#let me practice my self confidence she doesn’t get to see the light of day lot | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fuqnia · 5 days ago

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VERONICA! OPEN THE DOOR

☆kyle broflovski x fem!reader

☆ A/N | hii, so recently my long fic 'most wanted' reached over 100 kudos on ao3 which is so crazy to me! thank u everyone for the support regarding my works <3 i reached out to the first commenter on the platforms i write for, and they wanted me to write a mean kyle smut... im gonna be honest, this piece is from my stan x reader x kyle self indulgent fanfic that is a 600 page google doc, and WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY. .

☆ C/W | nsfw (18+) fem. afab reader, unprotected sex, hate sex, p in v, squirting, all characters are aged up!

☆ god this is so cringe, everyone is so ooc, and frankly i'm sorry </3 but kyle running and screaming after the reader while she is crying is so funny.

The warm glow of fairy lights strung across the walls softened the chaos of Red’s dorm room. Piles of clothes were scattered across the bed, a mixture of bold patterns and edgy leather pieces that screamed confidence. You sat cross-legged among the mess, a pair of black tights clutched in your lap, while Red fussed with her hair in front of the mirror.

Her signature straight red locks—bright enough to catch the light like a flame—fell in perfect sheets over her shoulders as she adjusted a strand with practiced ease. “Alright, babe,” she said, turning to assess you with a critical eye. “This party isn’t just any party. It’s Kenny’s twenty-first, which means we’re pulling out all the stops. And you’re going to look hotter than the bonfire.”

You laughed nervously, glancing down at the sleek black mini skirt and turtleneck already laid out on the bed. “I don’t think Kenny’s going to care what I look like, Red. He’ll be too busy shotgunning beers and getting Cartman to do something stupid.”

Red tilted her head, her sharp eyes narrowing as she pointed a hairbrush at you. “Correction: Kyle will care. And if Kyle cares, then it’s my duty to make sure you look so good he can’t think straight.”

The mention of Kyle made your cheeks warm. Kyle, with his steady presence and rare, quiet smiles, had been your anchor in the chaos of college life. He made you feel safe, wanted—like the world slowed down when you were with him. And yet, you couldn’t ignore the tight knot in your stomach when you thought about tonight. Not just because of Kyle, but because of Stan.

Red must have noticed your expression because she put the brush down and crossed her arms. “What’s that face? Don’t tell me you’re freaking out.”

You shook your head quickly. “I’m not. It’s just… it’s a lot. Parties, people, you know I’m not great with this stuff.”

Red softened, sitting beside you on the bed and squeezing your arm. “You don’t have to be the life of the party, babe. You just have to show up, have a drink, and let me make sure you look amazing while you do it.”

She nudged the skirt and turtleneck closer to you. “Come on, try it on. You’ll look classy, but you’ll still turn heads.”

With a resigned sigh, you grabbed the outfit and headed into the tiny bathroom. The black turtleneck was snug but comfortable, the fabric skimming your curves without clinging too tightly. The mini skirt sat perfectly at your waist, flaring just enough to feel stylish without being too much, and the tights gave it an edge that balanced the whole look. You stared at yourself in the mirror, half dreading and half anticipating Red’s reaction.

When you stepped back into the room, Red’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit,” she said, dragging out the words as she circled you like a fashion critic. “You look… incredible. Kyle is going to combust. And honestly, if he doesn’t, Stan definitely will.”

Your stomach flipped at the mention of Stan, but you forced a smile. “It’s not about Stan.”

“Sure,” Red said with a smirk, brushing past you to grab her eyeliner. “And I dye my hair this color to blend in.”

You rolled your eyes, but the teasing lilt in her voice was hard to ignore. Stan wasn’t supposed to be a factor tonight. You’d worked hard to put that one messy night with him behind you, the one that lingered like an unwelcome guest in the back of your mind. It didn’t matter now. You were with Kyle—steady, kind, Kyle—and tonight was about Kenny.

“Sit,” Red commanded, gesturing to the desk chair. “We’re doing your makeup.”

She worked with quick, practiced precision, blending shadows and lining your eyes until you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Your cheekbones looked sharper, your eyes more dramatic, and your lips shimmered with a soft gloss. Red stepped back, tilting her head as she admired her handiwork. “You, my friend, are a walking goddess. Now grab your shoes. We’re already late.”

The drive to Stan’s ranch was filled with Red’s animated chatter. Her energy buzzed as she recounted Kenny’s most ridiculous party moments. “Last year, he got Cartman to wrestle Butters for the last slice of cake. And by wrestle, I mean Butters just let him have it because he’s Butters.”

You laughed, but your mind wandered to the ranch, to Kyle, and to Stan. It was ridiculous to feel this nervous. Kyle adored you, made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t expected. But Stan… Stan complicated everything, even when you wanted to forget.

When you pulled up to the ranch, the sprawling property was already alive with music, laughter, and the warm glow of string lights crisscrossing the yard. A massive bonfire crackled in the center, drawing groups of people closer for warmth. Red parked the car and turned to you with a grin. “Alright. Let’s go break some hearts.”

You stepped into the chaos, the sound of music and chatter enveloping you immediately. Somewhere in the crowd, Kyle was waiting, probably with a beer in hand and a bemused smile on his face. And somewhere else, Stan was here too. The thought made your stomach twist, but you shoved it down.

Red looped her arm through yours, steering you toward the bonfire. “Let’s find your man before I have to fend off everyone else.”

The crowd was thick, and you weaved through clusters of people, the heat of the fire warming your skin. Then you saw him—Kyle, standing just on the edge of the firelight, talking to Kenny. His smile lit up when he spotted you, and for a moment, all your nerves melted away.

But then, just beyond Kyle, you caught sight of black hair and a familiar profile. Stan was there, leaning casually against a fence, a drink in his hand. His blue eyes flicked toward you, widening slightly when they met yours. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything, but the brief look on his face—an unreadable mixture of surprise and something deeper—was enough to remind you of everything you were trying to leave behind.

The knot in your stomach tightened as Red tugged you forward, her arm looped through yours with unrelenting determination. You tore your gaze away from Stan, but the image of his eyes on you lingered, an unwelcome weight in the back of your mind. The warmth of the bonfire grew stronger as Red plopped you right in front of Kyle, her grin as bright as the flames behind her.

“There,” Red said, giving Kyle a pointed look. “Don’t say I never deliver.”

Kyle’s green eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the noise and movement of the party seemed to blur into the background. He tilted his head slightly, as though he was trying to process something, but he didn’t say anything. You didn’t either. You just stared at him, your chest tightening as his gaze lingered, taking you in like he’d never seen you before.

Kyle shifted slightly, his hands sliding into his pockets as he looked at you with a casual smile. “Hey,” he said, his voice light, but the simple word carried enough warmth to pull you from your swirling thoughts.

You blinked at him, your mouth opening slightly as you tried to summon a response. Nothing came. Your chest felt tight, and all you could do was stare, your eyes wide and unblinking, like you’d forgotten how to function.

Kyle’s brows furrowed just a little, though his smile didn’t falter. He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and concern. “You good?” he asked, the casual tone in his voice softening around the edges.

You opened your mouth again, but no words followed. Instead, you just stood there, rooted in place, feeling every second of silence stretch unbearably long. Your hands fidgeted at your sides, but your brain seemed incapable of stringing together a coherent thought.

Kyle’s expression shifted slightly, a hint of confusion flickering across his face. “Uh, Red?” he called over your shoulder, though his eyes never left yours. “Did you break her?”

“Not my fault if she short-circuits when she sees you, bro,” Red shot back, her voice light and teasing as she disappeared into the crowd. “You’re on your own!”

You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks as Kyle gave a small, nervous chuckle. “Okay,” he said, dragging the word out as he took a half step closer. “Seriously, are you alright? You look like you just got hit by a truck or something.”

You forced yourself to nod, though it felt jerky and unconvincing. “Yeah,” you croaked finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Kyle raised a skeptical eyebrow, his head tilting again as he tried to make sense of your reaction. He didn’t press, though. Instead, he gave you a small, reassuring smile. “Alright, well, I’m glad you made it. I wasn’t sure Red was actually going to drag you here.”

His words were warm, and his steady presence should have been enough to ground you. But your chest felt heavier by the second, your thoughts scattering like dry leaves in the wind. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement, and before you could stop yourself, you glanced toward it.

There, just on the edge of the bonfire’s glow, Wendy strolled up to Stan. Her posture was relaxed, but the way her hand brushed his arm as she leaned in closer made your stomach twist. She said something to him, her voice too low to carry over the crackle of the fire, and he nodded, his blue eyes fixed on the ground.

Your gaze lingered too long. For a brief moment, Stan’s eyes flicked toward you, catching yours with an unreadable expression that made your chest tighten further. Then, just as quickly, his attention snapped back to Wendy.

Kyle shifted again, drawing your focus back to him. He was watching you closely now, his expression a little more serious. “Hey,” he said softly, the single word cutting through the noise of the party. “You sure you’re okay?”

Your lips parted again, but the lump in your throat made it impossible to speak. The warmth of the fire pressed against your back, and Kyle’s steady gaze felt like both a lifeline and an anchor you couldn’t grab hold of. “I’m fine,” you said finally, though the words felt hollow and brittle.

Kyle hesitated, his brows knitting together as he searched your face. “If you say so,” he murmured, his voice quiet and careful, like he was trying not to push too hard.

You shifted awkwardly under his gaze, desperate to break the tension. “How’s the party been so far?” you asked, your voice wobbling slightly.

Before Kyle could open his mouth, Kenny popped up at his side with the kind of timing that made you wonder if he’d been eavesdropping. “Oh, you know, it’s been a shitshow—so, the usual. Cartman’s being a fat bastard, Butters is crying because the punch is too strong, and I’m pretty sure Craig and Tweek are off somewhere trying to one-up last year’s public makeout record.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, tension easing a fraction at Kenny’s typical over-the-top delivery. He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and Kyle rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out of his skull.

“Great summary, Kenny,” Kyle muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Really insightful.”

“Hey, I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” Kenny shot back, throwing an arm around Kyle’s shoulder like he didn’t notice—or didn’t care—about Kyle’s withering glare. “She’s been here for two seconds and already looks like she regrets it. You’re really putting on the charm, dude.”

Kyle shrugged Kenny’s arm off with a sigh. “Yeah, thanks for the feedback, Kenny. Always a pleasure.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Kenny said, raising his hands like a saint wronged. Then his attention shifted to you, his grin widening. “You, though. You look like you need to loosen up before the existential dread kicks in. Let’s get you a drink.”

Kyle groaned, cutting him off. “She doesn’t have to drink, you dumbass. Not everyone wants to pour shitty vodka into their system and call it a personality.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot you’re the designated buzzkill tonight,” Kenny snapped, crossing his arms mockingly. “It’s not like I was telling her to chug Everclear and start a conga line.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at their bickering, which only seemed to fuel Kenny. He jabbed a finger in Kyle’s direction. “I’m trying to help, but you’re over here cockblocking her from a goddamn cup of punch.”

Kyle glared at him, deadpan. “I’m not cockblocking her from punch, Kenny. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Kenny ignored him entirely, turning back to you. “Look, the punch isn’t even that bad. You’ll barely taste the regret.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I don’t know. ‘Barely taste the regret’ isn’t exactly selling it.”

“It’s not,” Kyle said firmly, crossing his arms. “It’s literally just vodka and juice in a bucket. Kenny probably stuck his dick in it for flavor.”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you,” Kenny shot back. “Second, that only happened once.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kyle muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was reconsidering his life choices.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in your chest easing a little more. Kenny beamed like he’d just won a prize. “See? She gets it. I’m the fun one.”

Kyle groaned, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, well, fun or not, you’re an idiot.”

Kenny clapped you on the back, ignoring Kyle entirely. “C’mon, let’s get you a drink. At least then you can say you’re embracing the full Kenny McCormick party experience.”

You glanced at Kyle, who sighed but gave a small shrug. “Your call,” he said, his tone resigned. “Just don’t let him talk you into doing shots. Or listening to anything he says. Ever.”

Kenny smirked, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Relax, she’s in good hands. Mostly.”

You let him guide you through the crowd toward the makeshift bar near the barn, the chatter and laughter of the party buzzing in the background. His energy was infectious, and for a moment, the tension in your chest began to ease.

“You know,” Kenny started, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, “you’re looking dangerously good tonight. Like, borderline criminal. Don’t tell me you did all this for me?”

You blinked, caught off guard, before letting out a giggle. “For you?”

“Obviously,” he said, his grin widening. “It’s my birthday. You’re supposed to make me feel special. And here you are, walking in, looking like that. Babe, I’m blushing.” He exaggerated the last part, pretending to wipe away a tear of pride.

“Oh, shut up,” you said, laughing now, feeling yourself relax.

Kenny nudged you playfully. “Nah, but seriously, don’t tell Kyle I said this, but if you did dress up for me, I wouldn’t blame you. I’m fucking adorable, and you know it.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “If it’ll make you happy, Kenny, sure. I’ll say it’s for you.”

“Hell yeah,” he said, pumping his fist in mock victory as you both reached the bar.

The setup was chaotic but functional—a plastic table laden with mismatched bottles of cheap liquor, stacks of red Solo cups, and a massive punch bowl that looked suspiciously sticky. Kenny grabbed a cup and started toward the punch, but before you could even decide what to drink, Wendy appeared beside you.

“Hey,” she said casually, reaching for a cup and filling it with punch. Her calm presence felt like a jolt of electricity straight to your chest.

You froze, your eyes widening as your breath hitched. She didn’t even look at you, her focus entirely on the drink in her hand, but that only made the moment worse. Images of that night with Stan—the heat, the whispered words, the sheer wrongness of it all—flashed in your mind like a car crash you couldn’t look away from.

Your stomach twisted painfully, and you quickly turned back to Kenny, trying to shake the panic clawing at your throat. “Kenny,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended, “make mine strong. Like, strong as fuck.”

Kenny blinked at you, taken aback by your tone, before a sly grin crept across his face. “Oh, shit. Someone’s on a mission tonight.”

You shot him a look, your wide eyes betraying your calm façade. “I’m serious. Just… make it so I won’t have to worry about anything I do later.”

Kenny raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but sensing the urgency in your voice. “Alright, alright. One existential-crisis punch coming right up.” He reached for the vodka, pouring a generous amount into your cup before topping it off with the sticky, overly sweet punch.

He handed it to you with a small flourish. “There you go, babe. Now drink up before you start hyperventilating or something.”

You took the cup without hesitation, downing a large sip as the mix of sweetness and burn hit the back of your throat. Kenny was still watching you, his grin softening slightly into something more genuine. “You good?”

You nodded quickly, not trusting your voice. Wendy was still there, just a few feet away, completely unaware of the storm raging inside you. You gripped your cup tighter, willing the alcohol to do its job before you completely fell apart.

Kenny patted you on the back with a grin, his touch light but grounding. “Alright, babe, I’m heading back to the bonfire. Don’t drink yourself into a coma before the fun really starts, yeah?”

You managed a weak smile, your voice barely above a murmur as you said, “Happy birthday, Kenny.”

He winked at you before disappearing back into the crowd, his energy as boundless as ever. You stood there, gripping your cup like a lifeline, trying to pretend that everything was fine. But Wendy was still there, just a few feet away, finishing her drink with a practiced ease that only made her presence more suffocating.

She caught your eye as she set her cup down, giving you a polite, almost-too-sweet smile. “You look nice,” she said, her tone light but distant, like she wasn’t entirely sure if she should say it.

You froze, managing only a nod in response, and she didn’t linger. Wendy turned and walked back into the crowd, making a direct line toward Stan, who was still leaning against the fence, his posture casual but his eyes sharp as he spotted her approach.

Your chest tightened painfully as you watched her step up to him, her hand brushing his arm as she leaned in to say something. He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, and you looked away before you could absorb any more.

The sharp edge of panic started creeping back in, and you downed the rest of your drink in one long gulp, the burn barely registering as your mind spun. The alcohol wasn’t working fast enough, so you poured yourself another cup, filling it to the brim with the sticky punch and vodka concoction. You didn’t care how it tasted anymore; you just needed the edges of your thoughts to dull.

With the new drink clutched tightly in your hand, you stumbled away from the bar, seeking some kind of reprieve from the noise and the people. You found it against the front wall of the barn, the wooden planks cool against your back as you slid down to the ground, clutching your cup in one hand and your head in the other.

The world around you blurred, the sounds of laughter and music muffled as you tried to quiet the storm inside you. You sipped from your cup in rapid intervals, the alcohol’s heat settling in your stomach but doing little to loosen the knot in your chest. The image of Wendy walking back to Stan looped in your head, sharper than you wanted it to be.

You pressed your fingers against your temple, your head swimming, and closed your eyes. The chaos of the party felt far away now, replaced by the all-too-familiar ache of guilt and regret. Your grip on the cup tightened as you whispered under your breath, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

With a heavy sigh, you opened your eyes and glanced toward the bonfire. Kenny had made his way back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the gathering of familiar faces. From where you sat, you could just make out Kyle’s green hoodie standing out against the golden glow of the fire. He was with Cartman, Butters, Red, and Heidi, their figures illuminated by the flickering flames.

Their voices carried faintly on the breeze, and it didn’t take long to pick up on the fact that they were arguing. Well, not arguing, exactly—bickering in that way they always did, where it was hard to tell if they were genuinely pissed off or just having fun at each other’s expense.

“…because you’re the one who always ruins these parties!” Cartman’s voice rang out, as loud and grating as ever.

“Me?!” Kenny shot back, his tone dripping with mock offense. “Oh, sorry, I forgot I’m the one who drinks the punch and cries about how no one appreciates me—oh wait, that’s you, Fatass.”

“Don’t call me Fatass, you poor piece of shit!” Cartman barked, his voice carrying above the crackle of the fire.

“Guys, stop it,” Butters interjected nervously, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s Kenny’s birthday! We’re supposed to be celebratin’, not fightin’!”

“Oh, I’m celebrating,” Red chimed in, her tone sharp and amused. “I’m celebrating how much I hate both of you. It’s the real theme of the night.”

Kyle’s voice cut through the chaos, dry and unimpressed. “You all sound like assholes. Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to not be embarrassed to exist here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Perfect,” Heidi shot back, clearly joining in on the fun. “Is our peasant-level banter beneath you? Should we hold a lecture on philosophy or something?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up at the sound of Kyle’s groan, even though your chest still felt tight. The snippets of their argument floated over to you, loud enough to catch, and there was something strangely grounding about their familiar rhythms. It was chaos, but it was their chaos—a strange kind of comfort even from a distance.

Kenny’s voice rose again, playful and theatrical. “For the record, I am officially declaring myself the King of This Party. And as your king, I command everyone to shut the hell up and pour me a drink.”

“King of What?” Red snapped. “Being a jackass?”

Kenny’s laugh echoed across the field, followed by more laughter from the group, and for a moment, you felt your chest loosen. You took another sip of your drink, letting their banter wash over you like a balm against the storm in your head. You didn’t move from your spot by the barn, but you let yourself sink into the sounds of the party—their voices, the crackle of the fire, the hum of music in the background.

Time had slipped away in a haze, and now, after what must have been thirty minutes—or maybe an hour, you weren’t sure—you were positively drunk. The warmth of the alcohol coursed through your veins, loosening the tension in your chest but leaving a distinct heaviness in your limbs. It didn’t help that you hadn’t eaten anything before the party, and your low alcohol tolerance had ensured that the punch hit you harder and faster than you’d expected.

The barn wall felt solid and cool against your back, but it couldn’t steady the spinning in your head. You took a deep breath, swaying slightly as you pushed yourself up to stand. The world tilted for a moment, and you gripped the wall for balance before shaking your head and muttering to yourself, “Get it together.”

You couldn’t help but notice that Kyle hadn’t come to check on you, which struck you as odd—he was usually the type to hover when he thought something was wrong. But you shrugged it off, chalking it up to him being caught up in the chaos of the party. You’d probably been sitting there longer than you realized anyway, and it wasn’t like you’d told him where you’d gone.

Taking one slow, wobbling step forward, then another, you began making your way back toward the bonfire. The light grew brighter as you approached, the warmth from the flames hitting you even before you reached the edge of the group. You could hear the faint hum of their voices—laughter and banter still carrying on, the kind of noise that felt both overwhelming and strangely comforting in your current state.

You didn’t say anything as you stepped closer, your focus zeroing in on the fire. The golden-orange flames licked upward into the night, the crackling sound filling your ears as you came to a stop just on the edge of the group. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, and you swayed slightly, planting your feet wider apart to keep your balance.

The flush on your face was unmistakable, a mix of the alcohol and the heat from the fire. Your body posture screamed drunk—your shoulders slumped, your arms hanging loosely at your sides, and your head tilting just a little too far as you stared at the flames with glassy eyes.

It didn’t take long for someone to notice. “Well, look who decided to join us,” Kenny’s voice rang out, light and teasing as always. “Damn, [Y/N], you look like you’ve been through it. How’s the punch treating you?”

You blinked at him, your mind sluggish as you tried to come up with a response. Instead, you let out a half-hearted laugh, lifting your cup slightly in a gesture that was supposed to look like confidence but ended up more like a wobbly toast. “It’s… strong,” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly.

“Strong, my ass,” Cartman chimed in, his voice carrying above the others. “She looks like she just tried to keep up with Kenny’s bullshit and failed miserably.”

“Shut up, Cartman,” Kyle’s voice cut through, sharper than you’d expected. He stood a little off to the side, his arms crossed as he watched you, his green eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Kyle’s gaze shifted back to you, and his expression softened, though concern was written all over his face. “You okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded a little too quickly, the motion making your head spin. “M’fine,” you said, though the way you swayed on your feet betrayed you.

Kyle sighed, stepping closer to steady you before you could stumble. His hand brushed your arm lightly, and the touch sent a small jolt through you, grounding you for a moment. “You don’t look fine,” he muttered, his tone somewhere between worried and exasperated. “Did you even eat before you started drinking?”

You didn’t answer, your focus drifting back to the fire. The flames danced in your vision, blurring slightly at the edges, and you felt the faintest pang of guilt as Kyle’s hand lingered near your arm, waiting for you to acknowledge him. But you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

Kyle’s hand moved from lingering near your arm to softly grabbing yours, his grip firm but careful. His fingers were warm against your clammy skin, grounding you despite the alcohol swirling through your veins. Slowly, reluctantly, you looked up at him.

His green eyes were filled with concern, his jaw tight like he was holding back a lecture. The weight of his gaze made you feel heavy, your chest tightening under the guilt bubbling up inside. You finally spoke, your voice low and slurred. “No, I didn’t eat anything,” you admitted, looking back toward the fire. “But don’t worry about me, alright?”

Kyle’s frown deepened, his lips parting like he was about to argue, but you didn’t give him the chance. You dropped his hand and let yourself fall back onto the grass with a graceless thud. The cool ground pressed against your legs, grounding you in a way that felt more effective than his touch. You leaned back on your hands, staring at the fire’s erratic glow.

Kyle hesitated for a moment, standing over you like he wasn’t sure whether to sit or say something else. Before he could decide, the atmosphere around the fire shifted as more people began crowding closer. The noise grew louder, voices rising in drunken excitement.

“Alright, you fuckers!” Kenny’s voice boomed above the chaos. You glanced over to see him perched on a log near the fire, his arms spread wide like he was addressing a crowd of idiots—and let’s be honest, he was. “It’s my birthday, and that means it’s time for some goddamn party games. None of that weak-ass, middle-school bullshit. We’re talking real games. The kind that end with someone crying, puking, or reevaluating their life.”

The crowd roared in approval, a mix of laughter and groans rippling through the group. Red, standing near the edge, smirked and crossed her arms. “Great. Because this shitshow wasn’t chaotic enough already.”

“Exactly,” Kenny shot back, pointing a finger at her like she’d just proved his point. “Chaos is the fucking point. Now shut the fuck up and listen, because we’re starting this off right.”

He paused dramatically, letting the tension build before his grin turned wicked. “Truth or dare.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Cartman barked, his voice loud enough to rival Kenny’s. “Truth or dare? Are you fucking serious, McCormick? What is this, a goddamn slumber party?”

“Shut your fat fucking mouth, Cartman,” Kenny fired back, laughing. “Nobody invited your whiny ass anyway. You don’t wanna play? Good. Go crawl into a snack bag and die.”

“I’m not fucking fat, you goddamn poor piece of shit!” Cartman shot back, his face already red. The group erupted into laughter, a mix of drunken jeers and amused groans.

“Whatever you say, Cartman,” Kenny said, rolling his eyes. “Now, for the rest of us real people who know how to have fun, the game starts now. Who’s up first?” He pointed dramatically at someone in the crowd, his grin growing as the first victim stammered something unintelligible.

You stayed where you were, seated on the grass, watching the chaos unfold. The firelight flickered in your vision, blurring slightly as the alcohol swirled through your system. Kyle finally sat down beside you, close enough that his knee brushed against yours. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, watching the unfolding chaos with a tired expression that made you smirk.

“Jesus Christ,” Kyle muttered under his breath as Cartman and Kenny continued to lob insults at each other across the fire. He glanced over at you, his brow furrowing again as his concern resurfaced. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, though your head felt heavy. “Yeah,” you mumbled, staring at the fire again. “Stop worrying about me.”

The game carried on, growing louder and rowdier with each passing turn. People were getting bolder, the dares increasingly ridiculous, and the truths edging closer to outright humiliation. You stayed quiet, sipping from your cup and staring into the fire, the warmth of the flames doing little to steady the spinning in your head.

Eventually, the attention shifted to Kyle. He was sitting stiffly beside you, clearly dreading his turn, and when Kenny grinned like a predator zeroing in on his prey, you could feel Kyle tense up. “Alright, Broflovski,” Kenny said, drawing out his name like a taunt. “Truth or dare?”

Kyle sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Truth.”

“Fucking coward,” Cartman snorted from across the fire, but Kyle ignored him, his glare fixed firmly on Kenny.

Kenny’s grin widened. “Okay, here we go. If you had to date one person at this party, other than [Y/N]—” he gestured vaguely in your direction, “—who would it be?”

Laughter erupted around the bonfire, a mix of catcalls and jeering encouragement. Kyle groaned audibly, his head dropping into his hands as a flush crept up his neck. “What the fuck kind of question is that?” he muttered, his voice muffled.

“Answer the fucking question!” Kenny crowed, clearly reveling in Kyle’s misery. “And don’t say some bullshit like nobody. You have to pick.”

Kyle sat up, glaring at Kenny. “This is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s the game, dude,” Kenny shot back, shrugging like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Now spill.”

Kyle looked around the group, his expression somewhere between exasperation and resignation. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low. “Wendy.”

The group burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help it—you barked out a laugh too, the sound sharp and unexpected as it slipped past your lips. Kyle turned to you with a glare, his face still red. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said dryly, but you barely heard him. Your laugh died in your throat as your gaze swept across the fire and accidentally locked onto Stan.

He was leaning back against the log he’d claimed earlier, his arms folded loosely across his chest. The firelight flickered across his features, making the shadows under his jaw and cheekbones more pronounced, but it was his eyes that stopped you cold. They were locked onto yours, sharp and unreadable, the kind of look that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. He wasn’t laughing like everyone else, wasn’t even smiling. He was just… watching.

The noise of the party dulled for a moment, everything else fading into the background as your heart hammered against your ribs. Your face burned, and you quickly broke the eye contact, focusing back on the fire as if it could swallow you whole. The warmth in your chest from the alcohol turned heavy and suffocating, and you gripped your cup tighter, your fingers trembling slightly.

Kyle didn’t seem to notice your sudden shift, his attention already drawn back to Kenny, who was busy milking the moment for all it was worth. “Wendy, huh?” Kenny teased, wagging his eyebrows. “Better hope Stan doesn’t beat your ass for that one.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Kyle snapped, his voice tinged with irritation. “It’s a stupid game.”

“Sure, sure,” Kenny said, waving Kyle off with a shit-eating grin before scanning the group like a game show host about to unveil a new contestant. “Alright, who’s next?”

The group erupted in suggestions, but it was Red who cut through the noise, pointing toward Stan with a devilish smirk. “Stan. Let’s hear it.”

Stan, who had been leaning back against a log with his drink in hand, raised an eyebrow, looking more amused than anything. “Fine,” he said lazily, sitting up and brushing some ash off his jeans. “Truth.”

Kenny’s eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store. He clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement as he leaned forward. “Oh, I got a good one for you, Marsh. Same question I gave Broflovski over there.”

Stan tilted his head, his expression skeptical. “Which was?”

Kenny leaned forward, grinning like a wolf. “If you had to date one person at this party, other than Wendy,” he said, the emphasis on Wendy sharp enough to make a couple of people snicker, “who would it be?”

Laughter rippled through the group, and even Red groaned. “Jesus Christ, Kenny. Get a new bit.”

“It’s a fucking classic!” Kenny shot back, gesturing wildly. “You gotta admit, this is prime entertainment.”

Stan looked unimpressed, taking a long sip from his drink as he mulled it over. The group leaned in, anticipation crackling in the air as they waited for his answer. Finally, he lowered the cup, his blue eyes sharp and unreadable as they scanned the group.

And then they landed on you.

“[Y/N],” he said simply, his voice steady but clear enough to cut through the noise.

The laughter around the bonfire stuttered into stunned silence. You froze, your body going rigid as his words sank in, and when your gaze snapped to his, you found him watching you. His expression was calm, almost casual, but there was something in his eyes that made your stomach flip.

Your mouth fell open, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed and completely dumbfounded. The world around you seemed to blur, the crackling fire and the murmurs of the party fading into static as his answer replayed in your head like a broken record.

Kenny, of course, was the first to recover. He let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like he’d just heard the most scandalous confession of his life. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, dragging out the words as he whipped around to look at you, then Stan, then back at you. “Did Stan Marsh just shoot his fucking shot? On my birthday?! This is better than anything I could’ve planned.”

Cartman cackled. “Oh my God, Wendy’s gonna kill you.”

“Seriously, Stan?” Red chimed in, her tone sharp but laced with amusement. “You could’ve picked literally anyone else, and you chose the most loaded answer possible?”

Stan just shrugged, his gaze still locked on you. “What? It’s the truth.”

Your heart was pounding, your face burning as you continued to stare at him, completely at a loss for how to respond. The weight of his words—and the way he said them so effortlessly—left you spinning. You couldn’t tell if the alcohol was making it worse or if this moment would’ve floored you regardless.

Kyle, seated beside you, had gone uncharacteristically quiet. You could feel him stiffen next to you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—not with Stan’s gaze still pinning you in place.

The silence stretched for a beat too long, and Kenny, sensing the tension, clapped his hands together again. “Alright, that’s enough heavy shit for now! Let’s keep the game moving, huh? Who’s next?”

The group exchanged glances, but all eyes eventually turned to Wendy. She raised an eyebrow, her calm confidence practically radiating as she shrugged. “Fine. Dare.”

Kenny’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh, now we’re fucking talking. Let’s make this interesting.” He paused dramatically, rubbing his hands together as he scanned the group like a conductor preparing for a symphony of destruction. Then, with a wicked grin, he pointed at Wendy. “I dare you to kiss the person here you’d never want to kiss otherwise.”

The crowd erupted into a mix of gasps, laughter, and a few groans.

“Jesus Christ, Kenny,” Red muttered, shaking her head, though even she looked curious to see what would happen.

Wendy didn’t flinch. Instead, she rolled her eyes and stood up, brushing dirt off her jeans like this was just another Tuesday. “Fine,” she said coolly. Her eyes scanned the group with practiced ease, and for a moment, you thought she’d go for Cartman or Kenny for the joke. But then her gaze landed on you, and her smirk twisted into something sharper.

You froze as she took a step toward you, her movements slow and deliberate. Your heart pounded in your chest, the world tilting slightly from the alcohol and the sudden realization that she wasn’t backing down.

Wendy stopped in front of you, leaning down just enough to be intimidating. “Guess this makes sense,” she said, her voice low enough that only you and Kyle, sitting beside you, could hear. “Since you’ve been eyeing Stan for weeks now. Might as well make it official.”

Your stomach dropped, and before you could react, she leaned in and planted a kiss on your cheek. The crowd around you erupted into cheers and whoops, but you couldn’t hear them over the sound of your own heartbeat roaring in your ears.

The moment she pulled back, you were on your feet, your cup forgotten as your fists clenched at your sides. “What the fuck is your problem, Wendy?”

She straightened, tilting her head like she couldn’t believe you were making this a thing. “My problem? You’ve been making eyes at Stan every time we’re in the same room. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Your jaw dropped, heat rising to your face as anger bubbled in your chest. “Are you kidding me? That’s not—”

“Oh, please,” Wendy cut you off, crossing her arms. “You can’t even deny it. You’ve been waiting for something to happen, haven’t you? Poor Kyle doesn’t even see it.”

“Wendy, shut the fuck up,” Kyle snapped, standing now, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. But the damage was already done.

“Why don’t you keep Kyle’s name out of your goddamn mouth and worry about your own relationships?” you fired back, stepping closer.

Wendy let out a humorless laugh, her smirk returning. “Touchy, aren’t we? Guess I hit a nerve.”

The tension around the bonfire had reached a boiling point, the crowd silent now except for the crackling flames and the sound of your heavy breathing.

Before the situation could spiral further, Kenny shot to his feet, stepping between the two of you with his hands held up. “Alright, alright, let’s not turn my birthday into a fucking WWE cage match, okay?” He glanced at Wendy, his grin dimming slightly. “Wendy, chill the fuck out. It’s a dare, not a declaration of war.”

Wendy’s eyes flicked to Kenny, and after a long, tense moment, she let out a frustrated sigh and stepped back. “Whatever,” she muttered, turning and heading back toward her spot near the log.

Kenny turned to you next, his tone more playful as he gestured toward the punch table. “Go refill your drink, babe. You look like you need it. And maybe skip the part where you throw hands at my party.”

You hesitated, the anger still burning hot in your chest, but Kenny’s teasing smile and Kyle’s steady presence beside you finally pulled you back down. You nodded stiffly, muttering under your breath as you turned to grab another drink.

You made your way to the makeshift bar with heavy steps, your hands trembling as the adrenaline from the confrontation still buzzed through your veins. The party continued behind you, the hum of voices and laughter blending with the crackling of the bonfire. But all you could hear was Wendy’s sharp, cutting tone echoing in your mind. Her smirk, her words, the smug satisfaction in her eyes—they looped like a broken record, refusing to let you breathe.

Grabbing a cup, you poured an obscene amount of vodka into the punch, not bothering to measure or mix it properly. You downed a long sip, the liquid scorching your throat and making your eyes water, but it did nothing to dull the fire raging inside you. If anything, the alcohol only stoked it.

Wendy had no right—no fucking right—to call you out like that in front of everyone. Sure, what she said wasn’t a lie. You had slept with Stan a few weeks ago, back when he and Wendy were on a break and you weren’t dating Kyle yet. It had been messy, impulsive, and wrong, but it had happened. And now, standing at this goddamn party with her stupid smirk haunting you, you couldn’t help but wonder if she somehow knew.

That thought made your stomach churn. If Wendy had pieced it together, if she knew about that night, why hadn’t she just said it outright? Was this her way of testing you, of dangling the secret in front of you to see if you’d crack? And why the hell did she get to play the victim when she was the one who’d broken things off with Stan in the first place?

