#no I’m not going to the weighing machine

[porcelainstarrr]

Chapter 12

⌖ 

Morning Light

I woke up smiling.

Not wide. Not dramatic. Just a soft, sleepy curve of my mouth against the pillow. A breath that didn’t ache when I took it in. The light coming through the window was warm. Diffused. That honey-yellow that only shows up when the world is still quiet and soft and untouched by the day.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just let it sit there. That weightless feeling. The slow stretch of my legs beneath the blanket. The way the air felt cooler on my arms. My hair was half-stuck to my cheek. I turned my head, eyes still closed, and breathed in the stillness.

He kissed me.

The thought came like a whisper. Gentle. Unforced.

Not the way it haunted me before. Not like a question.

This time, it felt like a truth.

He kissed me.

Again.

And he didn’t regret it.

I opened my eyes.

The ceiling looked the same as always, white, cracked slightly near the corner, but the room felt different. Lighter. Like the silence wasn’t crushing anymore. Like it wasn’t pressing into my ribs or settling in my throat. I slipped out of bed slowly. The floor was cool beneath my feet. I padded to the bathroom, peeled off my shirt, and let the water run hot. Steam billowed up fast, curling around the mirror like it was trying to blur the version of me that existed before yesterday.

I stepped in.

Let it hit my shoulders.

Closed my eyes and exhaled.

My body felt like mine again.

Not like something fractured and overanalyzed. Not like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

Just… mine.

And under the water, I thought about his hands. The way they shook, just barely, when he touched me. The way his breath caught. The way he kissed me like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

He was scared.

But he kissed me anyway.

And I stayed.

My fingers stilled under the stream.

He let me stay.

I rinsed the shampoo out of my hair slowly. Stepped out and wrapped a towel around myself, letting the steam follow me back into my room. I wasn’t rushing. I wasn’t scrambling to beat the clock or silence the doubt in my head. I moved through my routine with something I hadn’t felt in days.

Ease.

I dried my hair, combed it out with patient fingers, even clipped it half-up just to feel more like myself. My lashes curled, my skin glowed a little from the heat of the shower, and for once, I didn’t flinch when I looked in the mirror. 

I didn’t see someone falling apart.

I saw someone still standing.

Still trying.

Still here.

I moved into the kitchen barefoot. The tile cooled my steps, but it felt grounding. Real. I cracked two eggs into a pan, turned on the coffee machine, and hummed to myself as I toasted a slice of sourdough. The sunlight hit the counter just right.

And I let myself think about him.

About today.

About walking into that room again. About meeting his eyes and not needing to say much, because we already had.

Because he kissed me.

Because we’re not broken.

Not like I thought.

And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m being naive.

But I don’t think I am.

Not this time.

He heard me yesterday.

Really heard me.

And whatever weight he was carrying, whatever fear that had stitched itself into his silence, I saw it shift. I saw it crack.

He let me in.

I sipped my coffee. Slow. Let the heat bloom behind my ribs. I was going to see him again today. Not as a ghost of last week. But like this. Like someone who mattered again. Like someone he didn’t want to push away.

Maybe we’re not there yet.

Maybe we’re still figuring it out.

But today didn’t feel heavy.

It didn’t feel impossible.

It felt like something was beginning again.

And for the first time in days…

I was looking forward to what came next.

─────── ⌖ ───────

The walk through the halls didn’t feel as heavy today. No nerves. No tension coiled tight behind my ribs. Just footsteps, quiet, even. The walls didn’t feel like they were closing in. They just felt like… walls.

For the first time in what felt like forever, my badge didn’t weigh a thousand pounds against my chest. I nodded at a few people I passed, colleagues, nurses, the quiet receptionist who always tucked a granola bar under the counter in case I forgot to eat. No one asked if I was okay. Which was… new. Usually, someone could tell. That I wasn’t sleeping. That I was unraveling at the seams. But today?

Today, I looked like a person again.

I felt like one.

I slipped into my office and closed the door behind me. The click echoed softly through the space, and the silence that followed was different than the kind I’d grown used to. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t lonely. It was peaceful.

The kind of quiet that lets you breathe.

I set my bag down, shrugged off my coat, and sat at my desk with a slow, content stretch, back arching, arms raised, fingers brushing the ceiling. My chair creaked just a little under me, but it felt good. Solid.

I opened my laptop.

Emails first. Notes second.

Then the charts.

I moved through them with ease. Clinical. Efficient. No second-guessing, no mental fog thick enough to drown in. I was clear. Focused. Even my handwriting looked cleaner, sharper. I jotted down updates for two patients I’d seen last week, flagged one for med reevaluation, then paused when I reached the last file in the stack.

Poindexter.

Benjamin.

I hesitated for a second.

Then opened it.

Just to check.

Not out of obsession. Not because I was spiraling.

Just because I wanted to.

Because I could.

His file stared up at me, his name, his photo, that barcode the system tagged to his wristband. I scrolled through the notes. I could almost track his progress like a line graph in my head. The steep slopes. The climbs. The crashes. The plateaus.

And the shifts.

The parts that weren’t measurable in ink or metrics.

The moments. The trust. The fight in his eyes when he tried.

The silence that wasn’t apathy, it was fear.

The kiss that wasn’t weakness, it was something real.

I added a brief update.

Patient’s emotional restraint remains high, but relational responsiveness has shown recent signs of breakthrough.

Recommend continued sessions to assess behavioral stabilization over time.

I paused.

Then added-

Notable improvement in eye contact. Voluntary touch noted.

My lips twitched. Barely.

A smile.

Small. Private.

I saved the file and leaned back in my chair.

For the first time in weeks, the air in this office didn’t taste like nerves. It felt still. Clean. Like I had the right to be here. Like I was good at what I did. And maybe, just maybe, it was working.

All of it.

Him. Me. The thing we weren’t calling anything yet.

The day moved slowly, but not in a bad way. I answered emails. I scheduled two more check-ins. I re-filed three loose charts and actually remembered to finish my tea before it got cold. It felt like balance. Like peace.

And then-

A knock.

Firm. Knuckles to glass.

I looked up.

One of the nurses. Jason. Friendly, a little awkward. Always wore mismatched socks under his scrubs. “Hey,” he said with a half-smile, lingering at the door. “Sorry to interrupt. Chief Calder wants to see you in his office.”

 “Oh yeah. Of course,” I said, already rising to my feet. “Did he say why?”

Jason shook his head. “Just asked me to send you over.” I nodded, brushing my hands down the front of my slacks as I moved to the door. “Thanks,” I murmured, stepping out into the hall. He gave me a polite nod and turned the corner, disappearing down the hallway.

I stood still for a second.

Then started walking.

I wasn’t nervous.

I should be nervous. When your boss asks you to come to his office, you should be nervous. But I wasn’t,

Not at first.

Calder called people into his office all the time. Routine updates, chart reviews, program changes. Sometimes he even pulled doctors in to thank them for their performance. And today, after how this week had turned around?

Maybe that was it.

Maybe he’d seen my notes, my patients.

I walked faster.

Shoulders straight. Hands calm at my sides.

It was probably nothing.

Just a check-in.

Just another quiet moment in a day that had started off so good.

So steady.

So full of hope.

─────── ⌖ ───────

His office is warm.

Not in the cozy sense, but in the way that nice offices are supposed to feel. Neutral wood paneling, low light, books stacked neatly behind his desk. Everything is in its place. He’s already sitting when I step inside.

“Morning, Doctor,” he says, gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Close the door behind you.”

I do.

No tension. Not yet.

Just the quiet click of the door as it seals shut. I take the seat he motioned to and smooth the fabric of my pants against my thighs. There’s a coffee mug near the edge of his desk, half full, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. His laptop’s closed. No charts open.

This isn’t about a file.

“First of all,” he starts, folding his hands over a legal pad, “I just want to say, you’ve been doing exceptional work lately.”

I blink.

Not the sentence I expected.

“Thank you,” I say, cautious but polite.

“I mean it,” he continues, nodding slowly. “The patient reports I’ve reviewed? Remarkable. Your cases show growth, structure, and clarity. And the progress I’m seeing in some of our most complex patients, Poindexter included, isn’t something we see every day.”

He smiles.

A real one. Not forced. Not stiff.

Pride flickers in his eyes.

And I feel myself relax, just a little.

A small breath leaves my lungs.

“Thank you,” I say again, more softly this time. “That really means a lot.”

He nods once more.

And then his gaze drops.

Only for a second.

Barely long enough to register.

But it’s enough.

Something shifts.

“And that’s why this isn’t easy,” he says.

My smile doesn’t fall yet. But it starts to falter at the edges.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly.

“You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.”

The words land with quiet finality.

At first, they don’t register.

Like I misheard him. Like maybe he misspoke. My brain tries to rearrange them into something else. Something softer.

But they stay.

Right there in the air between us.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

“I-” My voice catches. “What?”

His face shifts, less warm now, more composed.

“I know this comes as a surprise.”

No.

No, no, no.

No.

My spine straightens, the chair suddenly too rigid against my back. My hands curl into fists in my lap before I even realize I’m doing it. “But- sir, I’ve been working with Poindexter for months now,” I say, trying to keep my tone level. “He’s progressing. We’re making headway. I don’t understand why would you change his doctor? You just told me you were proud of my work.”

“I am proud,” he says quickly. “This isn’t about performance. It’s not even a question of method.”

He hesitates, just briefly.

That flicker again.

Then he says it.

“It wasn’t my decision.”

And that-

That’s when it starts to sink in.

Slowly. Like ink bleeding into water.

My breath feels shallow.

“What do you mean it wasn’t your decision?”

He sighs, folding his arms now. Leaning forward. “You’ll be reassigned,” he says. “We’ve got a new intake arriving later this week, classified, high-risk. You’ll be leading it. It’s a challenge, I know. But you’ve proven you’re more than capable.”

I don’t care.

I don’t care about a new intake.

I don’t care how “capable” I am.

He’s still talking, words I can’t hear. Something about it not being personal. Something about opportunity. Career growth.

But it all fades.

Blurs.

Like, my ears aren’t working anymore.

Like someone pulled a plug and drained the noise out of the room.

My stomach sinks.

I feel it in my ribs. My throat. My chest.

He requested it.

Dex requested this.

And just like that, everything soft from this morning turns cold. All that warmth, all that hope-

Gone.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I don’t remember leaving his office.

I know I stood up. I know I thanked him. I know I kept my voice even and my expression composed because that’s what I was trained to do. But it wasn’t me who walked out of there. It was some version of me on autopilot, nodding, smiling, saying all the right words as if something hadn’t just been ripped out of my chest. The hallway feels colder now. Too bright. Too clean. Each step echoes louder than the one before, and by the time I get back to my office, my hands are shaking. I close the door behind me, slower than I should.

Staring at nothing.

Poindexter.

He requested it.

He asked for someone else.

And the worst part, the part that’s making my skin prickle and my lungs burn, is that I didn’t see it coming. Not even a little. I walked into that session yesterday believing we were on the same page. I just sit there in my office, hands loose in my lap, eyes fixed on nothing. The corners of the room feel sharper somehow, like everything has been hollowed out and left to echo.

The silence isn’t soft anymore.

It’s not peaceful.

It’s suffocating.

I blink at the wall in front of me, but it doesn’t feel real. Nothing does. The light through the blinds feels wrong, too warm, too bright, like it doesn’t belong in this moment. My ears are ringing. I don’t know if it’s the blood rushing to my head or the words replaying in it on a loop.

You’ll be off Poindexter’s case.

Reassigned. Removed. Like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. My fingers thread into my hair, clutching the roots like they’re the only thing keeping me from floating off the floor. I press my forehead to my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, willing something, anything, to make this make sense.

We were okay.

Yesterday, we were okay.

He kissed me.

He held me.

He looked at me like I mattered.

I sit up abruptly, breath catching in my throat. The urge to cry comes fast, but I fight it back with a hard blink. No. Not here. Not now. I reach for my phone. My hands are trembling, but I unlock it anyway.

My thumb hovers over Gigi’s name.

I don’t think- I just tap.

It rings once. Twice.

“Heyyy,” she answers, voice light. Unknowing. Warm.

I swallow.

“They took me off his case.”

There’s silence. Just a breath. One second. Two.

“What?”

“Dex,” I say quietly. “They pulled me off his file.”

Another pause. Her voice drops, serious now. “Wait- what? Why?”

“They reassigned me to some new high-risk intake,” I mumble, my voice already wobbling. “My boss called me into his office. Said it wasn’t his decision.”

Another silence.

Longer.

“Oh,” she breathes. Then, carefully: “Was it…?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “He asked for it.”

Gigi doesn’t speak for a beat. And then she exhales, slowly. “Fuck.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. I’m still trying to process it. Still hoping there’s another explanation waiting to surface. “He didn’t say anything yesterday,” I say, quieter now. “Not a word. He let me sit there. Pour everything out. And then he kissed me. Held me like I was the only person in the world. And now I’m off his file like none of it meant anything.”

The tears come now.

Not loud.

But steady.

And they sting more than they should.

“I want to go up there,” I mutter, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “I want to yell at him. I want to scream. I want to walk into his room and just-” I pause, my chest tightening. “I want to beat his ass.”

Gigi makes a sound-half laugh, half breath, but it’s not because she thinks it’s funny. She just gets it. She always does. “Okay, babe. Listen to me.” Her voice changes.

Softer. Firmer. Anchored.

“You can’t go up there.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“You’re not his doctor anymore.”

“I know.”

“I know you want to scream. I know you want answers. But this isn’t how you get them. He made this choice. For whatever reason, he asked to be reassigned.”

“But why?” My voice breaks. “Why would he do that if he didn’t want me to leave? Why kiss me? Why let me in? Why hold me like that if he was just going to shut the door the next day?” Gigi sighs again, softer this time.

“Because people like him, people who’ve been through what he has, they don’t always know how to have something good. So when they do, it scares the shit out of them.” I press my hand to my mouth, trying to steady my breathing. It doesn’t work. My chest still shakes.

“You don’t do this to someone you care about,” I whisper.

“No. But he probably thinks he’s protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask him to protect me.”

“I know,” she says gently. “But he’s not thinking like that. He’s thinking like someone who’s been hurt so badly, so many times, that letting someone love him feels like handing them a loaded weapon.”

I close my eyes.

It hurts.

It hurts in that quiet, permanent kind of way. Like something’s shifted in me and can’t be undone. “You kissed him,” she says softly. “And he kissed you back. He held you. That wasn’t fake. That wasn’t meaningless.”

“Then why?”

“Because he knows he can’t give you what you deserve,” she says. “Because he’s scared he’ll hurt you. Because it’s easier for him to push you away than risk watching you stay.”

I wipe another tear off my chin.

“I’m so tired, G.”

“I know.”

“I really thought this was going to be different.”

“I know,” she says again. “But sometimes the people we want to save… won’t let us.”

I sit in that for a long moment.

And then, quietly, so quiet it’s almost not there:

“I miss him already.”

“I know, y/n,” she says. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Long. Quiet.

Then Gigi’s voice shifts.

Sharper. Drier. Like she’s done holding the soft space for me.

“Okay. But babe… what if this is who he is?”

I blink. “What?”

“I mean it. What if this is just… him? We’ve always known he’s high-risk. You said it yourself, he’s been through shit, he’s dangerous, he’s emotionally unstable. So why are you so surprised?”

My mouth opens, but I don’t know what to say.

“He asked for another doctor after kissing you, y/n. After holding you like you were air. That’s not normal. That’s not okay. And it’s not your job to try and make it make sense.”

“He’s not- he’s not manipulative, G.”

“Are you sure?” she shoots back, voice firm now. “Because I don’t know, if I looked like him? I’d probably use it too. Wrap a pretty girl around my finger, kiss her like it’s the end of the world, make her feel like she’s the exception, and then drop her before she gets too close.”

“G…”

“No. Listen to me. You’re smart. You’re good at what you do. But this? This wasn’t clinical. This was personal. And he knew it.”

I go quiet. She keeps going.

“I’m not saying he’s evil. I’m saying he’s sick. And maybe this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Maybe you’re not the first person who thought they were saving him. Maybe that’s the cycle.”

Silence buzzes in my ears. I can barely breathe around it.

“You want to think you mattered to him,” she says. “But y/n, even if you did, especially if you did, he still made the choice to let you go. And I think you need to stop trying to turn that into something noble.”

I sit there, completely still.

Because even though I don’t want to hear it…

Part of me knows she might be right.

But God-

It hurts worse than silence ever did.

─────── ⌖ ───────

My apartment is quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels personal. Thick. Like it’s sitting in my lungs. Like it knows what I did today.

I’ve got a glass of wine in one hand, cheap, red, something I forgot I even had, and Gordon Ramsay is yelling at some poor chef on the TV screen across from me. Hell’s Kitchen. I don’t even remember turning it on. It’s background noise now. A distraction with a British accent and too many knives. The window’s cracked open. Just a little. Just enough for the night air to slip in. I can hear Hell’s Kitchen below me, the real one. Not the show. Cars. Horns. Sirens. Some guy is yelling down the block. Music from someone’s second-story apartment bleeding into the street. The usual mess of life outside these walls. It’s comforting, in a way. All that noise. All that movement. Everything else keeps going.

Even when I feel like I can’t.

I take another sip. It doesn’t taste good. Too acidic. But I don’t care.

I stare out the window, unfocused.

And I think: I got too attached.

Too fast. Too hard.

I wasn’t supposed to. I knew better. From the moment I felt that pull, I should’ve said something. Should’ve stepped away. Handed the file to someone else. Requested a reassignment. Something. Anything.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

I leaned in.

I crossed every line I swore I wouldn’t, and now I’m here, alone, tipsy, staring at the city like it has answers.

This was a mistake.

Letting myself care about him.

Letting myself believe for even a second that there was a version of this where it could work.

That we could work.

God, how stupid could I be?

There was never a future here.

He’s a patient.

A high-risk one. A murderer. A convicted assassin with a documented kill count and a track record that reads more like a horror film than a resume. People fear him. They build walls and systems and entire facilities to contain him.

And me?

I thought I could… what? Reach him? Fix him?

Love him?

He kills people. Innocent people. People like me. And yet I sat there, on that couch, in his room, and let him touch me like I was something he wanted to keep.

I close my eyes.

My head tips back against the couch cushion, and I exhale hard.

Why would he care about me?

I’m just a name on a badge. A signature on a file. A face he’s seen every few days for a few months.

He probably saw an opportunity.

And he took it.

Started cooperating. Started talking. Made me think he was progressing. Made me feel like I was helping, like I was special. Like I was getting through to him in a way no one else had.

And then he kissed me.

God, I let him kiss me.

