill a demon, an eventful day which ends with their hearts finally beating in sync

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, friends to lovers, killing a demon

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (2.6k words)

I've got you under my skin, I've got you deep in the heart of me, so deep in my heart that you're really a part of me

Her bright dress swung with every turn she took, hands clinging to the tray while trying not to trip in her heels. Even though she tried to stay focused on the glasses she was carrying and the Frank Sinatra song filling the diner, her eyes couldn’t help but flicker back to him.

He looked shamelessly good in his suit, hair gelled back to expose every part of that handsome face she could paint with her eyes closed. Dean watched her from his spot, unable to bite down his smirk as (y/n) kept waiting the tables.

Both had been sent back to 1953, hoping to find the demon they had been hunting for weeks on end, needing to put an end to his wicked game. She had been working for the past hour, sharing some lies about helping out since her friend couldn’t turn up for work, and the busy diner hadn’t offered any clear moments for the rest of the staff to see through her lies.

It was pure torture, feeling his eyes on her wherever she went, as if he wasn’t paying attention to their hunt but solemnly to her. An enigma she had no time to solve. A mystery so confusing she feared she may never understand it fully. Dean Winchester was everything she was drawn to but also everything she’d never be fortunate enough to call hers. 

“Is that your boyfriend?” Linda, the girl she was working the shift with, mumbled the words. (Y/n) could tell she was looking right at Dean, not able to rip her attention away from the man who drew all eyes towards him wherever he went. “I mean, he has to be, he looks at you as if you’re the first woman he’s ever seen.”

“He’s just taking care of me.” She shot Linda a quick smile before she reached for the next order, needing to run from this conversation before she’d fall into the rabbit hole she was all too familiar with. There was no escaping Dean Winchester, no way to hide from the man who would always find her no matter where she went. 

I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near, in spite of a warning voice that comes in the night, and repeats, repeats in my ear

(Y/n) was too deep in thought to notice the tall frame she was about to run into, colliding with a broad chest. Her wide eyes flickered up to the man she had collided with while the tray fell to the ground. It felt as if the seconds had stopped passing by, as if her breath was stolen right from her lungs as she got lost in black eyes. 

The smirk thrown her way made her shudder, body frozen as the demon they had been waiting for stared down at her. She tried to rip herself free, but his grasp was too tight, not daring to let go of her. Bruises were undoubtedly starting to form on her wrists, a reminder of another hunt she’d dream of for longer than she liked to admit. And then chaos began to unfold as if running into him had pushed over the first domino stone. 

Dean had started moving, pushing people out of the way as he reached for the Colt. Screams echoed through the diner the second people saw the gun, almost drowning out the song which kept ringing through the air. (Y/n)’s eyes met Deans, knowing it was on her to push the demon closer to Dean.

She moved with all her strength, feeling her heels being glued down to the sticky floor as he laughed down at her with something so sinister she knew even Cain would feel a shudder run down his spine. The demon mumbled something she couldn’t pay attention to, not when she knew she only had a few moments to rip herself free before the bullet would pierce his skin. 

Don't you know little fool, you never can win? Use your mentality, wake up to reality, but each time that I do, just the thought of you, makes me stop before I begin, 'cause I've got you under my skin

Everything happened within the span of a handful of seconds, and yet it felt as if endless hours were passing by. She managed to give him another push, something he had seemingly not seen coming as he stumbled back and let go of her. The sound of the Colt going off rang in her ears, drawing her focus back to the demon Dean had managed to kill just in time. 

(Y/n) pushed herself towards Dean, eyes set on his hardened features. He pulled her closer as the sound of sirens filled the afternoon, knowing they’d be pulled back into their timeline soon enough. Her heart was racing, pounding in her chest as if she had been running for hours, all to find shelter in Dean’s arms. 

“Are you okay?” He mumbled the words, hands finding her cheeks to keep staring at her as if he was waiting for (y/n) to faint. She got no time to reply, could only nod before both were pulled from this very diner. 