Your grip on the cup tightened as you took another long drink, the vodka hitting hard and fast. It wasn’t just guilt swirling in your chest anymore—it was anger. The nerve she had to humiliate you like that, to use the game as a platform to dig at you. Wendy Testaburger always had to act like she was above the drama, but tonight, she’d drawn first blood.

You weren’t proud of sleeping with Stan, but it wasn’t like you’d gone out of your way to hurt anyone. He’d been vulnerable; you’d been vulnerable. It had just happened. And now, weeks later, with Kyle’s steady presence pulling you out of your mess, you’d tried to move on. But Wendy wouldn’t let you.

You took another drink, the alcohol numbing the edges of your better judgment as your eyes drifted back toward the bonfire. Wendy was still there, sitting near Heidi and Bebe, her legs crossed as she casually sipped her drink. The group was still playing truth or dare, the atmosphere around the fire buzzing with drunken excitement and misplaced bravado. She looked so calm, like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just turned your world upside down in the span of thirty seconds.

And that made you furious.

Your chest tightened as you thought about the way she’d spoken to you, the deliberate jab about your feelings for Stan. She’d laid it out for everyone to hear, exposing you in a way that made your stomach twist. But she hadn’t said everything. She hadn’t called you out on the one thing you were sure would light this party on fire. Maybe she didn’t know after all. Or maybe she was saving it for later, keeping it in her back pocket like some kind of trump card.

Either way, you weren’t going to sit back and let her win. You hadn’t wanted any of this—hadn’t wanted the feelings, the mess, the fallout—but if Wendy thought she could humiliate you without consequence, she was dead wrong. She wanted to play games? Fine. You’d give her a game to remember.

Your hands trembled as you drained the rest of your drink, the alcohol swirling through your veins and fueling the anger rising in your chest. You glanced back at the bonfire, at Wendy’s cool, composed expression, and a sharp grin tugged at your lips.

With unsteady steps, you made your way back to the bonfire, your head buzzing and your emotions teetering on the edge of control. You plopped down next to Kyle without a word, your cup dangling loosely in your hand. He gave you a concerned glance but didn’t say anything, and you didn’t acknowledge him, your focus entirely on the game as it carried on.

Time blurred as the dares grew wilder and the truths edged closer to outright humiliation. The tension in your chest built with every turn, and finally, Kenny’s mischievous grin landed on you.

“Alright, [Y/N],” he called, his tone dripping with anticipation. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you said, your voice louder than you’d intended but steady enough to catch everyone’s attention. The alcohol had stripped away every filter you had, leaving only the raw, simmering anger you could no longer contain.

Kenny raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the shift in energy. “Ooh, big talk. Alright, let’s see—”

You stood up abruptly, cutting him off. The group fell silent as their attention snapped to you, the crackling of the bonfire the only sound breaking the stillness. With deliberate steps, you made your way toward Wendy. She looked up at you as you approached, her expression still maddeningly composed, like she couldn’t be bothered to care.

You crouched down to her level, close enough that she couldn’t ignore you, and locked your eyes on hers. When you spoke, your voice was calm—deadly calm. Each word was deliberate, sharp, and unwavering.

“You want a truth, Kenny?” you said, not breaking eye contact with Wendy. “Here’s one: I slept with Stan. A few weeks ago. While you two were on a break.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. You didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, your calm tone making the confession hit harder than if you’d screamed it.

Wendy’s eyes widened, the composed mask she always wore cracking for the first time. For a split second, she looked stunned, her lips parting slightly as though she were struggling to find the right words. Around you, the party had gone completely silent. The laughter and chatter were gone, replaced by the soft crackle of the fire and the sound of your own heartbeat roaring in your ears.

You stood up slowly, stepping back from Wendy as her expression twisted into something you couldn’t quite name—betrayal, fury, and disbelief all swirling together. Your eyes flicked briefly to Stan, who sat frozen, his face pale and his jaw tight as he stared at you. Kyle was staring too, his green eyes wide and confused, his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.

Without another word, you turned on your heel, your legs unsteady beneath you, and began walking away from the bonfire, heading toward Stan’s house in the distance.

You didn’t get far before Cartman’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. “Holy shit, did that actually just happen?” he barked, his tone a mix of disbelief and glee. “I mean, I knew you were messy, but this? This is next-level soap opera trash.”

You froze mid-step, your shoulders stiffening as the murmurs around the fire grew louder. Before you could respond, Kenny jumped in, his voice rising over the din. “Alright, alright, everybody calm the fuck down,” he said, his usual amusement tinged with something more serious. “This is my goddamn birthday party, and I did not sign up for a telenovela, so can we not?”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down,” Wendy snapped, her voice sharp as a whip. You turned just in time to see her stand, her eyes blazing as she fixed her glare on you. “You’re just gonna drop that and walk away? That’s it?”

Before you could say anything, Stan finally spoke up, his voice low and strained. “Wendy, stop.” His expression was tight, his blue eyes darting between you and Wendy with an almost desperate edge. “This isn’t the time for this.”

Wendy let out a harsh laugh, her anger bubbling over. “Not the time? Are you serious, Stan? She just admitted to sleeping with you, and you—” Her voice cracked slightly as she gestured wildly at him. “You’re just gonna sit there?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Stan said, his tone defensive but quieter now. “We were on a break.”

“Didn’t think it mattered?” Wendy hissed, her voice climbing. “You didn’t think it mattered to tell me that you slept with her?”

You flinched at the venom in her tone, but before you could react, another voice rang out—Kyle’s. “What the fuck is going on here?” His voice was colder than you’d ever heard it, his expression a storm of confusion and hurt as he stepped closer to the fire. “Are you fucking kidding me, Stan?”

Kyle’s words seemed to ignite something in the group, and the party dissolved into chaos. People whispered and shouted all at once, their overlapping voices rising in a cacophony of disbelief and speculation. Kenny tried to cut in again, his arms raised as if to physically halt the train wreck unfolding before him. “Hey, can we maybe not burn this party to the ground, you psychos?”

But Kyle wasn’t listening. His focus was locked on Stan as he began walking toward him, his fists clenched at his sides. “You slept with her?” he demanded, his voice cold and unyielding. “You knew I liked her, and you—” He stopped short, shaking his head as his words caught in his throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Stan stood up slowly, his hands raised in a placating gesture, but his face was pale, his voice strained. “Kyle, it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t planned, okay? It just—”

“Don’t fucking finish that sentence,” Kyle cut him off, his voice dangerously low now. “You didn’t ‘plan’ it? You’re supposed to be my best friend, Stan.”

Stan’s face fell, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Kyle’s words. But before he could respond, Wendy stepped forward, her voice razor-sharp and trembling with fury. “Oh, don’t even start, Stan,” she snapped, her arms crossed tight against her chest. “You didn’t ‘plan’ it? That’s your excuse? You didn’t tell me because you thought you’d get away with it. Just admit it.”

Stan’s head snapped up, his blue eyes wide with something close to panic. “That’s not what happened—”

“Isn’t it?” Wendy cut him off, stepping closer, her words growing colder with every syllable. “You didn’t even stop to think about what it would do to me—or to her. You just did what you wanted, and now you’re standing here like you’re the victim. Is that what you’re trying to do, Stan? Make yourself look innocent?”

“Okay, everyone take a fucking breath,” Kenny interjected, stepping toward the group with his hands raised like he was refereeing a match on the verge of bloodshed. “This is my goddamn birthday party, not a therapy session. Can we all just chill for five minutes?”

Wendy ignored him, her fiery glare locked on Stan, but her words were aimed at you now. “And you,” she hissed, her tone like ice. “I expected this from him. But you? What the hell were you thinking? Were you just waiting for me to be out of the way? Waiting for the perfect moment to stab me in the back?”

You flinched under her words, the venom in her tone cutting deeper than you thought possible. “It wasn’t like that,” you said, your voice trembling.

“Wasn’t it?” Wendy shot back, her voice rising. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you couldn’t wait to take your shot.”

“Seriously, guys,” Kenny interrupted again, his voice growing louder as he stepped between the two of you. “Can we just not? Take a deep fucking breath and talk this out later—not in front of fifty people.”

“Stay out of it, Kenny,” Wendy snapped, her focus still on you. “This isn’t your business.”

Kyle’s voice broke through next, louder and more desperate than anyone else’s. “How long has this been going on?” he demanded, his green eyes wide and filled with disbelief as they flicked between you and Stan. “How long have you two been lying to me?”

Your chest tightened painfully, and you opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. The guilt and shame were too heavy, pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t escape.

Kyle turned fully toward you now, his voice breaking. “And you… why?” he asked, his tone raw and pleading. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why let me think—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as his hands trembled at his sides. “I thought you cared about me. I thought—” His voice cracked, and he let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

The tension in the air was unbearable, suffocating. Kenny waved his arms dramatically, his voice rising in a last-ditch effort to cut through the chaos. “Alright, that’s enough! Everybody shut the fuck up and drink some goddamn punch before you kill each other.”

But no one listened. The fire crackled loudly in the silence, and all you could do was stand there, your chest heaving as Kyle’s words echoed in your head. Finally, the weight became too much. Without a word, you turned and started walking toward Stan’s house, your vision blurring with tears. You couldn’t stay here—not with Wendy’s accusations and Kyle’s heartbreak clawing at you from both sides.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Kyle’s voice cracked behind you, sharp and desperate. “I’m fucking talking to you!”

You froze mid-step, your shoulders stiffening. Slowly, you turned back to him, tears streaking your face. “And what do you want me to say, Kyle?” you asked, your voice trembling. “That I’m sorry? That I made a mistake? You think I don’t already know that?”

Kyle’s expression twisted, his jaw tightening as he stepped closer. “A mistake?” he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief and anger. “That’s what you call this? You didn’t just make a mistake—you lied to me. You hid it from me. You let me think—” His voice broke, and he ran a hand through his hair, his movements frantic. “You let me think there was something real here. But you didn’t care enough to tell me the truth.”

“I do care!” you shouted, your voice cracking as the emotions you’d been holding back came spilling out. “You don’t think this is killing me too? You don’t think I know how badly I fucked up?”

Kenny groaned loudly in the background, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Cool, yeah, let’s all just scream at each other! Definitely the vibe I wanted for my birthday, you assholes.”

Tears blurred your vision as you turned away again, picking up your pace toward Stan’s house. The sound of your own heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out Kenny’s frustrated muttering and the stunned murmurs of the party. But then you heard it—Kyle’s footsteps, fast and determined, chasing after you.

“I said don’t walk away from me!” Kyle yelled, his voice raw and furious. “You don’t just get to run away from this!”

You quickened your pace, your legs moving faster as panic surged through your chest. “Just leave me alone, Kyle!” you shouted over your shoulder, but his footsteps didn’t falter.

“I’m not letting you run from this!” he shouted back, his voice breaking as he started running. “You don’t get to fucking run from me!”

The adrenaline coursing through your veins pushed you into a full sprint, the night air sharp and cold as it tore against your skin. Behind you, Kyle’s voice roared, raw and furious, cutting through the darkness like a knife. “STOP FUCKING RUNNING, [Y/N]! YOU DON’T GET TO RUN AWAY FROM THIS SHIT!”

“FUCK YOU, KYLE!” you screamed back, your breath hitching as your legs burned with each desperate step. “I’M NOT RUNNING FROM THIS—I’M RUNNING FROM YOUR ASS!”

The words flew out of you like a challenge, fueled by the anger and panic boiling inside. Every step you took felt heavier, your lungs straining to keep up, but you didn’t dare stop. Kyle was faster, taller, and his longer strides were closing the distance fast. The only thing keeping you ahead was sheer desperation and the miracle of your head start.

“FUCKING BULLSHIT!” he roared, his footsteps thundering closer. “YOU THINK THIS IS RUNNING AWAY? YOU’RE JUST TOO FUCKING SCARED TO FACE ME!”

Stan’s house loomed ahead, the porch light dimly flickering like some cruel beacon of hope. Your heart pounded harder as you pushed yourself up the steps, the voices from the party still faint in the background. You could just barely hear Wendy’s biting tone and Stan’s weak attempts at damage control, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting inside and putting anything between you and Kyle.

You hit the porch at full speed, grabbing the screen door and yanking it open with so much force you nearly ripped it off its hinges. Throwing yourself through the threshold, you spun around and slammed it shut with a deafening bang. The latch clicked weakly—it wouldn’t hold for long, and you knew it—but it was better than nothing.

Kyle’s voice exploded from just outside. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, [Y/N]!” The sound of him pounding against the screen door followed, the flimsy frame shaking violently under his grip. “YOU CAN’T FUCKING HIDE FROM ME!”

You stumbled through the dimly lit living room, your chest heaving as your legs struggled to carry you further. The familiar space blurred around you as you tore toward the stairs, the sound of Kyle wrenching the screen door open sending a fresh surge of panic through your veins.

“STOP FUCKING RUNNING, GODDAMMIT!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the house.

Your foot hit the bottom step, and you practically launched yourself up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Your muscles burned, and your breath came in ragged gasps as you reached the landing. Behind you, Kyle’s footsteps pounded against the hardwood, the sound of his pursuit growing louder and angrier with every passing second.

Without thinking, you darted into Stan’s room, your trembling hands slamming the door shut behind you. The heavy thud echoed through the space as you fumbled with the lock. The room smelled like a mix of sweat, cologne, and weed—a painfully familiar scent that grounded you for only a split second before the panic returned.

Your eyes darted around the room, wild and desperate, until you spotted the narrow space between Stan’s bed and the wall. Without hesitation, you dove into it, curling up tightly and pressing your hand over your mouth to muffle your breathing.

The house was filled with the sound of Kyle’s wrath. “WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!” he yelled, his voice dripping with fury as he stomped through the upstairs hallway. Doors slammed open one after another, each loud bang making your heart jump into your throat.

You squeezed your eyes shut, biting down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. Your breathing was shallow, and your chest felt like it was going to explode from the tension coiling inside of you.

Kyle’s voice came again, sharper and louder now, directly outside the door to Stan’s room. “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, YOU FUCKING COWARD!” The doorknob rattled violently, and then came a hard bang as he shoved against it. “YOU CAN’T FUCKING HIDE FOREVER!”

Your entire body tensed, your back pressed hard against the wall as the room fell silent except for the sound of the door shaking under his force. You clamped your hand tighter over your mouth, willing yourself to disappear as his voice rang out again, venomous and enraged.

“When I get in there, we’re finishing this,” he spat, the edge of his voice so sharp it sent shivers down your spine. “You’re not fucking running away from me again.”

Your chest heaved as you pressed further against the wall, every muscle in your body trembling. Kyle’s voice was a storm, each word crashing against the fragile barrier of the door like waves threatening to break through. The doorknob rattled again, harder this time, followed by a loud bang as his fist collided with the wood.

“You can’t keep hiding from me!” he shouted, his tone raw, his words drenched in desperation. “You think this is gonna fix anything? You think running upstairs and shutting a door is gonna make this shitstorm disappear?”

Your breath hitched as his voice grew quieter, his tone dropping into something unnervingly calm but no less intense. “I thought we had something real,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “You—me—we were supposed to be solid. You were supposed to be mine.”

His voice cracked, the sound making your chest tighten painfully. “I fucking trusted you, [Y/N]. I trusted you with everything, and you—” He paused, his breathing heavy as his fists collided with the door again. “You didn’t just break my heart. You fucking shattered it.”

The door shuddered under his assault, and you curled further into yourself, your hand clamped over your mouth to keep your sobs silent. But Kyle wasn’t done.

“You can’t just throw me away!” he screamed, his voice breaking completely. “I don’t care how much you hate me right now. I don’t care if you’re scared. You don’t get to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t get to fucking leave me!” His words came faster now, unhinged and desperate, each one sharper than the last.

He banged on the door again, his fists pounding with such force you thought it might crack. “I’ll make you see, [Y/N]! We can fix this—I can fix this! We’re supposed to be together. You, me—it’s us against the world, right?”

Kyle’s words grew even louder, echoing through the house. “Don’t you fucking get it? You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.” His voice softened for a moment, but the edge was still there, sharp and cutting. “You’re all I ever wanted, and you think you can just walk away? That’s not how this ends.”

The intensity of his voice reminded you of something unhinged, like a switch had flipped inside him, and now there was no going back. He slammed his fist against the door one more time, harder than before. “Fine. You want to run? You want to keep pretending I don’t matter? Guess what, [Y/N]—you do matter. To me. More than anything.”

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, you thought he might give up. But then his voice came again, softer but laced with a chilling resolve. “I’m not going anywhere. You and me? We’re meant to be. So open the fucking door before I do it for you.”

His words echoed in your mind, their weight pressing down on you like a vise. You knew the door wouldn’t hold much longer. Each pounding strike made the hinges groan and the thin wood shake. His voice was louder now, raw and filled with something that teetered between desperation and fury.

“[Y/N], OPEN THE DOOR!” Kyle bellowed, his fists slamming against the wood so hard you flinched with every hit. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, PLEASE!”

You bit your lip, tears streaking your cheeks as you tried to steady your ragged breathing. Your heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest, the fear and adrenaline crashing over you like waves. But Kyle wasn’t stopping.

“DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE!” he yelled, his voice cracking as the force behind his pounding increased. The doorknob rattled violently under his grip, but you didn’t move from your spot behind the bed. “I SWEAR TO GOD, [Y/N], YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME DO THIS!”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sound of your sobs, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening anymore. He was consumed, his voice growing louder and more unhinged with every word. “I’M GOING TO COUNT TO THREE,” he shouted, his tone now more of a command than a plea. “ONE!”

The door groaned as his fist slammed against it again, a loud crack following the impact. Your entire body tensed as you buried your face against your knees, praying it would hold just a little longer.

“TWO!” he yelled, the sound reverberating through the house. The doorknob rattled harder now, and you could hear the wood splintering under the force of his blows.

Then there was a pause—a brief, suffocating silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity.

“THREE!” Kyle roared, and with one final, deafening crash, the doorknob gave way. The door swung open violently, slamming against the wall behind it. The sound echoed in your ears, and your stomach dropped as Kyle stormed into the room.

His chest heaved with every breath, his face red and contorted with a mix of anger, frustration, and something deeper—something broken. His green eyes scanned the room wildly, and when they landed on you, curled up behind the bed, they softened for the briefest moment. But the softness was fleeting, quickly replaced by the same burning intensity that had driven him to break the door down.

“Why the fuck are you hiding?” he demanded, his voice trembling as he took a step closer. “You think I’m going to let you run away like that? You think I’m just going to let you go?”

“Kyle, please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your pounding heart. “Just… please stop.”

“Stop?” he repeated, his tone incredulous. “You don’t get to tell me to stop, [Y/N]. Not after all of this. Not after everything you’ve done.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, pacing a few steps before turning back to you. “You don’t get to shut me out. Not now.”

Your tears blurred your vision as you shook your head, your back pressing harder against the wall. ��I’m sorry,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Kyle. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“Sorry?” he said, laughing bitterly as he looked at you with wide, manic eyes. “You think sorry fixes this? You think it fixes the fact that you lied to me? That you—” He stopped, his voice cracking, and clenched his fists tightly at his sides. “That you chose him over me?”

You pushed yourself further into the corner, your body trembling as his words washed over you. There was no escape, no way to run, and the reality of that sent a fresh wave of panic crashing down on you. Kyle stood over you now, his towering frame blocking out the dim light from the hallway as his eyes bore into yours.

“We’re going to finish this,” he said, his voice calmer now but no less intense. “You’re not running. You’re not hiding. Not anymore.”

Your chest heaved, and your breathing came in sharp, uneven gasps. Tears streamed down your face, hot and unrelenting, as the weight of everything bore down on you. Words tumbled from your lips in a desperate, frantic ramble, your voice trembling with hiccups and sobs.

“I—Kyle, I didn’t—” you stammered, shaking your head as you tried to form a coherent thought. “It was before—before us. I swear, I—I didn’t mean for it to happen. We weren’t even… we weren’t together yet. I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t think—”

Your words broke off in a sob, and you buried your face in your hands, your voice muffled but no less frantic. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I never wanted this, Kyle. It just—it just happened. He—he was there, and I wasn’t thinking, and—”

You trailed off, choking on the lump in your throat, your hands shaking as you clutched at your knees. The tears blurred your vision, making Kyle’s looming figure appear like a hazy shadow. Your entire body trembled, the adrenaline mixing with the overwhelming guilt and fear coursing through you.

“I should’ve told you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper, your words punctuated by hiccuping sobs. “I should’ve told you, but I was scared. I didn’t know how to say it, and then we… and then we happened, and I thought—” You shook your head again, your voice rising in pitch. “I thought it didn’t matter anymore because you were the one I wanted. You’re the one I love.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence, your ragged breathing the only sound breaking the stillness. You dared to look up at him, your tear-filled eyes meeting his.

Kyle just stared at you, his chest heaving as he processed your words. His green eyes were wide, the fury in them unmistakable. But there was something else there too—something deeper, more fractured. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, his face frozen in an expression of shock and disbelief.

“Kyle,” you said softly, your voice trembling, but he didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if he was trying to physically hold himself together. The tension in the room was palpable, pressing down on you like a crushing weight.

His silence felt worse than any yelling could have, worse than any accusations. It was as though he couldn’t even find the words to express the magnitude of his hurt and rage. And that silence, that heavy, suffocating silence, filled the room like a living thing.

“Kyle,” you tried again, your voice cracking, but he still didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring at you with wide, furious eyes, his emotions storming just beneath the surface.

Then, suddenly, he laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that made your stomach twist. It wasn’t humor. It was anger. Pain. Madness. He ran a hand through his hair, his laugh breaking into a scoff as he shook his head.

“I really loved you, you know?” he said, his voice dripping with something raw and dangerous. “Like, actually fucking loved you. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To care about someone so much, it drives you fucking insane?” His words were fast, spilling out like a dam had burst, his green eyes wild as they locked onto yours. “To think about them every second of the day? To wonder if you’re good enough? To hope—no, to fucking pray—that maybe they’ll look at you the same way?”

“Kyle, I—”

“Don’t.” He cut you off sharply, his tone like a slap. “Don’t fucking say you loved me too. Because if you did, this?” He gestured wildly around the room, his hand trembling. “This wouldn’t have fucking happened. You wouldn’t have done this to me.”

You felt your back press harder against the wall as his voice rose, the anger bubbling up and spilling out in waves. His words hit like punches, each one sinking into your chest and leaving you gasping for air.

Slowly, shakily, you pushed yourself up from the floor, your knees trembling as you tried to steady yourself. “Kyle, I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I need to go. We can talk about this later, but right now, I need to—”

You started to move toward the door, but before you could reach it, Kyle stepped in front of you, his hand slamming against the wood with a deafening bang. The door rattled under the force, and you froze, your breath catching in your throat as he turned to face you, his eyes blazing.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere,” he said, his voice low and venomous. His chest heaved with every breath, his entire body tense as he blocked your path. “Not until we finish this.”

“Kyle, please,” you said, your voice trembling as you took a small step back. But before you could say anything else, his hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a grip that wasn’t painful but firm enough to make your heart race.

“Don’t ‘Kyle, please’ me,” he snapped, his voice rising again as he pushed you back. Your legs hit the edge of Stan’s bed, and you stumbled, falling onto the mattress as the breath was knocked out of you. The room spun for a moment, the adrenaline in your veins making it hard to focus as Kyle loomed over you.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and anguish. “Do you even care? Or is this all just some fucking game to you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Your body shook as his shadow stretched over you, the weight of his presence suffocating. The tears streaming down your face blurred your vision, but you could still see the storm of emotions in his eyes—anger, heartbreak, betrayal.

Kyle took a deep, ragged breath, his shoulders shaking as he seemed to catch himself. He stepped back slightly, running a hand through his hair again as his jaw clenched. “You don’t get to run,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “Not after everything. You owe me that much.”

Your chest tightened, his words pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t bear. “I’m not running, Kyle,” you stammered, your voice trembling, tears streaming freely down your face. “I swear, I’m not. I just think—maybe we should talk about this when we’re not so—so worked up. When we can actually—”

“Shut up,” Kyle snapped, cutting you off, his voice sharp and dripping with venom. He didn’t let you finish, didn’t let you explain. Instead, he surged forward, his hands grabbing your face roughly, and his lips crushed against yours.

The kiss was harsh, desperate, and filled with everything Kyle was feeling in that moment—anger, betrayal, heartbreak. It wasn’t tender or loving; it was raw, almost punishing, like he was trying to make you feel the depth of his pain through sheer force.

For a moment, you froze, overwhelmed by the heat of his lips and the intensity of his grip. But as tears streamed down your face, you found yourself kissing him back, your hands rising hesitantly to press against his chest. Even now, even with the fear gripping your chest, you couldn’t stop yourself from responding. Because you loved him, even when he scared you, even when his touch felt like fire.

Your lips moved against his, your tears mixing with the saltiness of his skin. But his anger didn’t fade—it was there in the way his lips moved, rough and demanding, in the way his hands held your face like he was claiming something he believed was his.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his green eyes burning with fury. “You kissed me back,” he said, his voice low and biting. “You’re so fucking pathetic, you know that? Crying and acting scared, but you still kissed me like you think it fixes this.”

Your breath hitched at the venom in his words, and you shook your head, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “Kyle, please, I—”

“Don’t,” he snarled, his hands dropping from your face as he stepped back, looking down at you like you were something disgusting. “You don’t get to fucking beg me. You don’t get to cry and act like you’re the victim in this. You did this, [Y/N]. You. You’re the reason we’re here.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you choked out, your voice breaking as your sobs grew louder. “I never wanted—”

“You never wanted?” he cut you off, laughing bitterly as he ran a hand through his hair. “What the fuck did you think would happen, huh? That you’d sleep with Stan, and everything would magically be okay? That I wouldn’t find out? Or were you hoping I’d be so fucking in love with you that I’d just forgive you? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

His words hit you like a slap, each one sinking deep and leaving you gasping for air. “I was scared,” you whispered, barely able to speak through the lump in your throat. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Scared,” he repeated, scoffing as he glared at you. “Yeah, well, now I’m fucking terrified. Terrified of how much I hate you right now. Do you get that, [Y/N]? I fucking hate you.”

Your knees buckled slightly at his words, your hands trembling as they clutched at the edge of Stan’s bed for support. “Kyle, I—”

“No,” he snapped, his voice rising again as he pointed at you. “Don’t. Don’t you dare try to apologize. You don’t get to make this better. You don’t get to act like this is fixable. You’re just—” His voice cracked, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’re just a fucking liar. And I’m done.”

His words cut deep, each syllable slamming into you like a blow. Tears streamed down your face as you trembled, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. But something in his words—the venom, the finality—ignited something in you. Your sobs hitched, and your body moved before your mind caught up.

“You think you’re the only one who’s hurt?” you snapped, your voice cracking but louder now, shaking with both anger and heartbreak. “You think I wanted this? That I chose this? I hate myself for what I did, Kyle. You don’t have to keep reminding me!”

Your breathing was uneven, your tears falling freely as your voice rose. “But don’t stand there and act like you’re the only one who’s broken! You think you can just scream at me and throw all this shit at me, like I’m not already drowning in it?”

Kyle froze, his eyes narrowing as your words hit him, but you didn’t stop. You took a step forward, your hands trembling as you reached up and grabbed the collar of his hoodie. “You hate me? Fine,” you said, your voice trembling but filled with fire. “You hate me? Then hate me. Show me.”

Before he could react, you wrapped your arms around his neck and yanked him down, crashing your lips against his in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was angry, desperate, a collision of every unspoken word and unrelenting emotion between you. Your tears mingled with the heat of his skin, the salt mixing with the raw intensity of the moment.

For a second, he didn’t move, his body tense and rigid against yours. But then his hands shot up, grabbing your arms roughly, and he kissed you back with the same fire. It wasn’t tender or loving—it was harsh, bruising, filled with anger and pain. His lips moved against yours with a desperation that mirrored your own, as if he was trying to consume every part of you in the chaos.

Your fingers curled into his hair, your tears spilling faster as your emotions poured into the kiss. It was messy, frantic, and full of everything neither of you could say. You could feel the hatred in his touch, in the way his hands gripped your arms, holding you in place as if you’d disappear if he let go.

When you finally pulled back, gasping for air, your faces were inches apart, your breaths mingling in the charged silence. Kyle’s green eyes burned into yours, his chest heaving, his hands lingering on your arms like he didn’t know whether to hold you closer or push you away.

Something inside you snapped. The tears on your cheeks burned, your emotions a chaotic storm of anger, pain, and something deeper you couldn’t name. Your arms slipped from around his neck and grabbed his shoulders instead, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as you glared up at him.

“I hate you,” you hissed, your voice trembling but forceful. “I hate you so fucking much right now, Kyle. You don’t even understand.”

Kyle’s jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly, but you didn’t give him a chance to respond. “You think you can just yell at me, tear me down, like I’m the only one who fucked up? Like I didn’t already know how much I ruined everything?” Your fingers gripped his shoulders harder, your voice rising with each word. “I hate the way you look at me, like I’m nothing. Like all the good between us never even existed. I hate how much I still care about you, even when you’re tearing me apart.”

As your words spilled out, you leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, rough and desperate, like you were trying to anchor yourself to him even as your anger boiled over. Kyle stiffened under your touch, but he didn’t push you away.

“I hate that you have this power over me,” you whispered against his skin, your voice breaking as your lips moved to the hollow of his throat. “I hate that no matter how much you hurt me, I still love you.”

Kyle’s breath hitched, and his hands twitched where they gripped your arms, but he still didn’t speak. You pressed another kiss to his neck, harder this time, your tears wetting his skin. “I hate that I can’t let you go,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I hate that even now, when you’re looking at me like you’d rather I disappear, all I want is to be close to you.”

Your kisses grew more frantic, more desperate, as your emotions spilled out in broken, gasping words. “I hate you,” you said again, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as your hands clung to him. “I hate you so much it hurts.”

Kyle finally moved, his hands gripping your arms tighter, his breathing ragged. “Stop,” he said, his voice low and uneven. “Just… stop.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Your lips pressed against his neck again, softer this time but no less insistent, and his hands trembled against you. His body felt like a live wire under your touch, tense and coiled with emotions that mirrored your own.

“Why should I?” you whispered, your voice breaking as fresh tears fell. “Why should I stop when you’ve already destroyed me?”

Without waiting for a response, you grabbed Kyle by the front of his hoodie and yanked him down, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed. His body fell heavily onto the mattress, his green eyes wide with shock as you climbed onto his lap, straddling him with trembling legs. Your hands shot up to cup his face, your fingers gripping his cheeks firmly as your tears continued to stream.

“I hate you, Kyle,” you said again, your voice quieter now but no less sharp. “I hate you so much, and I hate myself even more for still wanting you.”

You stared at him, your tear-filled eyes locked onto his as a new wave of emotion surged through you. The anger and hurt bubbling in your chest broke free, spilling out in words you didn’t even know you were holding back. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” you spat, your voice shaking. “You’re acting like I cheated on you or stabbed you in the back when I slept with Stan before we were even dating.”

Kyle’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as you kept going, the words coming faster, sharper. “We weren’t together, Kyle! And now you’re chasing me down, banging on doors, screaming like a goddamn lunatic, and for what? To scare the shit out of me? To make me hate you even more?”

Your chest heaved as the words left you, and Kyle’s gaze flickered, his hands still gripping your wrists tightly. Then, without warning, he pushed you backward, his hands releasing you as your back hit the mattress with a soft thud. Your eyes went wide, your breath catching in your throat as his body hovered over yours, his presence overwhelming and intense.

Your heart raced as his hands planted on either side of your head, his green eyes boring into yours with a mix of fury and something deeper, something darker. For a moment, you froze, unsure of what he was going to do next. But instead of pushing him away, your hands moved on instinct, wrapping around his neck and pulling him closer.

Kyle’s breathing was heavy, his chest brushing against yours as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “You don’t get to justify it like that,” he said, his voice low and sharp, trembling with emotion. “You don’t get to act like what you did doesn’t matter just because of timing. You broke something in me, [Y/N]. You fucking broke me.”

Tears welled in your eyes again as his words sank in, the raw emotion in his voice cutting deep. “And what about me?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Do you think I’m not broken too? Do you think I don’t hate myself for what I did to you?”

His eyes softened for a split second, but the tension between you didn’t ease. His face hovered close to yours, the heat of his breath against your skin sending shivers down your spine. You tightened your grip around his neck, pulling him even closer until your foreheads were almost touching.

“I hate you, Kyle,” you whispered again, tears spilling down your cheeks. “But I love you too, and I don’t know how to stop.”

Kyle’s eyes burned into yours for a moment, his chest heaving as if he were trying to catch his breath. Then, without warning, he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was loud, forceful, and full of anger. It wasn’t soft or loving—it was bruising, demanding, almost punishing, as if he was pouring all of his rage and frustration into the kiss.

Your tears mixed with the heat of his lips, your mind racing as you felt the intensity of him overwhelm you. Instead of pulling away, you leaned into it, your body moving on instinct. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and you opened your mouth to deepen the kiss, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his hoodie.

The kiss was frantic, messy, and raw, fueled by the storm of emotions that neither of you could control. His hands gripped the mattress on either side of your head, his knuckles white with tension, as though he was holding himself back even as he gave in. You could feel the heat of his frustration, the sting of his anger, but beneath it all, there was something else—something desperate, something broken.

Your hands moved up to his hair, your fingers curling into the strands as you tugged lightly, a sob catching in your throat as the kiss deepened further. You didn’t know if this was love, hate, or some twisted combination of both, but you couldn’t stop. His lips moved against yours with bruising intensity, his teeth grazing your lower lip as if he wanted to leave his mark on you.

Kyle’s grip on the mattress loosened, his hands moving to your waist, his fingers digging into your sides as if to anchor himself. His movements were rough, almost desperate, as though he was trying to make you feel every ounce of what he was feeling. And you let him, your body responding to his with the same intensity, the same fire, even as the tears continued to fall.

But then, something inside you snapped. The heat, the intensity—it all became too much. You pushed against his chest, your palms firm, and he stumbled back slightly, his green eyes wide with surprise. Without saying a word, you sat up and swung your legs off the bed, your hands moving to the laces of your shoes.

Your breathing was ragged as you yanked at the knots, your hands shaking from a mixture of anger and adrenaline. You muttered to yourself under your breath, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “What am I even doing… What the fuck is this…”

Kyle stayed where he was, his chest rising and falling as he watched you, his expression clouded with confusion and frustration. “What the hell are you doing now?” he finally asked, his voice sharp but uncertain.

You ignored him at first, tugging your shoes off and tossing them to the side. Rising to your feet, you wiped the tears from your cheeks with the back of your hand, your lips curling into a sneer. “You want to know something, Kyle?” you said, your voice low but full of venom. “I bet you wish I was Wendy.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as your words hit him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you spat, your hands trembling as they moved to the waistband of your tights. “Back at the bonfire, when we were playing truth or dare—remember that? When Kenny asked you who here you’d date if it wasn’t me?” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed through it, your anger flaring higher. “And you didn’t even hesitate. You picked Wendy.”

Kyle’s face twisted, his expression shifting to one of frustration mixed with guilt. “That didn’t mean anything,” he said quickly, his voice hard but defensive. “It was a fucking game, [Y/N]. You know that.”

“Do I?” you shot back, your voice rising as tears burned in your eyes again. “Because it didn’t feel like a game, Kyle. It felt real. And now I can’t stop thinking about it—about how you said her name like it was nothing.”