More than once.

I let myself believe it.

And now?

Now I’m sitting here, drinking half-warm wine and wondering if this entire thing, every session, every look, every pause between breaths, was just part of some bigger play. A manipulation.

Maybe this is what he wanted all along.

Get me close. Make me care. Get me on his side.

So when the time came, I’d make it easier for him to walk free.

So I’d be the one to convince the board he was stable. Safe.

And when I wasn’t useful anymore-

He’d drop me.

Like he did today.

Like I never mattered in the first place.

My throat tightens, and I press the heel of my hand to my eye.

I feel so stupid.

I should’ve never let this happen.

I’m a professional. A doctor. I’ve worked too damn hard to get here. My license. My career. My entire future- I risked all of it for a man who has nothing left to lose. A man who could’ve easily made me the next name on his list.

And I miss him.

That’s the part that breaks me.

That’s the part I can’t say out loud.

Because after everything, after today, after that look on his face when I walked into his room, I still miss him.

I still want to be close to him.

I still want to know why.

I wrap the blanket tighter around myself and stare at the flickering lights on the TV. My wineglass rests on my knee, hand loose around the stem.

I’m an idiot.

I got fooled.

I fell for it.

And now I’m trying to explain it away. Trying to rewrite the narrative in my head, like maybe there’s a version where it wasn’t cruel. Where it wasn’t calculated.

What if I’m overanalyzing this?

What if Gigi’s wrong?

What if he didn’t mean it like that?

What if he’s hurting too?

What if this is how he protects people? What if he thought it was safer to push me away than to keep me close? What if he’s sitting in his room right now, just as wrecked as I am?

What if he cares?

What if he really, truly-

I clench my jaw.

My wineglass trembles slightly in my grip.

No.

Who am I kidding?

He asked for the reassignment. He didn’t even look at me when I confronted him. Barely spoke. Barely moved. All that connection, all those things we weren’t saying aloud? He walked away from them. He let them die.

Because it was easier.

Because I didn’t matter enough.

I’m not the exception.

I’m not the one who changed anything.

I was just next.

I sip the wine again. It tastes worse now.

I need to get over this.

Get over him.

He’s not mine to care about anymore. He’s not mine at all. He never was. He’s out of my hands. Out of my case file. Out of my future. And I need to remember who I am. I need to remember what I worked for. I need to find someone normal, someone stable, someone safe. Someone who doesn’t live behind bulletproof glass and prison bars. Someone who doesn’t look at me like they’re starving and kiss me like it’s the end of the world.

I deserve that.

I know I do.

But the ache in my chest says otherwise.

Because all I want is to go back.

To that moment.

That second before everything fell apart.

And it hurts.

It hurts more than I thought it would.

More than I want to admit.

Because even now, after everything, I still don’t know if he ever really felt it.

And worse?

I still do.

─────── ⌖ ───────

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. ♡

I know the last few chapters have been a bit heavy (okay… very heavy), and I’m so sorry for putting you all through the emotional blender, but trust me. I’m cooking. The good stuff? The everything-you’ve-been-waiting-for stuff?

It’s coming.

Veryyy, very soon.

I’m already writing the next chapters, and I can’t wait for you to see what’s ahead.

Thank you, truly, for reading.

Enjoyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Yours truly, Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[ next chapter ]

[blackbat05]

So yearbook is out and probably I didn’t download the soft copy but why do I look like a marshmellow?😭

[loverindeepspace]

Come Back To Me // Multi x Reader

Hey, I'm back with some angst, just for you guys! This one is for all of the lads boys. Concept: You end up in hospital, they wait by your side for you to wake up. Tags: Angst, hospital, mentions of injuries, so much yearning, mentions of blood, might be a bit OOC, all the nicknames. Wordcount: 450-500 words each Masterlist

Writing under cut bc it's long, enjoy

Xavier

The breath he lets out is shaky, vulnerable, as he presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Perched on the chair next to the bed, his eyes stay focused on your face, the steady rise of your chest, and the bandages decorating your body. 

“You must be sleeping well, you need the rest. You’ve been overworking yourself lately, you know? I’m supposed to be your partner, why didn’t you call me?” His words are barely audible, gentle, yet heavy. Nearly as heavy as the pressure weighing down his chest. 

His heart dropped the moment he received that call, the drowsiness from his nap disappearing in an instant. He was rushing into the hospital before the phone call even ended, there was no second to waste. Blood rushing through his body was the only thing he could hear, as his chest constricted in a barely hidden panic. You have to be alright. Please be alright. 

The moment his eyes fell on you in that hospital room, hooked up to a multitude of wires and machines, his knees nearly buckled. Bandages peeked through the gown on your body as you lay there, still as a statue, still as a corpse. The only thing indicating that you were still here, still alive, was the rise and fall of your chest and the steady beep, beep, beep of a nearby machine. 

His hand gripped yours tighter as he pressed his forehead against your fingers, trying, yet failing, to steady himself. Gone was that calmness of the experienced hunter, instead replaced by a shaky emotion he hasn’t felt in a long time. Fear. He couldn’t lose you again, not like this. He would not survive losing you again, just like he did all that time ago.

“You said you wouldn’t leave, so please, please, come back to me.”

Time seemed irrelevant as the day passed him by, nothing snapping his focus away from you, waiting for you to open your eyes. Your beautiful eyes, the ones that sparkled with joy, a fondness, when you looked at him. He yearned to see that bright smile, the same one when you ate your favourite food, when you won a plushie in the claw machines, when you were up to no good playing pranks on him. The sky outside darkened rapidly, the rush of the hospital settling down into a quietness that was somewhat unsettling. Xavier was yet to move from your bedside, only allowing the nurses to check in on you now and then, refusing to go home even when visiting hours end. 

“Open your eyes when you’re ready, I’ll be here when you wake up, I’m not leaving you ever again. I love you, my starlight. When the morning comes, I hope you’ll be here with me again.”

Rafayel

“Miss Bodyguard, how are you meant to protect me when you’re asleep in hospital? You need to take better care of yourself.” There was a teasing facade in his words, desperately trying to cover up the weakness in his voice. His back was starting to hurt as he leaned forward in the uncomfortable hospital chair, he hadn't eaten or drank or slept in days, but none of that mattered. Not when you were still not waking up, no matter how much he called for you. His hand moved towards your face, brushing away the hair swept across your forehead. 

“You know, you promised me you wouldn’t make me wait again, and yet here we are. Open your eyes cutie, I want to see that beautiful smile again.”

When he heard you ended up in hospital, he immediately dropped everything. The painting he was working on? Forgotten. The art show he was meant to attend? Ignored. The meeting with an investor? Cancelled. There was nothing else on his mind apart from making sure you were okay, that you were alive and coming back to him. When he heard you were unconscious, and not likely to wake up any time soon, he nearly couldn’t make himself take a step through that door, hesitating just long enough to prepare himself. But he wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared for the fear and worry that engulfed him when he saw your form, laying still, unmoving, on the blue sheets of the hospital bed. Even approaching you was a challenge, his legs too shaky to move steadily, and when he finally got there, he had to blink away the tears that welled in his eyes. The paleness in your skin made his brow furrow, his hand coming to rest on your cheek, caressing it ever so gently.

“I told you before to come back to me, safe and sound. Human promises sure are fickle.” His voice broke before he could finish getting his words out as he lay a soft kiss on your forehead. 

He immediately upgraded your room to a private one, ensuring the care you got was top notch in hopes that it would make you wake up sooner. Not once did he leave your side, jumping up at ever twitch of your fingers, at every noise that left your lips. But your eyes didn’t open. He talked and talked, filling the silence, maybe his voice can guide you home, guide you back to him.

“I’ll decorate the cast when you wake up, just tell me what you want me to draw.” 

“My heart is in your hands, Cutie, you have to come back and take care of it.”

Zayne

“You said you’d be careful, and what do you do? What will I do with you?” The sigh he let out was heavy as he put your medical charts down, a hand moving to caress your head, moving the hair from your face. To anyone looking in, he would seem nonchalant, almost cold, but the storm raging inside of him as he gazed on your form was unrelenting, his heart shattering as he redid the bandages on your body. He refused to let any other doctor take your case, he trusted himself enough to provide you with the best care, no matter how much it hurt him to see you like this. He was your doctor after all. And your partner. You could rely on him to take care of you when you needed it. 

“You always scold me when I’m injured, and yet I can’t bring myself to scold you for being this reckless. Seeing you like this, it makes my heart ache, so please wake up, come back to me.”

He was already working when he got the notice that you were on your way in. He intended to carry on with his work, finishing it quickly so he could take care of you. That is until he found out that your condition was critical. He dropped everything, reassigning other staff to cover his patients, so his focus could be entirely on you. They tried to stop him, he was too involved to have a clear head, but he refused, knowing that everything he worked hard to achieve was so that he could take care of you. To help you. And help you he did, no matter how much his hands threatened to shake, no matter the fear that gripped his heart, he still trusted his skill. His only thoughts were to save you. When you were finally stable, he still refused to leave your side. You were more important than any work he had, more important than anything in this world. 

“I can’t do my work when all I can think about is you, here. The only time you should visit the hospital is for your checkups and to see me. Not like this. I’ll make sure you recover quickly, so rest until you’re ready to open your eyes.

Days later, you still didn’t wake up. He kept an eye on your vitals, taking up doing his reports by your bedside. The other staff brought him food, trying to coax him out so he could get some sleep, but to no avail. He talked to you too, when he needed a break, holding your hand, his thumb gently swiping across your knuckles.

“The cafe I told you about has just announced the new dessert menu, I’ll take you there when you wake up. So wake up quickly now, my love.”

Sylus

His fingers worked to soothe the furrow in his brow as he leaned on the chair by the hospital bread, his eyes softening as he analyses the bandages wrapped around your body. The sigh that leaves his mouth is heavy, tired, as he moves to sit in the chair by your side. Silence surrounds him as he works through the unease settled in his chest.

When he found you in that field, his heart might as well have stopped. Mephisto reported what had happened, how you collapsed after fighting off several wanderers, killing the last one before passing out, blood seeping from your wounds. He had never moved faster, racing the streets on his bike, until he had you in his arms. He didn’t think twice about bringing you back to the N109 zone, calling on the best doctors he knew to his door, ensuring you were in the best care. He observed as they worked, scrutinizing their every move, a darkness surrounding him. The doctors, to their credit, worked quickly and efficiently, stabilising your condition, lest they upset the leader of Onychinus. Once he dismissed them, he sat on the edge of the bed, placing his hand firmly on your own.

“Sweetie, no matter how strong you are, I wish you would allow me to help you more. Rely on me, I’m at your beck and call, you know this.” 

He did not move from the room, making sure you were comfortable, that your bandages stayed clean, and that he would be the first to know when you finally woke up. The uneasy feeling never left, and he was sure it wouldn’t until he saw your soft smile and your striking eyes. He desired to hear your laugh, to be on the receiving end of those teasing comebacks, to hold you. You were right here, yet you felt so far away when you slumbered for so long.

“I’ve always allowed you to come and go as you please, but this time, I ask you to come back to me, Kitten.”

His fuse was short in the days that you slept, on edge with everything and anyone who tried to distract him from being with you. He slept on that chair by your bed, had Luke and Keiran run his errands, and took no nonsense from anyone. He couldn’t get settled no matter how much he tried. With yet another sigh, he stroked your hair, traced your features, a gentleness he held towards you that contrasted drastically to how he’s been with everyone else.

“You are my one weakness kitten, but you’re also my strength. You make me want to be better for you. We were destined to meet again, the curse is gone so don’t leave me now.”

“I adore you, my dear sorceress. You chose to stay by my side, so come back to me.”

Caleb

A darkness had settled in his eyes as he examined your form, fear and guilt gripping his heart. He couldn’t move, not even an inch, as the grip on your hand seemed like the only thing keeping him from losing it completely. His eyes were already red, the burning behind his eyes was almost painful, but he shed no tears, he refused. Because you were still here, you were still alive. 

“Pipsqueak, come on, open your eyes for me.” His voice was small, broken, the pain coursing through his body shining through his words.

He didn’t even have time to think before he was rushing to the hospital. When you didn’t arrive to meet him as intended, worry started to bloom. He tried your phone several times just to be sent to voicemail, he knew something was wrong when he was sent to voicemail. He quickly found out, through less than legitimate means, what had happened, and he moved quickly, his mind racing. He rushed through the white halls, bursting through the door to your room. His breath caught in his throat as he took you in, the bandages that decorated your head and body, the bruises peeking from behind them. The stillness of your form brought a panic to him, memories he yearned to forget surfacing once more as he moved to your side, grasping your hand firmly and bringing it to his lips. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I know you said you didn’t need my protection, and I know you’re strong. You are so strong. But seeing you like this? It kills me inside.”

His whole life was put on hold over the next few days. He would not leave the room, he would not let go of your hand, scrutinising anyone who even suggested he do so. He watched over you vigilantly, ensuring you were comfortable, that your condition remained stable, that you would wake up. Guilt clawed at his heart, refusing to let go. If only he was there when you needed him, you would not have ended up like this. Why did you not call him? Why was he not there?

“Everything I have done, it’s always been for you. To protect you. I want you to depend on me like you used to.” 

His fingers pet your hair as he leaned over you, his violet eyes committing your features to memory. He longed to see your eyes, to hear you tease and banter with him just like old times, to hug you, to hold you. He encouraged you to wake up so many times over these last few days, hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll respond to him.

“I have so many things left to say to you, so many things I still want to experience with you. So don’t leave when we’re just getting started.”

“I love you. I love you so much more than you know. Open your eyes so I can tell you.”

[kateschi]

in the stillness

synopsis: after an injury leaves you in the hospital, your husband stays by your side and watches over you, silent for a moment.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: him saying 'my wife' does things to me tbh

the steady beeping of machines fills the quiet hospital room, but katsuki can’t hear anything except the pounding of his own heart.

his eyes stay locked on you, lying still in the bed, wrapped in bandages that make his gut twist every time he looks at them.

he’s sitting beside you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched like he’s fighting back the urge to scream.

there’s a storm brewing behind his red eyes, and you can feel it—see it in the way his shoulders are tense, in how his leg hasn’t stopped bouncing since he got here.

“you can go home, y’know,” you murmur with a weak smile. “you don’t have to stay.”

his eyes snap to yours, his scowl deepening. “absolutely not,” he growls. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. you think I’m leavin’ you like this?”

you chuckle softly, even though it hurts a little to laugh. “I’m fine, katsuki. it’s just a few bruises. you’ve seen worse.”

“doesn’t matter,” he snaps, but there’s a roughness in his voice, something he’s trying to bury beneath the anger. “it doesn’t mean I’m leavin’. I should've been there faster. you wouldn’t be in this damn bed if I had been.”

you frown at his words, knowing exactly where his mind is going. “katsuki, it wasn’t your fault. I’m a hero too, remember? I know the risks.”

he scoffs, looking away from you, his hands tightening into fists on his knees. “don’t give me that crap. I’m supposed to have your back, and I didn’t. I was too slow.”

his voice wavers for a split second, and you see the guilt eating him alive.

“hey,” you say softly, reaching out to grab his hand. he flinches at the contact, not because he doesn’t want it, but because it’s you—hurt, reaching out to comfort him when it should be the other way around.

“I’m fine, katsuki,” you repeat, squeezing his hand gently. “you got there. that’s what matters.”

his gaze locks onto yours, fierce and frustrated. “no, what matters is that you wouldn’t be here if I’d been quicker. I shoulda seen it comin’. should've—”

you shake your head, cutting him off. “stop. you’re beating yourself up over something you couldn’t control.”

“that’s bullshit,” he snaps, standing up abruptly, pacing in the small space between the bed and the wall. his hands run through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “I wasn’t fast enough. you could’ve died, because of me being too slow.”

the words hang heavy in the air, and you can see how much they’re weighing on him, tearing at him. this is katsuki at his rawest—angry not because of anyone else, but at himself.

he’s always been his harshest critic, and now, seeing you hurt, he’s taking all that anger out on himself.

you sit up a little, despite the dull ache that runs through your body. “but I didn’t, katsuki. I’m right here. you saved me.”

he stops pacing, standing still, his back to you. his shoulders are tense, and you can hear him take a deep breath, trying to reign in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

when he finally turns around, his face is a mixture of anger and vulnerability—two emotions he’s never been good at handling.

“damn it,” he mutters, stalking back toward you. he sits on the edge of the bed this time, closer than before, and his hand finds yours again, this time holding on a little tighter.

“you don’t get it, y/n. I can’t—” his voice falters, and for a second, you see something crack in his usual tough demeanor.

“I can’t just sit here and act like it’s no big deal,” he says quietly. “seein’ you like that… I’m supposed to be stronger. supposed to be the one protectin’ you, and I couldn’t even do that right.”

your heart aches at how hard he’s being on himself, but you know this is how katsuki is. he carries the weight of responsibility like it’s his personal burden to bear, and any sign of failure hits him harder than it should.

you squeeze his hand, drawing his attention back to you. “you didn’t fail, katsuki. you got there. you stopped it before it got worse. that’s all I need.”

he doesn’t respond for a moment, just stares down at your intertwined hands, his thumb running over your knuckles absentmindedly. there’s a long silence before he speaks again, this time softer, more controlled.

“you’re my wife,” he mutters, almost like he’s reminding himself of it. “I’m supposed to keep you safe. you don’t get to get hurt like this.”

you smile, tugging lightly on his hand to bring him closer. “and I’m supposed to protect you too. we’re in this together, remember?”

he huffs, clearly still not happy with himself, but the tension in his shoulders eases just a little. “yeah, yeah,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair again.

but his hand never leaves yours, gripping it tightly like he’s afraid to let go.

“you’re not gettin’ rid of me,” he says after a long pause, his voice a little lighter now, though the worry is still there, lingering under the surface. “I’m stayin’ here until they force me out. and don’t even think about tryin’ to convince me otherwise.”

you laugh softly, the sound easing some of the heaviness in the room. “wouldn’t dream of it.”

for a moment, neither of you says anything, just sitting there in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s still watching you like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, but you know he’ll calm down eventually.

he’s stubborn, protective, and always pushing himself harder than anyone else. but you wouldn’t have him any other way.

“rest, will ya?” he mutters after a while, his voice softer now. “I’ll be right here.”

you nod, letting your eyes close as you feel the exhaustion start to catch up to you. his hand is still holding yours, warm and solid, a constant reminder that he’s there, just like always.

you can barely catch him raising your hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to it.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[luveline]

Hi jadeeeee I have a request for coworker James! Another man whether it’s at work or somewhere else starts hitting on reader and James get jealous and realizes he hates seeing her with other guys

ty for requesting 💌 fem

It’s another sunny day at the office, but today is the day the vending machine men come in and fill them, so it’s not all bad. The doors and windows are wide open, the air is fresh and clean. 