…

She had her back pressed against the mattress of her bed, eyes focused on the dress she had worn earlier that day, hung up near the door for her to get lost in her memories. (Y/n) could still smell the greasy food being cooked in the diner, she could still feel the cold trays pressed against her fingers, she could still hear the song which had filled the diner over and over again.

But no matter how many times she tried to live through the memories, her mind kept pulling her back to Dean. She could still see the suit clinging to his body, the way his green eyes had watched her every move as if she was a shadow which had once been sewn to his heels and had managed to cut itself free. 

(Y/n) was too deep in thought to pick up on him knocking on her door, slowly stepping into the room as if he was trying to figure out if she was already asleep. Dean leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest, allowing his muscles to tighten beneath the flannel he wore over his shirt. 

“Hey,” he whispered the word, managing to rip her out of her thoughts. Her eyes found his, gaze drawn towards Dean to study him. Wordlessly she patted the spot next to her, allowing Dean to move towards her bed and to sit down next to her. For a moment, neither Dean nor (y/n) spoke, not daring to interrupt the comfortable silence which wrapped itself around them. 

“You should wear that dress again, it looks good on you.” Heat clung to her as Dean whispered the praising words, eyes focused on her dress. She couldn’t help but chuckle, rolling her eyes while she turned onto her side to fully look at him. 

“You’re biased, you just like seeing more of my cleavage.” It was nothing but a harmless jab, words which drew his gaze back to her. They held eye contact, not daring to look away from one another, not even as Dean’s hand found hers to slowly interlock their fingers. 

“I just like having you close, you in a dress like that is just an extra bonus.” He smirked at her, undoubtedly trying to distract her from the quiet confession rolling off of his tongue. (Y/n) kept quiet, eyes wandering over his handsome features, trying to count the freckles sticking to his cheeks, getting lost in the intense eyes always following her around, and the sight of the lips she wanted to feel pressed against hers. A draw so strong her body began to move before her mind could catch up.

Her lips found Dean’s, softly testing the waters as if she was trying to figure out if he was comfortable with the new sensation. But Dean instantly got lost in the touch, pulling her closer for (y/n) to straddle his waist. Their lips moved in sync, kissing one another breathless to communicate all the emotions they had been holding back for months on end. 

Kissing Dean Winchester felt like a confession spoken in the quiet of the night, echoing through a church to lure all sinners from their graves. It was a sensation so intense, (y/n) no longer knew how she could have ever lived without experiencing it. Dean’s hands found her back, stroking up and down her sides while she pressed herself even closer. 

“I was close to pulling you towards the bathroom earlier, fuck, I wanted to touch you, make you feel what you’re doing to me.” His raspy words made her choke on her breath. Both were panting, set on pulling enough air into their aching lungs before they’d get lost in another kiss.

“I was kind of hoping you would.” It was enough for Dean, enough confirmation to switch positions, burying (y/n) beneath him. With his knees pressed to the mattress, he stayed between her thighs, wandering hands tugging on her shirt to pull it over her head. His eyes were focused on her naked chest, hands cupping her breasts while a moan clawed through the both of them. 

“Always knew you were beautiful, should have done this much sooner.” The words got lost between them as Dean kissed her soft skin, tongue teasing her hardening nipples while she impatiently tried to pull him closer with her legs finding their way around his waist. She wanted to feel all of him, just like she had dreamt of for the past months, hoping that he’d eventually touch her like he undoubtedly touched all of those girls he met on their hunts. 

“Dean,” she choked on his name, hoping that he’d move further down south. His chuckles vibrated on her skin as he kissed his way to her panties. Their eyes met again, sharing a wordless conversation while he teasingly slowly pushed the already damp fabric aside, thumb finding her pulsing bundle. The fire burning inside of (y/n) only grew stronger, fuelled by his touch, set on burning all the spots he touched as if he didn’t know what he was doing to her. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart, is that what you want?” He kept circling her clit, undoubtedly ravelling in her moans and the way she could barely form a single sentence. She could only nod her head, overcome by the intense sensation he managed to make her feel with a few simple touches. “Let me hear that pretty voice.”