Kyle’s fists clenched at his sides, his eyes burning with anger now. “You’re being ridiculous,” he snapped. “You’re twisting this into something it’s not.”

“Am I?” you snapped, your hands shaking as you grabbed the waistband of your tights and pulled them down in one swift motion, letting them pool at your ankles before kicking them to the side. “You hate me, right? You hate me so fucking much, so why are you still here? Why are you still looking at me like that?”

His eyes flicked over you, his expression stormy and unreadable. The air between you was heavy, suffocating, as the silence stretched. His green eyes locked onto yours, a volatile mix of fury and something else—something he wouldn’t admit, something neither of you could name.

“You want to talk about Wendy?” you pressed, your voice trembling but unwavering. “Go ahead, Kyle. Tell me how much you wish I was her. Tell me how much easier all of this would be if I was Wendy fucking Testaburger.”

Kyle’s jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap. His chest heaved as he stared at you, his face twisted in frustration, his hands trembling at his sides. “You’re fucking insane,” he said finally, his voice low but biting, his tone matching the storm in his eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curling into a bitter smirk as the anger bubbling inside you broke free. “You’re fucking insane,” you mimicked, your voice low and mocking, throwing his words right back at him. You took a step closer, your bare legs brushing against his knees where he sat on Stan’s bed. His eyes followed you, his green gaze seething with frustration as you loomed over him.

“You want to call me insane?” you said, your voice rising as your emotions spilled out, hot and sharp. “Fine. Let’s talk about what you are, Kyle.”

You jabbed your index finger into his chest, your hand trembling as you pressed your point. “You’re a liar. A fucking hypocrite. You run after me, you bang on doors, you act like you own me—but you’re the one who said Wendy’s name without even blinking.”

His breath hitched slightly at your words, but you didn’t stop, your finger pressing harder against him. “And let me tell you something, Kyle,” you said, your voice dripping with venom. “Stan would never do this to me.”

Kyle’s eyes widened, his body stiffening as the words hit him. His chest rose and fell heavily, his jaw tightening further as his fists curled against the edge of the bed. “What the fuck did you just say?” he asked, his voice dangerously low, his tone trembling with restrained fury.

“You heard me,” you snapped, your sneer deepening as you leaned closer, your face inches from his. “Stan wouldn’t chase me down like a fucking maniac. He wouldn’t bang on doors, screaming at me like a lunatic. He wouldn’t make me feel like this.”

Kyle’s hand shot out suddenly, gripping your wrist tightly, his green eyes blazing with anger. “You don’t get to say that,” he growled, his voice shaking with emotion. “You don’t fucking get to say that after what you did.”

You yanked your wrist free, your own tears brimming again as you refused to back down. “Why not?” you shouted, your voice cracking. “Because it’s true? Because Stan was good to me, and you can’t stand the fact that you’re not?”

His hands trembled in his lap, his face twisted into an expression you couldn’t decipher. The silence between you crackled with tension, your words hanging heavy in the air like a weapon waiting to strike again.

Kyle finally looked up at you, his green eyes ablaze with anger and something darker, something sharp enough to cut. His lips curled into a sneer, and his voice dropped to a low, venomous growl. “You’re such a fucking slut,” he spat, each word landing like a slap.

You froze, blinking at him owlishly, his words ringing in your ears. The air seemed to shift around you, colder now, heavier, as his insult settled into the space between you. Your breath caught in your throat, your mind racing as you tried to process what he’d just said, tried to think of something to say back—something equally as sharp, equally as venomous.

Your jaw tightened as the weight of his words pressed down on you, and your lips parted, your voice trembling but filled with fire. “And you’re pathetic, Kyle,” you shot back, your tone low but dripping with venom. “You’re pathetic for still chasing after me, for wanting me so badly that you can’t even let me go.”

His sneer deepened, his fists curling tighter on his lap. “You think I fucking want you?” he snapped, his voice rising. “After everything you’ve done? After Stan?”

“Clearly you do!” you yelled, your voice cracking with the force of your emotion. “Or you wouldn’t be here, sitting on this bed, saying this shit to me!” You leaned closer, your hands trembling at your sides. “If I’m a slut, then what the fuck does that make you, Kyle? Huh? What does it make you?”

Kyle’s face twisted further, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might snap. “It makes me fucking stupid for ever thinking you were worth it,” he hissed, his voice shaking with rage.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your hand shot out and struck him across the face. The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek echoed in the tense room, reverberating like a thunderclap. Kyle’s head snapped to the side from the force, his hands frozen in his lap.

Your breath came in heavy gasps, your chest heaving as your tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting. You didn’t say anything, your body trembling as you stood there, the aftermath of your anger ringing in your ears. Kyle didn’t move. He didn’t react. He stayed completely still, his head tilted slightly, the red imprint of your hand stark against his pale cheek.

Something inside you shifted then, the weight of the moment pressing down on your shoulders like a tidal wave. You stepped closer to him, your breathing uneven as you slowly climbed onto his lap, your legs straddling him again. His body remained rigid beneath you, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles turned white.

Reaching up, your hands found his face, your fingers trembling as they brushed against the cheek you’d slapped. His skin was warm under your touch, the red mark of your anger standing out vividly. You didn’t speak. You didn’t try to explain yourself. Instead, you leaned in, pressing your lips softly against the same cheek you’d struck.

The kiss was hesitant at first, tender and uncertain, but you pressed harder, your lips lingering against his skin as your tears continued to fall. Another kiss followed, then another, your mouth moving gently over the flushed, reddened skin. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t meant to be. It was something else—something raw and desperate, an unspoken plea that you couldn’t put into words.

Kyle’s breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you, but he still didn’t move. His hands remained at his sides, his fists trembling, as you kissed the anger and heat from his cheek. His jaw tightened as your lips brushed against the edge of it, but he didn’t push you away.

Tears dripped from your chin onto his shirt as you kissed him again, your hands sliding to cradle his face, your thumbs brushing against the line of his jaw. “You think I’m nothing,” you whispered softly against his cheek, your voice trembling but filled with fire. “But I don’t care what you think. I’m not afraid of you, Kyle.”

His green eyes flicked toward you, his expression still stormy, still filled with unrelenting anger. But there was something else in his gaze too—something you couldn’t name, something that made your chest ache.

“You can hate me all you want,” you murmured, your lips brushing over the edge of his cheek as you spoke. “But you don’t get to break me. Not like this.”

Before you could say anything else, Kyle turned his face sharply, and his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was frantic, uncoordinated, and filled with so much heat and anger that it left you breathless. His hands shot up, gripping your waist tightly, almost bruising, as though he was trying to ground himself—or keep you exactly where you were.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was messy and desperate, full of everything neither of you could say aloud. Kyle’s teeth sank into your bottom lip, biting hard enough to make you gasp. The sound escaped you before you could stop it, and the moment your lips parted, his tongue slipped inside, exploring your mouth with an almost aggressive fervor.

Your hands found his shoulders, clutching him tightly as he kissed you harder, his movements rough and unrelenting. Heat bloomed in your chest and spread like wildfire, your entire body tingling with the intensity of the moment. You moaned softly against his lips, the sound muffled and involuntary, and immediately felt a flush of embarrassment spread across your face.

The heat between you became overwhelming, your bare thighs pressing against the rough denim of his jeans. His body was so hot against yours, every movement sending a jolt of sensation through you. You shifted slightly in his lap, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the motion only made things worse. The friction, the closeness—it was too much and not enough all at once.

Kyle’s grip on your waist tightened as you moved, his fingers digging into your skin as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you pulling away. His lips moved against yours with bruising intensity, his teeth grazing your lip again before pulling back just enough to murmur, “Don’t fucking stop.”

His voice was low, almost a growl, and it sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn’t find the words to respond. You weren’t even sure if you wanted to. Your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as your lips met his again, your bodies pressing together as the tension between you boiled over, unrestrained and undeniable.

Kyle pulled away from the kiss, his lips swollen and red, a thin string of saliva connecting the two of you. His chest heaved, and as you looked at him, you noticed the flush spreading across his face, creeping up his neck and into the tips of his ears. It wasn’t just anger anymore—there was something raw and unguarded in his expression, something that sent a pang of uncertainty through your chest.

You squinted your eyes at him, your breaths still coming in short gasps. “What?” you muttered, the word sharp but shaky, your voice cracking from the whirlwind of emotions and sensations.

Kyle scoffed, his eyes narrowing as though your reaction irritated him. “Nothing,” he muttered, his tone defensive. He reached for the hem of his hoodie, yanking it up and over his head in one fluid motion. His shirt underneath rode up slightly, exposing a sliver of his stomach before he fixed it, tossing the hoodie carelessly to the floor.

Your gaze darted to the door, your mind racing. For a brief moment, you wondered if this was your chance—if you should just leave before the intensity between you spiraled even further out of control. The thought of staying, of seeing where this might go, sent both excitement and fear coursing through you. Your thighs twitched slightly against his lap as your heart pounded harder in your chest.

Kyle caught the flicker of your eyes toward the door, and his jaw tightened. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low and commanding. His hands moved back to your waist, gripping you firmly but not harshly, like he was grounding you in place. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You couldn’t deny that part of you wanted to bolt, to escape the intensity of the moment and the mess of emotions swirling between you. But there was another part—a stronger, more desperate part—that couldn’t move, that didn’t want to move, no matter how much your mind screamed at you to go.

“What if I do?” you challenged, your voice quieter now but still defiant as your eyes met his. “What if I leave?”

Kyle’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his green eyes burning into yours. “You won’t,” he said, his tone confident and edged with something darker, something possessive. “Because you’re still here. You’re still on my lap, aren’t you?”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and your hands, still resting on the back of his neck, flexed slightly as your breath hitched. You hated how much he was right—how much you didn’t want to leave, even as your mind screamed at you to walk out that door and never look back.

Kyle’s smirk deepened, his lips curling into something smug and infuriating. “That’s what I thought,” he said lowly, his voice a mix of arrogance and something darker, something that made your pulse quicken.

His fingers moved to the hem of your black long-sleeved turtleneck, toying with the fabric as though testing your resolve. You stayed still, your hands trembling slightly where they still rested on the back of his neck. Then, without warning, he tugged the turtleneck up and over your head, the cool air hitting your skin as the material was pulled away.

“Are you fucking serious?” you hissed, your eyes narrowing at him. “Stan could walk in here any second, and you’re—” You gestured vaguely, your voice dripping with disbelief. “You’re being a fucking weirdo.”

Kyle scoffed, tossing the turtleneck to the floor beside his hoodie. “Stan’s not coming back anytime soon,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “And even if he did—” His eyes roamed over you, a glint of something possessive in his gaze. “Do you really think I care?”

You bristled, your cheeks heating under the intensity of his stare. “You should care, Kyle,” you snapped, your voice rising slightly. “This isn’t exactly—” You faltered, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “This isn’t normal. You’re acting like—like this is fine, like this isn’t completely insane.”

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk returning as his fingers grazed your waist, his touch light but deliberate. “I never said I was normal,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “And let’s be real—you’re not exactly running for the door, are you?”

His words hit a nerve, and you scowled, your hands tightening slightly on the back of his neck. “Because you’re a manipulative asshole,” you shot back, your voice trembling with frustration. “And I’m—”

“Still here,” Kyle interrupted, cutting you off with a knowing look. “Still on my lap. Still letting me do this.” His hands moved higher, his touch tracing along the bare skin of your sides. “Admit it, [Y/N]. You’re just as fucked up as I am.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, a fresh wave of anger and something you didn’t want to name surging through you. You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him off, but the intensity of his gaze held you in place, your words faltering as the tension between you grew thicker, more suffocating.

Unable to hold the weight of his stare, you turned your head, your eyes landing on the room around you. Stan’s bedroom. His guitar leaned against the corner, scuffed from years of use. Sports posters lined the walls, the edges curled from tape and time. And there, pinned haphazardly on the wall, a cluster of Polaroids. Your chest tightened as you scanned them—Stan with Kyle, their arms slung around each other, grinning at the camera, moments frozen in time that felt impossibly distant from the chaos you were living now.

You turned back to Kyle, your lips curling into a scowl. The sight of those Polaroids, their memories, only fueled the fire burning in your chest. Your fingers drifted to the hem of his shirt, toying with it idly as you leaned closer, your lips finding his neck. The kisses you pressed against his skin weren’t tender—they were open-mouthed, loud smacks, each one deliberate, each one meant to provoke.

Kyle’s body tensed under you, his hands pausing where they’d been gripping your waist. His breath hitched as your lips lingered near the hollow of his throat, but he didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“You want to know something, Kyle?” you murmured against his skin, your tone deceptively soft, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “Stan didn’t have to chase me. He didn’t have to scream or bang on doors to get me to give him what he wanted.”

His hands twitched on your waist, his grip tightening slightly, but he said nothing. You pressed another kiss to his neck, your fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt just enough to graze the bare skin beneath.

“Do you want to know where it happened?” you continued, your voice low and taunting, dripping with venom as your lips moved higher, brushing against his ear. “In the bathroom. At that shitty little performance venue. Stan leaned against the sink, and I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kyle growled, his voice low and dangerous, trembling with barely restrained fury.

You ignored him, your fingers digging into his sides as you pressed your lips to his jaw, your words unrelenting. “I knelt right there in front of him, and he—”

Before you could finish, Kyle shoved you back, his hands gripping your shoulders as he pushed you down onto the mattress. His green eyes burned with fury, his chest heaving as he loomed over you, his face twisted with an anger so raw it sent a shiver down your spine.

“You think this is fucking funny?” he spat, his voice sharp and venomous, trembling with rage. “You think you can just say that shit to me and get away with it?”

A bitter smile played on your lips as you looked up at him, defiant even now. “Why not?” you shot back, your voice trembling but steady enough to cut. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? Or does it hurt too much to hear?”

Kyle’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening where they gripped your shoulders. His green eyes burned with something unrelenting, something harsh and cruel that you hadn’t seen from him before. The silence between you stretched, thick and suffocating, before he finally broke it, his voice low and biting.

“You really think you mean anything to Stan?” he sneered, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. “You’re nothing to him. He loves Wendy—he always has, always will. You? You were just… easy. Convenient. Available.”

His words hit you like a blow, each one sinking deeper than the last. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you refused to let them fall. Your chest heaved as you struggled to keep your composure, your defiance flickering like a candle in a storm.

Kyle leaned closer, his grip tightening as he glared down at you. “You think you’re special? You’re not,” he spat, his tone laced with venom. “You were just something to pass the time, [Y/N]. You’re nothing.”

The tears pooled harder in your eyes, and your lips quivered despite your best efforts to keep steady. You opened your mouth to retaliate, to throw something—anything—back at him, but the lump in your throat made it impossible to speak.

Before you could react, Kyle’s hands moved to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he yanked your skirt down in one swift motion. The movement was harsh, almost careless, and the fabric slipped from your body, pooling at your knees.

Your breath hitched, the tears finally spilling over as his words echoed in your mind, cutting deeper than any touch ever could. You hated him in this moment, hated the power he had over you, hated how much you cared despite everything. But most of all, you hated yourself for not stopping him, for letting his words sink in and make you feel small, even when you wanted so badly to be strong.

Kyle leaned in, his lips brushing against your chest with a deliberate slowness that felt cruel, almost taunting. His weight pressed into you now, pinning you against the mattress as his hands moved to your bra, his fingers toying with the fabric before sliding it down to your waist. His touch wasn’t tender—it was firm, almost dismissive, like he wasn’t trying to be careful with you.

Your hands found their way into his hair, your fingers clutching at the strands as tears streamed down your face. Your breath came in ragged gasps, each one shaky and uneven as your body reacted to the closeness despite the anger bubbling inside you. His lips pressed against your skin again, warm and purposeful, as if mocking your tears.

“You’re really crying right now?” he muttered against your skin, his voice cold and biting, dripping with disdain. “What did you think was going to happen? You think you can just say all that shit to me and expect me to care?”

The words cut into you like a blade, and your fingers trembled in his hair, your grip faltering. Tears blurred your vision as his hands moved, his touch rougher now, his actions filled with the same anger that laced his words.

“You don’t get to cry, [Y/N],” he continued, lifting his head to look down at you, his green eyes narrowed and blazing. “Not after everything you’ve done. Not after Stan.” His words dripped with venom, each syllable deliberately cruel, designed to hit you where it hurt most.

You tried to respond, to say something—anything—but the lump in your throat made it impossible to speak. Your tears came faster, your chest heaving as his gaze bore into you, unrelenting and cold. He scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, his hands tightening on your waist. “You’re sitting here crying like you’re the victim. You’re not. You’re nothing.”

His words cut deeper than you thought possible, but you refused to let them break you entirely. As his hands left your body, you watched through blurry, tear-filled eyes as he leaned back, pulling his shirt off over his head. His movements were sharp, deliberate, and his green eyes raked over your form pressed against the mattress, lingering like he was trying to unravel you completely.

For a moment, you just stared up at him, your chest heaving as tears streaked your face. The tension between you was suffocating, the weight of his words still heavy in the air. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, you let out the only thing you could manage.

“I hate you.”

The words trembled as they left your lips, but there was no hesitation, no doubt. Your arms moved on instinct, finding their way around his neck, pulling him back down toward you. Before he could react, your lips crashed into his, your kiss filled with anger, desperation, and something deeper that neither of you wanted to admit.

Kyle didn’t hesitate to respond. His lips met yours with bruising intensity, his hands returning to your waist, gripping you tightly as his knee pressed between your thighs, forcing them apart. The pressure was unrelenting, his weight heavy against you, grounding you in the chaos of the moment.

The kiss was messy, frantic, and filled with all the things you couldn’t say to each other. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you kissed him harder, your tears still slipping down your cheeks. His knee shifted slightly against you, the movement deliberate, and a sharp gasp escaped your lips as you broke the kiss, your breath hitching in your throat.

Kyle’s green eyes burned into yours, his expression unreadable but no less intense. His hand moved to your jaw, his grip firm as he tilted your face up toward him, forcing you to hold his gaze. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm against your skin as the tension between you built to an unbearable peak.

“You hate me?” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous, his tone daring you to repeat it. His knee pressed harder against you, sending a shiver down your spine as your hands clung to him, your body trembling beneath his.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice shaky but defiant, your fingers tightening their hold on him. “I hate you.”

Kyle’s lips twitched into a smirk, his grip on your jaw tightening slightly as he leaned in, his breath brushing against your ear. “Then prove it,” he murmured, his voice a challenge, the storm between you threatening to consume you both entirely.

Your hands trembled as they moved to the waistband of his jeans, fingers deftly working to unbuckle the belt. The metallic clink of the buckle breaking free echoed in the charged silence of the room, but you didn’t falter. Your eyes stayed locked on his, your faces mere inches apart, every breath shared, heavy and heated.

Kyle’s gaze bore into yours, unrelenting, as if daring you to stop, to back down. But you didn’t. You tugged at the denim, forcing it down over his hips and thighs, the fabric bunching awkwardly until he shifted just enough to help you slide them lower. The motion was sharp and impatient, his weight shifting over you as the material slipped away.

Your breathing was uneven, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the tension crackled between you. His smirk didn’t waver, his hands returning to your waist, gripping you tightly as he studied your face. The intensity in his gaze made your stomach twist, but you refused to look away, refused to break the fragile connection that tethered you to this moment.

The discarded jeans landed in a heap on the floor, forgotten, as Kyle leaned closer again, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost bruising intensity. His lips hovered near yours, his green eyes scanning your face as though searching for something—doubt, hesitation—but finding none.

“You really think you can handle this?” he muttered, his voice low, his breath brushing against your lips. It wasn’t a question so much as a taunt, the sharp edge in his tone daring you to respond.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, your body trembling but steady enough to meet his challenge. “Why don’t you find out?” you whispered, your voice quieter but no less defiant, the weight of your words daring him right back.

Kyle’s smirk faltered for just a moment, his green eyes narrowing as his grip on your waist tightened. His breath was warm against your face, heavy and uneven, but he didn’t move. The tension between you crackled like static, unbearable in its intensity. You didn’t look away, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your fingers clutched the material of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

And then you pressed your forehead against his.

The shift was subtle, a flicker of movement that left his breath hitching. His weight bore down on you, pinning you to the mattress, but his hands loosened their hold just slightly, his eyes searching yours. Your lips parted as you closed your eyes, your mind spinning as the storm inside you raged on.

How had it come to this?

Your mind spiraled, replaying everything that had led to this moment. Not long ago, things between you and Kyle had been good—so good. His sarcastic jokes, his smirks, the way he’d touch you, so careful and light, like you were something worth holding onto. You’d never felt like that before. Like you mattered.

But the memory of the bonfire crashed into you like a tidal wave, drowning out the warmth of those moments. Kenny’s laughter, the teasing smiles, the heat of the fire. And then Kenny’s stupid question, the way the group had leaned in, waiting for Kyle’s answer.

“Who would you date here if it wasn’t [Y/N]?”

The way he hadn’t even hesitated. The way the name had rolled off his tongue like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t a dagger to your chest.

“Wendy.”

And your own confession—an open wound you’d thrown into the night, heavy and brutal.

“I slept with Stan. A few weeks ago, when he and Wendy were on a break.”

The pain in Kyle’s eyes that moment still lingered in your chest, sharp and relentless. You didn’t know why you’d said it. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the way Wendy had been looking at you all night, her gaze cutting through you like she already knew. Maybe it was the guilt that had been eating at you, clawing its way out no matter how tightly you tried to hold it back.

The weight of those moments pressed down on you now, suffocating. Your fingers gripped Kyle’s shirt tighter as your forehead stayed pressed against his, your breaths mingling in the tense silence.

“Thinking about him?” Kyle’s voice broke the stillness, low and cutting. His tone was sharp, laced with venom, as his hands shifted on your waist. “Thinking about Stan? Or maybe you’re just regretting everything.”

Your breath hitched, and you opened your eyes to meet his, the anger and frustration in his gaze burning into you. “I’m thinking about us,” you said softly, your voice trembling but steady enough to be heard. “About what we had before I ruined it.”

Kyle’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. “Before you slept with him,” he corrected coldly. “Before you decided to blow it all up.”

The words stung, his voice carrying the weight of every ounce of anger he’d bottled up since that night. But you didn’t pull away. Your hands slid from his shirt to the back of his neck, your touch trembling but resolute.

“I didn’t know we’d turn into this,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of your own emotions. “I didn’t think we’d ever… be anything.”

Kyle let out a bitter laugh, his jaw clenching tightly. “Right. Because you didn’t think about it, did you?” His grip on your waist tightened, his frustration radiating off him like heat. “You didn’t think about me at all, [Y/N].”

You didn’t respond, your chest heaving as his words cut through the thick air between you. The anger, the frustration, the overwhelming tension—it all made it impossible to speak. Instead, you stared at him, your breaths coming in uneven gasps as his green eyes bore into yours, waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

Your hands slipped from his neck, your fingers trembling slightly as they moved lower. You didn’t think about your next move; it came from somewhere deep in the storm of emotions raging inside you. Your hands found the hemline of your panties, and without breaking eye contact with him, you began to tug them down, your movements slow and deliberate.

Kyle’s gaze flickered, his green eyes following the motion as the fabric slid down your thighs, pooling at your knees. His grip on your waist tightened even further, his knuckles turning white as he sucked in a sharp breath. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out—his anger mingling with something unspoken that hung heavy in the charged air between you.

You tilted your head slightly, defiance burning in your chest as you met his gaze, daring him to say something, to stop you, to acknowledge the whirlwind of tension that neither of you could seem to escape.

The silence stretched unbearably long, the weight of your actions and his unrelenting gaze pressing down on you like a vice. Still, you didn’t waver, your expression holding firm as you refused to back down. If he wanted to challenge you, if he wanted to lash out, you weren’t going to stop him. But you weren’t going to back away either.

Kyle’s jaw tightened again, his breath coming faster now as his eyes flicked back to yours. The intensity of his gaze burned into you, and though his frustration hadn’t eased, there was something else there now, simmering beneath the surface, threatening to break through.

You stared at him, the weight of his silence pressing heavily on your chest, your breathing uneven as you tried to make sense of the moment. The emotions swirling between you—anger, regret, bitterness—felt like they would crush you both. Finally, you let out a shaky breath, your voice quiet but tinged with bitterness.

“Are you going to do something?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. They weren’t sharp or mocking, but they carried the weight of your frustration, your confusion, your hurt. “Or… are you just going to sit there?”

Kyle’s green eyes narrowed slightly, his hands still gripping your waist, the tension radiating off him like heat. He didn’t respond right away, his jaw clenching tighter as he studied you, his gaze flickering across your face like he was trying to decide what to say—or what to do.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, your body trembling under the weight of the moment. You hated how vulnerable you felt, how the silence between you seemed to magnify every unspoken word, every lingering doubt.

“I just… I don’t understand,” you murmured, your voice breaking slightly as you tried to steady yourself. “Why are you still here, Kyle? Why haven’t you just walked away?”

His scoff broke the silence, low and bitter, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “You think I haven’t thought about it?” he muttered, his tone sharp but quiet, almost like he was talking to himself. “You think I haven’t wanted to?”

Your chest ached at his words, your breath catching as the weight of everything threatened to overwhelm you again. “Then why haven’t you?” you asked softly, your voice trembling as you looked up at him, the question lingering in the heavy air between you.

Kyle didn’t respond right away, his green eyes dark and unreadable as he stared at you. The silence felt suffocating, the tension stretching between you, heavy and unbearable. You couldn’t take it anymore—the intensity of his gaze, the weight of his silence—and you shifted, scooting away from him. Turning onto your back, you let yourself sink into Stan’s pillows, your hair fanning out across the fabric as you stared up at the ceiling.

The cool fabric brushed against your skin, grounding you for a fleeting moment. Your chest rose and fell as you tried to steady your breathing, the storm inside you still raging. You couldn’t think about what the pillows smelled like, couldn’t let your mind wander there—not when the reality of Kyle loomed over you, heavy and unrelenting.

Before you could settle for even a moment, Kyle moved. His hand shot out, grabbing your ankle and pulling you sharply down the bed, away from the pillows. The sudden motion left you gasping, your hands instinctively gripping at the sheets as your heart raced.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, but he didn’t meet your gaze. His other hand moved with deliberate intent, tugging down his boxers in a single, sharp motion. His expression was hard, unreadable, his green eyes fixed on you as the weight of his presence bore down on you again.

Your gaze faltered, dropping briefly to his cock—his tip red and leaking—before darting back up to his face. A flush crept up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks, your body betraying the calm you were trying to hold onto. A small frown tugged at the corners of your lips, your emotions tangled in a storm of apprehension, anticipation, and the undeniable absurdity of the situation.

Your thoughts spiraled as the reality of it hit you. The two of you—tangled up in frustration, anger, and something messier—were really about to fuck. Here. On Stan’s bed. The thought made your chest tighten, your fingers curling into the fabric of the sheets beneath you as you tried to steady your racing mind.

Your lips parted, and before you could stop yourself, a soft, trembling murmur slipped out. “I hate you.”

Kyle’s eyes flickered, the faintest hint of something crossing his expression—something almost softer—before it disappeared, his jaw tightening once again. His lips twitched, curling into a faint smirk as he leaned forward, his hands bracketing your sides against the mattress.

“No, you don’t,” he said lowly, his voice steady but edged with something deeper, his green eyes boring into yours. “But you can keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

He shifted his weight, positioning himself directly in front of you on the mattress. Your grip on the sheets tightened, your knuckles whitening as his hands moved with deliberate intent. His firm touch spread your legs open, the action slow and calculated, his movements charged with a confidence that sent heat rising through your body.

Kyle’s gaze lowered, trailing down your form before stopping at your embarrassingly wet heat. His lips twitched into a smirk, that infuriating, smug expression that made your stomach churn with a mix of anger and something you didn’t want to name. He leaned in slightly, his hands firm on your thighs, holding you open as his sharp green eyes flicked back up to meet yours.

With a mocking tilt of his head, his voice rose in a high-pitched, exaggerated tone. “I hate you,” he mimicked, the words dripping with derision as his smirk deepened. His tone was biting, deliberate, throwing your earlier words back at you with venomous ease.

Your face burned, the heat crawling up your neck as you struggled to keep your composure. Frustration and embarrassment clashed inside you, your chest tightening as you glared at him. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” you muttered, your voice trembling with barely restrained anger.

Kyle chuckled, his laughter low and rough as he leaned in closer, his smirk unwavering. “Maybe,” he said, his tone calm but cutting, his hands pressing firmly into your thighs, holding you in place. “But you’re still here.”

You rolled your eyes, parting your lips to say something—maybe a retort, maybe to throw his words back at him—but before any sound escaped, you felt a sudden shift in the tension. His body moved closer, the heat of him radiating against your skin, and you froze as you felt the unmistakable press of his tip against your wet folds. The smear of his precum against you made you want to claw out your skin.

A sharp breath hitched in your throat, and whatever you’d been about to say dissolved into nothing. Your hands instinctively gripped the sheets tighter, your chest heaving as you choked on your own words, unable to form a response. Your gaze snapped to his, your wide-eyed expression meeting his confident, unyielding stare.

Kyle’s smirk deepened, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction as he watched your reaction. “What’s the matter?” he murmured, his tone low and laced with mockery. “You had so much to say a second ago.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as the weight of the moment pressed down on you. You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling against the sheets, but you refused to look away from him, your breathing uneven as you tried to gather your thoughts.

Kyle shifted slightly, pushing into you more firmly as if to force a response, his movements deliberate and unyielding. The unexpected sensation of him penetrating your walls made you gasp, a small whine escaping your throat before you could stop it. Tears began to pool in your eyes, the overwhelming tension and intensity between you building to an unbearable crescendo.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, an attempt to ground yourself amidst the storm of emotions and sensations. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him; his smirk, his unrelenting gaze—it was too much. Instead, your eyes darted around Stan’s room, taking in the familiar details as if to distract yourself. The posters, the scattered belongings, even the faint scent of him still clinging to the air—it all felt surreal, grounding you in the absurdity of the moment.

Kyle’s hands tightened on your thighs, his grip firm and confident as he loomed over you. “Still not talking?” he murmured, his voice low and edged with mockery. “Maybe you’re finally out of things to say.”

You bit your lip, your vision blurring slightly from the tears welling in your eyes. The sound of your own uneven breathing filled the room, mixing with the tension that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. You didn’t answer him, couldn’t answer him, your thoughts too scattered as you clung to the sheets beneath you, trying to steady yourself.

But the reminder of where you were, of Stan’s bed, sent a wave of unease through you. With a shaky exhale, you loosened your grip on the sheets, your hands instead finding Kyle’s bare back. Your fingers curled into his skin, clawing lightly, desperate for something to ground you amidst the overwhelming intensity.

The movement caused Kyle to shift, just slightly, the motion unintentional but enough to draw a soft whimper from you. The sound escaped before you could stop it, heat flooding your face as embarrassment settled heavily in your chest. You hated it—hated how your body responded, hated how you couldn’t stop yourself from reacting to him. You didn’t want to feel good. Not like this. Not when every fiber of your being resisted the idea of giving in to him.

Kyle, however, didn’t move further. He stayed there, perfectly still, his weight pressing into you, his green eyes sharp and unreadable. The realization hit you slowly, frustration mounting as it dawned on you that this was deliberate. He wasn’t moving. This was some sort of punishment, some twisted game meant to make you squirm.

Tears pricked at your eyes again, your breathing uneven as you tried to steady the storm raging inside you. A flicker of defiance rose in your chest, and you leaned up slightly, pressing your lips softly to the cheek you’d slapped earlier. Your breath was hot and unsteady against his skin as you lingered there, the gesture hesitant but deliberate.

Kyle didn’t pull away, but his body tensed slightly beneath your touch, his hands tightening on your hips. You finally looked up at him, your gaze locking with his piercing green irises. He stared back at you, unrelenting, but in the stillness, you saw it—he was affected too. The tension in his jaw, the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the faint flicker of vulnerability in his eyes—it was all there, just barely hidden beneath the surface.

Your own eyes softened as they wandered over his face, taking in the details you’d seen countless times but that now felt different, sharper. His freckles dotted across his skin like constellations, standing out against the faint flush of his cheeks. His red curls were messy, disheveled from the chaos of the night, and his lips were swollen and bitten, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his expression.

He looked so different from the Kyle you knew—the Kyle you loved. The realization hit you like a tidal wave, your chest tightening painfully as tears began to stream down your face. You hated this. Hated how far you’d both fallen, how this mess of emotions and bitterness had pulled you both into something neither of you seemed able to escape.

Kyle’s gaze flickered as he noticed the tears, his grip on your hips loosening slightly. For a moment, his expression softened, his green eyes searching your face as though he wanted to say something—something kind, something that could bridge the impossible gap between you.

But then his lips curled into a humorless smirk, and his tone turned sharp, cruel in a way that felt calculated. “You always make this about you, don’t you?” he said, his voice low but cutting, like each word was meant to sting. “You think your tears are gonna fix this? Make me forget everything?”

His hands moved to your shoulders, pressing you deeper into the mattress with deliberate force. The weight of him made you gasp softly, your fingers curling into the sheets as his words cut through you.

“You act like you’re the only one who’s hurt,” he continued, leaning in closer, his voice quieter but no less biting. “But you never stop to think, do you? About what I’m feeling? About what you did to me?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, his frustration spilling out like a dam breaking. Your breath hitched as tears continued to fall, your chest aching under the weight of his anger and your own guilt.

“Kyle,” you choked out, your voice trembling as you tried to find something, anything, that could cut through the moment. But his gaze stayed fixed on you, hard and unrelenting, daring you to challenge him, to push back against the torrent of emotions swirling between you both.

He didn’t answer, didn’t soften. His jaw tightened, his green eyes narrowing as though your voice only fueled his frustration further. The tension in the room felt like it was about to snap, his movements deliberate and unyielding as he leaned closer, his weight pressing down on you. The stillness between you broke with sudden intensity, and Kyle shifted, his actions sharp, his frustration spilling over in his hard, punishing thrusts into you.

Your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, the motion grounding you even as heat rose to your cheeks. The sound of your high-pitched moans filled the room, and in a moment of embarrassment, you moved your hands to your face, covering it, trying to stifle the sounds escaping your lips. Tears blurred your vision, your chest heaving as the tension and intensity of the moment overwhelmed you.

Kyle’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrists with a firmness that made you gasp. He pulled your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at him. His green eyes burned with something raw, sharp, and unyielding as his grip tightened just enough to hold your attention. His lips curled into a bitter smirk, his voice low and cutting. “Don’t hide now,” he muttered, his tone mocking. “What’s the point? Everyone already knows how pathetic you are.”

The words stung, sharp and biting, but you didn’t flinch. Your tears continued to fall, and as you stared back at him, your breath hitched, the storm of emotions inside you threatening to break. “I really do hate you,” you whimpered, your voice trembling and barely above a whisper, the words cracking as they left your lips.

The truth, however, sat heavy in your chest, unspoken. You didn’t hate him—not really. If anything, the emotions swirling inside you felt far more complicated, tangled in ways you couldn’t begin to unravel. And you knew, from the way Kyle’s grip faltered just slightly, that he knew it too.

The moment his grip slackened, you acted without thinking. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him so close that your bare chests pressed together, the heat of his skin igniting a spark that made your breath hitch. You tilted your face up, your lips crashing onto his with an urgency that was impossible to control.