“It’s too hot,” Remus complains without any real passion. 

“It’s not that bad,” Sirius says, though he raises his hand to begin fanning Remus anyhow. “It feels hotter than it is because of the humidity.” 

“I feel amazing,” James says. He gives you a nudge with his shoe, his hair tickling his neck as he leans back in his chair. “It’s not that hot, is it?” 

“It’s boiling,” you say. 

You were never going to agree with him. It could be sub zero and you’d tell him you were on fire. James rolls his eyes at you and continues a rather lavish existence of sun, breeze, and cold grapes, their crisp insides popping between his teeth. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

James lifts his head. 

“That’s okay,” Jordan says, to James’ immediate affront. There’s no need for the man in charge of maintaining the vending machine to be talking to you in that tone. It’s bordering too sweet. 

“I’m always in your way,” you laugh. 

“You? In my way? Never.” 

You turn to Remus with an obvious expression. Is he flirting with me? it says. 

Remus looks at James —what the fuck?— before he gives you a tentative back and forth of his head, weighing it up. He shrugs. 

James shakes his head resolutely. 

You give them both the silent version of I understand and settle down in your seat again. The vending machine guy (what’s his name again? James can’t remember) pops open the front cover of the machine and takes out the change box. Clearly, he doesn’t categorise you or the boys as a risk of burglary. 

“So,” Jordan says, “how was your weekend? Did you do much?” 

“In this weather?” you ask with light-humoured sarcasm. “I went on a couple of walks, nothing huge. How about you?” 

“Went to a couple of matches.” 

“Rugby or football?” 

“Rugby, always.” 

James feels the pressure of his teeth clenching at the back of his head. “Do you play, mate?” he asks. 

Jordan looks at him in surprise. “No, we just watch. It’s an excuse to have a pint before five.” 

You break two slices of your clementine away from each other. James doesn’t know why, but your gaze is on him, and that’s where he wants it. “Day drinker?” he asks sympathetically. 

“James,” Sirius says, laughing. “Grow up.” 

“Sometimes,” Jordan says. He finishes reinstalling the change holder and starts to push snacks and drinks onto the vending machine shelves. “Gotta have a little bit of fun every now and then, right?” 

He emphasises to you. 

You give a shy smile. “Right.” 

Jordan finishes his job and wishes everyone goodbye quickly after that. You chew your clementine, your finger looped under your bracelet, tugging slowly round and around. He fucked that up for you, didn’t he? You couldn’t get very far with him poking holes at poor Jordan, but… you’d been smiling at him nicely. You’re allowed to smile at whoever you want to, of course you are, so why did James act like that? 

“Sorry,” he says. 

You slide your thumb between slices of clementine. “To me?” you ask from the corner of your mouth. “For what?” 

Sirius and Remus laugh at the same time. 

James ignores them. “I was mean to him. How are you ever gonna get a date if I bully the vending machine guy?” 

“You think I can’t get a date?” you ask. 

“No.” He grimaces. “No, just, he’s a dickhead.” 

“As opposed to who? You?” you ask. 

James is pretty sure his vision goes white. He hates seeing you with other boys, but this isn’t where he wanted the conversation to go. He doesn’t wanna be your boyfriend. He just hates seeing you happy with other people. 

Oh, god, he thinks. That’s horrible. 

“I think you can do a whole lot better than Jacob the vending machine guy.” 

“Jordan,” you correct, laughing. You don’t bring him up on avoiding your real question, perhaps you don’t notice. You just laugh with Remus and pass James a piece of your clementine. “Vending machines are an honest living. Don’t be so classist.” 

“You’re classist,” he rebukes weakly. He ignores Sirius’ knowing gaze to offer you his punnet of grapes. “Horrible woman.” 

“Get it together, Potter.” 

James doesn’t know what to say to you after that, so he says nothing at all. Your clementine is sweet on his tongue. 

[mistytanzanite]

Early morning with Toby

You wake up slowly. You can feel the warmth of your boyfriend, his arms, strong from years of throwing hatchets around, are loosely wrapped around you. Soft breathing escapes his slightly parted lips as he sleeps.

He’s so beautiful like this. 

Still, as much as you’d like to ogle him, you have things to do today. Slowly, you inch yourself off the bed, careful not to disturb him. It takes longer than you’d like, and after a few minutes, your feet touch the floor.

You straighten up, watching as he moves around in his sleep, his arms seemingly searching for you, even while unconscious. You resist the urge to crawl back into bed.

You make your way to the kitchen, letting out a yawn as you prep the coffee maker. You’re gonna need it today, for sure. You turn it on, and the sound of it almost lulls you to sleep, but you force your eyes open. Just a few more minutes until you get your caffeinated ambrosia.

You walk over to the cupboard where your mugs are stored, but just as your fingertips reach the handle, you feel those familiar arms wrap around your body. You startle just the slightest bit, and he presses his face into your hair.

“You abandoned me.” He says, not even lethargy being enough to stop his dramatics. 

You let out a noise that’s half sigh, half laugh. “No, I just woke up early. I’m making coffee if you want some.”

He grumbles a little. “What I want is for you to come back to bed.” He buries his face into your hair even more, as if he were trying to burrow into it.

Just then, the coffee machine stops. It was ready. “Ignore it,” he pleads tiredly, “come back to bed.”

You want to say no. You want to complain about how you’ll have to microwave the coffee to warm it up. You want to retort with all of the things that need to get done. But how can you, when he’s like this?

When he’s so warm, it seeps into your bones more than that cheap coffee can? When he still smells of the nice shampoo you forced him to use rather than 2 in 1? When his voice, deep from the early hours of the morning, speaks to you so pleadingly?

You let out a long sigh, but you can’t fight the smile that forms.

“Alright. Let’s go back to bed.”

Despite still being drowsy, Toby picks you up bridal style as if you weigh nothing (you are very thankful for his proxy strength), and carries you back to bed.

Toby sets you on the bed, and adjusts the both of you so he can properly cuddle you, a goofy smile on his face as he kisses your forehead. You smile, wrapping your arms around him. You yawn, which makes him yawn.

“Goodnight.” He whispers. You snicker. “It’s 7 am.”

Toby doesn’t reply, likely too embarrassed, or maybe too tired. Maybe both. Instead, he buries his face into your hair once more, and falls asleep almost instantly. You follow quickly, letting sleep overcome you.

[pillow-coded]

Recording In Progress

Summary: A private investigator goes undercover to expose Spencer Reid’s secrets—but when he catches on, things far more personal than she ever intended.

prompts used: A thinks they've successfully tricked B... when B leans forward and speaks directly into their wire. — “Did you really think this was going to work on me?”

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut (NSFW, 18+) MDNI!!!!!

Content Warning: strong language, first person POV, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, power play, unprotected sex, light dom!Spencer, mentions of betrayal and emotional manipulation, semi-consensual dynamics/dubcon, Kinda angsty.

A/N: This is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Criminal Minds Undercover Challenge (Also my first second attempt ever for writing smut, hopefully it’s not like bad or cringy)!!

Word Count: 6.3K

I’ve done worse jobs for better pay.

Political smear jobs, corporate leaks, scumbag CEOs cheating on their fourth wives. I’ve worn heels into strip clubs and smiled through dinner with men who thought I didn’t know what a burner phone was. I’ve been called a bitch, a genius, and a ghost, depending on who was signing the check.

I was hired to investigate Dr. Spencer Reid. No reason given, no name offered. Just a large sum wired to my account and a single note: Find out what he’s hiding.

Simple enough.

Except… Spencer Reid doesn’t have a digital footprint. He’s like a ghost in the machine. No scandals, no secrets, not even a hint of skeletons in his closet. And believe me, I looked.

And now here I am—three weeks into my “trial run” as the Bureau’s newest PR-friendly face. The temporary Media Liaison job I got thanks to me pulling some strings. I talk to the news reporters, fetch coffee. Pretend not to notice how agents avoid eye contact when they think I’m listening.

But Spencer?

Spencer doesn’t avoid anything.

He looks right at me when he speaks—slow, deliberate, almost too polite, like he’s weighing every word before he lets it leave his mouth. Like he’s watching for a reaction, waiting to see what sticks. It should’ve made him easy to read. But he wasn’t. If anything, he made me feel like the one under observation.

At first, I told myself he was just awkward. A little too smart, a little too soft. All anxious fingers and mismatched socks, like some deer that wandered too far from the herd and was just hoping someone might keep him company.

Innocent, I thought.

Innocent my ass.

Because there’s something behind those eyes—something that doesn’t flinch. Something that sees everything and stays quiet anyway. And now that I’ve gotten too close, I’m starting to wonder if I’m the one being hunted.

And maybe I should’ve been more careful—should’ve kept my distance.

Because it’s getting harder to tell which parts of this are pretend. The way my hand lingers on his arm when I laugh. The way he says my name like it’s always surprised him.

The wire beneath my shirt itches when I lean forward. I pretend it’s nothing, cross my arms to cover the mic. But he keeps talking.

Stories. Facts. Soft opinions. I record all of it. Hours of audio. Dozens of little truths. And yet none of it sounds like a secret.

It started with coffee.

Not because I actually wanted it—God knows the Bureau’s idea of caffeine tastes like it was filtered through a floor mop—but because he always had one. Every morning. Same cup, same lid, same little paper napkin wrapped around it like he didn’t want his fingers touching the surface.

So I started bringing him one. A peace offering. An excuse. A way in.

��No cream, four sugars,” I’d say, like I didn’t already have it memorized from the second day.

“You don’t have to keep bringing me coffee,” he’d murmur, almost shy. “But thank you.”

Then he’d take it anyway. Every time. Like it was a favor he wasn’t sure he deserved.

It disarmed me.

The first few days I kept things casual—too casual. Just enough charm to keep the agents from digging into my file, just enough polish to look useful in a crisis. And Spencer? Spencer was easy to hover near. Everyone else gave him a wide berth. Not because they didn’t like him, I realized. Because they didn’t understand him.

But I did.

Or I acted like I did, which, honestly, wasn’t hard. He talks when you let him. Especially about things most people pretend to care about but don’t. String theory. Linguistics. Microexpressions. Magic tricks.

“The trick isn’t in the sleight of hand,” he told me once, while shuffling a deck between his fingers. “It’s in where you make people look instead.”

“Is that what you’re doing to me?” I’d asked. “Misdirection?”

He didn’t answer.

Just smiled without showing his teeth.

And it messed me up more than I expected.

Because here’s the thing: Spencer Reid doesn’t flirt. Not really. He observes. He listens, catalogues, memorizes. And he gives you just enough of himself to make you want more. That’s the part I wasn’t prepared for.

Like yesterday—he’d asked about my family. Out of nowhere. Soft and curious.

“You mentioned your dad’s a journalist,” he said, halfway through a case debrief. “Is that what made you want to work in media?”

He had no idea how deep that question could’ve cut. But he asked it like he already suspected the answer and just wanted to see if I’d lie.

I did.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

He nodded. Didn’t press.

But something shifted.

He started watching me more closely after that. Saying my name more often. Brushing past me in the hallway, close enough for the hem of his sweater to ghost over my knuckles. A lesser man would’ve tried something by now. Spencer just... lingered.

And then today. God, today.

The bullpen was nearly empty. Just the two of us, caught in that odd hour between too-late and not-late-enough. I made a joke—light, harmless.

“You know, I’m starting to think you don’t actually like coffee,” I said. “You just like holding something in your hands so you don’t have to look busy.”

I waited for that soft half-smile he always gives when he’s amused. The one that makes his eyes crease, just barely.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he looked at me.

Really looked at me.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just… observing.

I felt it before he even moved—this creeping heat behind my ribs. I tried to keep still, tried not to let the sudden tension show.

“So do you,” I replied, aiming for playful. It landed a little too breathy.

He took a step forward.

Then another.

I could’ve backed up. I didn’t.

He was close now. Closer than protocol allows, closer than he’s ever been. My pulse ticked loud in my ears. I swallowed. I waited for him to speak.

He didn’t. Not at first.

His eyes flicked to my chest, and for a moment, I thought—

But no. He wasn’t looking at my lips. He was looking lower.

Right where the mic was taped beneath my shirt.

“You wore that all day?” he asked, voice low. No heat in it—just something sharp and calm and terrifying.

“I don’t know what you—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said.

My mouth shut. The weight of his gaze was like gravity, dragging me down into silence.

And then he leaned in. His mouth hovered just beside my ear, breath warm, voice so low it barely stirred the air between us.

“Did you really think this was going to work on me?”

I stopped breathing. My spine locked. My mouth went dry.

“You’ve been recording me.” It wasn’t a question. He tilted his head slightly, studying me the way you’d study a fracture—trying to guess where the break began.

He didn’t pull away.

“You’ve been careful,” he murmured, “I’ll give you that. The questions were subtle. The charm? Believable. The coffee orders were a nice touch. But I don’t trust people who learn too fast.”

I wanted to speak. I really did. But my throat wouldn’t work.

“Especially not people who ask about things I’ve never told anyone.”

And just like that, he stepped back.

My heart was in my mouth. The wire burned under my shirt like a brand. I felt exposed in a way I never had before—caught not just in a lie, but in something deeper. Something personal. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded disappointed. Maybe even hurt.

“Who sent you?” he asked, softer now. Not demanding. Just… tired. Like he already knew.

“It’s not what you think,” I said.

A small smile tugged at his mouth. But there was nothing warm in it.

“Then tell me what it is. Because I’m trying really hard to believe this wasn’t just some elaborate… game.”

I didn’t say anything.

I wanted to. I think I even opened my mouth. But there was no defense I could give that wouldn’t sound like another lie. Another twist of the knife.

So I just stood there, heart thudding against the wire, pulse loud in my ears, and let him look at me.

He waited.

And when I didn’t give him anything—not an apology, not an excuse—something in his face changed.

Not anger. Not disgust.

Something quieter.

Like disappointment. Like resignation. Like he’d already filed me away under lost cause.

“Tell whoever sent you they won’t find what they’re looking for.”

He paused.

“And if they want to try again,” he says, eyes still on mine, “tell them next time… they should send someone I won’t miss when they leave.”

He turns to walk away, and I should let him.

But I don’t.

“Wait,” I say—sharper than I mean to.

He stops. Doesn’t turn around right away.

When he does, it’s slow. Controlled. Every part of him unreadable. Except his eyes—they're sharper now. Sadder too. Like I’d cut him without knowing where the blade was.

“You think I wanted this to happen?” I ask. “You think I planned to care?”

He just looks at me. Long and hard.

“You didn’t plan anything,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

He steps closer. The space between us evaporates. My pulse flutters. His eyes fall to my chest—where the wire sits taped beneath my shirt. His jaw clenches.

“I should report you,” he says. “Walk you out of here myself and forget this ever happened.”

“You should,” I whisper.

He exhales slowly through his nose. Like he's trying to talk himself down from something.

“I knew something was off,” he says. “But you—you looked at me like…”

He stops. Closes his eyes for just a second. Opens them again.

“I was doing my job,” I say.

“You were lying.”

We’re close enough now that I can feel the tension roll off him like heat. His hand lifts—hesitates—then brushes the edge of my collar. Just two fingers. Just enough to press gently over the place where the wire sits.

His voice is low, and it trembles with something between fury and want.

“I’m going to give you five seconds to walk away before I do something we’ll both regret.”

He doesn’t count.

Neither do I.

Because I don’t move.

And neither does he.

Not until the pretending breaks—soft and sudden, like the snap of a wire pulled too tight for too long.

His breath stutters, and I see it—right there in his eyes—that flicker of recognition. That I’m not going anywhere. That whatever this is between us, it’s no longer something we can ignore.

Then he moves.

Slow at first, like he’s giving me time to pull away. Like he’s testing the current between us.

But I don’t flinch. I can’t.

Without a word, he closes the remaining distance, seizing my chin gently between his fingers. His touch is deliberate—measured—there's heat in it, too. His thumb traces the curve of my lower lip, slow and careful, brushing against the sensitive skin just beneath.

His other hand finds my hip—strong, sure—as he pulls me flush against him. I feel the heat of his body through the fabric of my clothes, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen molding against the softer lines of mine like they were made to fit.

He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don’t.

His lips hover just above mine, a hairsbreadth of space between us. I can feel his breath mingling with mine, warm and unsteady. The scent of him fills my lungs—clean cologne, warm skin, and something unmistakably him.

“Last chance,” he whispers, voice low and rough and dangerous in the best way.

And I don’t take it.

His words hang in the charged air between us, suspended for a single, trembling moment. Time seems to slow—each heartbeat stretching into forever—as I stand there, breath caught, teetering on the edge of something I can’t undo.

He murmurs something under his breath—too quiet to catch, too dark to be innocent—and then he moves.

He closes the final inch between us, and his lips crash into mine in a searing, hungry kiss that steals my breath and sets every nerve in my body alight.

One of his hands tangles into my hair, tilting my head just enough to deepen the kiss. The other tightens at my hip, pulling me harder against him until there’s nothing between us but heat and tension and the press of his body against mine—hard, unyielding, and everywhere.

His tongue slips past my lips, bold and sure, stroking along mine and sending sparks through me so sharp they feel like electricity in my bloodstream. I can taste the desperation in his kiss—feel the pent-up longing in the way his fingers clutch at my waist like he’s afraid I might disappear.

It isn’t a kiss. It’s a demand.

And I give in to it, completely.

He walks me backward, mouth still on mine, until the edge of his desk catches the backs of my legs. I hit it with a quiet thud, breath hitching—not from shock this time, but from the sheer, aching need curling low in my stomach.

His hands skim up my sides, fingertips dragging slowly over the thin fabric of my blouse. His palms are warm and slightly rough, catching just enough to make my skin spark beneath the surface. I feel every inch of contact like a live wire beneath my clothes, and when his hands reach my ribcage, he pauses—just for a breath—before slipping his fingers to the buttons of my shirt.

One by one, he undoes them.

I gasp as cool air brushes the skin beneath, the lace of my bra suddenly far too delicate, too flimsy. But his attention isn’t on the fabric. Not entirely.

His fingers ghost over the mic, still taped below my sternum. He lingers there, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over it. Then he looks up, eyes dark, mouth curling into something between a smirk and a warning.

My stomach flips. My mouth parts—but I don’t know whether it’s to object or to breathe.

He doesn’t wait for a response.

He leans in and presses his mouth to the base of my throat, kissing a path downward. His lips are hot. His stubble scrapes. He grazes my pulse with his teeth before his mouth latches onto that tender skin just above my collarbone.