“Don’t tease, please.” Dean only hummed, he let his fingers brush her folds, picking up drops of her arousal before pushing them into her tightness. She arched her back off the mattress, hands clinging to the covers as if they could ground her, trying not to leave this dimension before he could properly fuck her. 

“Is this what you want?” She bit her lip, unable to speak. Dean curled his fingers against her swollen spot, making her see stars as he fucked her closer towards the edge with his skilled fingers. “God, sweetheart, you’re a sight, don’t think I can ever let go of you again.”

Nothing but a “please” left (y/n), a sound followed by a loud gasp as Dean let go of her. He drew his fingers from her, eyes watching her while he brought them up to his lips. The smirk lingering on his lips only grew wider as he tasted her with a satisfied moan — a sight so distracting, she almost forgot about the orgasm he had pulled her from too early.

“Will you let me feel you?” He didn’t move, not until she nodded her head all too eagerly. (Y/n) watched him undress, dropping the layers which hid the body she wanted to feel pressed against hers. She couldn’t help but sit up, finding his lips for another breathless kiss, tongues getting tangled while Dean shifted them around. He pulled her panties down her legs before reaching for her bedside drawer, reaching for one of the condoms he had found weeks ago and had endlessly teased her about, trying to distract her from the jealousy swimming in his pupils. “Are you ready, sweetheart?”

“God yes, please, Dean.” He pushed into her, slowly, carefully, all to drag out the moment of them being together for the first time. Both were panting, foreheads pressed together while their bodies adjusted to one another, already feeling the way their bond grew tighter. 

Dean fucked her as if time had stopped for them, moving slow enough to make her impatiently scratch at his back, leaving marks to remind him of their first time together. With her legs slung around his waist, (y/n) kept him even closer, feeling him buried deep inside of her with every calculated thrust.

“Fuck, I was hard just from seeing you in that dress. Didn’t think I’d ever get to touch you like that.” Dean’s words made her moan, walls tightening around him while she pulled him back down for a kiss. She used his moment of distraction to push him against the mattress, allowing her to ride him.

“Been aching for this since we met, maybe we did something good after all to deserve this.” (Y/n) panted the words, Dean’s strong hands supported her movements, allowing her to take what she was aching for. It was a sight so beautiful, Dean knew the moment would be over all too soon, pushed over the edge by the sight of her riding him.

“I’ve got you under my skin, sweetheart, you’re mine, mine to fuck, mine to love.” (Y/n) shuddered at the words, fingernails trying to claw themselves into his chest. Dean’s fingers found her bundle of nerves, set on pushing her over the edge first, which he did seconds later. 

His name left her, she had her head thrown back, eyes pressed shut to cling to the sensation. With his heels pressed to the mattress, Dean fucked into her until he came shortly after her. A deep groan left him, filling her room while (y/n) collapsed on top of him, pressing her naked chest to his. 

“Next time you wear that dress, I’ll bend you over the nearest surface.” Dean’s murmurs made her chuckle, tired eyes finding his. (Y/n) cupped his warm cheek, feeling his stubble press against her skin while she kissed him again. 

“Only when I wear that dress?“ Dean growled at her words, hand clinging to the back of her neck to keep her close. 

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ll gladly start and end every day like that for the rest of our lives.” 