The kiss was wild and chaotic, a clash of desperation and anger. Your lips moved against his in a rhythm that was anything but smooth, loud and uncoordinated. The sounds of it filled the room, every broken breath and muffled gasp a reminder of how far you’d both fallen.

You pulled back just slightly, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “I hate you.” The words came out shaky, almost lost in the heat of your kiss, but they weren’t enough to stop you. You repeated them, louder this time, as though trying to convince yourself.

“I fucking hate you,” you muttered, your voice cracking, but then your lips found his again, cutting off your own words as your body betrayed you. “I—” You gasped, your breath catching as a sharp sound escaped your lips. “I fucking—oh, God—hate you.”

Kyle didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. You could feel his smirk against your lips, his confidence oozing through every thrust as his hands moved to your waist, holding you firmly in place. It was maddening, the way he didn’t need to say a word to remind you how much he had you, how much control he had over this moment.

“Fuck, Kyle,” you stuttered, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly as you tried to find something, anything, to ground yourself. “You’re—shit—you’re such an asshole. I hate you, I hate you so fucking much.”

But even as the words spilled from your lips, they felt hollow, breaking apart as your voice trembled. Tears pooled in your eyes, blurring your vision as the storm of emotions consumed you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, each one hitching as his hands dug into your waist, his movements deliberate and unrelenting.

Kyle pulled back slightly, his green eyes burning into yours, and you could see the smug satisfaction on his face, the faint curve of his lips that made you want to scream. “You sure about that?” he murmured, his tone low and taunting, his breath brushing against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, to throw something sharp and bitter back at him, but all that came out was a soft, broken moan as your hands fisted into his messy curls, pulling him down into another heated, desperate kiss. Each whispered “I hate you” melted into his lips, the words losing their meaning even as you tried to hold onto the anger that was slipping through your fingers.

Your body was betraying you completely now, the tension in your stomach coiling tighter and tighter until you felt like you might snap. Your breaths came out in uneven gasps, your legs instinctively tightening around Kyle’s waist as the sensation built to an intensity you couldn’t ignore. Your fingers trembled against his skin, gripping him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

Kyle’s sharp gaze locked onto yours, his eyes glinting with smugness as if he already knew. His movements were unrelenting, his hands gripping your hips like he could pull every response from you, every tremor, every sound. It was maddening—how focused he was, how much control he seemed to have over the moment while you felt like you were falling apart.

You bit your lip hard, trying to muffle the noises threatening to escape, but it didn’t stop the pressure building in your core. The sensation was overwhelming, foreign yet undeniable, and it hit you all at once. Your body trembled as heat rushed through you, a sudden wave of release leaving you gasping for breath.

And then you felt it—a surge of wetness that left your face burning. The realization hit you like a truck as you froze, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Your wide eyes darted up to Kyle, who paused for a brief moment, his expression flickering between surprise and something else—triumph, satisfaction, you couldn’t tell.

You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze for long. Your face burned with embarrassment, the heat crawling up your neck and settling in your cheeks. Before he could say a word, you buried your face in his neck, trying to hide from the reality of what had just happened. Your voice was muffled against his skin as you choked out, “Oh my God… Kyle…”

His chest rumbled with a low chuckle, his grip on your hips tightening slightly as he shifted his weight. “What’s wrong?” he muttered, his tone edged with amusement. “Didn’t think you had that in you?”

You groaned softly in embarrassment, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you pressed your face further into the crook of his neck, refusing to acknowledge his words. The dampness between you only made your cheeks burn hotter.

“Still hiding?” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. “Come on, don’t get shy now.” His tone was laced with mockery, his green eyes gleaming as he glanced down at you. “You were loud enough a second ago.”

His words made your chest tighten, frustration bubbling up alongside the heat coursing through you. Your lips found his neck, teeth grazing his skin as you bit down softly, muffling the whimper that escaped your throat. Kyle let out a low growl at the sensation, his fingers pinching your hips, forcing you to feel every deliberate thrust

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he muttered, his voice rough and edged with sarcasm. “Bet you’d fucking lose it if Stan walked in right now, huh? You think he’d recognize you like this?”

Your face burned hotter at his words, embarrassment and anger twisting in your chest, but you couldn’t find the words to respond. Your mind was too fuzzy, too clouded, your thoughts consumed by the heat and tension radiating between you.

Kyle’s movements grew harsher, his breath uneven as his frustration spilled into his actions. “Jesus, you’re a mess,” he hissed, his tone sharp but dripping with smug satisfaction. “You can’t even keep quiet, can you? Bet the whole fucking house can hear you.”

The sharpness of his words sent a shiver through you, leaving you clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. Your voice broke through the haze as another soft whimper escaped, your lips pressing harder into his neck, desperate to muffle the noises spilling from you.

“Fuck, Kyle,” you murmured against his neck, your voice shaky and trembling, barely audible over the chaos around you. “I—”

“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted, his voice low and snide as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re just dying to tell me how much you hate me again, right?”

You whimpered, your body trembling as his movements became sharper, his breathing uneven and heavy. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his hands dug into your skin, holding you in place. He was chasing his own release now, every motion a reminder of just how tightly wound this moment was.

“You’re gonna lose it, aren’t you?” Kyle taunted, his voice rough and punctuated by a sharp intake of breath. “Go on, then. Show me just how much you fucking hate me.”

His words sent another wave of heat coursing through you, leaving you shaking beneath him. You bit your lip hard, trying to suppress the overwhelming sensations, but it was useless. Everything about him—his sharp tone, his relentless pace, his mocking words—consumed you entirely, leaving no space for control, no space to hide.

When your name slipped from his lips, low and ragged, it broke through the haze, grounding you for just a moment. Everything about this—the way he gripped you, the sound of his voice, the intensity in his movements—was maddening, unrelenting, and utterly consuming as the tension between you reached its peak.

Kyle’s movements stilled suddenly, his body shuddering against yours as his grip on your hips tightened. You froze as the unfamiliar warmth of his cum filling you up, the sensation foreign and startling. The room seemed to grow quieter in that moment, the only sounds left were the sharp inhales and exhales of your shared breathing.

Your wide eyes found his, your heart pounding in your chest as you took in the look on his face. His gaze, so often sharp and cutting, was softened now, but his lips were pulled into a small frown. His green eyes flicked downward, toward where your bodies were still connected, and he seemed lost in thought, the tension of the moment lingering between you both.

The heaviness in your chest grew, your breath uneven as you tried to process what had just happened. You bit your nails, a nervous habit you couldn’t stop, as you stared up at the ceiling, trying desperately to ignore the sensation of him still inside you, the way he had filled you completely.

Neither of you spoke, the silence deafening as it pressed down on you both. Kyle’s hands stayed on your hips, his grip lighter now but still present, as though he wasn’t ready to let go. The storm of emotions inside you threatened to bubble over, but you didn’t dare say anything, the weight of the moment too much to shatter with words.

Finally, Kyle exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly as his gaze flicked back to yours. His frown deepened, but there was something else in his expression now—something you couldn’t quite place, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

Kyle’s hands shifted slightly on your hips as he pulled back, the sudden movement making you wince. You could feel his cum trickling out of you, the sensation adding to the wave of emotions crashing over you. The warmth against your skin was impossible to ignore, and when you glanced down, the sight of it on Stan’s sheets sent a fresh flush of heat up your neck.

Your breath hitched, and without thinking, you sat up abruptly. The sharp soreness between your legs made you falter for a moment, but you forced yourself to push through it, focusing on the task at hand. You couldn’t think about what had just happened, couldn’t process the weight of it. Not now.

Your eyes darted around the room, avoiding Kyle entirely as you searched for your discarded clothes. The tension between you both was palpable, the silence thick and heavy as he remained where he was, his gaze burning into you. You refused to meet his eyes, your hands trembling slightly as you searched the messy room, desperate for anything to ground yourself.

Finally, your eyes landed on your panties, crumpled in a heap near the edge of the bed. You reached for them quickly, your fingers fumbling as you pulled them back on, cringing at the discomfort of the dampness between your legs. A sharp wave of embarrassment washed over you, your face burning as you adjusted the fabric, trying to ignore the mess left behind.

Behind you, the bed creaked as Kyle got up. You felt his movements without looking, the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards making your shoulders tense. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him grabbing his boxers and jeans from where they’d been discarded. He pulled them on with practiced ease, his movements slow and deliberate, each one punctuated by the thick, suffocating silence.

Your tights were crumpled at the foot of the bed, and you grabbed them quickly, tugging them on with shaking hands. The feeling of the fabric brushing your legs made you cringe, the soreness between your thighs a sharp reminder of everything that had just happened. You moved mechanically, your focus entirely on getting dressed as quickly as possible.

Kyle let out a short, humorless laugh as he zipped his jeans. “You know, this is probably the most awkward I’ve ever seen you,” he said, his tone flat but with an edge that cut through the quiet. “Guess I should be flattered I actually managed to shut you up for once.”

The remark made your stomach twist, embarrassment mingling with frustration as you grabbed your skirt and pulled it on, your hands fumbling as you adjusted the waistband. You avoided his gaze entirely, your movements jerky and tense as you tried to block out the sound of his voice and the weight of his words.

Kyle didn’t stop. “What?” he asked, leaning back against the bedframe as he crossed his arms, his green eyes fixed on you. “You’re not gonna try to explain this one? Spin it into something neat and tidy?”

His tone was lighter than before, but the bitterness still simmered beneath the surface. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind you to clasp your bra, fumbling with the hooks for a moment before securing it in place. The silence between you and Kyle was unbearable, thick with everything unsaid, as you grabbed your long-sleeved turtleneck from where it had been discarded on the floor. You tugged it over your head, the soft fabric brushing against your skin as you smoothed it out, trying to ignore the pounding in your chest.

Behind you, Kyle threw his shirt over his head, with a sharp, irritated motion, his scoff breaking the quiet like a crack of thunder. His movements were clipped, his frustration evident as he tugged the hood over his head, his eyes flicking toward you with something unreadable before darting away again. You could feel his anger simmering, contained but palpable, like a storm waiting to break.

You opened your mouth to say something—to cut through the tension, to find words where there were none—but the sudden sound of knocking made you freeze. It was soft but firm, accompanied by a familiar voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

“[Y/N]? You in there?” Stan’s voice called through the door, hesitant and cautious but clear. The sound of your name from his lips felt like a punch to the gut, the reality of the situation crashing down on you like a tidal wave. “You’ve been in there a while… everything okay?”

You glanced at Kyle, your heart pounding as his jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his green eyes burned with frustration and something else—guilt, anger, maybe both. The tension in the room thickened as the knock came again, firmer this time, more insistent.

“[Y/N], come on,” Stan said, his voice quieter now but edged with worry.

The words hung in the air, heavy and final, like a verdict waiting to be delivered. The weight of the moment pressed down on you, suffocating and inescapable, as you stood frozen in place, unable to breathe, unable to move. It felt like the walls were closing in, the door itself a barrier between the chaos inside and the inevitable fallout waiting just beyond it. But you knew the truth—there was no hiding, no escape.

The knocking came again, louder this time, as Stan’s voice broke through the silence. “Just open the door, [Y/N]. Please.”

jesus christ 💀

#south park x reader #south park x y/n #kyle broflovski #kyle broflovski x y/n #kyle broflovski x reader #south park smut #sp smut #VERONICA!

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evvyyypeters-fics · 3 months ago

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“Just A Bird”

Kai Anderson x gn!reader (ig)

Warnings! ANGST. Trauma, allusions to cult manipulation, manipulation, abüse, infidelity, allusions to domestic abǔse, groooming, extreme psychotic break, a little hallucination, mentions of drǔgs (metaphor), Kai Anderson, not proofread

(Will cause emotional damage (real) (not clickbait))

Based on the (absolutely underrated) song by The Weekend:

6 months with Kai was all it took to break my self respect. If you asked me 5 months ago, I would have said “I’d never let a man do that to me”, with confidence.

But here I am, pleading on my knees for a man who only looked down at me with a look of disgust and boredom. Yet if he asked me to, I’d lick his boot at that moment, if it pleased him. If it made him smile at me, or praise me.

Especially if it kept him from cheating.

There she was, another figure in the shape of an hourglass, and large breasts sitting on our his couch in the basement. There were too many to count now, so they began to blur into the same shape. I could never tell if it was a different girl every time any more. They were no different to me. Even I wonder how I haven’t grown to hate this man yet, always threatening to replace me with other women. It seems everything I do is wrong, and so every day comes with punishment.

I’m beginning to regret all those pinky promises, trusting him with my stories of trouble with loyalty, and how much it meant to me. He used it as a weapon, and he practically laughed in my face about it. It was like I was addicted to him like a drug, addicted to the pain. Like somehow, I believe subconsciously being with him will help me solve my issues. If I just learned my lesson one more time, I’d get it. There was this disgusting feeling of comfort with him, even when he was looming over me as I groveled beneath him like a pathetic worm.

Hot tears burned my cheeks as I clawed at the fabric of his jeans, climbing up his calves. I could tell just how disgusting my face must look, almost seeing the mess of tears and snot, the piggish color of pink that stained it, through the mirror of his eyes. I wondered if this is how the Wicked Witch of The West felt when Dorothy melted her into a puddle. Except if Dorothy was a man with blue hair and a sadism kink.

“Please just let me fall out of love!” I beg. I swear I can see the woman in the corner laughing at me, snickering to herself at the display with a snooty look, her legs crossed and revealing the rim of her stockings, through the thick tears watering over my vision and making the world a glass painting. The sight strokes a fire in me, but when I blink, it seems she has no reaction. As if she’s sitting there with zero amusement to the sight.

“It won’t be long before I fall out of love!” The shaky words, choking and sputtering with my gasping sobs. I can barely make out the sadistic smile that twitches across his face at the pitiful display.

A grin that to my horror that only gets bigger, like a Cheshire cat.

My heart skips a full beat, thudding and pounding, when he leans down closer to my face. “Do you think you get to walk away from me?” He croons to me slyly.

“I own you, lamb.” He practically spits the words into my face like I’m some mutt he’s found the time to mercy.

“So, you can either behave, or you can watch.” He doesn’t sound angry like the other times, almost sounding like he’s impressed at my manic state. Not at what I’m capable of, but what he's capable of doing to me.

A thick sob stuck in my throat shivers out into a whimper and I sink lower to the floor, like a dog being scolded. My eyes peering up wider, the tears silently falling on their own. It was wrong, it was all so wrong. But he looked like a fallen angel with the light above creating a glowing ring around him as he stood tall, creating a pillar of a shadow before me.

“Remember, lamb. This was your choice. No one forced you to join, now it’s your responsibility to deal with the consequences of your actions.” He says it so methodically, as if it’s just a normal protocol. Like he’s my coworker reminding me of the dress code in the office. Frustratingly, he was right. I asked for this, at the end of the day. And now I was met with the karma of my actions. I knew what Kai Anderson was about, didn’t I?

So when he slid his hand around the waist of the woman he brought home, leading her up the stairs from the basement. All I could do was watch. Watch the way he massaged her hip just like he had done me, the way her too short tight skirt rode up her thighs as she walked up the stairs, or the way her hair bounced behind her back. Even the small smirk he turns to give her, his eyes flashing back at me for a moment with a single frame of judgment and distaste. I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

The tears had shaken me so dry, that all I felt was the throbbing of the blood pulsing through my veins, rushing through my ears and making my whole body pound like a drum. My face felt tight with the dry, salted tears. But there was nothing, I couldn’t even form any thought for longer than a second, all I could do was stare. Stare, and feel the flicker of a flame of hatred towards the man I once loved like a loyal dog, spark inside of me from that very moment. Before long, a flame to become a fire. A fire, to anarchy.

“You’re just a bird.” Is the only thing I could utter last, under my breath, as the door closed behind them.

Taglist (you can be added or removed at any time):

@fear-is-truth @xkaisxjazzxsingerx @lemoniiiiiii @jazz-berry @marchsfreakshow @colinzabelswife @dearlizzies @americanwh0rerstory @xrag-dollx @lacucarachapisser @alittleobsessedbitch @n0tonlin3 @bellalove69420 @songbird-garden

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whumping-newbie · 2 months ago

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Taking What Is His

Back from the dead to post a thing I wrote the other day for an extremely self indulgent AU to my longstanding, long suffering WIP :)

What do you mean it's been more than a year since you last posted. Not gonna lie, time is meaningless and a lot of stuff has happened. Either way, I hope you enjoy :)

Thanks to @justplainwhump for the support with this one, she's been a real rock these past months. I hope you know how much I appreciate it <3

Tiny bit of context that may help: The General is the de facto King of the nation after his successful coup to overthrow the previous King. He forcibly married the Crown Princess, and she has committed the grave sin of... saying "no" to him, so he feels he is allowed to teach her a lesson.

CW's: fade to black noncon, (male whumper, female whumpee), creepiness in general, forced servitude setting, forced to strip, threatened with a knife, cigarette burning.

There’s a distinct sound clicking down the wooden corridor. It’s subtle, rhythmic, and very recognizable. I turn a corner and find my assumption to be correct. One of my wife’s Maidens of Honour, the one with a prosthetic leg. The odd sound was her leg every other step.

What incredible timing.

“You.”

I call out to her, and she immediately stops, turns to face me, and stands aside against the wall as I approach.

“Good evening, your Excellency.”

Her greeting is stiff, her posture perfect as she bows her head, her long dark hair resting just so over her shoulders. I can’t help but look down at the rest of her. The maid’s dress is modest, just below the knee level, high necked and practically pristine. Of course. This girl is known to take great care of her appearance.

I do appreciate that very much.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her as I stand directly in front of her, barely a step between us, “a little late to be wandering around, don’t you think?”

It’s here that she does look up, ever so slightly, as she answers my question. “I was going to see if her Royal Highness needed anything from me before I retired for the evening, your Excellency.”

She speaks with an elegance that has not changed since the first time she set foot in this place, speaking to me no differently than she speaks to my wife in public. I can’t help but let out a small chuckle - clearly fate is on my side tonight.

“Of course. Come with me, I’ll take you to her. Save you wasting your time.”

With that, I turn back around the way I came, and it takes a second for her to register my order and follow me wordlessly. She knows this way does not lead to my wife’s bedchamber, but of course, who is she to disobey me when I know where my wife is?

She may be a simple girl, but credit where credit is due, she knows better to disrespect her betters, unlike a certain someone I know.

A few moments later, we’re back at my Imperial Office. It’s late, so of course there’s no one else around, meaning that when I open the door, turn on the light switch, step inside and wait for the girl to enter, it’s just the two of us.

The latch of the door clicks shut, and I slide the lock into place.

“Your Excellency?” she asks, and I barely catch the quiver in her voice. “Where is her Royal Highness?”

I don’t deign to answer her question, she doesn’t need one. Instead, I walk over to her, closing that distance between us even more than we did in the corridor. She is looking me square in the eyes, her stance firm, I can see her fists clenched by her sides. I must admit, if she is scared, she’s hiding it quite well beneath that bravado of confidence, like she knows what will happen here.

She hasn’t the slightest idea.

The girl clears her throat and speaks again. “Where is her Royal Highness?”

I reach for the side of her face, and cup her chin in my hand, relishing in the way she freezes in my grip. “That doesn’t matter.”

“But I -“

“Shh,” I push my finger to her lips, silencing her, “be quiet, girl.”

I want to savour this. The moment that I finally get to give my wife a taste of her own medicine. If she wants to be stubborn, I will make the consequences for her refusal severe.

Well. Severe for her and her friends. Me? I plan to enjoy this.

The girl’s breath shakes in my grip, and I pull her closer, practically feeling her heartbeat as I lean in for a kiss. She tries to lean back, get away, without directly fighting back. She tastes sweet, her lips soft and sensual, rather like the kiss I got from my wife our first night together.

It’s incredible how similar this feels to that very first night.

I pull back from her, keeping a hold of one of her upper arms. Her eyes are wide, her voice nonexistent, yet she does not reject me. Just frozen in place, and yet, I like her like this. I lean in again, and leave little kisses on her cheek to see how she reacts, she just barely turns her head as I leave the trail down onto her neck.

She shortly pulls her arm back, presumably testing my grip, but I don’t let go. She must realise that I am stronger than she thinks I am, given that she does not try that again. I can hear her breathing deeply as I move my kisses back up to her ear and whisper.

“Take off your dress.”

“What?” she croaks out.

I stand back up straight, “are you deaf, girl? What are you waiting for? Take off your dress.”

“Sir, why -“

“Are you going to disobey me, or are you going to do as I tell you?”

As I begin to speak, I reach for the knife in the sheath on my belt, which catches her attention and I can hear her breathing still. I haven’t even got this knife anywhere near her, as I had stepped back to give her some space, giving me the chance to get a good, long look at what she has hidden under her dress, what I’ve never seen in the years since she was first assigned as Maiden of Honour to the Crown Princess herself.

How many men can claim they will have seen this?

The knife is a convincing argument for her to do as she’s told, because she shakes her head shortly, before starting to undo the buttons on the front of her dress, her hands visibly trembling as she works the top one loose. Then the next. Then the next. Then the next

“Good. No need to be shy, is there?”

I move back a step and sit down in the armchair just behind me, in between the desk and the fireplace. I keep the knife in my grip, testing its sharpness on the tips of my fingers. Hm, it’s a little dull. Perhaps I should sharpen this. Either way, it seems like she does not want to test out the knife regardless of how sharp it is, because she’s now fumbling with the apron tied at the back, the buttons fully opening up the front of her dress, giving me a tantalizing taste of what she has hidden beneath it.

Once she has the apron untied, she drops it to the floor. As she tries to work off the dress from her shoulders, she quickly rubs one of her eyes before letting that fall completely, leaving her stood there in her underwear.

She’s quite the beauty under her clothes as well as in them, it seems. She’s not got much in the way of blemishes, but her slender figure is accentuated by the way she’s stood, legs tightly together, with her prosthetic leg ever so slightly in front of the “real” leg. The beautiful form of a dancer, with strong legs that have just the perfect amount of muscle on them to look like she could form complex dance moves without much effort.

I wonder what other moves she could do, if she really really tried.

She looks at me, and I can see her eyes are shiny with tears that she desperately is trying to hide, folding her arms in front of her, probably shivering in here. She’s somewhat obscuring her chest, but the way she’s done it has pressed her bra up, making those features look considerably more attractive.

I can’t help but smile. The girl has done very well so far. Let’s see how far she will go for me, in comparison to my wife, whom I helped undress on my wedding night, feeling her form in my hands as I unzipped the dress, leading her out of it and towards the bed.

Back to reality.

I nod in the direction of the sofa behind the girl here, still twisting the knife in my hands.

“Go lay down on that sofa.”

She doesn’t move, just cringes on the spot as she casts a small glance behind her at the sofa in question. One of the nicer ones in this place, a lovely green velvet fabric cover with rich emerald silk cushions in either corner. Quite the comfortable piece of furniture, and she’ll finally get to experience it.

However, here’s where she decides to be resistant. She shakes her head at me, soundlessly refusing my order.

That’s a pity.

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” I stand up from my seated position, “are you sure you want to find out what the hard way entails?”

As soon as I say that, I take one deliberate step forward, and she all but falls backwards into a seated position on the sofa, gripping the delicate fabric in her hands, her chest moving quickly from her rapid breathing, her gaze firmly planted at the floor. I could swear I can hear a sob creep through that breathing, but it vanishes as soon as it began.

I carefully re-sheath my dull knife and begin working on undoing my own clothes, watching her shoulders move with every breath she takes. I can see her concentrated effort on steadying her breathing, but she still seems to breathe very quickly. I work my belt loose and undo my service uniform’s trousers, slipping out of my shoes then stepping out of my trousers, leaving them on the floor beside the girl’s discarded dress.

“Lie down on your back.”

She looks up at me briefly as I loosen my tie, and I realise that she has tears streaming down her face. Hm. I’ve never known this one to be an emotional one. I’ve seen one or two of those girls cry, especially since my revolution, but this one always seemed stone cold, uncrackable.

It seems I’ve found that spot with which I can break her.

Slowly, she swivels on the spot, lifts both her legs onto the sofa, and lies down onto the soft cushioning of the sofa, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She turns her head away from me, into the silk, her arms tightly at her side, her legs crossed over one another. It’s here that I can hear that tiny, tiny sob once again, her eyes screwed shut.

I take off my jacket, leaving just my shirt on, and make my move. Straddling her at the waist, I get a good feel at her upper body. Running my hands up her sides, I stop at her breasts, if only to see what she does. I can see her face screw up and she hisses through her teeth, clearly trying to ignore me as best she can, but that’s quite difficult when I’m sat on top of her getting a good feel at tonights entertainment.

Leaving her bra as is for now, I move my body into position above her, running my hands back down her midriff and working at her underwear. This action provokes another reaction from her.

“Please, please stop -“ she gasps out, her eyes open now, but still not looking at me, tears flooding down the side of her face.

I am now done with her underwear, and silence her cries by forcing my lips onto hers, feeling those little sounds at their source. She doesn’t try to buck me off, or fight me. My wife did that once.

She has not done it since.

I move away from her lips once again, whispering into her ear, “you don’t need to say anything else, girl. Just lie there and let me do all the work.”

With one last stifled sob, the girl closes her eyes and her mouth, looking away from me again. I’m ready, ready for my good time, all whilst a few of my men are probably doing the same to the other girls right this moment. I plan to enjoy every second of this, and every second of knowing that what my wife does not know will not hurt her.

And oh, I will get what I want from all of them.

---

The girl lays still on the sofa when I’m done.

I’m thoroughly satisfied with my time here, and am getting myself presentable - tightening my belt around my waist - whilst she just lies there, unmoving and silent. I will admit that she didn’t do much more beyond lay there and cry, but for the experience I wanted? I am more than content with that.

If I wanted more from a sexual partner, I’d certainly be more persuasive in getting what I want from them.

“How did you find that, girl?” I ask as I walk over to my desk and fetch a cigarette and lighter from the top drawer, “did you enjoy being fucked like you deserve?”

She does not answer me, does not even look in my direction, doesn’t even move. Merely acts like I hadn’t said anything at all. From here, her head isn’t visible behind the armrest of the sofa, but I have a good view of everything else.

I light the cigarette and walk back over to the sofa, taking a drag as I stop right at her upper body. It’s a bit annoying that she has ignored me, I would have thought she’d have it in her for a bit more respect than that.

I press the lit end of the cigarette into her shoulder and she instantly screams out, trying to move away from the cigarette, clutching her upper arm.

“Sit up,” I kneel down beside her, and she does as ordered, “tell me, was I your first time with a man?”

She blushes furiously.

“Am I to take that as a ‘yes’, then?” I can’t help but smirk. How interesting. I would have thought this one would have been snapped right up by some classmate during her teens, she certainly could have fooled me.

I pick up the discarded dress from beside me and throw it at her.

“Get dressed then clean up this mess,” I give the order as I move back towards my desk, “and hurry it up. It’s late, and I have to get up early in the morning.”

I continue to smoke the cigarette as I wait for my wife’s Maiden of Honour to finish what she had started. Little slut. I’m sure I can get more satisfaction out of her next time - satisfaction for me, that is.

Funny thing, that title of hers. She’s no Maiden anymore. And Honour? Well, the little minx certainly has none when I’m through with her.

She quietly yet quickly works at the sofa with what little we have in this room. She’s still in a sorry state - not yet dressed with her hair an absolute mess, the fresh burn from the cigarette is red and raw on her upper arm, and the tear tracks on her face have yet to dry.

By the time I’m finished with my cigarette, so is she with the sofa, and she quickly gets the dress and apron back on, tying up the buttons a lot quicker than she got them off.

“Before you go, girl…”

She freezes, not even finishing tying her apron behind her back, just holding it in her hands, both tightly at her side.

“Tell anyone about our little meeting, and I will make sure there are consequences. Is that clear?”

She nods.

Not good enough.

“I can’t hear you, girl. Am I understood?”

And then, in a display I’ve not seen since I first brought her into this room, she looks back up at me with a hardened stare. The tears are no longer flowing.

“Understood, your Excellency,” her voice, while weak, is certainly more akin to before than during our little tryst, “I won’t tell anyone about this, as you command.”

“Good. Now get out.”

She certainly didn’t need telling twice.

I’m not too far behind her in leaving the room, still relishing in the delights of fucking one of my wife’s so-called friends whilst she has no idea.

I’ll have to do this again sometime. Perhaps I should let my wife disobey me more often.

#my writing #my oc's #the general #cw noncon #POV: The General #fade to black noncon my beloved

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eggs-can-draw · 2 years ago

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various pregame shenaniganeries, including a baby shu because I missed him :) kinda long naegamigiri timeline thing under the cut that I made at like 1 am on friday

Hi hi hi sit down we’re gonna talk about pre-game naegamigiri because they’re kinda the reverse of how in-game naegamigiri ends up together in my head. HI hihihi this is Egg slightly later this kinda grabbed me and ran into the sunset so naegamigiri timeline thing lets goooooooo

So to start us out, we have the top two in the class, Togami sitting at no. 2 and Kirigiri sitting at no. 1. Togami being Togami, instantly turns this into a competition. His number 1 priority becomes rising to the no. 1 spot and shoving it in this dumbass detective’s smug face. At first, Kirigiri really couldn't be bothered, but sadly, she fell victim to Togami’s secret second talent, Super High School Level Drama Queen. So pretty quickly into their first year, Kirigiri and Togami are academic rivals! Both being naturally competitive, it rapidly evolves into full on rivals! Until…over time. They become reluctant friends. And suddenly class-78 has the world’s scariest power couple.

BUT EGG! You may be screaming at me, WHERE IS NAEGI IN ALL THIS?? Well you see, as the shsl lucky student and self proclaimed Just Some Guy, when he quickly fell head over heels for the power couple, he instantly assumed both were waaaay out of his league. I mean, who wouldn't? Togami practically refused to give ANYONE the time of day, and Kirigiri is one of the most closed off people on the PLANET. And while he does make friends with them during the rivalry era of their relationship, he resigns himself to pining for both from the sidelines

LITTLE DOES HE FUCKING KNOW THOUGH. Kirigiri and Togami are definitely happy together, but their relationship as it is feels like it's... Missing something. After about a week of awkward tension, they both admit to having a crush on Naegi. With both of them on the same page, they make it their mission to confess to Naegi, and get him to join the polycule!

So yeah it's a lot of fluff from both Kirigiri and Togami, Very Obviously Flirting and Naegi pulling the classic “Ok But Did They Mean It As A Friend” that slowly gets more and more intense.

Like. Picture this. A fancy candlelight dinner, the three of them at an expensive Michelin star restaurant, Kirigiri and Togami both got Naegi flowers, afterwards they went on a walk through a local park and watched the sunset with just the three of them.

Naegi still didn't get the hint.

After almost two years of flirting with Naegi being (somewhat willfully) oblivious, they decide to bite the bullet and just tell him. The dynamic duo write Naegi an adorable love letter, laying all their feelings out in the open, but the day they give it to him, just happened to be the day that class-78 was barricaded inside Hope’s Peak.

He was going to read it in his room when he was called down for the memory wipe, and it just happened to fall out of his pocket as he was walking out.

But fear not! This story isn't over yet! The polycule is real and they do love each other!

Beginning the game, Naegi can't help but feel. Weird. Whenever he's around Togami and Kirigiri. His head feels light and his chest gets all fluttery and he stumbles over his words a bit more than usual.

While looking through one of the classrooms on the second floor, after the first trial, he finds. A letter? Its torn and damaged but when he opens it, the handwriting feels oddly familiar? Names have been scratched out but he can't help but feel incredibly hot in the face when he reads it. He doesn't know why, but seeing this gives him a boost of confidence! While Monokuma shows up to rain on his parade and take the letter, it doesn't work and he uses this confidence to approach Kirigiri. They have a heart to heart and both admit to feeling the warm fuzzies around each other for an unknown reason. They’ve known each other for what, half a week? Kirigiri can't help but be intrigued so they decide to hang out more, this leading the two into a soft and fluffy relationship.

As trial two comes and goes, they both come to a startling yet all to familiar realization. They ALSO get the warm and fuzzies around Togami. That bastard. While making sure to do so outside of the earshot of a certain shsl Murderer, they both approach Togami, who (begrudgingly) admits to feeling the same. While it starts out a bit rocky, the three form a solid and loving polycule.

AND THEN CHAPTER 5 HAPPENS. I could talk about chapter 5 for a million years. Honestly. The angst potential is so so so so so so so strong. Togami doesn't want to believe that he’s been tricked by the two people he promised himself he’s make it out alive with, Naegi refuses to believe that Kirigiri would kill anyone but also a dead body doesn't just appear out of nowhere, and Kirigiri is just TRYING TO SURVIVE.

Pov you are Asahina, Scissor System, Yasuhiro, and Junko and you are witnessing a brutal divorce. The fire is real.

After Naegi’s execution, Togami is a MESS, Kirigiri completely shuts herself off, her one priority being getting Naegi the fuck outta the trash and making up with her short boyfriend. Once the sunshine boy himself is back, tall boyfriend has grown some bad abandonment issues and is beginning his journey as the Super High School Level Mother Hen, so as he’s lecturing treating Naegi’s for his injuries from almost being executed, Naegi gets them all to kiss (literally) and make up. Things aren't perfect, but they're on the same page.

And then trial 6 happens, and they win the killing game. Things seem scary, but they know that whatever they face out there, they’ll have each other.

It doesn't take long for the future foundation to find them, the small group of kids like scared animals being thrust into a world they no longer remember. Naegamigiri refuse to let go of each other, even when the FF’s medic team try to give them a check up to make sure they weren't seriously injured (which in Naegi’s case, led to Kirigiri and Togami yelling at the medic team that tried to shove Naegi onto a gurney and deeper into the hospital wing without them.

Things are tense and scary and they are tired but no matter what they have hope. The world is big and scary and completely foreign to them but no matter what, they have each other, and they have hope for the future.

FLASH FORWARD! The three are official members of the Future Foundation, and have been working on their little pet project involving The Remnants of Despair. After a lot of long talks, they agreed that they wouldn't get married until the tragedy was completely over, then where they would all leave the future foundation to pursue their ambitions and live a happy life together. This agreement, however, does not extend to children. This quickly becomes very relevant when through a series of vaguely ambiguous events, they ended up with little Shuichi Last-Name-Pending! So things get a smidge more stressful. The middle of the apocalypse is the perfect time for a kid. I have no idea what you're talking about.

Then UDG happens. And the stress. Rises. To put it lightly. Almost losing Togami definitely shifted perspective for the power trio. Kirigiri and Naegi were terrified of the thought of not only losing their partner, but Shuichi having to grow up without one of his parents. Togami got progressively more mother hen, despite being the one who almost died.

On the happier side, Komaru was very happy to find out she was an aunt! Once the tragedy is over, she is going to spoil the ever loving shit out of him. I’m sorry sir, but my nephew asked for no fucking pickles!

Things get kinda vague for me after this. Sdr2 happens, with Naegamigiri once again almost dying as you do. Shuichi gains a surprise new uncle, he also gets babysat by Asahina, and once naegamigiri get back I remember that I haven't finished the dr3 anime.