He suckles and nips with deliberate intent, letting his jaw rasp against my neck as he pulls another broken breath from me.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” he mutters against my throat, voice low and uneven.

Without warning, his hands grip my thighs and lift—effortless, like he’s been waiting to do it for weeks. He sets me on the edge of his desk, the cool surface biting against the backs of my legs. In the next breath, he steps between them, settling into the cradle of my hips.

The zipper of his slacks scrapes rough against my inner thighs, and then I feel it—hard, hot, and insistent, pressing right where I need him most.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just waits—daring me to admit I want it just as badly.

His eyes lock on mine, sharp and unrelenting, like they’re looking through me, not at me. There’s heat there, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s intensity. Focus. A fire that catches deep in my belly and threatens to devour everything in its path.

The air between us pulses, thick with tension. A silent standoff. Neither of us willing to look away. Neither of us willing to surrender first.

“Tell me,” he says, voice low and raw, rough enough to scrape down my spine. His hands tighten on my thighs, grounding me. Holding me still. “Tell me you’ve felt this too. The way we… fit. The chemistry—it’s like a live wire between us, and you know it.”

He leans in, mouth brushing so close I can feel the shape of the words before he says them.

“I want to hear you say it. Admit it. That you’re just as lost in this… thing as I am. That you burn for my hands, that you crave my mouth, that you ache to be undone by me.”

A tremble works its way through my spine. I don’t trust myself to speak.

His hand slides from my thigh up my side—slow, deliberate. Fingertips grazing the curve of my ribcage, mapping the slope of my breast. He palms it through the thin lace of my bra, the heat of his touch making me gasp.

Then his thumb finds my nipple.

Rolls it. Just once.

A shock of sensation shoots through me, and I bite my lip to stop the sound that nearly escapes.

He feels it. Knows it.

And his mouth curls, just slightly. Like he’s satisfied—but not nearly done.

He gathers my answer without a single word—reading it in the tremble of my thighs, the sharp hitch in my breath, the way heat blooms across my skin in a helpless, rosy flush. His eyes, now dark and heavy-lidded with want, drag over me like he’s cataloging every reaction… and storing it for later.

I don’t even know what I’m begging for when I whisper,

“Spencer… please…”

But it’s enough.

It’s more than enough.

Something shifts in him—like control has finally slipped through his fingers, and now he’s choosing to let it go.

His hand dips beneath the lace of my bra, his fingers brushing bare skin. My breath stutters as his palm curves around me, warm and possessive. He cups the weight of my breast, rolling it gently, then pinches and tugs my nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it stiffens in his grasp.

The sensation ricochets through me—sharp, heady, electric.

Before I can even moan, his other hand finds its way into my hair. He fists it at the base of my skull, not rough, but firm enough to steal my breath. And then he kisses me.

No warning. No hesitation.

Just heat.

His mouth crashes into mine with a hunger I feel in every nerve ending. It’s the kind of kiss that scrapes thought from bone. The kind that tells me this isn’t just lust. It’s possession.

I’m not kissing Spencer Reid.

I’m being devoured by him.

He devours my moan like he’s starved for it—like the sound alone could satisfy something buried deep inside him. His mouth moves hungrily against mine, swallowing every breath, every sound, as if he’s trying to consume me from the inside out.

His grip tightens in my hair, angling my head with a rough kind of reverence that opens me completely to him. The hand on my breast isn’t gentle anymore. He kneads the soft flesh firmly, expertly, and the mix of pressure and pleasure sends shivers racing down my spine.

When he finally tears his mouth from mine, I’m gasping—but he doesn’t give me long to recover.

His lips blaze a trail down the column of my neck, his teeth dragging, tongue soothing, until he reaches my pulse point and lingers there. He bites, just hard enough to sting, then soothes it with his tongue, in a way that makes my whole body clench.

He trails lower.

Mouth warm and wet as he moves down the swell of my breasts, over the valley between them, until he reaches the curve of lace hiding what he wants most.

His lips close around my nipple through the soaked fabric of my bra, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, chasing him.

His fingers don’t hesitate. They find the clasp at my back, working with practiced ease, and I feel the tension in the garment give way.

I’m panting now, barely keeping up with the pace he’s set—as the cool air hits my bare skin, kissing over every exposed inch and pebbling it with goosebumps. But there’s no relief. Not from the heat pouring off of him. He’s everywhere. Surrounding me. Consuming me.

He shoves the fabric of my bra aside and his mouth descends without hesitation, closing around my nipple in a wet, greedy heat that makes my head fall back against the wall with a soft thud. He licks, broad, deliberate strokes, then circles the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue before suckling, hungry and unrelenting, like he’s ravenous for me.

I cry out. I can’t help it.

His other hand cups my remaining breast, fingers rough and insistent as they knead and pluck, teasing the tip until it aches under his touch. Every movement marks me until I feel like there’s nothing left untouched.

And still, it’s not enough.

His hips begin to move—slow, grinding rolls that press the hard ridge of his arousal against my center. Even through the barrier of my clothes, the friction is maddening. Precise. He grinds again, and I feel my thighs part a little more with each thrust, until the thick swell of him is nestled perfectly against the place I need him most.

I arch. I whimper. I burn.

“Tell me what you need,” he growls, voice rough and low in my ear.

I meet his gaze, barely holding it. My voice trembles as I breathe,

“You… all of you.”

His hand leaves my breast, trailing down the center of my body in a path that feels like fire. slow and deliberate. His fingertips glide over my trembling stomach, dipping lower until they reach the waistband of my skirt.

He doesn’t ask permission.

He just slips his hand beneath it, under the thin barrier of my underwear, and groans softly when he feels how soaked I already am.

“Like this?” he rasps, fingers brushing against my center with maddening restraint. “Is this what you wanted?”

The heat in his voice wrecks me. Low, rough, commanding. A far cry from the soft-spoken man I’d spent weeks practically studying. This wasn’t shy, awkward Spencer. This was something darker. Hungrier. A version of him I wasn’t sure anyone else had ever seen.

He strokes me through the slick fabric, circling over my clit with just enough pressure to leave me gasping but not enough to satisfy. Every touch is calculated—teasing, fleeting—designed to unravel me without giving me what I want.

“Tell me,” he says, the edge in his voice tightening. “Tell me how badly you need me.”

I try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken sound—half gasp, half plea.

His fingers press a little harder, his mouth close to my ear now, every word dripping with dominance and need.

“Say it,” he breathes. “Say you want me. Say you want to feel me deep inside you… filling you, wrecking you.”

The pressure builds, unbearable, electric. I’m shaking. I can barely breathe.

And I want it—I want everything.

“Say it,” he growls, fingers pressing harder against my aching center. The friction sharpens, maddening—his touch no longer teasing but demanding, as he rubs firm, relentless circles over my clit. His other hand grips my hip, holding me in place with bruising intensity, like he doesn’t trust me not to fall apart.

“Beg for it,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “Beg for my cock like the desperate little thing I know you are. I want to hear you scream for it.”

The words hit me like a jolt to the spine—vulgar, filthy, perfect.

His fingers shove my panties to the side, and one thick, calloused fingertip slides between my folds, slow and deliberate. He drags it through my slick heat, teasing—hovering just at the entrance, never quite giving in. A low, satisfied sound escapes him, like he’s savoring the way I tremble beneath him.

And then, with the hand not working me open, he reaches down to his belt. I hear the soft clink of metal, the zip of fabric sliding apart. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just keeps touching me—keeping me on the edge—as he frees himself with terrifying calm.

“You feel that?” he mutters, pressing himself into my thigh, the outline of him thick and undeniable through the cotton. “You shouldn’t be able to do this to me,”

His breath stutters against my cheek as he shifts his weight, one hand still working me open while the other reaches down. I feel the stretch of fabric, the quiet drag of cotton being pushed aside. Then the thick heat of him presses directly against me—bare now, heavy and pulsing at my entrance. The last barrier is gone. There’s nothing between us anymore.

He’s right there—right there—poised to push inside, to take, to ruin, and still… he waits.

And I break.

“Please,” I choke out, breathless, undone. “Oh my God, please, I—I need you.”

“I think you do,” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I think you need my cock buried inside this sweet little pussy”

And then he moves.

One swift, brutal thrust—and he’s inside me.

Fully. Completely.

I gasp, no sound behind it, my mouth falling open as he stretches me wide in a single, punishing stroke. He drives in to the hilt, hips pressing flush against mine, forcing my body to take every inch of him.

I’m overwhelmed. Split open. Filled.

“Fuck,” he snarls, the sound rumbling out against my chest, where his body presses hot and heavy over mine.

He gives me no time to adjust—no breath, no mercy. He pulls out almost entirely, just the thick tip left inside, and then slams back in with a force that steals what little air I have left.

Again.

And again.

Each thrust is brutal. Precise. Unrelenting.

The rhythm builds fast—sharp, punishing, perfect—and it’s all I can do to hold on. My cries are ragged, torn from my throat as he drives up into me like he’s trying to etch himself into my body, brand me from the inside out.

One hand clamps around my hip, fingers digging deep into flesh, anchoring me in place as he fucks me like he owns every inch of me.

His free hand moves lower, searching.

I barely register it through the haze of sensation until I feel a sudden tug at my waist—sharp, deliberate.

His fingers find the wire trailing from the recorder clipped to my skirt, and before I can react, he yanks. The movement is swift, almost angry. The adhesive holding the tiny mic to my chest rips free with a sting, the wire snapping taut as he drags the entire thing into his hand like a secret he’s been waiting to expose.

He brings it up, slow and deliberate, until it’s hovering right at my lips.

“Is this still on?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and quiet, eyes never leaving mine. “You gonna send this to them? Let them hear what you sound like when you're being fucked by the person you’re supposed to be investigating?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He just holds it there—steadily, deliberately—catching every breathless moan, every gasp, every desperate sound that spills from my lips.

“All those filthy little sounds. Let it record what you sound like when you're mine.”

And God help me—I moan for him. Loud. Unashamed.

His eyes flicker—dark and satisfied—as he presses the mic even closer to my lips, like he wants it to catch everything.

“That’s it,” he breathes, the corner of his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smirk. “Let it hear how desperate you sound when I’m inside you.”

He punctuates the words with a sharp thrust, forcing another cry from my throat—one I can’t bite back even if I tried.

“You think they’ll recognize your voice?” he murmurs, low and mocking as his hips roll into mine, relentless. “Think they’ll hear how wrecked you sound and wonder what it cost you?”

Every thrust lands with calculated force, his pace unforgiving, grinding me closer to the edge with each brutal stroke. My hands scramble for something to hold—his shoulders, the edge of the desk, anything—but there’s no grounding here. Just him. Just the sound of skin meeting skin and the filthy, wrecked sounds he’s dragging from my throat.

And the mic.

Still held to my lips. Still recording everything.

“You were supposed to be watching me,” he grits out between thrusts, the words strained with effort. “But look at you now.”

Another slam of his hips, and I cry out again—louder this time, legs shaking, breath hitching. I can feel the tremor starting in my core, the tightening that warns of everything about to snap.

“This what they wanted?” he growls, jaw clenched. “You giving them everything but the answers?”

He presses in deeper—deeper than before, like he’s trying to bury himself in me, leave something behind. His forehead drops to mine, sweat-slick and shaking with restraint.

“You’re not gonna be able to listen back to this without coming apart,” he whispers, voice rough and fraying. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Spencer!”

My nails dig into his back, desperate for something—release, control, him. I don’t even know if I’m clinging to him or trying to pull him deeper, but he groans when I do it—low and wrecked—like it unravels something he’s been barely holding together.

His pace stutters for just a beat.

Then he grabs my thigh, hikes it higher around his hip, and drives into me again with brutal, unrelenting force.

The desk creaks beneath us. The microphone trembles in his hand.

“That’s it…” he breathes against my mouth. “Say my name.”

Another thrust. My body arches, wrecked and raw.

“Say it like you mean it. Let them hear you fall apart for me.”

And I do.

Each time his name tears from my throat, his grip tightens—on my thigh, on my waist, on the mic still trembling in his hand. He’s losing rhythm now, chasing something just out of reach, buried deep inside me like he can’t stop until we both fall off the edge together.

His movements turn rougher, more erratic, like control is slipping through his fingers and he wants it to.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice breaking apart. “Come on—give it to me.”

The pressure coils tight and fast, unbearably sharp, building from deep inside me like a wave I can’t outrun. I feel it clawing up my spine, lighting every nerve on fire, and I know—I know—I’m about to break.

“Spencer—” my voice fractures.

I shatter around him with a cry that borders on a sob, back arching, thighs trembling, everything inside me clenching hard around him as my climax hits like a lightning strike—hot and endless and all-consuming.

He groans my name in return, low and guttural, pressing his forehead to mine as he follows me over the edge with a final, desperate thrust. His body jerks against mine, hips stuttering as he spills into me, his breath ragged and uneven in my ear.

And then… stillness.

Just the sound of our breathing. Heavy. Shaky. Shallow.

His hand falls away from the mic, letting it dangle by its wire like a forgotten confession. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

For a moment, it’s just quiet.

Then he pulls out of me slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to hurt me—but the ache he leaves behind is instant.

I shift, suddenly aware of my half-unbuttoned blouse, the stretch of my thigh still hooked around him, the sweat cooling between us. The shame doesn’t hit all at once. It creeps in.

And then he speaks.

“You can stop recording now.”

His voice is calm. Too calm.

My throat tightens. I reach for the mic with shaking fingers, powering it off in silence. He watches me do it—watches everything—and still doesn’t look away.

“Who sent you?”

I flinch.

It’s not a growl. Not a threat. Just a question. Clinical. Lethal in its precision.

“Was it internal? Press? Private buyer?”

I try to form words, but none come. I look at him, eyes wide, mouth parted, still wrecked in every sense of the word. I open my lips—twice—and still nothing.

He exhales through his nose, eyes flicking away for the first time.

Not angry. Not even hurt. Just… resigned.

“That’s what I thought.”

He moves before I can speak. Reaches down, tucks himself back into his boxers, then zips up his slacks with that same quiet efficiency—controlled, distant, like he’s locking something away. Like he doesn’t want me to see any part of him he didn’t mean to give.

“Get dressed.”

His voice is steady, but the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

I open my mouth again.

“Spencer, I—”

“Don’t.”

He turns away, running a hand through his hair like it hurts to keep standing there. His shoulders are tense, spine straight, but I see the tremble in his hand. He’s not angry.

He’s wrecked.

Not because I fooled him.

Because he let me.

And he’s about to walk away—leave me in the silence we created—when the word escapes me, sharp and sudden:

“Wait.”

He stops. Doesn’t turn around fully. Just enough for me to see the side of his face, unreadable.

My fingers move before I can think. I reach down, disconnect the recorder, and slide out the memory card. Small. Light. But somehow heavier than anything I’ve ever held.

I walk toward him. Quiet steps. Careful steps. And when I reach him, I place it in his hand.

“Here,” I whisper. “Here’s everything.”

He stares at it for a long moment. Then closes his fingers around it.

“What do you want me to do with it?” he asks, voice low. Tired. But not cold.

I meet his eyes.

“Whatever you want.”

He nods—just once—and slips it into his pocket.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

And then, softer than before, he says, “You know… You could’ve just asked.”

I step up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth still clinging to him. Close enough to imagine, for a second, that we could leave like this. Side by side.

“Would you really have told me anything?” I ask quietly, not looking at him.

There’s a pause.

Then—just barely above a whisper—

“Maybe not everything.”

Another beat. A breath.

“But I would’ve told you the truth.”

We stand there in the hallway—two liars trying to remember how to be honest.

And this time, when he turns to walk, he doesn’t walk away.

He waits.

take a slow step forward, then another, until I’m beside him again. Close enough to feel the quiet shift in the air between us.

“Well… I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I say, trying to smile—trying to ease the weight.

He doesn’t respond. Just watches me.

So I drop the joke.

“For the record… even if you don’t believe me, it got real. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being part of the job.”

I glance up, meet his eyes.

“You’re real to me, Spencer.”

And for a moment, he just looks at me—searching. Like he’s trying to decide whether to believe me.

Then, finally, quietly—

“I know.”

And he starts walking.

This time, I follow.

[girlfromflor]

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | supersoldiers!141 x f!reader

two months into your shared life and you can’t possibly imagine a routine without them. simon is a subtle presence, you know he’s there and you feel him, but half of the time you don’t have many interactions – he feels you, you feel him, you understand each other. you don’t have to talk to share things, it’s like you can mentally and emotionally hold hands with him even though he’s not physically by your side. kyle is more than present, always making sure you have everything you need to comfortably carry on with your day. he has grown to lingering touches and sweet words, you often allow him to stay over the night when shows up at your door – he never asked to sleep in your room, but to know he was in the house was soothing enough.

as for john, he was more than attentive to you. he quickly realized that, in order to make you feel at ease with new things, he had to act confidently about it. you never asked for the things you wanted, so he stopped asking if you needed things soon enough, opting to take it into his own hands and do it – whatever it was. and like it was practiced, when something felt out of place, you’d speak up. like it was normal, like you’ve never even doubted it before, simply because he wasn’t doubting either.

that opened so many doors for you – as a group, yes, but specially between the two of you. you were being quietly and decisively guided by him like he was physically holding you through every step. and it didn’t take too long for you to wordlessly work around each other, his silent domination working like a heavy, warm blanket around you. you felt safe, good and protected. it was as clear as it was indescribable – what you shared –, the proof of it coming when your first actual operation happened.

it was already chaos for you, but you managed it well because you had to. there was no hesitation on the enemies’ part. no doubt, no humanity, so that’s exactly how you worked – fast, assertive and fucking precise. there was a bubbling, unknown feeling deep inside you that was egging you on, pushing you to do more, think less. 

you were already on the way to leave the village that you were assigned to defend across the border. a group of machines had gone autopilot again and were causing problems, your task was to take the people out of there and into the city. the explosion was unexpected. someone must have fired too close to the machines and then they activated self-detonation, but you didn’t have time to think about it, there was a child crying somewhere far in your back. you let go of the car’s door, turning around like a lightening – glancing at price for a split second before you started running towards the sound. no second thoughts – someone was going to do it, you just acted faster. john didn’t have to say it but it was implicit, all of them saw it as clear as day, “you can go, i’ve got your back”. you didn’t raise your gun nor did you pull out a knife. you just ran, knowing that whatever came to your way was going to be put down by john – you captain, your protector.

when you found the kid – a scared little boy, secured in the arms of an older one – he started talking faster than you could comprehend. you made out the words “fell” and “hurt” and quickly realized the older one was injured. you moved to pick the older one up, doing it effortlessly with the way he weighed nothing to you – the perks of being a supersoldier. you looked to the younger one asking “think you can run?” to which he responded with a vigorous nod. you motion for him to go, “i’m right behind you.”

john watched as you appeared from the corner of an empty house with a child in your arms, a smaller one running in their direction. johnny ran instantly when he saw you, picking the younger boy in his arms before running back to the cars as well. you reached it without trouble, stepping inside in the back seat with johnny and kyle – the kids safely seated in your lap and in johnny’s. when you got to the base’s medical center it was easy to make out a woman desperate trying to find her kids. it was extremely fulfilling to see them finding each other, knowing you were part of the reason why they could.

later that day, john was in your kitchen with you as you washed the dishes you used during dinner. the others had just left to sleep, everyone was tired, just needing some good, long night of sleep. john was leaning on the counter when he spoke, “cannot believe you sprinted to get them,” his tone soft, letting you know he wasn't reprimanding you – if anything, it was a compliment.