But each time I do, just the thought of you, makes me stop just before I begin, 'cause I've got you under my skin, yes, I've got you, under my skin

[mylovewasbulletproof]

Catalyst pt 2

couple of quick updates: I decided I’m not re-writing part 1 (at least right now) and you all seemed to enjoy it so here we go

If you haven’t read pt 1 it offers some back story but I don’t think you’ll be totally lost if you don’t read it

I have more ideas for this pairing as well as ideas for some robby pairings. let me know if you want more!

warnings: Pittfest, anxiety, panic attacks, soft!jack, canon typical injuries, likely some medical inaccuracies, angst, hurt/comfort, implied suicidal thoughts, mention of throwing up, dissociation, angst, death of a patient, still pining but getting closer for sure

Jack Abbot x R4 amputee reader

——————————————————————

You never liked working day shifts. It felt like you were too noticeable. Working the night shift had always felt comfortable. Like the darkness could hide you away if you need it to.

The only reason you were back at the Pitt was because Dana had asked you to cover for Robby. It was the anniversary of Adamson’s passing and he usually took it off.

“Did you know Dr. Robby was working today?” You asked Jack who had been giving you shift change notes

“No. No idea.” He shrugged before telling you that he would see you later for the next shift change

——————————————————————

One thing about the day shift is that you were never bored. With an average wait time of 3 hours in the waiting room, you were doing your best to treat patients and discharge them as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, not everyone in the waiting room appreciated your effort.

You were checking in on Dana, who thankfully hadn’t been seriously injured by an angry patient, when she got the call.

There was a shooter at Pittfest and we needed to prepare the ER for a mass casualty incident.

Your breath hitched and suddenly you couldn’t hear anything over your heart beat echoing in your ears. A loud clap from Dr. Robby seemed to reset your senses. You hadn’t even realized that Jack was already here.

You were told that you were going to assist both the red zone and triage. Dr. Robby trusted you to make quick decisions about where you were needed most given the current patients coming in. Before patients started arriving, he asked you to start stocking all the trauma bays with the supplies coming out of the mass casualty incident bins.

“Do we have any more ket or roc vials I can put in the last few trauma bays?” You asked Jack, knowing he was coordinating the flow of supplies

“Not currently. I’m waiting on one more bin. There should be some more within the next 2 minutes” Jack replied, checking inventory lists

“Ok, I’ll be back then” you were halfway to exiting the bay when he called your name

“Are you okay? I know-“

“I’m fine. I don’t have any other choice. Right?” you cut him off before he could finish his sentence

“If you need anything, come find me. Okay?” he meets your eyes for a split second, softening his just enough to only be noticeable to you

——————————————————————

Patients came pouring in. At this point, you had lost track of how many patients you’d treated. It seemed like one patient would stabilize, just for another one to crash.

You hadn’t spent long in triage. Just enough time to grab your next patient. On your way out of the ambulance bay you tried not to glare at the reporter trying to shove her way inside.

“Ok, ma’am you can let go now” you say gently, trying to pull her son from her arms

“I want to stay with my son” she says

“He will be very close by. This one’s red, I’ll take it” you say before pushing off with the gurney

“How can I help?” Mohan meets you at the double doors

“I need hemostatic dressings, a chest tube, probably O neg, at least a bag. It’s a penetrating chest wound left side” you instruct, looking for a space to stop your patient and begin working

“I don’t have a pulse” Mohan calls

“God damn it” you position yourself on top of the gurney, beginning compressions

“Mohan, I need you to use an IO drill to go into the bone marrow and start the transfusion” you instruct, pausing to get a pulse check

Mohan follows your instructions. Handing off the blood bag to Princess to hold

“I’m gonna have to put in a chest tube and try auto-transfusing. He’s just losing too much”

Jack couldn’t help but let his eyes flick up from his own patient to look up at you. He wasn’t sure what injuries your patient had but regardless it didn’t make sense to try and auto-transfuse without a pulse. It didn’t make sense why you hadn’t called it yet. He passed his patient off to Walsh before crossing over to where you were working.