Not 100% sure if I’m gonna keep the dr3 killing game who knows. Maybe things stay cute and fluffy and nothing huge happens for naegamigiri until the tragedy is officially over and Togami and Kirigiri leave the future foundation to pursue their passions (FF wont let Naegi leave, sadly, he did get to change his job to a stay at home one tho, mans basically does paperwork on a laptop all day and sometimes has to go on long business trips to speak to people all over the world to help restore hope and stuff)

One important detail: The HPA survivors are not involved in the resurrection of hope's peak. It's something that's bugged me for a while and it just. It doesn't sit right with me.

A long time later, Shuichi and his friends attend Hopes Peak (a certain gremlin has to lie to their dad to get there due to Bad Blood Tee Em but it's fiiiine they're all fiiiiiine) where shit hits the fan, and I’m not gonna reveal that until I finish v3 so for now, that’s it! Get out of my house! Come back later! You’ve had your food for the day!

#eggs can art #eggs can speak #naegamigiri #byakuya togami #makoto naegi #kyoko kirigiri #naegami #naegiri #togiri #they!!#they!!!!!#Naegi's ahoge is a force of nature and cannot be suppressed for long #very very heavily considering cutting the v3 killing game entirely #HELLO THIS IS EGG FROM THE FUTURE I MEANT DR3 #either that or pulling something a lot different #I just. I really dont like how Monaca was treated as a character #it felt like she was built up to be the next big bad and then. suddenly she's a space NEET #yeah she would be a predictable mastermind but she doesnt need to be the person actually responsible FOR the killing game to still be #running it. like. yeah Kamukura is the mastermind of sdr2 but ai!Junko is still the one who actually orchestrated it all and held the actual #game yknow.#danganronpa #drthh #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #still feels like it should have one more h #art #artists on tumblr

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userholland · 3 years ago

Text

overdrive (biker!tom) | one

genre ↠ strangers to lovers, love at first sight, idiots to lovers

summary ↠ somehow you ended up at a frat party that’s already gotten out of control. feeling out of place and socially awkward, your best-friend relentlessly tells you to talk to someone, specifically a curly-haired boy with the bright smile and tattoos shaded and painted from his shoulders to his wrists. from one glance, you could see a whole live with each other.

word count ↠ 6.7k

warnings in this part (?) ↠ gushy, gushy, and uh—gushy. both tom and reader slowly becoming completely smitten. tattooed!tom w/ eyebrow piercing <3 (sleeves along both arms + some self-tattoos on his fingers), drinking alcohol, cursing.

chapter playlist ↠ girls like you - the naked and famous / in your eyes - the weeknd / godspeed - frank ocean / spinach - timothy infinite / 9 and three quarters - txt

a/n ↠ this fic has been a work in progress for months. there is a mention of a city but, that's up for the reader's interpretation because I didn't want to put a specific location on it. but i hope you guys enjoy it! always appreciate the love i get !!! honestly been focusing on escapism and true self in my fics so please let me know how they are. major credit to my header made by @venomsilk aka the hottest girl on here :'D much appreciated besthie ! this series will be mature so, 18+ so please, again, minors dni! as always, i hope everyone is doing alright and please stay safe <3

series masterlist ♡ main masterlist

*✭˚·ﾟ✧*·ﾟ*✭˚·ﾟ✧*·ﾟ* PART I. I Trust You… I Think

True love was complete and utter bullshit.

How could someone give their entire heart to another person? How could they not understand the fear of being let down? How were they able to fall so fast? Fairytales were tailored to little girls growing up and walking around with one glass slipper to find their knight in shining armor or their blue-eyed prince who doesn’t even need the say anything to know they are in love with them. It didn’t make sense as to why someone would risk all their love on a whim because of the way their eyes connect with someone else’s across a room. It seemed like a fast way to create a Cinderella complex and high expectations through the eyes of any girl.

If anyone embodied a modern-day princess, it was Sloane. Granted, you were best friends since you were in the playpen, she always got her heart stepped on and broken into pieces. Guys adored her while girls envied her but how couldn’t they? She exuded confidence and walked with poise, owning whatever hall she walked through with a glare in her striking green eyes, but with that, she was prone to be taken advantage of for ‘just a pretty face’.

You’d been at her side through every heartbreak, from fifth-grade crushes to college fallouts. Throughout it all, you never shamed her but, rather, you became more protective of her. They say blood may be thicker than water but Sloane was practically your sister. Even if you had differences in the portrayal of love, that didn't stop her from dreaming about finding her prince; you just didn’t think she’d find him at a crowded frat party with beer-covered floors and Kappa Sig brothers making freshmen do keg stands.

“Chug, chug, chug!” The group of boys yelled in unison, watching the scrawny freshmen’s face fade into a bright red from the alcohol.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you passed them, your arms crossed over your chest as you followed behind Sloane. Purposefully, she wore a two-piece set that was a creamsicle color. Her clean, blonde locks and glossy lips completed the look as if she were a movie star from the 1960s. It always impressed you how she managed to be the most put-together one in the room, which was even easier in a setting like this. A light groan came from your lips as you heard the bottom of your shoes stick to the ground, quickly looking under one before you walked to the kitchen island littered with hard liquor and cups.

“Look, they have Grey Goose!” Sloane smiled, unscrewing the cap.

“Great way to forget about tonight...” You trailed as you grabbed two cups from the stack.

“Yeah, I need to loosen up already. I saw this guy by the door and I think I might try to talk to him.”

“Talk talk or just hooking up?” You asked, pouring orange juice into your plastic cup.

She giggled, “Talk talk, you know, just get to know. Mingle.” She nodded, adding the vodka to your drinks.

“...Have you heard from Devin?”

“No. But, hopefully, he’s not here tonight.” She raised her eyebrows before taking a short sip of her drink before she turned around to scan the room, “Don’t want to talk to him, don’t wanna deal with him.”

“He’s an asshole.” You commented, holding your drink. You leaned your back against the counter, searching around the party, but you doubted that you would see anyone you knew. Frat parties were never your scene, hearing enough stories from your friends that it seemed sketchy to go to them, but it wasn’t that bad right now. But as the night went on, you noticed it fill up and the booze flowed quickly.

With the main room starting to feel smaller, you decided to find a bathroom while Sloane was talking to one of her friends. She assured you she’d call you if anything happened, feeling comfort in that before you left. You brushed past a few guys, trying not to touch any one and simply sliding by, yet still got a slab of sweat along your arm from them. With a disgusted look, you hesitantly wiped it on your shirt before a few people bumped into you along the way.

Being anywhere else was preferable when compared to the pungent and overwhelming mixed reek of booze and sweat created throughout the entire house. You could almost grab at the air with how thick it become from the rising humidity, even though it was winter and the doors were opened for anyone to enter.

Before you got to the start of the stairs, someone shook their beer to spray it throughout the crowd and you tightly closed your eyes when you felt the drops land on your face and hair. As you wiped the beads away with your forearm, you realized how sticky your hands had become from how many things and people you didn’t intend to touch－ more of a reason to use the bathroom.

“‘Cuse me.” You said, passing by another guy. You placed your hand on his back before moving past and walked up the stairs.

Looking over your shoulder, you saw the stranger you passed was a brown-haired boy with a piercing at the tail of his eyebrow. Flashing neon colors, like blue and orange, highlighted his sharp jaw and made the brown in his eyes turn light. Your eyes traced the sterling-silver chain peaking by his neck then shifted to detailed tattoos hiding under the fabric of the sleeves of his white t-shirt that perfectly fit around his toned arms.

The right corner of his mouth pulled as you maintained those few seconds of eye contact before you turned back around, heading toward the bathroom. You shook your head at yourself, that guy probably thinking you’re a creep because you ogled him for longer than you should have.

Look away now, look away now.

Heat rushed to your face, like a burst of fire slapped your cheeks. Your feet thought before your head, continuing to pace up the stairs; you brushed past strangers coming down. As your shoulder collided with someone else’s, you still persisted to not look back. But, one look was enough to know that there was something about you he found alluring.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

There’s neon lights illuminating the hall as if you were entering a strip club, and you push open the already-cracked bathroom door. As much as you wanted to hide, the bathroom of this frat house was scarier than any embarrassment you could face downstairs. The sink looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, a ring around the basin and hair products around the space. Not a toothbrush in sight either-- it was worrisome, but not as bad as what could have been behind the shower curtain or behind the toilet.

You shook your head, a chill trailing your spine that made you roll your shoulders and shake your head. Only twenty seconds, then you were going back out there. Taking a few glances in the mirror, then stretching your neck then wipe your hands down your face.

The loudness of the party came back when you opened the door, surprised by the couple pressing themselves against one another by the door. They squeezed behind you and shut the door, the air blowing on your face when it closed.

“Christ…” You muttered.

As you made your way back down the stairs, inhaling the volatile scent of beer and weed, the party only got bigger. You shuffled your way through the thick crowd, the bottom of your sneakers sticking to a mixture of booze on the hardwood floor before you found Sloane at the kitchen bar talking to a guy.

You froze in the middle of the room. She looked so happy, that big smile on her face from ear to ear and her bright eyes could be seen as stars in the dark sky. You weren’t sure who the guy was, but when you saw that familiar smile, you knew she was interested.

“Y/N!” She gestured, sitting on the countertop.

The bass of the music vibrated the floors the closer you got to her, leaning your head down when walking by the cute boy with brown locks. The mysterious yet handsome stranger held his gaze as you passed once more, a cheeky smile painting on his lips then turning back to the conversation with his friends.

“Y/N, this is Christopher. He’s in my French class.” Sloane giggled her arm around his shoulders.

“Nice to meet you.” You smiled. She raved about him since she broke up with Devin, showing you their cute texts and funny photos. Always hearing them gush and giggle to each other, the whole “you hang up first” line back and forth.

He grinned in return, but the two of them continued their conversation while your eyes searched around the room for anyone you knew-- doubtful. You hoped your gaze would fall on the cute stranger again, already embarrassed about staring at him once, but he was nowhere to be found. Wouldn’t have been surprised if he was some illusion, a ‘too good to be true’ moment.

“We’re gonna leave here, go to this bar downtown. I think it’s called Stella’s… Chris said his friends are in a band and they’re playing tonight.” She smiled, “You coming with?... this place is getting too crowded for us.” Sloane furrowed her brow, turning a snarky glare to the group of guys doing a keg stand in the corner.

You hummed, “As fun as that sounds, I’m gonna head back to the apartment.”

“Oh! C’mon, come with us. Have a little fun tonight. I don’t want to leave you alone… especially not here.”

She joked, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

“Well maybe if I hang around, I’ll find a guy too.” You jeered.

“If you smile more too.” Sloane lightly pinched your cheek, “You have such a beautiful face, gonna be on a billboard someday.”

“Haha, very funny. Why don’t you have some fun? But, I think I’m gonna head back to the apartment.” You trailed, not wanting to burden her with being the third wheel even though she wouldn’t mind.

“Alexis is here with her boyfriend if you need a ride.” She told you, holding your hand.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Promise.” You comforted, curling your pinky around hers.

In her own giggling fit, Sloane accepted your reassurance, “Okay, text me, call me, anything to let me know you’re okay.”

“Yeah, of course.” You grinned.

As the group left through the party, you sat down in a chair by the wall opening to phone to the Uber app. Even though you barely had enough to your name, you chose an UberX and patiently waited in your seat instead of being outside in the freezing cold. The strong scent of Malibu surrounded you like a cloud, you could probably get a contact-high if you stayed in the room long enough.

People passed by, drinks spilling out of their solo cups and laughter barely heard with the loud bass of the music. You didn’t mean to stare at anyone for too long, but there was nothing else to do to pass the time. A few guys passed that caught your attention, but not the same one you bumped into going to the restroom.

Just as you didn’t think time could be slower, red and blue lights flashed through the front windows of the house. They beamed bright, strobing as if a rave moved outside, but from every one quickly pacing toward the back doors, you assumed it couldn’t have been good.

“Cops! Campus cops! Go out the back doors!” Someone shouted over the muttering voices.

No one was sprinting to get toward the front of everyone, but anyone who had a reason to jump the fence made you worry there was more going on at this party than you thought. People heaved against one another, like waves in a violent sea, bumping by anyone around you until feeling the cool air hit your face. As the crowd dispersed, you decided, on a whim, to follow a group of people exiting around the house to get back to your college down the road.

Instead of continuing to follow this pack of drunks into town, you walked the opposite direction to not get pummeled by the horde clogging the middle of the street and sidewalks as red and blue lights beamed against the windows of all houses.

You looked over your shoulder, the music and noise from the crowd fading into the night. A few people passed through backyards to get to where their cars were parked, immediately leaving as soon as their engines started.

Sighing, you called your friend, Alexis.

The ringing went on until it went to voicemail. You assumed she may have gotten caught up in the mess that happened. But, there was still hope in ordering an Uber. Quickly pulling up the app and buying a ride, you stood there and realized how alone you were. The empty street, not even a stray cat walking by or the sound of crickets.

Freezing, you crossed your arms to insulate the body warmth you had left. As you bounced your legs, your teeth chattered on and off with nothing else to focus on but how cold it was. You hoped that the uber would be here soon, preferably right now, so you checked your phone with your fingers clutched around it.

15 minutes away.

“How was no one else working on a Saturday night when they know drunk people are looking for some way home?” You thought.

With your head arched to the sky, the stars scattered in the dark midnight and the silence was eerily beautiful. The half-moon’s glow was your only way of seeing anything, almost making it less lonely than you felt right now.

“Hey, what are you doing out here?” A voice from behind curiously asked.

Your heart dropped when you saw his face, the cute guy that you passed by to go to the bathroom. Immediately, you turned your attention to him while still practically hugging yourself.

“Waiting to be picked up by my Uber. My friend left and I don’t want to walk this late.” You awkwardly chuckled, “But, it’ll be here any minute.” You lied, heat rising to your cheeks— somehow being the only warmth your body could suddenly produce.

He nodded, “I can give you a ride home or wherever you’re going.”

You turned back to him, hesitant with an answer since it was unprompted.

“Um… no offense, but I don’t take free rides from strangers.” You half-joked, even if the offer sounded better than your moral compass.

“Yet you’re taking an uber?” He asked, his eyebrow cocked and a smirk on his lips.

You chuckled, “Well, I’m pretty sure they have background checks done.”

Tom grinned, “You don’t trust me?”

“That’s exactly something a guy I shouldn’t trust would ask me, don’t you think?” You scrunched your nose a bit, still tightly crossing your arms.

The cute, curly-haired boy half-smiled, “Touche..” He chuckled, both of you sharing it.

“But, I’m actually headed to the city and dropping you off wouldn’t be out of my way.” He shrugged, “Plus, I’m scared that if I leave you here, I’ll come back tomorrow and you’ll be frozen to the sidewalk.” He teased, still trying to offer you a ride. You looked incredibly cold with your body closed off, so much that if enough wind knocked you on the sidewalk, you’d shatter into pieces.

You narrowed your eyes, “It’s not that cold.”

“Oh yeah?” He hummed, “Your knees have been shaking since we started talking.”

Cold or not, your knees would have been shaking regardless. The nervousness in your heart almost tickled, wanting to give into this rom-com like offer. Desperate, freezing and out of patience, you sealed your lips before telling him, “Fine. I’ll take the ride.”

He gave you his hand to shake and when you held it, the heat from his palm felt like it melted the icy frost in your numb fingers.

“I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Y/N… glad we got that cleared up.” You grinned, “So, where’s your car?”

Tom produced a light chuckle, making you furrow your eyebrows.

“About that…” He trailed.

Confused, your eyebrows pushed together once more as he took a few steps down the sidewalk and patted his hand on the leather seat of a motorbike. The streetlight shined against the black finish and the small windshield by the top of the speedometer. Two black, tinted helmets were placed on the top of the slim seat. Still surprised, Tom grabbed one and held it in front of your hands.

“I recommend this.” He joked.

Holding the heavy helmet, you ran your thumb over the worn-out sticker on the back of it before looking at the reflection of yourself on the insulated face field.

“I can’t even ride a regular bike.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m driving then.” Tom joked, hoping to ease your nervousness.

Once more, you faced into the helmet’s shield, staring back at yourself and wondering if this was a good idea. While your conscience was telling you to back away, Sloane’s voice repeated in your head about how you needed to have fun and meet new people; exploring the world of being spontaneous and adventurous.

As Tom gracefully sat on the bike, he pulled the key from his pocket and perfectly jammed it into the ignition. Even the sound of the engine gave you a rush, a tingle coming up your spine-- but that could have just been from the cold. You quickly pulled out your phone, seeing your Uber was 5 minutes away. Your thumb hovered over the cancel button, a hesitant feeling bubbling up in the pit of your stomach.

“Backing out?” He asked, placing the helmet on his lap.

You sealed your lips, quickly tapping the cancel button then shoving your phone in your back pocket.

“Nope. I’d never.” You show him a smug grin before sliding the helmet over your head. It fit a bit snugly, but rather than it flying off your head if, god forbid, something happened… with this complete stranger.

“Well, it’s gonna get chilly so… here, take my jacket.” He trailed, unzipping his black, bomber jacket.

You took it, the scent of a pine-like cologne coming off it, but you didn’t mind the scent. As you put one arm through the other, you replied, “Thanks.” then pulled it up in one zip.

You heard a light chuckle from him before he pulled down the shield of his helmet, squeezing his left hand around the handlebar while the right one lightly gripped around on the right hand clutch. When the bike began moving, you naturally tightened your grip around his torso with your head behind his shoulder.

“It’ll be a smooth ride.” Tom said, a bit muffled under the helmet.

At first, your eyes were squeezed shut, still not processing how you were able to get on the bike. His speed picked up as he turned off sidestreets, driving past a few drunk stragglers from the party before stopping at a red light.

Tom planted both his feet to the asphalt road, antsy to pick up speed, but your heart was beating against the inside of your chest when you couldn’t hear it over the engine. Stuck hearing your own breathing, Tom turned his head around and saw you look off to the distance.

“We’re gonna get on the bridge that goes into the city. Gonna be pretty loud… you okay?” He asked, flipping open his helmet shield.

You nodded, “I’m fine. It’s just a bit cold. I’m not afraid of going fast if that’s what you mean…”

He half-smiled, “Just enjoy it. What could possibly go wrong...”

He was trying to mess with you. Cute.

You cocked your head to him, “I wasn’t planning on it…”

Tom couldn’t help but tease you, it was too easy.

The opposite road’s light turned yellow, both of you noticing and Tom shifted his shield back down. His face was covered by the tinted plastic, his back lowering and your arms wrapped around his toned torso. You laid your weight on his back, keeping your head above his shoulder and staring down the road that led to the merge of the turnpike onto the bridge.

Green light.

You fastened your arms around his waist once again before hearing the sharp rev of the engine. Tom smirked when he felt your light squeeze, but focused on the road and what way he should take that could be the safest. There’s a pang in your chest as you stared at the number on the speedometer quickly increasing.

The cool wind froze your hands around Tom’s waist, making you hold him closer. In that second, you went from fast to even faster, and you were too afraid to see what was around you. As your eyes fluttered open, Tom passed a few cars while speeding down the bridge. A dull, orange tint from the bridge’s lights strobed every second, seeing the view of the lit-up skyline.

As you nuzzled your chin against Tom’s shoulder, he kept a steady pace. You found that if you stared straight ahead, the nerves turned into adrenaline. It made you think about all the times you tried to ride a bike, trying to look down the street to focus, but then everything turned and your skin was scraped on the hot asphalt. Embarrassed and frustrated, you’d always rush into the house and cry about it– swearing to yourself you’d never get on a bike again.

…Well, you didn’t say anything about when someone else was riding the bike while you were also on it.

After the bridge, Tom weaved through the traffic of the city streets. Tom stopped at a red light, putting his feet down and you pushed up your face shield. Blinded by millions of lights from billboards and decorated, tall buildings, a big smile painted on your face. Tom glanced in the side view mirror, seeing your eyes glimmer from the night scene before driving off when the light turned green.

Oddly enough, you felt safe with this complete stranger. You weren’t sure if it was the pine-like scent coming off his skin and clothes, his natural charm and wit or how easily your arms wrapped around him in those seconds of fear.

“How has my driving been, miss?” He jeered.

You tried to conceal your smile, “We're not there yet, so you still have time to impress me.”

He smiled to himself, quickly remembering he had to focus on the road and not how cute your giggles were as they filled his ear. You pulled him closer to you again as he worked his way through the lanes, passing stopped cars before he turned on a left street. There, you saw a group of people standing outside, under an awing as they drank beer from the bottle and smoked weed in each other's faces as they spoke in the freezing cold.

Tom drove into an empty parking garage, halting his bike in one of the many empty spots. The tint of the warm, orange lights under you created a saturated filter over your figures. When pulling the helmet off, a big smile was painted on your face– utterly giddy from the rush that coarse through your veins.

You stood in front of him, “How do you ride this everyday and not get a huge rush?” You giggled, pushing your hair out of your face.

He was a bit mesmerized, but the shield of his helmet covered his big smile.

“Well, when you scrape yourself a few times, you loose the spark in it and understand why people drive cars.” He joked as he pulled the helmet off, carding his fingers through his chestnut curls.

“Driving cars is definitely underrated compared to this. Makes me wish I did know how to ride a bike.” You smile as you give him your helmet.

There was a short silence when your eyes connected, like everything became silent and you felt like the only people in the world.

“Uh, you want to stick around? I can treat you to a drink, it’s the least I could do for the ride since I don’t have actual cash on me.” You jeered.

“Sure. Now I know I wasn’t just being used.” He chuckled.

You playfully, but softly pushed his shoulder, “C’mon, I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

The two of you exited the parking garage and walked down the sideway to the bar’s entrance. Tom moved his way through the small crowd, opening the door so he could let you in while being right behind you. His hand pressed against the small of your back as you walked in, and the bar was oddly somber compared to the people huddled outside.

Chris’ band was playing in the back, the lead singer pressing his lips against the mic to make his voice boom through the speakers around the room. People spun each other around, drinks spilled and dripped, and others kissed to the soft rock playing behind them like they were in the ending of a romcom.

“A huge difference from the raid we just left.” Tom smiled.

You giggled, “Yeah, and it doesn’t smell like actual hell.”

“Y/N!” Sloane’s voice boomed from across the room. She hopped up from Chris’ lap, walking over as fast as one could on wedged heels. An eruption of giggles came from her through the big and natural smile she always had, before shifting her eyes up and down Tom.

“And Y/N’s friend?”

“This is Tom, he gave me a ride here.”

Sloane giggled, “Oh, what kind of ride?” She asked in a seductive tone.

Tom chuckled, but his look was cocky as he rubbed the back of his neck and his tongue grazed the bottom of his front teeth. Such a cheeky smirk.

You rolled your eyes, “Why don’t you get us some waters, yeah? That party gave me a contact high and I need to come down from it.”

She showed a small smirk, and scrunched her nose before walking toward the bar.

Tom hummed, crossing his arms as he watched Sloane stroll then lean her mouth by the bartender’s ear.

“What?” You asked, facing him.

He chuckled, “Just didn’t expect you and her to be… friends.”

You lead in finding a free table, sitting down quickly before any drunken person stumbled into it, “She’s my best friend and… she’s sort of the reason I’m here.”

“Meaning?” Tom said, still smiling as he sat across from you with his elbows against the wobbly, wooden table.

“That I need to get out more… find a guy who might like me.”

“Which you did.” He shrugged.

He had this effortless ability to smile with his caramel brown eyes and a sparkle twinkled at the edge of his irises. Imagining waking up to that dreamy gaze was already planting a seed in your head of some life with Tom; watching his eyes flutter open to see those beautiful orbs first thing every morning.

You half-smiled, “I meant dating wise, but… that’s never worked out for me.”

“Okay, first, I’m offended.” He chuckled, and in return you did as well, “And why has dating never worked out for you… if you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

You twisted your lips, trying to summarize your answer as little as possible. There were plenty of reasons, but the one that left yours lips was, “I never find the right guy. There’s never a click or something that makes me think ‘I can see my life with this person’ or if I can even ask to get lunch with them the next day without it being too forward.”

Tom nodded, “Hmm, do you see that with me?”

Heat warmed your face, “If anything, you’re like a knight with… a nice, shiny steed.”

He smirked, “Oh, so I am your knight in shining armor?”

“More like rusted armor, but armor nonetheless.”

Tom chuckled again. His laugh was soft and charming, something you could get used to listening to.

He took that as an answer to his question before two plastic cups of water were placed on the table. Sloane smiled at each of you, “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

Applause erupted as the song ended. Lots of cheering and whistling before the band played another original song– this one with more of a tempo. Sloane arched her head back, her long locks moving out of her face, “Come dance with me!” She drunkenly whined.

Her hand quickly grabbed yours, giving it a tight squeeze. A small giggle left your lips as you turned to Tom.

“Go ahead, don’t let me stop your fun.” He grinned, “I bet you have some killer moves.”

“Exactly! She’s a great dancer! C’mon, Y/N. Show me off on the dance floor.” Sloane protested yet slowly pulled you out of your seat.

Tom smiled wide, taking a long sip of his water but his eyes watching you two walk to the center of the floor. Sloane gave you a slow turn, displaying your hidden confidence to a room full of strangers, but specifically Tom. She knew you’d never accept a ride from any guy so, something about Tom had your attention and she intended on helping you– without you knowing because she also knew you were too damn stubborn.

“Nice jacket! I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” She smiled against your ear.

Shit. You hadn’t notice you were still wearing it.

“It’s not mine. You giggled, “It’s Tom’s.”

“Your ride?” She happily smirked.

“Yeah…” You trailed, trying so badly to hide your smile.

The mysteriousness of Tom made you believe there would be an empty seat where he sat if you turned around, once again giving up your hopes too soon. But, he couldn’t take his eyes off you and the way you moved your body with grace.

Hundreds of thoughts tried to wrap around his head.

How could someone be so breathtaking in a single moment? He thought.

Simple. When they danced like no one else is watching.

You moved your body to the music with an intensive bass and drums that vibrated the floors. Hot pink and red lights streamed over your face, arching it back as the song continued. It was as if a single light shined over you, only you, and the rest of the room faded to black.

You were the only person in the room as far as he knew.

Tom wasn’t huge on the idea of soulmates either, but he seeked out love. He heard his grandparents’ long stories, watched his parents fall more for one another every day, but he couldn’t seem to find someone. Not because he didn’t want to, but the girls who did pass him by weren’t interested in the commitment he wanted. With tattoos along his toned arms and the piercing above his left eyebrow, it was easy to mistake him for someone who rejected love since, for some reason, he had to do that to his body.

Girls ran their bright acrylic nails grazed over the old ink when he dosed off in bed, but then he woke up disappointed when there was no one beside him when he woke up. It not that he expected there to be a relationship by morning, but it would be nice if they could stay for coffee or tea at least–

“Hey! James Dean!”

Tom shook his head. He didn’t realize he dosed off, but his brown eyes glossed when they looked into yours.

He chuckled, “You look good out there.”

Your face brightened, but you still chose to conceal your smile.

“You want to join us? We can request something slower so you can keep up.” You jeered as you sat in the chair next to him.

“Sorry, I’m didn’t bring my dancing shoes.” He shrugged.

You sneered, “Geez, you sound like such an old man.”

“Dad old or grandpa old?”

You turned your face, narrowing your eyes as if you were judging him.

“Great grandpa old.” You grinned, “Now, are you gonna dance with me or not, geezer?”

He beamed, his light brown freckles shifting as he scrunched his nose from chuckling. You gently pulled his hand toward you, close to your chest, and the two of you moved within the crowd.

There was a warm feeling in your chest when Tom pulled his body close to yours, proceeding to spin yourselves around and dance like nobody's watching. You didn’t know the words to the song, not even keeping up with the beat— But, you didn’t care, for once. It was all about being in the moment and right now, you could imagine dancing in a shared apartment to the sound of a low stereo.

You brushed your nose against his, swaying back and forth through the crowd. Just in the moment where your eyes met, the two of your faces became closer to one another’s before a strong force hit your back left shoulder and made you bump into Tom. It was a woman passing by, quickly apologizing to you before she left.

Flushed with a bit of nervousness, heat slowly rose your face and you gulped from your dry throat.

“Um, I’m gonna… go to the bathroom.” You told him, tucking your hair behind your ear before moving past the crowd. You wanted to hide your face away, looking down as you politely pushed through people blocking the bathroom.

When you entered, it was empty so you sighed in relief. You turned on the sink, then took a paper towel to douse it in cool water. Bringing it to your face, you thought steam would come from it as you pressed the cold compress against your warm skin. You didn’t realize how one guy could make you so flustered, especially not knowing what was to come as the night went on.

As you wiped your face, taking deep breaths, a strawberry-blonde exited the stall behind you and walked over to the sink by the corner. She wore boots with a chunky heel, making her legs look slim and herself taller. Just from looking at her, she had a confidence about her– the fitted leather jacket helped that image. She reminded you of Sloane almost, just by the way she appeared.

Quickly checking the eyeshadow on her bright green eyes, she wiped her thumb on the corner of his lips to fix her dark-nude lipsticks. When she turned to leave, she quickly grabbed a paper towel to wipe her hands then toss it in the trashcan. You didn’t mean to stare, only realizing until she left, but you wondered why she was at some place like this.

After leaving the bathroom, you fixed your hair as you walked back to where Tom was, except he wasn’t. You furrowed your eyebrows as you glanced around, trying to find a guy with tattoos down his arm and dark curls from the back.

Sloane, out of breath, smiled at you as she wrapped her arm around your shoulders, “There you are! Thought you ditched us.”

“No, I went to the bathroom… Where’s Tom?” You asked, still looking around the room.

“I think he went outside, he looked like he was making a call or something.” She guessed, shrugging before she sipped her drink.

You nodded, pulling Tom’s jacket around you, not realizing that you were still wearing it. As you passed by, someone opened the door for you on your way out. You turned to thank them, but when you saw Tom, he was standing in the alley next to the bar. He was going through his phone, the brightness of the screen against his soft face, and he looked confused from how furrowed his eyebrows were.

Just as you were about to ask, a girl walked up to him that must have come out the back door on the other side of the bar.

“Hey Tom! I didn’t take you for coming to places like this.” She teased him by the flirtiness of her tone.

You took a step back, hiding behind the corner but enough to see Tom standing with his back against the brick behind him. Suddenly, you felt the heat rising back to your skin even though it was freezing cold outside.

“I came here with a friend.”

“Friend? Like, girlfriend or?” She quickly asked.

You twisted your lips, your heart racing as you wondered what he would say.

“None of your business.” He retorted, sounding cold. It was the first time you heard him like that, suddenly matching his exterior for you. Even worse that she replied with a scoff.

“Oh, C’mon. I’m messing with you. You used to be so soft.” She jeered, but Tom didn’t laugh in response, “Did this friend of yours make you all sweet?”

Just as you wanted to leave, Tom made eye contact with you, instantly wondering how long you had been standing there and what was heard. The mysterious girl also noticed, scoffing as she linked you two together by your lingering stares.

“I assume you’re the girlfriend.”

Heat rose to your face, not knowing what to say on the spot until Tom walked past her.

“We’re leaving.” He calmly, retorted as he stood by your side. You hitched your breath as you felt his palm move around the small of your back, pulling you closer to him– not knowing if he means it or he’s using you as a prop for his manly act.

A scoff is all you heard from the mystery girl as you continued to be pulled with Tom until you turned the corner on the sidewalk. You gently pulled your arm away, but your heart panged as your head filled with so many questions.

“She seemed upset when you told her you were hanging out with me.” You shrugged, turning to Tom.

He appeared annoyed, not wanting to further on with the conversation by the way he lightly groaned in response.

“Just tell me… Is she your ex?” You asked.

Tom licked his lips, “She’s not important.”

“Well, I don’t want to hang around you if it turns out you’re some huge jerk who doesn’t care about other people’s feelings.” You stated, realizing it may have sounded like an ultimatum when you barely knew him.

It struck Tom’s interest, wondering if you liked him as much as he was starting to like you, but he sighed, “We had something, but it wasn't a relationship. She got kind of clingy.” He trailed.

“Wow. What? Did she pay a little too much attention to you?”

“More like she’d call me at every hour of every day and ask what I was doing. It crossed my boundaries.”

“...What are your boundaries?” You furrowed your eyebrows, glancing at your feet.

“Don’t call me at three in the morning and ask me what I’m dreaming about.” He joked, half-smiling.

You nodded, “Okay, that is crossing a boundary.” You jeered back, crossing your arms from the cold.

The two of you overcame the awkwardness of the moment, standing in front of one another with lingering looks. Tom partially felt like he could have handle the situation better, but his defensive instincts came out and didn’t enjoy having his heart on his sleeve. He mostly worried if he did something wrong, seeing how nervous and tense you also became once you saw the exchange.

“I can take you home if you want… unless you’re hungry.” He suggested, shrugging a bit.

You glanced back at him, meeting his brown eyes, the rings of different shades glistening in the streetlight above you. A chill passed by, making him shiver and goosebumps rose over his inked skin.

“Oh, you seem cold.” You tell him, beginning to take off the jacket, but he refused.

“Keep it on… you can give it back to me after we grab a bite.” He smiled, pulling the jacket back over your shoulders.

#tom holland #tom holland fic #tom holland series #tshwritersnet #tom holland imagine #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland angst #tom holland x female reader #tom holland x fem!reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you

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snackhobi · 4 years ago

Text

min yoongi is the best shot in the business. you’re the best gunsmith in the city and the only person he trusts to programme his tech; to make his gear.

he likes your work. it’s a shame, then, that he doesn’t like you.

pairing: yoongi x f!reader / word count: 14.3k / genre + rating: NSFW (18+), cyberpunk!au, smut, frenemies (?) to lovers

warnings/etc: hitman!yoongi. black market dealer/gunsmith!reader. cursing/explicit language. whole lotta tension, sexual and otherwise. mentions of injury/violence. minor character death (no one important, don’t worry, this isn’t an angst fic). brief hurt/comfort. reader has tattoos. sexually explicit content. oral; fingering; multiple orgasms; overstimulation (f). unprotected sex (please take the necessary precautions irl). rough sex?. choking. creampie. brief mention of aftercare. I think that’s everything but please lmk if I missed any!

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to both @hobi-gif and @morndas for beta reading this and being so supportive, ily both so much and I owe you my life 🤧💕 as always what was meant to be a short fic turned into a huge one. also this is technically for my 1.1k milestone but it’s a billion years late, oops!

Yoongi really doesn’t like you.

You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You needle him all the time, dig your fingernails in and squeeze, revelling in the way he sets his jaw, the muted spark of irritation in his eyes. You bat your eyelashes and tilt your head, throw it back whenever you laugh and reveal the easing column of your throat, dragging each interaction out with a kind of sadistic pleasure that has him gritting his teeth. Because you love annoying him, getting under his skin, tapping your fingers against the soft swell of your bottom lip as you eye him up, taking your time before you speak.

Infuriating. You’re infuriating and you know it.

It’s unfortunate, really, because you’re unavoidable.

Jungkook had asked, once, why Yoongi doesn’t just go elsewhere. They’re more than familiar with the underbelly of this heaving city, underneath all the neon lights and shimmering holograms and towering skyscrapers and legal tech; the scuttling seams of back alley traders and illegal goods, tech or otherwise. There are plenty of black market dealers, after all, plenty of other vendors he could go to to get the equipment he wants. Plenty of other skilled crafters, artificers, artisans, people who would be more than happy to create the things that Yoongi asks for, that he needs. People who can get their hands on anything you want. For a price.