“didn't think about it,” your voice is a quiet, distant sound. you haven't given it much thought, but now that he’s bringing it up, it gets clearer how you had relied on them without question.

“that's what i mean,” he says, trying to make explicit how amazing it felt for him, to know that you had blindly trusted that they would’ve backed you up. how easy it was for you to trust them, trust him.

you laugh, a bit taken aback by his words. “i don’t doubt you, y’know?” you say, and is so sincere he can’t help but pull you in for a hug.

because he knew. god, he did – he felt it, the complete utter faith you had in them. because you felt how they would do anything to keep the five of you safe and together – it was simply a mutual understanding. he laughed then, matching your wave of emotions, the warmth spreading in his chest making him feel so good he didn’t care if it was coming from you or him – he knew you were feeling it too anyways. “i know, sweetheart.”

it was easy being around john, just as much as it was with kyle and ghost, and that brought a sense of ease to you all that made you feel giddy and cozy. and johnny? well, he was… trying. he still held himself back around you, even though you started giving him more openings to be himself around you. it seemed like he grew used to the habit, and it was infuriating. he tormented everyone with his relentless thinking and strong emotions, but he never acted on it. 

it must be really hard for him to do it, that’s what you’re thinking at the moment. it’s been 30 minutes since he dropped by your place to “watch a movie”, but you know he’s not even close to paying attention to it. as a matter of fact, you know exactly what is going through his mind – you can feel it low in your belly and deep in your core.

“oh, for god's sake, johnny. can you stop?” you snap, exasperated tone making it clear that you mean it – even though there was a hint of a smile in your lips.

“stop what? i’m nae doing anything,” he answers, not even looking at you as he does. there’s a smirk on his lips and a teasing edge on his voice.

“you don't need to, i can hear your thoughts like they're being fucking hammered in my head,” and he laughs at your words, because even though you shared a very crazy emotional bond, there’s no way you can hear his thoughts. you don’t mind him, finishing with “it's fucking maddening.”

“nae my fault yer mental, lass,” he manages to let out, breathless and still smiling from his fit of laughter. not even a full pause after it, he says “seriously, what’re ye even talkin’ about?”

“i'm serious. cut it out, or i'll make you,” you deadpan, tone not half as stern as you wanted it to be, and with the look in his eyes it’s clear it didn't have the desired effect.

“huh, will ye, now? i'd like to see ye try, bonny,” he turns on the couch to look at you, teasing tone and teasing tone rolling off in every syllable.

“so you know what you're doing,” you turn to him too, mimicking his movements without thinking much about it.

“oops, ye caught me,” he says, and you don’t try to hold the laugh that slips your lips. you playfully punch his stomach, and he laughs too – he doesn’t miss the way you don’t move your hand, simply laying it on his chest. “cannae help it, y'know? nae around ye,” he moves closer, his voice is lower in your ears, and it’s like his accent is even stronger now.

“that’s a lie, johnny,” you whisper, making a joke to ease the mood, “you can’t control it with anyone.”

he chuckles and moves to touch your hand that is on his chest, hand closing around your wrist and giving your arm a light tug. you laugh and move to sit between his legs – back touching his chest, head resting on his shoulder. at his lack of response you add, “you don’t have to keep yourself from doing the things you want, johnny.” tilting your head back, you hold his gaze, “it’s not healthy.”

“aye,” he says as he pushes your face back to watch the tv, his chin resting on your head. “just wasn’t sure if you’d be alright with it.”

johnny didn’t shut up about it afterwards and the boys very much liked the new pace that had been settled. still, the men had to often remind johnny to do the things he wanted. he was too afraid you’d pull away, and he knew the others thought that too because he’d often reply with “ye say that, but ye dinnae act on it yerself.”

it’s how they end up in another one of these discussions. you're in the backyard of their house, picking up some flowers to decorate your place while they are gathered on the porch watching you as they speak.

“you have to act on it, otherwise she won’t either,” kyle points out, leaning on the porch’s fence.

“aye, ya know it,” john shrugs, his eyes still on you – remembering all the times he got you to do things simply by acting confidently around you –, “casual dominance or some shit.”

“i’m nae sure that’s a thing,” johnny chuckles, finding it funny that they’re trying so hard to make him believe their words.

“watch and learn, johnny,” kyle says at last, before walking to you. he calls your name and you look up, a smile already making its way to your lips as you settle the basket filled with flowers on the floor.

the others stay unmoving, watching to see how the scene will unfold. johnny says from where they stand, “that’s nae fair, she’s whipped.”

“i’m sure she’d react the same way if it was any of us,” john is quick to jump into your defense, watching as simon bends down a bit to lock eyes with johnny and nod – he thought the same.

they fall into silence to pay attention to you and kyle. he has his hands on your waist now, pulling you closer to him. he’s talking about something silly, you’re not really paying attention because your eyes keep flickering to his lips. a nervous laugh slips to your lips when kyle calls you out on it, arms further closing around you – hugging your middle. your hands find his biceps and then slide up slowly to find their place on his shoulders. 

“what is going through that pretty head of yours, love?” kyle asks you, and he clocks your flustered state immediately. “don’t even think about lying, i already know.”

you pout then, it was unfair. you weren’t used to it like they were, so you tease him a bit, “if you know, then why’d i have to say anything?”

he smirks, a chuckle escaping his lips because it was like you were reminding him of the very reason why he was there in the first place. “you’re right, baby,” is all he says before he slowly moves down to touch his lips on yours.

it was breathtaking, the shared feeling of your joy and satisfaction. his lips are soft on yours and you have to fight the urge to rush things. one of your hands is on his shoulder while the other is settled on his cheek. his hands squeeze your waist slightly, grounding himself in the moment. you kiss slowly, tongues brushing in one another passionately, in a way that rips the air out of your lungs. you giggle when he pulls away, pulling him into a hug and hiding your face in his neck. he laughs, squeezing you in his arms, cooing “don’t get shy now.”

you leave a peck on his neck as an answer, and pull away from the hug. the others watched amazed at how easy it was for kyle to get a kiss – a bit aroused by how bad you were holding yourself back. and johnny is about to wail his complaints out when they are caught by your gaze. johnny’s words die in his tongue because – as if sensing the disturbance in the harmony you’ve set between you – you grab the basket with one hand, the other interlacing with kyle’s, and start walking towards the porch. once you’ve made your way up the small set of stairs, ghost is wordlessly taking the basket from you and stepping inside the house. john gives kyle and johnny a look that says “behave” before petting your head and stepping inside as well.

you turn to johnny, all doe eyes and flustered wishes, “say it, johnny.”

he blinks, then looks at kyle – who just shrugs with a smirk. he pats the back of his head before stepping closer to you, “uh… lass,” he starts, a bit nervous but most importantly: fucking excited that this is happening. he has to talk slowly in order to not trip over his words, simply because he wants to make it happen so bad. “can i kiss ye, bonny?”

and fuck, yes he can. he knows it, hell— price and simon know it. they can feel it deep in their chest, in addition to the overbearing need to palm their semi – they wonder how wet you are with the exchange. “yes, please,” you whisper, and just like that johnny is on you.

the kiss is a bit faster than the one you shared with kyle, but fuck if it wasn’t just as good. johnny had both his hands on your face, cupping your cheek. your hands fell in his waist, stroking softly through the fabric of his shirt. you don’t even realize when he pulls away, opening your eyes only to see his almost fucked out expression – steamin’ jesus, he’ll never neglect himself again. kyle has half a mind to pull the both of you into something more, already knowing that simon and john are trying to balance it out – otherwise, you and johnny would pull you all into a spiral that no one would want to leave. 

turns out all you needed was a greenlight. they’re sure that now you are going to be just like johnny – maybe a bit worse, it’ll depend on the time of the month.

a/n: please let me know what you think, and what you want to see in the next part!💘 | taglist: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @little-mini-me-world @bath1lda @imthatone-annoyingfriend @night-shadowblood-writes2 @z-wantstowrite @kentuckyhobbit @supernova2205 @thatghostlykid @reggiesslut @reap3erslov3

[frudoo]

I am a plague tonight and I’m making it your problem 💀

John Price x tattoo artist reader… he finds them cos they specialise in neo trad stuff. The boys keep teasing him that his tattoos are aging worse than he is, colour fading and lines blurring, so John decides to treat himself, have a little self care time getting poked.

Doesn’t hurt at all, not with that pretty face poking him. Doesn’t she look so sweet when she concentrates?! Obvs he can’t help but imagine what else he could absorb her time with.

Spoiler alert it’s him

Emmy! Here's nearly 1,850 words worth of a prompt you sent me last year (oops)

Warnings: Alcohol consumption. Needles, obviously. Suggestive. Fem!Reader. MDNI.

Muppets, the lot of them, guffawing at their beloved captain over the rims of their condensed glasses. John is far from tipsy but not quite stone cold sober, a nice buzz brewing in his brain. It blissfully distracts from the idiocy of his drunken team and their jabs at him. 

     “Fookin’-” Johnny hiccups, then continues. “Ah reckon they’re fookin’ ancient! Wha’, Cap, did ye steal yer designs from a bleedin’ museum? The- the hero… herogilfibs… the heir-?”

     “Hieroglyphics, y’knobhead,” Simon snorts, smacking the back of the Scotsman’s neck as he finishes the last of his drink. 

     “Tav’s go’ a poin’, sir,” Kyle grins mischievously. “Ya tattoos really are lookin’ worse than ya face, ol’ man.”

     “Shove it up your arses,” John rolls his eyes, tossing back the rest of his beer before slamming the bottle down on the table. “You’re all coverin’ my tab.”

     Slurred protests and pleas fall from the other three men’s lips as John leaves the bar without so much as a look back. The cool rush of evening air hits him, and John breathes it in gratefully. The smell of booze was starting to give him a migraine. 

     As he heads in the direction of his flat, the streetlights illuminate what little of his tattoos show past the sleeves of his t-shirt. The guys are right—his tattoos that were once vibrant and full of color have dulled, much like… well, himself.

     God, when’s the last time he did something for himself that didn’t include going out to the pub or rotting in bed all day while on leave? He’s not even fucking forty yet, and still his knees creak, and his face is bone-dry, and there is nothing to celebrate in his life besides the fact that he’s been able to avoid death for this long. He’s in desperate need of something to look forward to other than piles of paperwork and the crippling knowledge that his next mission could very well be his last. That’s hardly any comfort.

     He checks his phone and grumbles when he sees that it’s only eight o’clock. Fucking hell, he’s displaying more old man tendencies than he thought. He weighs his options; there’s no way in hell he’s walking back into that pub and risking more lighthearted insults—or, worse, actually having to pay for his own drinks. He could head back home and climb into bed, staring at the ceiling until it hurts to shut his dried out eyes. Neither choice is more attractive to him. With a groan, he turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction of his flat, determined to find something to occupy his time. 

     It’s either fate, luck, or some sick joke that he ends up standing face-to-face with a little tattoo shop. He scans the outside of the brick foundation, reading the poster that they have hanging in the window. There are three artists here that specialize in realistic black and grey, and another who specializes in color. Back when John first got his tattoos, he wasn’t interested in having a certain style, he simply just pointed at the wall and told his artist to put it on him. 

     John sighs and reluctantly walks into the shop, looking around at all the art on the walls. It’s beautiful, of course, with intricate details in both large and small works done by the talented artists. Hopefully they’re as good with tattoo machines as they are with pencils and markers. 

     “Can I help you?” 

     John turns toward the voice behind the counter, his eyes widening slightly as he sees, quite possibly, the most gorgeous woman to ever live. Captain John Price, the big, scary bear of a man, whose mere presence is enough to demand respect, stammers over his words.

     “I-I, uh… I’m looking to g-get, erm…”

     “Sir, if you don’t know what you want, you’re welcome to have a seat and figure it out, or stop wasting my time,” the deity raises an eyebrow and John feels all the blood in his body rush south.

     “Tattoos! I-I need to get my tattoos… replenished?” He hums, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. 

     “Can I see what we’re working with?” 

     John is quick to roll up his sleeves, revealing sad, sun-worn ink. When your fingertips gently brush over the work on his freckled skin, he has to will every goosebump threatening to rise to stay beneath the surface. 

     “Damn, when did you get these done? The Renaissance era?” You joke, huffing through your nose as you look up at him. 

     “Been told they look pretty rough,” John grunts. 

     “Nothing I can’t handle. How much were you expecting to get done tonight?” You cross your arms over your torso—the man is fighting demons trying not to stare at the delicious crease of your cleavage.

     “What time does the shop close?” 

     “How much money you got?”

     “Touché.”

     With a giggle that makes birdsong seem more akin to nails on a chalkboard, you lead him back to your station, plopping a clipboard of paperwork into his lap the moment he slides into the chair. Once he’s finished filling out all the forms, John takes a moment to admire the canvases decorating your area, humming with approval. It’s all clean, perfectly neat work. There’s no doubt in his mind that you’ll be able to turn the eyesore that is his old tattoos into something worthy of being displayed in a gallery. 

     You slump into your own chair, motioning for him to roll up his sleeve once again. He complies, of course.

     “Since it’s just your bicep, I’m thinking we can get this arm done tonight if everything goes smoothly, which I expect it will,” you explain. 

     “Sounds good to me,” John smiles.

     You grin in satisfaction, giving him a small nod as you snap on a pair of sterile gloves. While you shave and prep his skin, he leans back against the headrest, allowing his eyes to shut peacefully. It’s nice, knowing he’s doing this for his own benefit, not for the greater good of the world or the men in suits who order him around to do their dirty work for them. When he hears the first buzz of your machine, he opens one eye long enough to watch as you bring it to his skin. 

     “Ready?” You ask, and he hums his confirmation.

     As expected, it doesn’t hurt. Not really. Compared to the countless injuries he’s sustained on the field—bullet wounds, knives to the abdomen, things he’d rather not think about at the moment—the pain is nothing. If anything, it brings him comfort. If he’s not hurting somewhere at all times, he tends to forget he’s alive. 

     “Considering you got these done back when dinosaurs were roaming around, it’s pretty good work,” you tease, and that makes his head perk up. 

     “Got jokes, do ya?” He muses. 

     “Oh, plenty. The night’s still young,” you wink up at him and John thinks he sees stars.

     Truly, you are ethereal, tattoos of your own scattered across your supple skin. His crystal blue eyes trace over every inch of your face—the way your tongue catches between your teeth while you work on the smaller details, the scrunch in your brow as you trace over the thicker lines. You do the tiniest little dance between each stroke, and it makes him chuckle. He can’t help but admire you.

     “Got a staring problem?” You tease, taking a break from filling in the outlines to wipe away the blood. 

     John’s face flushes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand in embarrassment. He’s hardly a humorless man, but the way you joke with him so freely has him blushing like an idiot. 

     “It’s okay. I’m used to elderly men checking me out.”

     John groans as you cackle at your own words, but in reality it amuses him to no end. 

     “Do I really look that bloody old?” He grumbles.

     “Nah, I’m just messing with you. You’re kinda… I mean, you’re a dilf,” you shrug.

     “I’m a fuckin’ what?”

     “Let’s just say that there’s a niche and you fill it perfectly,” you grin widely, enjoying the confusion written on his features. 

     He’s silent for a long moment, only the music playing over the speakers and the soft hum of your machine audible. Every time you move even slightly, his gaze follows. Normally, if it were anyone else you’d be uncomfortable, but he’s so charming and handsome. You welcome it, really. 

     “Do you have a wife? Kids?” You break the silence, meeting his eye briefly while you dip the needle into some more ink.

     “Not hardly,” he answers, sucking his teeth. “Not for lack o’tryin’, though.”

     “Sorry to hear that,” you bite your bottom lip, feeling bad for bringing the subject up.

     “I’m not. It’s just reality that no woman goes after a grumpy ol’ man past his prime,” John chuckles humorlessly. 

     “Bullshit,” you roll your eyes. “You’re fucking hot. I bet there’s a whole group of women drooling over you that you’re not even aware of.”

     “You seem pretty certain,” John raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth curling just barely upward.

     “I told you, there’s a niche that you fill,” you double down on your statement, beginning to fill the linework of the final piece on his arm with color. “And, maybe, I just so happen to be an enjoyer of that niche.”

     John’s heart skips a beat. His fingers twitch with excitement, and he can no longer hold back a smile.

     “That right, love?”

     “Ah, don’t go getting a big head, now,” you laugh, sniffling softly. 

     “Well, you sure know how to inflate a man’s ego,” he jokes. 

     “Keep that shit up and I’m charging you extra!”

     “Do that and I won’t give you a tip.”

     “Which kind?” You ask, biting back a snort as you watch his face contort with a scandalized look.

     “Cheeky fuckin’ thing, you!” 

     Your shoulders bounce with your laughter as you finish the final touches of his last tattoo. You clean the entire area of his raw skin with alcohol wipes before carefully covering it with a few large pieces of saniderm. You smooth the wrap out gently, ensuring that there are no air bubbles. Satisfied, you lean back in your seat, disposing of your used needles and other supplies.

     “You’ll leave this first saniderm on for about 24 hours, then you can take it off and gently wash the tattoos with unscented soap and warm water,” you explain, spinning your chair to face him. “You can come back to me tomorrow night, and I’ll replace the saniderm for you.”

     “I’m all set, then?” He asks softly, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

     “Yes, sir,” you beam, telling him the amount he owes you. “Wait, one thing, though—I never asked for your name.”

     “It’s John, love.”

     “Well then, John,” you hum, handing him one of your business cards that oh-so-conveniently has your personal number written on the back. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

     The man slips your card into his wallet, radiant, sparkling eyes meeting your own as he stands.

     “I guess you will.”