“Penetrating chest wound. Gone through 2 hemostatic dressings. Transfused 1 bag of O neg, just started auto-transfusing” you call, sensing his presence behind you

“How much are you looking to auto-transfuse?” He asks softly, glancing between you and your patient

“Not sure. 1200 maybe?” you pause again, looking for a pulse, before quickly resuming

“Then what?” He asks, trying to get you to think through the process and realize that you needed to call time of death

“I don’t know Dr. Abbot. Why don’t you tell me?” you huffed, not understanding why he was choosing now to watch you work

Jack looked a little bit closer at the patient. It was then that he realized that this injury mirrored your brothers’. The patient was a similar age. He took a deep breath before offering his advice:

“If he was my patient, I’d have called it. Look at that wound Y/N. In the field he would’ve been pronounced.”

“He had a pulse when he came in. If I can just get his volume back up” You rush out

“You’d need several bags of blood that we just don’t have. If he was our only patient, maybe. But even then chances would be slim” he sighs, a sinking feeling brewing in his chest

You did one more round and one more check for a pulse with the Doppler before pushing back and calling time of death. Jack watched as you definitely jumped down from the patient harder than necessary. Scribbling furiously on the card attached to your patient. He didn’t even have a chance to speak before you were rushing off and he was being pulled for a different patient.

——————————————————————

Eventually, the ambulances and vehicles began to slow. The red and pink zones had been cleared. It was mostly patients in the yellow zone waiting to be scheduled for surgery or moved upstairs. You had been moving on auto pilot since you had called time of death. But as people around you started to slow down, you realized that you needed to go notify the boy’s family.

They teach you in med school that grief can express itself in many different ways. Some people cry, some people scream, others stare at the wall in shock, and some get angry.

You knew all of that and thought you had prepared yourself well enough. This wasn’t the first patient you had lost. You had done this before and watched both Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot do them as well.

You knocked on the closed door of the family room. You took one big deep breath before entering the room.

“Thank you for your patience. My name is Dr. L/N and I worked on your son when he came in this evening”

“Yes, please, tell us about our son, Henry” his mother trembled, waiting anxiously for your reply

“Henry came in with very serious injuries. The bullet entered the left side of his chest, through his lung, before stopping several inches from his spine. He lost his pulse very quickly after arriving. The blood loss was too severe. I am so sorry for your loss” you finished, before bracing yourself

Immediately his father began throwing insults and casting blame. He had said you didn’t try hard enough and that you should’ve been able to save him, along with several expletives describing you. His mother just repeated no over and over again, covering her ears and rocking back and forth.

You restated how sorry you were for their loss before excusing yourself from their room. The hallway passed by in a blur, you had one place you were headed for. Only stopping long enough to empty your stomach into a trash can nearby.

——————————————————————

Jack had listened as Dr. Robby did his debrief. Subtly scanning the room, he realized you weren’t there. He knew it would look bad if he left in the middle of Michael’s debrief but he was itching to go find you. But he also knew you weren’t okay after calling that time of death. Things had moved so quickly afterwards that he hadn’t had a chance to find you and talk through it.

He waited until Michael was done, making sure to confirm that he was up for a beer in the park before setting off towards the elevators.

As he pushed open the door to the roof, it didn’t take long for his eyes to find your pacing figure. He could tell your eyes were red and puffy and you were limping. There was something bothering you about your prosthetic but you just kept walking back and forth.

You were re-running every second of that code in your head — trying and failing to convince yourself that. The pain in your leg was background noise to the chaos unfolding in your head. The only thing you could feel was the sting of the wind against your soaked cheeks and the suffocating weight on your chest.

Jack couldn’t stand to watch you walk back and forth for much longer. He slowly approached, trying to make some noise to avoid scaring you. But you were clearly somewhere else, not registering your surroundings. It scared Jack, seeing you so dissociated and so close to the edge of that roof. He was starting to understand Michael’s concern when the roles were reversed.