Yoongi’s answer had been short and succinct.

“She’s the best there is,” he’d said, and that had been that.

Because it’s true. You might be exasperating, maddening, laughing in Yoongi’s face where others might cower or genuflect, but no one is as good as you. All of Yoongi’s gear has been crafted by you; each and every single one of his weapons, his tech, the headpiece that fits so perfectly around the back of his skull that Yoongi often forgets that it’s there, hidden in his hair, unfolding across his eyes whenever he lines up a shot to make the kill—there’s evidence of your work across every inch of his body, hidden away under his clothes, day in, day out. Even when he’s not on a contract Yoongi never leaves anything to chance.

(A walking armoury, Namjoon had called him once.)

(You’d phrased it differently.

You’re always packing, hmm? you’d hummed, rapping your fingernails in a steady beat as you’d leaned back in your chair, smiling with teeth. There was laughter in your words and your gaze, no attempt made to hide your amusement, but after your goading you’d made him a collapsible sword anyway. It’s a beautiful thing, this folding blade, bristling with plasma and energy if Yoongi needs it, lethal and deadly. One of his most prized possessions, something that’s gotten him out of multiple corners, and he owes it—you—his life.)

There’s no one on par with you. You’re a Renaissance woman, a fiercely talented polymath who doesn’t need to rely on anyone else to create the things you create. Low-tech, high-tech, no tech—you make everything from scratch, programme things yourself, hunched over each project in your own workshop with nothing but your mind and your own two hands.

It’s the only reason he puts up with you and your antics, the sharp jibes, the shameless flirting; you’re the most infuriating person he knows, but there’s no one else he would trust with the work that you do.

Unfortunately.

Which is why Yoongi finds himself here, again and again, as familiar with this studio as you are—he watches you work, sometimes, watches you sketch up blueprints and drag your fingers across your array of displays, your world cast in shifting shades of cyan and electric blue from all the tech in here, humming and alive. He likes to see how his equipment is made, after all. It can mean the difference between life and death. He takes this seriously.

It’s the one time you might be quiet. Might be quiet, because you still talk even when you work; flick your gaze between Yoongi and whatever’s set in front of you, that ever present smile spread across your lips, smug and amused. You’re only silent during the hardest jobs. Like right now, you’re intense and focused, a furrow dug between your brows as you survey his sniper rifle—almost shorn in two. (It had been the only thing to hand when he’d had to block a blow from a guard he’d somehow overlooked, no time to draw any other weapons before they’d started to brawl.)

You’d been unimpressed. You’d raised your eyebrows with all the severity of a disappointed mother, bitten words out at him with molten snideness, dripping heat and snark.

“It’s a gun, Yoongi. A gun. You know, something you shoot with? Pew pew? Blammo? I’m not sure what sort of shields and body armour you’ve seen in the past but this isn’t either of those things. Do you want me to sketch some diagrams up for you? Or maybe I could write you a book. Baby’s First Arsenal, Chapter One: The Difference Between Things That Are Guns And Things That Aren’t. Would that be helpful?”

No one else talks to Yoongi like that. No one else would dare. It’s only a rare few that know his birth name and it’s not often that he hears it, more used to the sound of Agust D falling off people’s lips. But that had been part of your price, part of the agreement when he’d first met you and asked for your services: his real name.

Yoongi had let it wash over him, had endured your tongue-lashing before putting the gun down with a heavy finality and thrust it over at you, tired of all your talk.

“Just fix it,” he’d demanded.

You’d laughed in his face.

“As always, your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” you’d said, taking the rifle from him.

The D-2 Shadow isn’t just a weapon. It’s a piece of art, clean edges and slick lines, and Yoongi is grateful to have it back in his hands. There’s no other sniper rifle like it, made of super lightweight alloy and easy to handle; thermal scope, enhanced stabilisers for accuracy; superior kinetic coils for better shot penetration. Yoongi had asked for the best and you’d delivered. Gone above and beyond, crafted a weapon the likes of which no one else possesses, modified in ways other people can’t even fathom.

And you’d fixed it when he'd almost let it get destroyed. Made it better than new, even, layered it in more alloy to make it stronger without making it heavier, a new material of your own design. If he hadn’t known you as well as he does he’d have worried that it was beyond repair, knows that other gunsmiths would have taken one look at its crumpled body and shaken their heads, but you hadn’t.

Of course you hadn’t. You never do.

You charge him a pretty penny for your work, make him pay through the nose for everything he asks of you, but Yoongi is more than willing to do so. More than capable of paying, coffers lined with more money than he might need, one of the best contract killers there is—the real price he pays is with his sanity, worn away each time you open your mouth. He can’t help but rise to your bait, as derisive as you are; it’s only the smallest things, a sharpness to his otherwise even tone, an angry spark in his eyes, but you pick up on it all.

He’s not your only customer. You don’t extend your services to many, only to the people you want to—Yoongi’s not sure what set of harebrained criteria you have that lets you choose who you’ll sell to and who you won’t but he can’t make heads nor tails of it. He knows he’s not part of your clientele because he’s got the credits to pay, nor is it because he’s one of the most highly regarded hitmen in his line of business.

You don’t just choose people who can afford to pay or people who have a level of power and influence in this dark underworld you inhabit. You really don’t care about those things. You just pick and choose on a whim.

(Once, back when he’d first met you, Yoongi had discovered that you’d concocted an entirely new security system—practically incapable of being hacked, crawling with tech, a level of complexity even the richest elites could barely afford—for some small artist who’d worried that their paintings might get stolen. He was an unknown at the time, this V, squirrelled away in one of the dark corners in the lowest levels of the city, and you’d all but given him some of the best work you’d ever done, undercharged him something chronic.

You’d shrugged when Yoongi had asked why.

“He makes me laugh,” you’d replied.)

Yoongi isn’t your only customer but he’s certainly the only one you seem to treat the way you do. There’s a level of irreverence in everything you do, self-confidence settled across every inch of you like the obnoxious stench of a teenage boy’s body spray, but you seem to take particular pleasure in Yoongi’s displeasure. He’d brought Namjoon along, once, inquiring after an imitation greenhouse, how someone might set up the tech to raise tropical plants that wouldn’t survive otherwise (mostly above board, even; Namjoon might grow illicit plants, poisonous and prohibited, but he likes pretty flowers, too). And there had been none of the mocking that Yoongi receives. None of the wind ups. You’d been pleasant, despite your incessant snark, agreeing to take the job with a smile on your face that Yoongi never gets given.

(It had been infuriating, to know that you’re capable of not being an ass, but you just choose not to be. For fun.)

Yoongi really, really doesn’t like you, but he respects your work. Respects you, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

You keep your word. You don’t supply his competitors, although you claim it’s not loyalty to him and it’s only because they can’t pay as well as he does—winnings go to the highest bidder, you’d said sagely, as obtuse and irritating as always.

But Yoongi knows other sellers will provide anyone who’s willing to pay, freelancers who peddle their wares regardless of affiliation or alliances. You’re beholden to no one and yet Yoongi knows you would never double cross him. Never supply anyone who challenges his work, even if they have the money, even if he’s on good terms with them (it’s not personal, it’s business; Yoongi has no issue with other hired killers as long as they stay out of his way). He knows he can rely on you, which is something to be treasured in these back-crossing back-stabbing backstreets.

So when he makes his way to your door, the details of a new contract still fresh in his mind, he instantly comes to a stop.

There’s something off. He can tell immediately, years of instinct causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, every part of him on edge. Everything looks normal, is normal, but there’s a burning in his gut that has Yoongi’s finger itching for the trigger even though there’s nothing to shoot.

You’ve granted him the privilege of access to your workshop, to the other rooms, entered the scans of his hand and eye and voice into the security systems, keep him updated on the varying passwords you cycle through, so he can enter whenever he needs to.

(He’s woken you up on more than one occasion, roused you from sleep for last minute supplies before he leaves for another contract, appearing in the dead of night like a spectre of death, clothing dark and eyes darker, overflowing with weaponry. A looming silhouette edged in strokes of cyan and magenta from the ever present, low-level neon light in your room, so much darker than the bright lights of your workshop. Intimidating.

And you always just roll your eyes and sigh and tell him to keep a better eye on his cache of equipment and climb out of bed for him. You’re so at odds to him in your sleep rumpled clothing and mussed hair, still unafraid even when he’s fully geared and ready to kill; shirt slipping off your shoulder, swathes of bare skin in the place of Yoongi's all-encompassing outfit, shimmering black light tattoos visible on your legs and arms and bare skin of your collarbones, geometric lines in the palest of blues and greens. You hand over whatever he needs and tell him the creds he owes you.

“I’ve already given you a key to my apartment and you haven’t even taken me for dinner once,” you sigh—dramatic and melodramatic—even as you hand over a bundle of crossbow bolts. The synthesised toxin inside the darts is your own concoction, of course, courtesy of the plant matter provided from Namjoon’s greenhouse.

“I’d literally rather be shot in the head than willingly spend time with you,” he replies.

“You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid,” you say, and just laugh in the face of his unimpressed deadpan. As insufferable as always.)

So he doesn’t need your permission to enter. He’s silent, light-footed as he makes his way inside, scanning each inch of this familiar interior; nothing’s wrong, not yet, but Yoongi can sense something in the air. Something heavy, settled bitter on his tongue, coating the back of his throat.

And then he walks into your workshop.

You’re meticulous. Even when you’re overrun with gear, with parts that have yet to be used, everything has its place. You prefer paper over datapads, too, tack sheets of designs and notes up on the wall, have clipboards and stacks of sheets set neatly in their place, a throwback to a time before tech ruled everything. Yoongi knows the layout of this room as well as he knows his own home, a mental map of straight lines and unwavering coordinates with you in the centre of it all.

Upheaval. Those neat lines of organised cartography have been pulled apart. Ham-handed work, to be sure, more of a statement than anything else; intent to instil fear rather than to destroy (although, Yoongi sees now that one of the monitors has been smashed, display sparking white and blue as it bleeds out electricity.). Even in the darkness of the room—overhead lights off and only emergency lighting on, painting things in shades of dark crimson and pink—Yoongi can tell that whichever interlopers have done this are already gone. The room is empty.

Then the sound of a clatter breaks the silence and Yoongi’s already got his pistol out, drawn without a thought as he approaches the sound that comes from the back room, fleet-footed and silent as he raises the gun and rounds the corner—

And sees you at the end of the barrel.

There’s a first aid kit on the floor. Packs of medi-gel and rolls of bandages and other supplies scattered around your feet. You haven’t even spotted Yoongi yet, in despair at the mess in front of you; he’s never seen you like this, never seen anything other than your veneer of enraging smugness and never-ending energy.

“Y/n?”

You flinch even as your head snaps around, eyes wide—but the second you see Yoongi you visibly relax, even though he’s still holding a gun in your direction.

There’s a bruise blossoming across your left cheek.

“Ah, Yoongi.” The smile that paints itself across your lips is almost convincing despite the dark flower that’s unfolding on your skin, blood rising to the surface and painting it in hues of pain; you wince, a little, when the smile makes your wound ache. Soldier onwards as you act as though nothing is wrong. “I know you’re always desperate for my attention but do you mind giving me a second? I’m kind of indisposed at the moment.”

Yoongi’s lips are set in a thin line. He only has one question on his mind.

“Who did this to you?”

Your gaze flickers before you break eye contact, staring at the first aid supplies on the floor. “What, this? Have you never dropped something before?”

Yoongi ignores your deflection. It only takes a few moments to reholster the pistol, to step over to you, to grasp your chin and tilt your face towards him.

“Who did this to you?”

Yoongi’s tone is quiet and low, firm and undeniable. For the first time since he’s met you it seems as though you’re lost for words, lips parted around a silent sound of surprise as you’re subjected to the full force of Yoongi’s gaze, cutting through you; past every layer of self-inflated narcissism you put on, past every deflection you might make.

There's a beat of silence.

And then you slowly but irrevocably fold underneath the weight of his stare.

You let him lead you, sit you down, bowing to his hands and his directions. You’re silent throughout, lips an unfamiliar shape as they’re pulled down into the slightest of frowns. He’s only ever seen you smile, seen you laugh, self-assured. Never like this.

You seem surprised, startled when he sits across from you and cracks open a pack of medi-gel. Yoongi’s surprised too, although he doesn’t show it, lets his instincts take over and settles into auto-pilot as he reaches for your face. He’s never seen your eyes so round, so wide, watching the hand that descends on your cheek with all the single-minded intent of a man about to fillet a fish—careful and practiced but menacing, maybe. (He doesn’t like you but you don’t deserve to have been hurt and Yoongi can’t just stand by and not help.)

And you don’t shy away. You stare at him as he stares at his fingers, layers the gel evenly across the pain of your bruise, cool and soothing.

It’s only when he’s reached for more medi-gel and touched your cheek for the second time that you finally speak.

“It was one of the Tang cousins.”

Yoongi goes still, fingers resting across your skin, slick with purple gel.

“One of the cousins?”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. But—and God knows what he did wrong in a previous life for this to be true—you’re one of his inner circle, one of the very, very few people he trusts. You’re not friends and he doesn’t like you, but he owes you, owes you a hundred times over, owes you for every successful kill, every silent infiltration, every averted detection. All thanks to your tech and the work you put into it for him. He’s indebted to you.

Yoongi always pays his debts.

“I didn’t even catch his name.” You sound dismissive. Normally you’d laugh, deride the person you’re speaking about, but instead you just sound tired. “One of the low down ones. New kid on the block; someone I didn’t recognise, with some lackeys or similar. Trying to make a name for himself, I think. He demanded that I build weapons for him. I said no.”

The Tang family is a big one, a criminal empire that has its tendrils dug in everywhere. You don’t deal with them, have no interest throwing your lot in with them intentionally or not; it’s a big, formidable family, but it’s not the only one around. You’d be dumb to get involved in that mess of generational, cross-family conflict. You’ll sell things to the highest bidder, shift illicit high-tech stock, build generic modifications that people can buy—but you don’t make bespoke weaponry for just anyone.

You don’t even sell to the heads of the Tang family directly, let alone to some back-alley sewer rat who probably barely has the faintest ties to the family, a single vein of Tang blood in his body, just enough to give him an in.

Whoever this cousin was he must be really fucking stupid to not know that. Stupid to think he could demand anything from you. Stupid to think he could hurt you when you laughed in his face and said no. Anyone with half a brain-cell should know not to fuck with you, know that it’s an honour to even be allowed inside your workshop, that to be told ‘no’ by you is a privilege.

Stupid to think that he wasn’t going to pay for that stupidity.

The pack of medi-gel is empty, the deflated pouch forgotten on Yoongi’s knee as he stares at you. The flecks of biomatter in the gel catch the light, sparkling like glitter in the lavender that’s seeping into your skin; all the surprise is gone from your eyes and instead you’re just watching him, stolid and steady. Analytical.

(You’re smart. Yoongi knows you are. For all that you talk shit and play foolish, he never forgets about that fierce intelligence. Never underestimates you or how perceptive you are. He only wonders what’s on your mind right now; what it is that you see in front of you.)

“Next time don’t let someone in unless you’re certain you’re going to sell to them.”

You scoff in his face. “Alright, Dad. Do you want to update my curfew while you’re at it? Make it ten p.m. instead of eleven?”

Yoongi blinks slowly. You’ve got both eyebrows raised, surveying him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief that he’s trying to tell you what to do (because no one tells you what to do; they wouldn't dare). But you don’t pull away, your knees still touching his, body bowed towards him from when he’d coaxed you closer so he could reach your face—so he knows you don’t mind. Not really.

(Knows you don’t care about anyone’s opinions or rules, only sticking to your own. The fact you’d been shaken from that place of confidence by some thug—even for a moment—doesn’t sit right in Yoongi’s belly. That bitter taste is back in his throat and it’s ice cold, icicles prickling through his blood.)

(He doesn’t like you but you’re one of his people and no one fucks with Yoongi’s people.)

The bruise is still there days later, after you’ve rearranged your workshop back to the way it was, sourced a new monitor to replace the one that was broken. You’re back to smirking, already ready for his request, more bullets for his weapons and super-charged plasma to recharge his sword, but the bruise is a stark reminder of what you’ve been through. So is, too, the new blueprint he spies half finished on your open displays: an automated security system that scans thermal signatures, guns unfolding from the ceiling whenever aggressive movement is detected from an unfamiliar person. Anyone who’s not listed as familiar in the security logs.

(Yoongi used to wonder about that. Why you didn’t have security mechs set in place, programming their AI to protect you, but you don’t like to use mechs. Don’t like to use them, even if you could afford to build them, because you compare it to forced servitude. You’ve never needed them before now, anyway. Safe in your reputation, knowing that you’re in a position of power, that people come here because they know you’re the best of the best.)

(But it seems like you don’t trust that any more. Don’t feel safe.)

Yoongi keeps as silent as always, bites his tongue when you cut him off mid-sentence with nothing more than a raised finger.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tut, wagging the finger back and forth like the slow pendulum of a grandfather clock. “No more crafting requests. I’m still working on the concentration mod you asked for and I’ll let you know when it’s ready. I don't rush for anyone. Patience is a virtue, baby. Did no one ever tell you that?”

“Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, handsome.” Your reply is instant, unruffled, and Yoongi grits his teeth.

But still. For all that you’re acting like normal, workshop set back into place, white lighting shining overhead, as neat and presentable as always—Yoongi can read uncertainty in the way you move. Discomfort. You don’t feel safe in your own space and it’s obvious, even if you don’t realise it.

“Come back any time,” you say coyly, and Yoongi, as always, ignores you. Transfers the creds he owes you in silence before he takes one last look at the bruise that’s still painted across your skin, dark eyes touching yours for the briefest moment before he turns and leaves.

For the first time since you met, Yoongi buys from someone who isn’t you.

It’s not bad. Well made, decent tech, Predator pistol sitting easy in his hands when he brings it to the light and watches it unfold from its holstered state, the way plasma bursts to life in the barrel; weaker than bullets but easier to reload in the field. It’s no surprise that the Yeom family gets their stuff sourced from here. The body armour, too, isn’t bad, engraved with the family crest and cast in their colours.

It’s not bad, but it’s not as good as it could be. Not as good as Yoongi needs his tech to be, demands it to be—but quality doesn’t matter. Not today. He has a job to do.

It’s easy to find his mark. Scum gathers in stagnant water, in the dirtiest and dankest places, and this is where Yoongi finds Tang Lee. Finds him spilling beer and money in the backroom of some grimy strip club where the holograms flicker from age and the strippers are tired, trying their best to scrape a living from the seething riverbed of filth that runs underneath the bright neon lights of the skyscrapers in the levels above.

Lee isn’t alone but it’s so easy to take them out it’s laughable, men drunk from cheap alcohol; Yoongi catches one in a chokehold, smashes another’s face into the glass table with enough force it shatters, faces Lee once they’re the only two standing. The music outside is too loud and the room is sound proofed for privacy and so Yoongi isn’t interrupted as he brings Lee to his knees, thrusting his face into a smear of blood that drips from his now-broken nose, courtesy of a quick jab of Yoongi’s right fist.

It’s not a quick kill. It could be. Yoongi could have ended this in moments, caught Lee off guard and ended his miserable life almost effortlessly—but he doesn’t. He takes his time, makes it count, teaches him a lesson, has Lee on his hands and knees as he sobs out apologies and snivels for mercy before he takes the pistol and blows his brains out. Yoongi doesn’t feel sorry for the man, eyes the body impassively, not even worth his disgust—he only feels sorry for whoever finds the chaos of the room and the bodies inside, the distinct plasma burns he purposefully leaves in the wall with the Predator pistol, the entire scene he’s created here: a scuffle gone wrong, fast.

You’re not the only person Tang Lee has crossed but you’ll be the last. Yoongi checks the pulses of the other two men, finds one dead and the other still alive, barely, just like he’d planned—and his work is done. It’s the Yeom family’s problem now, any fall out from Lee’s death pointed at them, a repayment of a slight Lee had made to a Yeom supplier only a few weeks ago. (Yoongi wagers that neither family will care, will draw a veil over this moment and let this settle without raising arms, no one important enough to go to war over.)

He discards the pistol and armour once he’s done, incinerates it all, no interest in keeping subpar equipment. It’s not even worth dismantling for parts. Hoseok finds him in their basement, eyeing the blue flames that lick their way around the discarded armaments; he just watches Yoongi, inscrutable and calm as he eyes the blood on the clothing before it bursts into flames.

“Not a contract,” Hoseok says. (It’s not a question.)

“A job.” Yoongi replies, watches the cloth turn to ash through the thrumming display of the incinerator. “Something that needed to be done.”

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s done. There’s no point in it. Yoongi decides something needs to be done and he’ll do it, whether that’s building a new chair for Jungkook after he broke his old one or killing a man who hurt you.

The next time he sees you your bruise is practically gone, faded into your skin. You’re intent on something on a monitor but when you notice him you turn, swivelling in your chair in one smooth motion as you lean back and put your hands behind your head, cross one leg over the other, dripping self-satisfaction, your smile sharp and full of teeth.

“Ah, Yoongi.” You look so smug that Yoongi has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Welcome, once again, to my laboratory. Is this visit for business or pleasure? Either way, you know I'm happy to oblige.”

“I’m here for the mod you promised me,” he says bluntly, and you just keep smiling, even as you hold out a hand for the sniper rifle, handling the D-2 Shadow with as much reverence as Yoongi does as you affix the mod.

It’s perfect, of course. All that Yoongi asked for and more. The software links with his eyepiece, biometric sensors that help him find his target, software to adjust to his pulse and breathing.

“You can even change the colour of the HUD,” you say, as if it’s some sort of buy-one-get-one-free offer, some fun little feature, rather than another helpful piece of software that you’ve created. Dismissive. An afterthought.

(You act like you take nothing seriously. Yoongi is your stark opposite, weighing everything in his hands and treating it with the level of attention it deserves, intent and focused.)

He’s staring down the scope when you speak once more. Light and easy, for once, rather than loud with your usual exaggerated exuberance or silken with unnecessary suggestiveness.

“I hear that they found a Tang family member dead.”

Yoongi just hums in response. Keeps his eye on the scope, wills the colour from dark green to white using the affinity link he has synced with his headpiece, watches the lines of the heads up display of the scope repaint themselves without even a single flicker, transition smooth and effortless. (Perfection.)

“It seems like the Yeom family did it,” you say, tone still conversational.

“Is that so.” Yoongi sounds disinterested, face impassive as he draws the gun away from his face, eye piece automatically folding away from his eyes. “Can I ask about other mods now that this one is finished?”

One of your brows rises, a perfect curve of discontent. “Say thank you first, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s eyes cut into yours but you don’t back down, watch his blank face as he eventually says: “Thank you. Now I need more mods.”

You throw your head back as you laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you say, but you don’t say no. “What do you want now?”

(It’s not that you never say no to Yoongi. Because you have, and you do, and you will. But never because you can’t make what he asks for—and only because you refuse to make things that might endanger his safety, illicit bio-mods that other hired hitmen use, things that degrade the body from the inside out.)

Yoongi’s just holstered the Shadow, ready to go, when you speak one final time.

“Yoongi?”

He’s never heard you say his name like that, soft and quiet.

“Thanks.” You’re staring at him, regarding him steadily, solemn in a way that he’s never seen. You’re smiling, as always, but the expression is lightyears away from what Yoongi is used to—just the barest hint of an upturn to your lips.

Yoongi stares back at you. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for.”

Your smile grows, a warm thing, unfurling like a flower. Almost affectionate. “Sure,” you say. “Of course. Silly me. Slip of the tongue.” And then, as if your brain’s only just caught up with what you just said, the smile turns salacious. “On the note of slipping the tongue—”

“Bye.”

Your cascading laughter follows him on his way out, cutting and shining with amusement.

Yoongi’s been getting more contracts. He’s finally buckled under Jungkook’s insistent whining and has agreed to get gear for him, too, to train him how to shoot. Hoseok has more than enough contacts in the underworld to get jobs for them both—he’s the most powerful information broker around, after all, sitting in the centre of a web he’s woven after years of work, all that sharpness and darkness hidden behind his deceptively bright smile.

(Yoongi’s lucky to consider him a friend and not an enemy.)

So that’s why he’s here with increasing frequency. That’s why he finds himself at your door more often than not. To get those orders in place, to make sure they’re progressing as fast as they need to.

You never react when Yoongi steps into your workshop. Well, you do, you lean into your hand and smirk at him, pursing your lips around each snide remark, each suggestive comment—but you never question his appearance. You just go with the flow, unbothered by his presence, even when there are other people there—other customers who eye him with unveiled curiosity and confusion (some Yoongi recognises, some he doesn’t, well-known faces and unknowns alike; none of them know who he is, though, unrecognisable as Agust D without his battle gear on). Yoongi keeps a close eye on their stances, any unchecked aggression or hostility towards you. Keeps a watch on the tension of your shoulders and spine, because of… habit. Battle instinct. Nothing else.

“You know my policy, Yoongi.” You’re analysing something in your hand. It looks like an antique spyglass, something from the decades before technology overtook the world, but it’s jammed full of tech; it doesn’t just magnify to a terrifying degree, it also amplifies sound, connected to an earpiece that’s sleek and easy to overlook. ‘A small project’, you’d called it, as if it isn’t something that people would pay a fortune to own. “If I’m making something for someone I have to meet them first. If you want me to make anything for this ‘JK’ then it’s not happening until you bring him here. Just like with your friend RM.”

Yoongi is lolling by your monitors, half-asleep in your chair (which had moulded to the shape of his body the second he sat in it, designed to be too comfortable for its own good).

“I know you can’t pull yourself away from me,” you continue, glancing up from the scope. “But you have to spend time with your friends sometimes. I know they’re not as pleasing to look at as me—”

“Stop.”

You shift the spyglass to one hand and lean your chin on the other, regarding him with sharp eyes and an amused quirk to your lips. “I love that you think you can tell me what to do.”

Yoongi resists the urge to make a noise at the back of his throat, opting to keep mum instead.

He’s too tired to argue with you. He’d come straight after a contract, blood still on the edge of his sleeves (not his), watched the way your eyebrows had risen when you’d casually taken in the state of him before offering to wash his jacket. You know the reality of this world you both inhabit, operating in the shadows, survival paid for in blood; you might not be on the high ground, lining the shot up to take the kill, but you craft the trigger that Yoongi pulls.

(You might be aware of this reality but you’re far removed from it, shaken by violence on your own door. You never should have been faced with it. You’re an inventor; a creator. Not a killer. Not like Yoongi is. He’s not going to let that happen again. He doesn’t like you but you shouldn’t have been subject to pain—shouldn’t still have your motions edged with a held breath, as if you’re waiting for it to repeat itself.

No matter how well you hide it, Yoongi knows that there's a part of you that's still scared.)

“I know you think you’re too important to need to remember things, but we’ve worked together for long enough that you know that I’d ask to meet JK first, Yoongi,” you say. “Did you really have to come straight after murking someone just to be reminded about that? Not complaining—you know I love seeing that pretty scowl of yours—but I just figured you’d rather be resting right now. Don't tell me the infamous Agust D missed me and decided to come here instead.”

“You were on the way.”

(He’d circled around, taken a longer route, descended into the familiar maze of the lower city. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers. You just happened to be nearby, pure coincidence and convenience.)

You retract the spyglass, collapsing it in your hands. “Either you leave right now and go to your own place to sleep, or you’re going to sleep in my bed. Your choice.”

(If Yoongi took the time to think about it, really think about it, he’d notice that the words aren’t shrouded in suggestion or insinuation. Your brows are raised and you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do—unimpressed at how tired he is, how he’s come here instead of sliding into his own bed for the rest he so clearly needs.)

Of course, Yoongi leaves. He returns home without his jacket, strips his shirt off as soon as he’s in this safe place, this base, sheds pieces of his body armour as easy as anything (you’d designed it to be lightweight and easy to don and doff, the perfect defence for someone who relied on stealth and speed); he’s just removing the last greave when Hoseok appears, rapping his knuckles against the open door.

“You’re finally back.”

Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is dressed for work, Hope Broker persona in place, tailored suit that sits perfectly with the lines of his body, handsome and stylish and entirely put together. He oozes poise and power. Elegance.

“Yeah.” Yoongi lets the greave drop, silent as it falls to the floor. “Job’s done.”

Hoseok smiles. It’s a genuine one because it’s for Yoongi. “I know,” he says, even though scarcely any time has passed since Yoongi put a bullet in the back of the target’s skull. Nothing happens in this world of theirs without Hoseok finding out about it, always sooner rather than later. “Just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

“All good.”

“Good.” Hoseok is used to Yoongi’s blunt nature, his short responses when he’s tired. “Get some sleep.”

Hoseok’s elegant even as he adjusts his cufflinks. It’s just the briefest of moments, the crisp edge of his perfectly white sleeve contrasting with the shining silver, the design inlaid in them—but Yoongi recognises that design immediately.

Because it’s yours.

It’s the same emblem on each piece of his gear, small and understated, hidden away, easy to miss—but Yoongi knows it intimately. He doesn’t say anything. Lets Hoseok leave without a word. Each one of the men that Yoongi considers family, the tiny collection of people that stay in this same home as him, know that he only gets equipment sourced from you—but Hoseok had never mentioned that he’s been in contact with you, too.

It’s not important. Hoseok might be his friend and a staunch ally but there’s plenty that he gets up to that none of the others are privy to, trading information to the highest bidders, head of a huge network that Yoongi can use to his advantage but isn’t technically a part of. The people Hoseok deals with—buys his information and resources from, keeps perfectly balanced in comparison to his own power—is his own business and not Yoongi’s.

Yoongi moves to gather his armour, the hardsuit he wears like a second skin, and spots that insignia that he knows so well branded into it. To have Hoseok wearing it at his wrist—the Hope Broker, renowned trader of secrets—is a statement. You could have made the cufflinks plain and unadorned. But you hadn’t.

When Yoongi climbs into bed that night, he finds that his sleep is restless.

The smile on your face fades. “You know I don’t talk about business with other customers.”

Yoongi’s staring at you across your workbench, the light from its surface going dim as you take your hands off it, disassembled stun mine forgotten.

No one knows about his genuine friendship with Hoseok, but they do know that Agust D and the Hope Broker have an agreement; a professional working relationship. “I know the Hope Broker,” Yoongi says.

Your eyebrows rise so far they seem to threaten to ascend into your hairline, you’re so incredulous. “Everyone does. What’s your point? Do you expect me to give you information about everyone you ask about? I get paid to keep people’s privacy, Yoongi. Do you think I sell the information of your equipment, how to dissemble every defence you have? Do you think I give your name out to everyone who asks?”

There’s no touch of amusement to the line of your lips, no sparkling irreverence in your eyes. You’re genuinely displeased.

“He’s wearing your symbol.”

You scoff. “You wear my symbol too. Why, are you jealous? Your armour has exactly the same technology. Better, even, because I can fit more tech in there.”

The cufflinks generate a kinetic barrier, then, a layer of invisible shielding that lays just atop Hoseok’s skin. But no one sees Yoongi’s armour; no one sees the workmanship of your weapons, no one except him. Your insignia isn’t emblazoned on his wrist for all to see.

Yoongi isn’t jealous.

“Hope is a powerful man,” you continue. “Everyone knows that. Even people who haven’t met him know that. Even people who aren’t sure he exists know that. If I want to sell to him then that’s my business.”

Everyone who’s anyone recognises your logo, no matter how rare it is to spot it (you only craft for a select few, after all). And Hoseok’s influence is far reaching and powerful; no one would dare cross him, dare to cross anyone who’s associated with him.

“I’m looking for a new workshop.” You rise, moving away from your workbench to your monitors, touching a display with your fingers to bring it to life. Ignoring Yoongi’s presence, not even looking at him. “I haven’t got the space to modify the systems in this one as much as I want to. The walls are already full enough as it is. Do you know how hard it is to find somewhere with the specifications I need?”

Yoongi realises, then, why you’re doing this. The bruise is long gone and your skin is unmarred but you still don’t feel safe. You’ve always worked alone. Until now. Now you’re making moves to settle down, settle in, make a statement of allegiance to someone who can offer you a level of protection with their influence.

Someone who can offer you somewhere new, away from this inadequate place you’ve outgrown.

Hoseok laughs lightly when Yoongi asks about it, mentions it in passing as the two of them drink soju side by side, Hoseok in his suit and Yoongi girded in the armour under his unassuming clothes, both in the upper city for work; they stare down at the myriads of tall buildings and huge holo-boards and rainbow array of neon lights, far above the place they call home.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, utterly relaxed (and faintly amused). “I know you respect her work so I thought I’d reach out. I’m surprised she can make the things she does in that tiny workshop. You’re right; she’s very good.”

You are. The next time you meet, you give Yoongi his usual shipment and more besides, more than he’d ordered, reflected in the amount of creds he has to pay—because he won’t be able to just drop in for a while, your workshop dismantled and scraped empty in preparation for the move. Where to, he doesn’t know, but you say you’ll pass on the information once everything is up and running again.

“If you break any of your gear while I’m gone then you’re on your own,” you say. “I’m not shipping anything before my new workshop is finished.”

Two days later, Yoongi spies a new watch on Hoseok’s wrist. It looks low-tech, old style, metal strap and round clock face—but he sees the silhouette of your logo under those ticking hands and knows there’s more tech in there that meets the eye.

He looks away.

It takes a week for the message to appear, encrypted: your new location. Levels above your former workshop, one of the higher strata of the lower city—still hidden and out of the way but away from the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi goes. He finds the door panel, scans his palm, leans forward for the light to flit across his eye, murmurs a word, watches the door slide open. He’s already programmed in. New workshop, new security system, but he’s still allowed in, still one of the people you consider familiar, trustworthy.

(He doesn’t know of anyone else who fits that category. Has only ever seen you manually allow people inside, granting your permission each time, rather than giving them free run of the place. No one has as many complex orders as he does, he’s certain. It’s for ease and practicality’s sake.)

He’s unfamiliar with the layout of this new building, first corridor already longer than he’s used to; he pauses for a moment but then hears something, faint—your laughter. Follows that sound, makes his way forward, through polished corridors with lines of light underfoot, leading him down some stairs and towards the sound of you.

Your new workshop is beautiful. There’s enough room in here for everything, no need for a backroom: a central worktable, benches lining the walls, tech displays built in, everything edged with lighting, dark surfaces shining bright, large floor panels underfoot emitting a low glow. Your former home had been that underground workshop and a locked door to a ladder to your micro apartment up top, tiny kitchen and single bed in a small room with a shower cubicle in the corner. Yoongi already knows that this building is far, far bigger, and you have more space than you’ve ever had before; you’d never been discontent with your smaller home, comfort from familiarity, until that comfort had been stripped from you.

You’re smiling. The snark woven into your words that Yoongi is used to is muted, light comment falling from your lips as you sit on that central table, perched on its edge. And Hoseok, he laughs, grinning so widely his teeth are on show—he’s wearing a suit but his jacket is resting on his shoulders, tie undone and cast around his neck. A stance of relaxation, one Yoongi’s never seen from him, not when he’s working. Not when he’s The Hope Broker and not Hoseok.

He’s still smiling when he notices Yoongi, the two of you looking over when the hitman speaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Hoseok.”

That ever-present smirk freezes on your face for a split second, eyes widening at the sound of Hope’s real name. Hoseok just takes it in stride, his smile not dimming even for a second.