[earlysunshines]

strawberry-flavored kisses

danielle marsh x fem!reader ; fluff

synopsis: it's valentines day so you and your amazing beautiful awesome lovely girlfriend bake cookies for your friends and loved ones (while also sharing sweet kisses in between)

warnings: noneeee pure fluff lolz ; established relationship ; they're so in love it PAINS me; anything else not mentioned ; not proofread

a/n: happy valentines day!! (same y/n and dani from sunshine girl but also you don't have to read it first LOL it doesn't rly matter k bye enjoy!)

working on valentines day–especially as a barista—is like willingly walking through the gates of hell. the sheer number of couples waltzing in with their fingers intertwined, muttering sweet nothings while ordering the cherry blossom latte special is enough to send any single person in a spiral. 

unfortunately for your coworker soobin, today that barista is him.

he’s been stuck taking orders during the afternoon rush, forcing a polite smile each time a customer leans over to press kisses to their partners temple, hand, cheek, or even lips (which earns the most noticeable reaction from the guy). it happens more times than you can count on both hands, and each occurrence earns a subtle, annoyed scrunch of his nose.

you’re more than grateful that you work with your girlfriend, danielle, because if you didn’t—you’d probably be on the floor dying from heartache one hour in.

you and danielle share a knowing glance each time since you’re stuck together making all the drinks and serving the pastries in the display, both of you stifling laughter with each look. danielle is much sweeter than you are, so she tries to be subtle about her amusement. you, on the other hand, are not as merciful, watching soobin’s growing misery with shameless amusement.

soobin slides down the last receipt after the line of four couples is tended to, giving you a glare. “you guys are evil and i hate you both so much.” he groans before reaching over to grab a piece of strawberry tiramisu for another order. 

“it’s not my fault love is in the air~” you tease as you tamp down grinded beans, nudging danielle with your elbow.

danielle grins, lingering against you. “yeah, soobin. maybe you should try being happy for them! look at how cute they all are.”

soobin gives you both a deadpan look before calling out an order, and once he’s done, he says through gritted teeth, “easy for you lovebirds to say.”

just as you’re about to respond, another couple walks through the door, giggling as they gasp in awe at the pastries laid out. soobin sighs, putting on his customer service demeanor, and bracing himself while you and danielle bite down your laughter.

“i feel bad for him, y/n.” danielle mutters as she pours steamed milk into a cup, making a beautiful heart design. “he looks like he’s in actual, physical pain…” she adds, looking over to see the couple in front of the register sharing a quick peck before scanning the menu again.

“i think he’s going to pass out, or air out the place.” you murmur, watching as his fingers claw at the counter.

danielle looks around, then leans closer, her breath warm against your ear. you shiver at the proximity, feeling her lips brush against you just barely as she says, “maybe we should order the cherry blossom latte and hold hands while doing it. you know, just to mess with him.”

“i like the way you think.” you chuckle, smiling down at the shot you’ve just pulled. “maybe a kiss too?”

“you just want an excuse to kiss me, don’t you?”

“i don’t need one. after we clock out i’m gonna kiss you soooo much. just wanted to let you know.” you shrug, moving back to the other side of the espresso machine to weigh out coffee grinds. “my valentine’s day special.”

danielle rolls her eyes but smiles at you, biting her lip at your bold remark.

—

all three of you clock out at the same time when the other three evening shift workers clock in. you all head to the back, and soobin dramatically leans against the wall with his heart shaped doughnut that he stole from the display. you and danielle giggle, earning a defeated look from your poor coworker. 

danielle kisses your cheek in front of soobin before you two head out, earning another groan from him. even if he’s in lots of emotional pain, the tips from the dreadful shift were wonderful. you and danielle know how lovely the tips are on holidays, so you two made a plan prior to bake cookies for your friends, which is why you’re immediately on the way to the grocery store to spend your combined cash tips.

(you make sure to let soobin know that you’ll save some of your treats for him, telling him he can come by your place anytime he wants. it’s only fair considering he was on register duty most of the shift.

plus, it’s valentine’s day! it’s only fair to spread the love you two have for your loved ones.)

the grocery store is also filled with a handful of last-minute valentine’s day shoppers, but you and danielle still manage to fill your basket without much waiting or trouble. she sings along to can’t take my eyes off of you—which is playing louder than usual on the speakers—with a packet of chocolates in her hand as the microphone. you laugh, taking a video of her when she skips down the aisle singing happily. 

by the time you get back to your house, the kitchen smells like butter and sugar, and the speakers are playing your carefully curated valentines playlist. can i call you rose? starts playing and you suddenly stop stirring the strawberries you’ve been boiling on low, gasping dramatically, “this is my song.”

danielle giggles at your antics and squeaks when you pull her away from the counter suddenly to serenade her lovingly.

“can i call you rose?” you sing, before twirling her around. “cause you’re sweeeeet like a flowerrrr in bloooom~”

“you’re so cheesy,” danielle giggles, twirling you around right after she says it. “you’re going to burn the jam!”

“soobin’s disease spread to you,” you joke.

“and what disease would that be?”

“being single.”

she rolls her eyes at your response before leaning in to kiss your nose. “i’m immune to that because of you, silly.”

not so long after you sway side to side playfully, you return to your baking duties. she mixes the wet ingredients while you finish up the jam, and you steal loving glances at her when she’s too focused to notice.

both of you are side by side again once you bring out the finished jam, placing it on the counter she’s now rolling the dough on. she hands you golfball-sized piece for you to shape, laughing at how carefully you work with it.

“you’re putting extra effort into these, huh?” danielle teases, watching as you carefully press your thumb into the dough.

“i have to. hyein will insult me like crazy if they’re ugly.”

she laughs, bumping her shoulder against yours. “true. minji and hanni will definitely do the same if they turn out deformed…”

you snicker, then continue to perfect your first cookie out of many. 

you and danielle work silently as the music in the background hums. you glance at danielle, who’s sleeves are rolled up as she pours jam into the small, heart-shaped dent in the cookie. there’s flour on he cheek, and when you reach over to brush it off, she scrunches her nose at the ticklish feeling.

“you have some on your sweater too.” she teases, pointing at the flour on your clothes.

“yeah, yeah.” 

the two of you fall into an easy rhythm, shaping the cookies together and pressing small hearts into the center for jam. you’re focused on the start of your seventh cookie when you catch danielle sneaking a spoonful of jam in the corner of your eye.

“that’s for the cookies!” you scold, nudging her playfully. 

“i had to make sure it’s good!” she argues, licking jam off the corner of her lip. 

“oh, so you don’t trust me? wow…” you huff.

“i just needed to make sure!”

“there’s only a limited amount of—” before you can finish your sentence, danielle suddenly leans in, using her fingers to tilt your chin down before kissing you softly. you get a taste of the jam, it’s almost as sweet as the person kissing you—literally. you hum, feeling your shoulders relax as her fingers sneak to the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

she pulls away and grins like she’s just gotten away with something. “there,” she murmurs against your lips. “good, right?”

your brain short-circuits for a moment before you blink at her, your face heating up. “you’re so—”

“amazing? yes, i know. now stop distracting me! we have to finish these cookies…”

“you’re the one who—” she cuts you off again, kissing you a little longer than last time before parting fully. you giggle at her antics, nudging her. “do you like the jam or did you just want to kiss me?” you question with feigned annoyance.

she hums thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her finger like a cartoon character. “all of the above.” she says while flashing a cheeky smile.

and just like that she gets back to work, leaving you flustered and giddy. you angle yourself weirdly to press a kiss to her cheek, earning a giggle before she tells you to finish up your cookie.

—

once you finish making a little over three dozen cookies, you and danielle are beat.

you both clean up a bit before washing your hands, set a timer, and then danielle flops onto the couch. you follow after, sitting next to her and leaning your head against hers. she shifts and puts her arm around you, pinching your cheek with two fingers.

“tired?” she asks.

“yes…” you respond. “but not too tired to kiss you…?” you add, turning your head to stare at her lips.

she leans closer, pecking your lips quickly before responding, “wow, cupid must’ve hit bullseye on your heart.”

“now look who’s so cheesy.” you giggle, nose brushing against hers. 

“yes because i love you, my valentine.”

“i love you too.” you say before meeting her lips in a tender, loving kiss.

your playful exchange of kisses lasts a few minutes, and you plan to continue until the timer rings. what you didn’t take into consideration was the fact that your younger cousin—hyein—would be back home so soon. 

and so, when you hear a dramatic groan along with the door closing, you two pull apart with flushed faces.

“oh my god, gross…” you hear from the entrance, turning around to see hyein with a half-disgusted and half-amused look on her face. “just because it’s valentines day doesn’t mean you get to be all lovey-dovey on my couch.”

“but we made cookies to share…” you respond defeatedly.

“were you guys being lovey-dovey while making them?” you open your mouth to reply, but pause, and hyein takes that opportunity to groan even louder. “gross…”

“oh shut up, i know you’re gonna devour like five of them in the same minute.”

“hey!” 

danielle giggles at the banter, and then all of you turn your heads toward the oven when the timer rings. 

“i promise the cookies are good. please take some as an apology?” danielle suggests, “there’s strawberry jam on them, and it’s really good.” she adds as she pinches your forearm, reminding you of the strawberry-flavored kisses from earlier. you blush.

hyein laughs, then happily sets her bag down before rushing over to the oven. you give danielle a look and she gives you the same one back before kissing you quick enough so hyein doesn’t notice.

“happy valentines day. i love you.” she says, tugging at your hand. “let’s go eat these cookies… we might need to make another batch if they’re too good.”

you laugh, following her to the kitchen island. “yeah, i was thinking that too. maybe being considerate wasn’t the best idea.” you joke, then kiss her forehead before muttering, “happy valentines day. i love you more.”

you hear hyein groan once more.

“i’ve seen enough couples at school today and i do not need to see another show of pda in the comfort of my own home.” hyein says loudly. “can you take the cookies out now?”

you scoff playfully before finding the oven mitts, smacking hyein on the head with them before you open up the oven to take out the first tray. the scent of the cookies fill the house with a sweet, irresistible aroma.

(but not as sweet or irresistible as your lovely valentine.

nothing can beat her at that.)

[you-have-a-metal-arm]

'Til The End of The Line pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of hospitals

Summary: You get injured in a mission, and Bucky cannot bear to see you in such state.

Author's Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. English is not my first language, so please understand grammar or spelling mistakes.

Thank you for those who enjoyed the first part, and thank you again for waiting.

Part 2 is now yours.

The world around Bucky seemed to blur as he followed the medical team through the corridor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. The sight of you lying so still, bloodied and broken, was something he never thought he’d see—not like this, not when he hadn’t even told you how much he loved you that morning.

As Dr. Cho and her team wheeled you into the surgical room, Bucky’s steps faltered. He felt like he was wading through quicksand, every movement heavy and slow. He wanted to be with you, to hold your hand, to tell you that everything would be okay. But he was kept out of the room, forced to watch through the glass as the doors closed behind you.

Tony, standing beside him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Bucky. She’ll pull through.”

But Tony’s words felt hollow to Bucky. He had seen too much death, too much loss. The fear of losing you was like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t lose you—not when you were his reason to keep fighting, his anchor in the storm.

His mind raced back to the last few months—the mornings spent in quiet domesticity, the late-night talks about the future, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes. How could it all be ripped away in a single moment?

Bucky pressed his hand against the glass, his breath fogging up the cold surface. His other hand clenched into a fist, the tension coiled tight in his chest. The image of you, fragile and bleeding, burned into his mind.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours—he couldn’t tell. Time had no meaning as he stood there, waiting, praying, hoping for a miracle.

Tony stayed by his side, silent. Steve joined them, his face drawn and pale. The guilt weighed heavily on Steve’s shoulders, and Bucky could see it. But Bucky had no room for blame—only a desperate need for you to come back to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dr. Cho emerged from the operating room. Her face was tired, but there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “She’s stable, but it was touch and go for a while.”

Bucky’s knees almost buckled with relief, but he held himself upright by sheer will. “Can I see her?”

Dr. Cho nodded. “She’s still unconscious, but you can sit with her. It’s important she has someone she loves nearby when she wakes up.”

Bucky didn’t wait for further permission. He pushed past the others and entered the room where you lay. The sight of you hooked up to monitors, IVs, and machines tore at his heart, but at least you were alive. Your chest rose and fell steadily, and the color was slowly returning to your cheeks.

He pulled up a chair beside your bed, taking your hand in his. The warmth of your skin, even faint, was enough to give him hope. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his thumb tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing every detail.

“I’m here, doll,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’m right here. Please, come back to me.”

The room was quiet, save for the beeping of the machines that tracked your vital signs. Bucky stayed by your side, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat—he just watched you, waiting for any sign that you were waking up.

Hours passed, and the rest of the team came and went, offering support, but Bucky barely registered them. His world had narrowed down to just you, lying so still in that hospital bed.

At some point, he must have dozed off because he was startled awake by a faint pressure on his hand. His eyes flew open, and he looked down to see your fingers twitching slightly in his grasp.

“Y/N?” His voice was barely a whisper as he leaned closer, his heart pounding in his chest.

You stirred, your eyelids fluttering weakly. It took you a moment to orient yourself, but when your eyes finally opened, they were full of confusion and pain. “B-Buck?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“I’m here, doll, I’m right here.” Bucky’s relief was palpable as he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes misting over. “You’re okay. You made it.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips, though the effort seemed to exhaust you. “I… I thought… I wasn’t going to make it.”

“You did, though,” Bucky whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe now. We’re together.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, your hand trembling slightly in his grasp. “I… I heard you… on the comms. I was so scared… that I’d never see you again.”

“It’s quite a miracle that she woke up. But we still must keep an eye out for any damage to her brain,” the doctor said.

“I’ll call Dr. Cho for further checkups. My job’s done for now.” The doctor left, and Bucky’s gaze returned to you.

Bucky sat back down beside you, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he clutched your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. He couldn't believe you were awake, breathing, speaking to him. The terror of almost losing you hadn’t yet faded from his mind.

You looked at him, your voice barely a whisper but full of the love you had for him. “Hey, I told you I’m not going anywhere, didn’t I?”

Bucky let out a shaky laugh, a mix of relief and disbelief. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, feeling the warmth of your skin that he thought he’d never feel again. “You scared the hell out of me, doll. I thought—”

His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, your free hand weakly brushing the tears from his cheeks. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Buck.”

He pulled back to look at you, his blue eyes swimming with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted, his voice barely holding together.

“I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” you reassured him, squeezing his hand with as much strength as you could muster. “We’re going to get through this. Together.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stared at you, memorizing every line of your face as if afraid it might vanish if he looked away. The weight of everything he had almost lost hung heavily in the air between you, but so did the promise of the future you still had together.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the intensity of the words.

“More than anything in this world.”

“I love you too, Buck,” you replied softly, your eyes shining with the same intensity. “And I’m sorry for putting you through this. For making you worry so much.”

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’re going to get better. We’re going to get through this, and then we’ll live that life we talked about.”

A small, hopeful smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah, with the house, the backyard, and maybe… maybe even those babies.”

Bucky’s heart swelled with emotion at the thought. The future seemed so far away, but with you here, with your hand in his, it felt possible again. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice choked with emotion. “We’ll have that. I promise you, we’ll have that.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, exhaustion weighing heavily on you, but you fought to stay awake, to stay with him. “I’m going to hold you to that, Barnes.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You better. I’m not going anywhere either, doll. You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” you whispered, finally allowing yourself to drift off to sleep, knowing that Bucky would be right there when you woke up again.

As you slept, Bucky stayed by your side, his hand still holding yours tightly. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, afraid that if he did, this fragile moment of peace would shatter. But as he watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, he let himself believe that everything was going to be okay. That the darkness had passed, and the light of a new day would bring the life you both deserved.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky allowed himself to hope.

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

Tag list @baw1066 @hzdhrtss @mrsnikstan

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

Thank you for reading and enjoy your weekend :)

[writesvani]

coming down | 01

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to-enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): emotional distress and anxiety, body image issues and weight-related comments, mentions of food, dieting, and restriction, verbal abuse and manipulation, self-harm ideation, substance use and abuse references, mental health struggles (depression, anxiety, insecurity), intimate situations and explicit language, abandonment and neglect, self-deprecation and feelings of worthlessness, bullying or being belittled

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST

— previous chapter / next chapter

wc: 4,7k // date: 5th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE - The Morning; proceed with caution...

AN: okay, first of all, let’s talk about ren. he's liteeerally the only reason i'm posting this chapter earlier. REN. If you didn’t fall in love with him in this chapter, then honestly, i don’t know what to tell you because he’s an absolute gem. like i’m literally obsessed with him. he’s my favorite character HANDS DOWN. i’m talking top-tier, i would throw myself in front of a speeding bus for him if i had to. i mean, he’s got the charm, the humor, the flawless sense of timing. he’s a walking chaos machine and i’m here for it. can we please get a round of applause for ren? seriously, he’s out here living his best life, making questionable decisions, and somehow being the best friend anyone could ask for.

this chapter? oh yeah, it’s the introduction to the story, the one that sets everything on fire (in a good way, don’t worry). we’re finally giving you the ren experience in full force because he’s that important. his energy? unparalleled. his bad decisions? iconic. his ability to get people into ridiculous situations? absolutely legendary. and don’t even get me started on how much i’m loving writing for him. i know you can’t tell, but i’m literally typing this while holding back tears of joy. like, this man could ask me to jump off a cliff and i’d probably do it because i’m just so in love with his chaotic little soul.

stay tuned for more chaos, more fun, and more ren being ren.

love, [@writesvani] (ren's #1 fan)

No one ever told you opening your eyes while fighting a horrible hangover would be this hard—well, they did, and you’ve experienced it millions of times—but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Fluttering your eyelashes, your eyes barely open as a blurry flash of sunlight enters your narrow line of vision.

Ugh.

Why did you drink so much last night? You don’t even know.

Never drinking again.

Noted.

Lying to yourself won’t make the situation any easier.

Noted as well.

Hardly awake, you shift, trying to lift yourself up to sit—except your bed isn’t yours at all.

And this isn’t your room.

Or your apartment.

Your head throbs as you blink away the lingering fog in your vision, forcing yourself to take in your surroundings.

A small studio apartment. Cramped, slightly chaotic, and definitely unfamiliarly familiar.

The sofa beneath you is worn, the cushions flattened from years of use. Next to it, a tiny coffee table is cluttered with splattered magazines and old computer science textbooks, their spines cracked and bruised from relentless study sessions. Among the mess, a dirty ashtray overflows, its stale scent clinging to the air.

Gross.