He had made one last attempt to get your attention before deciding that he needed to step in front of you. Hopefully it would disrupt the cycle you were stuck in and begin to ground you. He moved just slightly into your path, hands out to steady you. You bumped into his chest which caused you to look up at him. His relief didn’t last long when he realized it was like you were looking through him. He’d seen that thousand yard stare before , in comrades on the battlefield, in himself after a particularly bad nightmare. He lightly grabbed both sides of your face, just enough pressure to pull you back to the present.

Your breath caught slightly, like it got stuck in your throat. Your eyes seemed to clear, just slightly before your breathing picked up and you began mumbling. It took him several seconds to realize what you were saying

“It’s my fault. I couldn’t save him. I’m so sorry”

“Hey Y/N, I need you to focus on me. Big deep breaths” he urged, he could practically see your carotid pulse moving in your neck

You stopped speaking but continued to shake your head. Your knees buckled soon after, causing him to move one of his hands to your waist to steady you.

“Ok honey. Let’s sit down. Okay?” He tapped his fingers against the side of your waist before guiding the both of you into a seated position. He moved so you were sitting chest to chest, leaving enough space for your legs to stretch out behind him. He took both your hands, pressing one to his chest, directly over his heart and the other he began to squeeze gently.

“Come on. Match my breathing. I don’t want you passing out on me” he pushed, watching as you began to try and slow your breathing

“Good girl. That’s it. Keep going. You’re doing so good” he felt some of the weight lift off his shoulders as your pulse and breathing began to even out

The two of you sat like that for several more minutes. Trying to center yourselves.

“Jack?” your voice cracked, dragging your eyes from their spot on the floor to meet his

“Yes honey. I’m right here. Talk to me” his face had softened in ways you had never seen before — the creases by his eyes smoothed, his mouth didn’t seem permanently stuck in a scowl

“He looked just like him. And I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save either of them” your voice trailed off as you curled into yourself

“I know. But there was no saving that boy tonight and you have no blame in what happened to your brother, you know that” he murmured, reaching up to your cheek to catch a stray tear

“I just don’t understand why I keep being spared as the people around me die. Why did I become a doctor if I can’t save people?” you sniffled

“You worked on 27 different patients today. 26 of them are on their way to recovery because of you. You’ll always remember the ones you couldn’t save but I refuse to let you convince yourself that you’re a bad doctor. That’s basically an insult towards me. I trained you” the corners of his mouth twitched up, hoping that it would help lighten your mood

You yawned before realizing that you were still sitting in Jack’s lap. You scrambled off, opting to sit down next to him. He still hasn’t let go of your hand, as if he’s worried you’ll float away if he does. You hesitate for a moment, before leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder

“Michael has two beers with our names on it if you want to go join the crew or I can just take you home” he looked down at you, offering you the options

“I need at least one beer before I go home or I won’t be able to sleep tonight” you groan, slowly pushing yourself back into a standing position

You offer Jack your hand again, helping him stand up

“Will you let me look at your leg while you drink?” He asks, gently tapping his prosthetic against yours

“How did you-“ you pause before deciding against finishing your question “If you want. I guess. I think it’s just inflamed. I didn’t expect to be here this long so I didn’t wear the right sleeve”

He hums in acknowledgment, pulling you towards the door, “I want to check it for cellulitis, just to be safe”

“You act like I’m not a doctor myself” you huff, pulling yourself a bit closer to him, shivering as the wind blew

“It’s actually because I know you’re a doctor that I know you’re not going to pay attention to it unless it gets bad. It’s okay to let people take care of you”

“That’s rich coming from the self care king himself. I’ll let you take care of me as soon as you let me take care of you” you retort, and for once Jack didn’t have some witty reply ready. He would let you take care of him. But neither of you were ready to admit that.

The staff that worked in the Pitt that night would be undeniably changed for the rest of their lives. What happened that night was horrific but it also made you so incredibly grateful for your found family.

————————————————————————

thank you for all the love on the last part!