“Hey, Yoongi.” His greeting is as warm as it always is. “Just checking in. Have to make sure everything is up to scratch. What’s the verdict?”

You’ve hidden your surprise, wiped it off your face, eyes on Hoseok as you answer him. “It’s perfect.” A pause. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Sure. Yoongi is an old friend of mine.” Hoseok is still smiling, looking at Yoongi with creased eyes. Unafraid of revealing this information to you, still at ease despite the tension that’s bubbling in the air, Yoongi’s impassive face. Hoseok is always an unshaken pillar of positivity. “I didn’t realise he was coming. Am I interrupting an appointment?”

You stare at Yoongi. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

(You’d sent the message less than an hour ago. Yoongi had taken one look at the address, memorised it, pulled on his jacket and headed out; clearly you hadn’t anticipated how fast his arrival would be.)

“A happy coincidence, then.” Hoseok sounds like he genuinely means it, is pleased to see Yoongi here, his smile unwavering. There’s a languid set to his body, the easing line of his spine, hands in his pockets. A glittering in his eyes. (No one ever gets the drop on Hoseok, never surprises him, catches him off guard, no matter what they do.) “But I’ll let you conduct your business and we can catch up another time.”

He takes a hand out of his pocket as he walks past Yoongi, pats his shoulder amicably. His palm is relaxed against the tense set of Yoongi’s shoulders before he ascends the stairs and disappears out of sight, the sound of his polished shoes fading until he’s gone, one of the monitors on the wall flickering to indicate the front door is shut once more.

You’re still staring at Yoongi. The atmosphere had been heavy, even with Hoseok there—and now that he’s gone there’s nothing to alleviate that pressure, nothing to dissolve the strange twist to the air.

“Who,” you start, measured but sharp, “do you think you are?”

Yoongi returns your stare, looks back at you with his dark eyes. Doesn’t respond to your question; an unnecessary, unprompted thing, razor-edged for a reason he can’t discern.

“Can’t you hear me?” You slide off the table, stalk towards him. “I said—” you raise a hand— “who? Do? You? Think? You? Are?”

You emphasise each word with a sharp jab to Yoongi’s chest, driving your finger forward with so much force it must hurt. You keep it in place, keep it dug into the centre of his ribcage. There’s no laughter hidden in the corner of your lips. He’s annoyed you again, somehow, a familiar guest turned unwelcome interloper.

“You say that you know Hope and yet I just watched you treat him like dirt.” Your eyes are piercing, cutting through the soft frame of your curled lashes, boring straight into him. “You come into my workshop as if you’re meant to be here; like there’s something you’re owed. Do you want me to treat you like a child, send you to your room? Not let you back in here? Because I will.”

“You sent me your address,” Yoongi points out.

You let out a bark of laughter. “Please.” Your hand drops back to your side and you turn, stepping away. “I’ve sent this address to all my business associates. I can’t sell or buy unless people can find me. You’re the only one who’s taken this as an invitation to just turn up and waltz in. At least when Hope turns up he warns me beforehand. Oh, and he doesn’t say stuff like he’d rather blow his own brains out than be forced to see me. I know you just love being contrary but has it ever occurred to you to be more polite to people? You’d make a terrible waiter. You’d get fired on your first day.”

You’re in front of one of your cabinets. You reach inside for something, hefting it in your hands before returning, handling it in a way that’s completely unceremonious, dropping it to the bench at his side like you want to be rid of it. Like you don’t even want to hand it directly to him, to interact with him. “There. Nothing but a pleasure doing business with you, Yoongi, even if your customer service still needs improving.”

It looks like a flat, hexagonal panel, the same colour and material as his armour. Something to be locked into it, wired in, trailing veins of unattached tech spilling from it. He’s seen you working on this for a while, seen you draw up blueprints with a bruise fresh on your cheek, seen it turned in your hands as that mark had faded and left your skin.

It’s not something he ordered.

“What is this?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “Auto medi-gel distributor. It syncs with your armour and senses when you’ve been hurt and disperses gel in the affected area. Your armour’s always been too lightweight to have extra mods on but I’ve been working on this for a while.”

It’s an astonishing piece of tech. Usually one that’s reserved for heavier armour, restricting and hard to move in but easier to mod—but this thing is slim, compact, the same technology crammed into a smaller package without losing any of its punch. He doesn’t know what materials you’ve had to use to circumvent this, the level of tech you’ve layered into this, the amount of time and thought you’ve put into this.

“How much is it?”

The wrong thing to say. The smile that spreads itself across your lips is an echo of its usual curve, brittle and flaking around the edges, a baring of teeth.

“It’s a gift, Yoongi. Usually when someone does something for you, you return the favour.” Your lips are still upturned but your eyes are unsmiling even when your tone seems whimsical and light. You’ve got on your usual flippant façade, but there’s a pointed undercurrent to it. “You know, I don’t understand you at all. You remind me that you don’t like me but then you always hang around. You kill someone who threatened me and pretend that you didn’t do it. You say you don’t like me, but I thought you at least respected me, and yet here you are. Lying to me and treating me like I'm a fool.”

“I do respect you,” Yoongi says.

(Because he does, and as much as he would hate to inflate your ego, he doesn’t shy away from telling the truth.)

“Sure you do.” An unimpressed eye-roll, cutting under his words, knocking his feet out from underneath him. You don’t care to believe him. “This is my fault for not treating you the same as all my other business associates. Next time you come in you’ll have to have an appointment, just like everyone else. It’ll minimise the amount of time we have to spend together.”

Yoongi doesn’t like you. He finds, though, that he likes the sound of this even less; finds it pulling at his brows, his mouth, impassive expression turned to one of disapproval.

And his mouth opens. The word falls from his lips before he has a chance to think—years of battle intuition, years of following instinct, moving as he needs to in the moment.

“No.”

A raise of the brows. A purse of the lips. Incredulous. “No?” you parrot it back, mocking. “Oh, okay, sure. Never mind. You’re welcome to come in whenever you want and act like you have free rein of the place. There’s nothing I enjoy more than your scowling presence.”

Sharp tongued, sharp eyed, narrowed at him: a confrontation. For all that you needle him you never mean it, really (even if it’s still infuriating, aggravating). But right now? Right now each of your words is barbed, your sarcasm a defence, an offence. You’re running your mouth not just to rile him, but to ward him away.

“You’re really not as smart as you think you are, Min Yoongi.” You wield his name like a weapon. “You tell me right now why I should listen to you. What do you come here for? And don’t say it’s for my work because it stopped being just that a long time ago. And if it is just for my work then take it and go. Then I’ll take you off the security system and we’ll only see each other as much as is strictly necessary. In fact, you could pass your orders along via Hope—then we won’t have to even see each other at all. ”

“And then he’ll be the only one allowed free rein?”

It comes out before he’s even really thought about what he’s saying, which isn’t like him at all. Yoongi is two parts: pure, honed instinct, and careful, wary vigilance. He’s not like you, saying the first thing that comes to mind—not normally, anyway—but the words jump from his lips, from some near-silent part of him that balks at the idea. Of Hoseok stepping into your space the way that Yoongi does, appearing without warning, to be greeted with a curled smirk and glittering eyes.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that you’re not the only person with security clearance. My God. You’re infuriating. Seriously? I didn’t realise you were genuinely this dense. You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed in without prior agreement.” You emphasise this statement with another jab to his chest, your finger a sharp knife that cuts into him as you stab it forwards.

He catches your wrist. His grasp is firm but there’s no pressure to it; doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t tighten his fingers, just holds you in place. You’re staring at him with a challenge in your eyes, one that he finds himself rising to match, never one to back down.

“Is that so?”

Your hand unfurls, fingers splayed across his chest; he’s still holding your wrist, shifting with your movement. “Don’t be obtuse.” An irritated exhale. “Normally you complain whenever I talk and now you’re trying to get me to repeat myself. Again with the inconsistency, Yoongi. Make up your mind.”

He could do what you do whenever you’re feeling particularly aggravating. Play dumb, ask more questions, drag out the interaction until you’re bordering on snapping—but he doesn’t. He looks at the set of your jaw, the way you’re staring at him. Unflinching. You’ve never been scared of him, and you aren’t now, not with how he’s got a hold of you, how close he is to you.

He toes the line. Shifts closer. Notes the way your pupils dilate, how the tips of your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt; how the air grows heavier, a frisson of electricity crackling through it. Yoongi doesn’t like you, but he likes that feeling—how the tension in the air shivers from indignation into something different.

Because you’re still staring at him, and there’s still that hard set to your jaw, but there’s not just anger in your eyes. There’s that warm thing he’s grown used to seeing, smouldering in near silence until he’d coaxed it to full flame, thrown gasoline onto the coals when he’d shot plasma into the back of Tang Lee’s skull. He’d protected you even though he hadn’t needed to, doesn’t need to, but does anyway—because he trusts you and there’s no one else he trusts to keep you safe.

And there’s no one else you trust, either.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi says, like he so often does—but there’s no irritation in it, touched instead with a simmering heat, the faintest edge of a bite.

You tilt your head. There’s a provocation etched into the twist of your mouth, the way your lips lift. Because no matter how much you needle him, dig your fingernails into every crack of his armour and twist—no matter how annoying you are, how angry you make him—you know that he’s not mad. Not really. Not in a way that makes you afraid, but in a way that thrills you, makes you want to see him snap, to wipe away that level facade he maintains.

“Maybe you should shut me up, then,” you reply, a murmur. A challenge.

A beat. Yoongi’s fingers tighten around your wrist. A warning.

And in response?

You just smile.

The way your eyes widen just seconds later is delicious, though, when Yoongi lets go of your wrist—because he’s moving faster than you expected. Your surprise melts into delight, a spark of glee that says you’ve gotten exactly what you want when Yoongi threads his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to bare the column of your throat. He holds you firmly in place, crowds you back against the workbench so hard its edge must be digging almost painfully into your back but not once does that glee dim, written over every line of your smile, eyes bright and teeth sharp.

Yoongi likes to take things slow. There’s the part of him that never steps into a situation without knowing every angle, every escape route, each one of his kills planned meticulously. But, he thinks, the two of you have been waiting long enough, and he’s never been patient around you—has found his composure worn thin faster than anywhere else, by anyone else. It’s this part of him, frayed into non-existence by you, that rises to the surface now, makes him move as quick as he does.

And you respond just the way he knew you would. When he presses his mouth to yours you kiss him back like you have a point to make (you always do), fast and almost reckless, all lips and teeth and tongue. There’s no finesse to it. When he presses his tongue into your mouth you part your lips so prettily, let him take his fill, slide your tongue against his and tilt your head to get even deeper—and just like always, you're vocal, letting out small noises that are caught and muffled in the kiss, lust filled. But when you try to nip at his lip with the edge of your teeth Yoongi tightens his grip in your hair and swallows down your gasp before he pulls away, holding you in place so you can’t chase after his mouth. Your lips are kiss swollen and under the bright lights above they shine, slightly parted, pupils blown as you stare at him.

(You look good like this.)

Your eyes slide shut when Yoongi lowers his lips to your neck, across your throat. There’s nothing gentle about it. He moves with single-minded intent, lips and teeth harsh against your sensitive skin—and you take it all, little sounds falling from your lips as Yoongi drags his teeth towards the hollow of your neck. And when he takes his hand from your hair, takes both hands and digs his fingers into your waist and lifts you, you go so easily; a mimicry of your earlier position when he’d stepped in, perched on the edge of the table. Legs spread so Yoongi can stand between them. He’d be surprised at how pliant you are if it wasn’t so obvious that this is exactly what you want: lifting your hips so he can strip your lower half bare.

Your bare thighs press against the surface of the workbench, tech displays coming alive under your body heat. You’ve shrugged your cropped jacket off and you’re just reaching for your top when Yoongi stops you; splays a hand in the centre of your chest and presses you back, slow but undeniable. You’re not the one setting the pace. He is. He’s the one in control, with you spread out in front of him, only a thin layer of fabric keeping you from being completely bare—thin cotton underwear, dark and damp between your legs, betraying your arousal.

“Wet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Your retort stutters on your lips when he drags his fingers upwards over your slit, barely dulled by the material in the way. “No shit,” you say, and then suck in a breath when he presses the pad of his thumb across your clit.

It’s no good, the fact you’re still talking. But that’s okay. Yoongi’s planning on changing that.

It’s lewd, the way your legs are spread, parting further at the urging of his hands. Your hands slide across the bench, papers scattering, palms flat on the work surface and white light shimmering on dark blue in reaction to your touch; an unnecessary distraction that you both ignore. There’s nothing graceful about this, the peel of underwear away from your core, already slick even with the barest of attentions; he drags his fingers down the inside of your thighs, all that soft skin, and then under, urging your hips up and towards his mouth. No foreplay to this foreplay, no dragging out this moment—he bites at that soft skin of your inner thigh, sinks his teeth into it and listens to the way you gasp in surprise—and before you have a moment to ground yourself, he presses his mouth to your cunt.

You’re wet and warm under his tongue and the smell of you surrounds him, musky and heavy, and he feels how your entire body goes tense as you arch your back. He’d normally take his time with this, have you strung out and begging, but he has different plans today—knows exactly what he wants from this, sucking your clit between his lips and feeling your thighs tighten around his head, legs slung over his shoulders as he listens to the way you moan. Each sound shudders out from your mouth like you tried so desperately to keep it in but couldn’t help it. Yoongi loves eating pussy anyway but this is even better, the way all your witty ripostes die in your throat before you can shape them on your lips, turned into breathy gasps instead.

The taste of you fills his mouth and it’s so fucking good. You’ve been watching him, how his head moves between your legs, but he can tell you’re close; you’ve given up, eyes shut as you lean into the sensation building up in you, and Yoongi thinks he likes you better like this. Forced into speechlessness under his hands and tongue. Your pretty mouth softened from sharpness into urging noises of pleasure. He slides one arm across your stomach and holds you in place, a hard line that you can’t overpower and you’re left squirming in place, hips trying to kick up each time he draws his tongue over your slit, every part of you sloppy with your own arousal and Yoongi’s spit, flushed and lovely. One of your hands is in his hair and you’re pulling, pulling hard, unaware of how tight your grip is as you try to buck your hips and sob.

You’re so sensitive, and it only takes one, two fingers pressing into you and curling just right as Yoongi slides his tongue over your clit before you’re cumming, hot around his fingers as you come apart all wet and messy. He’s never seen you so undone, back arched as you ride out your orgasm, hair swept away from your forehead as you throw your head back. Keeps his mouth open on you, feels you under his tongue, until you’re flopped on your back and your chest is heaving, legs untensed and loose over his shoulders.

You shift an arm. Your fingers barely brush the medi-gel mod you’d made him, a loose sheet of paper sliding away and joining the others on the floor.

“Just moved in and it’s already a mess,” Yoongi says, and he doesn’t just mean the paper; fingers and chin and mouth covered in your slick, your core soaked. He’s still knuckle deep and when he curls his fingers again your entire body jolts, your mouth parting almost wantonly before you seem to struggle back to reality, surfacing from a haze of arousal and post orgasmic bliss.

“That’s your fault,” you say, voice weaker than usual. “I’ll send you the cleaning bill.”

“Mm. Not my fault you’re a messy girl.”

“Fuck you.” The blunt words are softened by your breathlessness, your bonelessness; the way your breath catches in your throat when he calls you a messy girl, even if you try to hide it. Trying not to let him in on exactly how much power he holds in this moment.

“I was planning on it,” Yoongi says, as calm as ever, even if arousal is simmering through his veins and gathering in his gut—has been this entire time, the taste of you on his tongue and the heat of you under his lips and the sound of you in his ears. “Want to make your workshop even messier?”

You dig your balls of your feet into his back, legs still over his shoulders. His fingers shift inside you and you shiver. “I don’t think so,” you say. “Bedroom.”

“So you’re giving me a tour, then?”

You don’t dignify him with a response, although the noise you make when he finally pulls his fingers out of you is more than enough to satisfy him. He’s still fully dressed and you’re only half so, and it would be comical if the sight of your bare legs and slick on your inner thighs wasn’t so hot, barefoot on the glowing and pristine (papers notwithstanding) floors as you reach for his hand and lift it to your lips, sucking his fingers into your mouth and licking your arousal off his fingers with your tongue, warm and wet, before you grab his wrist and pull.

He watches the movement of your hips as you lead him, your bare ass. Shameless as ever. Confident in yourself, even now. It’s not until you’ve stepped over the threshold and into your new bedroom that your tattoos become visible, as bright as the low lights in the room, those geometric lines and stylised circuitry on your legs shifting as you step forwards.

Even with the relative darkness Yoongi immediately notices something. Cast over the back of a chair near the bed, there’s his jacket, blood stains at the edge of the sleeves gone. Cleaned. Yoongi shifts his hand so you don’t have your fingers wrapped around his wrist any more. Instead he’s the one shackling you, holding you in place as you look over your shoulder.

“Were you ever going to return that to me?” He tilts his head at the chair.

You pause. Glance over. Look back at him, all amusement and provocation, recovered from your earlier breathlessness. “But Yoongi, I get so cold.”

There’s something about the idea of you in his clothes, clothes that you know he’s worn when he’s been getting his hands dirty—he ignores the curl to your lips and moves you towards the bed, ignoring the sound of your self satisfied laughter when he reaches for your shirt and pulls, with you lifting your arms to help him, grinning at him the whole time. Even when he’s thrown your bra aside and kicked his boots off and pushed you onto the mattress, trapped you underneath him, completely naked against his completely clothed body you’re still smiling, like the cat who got the cream.

You’re stunning. There’s no doubt about it. You always have been, annoyingly so, even when Yoongi’s wanted to wring your neck; not just because you’re pretty but because you’re intelligent and confident and in control, staring up at him without a lick of fear or concern, even now. Never with him, never. He can see your tattoos in all their glory, nothing hidden away from his gaze; he sees one he hasn’t been able to see before, a sunflower bursting across your ribcage, curved under the swell of your breast, glowing red and orange in the midst of all your other cyan and teal lines, glowing in the black light. He’s pressing you down, trapped under his body, and you’re just waiting. Waiting and still smiling, smirking, letting him take you in, preening under his attention.

He wants to eat you alive.

So he does just that. Shifts back down the mattress on his knees, keeping his hands on you, pulling his hands down the easing lines of your ribs and waist and hips, before a firm tug has you lifting up—your smug facade shakes when you’re left with only your shoulders and head against the bed, the rest of your body pulled towards Yoongi’s waiting mouth once more, held in place with fingers that dig into your hips, thighs soft against his ears, your hands scrabbling at the linen underneath you when Yoongi’s lips press into the crease of your thigh, off balance.

“Safeword?” He murmurs into your skin, and you pause.

“Hoseok,” you answer, and Yoongi responds by biting into your thigh again, soothing it with his tongue when you squeal.

“Shameless.”

You’re still wet from before, slick with cum, and Yoongi doesn’t hesitate before he dives back in. He can hear more than he can see the way your fingers curl into your sheets and rumple them in your hands, anchored helplessly into place by Yoongi’s mouth and the fingers cupped under your ass, digging into the soft skin, undignified and at his mercy.

“Yoongi!” You gasp, almost a whimper as a breath gets caught in your throat. “Y-Yoongi—”

You’re so helpless like this. It’s a little hard for Yoongi to breathe, your legs tightening around him, but it’s worth it for the way he can see you shaking apart. He presses his tongue as deep into you as he can, sucks your swollen pearl between his lips and circles it with his tongue, notices the way you jolt at those wet kisses, still sensitive from before, and he doesn’t let up. Keeps going and going and going until you’re gasping for air, sensations rippling through your body as you buck and writhe; you’re trying to keep yourself together, he can tell, but you’re unravelling, smirk wiped off your face and your mouth in a pretty little circle whenever you choke out oh, oh.

You cum faster than he expects, shoulders lifting away from the mattress as you arch your back so far it must hurt and tighten your legs and he feels the way your pussy throbs under his tongue, practically gushing when you reach your peak. Your eyes are unfocused when they flutter back open but you’re reaching for him, for the waistband of his trousers, trying to touch the hard length of his cock—he’s been ignoring it, how he’s leaked so much precum he can feel how wet it is in his boxer-briefs.

He keeps ignoring it now. He catches your hands, stops you in place, stares you down with an unimpressed tilt to his brows.

“What,” he says levelly, “do you think you’re doing?”

“Want you in my mouth,” you say. You seem almost desperate for it, fingers flexing in his hold, letting your tongue linger against your lips longer than necessary. “I want your cock in my mouth, Yoongi.”

He tightens his grip around your wrists. And then, for the first time all night, he smiles.

“No.”

You look stunned. Just for a moment. Then you’re squirming in his hold, but you’re trapped, nowhere to go. “What do you mean, no?”

Yoongi’s still smiling, mirroring the self satisfaction that had been written all over your face earlier. “I mean no. You don’t get what you want. You get what you’re given.”

There’s nothing he’d like more than to sink into that wet heat, to see your smart mouth put to good use, lips spread over his cock, but this is better. Seeing the genuine frustration and disbelief written across your features.

He doesn’t give you time to line up another angered retort on your tongue. Doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s flipping you over, the wings of your shoulder blades and curve of your spine emphasised by the lines that are traced symmetrically and shining across your skin. They shift when you move, hips lifted from the mattress by Yoongi’s hands, on your hands and knees as he fumbles his waistband and zipper and pulls his cock free. He’s painfully hard, flushed head with precum that beads at the tip, and when he tugs you back he watches the way the head drags across the curve of your ass, leaving a shining line of wetness on your skin.

And when he sinks into you he barely gives you time to adjust, barely has time to adjust himself, to all this hot tight wetness after his cock’s gotten no attention at all—you let out a moan that almost sounds like you’re singing, long and high with pleasure, the slide eased from all your cum.

You take it so well, always so good to him no matter how irritating you are, so lost in the sensations that you don’t say anything about the hard edges of Yoongi’s clothes whenever he drives his hips forward and it presses into the soft skin of your thighs. It’s messy and choppy and fast and you slump onto your elbows, entire body shaking as you take everything Yoongi is giving you. Caged underneath him when he follows you forwards, presses his front to your back, feels the way the sweat on your skin is caught against the fabric of his clothes. Grinds his hips deep and feels the way you gasp, sucking in a shaking breath, your entire body lost in it. He bites his lip and keeps his own sounds caught behind his teeth, not letting you know how you’re pulling him towards his own edge.

He’s not done with you yet.

Your clit is slick under his touch when he lifts his fingers to touch you, to layer another sensation on top of the cock inside you, and you’re sobbing. You don’t ask him to stop, never know when to quit, face every challenge thrown at you—and Yoongi can tell that you love it even if your body is crying out, that you love this oversensitivity, pulled taut and strung out. You’re beyond speech, words slurred, barely recognisable as his name and pleas of more, please, more. He can feel when you’ve crested the wave of too much sensation and fallen back into that rippling sea of pleasure, and when you cum it’s with a soundless moan, mouth wide open but no noise escaping. No more sharp retorts, no smart words, fucked into incoherency, trembling and quivering as you go tight around him and Yoongi struggles not to lose himself then and there, in your scorching, wet cunt, fluttering around him.

The noise when he pulls out is slick and lewd, just like all the other noises that have been filling the room, the slap of skin on skin temporarily halted when Yoongi rolls you onto your back. There’s sweat beading on your skin, shimmering, tears gathering in the corner of your eyes and glistening like tiny jewels in the multi-coloured low light of this room. Your lips are parted and your gaze is bleary and you’re everything Yoongi has never seen from you before, fuzzy and quiet, entirely pliant. When he reaches for you again, runs his hands over the rise of your hipbones and down the side of your thighs, you whimper.

“One more,” Yoongi says. “One more, you can give me one more.”

You’ve never known when to quit, and now is no different, even if you’re on the verge of being entirely fucked dumb. Those tears pool in your eyes and stream down towards your hairline, but you let Yoongi move you, try to help by lifting your hips but almost too gone to move at all. Yoongi almost cums when he sinks into you, your willing body; he thinks you’ve never looked better than you do now, smelling like sweat and sex and so soft under his hands, taking his cock like you were made for it, and you’re so gorgeous when you’re falling apart.

The attitude you wear normally—the one that chafes at Yoongi’s nerve-endings—has been entirely wiped away, forced out of you by mindless pleasure. But still, you know what you want, even now, even when you’re barely coherent—Yoongi feels your hand slide across his and pull weakly, guiding it across your chest and up, circling his fingers around your neck.

He swears. Snaps his hips forward hard, watches the way your eyes roll back when he gives an experimental squeeze around your throat. Yoongi’s choked people before, knows exactly how much pressure to give, how much it takes to cut someone’s airways completely or how to just leave them reeling; he lets you linger on the edge of breathlessness, feels the way you go tight around him. When you orgasm it rips through you, your thighs tightening around Yoongi’s hips as you hit your peak and cum hard, and the feeling of it has Yoongi cursing and bending forwards to shove his face in your neck and kiss the salt-sweat taste he finds there as he falls off the edge. He cums wet inside you, keeps rolling his hips through it all, lets his cum mix with yours and watches the way you just keep taking it, even when your whole body is trembling from how much it is.

And when Yoongi calls you a good girl, you don’t snap back like you normally would, don’t deride his praise. You bask in it, as tired as you are, letting out a soft noise when he pulls his softening cock out of you, unbothered by the wet patches on your sheets and how the whole room stinks of sex. When he moves to lift you, to get you clean, you go easily and without argument, every one of your honed edges dulled, and you make no move to sharpen them again, to drag them over Yoongi in the way he’s so familiar with by now. Even when you’ve lifted out of your haze and you’re back in the moment, the way you watch Yoongi is no less calm than normal, but still different.

“Stay.”

He’s in the middle of reaching for his boots, discarded on the floor, a discordant note on the clear floor. You’re wearing clean underwear and a loose t-shirt and you’re looking at him with something verging on surprise, like you hadn’t expected to see him moving to pull his shoes back on to leave.

He hadn’t been planning to.

“Just moving them out of the way,” says Yoongi, putting them upright by the base of your chair, and then he makes his way back to you. You don’t attempt to hide your pleasure that he’s listened to you, pulling him onto the bed despite the fact he’s still dressed.

“I don’t cuddle,” he says, even as you tuck yourself into the crook of his arm, and he shifts to make it more comfortable for you.

You press your face into the hollow of his neck, touch your nose against his throat, breathing in the smell of sweat that still lingers—because you’re shower soft and fresh but he isn’t, and weirdly enough, you seem to enjoy it. Seem to enjoy that contrast, the one that’s always existed between you, Yoongi immersed in blood and sweat and tears while you’re away from it, one degree of separation from it all. “You know, I like it when you do things for me.”

Normally he’d protest, say that he doesn’t do things for you, but the truth is that he does, even if he’s only just admitting it to himself.

“Like that time you killed someone for me,” you say, and Yoongi’s fingers tighten, soft skin of your waist yielding under his touch.

“I kill a lot of people.”

You let out a laugh against his skin, quietly amused. “Just admit it. You like me, Min Yoongi.”

A pause.

Then: “Against my better judgement, I do.”

And he does. Even if you’re irritating and maddening, he does like you, and not just because of the work you do for him. He thinks that even if you weren’t so good at your job that he’d find himself here anyway, caught in this push and pull you have, magnetised.

“No need to sound so begrudging,” you say, but there’s no real annoyance behind your words.

Yoongi finds that he likes that note in your voice, like you’re indulging him and his stubbornness and you’re unmoved by it. He hums in response. Feels the way you shift back, lean on your elbows to look down at him, lips curled up at the corners.

“Kiss me.”

Not a question. A demand. Yoongi stares you down, just for a second, before he lifts a hand and weaves a hand back into your hair, tilting your mouth against his. He can feel your self satisfied smile against his lips and he doesn’t mind it at all, sees it spread across your face when you eventually pull back, all flushed lips and warm eyes.

You’re still sharp, a weapon in your own right, but you willingly hand yourself over to be held in his skilled hands, let yourself be worn smooth by his touch. He weaves his fingers between your own, your palm soft and warm against his, and he likes this. That you’re unafraid of what he is, that the fact he’s a killer isn’t something that scares you or thrills you.

Yoongi likes your work. He likes that he knows he can trust you. He likes that he knows of your loyalty, to the people you choose and to yourself, your unwavering principles, as unpredictable as they might seem. He likes that you’re unashamed to be yourself and to be confident, no matter how people react to that cockiness.

What he likes even better than all that is this, though: the way you’re pressed against his side, evidence of his touch written into your skin. The feeling of your hand in his. Despite all the odds, all the months of drawn out and simmering exasperation and tension coming to a head like this, Yoongi likes you.

“I’m not going to give you a discount, you know,” you say suddenly, and for the first time since you met, Yoongi allows himself to laugh at you.

“I’d be offended if you did.”

(You’re loud. Cocky. Arrogant. You love to irritate him just for the hell of it, because you think it’s funny and you love knowing that you can rile him up—but he can rile you up too, and you both know it.

Yeah. Yoongi likes you.)

tagging: @beyoncesdragon @vensulove @gyukult @swinginpicklesuitcaseapricot @kpopheart2 @loveyoongles @muzikabijou @katbonv @jaxx-7 @yeojaa

#btswritingcafe #houseofddaeng #magicshopnet #btswriterscollective #btsguild #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #bts #bts x reader #yoongi #yoongi scenario #yoongi imagine #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist #let's see if this appears in the tags this time! fingers crossed!#wow can you believe I wrote like 4k words of smut or something close to that

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whumperooni · 4 years ago

Note

Oh to be aizawas favorite student that gets stuffed on the regular, during class breaks, after school and special visits to his room at night. He baby's her quite a lot. He can't help it. And she gets favoritism but no one actually suspects he's teaching her how to be such a good girl behind doors.

yes yes yes

we all just want to be Sensei’s favorite student and have him teach us how to suck his cock just right

uh, nsfw rambling under the cut. and ye student has been aged up

It’s something that doesn’t happen on purpose or right away- first, you arrive at UA and you’re blessed with Aizawa as your homeroom teacher. And lucky, lucky him- you’re a wonderful student. Smart and polite and eager to learn. Your quirk is similar to his- erasure but by touch instead- and you’re always so respectful and attentive when you come to him for advice on how to use it, how to improve, how to be better. Sensei, I just want to do my best.

You quickly become his favorite the more he helps you and it’s a pleasant surprise when he finds the two of you have some common ground beyond quirks. Movies, books, shows, food- your tastes are similar and it’s easy to talk to you about things beyond the strict realm of what he should stick to.

You’re just so...easy to get along with. Relaxing. And, god, it’s such a nice change to have a student that is constantly working on improving, that lights up so much when given praise and absorbs every bit of advice that you can. You’re malleable, but not brainless and it’s no surprise when he realizes that he has a soft spot for you.

Your second year is a little rough- new homeroom teacher, internships, work studies, all the competition that comes with making a name for yourself in the hero world. Even though he’s not your teacher anymore, you can’t help wander back to him for advice and a familiar comfort. Aizawa, for his part, is content enough to keep guiding you along- will listen to you as you fret and worry and question yourself. His calm words and solid advice are always enough to raise your confidence again and the little sessions you two have will end with you nodding in determination and saying Sensei, I promise I’ll make you proud.

He already knows you will- you work hard and you’re so eager for his approval, always chasing after success and the reward of a pat to a head and your favorite sensei telling you good job. you did well. i’m proud of you. (He never doles out praise like that but, god, do you work hard to earn it- you deserve your sensei’s approval and compliments. You always work so hard. for him.)

The third year is a bit easier, but it’s tiring- you’re working properly as a hero now and juggling balancing school and being an acting sidekick. You still come to your sensei for help and it fills him with satisfaction whenever he hears how you’ve blossomed under his instruction.

This is the year, too, when his gaze keeps trailing after you, when he finally realizes just how much he enjoys your eagerness and your wide eyes, the way you nearly melt when he gives you praise.

Like any good teacher, he feels disgusted by himself. Disgusted but...interested. He swears to himself that he’ll never be inappropriate with you, that he’ll keep being there for you as always and keep the relationship respectable.

He tells himself that, but...

But his hands start brushing against you when you walk next to each other. But he begins to tuck your hair behind your ear and brush it from your eyes, trail his fingers along your check. But his touch becomes more frequent during training- experienced hands moving you to get your stance to perfection and lingering as he explains technique, giving the lightest of squeezes before dropping away.

And you...you never pull away or balk or do anything- you just look up at him with wide eyes and cheeks holding the lightest, sweetest flush and nod along to whatever he’s saying, keep following his instructions until you’re perfect.

You trust him so much and respect him to the highest regard- Sensei is important to you in every sort of way and you’d follow him into hell if he asked.

You’d do anything if he asked.

With your third year and all your hero work comes attention, popularity. Boys keep hounding after you and, honestly, it’s flustering. Embarrassing whenever they put their hands a little too low on your waist while chatting you up and look over you with hooded eyes. Their touch is nothing like Sensei’s- you don’t want to melt into and you don’t want more; all you want is to shy away.

The attention troubles you and it’s something that Aizawa picks up on. You almost don’t want to tell him about it whenever he asks, but you can’t not answer your sensei and, besides, he’s given you so much advice before- he’s sure to guide you through this confusing time in your life.

So you tell him, shyly, about the boys and their touches and their crude remarks. You blush and mumble that it’s overwhelming, that it’s embarrassing. You’ve never dated anyone before- you’ve never even kissed anyone before. You don’t know how and...and you’re nervous about it- what if you’re bad? What if they laugh?

Seeing you blushing and embarrassed would be a KO to Aizawa- one quick snap of his already frail self-control. He’d tell you that you just need practice, that it’s not something you need to rush. And, god, sweet fretting you who has danced through his fantasies and turned a respectable man into a closet pervert would be helpless when Aizawa- when the man you look up to with stars in your eyes, when the man whose every word you hang on to, when the man you’ve had such a sweet little crush on since day one, when Sensei- places a hand to your cheek and tells you that he could teach you.

How could you pass it up?

So it starts with that- his lips pressing against yours and your mind going dizzy with wonder and giddy, anxious disbelief. So, so chaste at first- slow to keep you from growing skittish and pulling away. And when it gets deeper, more hot that’s when he starts to tell you how to angle your head, how to use your tongue, how to mold your lips perfectly against his. Less tongue this time. That’s better. Try biting my bottom lip like this.

You listen to his instructions like a lovesick puppy- cheeks flushed and eyes hazy and the need to please him flooding through you stronger than ever before.

It starts with kissing and then it’s him teaching you how to ride his thigh, how to get off with just that grinding pressure and his murmured praise, his hands running over your waist. Then Sensei teaches you about pleasuring yourself- long fingers stroking over your cunny and curling deep inside, little whimpers and mewls leaving you while he explains your g-spot and how to stretch yourself for a cock, how to rub your little clit and make yourself come. He’ll get you off and suck your juices from his fingers, sit back in a chair and then make you do everything he just did- telling you when to add a finger, when to stroke your clit, encouraging you when you whine and say that your fingers are too small and they don’t feel as good as his.

So, of course, if you’re fingers aren’t good enough then he has to teach you about sex toys. He buys you a vibrator and uses it on you until you’re shaking, makes you stuff it in your panties before class and has you hurrying to him on break so you can show him that you’re soaked, that you can come now and please let me come sensei, i need to- it’s so much.

He’ll have you stuff your fingers into your soaked, throbbing pussy and he’ll let you come whenever you mewl a “Sensei, please.” And then he’ll have you suckle your juices from your fingers, teach you how good you taste.