A ginger-scented candle sits beside it—maybe an attempt to neutralize the overwhelming stench of smoke, though it clearly isn’t doing its job.

Your eyes drift further, landing on the tiny kitchen area. Greasy, dimly lit, its sink overflowing with dishes that look like they’ve been abandoned for days. The counters are barely visible beneath the chaos of unwashed mugs, instant ramen cups, and a suspiciously sticky bottle of what you assume was once honey.

Unease coils in your stomach.

Where the fuck are you?

Your fingers clutch the blanket draped over you, a thin, soft thing that smells like cheap detergent and cigarette smoke.

And then—

Relief floods through you like a tidal wave, so strong it almost makes you dizzy.

Oh.

Thank God.

Thank God you ended up here.

“So my worst best friend is finally up! What a lovely surprise!”

A voice—far too loud for this hour, far too cheerful for your current state—pulls you from the lingering haze of sleep.

You groan, pressing your palms into your temples as if that could somehow will away the pounding headache splitting your skull. “Please, for the love of God, let me enjoy my peace and quiet for five minutes before coming in with your unnecessary comments.”

A dramatic gasp. Then, “Okay, bitch. Rude. I understand you’re hungover, but please just be civilized for a second there. You don’t have to throw your defensive mechanism in—I didn’t even start my lecture yet.”

You crack open one eye just to glare. “Cut the crap, Ren. I’m not really in the mood right now.”

Ren smirks, crossing his arms as he leans against the kitchen counter. “Oh babe, if I were into women, I’d already have gotten you in it.”

Your lips twitch despite the throbbing in your skull. Because no matter how much you despise him in this exact moment—for being loud, for being happy, for simply existing when all you want is to die a slow, miserable, post-hangover death—a wave of relief crashes over you.

You’re safe.

Safe from last night. Safe with him.

You’ve known Ren for ages. Just to be more precise, since you were eleven. He’s your other half, your soulmate in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with the fact that, if it weren’t for his overwhelming love for ass and balls and dicks/men, the two of you would already be married.

It’s a thought you’ve had more than once. A parallel universe, maybe. One where you’d be an old married couple on some tropical island, far away from the bullshit of everyday life. Where you’d smoke weed all day and piss him off, and he’d play The Sims 4 all night and piss you off right back—screaming at his Sim for cheating on their husband with some new guy, courtesy of Wicked Whims.

But that’s not this universe.

This one’s a little messier.

This one’s full of questionable life choices, painfully slow mornings, and an unspoken pact:

If neither of you find an unrespectably hot, respectable man by the time you’re 35—

The wedding’s on.

“How the fuck did I end up here?”

Your voice is raw, thick with exhaustion and regret. The world tilts as you sit up, and for a brief moment, you genuinely consider throwing yourself right back into unconsciousness.

Ren, ever the dramatic one, sighs as if this isn’t the millionth time you’ve asked him that exact question. “What do you think?”

You blink at him. “First of all, don’t answer my question with another question. Second of all, IF I FUCKING KNEW, I WOULDN’T BE ASKING.”

Ren groans, tossing his hands into the air like a cartoon character about to launch into a monologue. “Okay, calm your pretty ass down, missy. You were too wasted. Or high. Or probably both. And you got a cab to my place. Probably the only address you could remember, considering we all know you can’t remember your own after one shot.”

His words are a jumble in your aching brain, but the general gist is clear: you fucked up. Again.

You huff, crossing your arms, but the sudden movement sends a sharp pain straight to your skull.

Yup.

Yup.

Never drinking again.

“Oh, Rennie,” you mumble, pulling his blanket over your head and collapsing onto the silky mattress. “I don’t think I’m ever going to drink again.”

Ouch. Bad decision. Pain again.

You’re dizzy, disoriented, sinking into the pillowcase you got him for his twenty-second birthday—the one he pretended not to like but still uses anyway.

Ren sighs. Not annoyed, not even surprised. Just—accepting. Because this isn’t the first time you’ve stumbled into his apartment, destroyed beyond reason, unable to string together a coherent sentence.

You feel bad. You always do. But you can’t help it.

Ren is the last remaining fragment of the old you, the one you buried deep in the back of your mind, the one you so desperately tried to forget. But he’s Ren, and he’s been your Ren since you were eleven.

And you hate it—hate that you keep dragging him into your mess, ruining his perfectly fine days with your self-inflicted chaos. But for some unfathomable reason, Ren still loves you.

He loved you at your best.

He loved you at your worst.

And somehow, he still loves you in whatever the fuck this is.

“It’s okay, babe. I know you’re lying.”

Ren’s voice is steady, soft, almost knowing. He doesn’t call you out with anger or frustration—just that damn patience of his, the kind that makes your chest tighten and your throat burn.

“C’mon, don’t go all crocodile tears and fake regrets on me now,” he continues, settling down next to you. “You know there’s always a safe space for you here.”

His hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin. His touch is light, barely there, but it still feels like an anchor. You lean into it instinctively, your head still pulsing with the aftermath of last night’s recklessness. Yet somehow, his presence dulls the ache, lulling your discomfort into something almost bearable.

Ren always had that effect on you.

“Now, now,” he hums, voice teasing but gentle. “Tell me what got you so worked up that you drank like a dog let off a leash last night.”

You tense, but before you can even think of an excuse, he sighs.

“Sorry for not coming, by the way,” he murmurs. “But you already know how I feel about Yumi and all your other friends.”

And just like that, if you thought you couldn’t possibly feel worse, Ren effortlessly proves you wrong.

Because the only person you actually wanted to spend time with on your birthday wasn’t there—and it’s all because of you.

Ren doesn’t like them. It’s as simple as that.

He doesn’t like your friends, your environment, or the people you surround yourself with. He thinks they’re a bunch of problematic teens trapped in grown-up bodies, incapable of making rational decisions. They seek validation from whatever reckless or idiotic thing they did just to be considered “cool enough” on campus.

And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s exactly what they are.

Ren isn’t shy about speaking his truth, especially when it comes to them. And you’re used to it by now. Hell, you wouldn’t want him to lie, to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not. It’d be too toxic for your best friend to step out of his comfort zone just to match your lifestyle, to accommodate what you think you want.

He doesn’t need to.

Ren has been the only constant, the only good thing in your life for the past few years. And, in a way, that’s enough.

"It's okay, lovie. We’ll be together today," you murmur, your voice quieter than usual. "I tried to bail on the party, but you know Yumi—she just wouldn’t budge."

You shift, mind working at lightning speed, lips parting and closing as you try to piece together the mess of last night. It’s all a bit blurry, details slipping through the cracks of your memory like sand through your fingers. But one thing stands out.

Gojo called you cheap.

The words flash in your mind like a neon sign, burning hot, humiliating, cutting deeper than you’d ever admit. And, of course, you being you, there was no way you’d just walk away, let him have the last word like that. No, you had to strike back.

So you did.

In front of Geto, the guy you’d actually wanted to take home, you called Gojo out. Laid it all bare. Exposed your past, your messy, embarrassing, mistake-ridden history with him. Let the words roll off your tongue like venom, staining the air of Nanami’s pristine beige living room.

The degradation of admitting you’d once fucked the beautiful, white-eyed demon was almost unbearable. Almost. Because underneath that shame, there was something else—something undeniably satisfying about the way Gojo’s face drained of color.

Ha. Should’ve taken a picture.

The man was sweating.

But, of course, that satisfaction was short-lived. The moment passed, leaving behind nothing but a thick, awkward silence that hung in the air like a bad smell.

Mood? Ruined.

Horny? Not anymore.

Gojo? Pissed.

Geto? Not having it.

And honestly, you couldn’t even blame him. Who the hell would still be in the mood after witnessing an argument that never should’ve happened in the first place?

Gojo left quickly, tossing a sharp, “This isn’t over” over his shoulder before disappearing.

And Geto?

He just sat there, staring at you, dumbfounded.

So, as any sane person would do, you decided to self-destruct with tequila and dance to the INNA Party Mix some random guy snuck into the playlist while no one was looking.

Gojo’s words didn’t touch you. Not even a little bit. And losing your dick of the night? Whatever. Hot guys were everywhere. Besides, it was probably for the best—you really didn’t need the extra drama of Geto’s girlfriend finding out about whatever almost happened.

So that’s probably how you ended up at Ren’s place.

Even though you have zero recollection of getting here in the first place.

“So it wasn’t just weed and shots,” Ren squeezes your hand, his voice softer now. “It was Gojo.”

Your throat tightens. No. It wasn’t Gojo. Of course, it wasn’t Gojo. You just wanted to let loose, enjoy the night, without anyone ruining it for you. Right?

Right?

“Who cares about that assface? I just wanted to get drunk and high, simple as that.”

“Okay, okay,” Ren lifts his hands in surrender. “I won’t mention it again. Promise on Charli XCX.” He nods toward the poster on his wall, and for the first time since waking up, a laugh escapes your lips.

His eyes light up at the sound, and in that moment, you swear you love him even more.

Because Ren never pushes. He never pressures you to explain yourself or dissect your feelings. He just lets you be.

And you love him for that.

What you don’t love is the flicker of knowing in his gaze—the way he reads you like an open book. Not many people ever managed to do that.

But it doesn’t matter. Because Ren never says it out loud.

It’s different with him.

Sometimes you wonder if things would be easier if you could have this kind of connection with anyone else. But then again, if you did, maybe what you have with Ren wouldn’t feel so rare and fragile and beautiful.

“Swear on BRAT,” you say, extending your pinky.

“I swear on BRAT,” he echoes, linking his pinky with yours.

And just like that, Gojo isn’t mentioned again.

Or last night.

Or Yumi.

Or Nanami’s obscenely expensive house.

"C'mon, babe. Let's go get some breakfast."

Ren tugs you out of bed, dragging you into the world of the living, and just like that, you’re not a mess anymore. It’s stupid how easily he does that—how he makes you feel a little less like a disaster with nothing but his presence. And maybe, just maybe, you love him a little more than you did mere seconds ago.

The place Ren takes you to is… odd.

Some kind of coffee shop-slash-restaurant-in-the-making. It’s close to his apartment, but it’s way too edgy to be a normal breakfast spot. But hey—a free meal is a free meal, and who are you to complain when he offered to treat you?

Okay, maybe you’re exaggerating a little. It’s not that edgy. Just… offbeat.

It’s called Radio, and by some wonderfully bizarre twist, the entire place is literally filled with radios.

They’re everywhere.

The walls are made of them, stacked up like some chaotic art installation. Car radios serve as makeshift stands, holding the food and drink menus. The menus themselves? Coquette-coded, decorated with bows and big-eyed deer like they were plucked straight from some Tumblr fever dream.

And then there’s the rest of the decor—ripped anime T-shirts hanging in the corners, stickers on the counter with millennial-core quotes like Eat. Sleep. Coffee. Repeat.

The waitress who approaches your table looks dead inside, eyeliner smudged into a mess so perfectly disheveled it’s almost intentional. She definitely doesn’t want to be here. But then again, do any of us?

"Stop judging," Ren hisses.

You blink at him. Judging?

"I’m a broke college student, and this place is cheap enough to actually fill my stomach," he defends, crossing his arms.

"I’m not judging," you retort. "But you have to admit, this place is weird. Look around. The interior designer who made this was probably on coke. Or MDMA. Or both."

Ren sighs. Deeply.

"Not everyone has to get high to come up with weirdly fun concepts," he says, exasperated.

"Now that’s just a lie, honey," you shoot back, leaning on your hand. "All artists get their inspiration somewhere, and the good ones? They get it on something. Look at Van Gogh. Dickens. Bukowski—"

"That’s not something to be proud of," Ren interrupts, rolling his eyes. "Those people were addicts. They needed help. Jesus. There's no proof that they made their best works because they were high—who knows? Maybe their art would've been even better if they were sober."

You hum, pretending to consider his argument.

"Well, you can’t prove that, can you?" you say, smirking.

Ren narrows his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. Checkmate.

You love throwing these hypothetical what ifs at him just as much as he loves throwing them at you. His argument about sobriety is well-executed, you’ll give him that.

But he’ll never understand the euphoria—the way inspiration thrums in your veins when you’re tipsy, or better yet, high. The way stories are born from that space between reality and delirium. You swear your best ideas only exist there.

(Not that you’ve ever tried making them sober, of course.)

"Let’s not argue about the lives and works of people we’ll never truly know," Ren sighs, finally relenting.

"Okay," you agree, lips twitching.

For now.

“So, we can’t talk about your Voldemort, but you can for sure tell me more about that black-haired hottie you met last night?”

Ren’s rosy lips curve into a playful grin, his eyes lighting up with excitement. And just like that, you can’t help but melt at how much he lives for the gossip. Some things never change.

“He has a girlfriend, you mentioned?” Ren asks again, clearly wanting the details.

“Yeah, but it’s not like I care,” you shrug, rolling your eyes. “I wouldn’t go after a taken man who didn’t want me—that’s just not cool. But this guy, I’m telling you, from the second he laid eyes on me, he was eye-fucking me. Like, full-on, taking my clothes off telepathically and sinking his cock into me. It was intense.”

Ren snorts, amused.

“And if you saw him—he was all black long hair, a bandana, A BANDANA hanging from his neck. Made me wanna strangle him and lick him at the same time.” You pause, feeling the heat rise in your chest. “And the polo shirt, okay, I thought it was kinda lame for a college party, but it gave me a peek at his abs and, oh my god, his happy trail. And his lips, babe, I’m telling you. Pink, soft, begging to be bitten. Ugh. I should’ve tried harder and just fucked him.”

“Wait, you saw his happy trail?”

“Yeah, his shirt rode up when he was stretching after playing billiards with the guys. I was already plastered, but trust me, I saw it. It was practically an invitation to drop to my knees.” You take a bite of your fries, half-listening to yourself as the images replay in your mind.

“Well, if it were me, I’d be licking that happy trail into the midnight and riding him ‘til sunrise, baby,” Ren quips with a grin, taking a bite of his crepes.

You can see the look in Ren’s eyes—the way he’s already imagining it all. It makes you laugh, feeling a rush of affection for your ridiculous, perfectly in-sync best friend.

“Got a pic of the hottie?”

You freeze.

Your horniness deflates to zero. You forgot. You didn’t even get his number, his Instagram, nothing. “I forgot to follow him. I’m so fucking dumb.”

Ren rolls his eyes.

“Follow him now, duh. Who cares?”

“I care,” you say quickly. “I don’t want him to think I’m some creepy-ass loser who’s randomly looking him up.”

Ren looks at you like you’re nuts. “He won’t think that. Plus, if he doesn’t follow you back, then he’s blind and needs a check-up.”

“Let’s just try looking him up on Insta. Maybe he has a profile pic so you can see him, but I am NOT following him.”

You whip out your phone and start typing.

And there he is. Geto Suguru.

And oh boy.

His profile pic isn't just a pic, he's shirtless, his shorts hanging low on his hips, and there it is—the happy trail, long, dark, and deliciously inviting. His face is perfectly smirking, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. You feel a shiver run down your spine, practically drooling as you stare at the picture.

Ren, ever impatient, snatches your phone from your hands before you can even blink. His mouth falls open in shock.

“Sweet Jesus, oh my God,” he breathes, his eyes flicking between you and the picture, blinking rapidly like his brain can’t handle it.

Then he moves his thumb. And you know exactly what he’s doing, but it’s too late. It’s too fucking late.

Ren has just sent a follow request to your “almost fuck.”

You feel a panic rise in your chest. No. This is it. You’re going to strangle him. Watch as life leaves his annoying body and his breath gets lost somewhere else because you know—you just know—he did it. He followed him. From your phone and your goddamn Instagram account.

“Are. You. Fucking. Insane?”

You stare at Ren in disbelief, heart pounding in your chest as your brain tries to process what he’s just done.

“I did what had to be done,” Ren grins, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “This man is too fine and too sexy not to be tried out at least once. Honestly, pardon his straightness, but I’d blow him like my life depended on it. Since I can’t do it myself, you’re gonna take the sacrifice of doing it for me.”

You feel a mix of anger and embarrassment bubble up inside you. “Ren, I’m going to kill you. I’m literally going to kill you.”

“Relax, girl,” he snickers, waving you off like it’s no big deal. “And when you fuck him, pretty please think about me, so I can, by some miracle, feel it as well.”

You roll your eyes, trying to calm yourself down, but there's that nagging fear lingering in the pit of your stomach. “What if he doesn’t follow me back?” you whine, your voice a mix of real concern and dramatic flair. “I’m too old for this humiliation. I don’t need more rejection stacking up on my list.”

Ren just shrugs, completely nonchalant. “He will. Trust. Now eat your food, ho, and let’s go shopping.”

You don’t believe him, though. Deep down, you know he’s lying—because by the end of your shopping spree with Ren, Geto still hasn’t followed you back.

You’re losing your mind.

Even after you’ve showered, eaten, and taken a power nap, you find yourself glued to your phone. There’s still no accepted request. No follow. Just a stupid pending ‘follow request sent’ sitting there, mocking you.

You panic. You called Ren probably ten times and sent him thirty messages, all containing some combination of death, you, kill, and didn’t follow me back. You’ve become a mess—unrecognizable even to yourself.

The worst part? You know he saw it. You just know it. There’s no way in hell he didn’t check his phone at least once in the eight hours that passed. He’s leaving you hanging, like some peasant who isn’t even worth the time to be acknowledged.

It stings. It fucking stings.

You were dramatic before, sure, but you were deep down thinking he'd follow you back. Everyone does. He was all over you last night, wanting you, practically undressing you with his eyes. There was no way that stupid little spat with Gojo could have ruined things with Geto. Or maybe you were wrong. Maybe you were just stupid.

How dare he?

How dare he act like you weren’t worth even a simple follow? You start pacing around the room, frustration boiling over as your mind spirals into overdrive.

Then it hits you.

Gojo. That bastard. He’s always meddling in your business, always making things harder than they need to be. He loves getting involved for no reason, just to mess with you.

Just like he did before.

18 years ago

It’s an usual Friday afternoon, and you’re sitting with your great grandma on the front porch, her wrinkled hands steady as she writes down the words you dictate to her. You don’t know how to write yet—not really. Yes, you know the alphabet, but putting words together, let alone sentences on paper, feels like an impossible task for your six-year-old mind. But you know how to speak, and that’s all that matters right now. So you speak, and she writes, and together, you create a poem. It’s about winter, and comfort, and there’s a line about soup cooking on the stove, messily tossed in there.

You swear, in that moment, you’ve never been prouder of yourself. You are creating something—your very first poem. And even though it’s messy, even though it doesn’t follow all the rules of the world that you’re still figuring out, you did it.