Which, of course, will lead to lessons of him eating you out- face burying between your spread thighs and tongue flicking over your clit until it’s too much and you try to squirm away on instinct. That gets his wraps around your wrists and you sat on his face- his hands gripping your bum and making you hump against him until he’s soaked with your cum and you’re too tired and sore to give more than a twitch of your hips.

Then, of course, it’s your turn to learn about pleasing someone else with your mouth- you get to see Sensei’s dick for the first time and it’s so, so flustering to watch him stroke it while he explains blowjobs and how to run your little tongue over his head, how to suckle his balls like a good girl. Just like that- you’re doing so good. Watch your teeth, okay? Remember to breathe.

This particular lesson gets repeated again and again- it’s hard to take his length fully at first and he has to let you train your throat until you can take him down to the root and swallow his cum without choking and gagging.

It becomes a habit of yours to suck your sensei off at the end of the day- you sinking to your knees and swallowing him down while he grades papers; his hand petting your hair and a serene look on your face as you bob your head along your sensei’s length, make him come.

The biggest lesson- the most important one- is when he finally, finally fucks you.

Aizawa knows he has to do it right- he knows that it has to be good for you. He wants it to be good for you- you’ve certainly earned it with all the hard work you’ve put in so far.

It happens during a break when he actually has time to dedicate to a good, proper fuck. You’re nervous at first, heart fluttering with anticipation, and he’s quick to soothe you with doting kisses, pull you into his lap and make you dizzy with his touch, his lips. He kisses you until pleasure is smoldering down low and then he carries you to the bed- cradling you gently and laying you out, taking a moment to soak in your flushed cheeks and adoring eyes, the way your lips move with a shy, needy murmur of “Sensei.”

He gets you off once, twice before stripping down and crawling over you. It hurts a little when he slides into your wet, warm cunny but he soothes that sting with kisses and hummed praises of how good you’re doing, how you’re such a good girl for him. You’re taking me so well. You’re doing such a good job. Good girl- you’re such a good girl. Honestly, the praise is enough to have your eyes watering and your already overstimulated pussy squeezing around him.

You come before he’s fully in and he takes advantage of that wave of pleasure to slip in the rest of the way, bury himself completely in that soaked cunt that he’s been starving for. You’ll have time to sob a “sensei” but then your mind will get hazed over by the feeling of being full, by how good it feels to have your teacher rocking into your needy pussy and pressing hot, open mouthed kisses along your neck.

The first time you come on his cock it’s with his lips pressed to your forehead as he murmurs for you to come for him- to come for sensei.

The next time you come on his cock is when you’re riding him the following night- his mouth sucking on your soft breasts and your back arching as he shoots hot ropes of cum into your spasming pussy.

He’ll show you how to clean yourself after and he’ll make you come again- face buried between your thighs and his tongue eating out the creampie he had nestled deep into your cunny.

After that, it’s fair game for him to call out of class for “just a word” or to drag you from regular training for some “one on one” training. And you’re just as bad- coming to him like a bitch in heat as soon as you feel your cunny begin to tingle and begging him to fuck you, let you suck him off- sensei, please!

Of course he spares the time to do that for you- you are his favorite student after all.

#aizawa x reader #eraserhead x reader #bnha #rooni's shit #nonny this concept had me blushing and droolin'#i love naughty sensei so much #like yes sensei please teach me how to ride that dick #Anonymous #aizawa x student!reader #eraserhead x student!reader

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nolpat0 · 3 years ago

Text

something like this | s. crosby

summary: sidney has always wanted someone like her and confess as much to her

wc: 1,573

warnings: mentions of hospital/injury, one sexual innuendo

The low, metronomic beeping of the monitor keeps a steady, consistent beat to the familiar, dulcet hum of a female voice. In his drugged, cloud nine-like haze, Sidney does his best imitation of a grin, the gloriously soothing tone of her words easing him out of his concern.

"Sid?" her whisper is followed by the warm press of her fingers against the skin of his upper arm, a sweet reminder of her unwavering support. "Are you awake?"

He is; but the boy fights the grin that is sure to give him away in order to keep the easy flow of her rambles going, enjoying her vivid stories and the giggle at the end of her words as she confesses the minuscule details of her day to him. She believes him to be fast asleep, for her words to be nothing but a useless hum, and he enjoys the unexpected imtimacy of the affectionate gesture.

"I see what you're doing," she speaks again, the edge of her words exploding into the melodic tumble of her soft laughter. However, she doesn't cease her talking. "I'll just keep talking and making a fool out of myself so you can pretend you're asleep."

Sidney can't help the glimmer of love that warms his hospital blanket-clad body, a small, tender smile tugging at the edges of his full lips, revealing himself. Her fingertips trail over the carved outline of his cheekbones and brush against his hair as he finally opens his coffee-colored eyes. He gives her a earnest smile, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his dark eyes travel over her face, his full, pink lips splitting open into a wide grin to reveal shining teeth. She mumbles a soft, calming greeting and caressed his cheek a second time with the tips of her fingertips.

“So you gonna fall asleep again so I can tell you what Mat did next?” She asks, the edges of her lips curled into a playful smirk as she teases him, fingers still running agaisnt the midnight strands of his short hair in a loving manner.

Sidney can’t help the gentle, genuine laugh that rumbles from his chest, his grip on the pale blue hospital blanket loosening as he lets his palm fall flat on the curve of her knee. He nods quickly, eager to keep hearing her soft speech and tease her back, “Yes of course. My bad.”

He doesn’t catch the small smile that lights up her face because his dark lashes are already falling flat agaisnt his faintly flushed cheeks. She doesn’t waste another second launching into a detailed discription of her colleague, Mat’s experience with a particularly awkward run in with their boss. As she gently lulled him farther into the comforting clutches of sleep, Sidney tried his very best to keep his facial expressions netural but failed quite badly, which propelled her further into making him laugh. As the tall hockey player felt sleep finally take him, he felt overwhelmed with the buzzing, delicious feeling of love. He was consumed by the complete love he held in his heart for the girl still talking and running her fingers through his hair. He was too deeply in love to even think properly. And Sidney loved every minute of it.

———

Sidney couldn’t feel the light press of her palm agaisnt his as the white lab coat clad doctor filled the couple in on his prognosis and what the steps leading them forward would look like, a detailed, and frankly terrifying process that would have Sidney recovering and ready to return on the ice in a month or so. His breath was strained through his lungs, his jaw dancing with a clenched muscle as he tried to reign in his fears and desire to lace up his skates without a practical thought about the nasty consequences. Sidney just wanted to return to the locker room and resume being captain, and knew the only way to that was through the plan the doctor was currently laying out. Which scared Sidney to his bones if he was allowed to be completely honest.

“Sid,” she called, eyes watching her boyfriend closely as the hospital room door clicked closed in the wake of the doctors exit. Nerves clung to her limbs but she shook them off in order to ease Sid and his tense posture. She tried again, more forcefully. “Sidney.”

His chin dips and he finally slides his cinnamon coloured eyes to lock onto hers, trying to mask his evident fears. But she knows him far too well to skip the flicker of fear shining in his irises or the slight quiver of nerves that shook his large hands. Instinctively, her palms slide over his, fingers knitting tightly with his in a subconscious attempt to ease his shaking.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she nods, refusing to break eye contact in order to get her confidence across. She could tell he was scared, as was she, but she understood that in the end, all would work out. And they would be ok.

“I know.” Sidney tries again, blatantly deflecting.

Her lips quirk into a soft, knowing smile, her eyes flickering up distractedly as she brushes his hair back from his forehead. She smiles deeper absentmindedly, a smile that Sidney adores with all his heart. He felt a tiny fraction of his terror fading away like ice thawing in his veins.

“You don’t have to act like you’re not worried, Sid.” her eyes dropped to hold his loving gaze, her lips set in a firm line. “You don’t have to always be the strong one. That’s what I’m here for.”

A tight breath eases from his lips as his eyes close lightly, his heart settling back into its former steady pace of calm at her carefully chosen words. He was grateful, for her presence and the pressure of her fingers in his and the weight of her words. He’d never experienced a love like hers, where she loved him wholly and unconditionally, allowing him to remove all his amored layers and bravado. He revealed his true self to her and she had only kissed him passionately and grinned like he’d given her the best gift she could receive, repeating her daily mantra of how much she loved him. Sidney had never felt more loved than he did at that moment. His heart swelled fondly at the memory, the edges of his lips turning up in a doting smile.

“Thank you,” he breathed, a little unsure of what exactly he was thanking her for, but the statement was truthful.

She responded with a light, fleeting kiss pressed to his temple, her palms reaching up to softly cup the sharp curve of his jaw. He waits with baited breath, but soon relaxes fully under her loving gaze content with just staring at her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the syllables falling softly from his chapped lips in a unintentional audible confession.

She blinks at the unguarded, genuine compliment she knows he must mean, when she’s been curled up in the uncomfortable hospital chair beside his bed for the past two days, sleepless nights smudged under her eyes and dressed in his old clothes. She feels the burn of her cheeks under his gaze and the compliment. Sidney catches the slight embarrassment and reaches out to brush his thumbs under her eyes. “You’re cute when you get flustered.”

She rolls her eyes in response, mouth curving into a mirthful grin.

“Yeah, yeah, why don’t you fall back asleep?”

Sidney reaches out and hooks his fingers the the belt loops of her jeans, pulling her closer and onto the narrow mattress, shifting his own body to accommodate hers. “Only if you sleep with me.” he replied, coffee coloured eyes gleaming with flirtatious mischief. His fingers don’t loosen their hold, instead going to grip her hips and pull her flush to his side, savouring the warmth radiating from her smaller figure now dwarfed by his size. She curls tightly to his side, fingers digging into the material of his shirt and leg falling over his as his palm cups the underside of her thigh before it gave away to her knee. She hums with a soft laughter, commenting that she’ll think about his desirous proposal, ignoring the fact they both knew she’d already complied. Sidney settled in with a long, adoration filled kiss to her hair that didn’t hold a drop of lust. He grins at the tired lilt to her voice as she mumbles softly into his thin shirt, the reverberations flowing through his chest. His fingertips smoothed over her hair as he breathed deeply, catching her familiar scent. “I love you so much.” Sidney whispered into the layers of her hair as she promptly fell asleep to the barley audible confession, meaning every syllable with his whole heart.

When her breathing has evened out, a soft almost imperceptible whistle of her breath as she falls into a deep, dream-less sleep upon his chest, fingers tightly curled in the material of his thin shirt, as if she can’t fathom letting him go, even in sleep, Sidney reveals his truest confession.

“I’ve always wanted to be loved by someone like you.” his words are hot and hit the top of her forehead before he kisses her skin. Sidney is quick to brush a stray eyelash from her cheek. “And now I have you. And I’m not letting you go.”

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spencersawkward · 4 years ago

Text

*house call // wes (Dollface)*

ssummary: when her pet cat gives her a scare, Reader decides to call the vet to make sure everything is going to be okay.

pairing: Fem!Reader x Wes

word count: 5.4k

content warnings: discussion of cannabis/cannabis consumption, unprotected penetrative sex, use of nicknames (baby, sweetheart), SoftDom!Wes, breeding kink, creampie.

request: can you do a wes smutty one shot if you’re down?!

A/N: to be fair, i haven’t watched Dollface in a minute, but i’m obsessed with the domestic vibes that Matthew gives off when he plays Wes and i just thought it would be super cute. anyway, this was super fun also i wanna fuck Wes. ok enjoy!

masterlist

the absolute best part of your day is when the package arrives at your doorstep. you impulse-purchased it about two weeks ago while you were hanging out with one of your close friends, and you've been looking forward to trying it every day since.

or, really, for your cat to try it.

you've read reviews and been extremely diligent to make sure the stuff is completely safe, and everything you've seen or read was singing the praises of this cat weed (which isn't actually cannabis at all, but catnip made to look like it).

as you take the cardboard box to the kitchen table and pry open the top with the help of a Swiss army knife, you're grinning. Klimt comes scampering into the room to see what all the fuss is about, sitting at your feet with his tail curled around his legs.

"no peeking." you scold him gently. your kitten, the friendliest little rescue tabby around, simply stares blankly back. when you remove the wrapping from the glass jar and stare at it up close, you're impressed by how realistic it looks. the label shows cat-friendly ingredients only, but you unscrew the top and get a whiff of catnip.

Klimt begins to weave in between your legs, nudging them affectionately and beginning to purr. you giggle and bend down to give him a few pets. his nose twitches; he tries to sniff at the foreign object, but you put it back on the table.

"don't be greedy, babe." you scratch between his pointed ears and he lets out a whiny meow.

it's about his dinner time, and you were hoping to give him his treat tonight after he finishes his dry food. so you make yourself something simple with the leftovers in your fridge and do some more work on your laptop while you two eat together.

you've had Klimt for a while, now. you call him a kitten even though he's a full-grown cat-- he's just as playful and enthusiastic as any newborn. his eyes are the color of meadow grass, and his nose is scattered with tiny freckles. it makes him look like he's just come from digging around the backyard, but it really just adds to his charm.

not to mention his ceaselessly social tendencies: Klimt is always around when your friends come over, worming his way in between you or sitting on one of the free chair cushions to listen. you wonder if he knows what you're saying sometimes, because when you talk about the embarrassing things you've done that day or the failed interactions you've had, he always lifts his head to give you something of a judgmental stare.

once you've settled down for the evening and turned on the TV, you decide that now is the time. Klimt is aimlessly poking at a few of his toys. he bats at a fake mouse between his paws.

"kitten," you click your tongue and get up to grab the jar. "are you ready to try this stuff?"

as if he's going to answer. he hears your footsteps coming back his way and watches patiently. it's only when you pour out a little bit in front of him that he gets curious about the stuff. you admire his movements as he bends down and examines.

although you keep an eye on him while watching your show, you don't notice much of a change in him. he starts to roll about on the floor, which is to be expected, but it's only when he starts to chase around his fake mouse that things get interesting.

you laugh as Klimt goes nuts, jumping back and attacking the thing like he's ready to come in for the kill. it's really funny, but you're interrupted by your phone buzzing. you told your friend that you were doing this tonight.

"hi!" you answer the FaceTime call right away.

"how is he?" you can hear the smile in Andi's voice as you turn the camera.

"he's loving it."

"oh my god," she laughs. Klimt arches his back, leaping so highly in the air, you raise your eyebrows. "I wonder how long it'll last." she muses.

"I'm guessing we'll get about an hour more of this before he passes out for the next two days." you joke. he gets strong bursts of energy usually, but they only last so long until he's curled up on the window sill or in your bed.

Andi and you talk for a while as Klimt tires himself out and plays with all of his favorite toys. you dangle a string in front of him for a decent amount of time, too, just to make him get up on his hindquarters. he's a natural entertainer, a lithe little thing who lets out a few irritated meows to demonstrate his impertinence.

after about forty-five minutes, however, you notice your cat's behavior change. he keeps raising his hackles and rolling about, and something about it makes you nervous. he doesn't usually act like this, not even when he plays with the other catnip toys he's accumulated.

"what's wrong?" Andi notes your furrowed brow as you look past the camera of your phone and at your pet.

"he's just acting really weird," you pat the couch cushion to call him over, but he doesn't even glance up. "I don't know why."

"maybe it's the cat weed." she suggests. you purse your lips and try to think.

"yeah, but nobody in the reviews ever mentioned anything like this."

"I'm sure he's fine, Y/N."

"yeah, I know..." but you're worried. Klimt is your pal, your cuddle buddy. as he rubs his cheek against the wooden floor, you feel guilt pool in your stomach. if he's hurt because of some dumb online purchase, you're never going to forgive yourself. "I'm gonna call the vet just to be sure."

"oh, okay," she sounds surprised, but doesn't try to stop you. "let me know what they say."

"I will." you hang up the phone and stare at your companion for a few seconds. he leaps into the air and does a somersault before letting out some deeply disturbing whine that reminds you to call the vet. better safe than sorry.

...

when the doorbell rings, you're practically twiddling your thumbs anxiously. Klimt hasn't settled at all, and you haven't even bothered to change out of your lounging ensemble. you're pretty sure you look a mess, but hopefully the person won't care too much.

you don't know who to expect-- your usual vet is an older woman who is friends with your mom, but her receptionist said she was out tonight and would send over another vet to check it out.

when you swing open the door, you immediately regret the decision to stay in sweatpants.

"hi, I'm Wes." the guy gives you a friendly smile and holds up his bag. it's almost comically old-fashioned, something out of an old movie, and you half-expect him to be wearing a stethoscope around his neck.

he's gorgeous, though. definitely a good amount older than you, tall with brown curls and stubble. his features stand out to you even under the porch light, and your mouth guppies idiotically.

"hi," you manage. his eyes flicker to your hand, which is seemingly blocking him from coming inside the house, and you jolt back a little to let him in. you clear your throat. "sorry."

as he steps inside and you close the door behind him, getting one tiny moment to yourself, your eyes widen. way to make yourself look like a bumbling fool.

"I heard that there's a tabby who got into some catnip?" you catch him looking around the front of your house, eyes catching on the framed photos before finding yours again. you can feel the heat creeping up your cheeks, but nod confidently.

"yeah, Klimt. he should still be in the living room."

"Klimt? like the artist?" he chuckles and follows you into the rest of the home. his voice has a nice timbre to it, something low and gentle that fits well with his occupation.

"yeah, exactly." you turn to smile at him.

you hear the cat before you see him. he's climbed to the top of his cat tree and leaps down onto the ground, paws hitting the surface in a way that can't have been comfortable. he chirps and looks up at Wes, whose lips are turned up with amusement.

"are you the man of the hour?" he asks, approaching the cat. Klimt's pupils get enormous and he prepares to pounce on the newcomer.

"careful--" you start to warn him, but the cat launches himself right into Wes' arms. the vet turns to you, holding him to his chest, and grins. warmth spreads over your skin with embarrassment. "sorry."

"no need to apologize," he starts to pet Klimt, who is only slightly struggling to escape. he wants to go wild again, but Wes isn't going to let go. "they call me the Cat Wrangler at the office."

"really?" you snort. he brings your pet over to the couch and sets him on the cushions, careful to keep him in place.

"no way." he shoots you a dazzling smile. the joke makes you giggle, and you feel yourself become even more self-conscious about the outfit you're wearing. this is just your luck, having hot guys come over when you distinctly look your worst.

Wes scratches between Klimt's ears and glances up at you again. "is there any reason in particular you're worried about the catnip?"

"yeah, actually," you nod, brought back to reality. "I know it's supposed to make them more playful, but he's just been acting weird and I got worried that there was something in it that messed with his head."

"can I see the container for it?" he asks. you go to grab the jar, only to remember that it proudly announces itself as cannabis for cats. profound embarrassment causes you to hesitate with the stuff in your hands.

it's not like he's here for you to flirt with, but you're still thinking about how stupid and young you're going to look with this stuff in front of him, a hot older guy who seems to have his life under control. you peek at him once more from the kitchen, at the way he smiles and starts to talk softly to Klimt as if he were a peer.

he's kinda crazy, and it makes you smile.

"it's cat weed." you hand him the glass container, and Wes breaks into a grin as he looks at the front.

"oh my gosh, I've heard about this!" his eyes move quickly over the label. you're in shock.

"really?"

"yeah, it's hilarious. here, can you make sure our friend here doesn't move while I read the ingredients?" he gestures. the knot of anxiety within you loosens a bit. you nod obediently, going to scoop up your pet and sit him on your lap. he's still squirmy, but he doesn't look ready to attack either of you, thankfully.

"hey, you." you greet your pal affectionately. his tail is wagging impatiently while Wes kneels on the ground beside the couch. there's a silver ring on his finger, but you notice with relief that it's not on his fourth one.

when he sets the jar down on the coffee table with the kind of smile that hints at some secret amusement, you frown. "what?"

"nothing," he shakes his head. "Klimt is gonna be totally fine."

"are you sure?" you pet the feline's smooth coat.

"definitely. you know how drugs affect people differently?" he asks. you want to say no, you don't know that because why would you, but then you remember that there is quite literally a glass-blown bowl sitting on your kitchen table.

"sure." you reply honestly.

"it's the same with cats: some just feel the effects a little more." he shrugs. you think this over for a second.

"that makes sense."

"yeah, I'd estimate about an hour more of this wildcat behavior before he takes a ten-hour nap." he cracks another joke and you find yourself totally charmed by him. something about the way he talks just makes your heart beat like crazy.

"that's a relief."

he chuckles and stands up, grabbing the bag (which he never even had to use) and starting to walk out of the living room. you can smell his delicious cologne as he moves past you.

"sorry for making you come out here so late." you apologize from the couch. Wes turns to look at you with an easygoing expression. his free hand is tucked into his pocket.

"no worries. you have a lovely home." he gestures to the kitchen, and then at the bowl sitting there in the open. you have to fight the smile on your face.

"thanks." you're smirking. right before he's about to head back out, you ask a question that's been wriggling around in your mind since he arrived. "why no title?"

"you mean, like, Doctor or something?" he stops in the threshold. one hand leans against it while he answers your question. you still can't get over how tall he is.

"sure. I mean, you are a doctor, right?" it comes out more dubious than you intended, but he doesn't get offended, only smiles.

"yes, I'm a doctor. I went to Davis." he points like the school is right outside your door. you nod.

"cool."

there's a silence where you just look at each other, and you forget that you look like you just rolled out of bed. he clears his throat.

"to answer your question, I just go by Wes because you're not my patient-- Klimt is." he points to the kitten, who is now chasing his own tail like a dog. you snort at the sight.

"how humble of you."

"I know, right?" he's joking. you find yourself not wanting him to leave, even though you've really just met. he's so sweet and funny and handsome... your stomach is flipping over and over like a schoolgirl.

and it's stupid that you can't think of one plausible reason for him to stay, but every step he takes shortens your time to think. so you just blurt, instead.

"would you want a beer?"

Wes pauses and looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. "a beer?"

"yeah, I mean... you came all the way out here and I just feel bad for causing a fuss over nothing." you scramble slightly to justify your words. you don't ever drink beer-- do you even have any? god, this is embarrassing.

the vet checks the watch on his wrist, then smiles at you with a halting kind of enjoyment, before nodding. "sure."

"okay, great." you turn on your heel to hide the grin on your face. he follows you again to the kitchen area and leans against the counter while you open the fridge. the best form of flirting you can manage right now is bending over shamelessly and taking your time to poke around.

thankfully, there are three cold bottles left towards the back. you take out two and use the tool in one of your drawers to pop the tops off. he watches patiently, takes a sip when you hand the drink to him. your eyes meet.

"so, what prompted the cat weed purchase?" he starts the conversation effortlessly, and you try to keep your eyes from wandering over the shape of him. now that he's just standing in front of you, you're noticing the way his sweater sits against his frame, his long legs and the way his head rests on an elegantly-proportioned neck.

"I just saw it and thought it would be fun." you shrug honestly. he smiles.

"do you think you're gonna let him try it again another time?"

"I don't know," you cross your arms over your chest. "I'm a little nervous, but he also was having a lot of fun until I made him sit still."

"fair enough." you both turn your gazes to the cat. he's nudging a little toy ball with his nose and watching it roll across the floor. there are tiny bells inside that jingle. Wes turns back to you. "what do you do?"

"graphic designer."

"an artist." he raises his brows, impressed.

"not exactly saving animal lives, but I get by." you take another sip of your drink.

"it's not like that, mostly." he rolls his eyes playfully.

"then what's it like?"

"I just see and talk to people's pets all day. it's a pretty great job, even when it's not. you know?" he's optimistic about it. you're drawn to his positive energy, to the way he smiles when he speaks like he's preparing to deliver a witty joke.

you're hopelessly attracted to him, and the space between you is becoming unbearable. even though he's a guy you just met, you can feel in your gut that something about this is just right. you want his body against yours.

"you okay?" he breaks what you only now realize is a silence, and you blink to clear the dirty images from your mind.

"yeah." only thinking about you fucking me against a countertop. it must be the fact that you haven't gotten laid in a while or something, because you usually aren't this attracted to people within the first hour. it takes longer for you to even want to kiss them.

"what kind of stuff do you design?" he seems genuinely interested as he shifts and continues to nurse his drink.

"I work for a tech startup downtown, so it's a lot of website work to make sure it's navigable and pretty." you try to sum up your duties, but it's hard when his hazel eyes are so intent. he listens to every word.

"do you do personal work, too? like, just for you?"

"actually, yeah!" this sparks your excitement.

"can I see?" his smile widens. "only if you're comfortable, of course."

"sure." you're beaming.

he stays put as you start to go out of the kitchen, but then you smile. "you can come with."

"oh." he sets his beer down on the counter and follows you, slightly surprised. but you don't care; you were nervous before, but he's stayed for this long. maybe he wants you, too.

once you get to your bedroom, you're grateful that it's been freshly cleaned. there's even a bouquet from the flower's market sitting on your dresser, and you head over to the desk to sift through the drawers for what you want.

"cool room." he compliments from the threshold. he's careful not to make you uncomfortable, but also can't resist the curiosity that draws his gaze from wall to wall. you find the stack of papers and smile.

"thanks," you place the folder in his hands. "these are some printed versions of stuff I did last year."

Wes immediately begins to flip through the art. him seeing your stuff makes you nervous, so you pretend to focus on straightening up the few items that sit on your desk. you wipe your fingertip over a nonexistent film of dust.

"these are amazing," he says, holding a card stock copy in between his index and middle fingers. "holy shit."

"thank you." you're trying to keep from smiling too hard. you can tell that he's being genuine with his compliments, and it makes your heart swell.

"definitely. are you showing anywhere?"

"at an exhibit downtown a couple months back, but I've been so busy with work that personal stuff hasn't really been on the table, you know?"

he nods in understanding and continues to go through until the end. when he's finished, he looks up and sees you, his eyes concentrated. he doesn't speak at first, and an undercurrent ripples across the room. there are about three feet between you, and you have no excuse to lessen it.

he licks his lips slowly. you purse yours, unsure of what to say.

"I'm glad you called tonight." his voice is lower, slightly uncertain, like he's testing the boundaries. except you don't want boundaries right now. you want to go wild on him.

"me, too." you reply. it's in your eyes, that begging for him to do what you're scared to initiate.

your tongue is pressed to the back of your teeth in anticipation. and when he sets the art back on your desk and comes closer, you feel yourself give in. bubbles of excitement travel up your body as he grabs your face and bends down to kiss you.

it's full, passionate, not the kind of kiss you give someone you've just met. laced with desire and longing, you respond immediately. hands immediately run to his forearms, over his shoulders as he imposes beautifully on your form. it's so hard, you lean back slightly. your torso presses against his until he pushes you against the wall.

the slight gasp that escapes your lips causes him to smile, followed by your moan and clutching fingers. the material of his sweater, the taste of him mingled with that sophisticated, gentle smell of cologne that you want printed all over your skin.

"come here." he murmurs against your mouth and reaches down to the back of your thigh so you can hook your leg around his waist. you whine at the easy access he has to grind against your core, both of you desperate.

"Wes." you pant into his open mouth. he sucks on your bottom lip before finding your cheek and jaw. his fingertips tighten around your flesh.

"this feel good, sweetheart?" he checks in. coincidentally, his jeans grind against your panties at exactly the right spot and your hips jump. you release a pleasured yelp.

"mhmm."

"sounds like it." he latches onto your throat with a possessive excitement. you can feel him sucking and biting at the skin until you're positive there'll be marks tomorrow. you hope there are; purpled evidence of his touch. he digs his nails into your thighs. "you like it when older men touch you, baby?"

he blows over your tender throat before attacking it again. you sigh contentedly at the way he mingles sensations for your pleasure. "yes."

he grunts and nips at your collarbone, sliding the strap of your top down your shoulder so that he can effortlessly flutter his lips over the skin. you grip at him and toss your head back against the wall. his weight on yours is divine. it makes you weak, but that doesn't matter. he's practically holding you up at this point.

when his hand pushes under the hem of your shirt and dances over your stomach, you arch your back for more. he's gentle yet firm, pulling you close like he wants to breathe your oxygen. he's tracing over your ribcage, all the way up to the valley of your breasts, before cupping one and moaning into your shoulder.

he kisses you again with an aching hunger that can't be satiated. your tongues meet and Wes finds your hardened nipples beneath the thin fabric of your bralette. you sigh while he starts to circle one with his thumb.

"you're perfect." he breathes.

you want to bask in this moment, to enjoy the shock across your skin when he reaches his hand back down between your bodies to dip below the waistband of your sweatpants, but you're just so greedy. he could make you cum over and over and it would never be enough.

"what do you want me to do to you?" Wes is hovering over your lower stomach, dangerously close to where you need him most. he's teasing. the warmth of his skin drives you mad. his breath brushes over the shell of your ear.

"fuck me." it's the only response you can fathom. every other instinct in your body flies out the window and is replaced by a craving to sink your proverbial (and literal) teeth into him.

but he loves it, apparently, because he pushes you back against the wall with a nearly bruising force. "I can do that."

with those words, he quickly grabs your other leg and lifts you into his arms, bringing you to the bed and laying you delicately on the mattress while you giggle. you stare up at him with an almost daydreamy lust. his cheeks are flushed.

you only get a second of that heavenly sight, though, before he dips down and pushes your shirt up to see your tits and kiss up the chasm between your ribs. his stubble tickles your skin, which causes you to smile.

by the time he's pulled your sweatpants off and tossed them to the side, you're whining for him to strip down as well.

"what is it, pretty girl?" he murmurs against your tummy. when you try to squeeze your thighs, he pushes them apart.

"I wanna see you." your fingertips touch at his sweater. he chuckles and pulls the garment over his head. it messes up his perfect hair even more and you love it, tangling your fingers in it. he bites his lip.

"do you want me to taste you first?" he keeps stroking the inside of your thighs and staring down at the skimpy lace that you're positive that you've already soaked. you're making him crazy with the way you roll your hips against air, against nothing, seeking any kind of stimulation.

"I can't wait." you shake your head. as nice as it would be, you're going to implode if he doesn't fill you up soon. he drags his fingers down your clothed slit and groans when he feels just how ready you are for him.

"let's take these off then, okay, sweetheart?" he hooks his fingers in the panties and waits for you to nod before tugging them down your legs. you whimper at the cool air that hits your core, soaked and needy. Wes stares at your body on display for him.

as he gets back up from the floor to kiss you again, you both work to remove the rest of his clothes. his skin is perfect under your hands. his chest is warm, solid, and when he climbs on top of you, his arms rest on either side of your head.

one hand comes down to grab his own cock and stroke it a few times before lowering himself to rub it against your throbbing clit. you whimper at the pressure; he's mindless when he feels how easily you cover him in your essence.

"so fucking wet..." he groans while rutting against you.

"Wes, please--" your breath hitches. "put it in."

"begging?" he teases your entrance with the head and smirks. "good girl."

"mhmm." you're smiling, but your mouth drops open when he pushes himself inside.

it's a heavy feeling, him filling you up. he's thick and the stretching of your walls makes him groan and rest his head on your shoulder. he kisses the skin there while diving deeper into your body.

you're shaking slightly from the mixture of pain and pleasure, his size forcing your body to work quickly to accommodate. your eyes are squeezed shut, but you run your hands over his back and shoulders to stay grounded. it feels like a dream.

he starts to pull out, coated in your wetness while you whimper below him, and he grabs your face with one hand in a dominant, soft gesture. "okay?"

"yeah."

he pushes back in. the air in your lungs is practically gone at this point, he's so deep inside. your eyes roll back and push your hips up to take him at a new angle. Wes finds his pace easily, rocking into your body at a manageable pace to let you get used to the sensation.

every time his hips roll down and he buries himself in you, he presses on your clit and sends a new shock through your body. he leans on his elbows to get closer and feel every undulation of your body. you love how his thrusts force your legs apart, how he moans your name and causes the headboard to repeatedly hit the wall while maintaining eye contact. hazel irises that rake over your features with lust.

"you feel so good." he speeds up a little when he hits a certain spot. you can feel him deep and hard, causing a small bump to rise in your stomach with each stroke. his voice is husky and dark. like a man starved.

"fuck..." you drag your nails down his back. he groans at the red marks that you will no doubt leave for him.

"clingy thing, huh?" he sucks at your throat affectionately. "I come over for one thing and you can't help yourself."

hearing Wes speak through his own panting is like listening to a secret, and you never want it to stop. he's reveling in the sordid crush of his own wants, and the way he shoves into you shows you that he has no intention of slowing down for a while.

"I'm impatient." you smirk. he pulls away to admire your expression.

"so am I." he kisses your lips and starts to pound into you. the juxtaposition of his tenderness and the sharp snap of his hips to yours fills you with butterflies. you love how much he wants to ruin you.

"Wes-- oh my god!" you whimper. he grabs your hips and yanks them closer to him so he can go as deep as possible, so he can hit your cervix.

"that's right, sweetheart," he pants. you can tell that he's starting to lose control. "say my name. I want everyone to know what a good little slut you are for me."

the commanding tone makes your body shake. "I- I'm cumming, Wes, please--"

"please what, baby?" he taunts. his index finger is tracing over your jaw.

you don't know what it is that you're wanting, except more. as your form shudders and tightens, walls fluttering around his cock, you lose the capacity to speak. you grind your hips against him and cry out pathetically while he pushes you back down and slams ruthlessly into your pussy.

"cum inside-- please, I need it--" you writhe. he groans at the request.

"fuck, yes..." he sheathes himself. "take it."

you gasp as he repeatedly hits your weakest point and spills hot ropes of his cum inside you, still thrusting in and out and whimpering into your shoulder at the clenching sensation you give his cock. it's warm, strangely delightful, nearly sending you into another orgasm sheerly from the sight.

he mutters unintelligibly as he empties himself in your pussy, but you catch a growled "so needy," between deep moans. you're clinging to him like you'll never have it again. you might not.

he slows down, giving shallower thrusts while riding out his high and shoving his cum deeper inside. it turns lazy and messy, both of you panting, before he finally pulls out and rolls over next to you.

you press the back of your hand to your forehead. it's sweaty from all the work he just put you through, but you feel amazing at the same time. your eyes keep flickering from the ceiling above to his rising and falling chest beside you. his nose twitches; he turns his head to look at your face.

although you expect him to say something, he doesn't. instead, you just stare at each other. the air conditioner rattles gently in the background. you're not sure how long this lasts, this soaking in, but he's the first to break it.

"hey."

you find the corners of your lips turning up. "hi."

"do you mind if I go get something to clean you up?" he asks softly, his fingertips finding your forearm with ease and drifting over it.

"sure. bathroom is the first door on the left."

he gets up and you watch him gather his clothes, eyes glued to his perfect form. you can't believe you just had sex with your veterinarian. you don't regret it at all.

he wanders out of the room and your eyes follow, only to see Klimt sitting patiently by the door.

"what are you doing, perv?" you tease as he comes over and leaps up onto the bed. his kitten paws pad over the blankets and settle into the crook of your arm. you smile to yourself, recalling how sweet the vet was with him. "hey, Wes?" you call out.

"yeah?" he comes back into the room with a warm washcloth and a small smile on his face.

"would you wanna get coffee or something sometime?" you bite your lip. maybe he doesn't want to go on a date, but it's worth a shot.

"sure." he breaks into a grin that makes you giddy. thank god, because you really were hoping to see him again.

you can't wait.

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