Gojo, your next door neighbor and self proclaimed best friend sits beside you, shyly drawing you, your grandma, himself, and his favorite teddy bear, Teddy (of course) on what he insists is a train, even though it looks more like a stinky snail. You laugh, but then your excitement gets the best of you, and you run to your dad to show him the poem you just made with Nana. You can’t read it, but that doesn’t matter because Nana’s going to read it to him, and you’re so excited.

You just know he’ll be proud of you.

Nana reads the poem out loud, and you watch your dad as he listens. He smiles, and you’re filled with warmth, because he’s so pretty when he smiles. His eyes crinkle in that perfect greenish light, and his mouth—those dimples—just make everything feel perfect.

But then, he speaks.

“Nana, it’s great you’re teaching her all that, but she doesn’t have to write about food. There are many more beautiful things to write about. Our little peach is already a bit too chubby, and we’ve really been trying to help her lose weight, so I don’t think writing or thinking about food is good for her right now, right?”

Your heart sinks. Your excitement crashes to the ground.

You don’t know what it is, but his words make you feel so small. Your eyes drop to the ground, and you can’t hide from the uncomfortable, overwhelming feeling that floods over you. You already feel too big in your skin, too big in your body. Too big in your dad’s mind.

And then you feel it—the rush of anxiety. It sweeps over you like a tide, drowning you in its force. The weight of his words, the weight of your disappointment in his eyes, it’s too much. You couldn’t even keep it together for a stupid little poem.

Again.

You’ve disappointed him. Again. And there’s nothing you can do to make it stop.Nana says something, her voice soft and reassuring, about you being a normal, healthy little kid. She shakes her head at your dad disapprovingly, but you can’t hear her over the ringing in your ears. His words hang around you, clouding the air, and the warmth that had once bloomed in your chest shrivels up. The mood is ruined. And even though you fight it, even though you don’t want to, your eyes grow heavy and the tears that have been threatening to spill finally break free.

You try to hold them back, but they come anyway.

"I don’t think you’re chubby. You’re cute, and I liked your poem," Gojo whispers to you, his small, warm hand slipping into yours. He squeezes it gently and beams a pretty, innocent smile at you.

But instead of feeling better, you feel worse.

His hand is smaller than yours. And he’s a boy. He’s smaller and slimmer than you, and you’re a girl. You shouldn’t even be thinking about these things, but you can’t stop. He’s smaller and slimmer and better, and you're chubbier, and nothing about this is fair.

And then you hear your dad again, his words ringing in your ears, harsher this time.

“Satoru, you don’t have to lie to make her feel better. Y/n’s a big girl. She can take it. Besides, she knows it’s for her own good.”

You nod, but it’s sharp and harsh, the motion of your head quick and jerky. You pull away from Satoru’s embrace, feeling like you might break under the weight of everything. His eyes are sad. You can see it now. The pity. The pity in his eyes, in your dad’s eyes, in everyone’s eyes. It’s there, it’s so clear, and you hate it.

You don’t understand pity yet, not fully, but you understand how it makes you feel small.

You’re not a little kid anymore.

Satoru looks mad now. He gives you one of those looks—‘It’s okay, I’ve got you’—the kind that only makes you feel worse. You can’t stand it.

You want to run. You want to hide. You want to be alone, away from all of this, away from their pity, away from the shame building up in your chest.

So you do.

You run. You run to your room, and when you’re there, the door shuts behind you, and you fall onto your bed. The tears come in waves, and you cry until evening falls, until your eyes are red and sore. You don’t come downstairs for dinner.

“Tomorrow, I’m not gonna eat anything. Then all of them are gonna see.”

You whisper the words to yourself, not fully understanding the weight of them, but in that moment, they make you feel like you have control. Like you can make everything better. And that's how it all begins.

taglist: @heh123321 @kazupop @mintcheery @krispywhisperswhispers

[zae-heeyyy]

Assuage

Summary: Arthur helps you relax. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female!Reader Word Count: 1,269 Tags: developing relationship, very light angst, fluff, Clemens Point, high honor

an: This was an anon request. Not a lot going on here. Simple and sweet. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Assuage: to lessen the intensity of (something that pains or distresses) 

Sloshing buckets of water weighed a thousand pounds in your clammy grip as scorching heat spread like a brush fire from your stomach. This pain had been gnawing at you for weeks, and no doctor could give you a precise diagnosis or cure. Rest, eat frequently, avoid alcohol.

They didn’t know the lifestyle of a woman in the Van Der Linde Gang.

Obedience had never come easy, so last night, when Arthur offered you a swig of whiskey, his crooked smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, you couldn’t deny him. The golden liquid stung like hellfire going down. Still, a combination of its intoxicating effects and a new closeness to the cowboy soothed the deep-seated ache in your belly. As moonlight glimmered above the lake, you wiggled your toes in the sand and failed to stifle a yawn.

“Don’t let me keep ya’, Miss.”

“It’s no trouble, Arthur.”

When you shivered, part from the lake breeze and part from discomfort, he opened his arm like a drawbridge, inviting you into the safety of his castle. You scooted in, stiff, but when his hand found your stomach, heavy and warm like a compress, the tension drained like water bled from a moat. You didn’t move for the rest of the night, forged against his iron-like muscle.

Now, the next morning, regret was setting in. The whiskey irritated whatever beast had made its home inside of you, its claws burrowing deep. Trying to stay steady on your feet, you squeezed your eyes shut and froze. But the cramps expanded outward, turning all your muscles into stone. Before you could set them down, the buckets slipped from your fingers and crashed to the ground in a piercing clatter.

Catching the edge of a nearby table, you sucked in air through your nose, puffed out through your mouth, and futilely willed yourself invisible. But your prayers fell on deaf ears because, in another second, a pair of familiar hands sank into the padding of your hips. 

“Hey, you alright?”

“M’fine, just spilled some water.”

As you reached for the fallen buckets, the ground came at you fast. Before you ate the dirt, Arthur hauled you backward into his unmoving brick frame.

“Y’shoar as hell don’t look fine.” 

“I am, really.”

You tried to meet his unbelieving gaze earnestly, but the color drained from you as bile burned at the back of your throat. Arthur didn’t wait for another fabricated explanation before he dragged you away to the shade of his tent, grumbling. 

“Can’t be pushing yerself so hard, woman. You crazy?”

His palms clasped firmly onto your shoulders, silently commanding you to stay put as he stepped away. You sank into the fluffy cloud that was his pillow, but it brought you little comfort as you drifted aimlessly through the storm of your pain. 

His voice rumbled from the sky of the phantasmagoria you were lost in, and your mind followed the sound back to the waking world.

“You still alive?” 

You whimpered in acknowledgment, and your eyes fluttered open to find him watching you.

“There she is.” His lips formed into a soft curve as he caressed your forehead with his knuckles. “You jus’ relax. I’m gonna go talk to Dutch and keep Miss Grimshaw off your heels. Don’t go anywhere, now.” 

Your mouth parted as you tried to sit up, but he raised a brow and raised a finger, shushing you. Defeated, you swallowed and sank back down, staring up at the canvas of the tent and folding your hands over the source of your affliction. 

Time dawdled on when you were sitting still. If only some mad scientist could invent a machine that took pictures of your insides, you could finally figure out what was wrong with you and fix it. Having folks, especially Arthur, fuss over you sat almost as heavy as the pain. Yeah, you’d rest, you told yourself—just until Arthur returned. Then you’d get back to it.

And when he ducked back into the tent, you tried to swing your legs over the cot, but he caught your ankle and settled it into his lap as he sank at the foot of the bed. With a sharp glance, he tugged at the shoestring of your boot.

“Spoke to Dutch. You’re on bedrest for the next few days.” 

“But—”

With a swift pull, he removed the boot and dropped it to the ground.

“Don’t wanna hear it.”

A silent joust between your leg and Arthur’s grip ensued, and you lost quickly, pouting in your defeat. 

“Arthur, I can’t just lay here. I have to—”

“Quit yer yappin,’ and let somebody help you for a change.” 

Your other boot hit the ground, and he tucked your feet back together with assertive force, glaring at you. 

“Whatever happened to a woman listening to her man?”

Your heart burst against your ribs, and oxygen fled from your brain, leaving you dizzy and wordless.

“Mmm,” he hummed in amusement. “That finally shut you up? Thought I was gonna have t’climb up there.”

When you still didn’t say anything, only gawked at him, his hand shot to the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“M’sorry, I just thought that we—the past few weeks—I should’ve—”

Even though the contraction of your muscles made the sore spot in your abdomen ache evermore, you managed to choke out a laugh.   “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan, a sweet, sweet fool.”

As his smile returned, his shoulders relaxed, and he rolled his eyes playfully.

“I can get behind the fool part, but I don’t know too much about bein’ sweet.”

You wanted to laugh again, but your amusement was short-lived. You hugged your arms around your midsection, frown etched deep.

“You gone to a doctor ’bout that, yet?”

Arthur had noticed, after all, despite your best efforts to hide it from him, and you hated it— hated being another burden for him to carry on his shoulders with the rest of the world. And like he was reading your mind, he rubbed your leg reassuringly. 

“You ain’t easy t’ignore. Not t’me.”

“Guess I ain’t doing a good job of hiding it.”

He shook his head and put his hand over yours on your belly.

“Don’t gotta hide anything from me, darlin. Ain’t got much, and I ain’t no doctor, but whatever you need, jus’ say the word.”

But that was just the thing—you didn’t want to say it—that you wanted to take him up on his offer to climb in bed with you.  But the fear of missing the opportunity overpowered your fear of rejection. 

“Stay, please? Just for a little while.”

Your heart plummeted when his hand left yours, but you watched as he took off his boots and joined you in the cot. He spooned you, both of you turning on your side, him rubbing soothing circles on your center.

“That help?” 

Truthfully, it didn’t make the hurt go away, but you nodded anyway because another feeling, solace, was slowly forming beside it. You shifted to face him, using your arm to support your head.

“What?” 

“Your woman,” you smiled, and he brushed your hair out of your face.

“If that’s alright wi’you, miss.”

Your eyes trailed down to his lips, and you closed the gap between you. He cupped your cheek as your lips moved in sync with each other. Sharp pain nagged at your insides, but his presence alone brought a semblance of peace to your tumultuous mind. You supposed you could spend the rest of the day like this, wrapped up in the cowboy. Dutch’s orders didn’t sound so terrible, after all.

[kingkatsuki]

— heatwave

I’m suffering through the heatwave over here, and Bakugou is the only thing that could make it better or worse.

Warnings: 18+, not proofread, Bakugou is your roommate, sweaty sex, dirty talk, spanking, creampie.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Word Count: 3.8k.

“It’s too damn hot,” Bakugou growled as he lay the back of his head against the couch. Even the soft, worn fabric was uncomfortable against his back. Retaining more heat than necessary paired with his body temperature it had sweat pooling against his skin.

Life as an up and coming Pro-Hero had been rough. With long shifts, terrible hours and little pay he was stuck in this dingy, stuffy apartment. Waiting for the day he’d add an extra figure onto his paycheck to have enough to move out. Things like air conditioning were a lavish luxury that he couldn’t afford right now, so it meant suffering through the torridness with a small ice pack he’d grabbed from the freezer.

The only bonus was having a roommate like you.

Originally Bakugou had been adverse to living under the same roof as someone, unable to trust anyone living in close quarters with him. There was an entire cacophony of issues that could arise from picking the wrong person— from being kept up all night, the mess they could leave behind to having friends or hookups in his shared space.

But you had been a godsend, understanding of his unsocial work schedule and his house rules. You could even argue that you were a better roommate than he was, with his friends delighting in showing up unannounced and causing a mess in his apartment. Something that you were always so understanding of when you’d join them for movie nights or dinner.

You were a blessing. Or now that he thought about it, perhaps it was a curse. Now forced to watch you practically saunter around in the shortest short shorts known to man in a feeble attempt to try and deal with the extreme temperatures. Your top half not much better, the stringy vest top you wore— without a bra no less— exposed your midriff and the cute stiffened peaks of your nipples. Not that he was looking, and even if he was what did you expect him to do.

Rubbing sweat from his upper lip as he spreads his legs wide on the couch as you made your way into the kitchen, his crimson eyes roaming your figure as the shorts hugged the swell of your ass perfectly. Dipping in between the cheeks as he imagined pulling them apart to see what was hidden between them, the material dangerously close to revealing it to him anyway—

You were doing absolutely nothing to help quell the heat oozing through his body. In fact, Bakugou was certain you were making it worse. His cock jumping at the sight of you, pulsing beneath his shorts as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Praying that this sudden heatwave would cease and he could stop being tortured by the sight of you like this every damn day, it was bad enough when he’d catch peeks of you in a towel coming from the bathroom towards your bedroom, or forgotten panties left strewn around. But this? This was unbearable.

“I can’t deal with this heat,” The whiny tone to your voice had Bakugou silencing a growl deep in his chest, watching you hold the back of your hand to your forehead dramatically, “I wanna sit in the freezer.”

“Don’t you dare.” Bakugou knew from experience the heat alone would be enough to shut down the entire machine, and you both definitely didn’t have enough money to replace it if it did.

And that freezer was the only thing satiating the heat so far. Shoving his melting ice pack against his chest, the contents quickly changing form to liquid as he tried to make the most of it before it would have to go back inside the freezer.

“Let me feel,” You came around the couch to stand in front of him, his eyes set in a heavy glare as he tried to weigh up whether it was worth letting you feel how cold the pack was.

It was bad enough having you so scantily clad in such short proximity to him right now, certain he could now smell the saccharine of your perfume as you pulled the top of your vest down, exposing the swell of your breasts as you presented your sternum to him.

Bakugou pushes the pack to your chest and immediately regrets it when the sound you let out is downright sinful. You have to know what you’re doing to him, the way your lips curl into a delicious looking pout and your eyes roll to the back of your skull.

“Oh god, that feels so fucking good.” You moaned, eyes clenched shut to focus on the cool chill that slowly washed over your chest.

His cock jumps in his shorts as he tries to shift his hips to avoid you from noticing the now very evident bulge, the throb pounding through his veins as he feels a different kind of heat beginning to take over.

He should stop here, take his ice pack back and tell you to go and sit in front of your mini desk fan again. Get you out of the room and as far away as possible and save this for another day, a day when you’re both not delirious from the intense heat.

But his depraved thoughts have already consumed him, the thought of your plush body pressed against his while he slides his throbbing cock inside you now at the forefront of his mind as he presses the pack lower. Watching as you arch your back towards it, welcoming the cool chill as you lean forward to splay your sweaty palms against his thick thighs.

And whether he’s delirious from the heat, or it’s the desperate look in your eyes he doesn’t know. All he knows is he’s kissing you fiercely, the ice pack drops forgotten between your bodies in favour of grabbing your hips.

“Fuck,” You kiss him back, words swallowed by his chapped lips as you feel the bulge between his thighs press snug against your crotch.

Your hands reach up to card through messy blond spikes as your nails graze his damp scalp, your tongue swiped against his as he palms your ass. Calloused fingertips disappear beneath the flimsy fabric as he squeezes the fat of it, tugging you down against his hardness as he pulls more sultry sounds from your throat.

“It’s too hot for this, Katsuki.” You whine, breaking the kiss as you gasp for air in the humid room.

At this chance Bakugou’s lips venture lower, peppering kisses along your jawline towards your collarbones until he reaches the hem of your vest. Tugging the fabric down to reveal your round breasts, his tongue pokes out to wet his lips at the marvellous sight.

His nighttime fantasies can’t compare to the sight in front of him, crimson eyes shamelessly ogle your skin to commit the sight to memory as he leans forward.

“Shut up,” He rasps back gruffly while mouthing your breast.

You’re right, it’s entirely too hot for any kind of strenuous activity, especially when he’s sweating so much it already feels like he’s run a marathon. But the way your soft body feels pressed against his is too much to pass up. Especially when this is what he’s been dreaming about ever since he moved in with you, fisting his cock too. It’s too much to leave it to chance that he may get this opportunity again later. Bakugou’s always been a greedy man, and he wants to have you now.

“Fuck,” You cry out when his teeth graze your nipple, pushing your crotch against his with more urgency.

Certain you’ve leaked through the flimsy fabric, desire surges through you dense and fast. A stark contrast to your lethargic movements as you grind yourself down on his lap pathetically.

“Katsuki,” You whine.

His strong hands are doing all the work as he moves you how he pleases. Strong palms pick you up by the meat of your ass to drop you back down on his length. Grinding your puffy clit against his pelvis with each motion as he has you crying out in pleasure.

“Fuck, Katsu. S’too hot—”

You weren’t sure whether it was the humid air permeating the room or the way that Bakugou was looking at you with smouldering eyes that had your body aflame. Muggy, vapid air filling your lungs as clammy hands stroked along his bare torso. Mapping out a course of newly discovered territory as you let your thumbs brush against his pebbled nipples, his chest vibrating against your touch with more sultry groans.

“I know you are, sweetheart.” He hummed, his fingers brushing the crotch of your shorts, “Let me make you feel good.”

“Oh,” You gasped when you felt the calloused pads stroke your labia, involuntarily leaning forward to give him more space as Bakugou began to spread you apart for him. Fingers gliding through your messy folds, dragging your essence along your slit until he found your puffy clit.

The contact had you jolting forward, nails grazing his chest as he focused his attention on it. Circling it tentatively with the pad of his finger as you began to rock your hips back against him, uncaring about how debauched you looked as you began to seek your own pleasure.

“Yeah?” He rasped, and the gravelly husk did nothing but increase the desperation inside you, “You like that?”

“Fuck, please—“ You buried your head in the curve of his neck, your lips pressed against the slick skin as you tasted the saltiness of his sweat on your tongue.

“Please what, sweetheart,” He cooed.

“Please—“ You gasped when you felt his thumb press against your empty hole. He knew exactly what you wanted, he was toying with you.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Your fingers.” You were shameless, your hips grinding back against him as Bakugou finally took mercy on you and pushed his thumb into your sloppy entrance. The slightest penetration enough to drag a deep moan from your throat as he kept his focus against your clit, leaning his head back against the couch to try and see the blissful expression on your face as he worked you with precision.

“Got no damn idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” He husked against your ear, lips soft against the shell as you clenched around him in response, “Always walkin’ round in those fuckin’ short shorts got me wanting to bend you over every surface in this house.”

“Oh fuck,” You mewled, already feeling yourself teetering on the edge of your climax as he kept his pace constant against your clit, his thumb positioned to press against your spongy wall as his other hand tightened its grip on your ass. Spreading you open, as you found your bliss, “Katsuki.”

“That’s it, good girl.” He hummed, feeling your walls pulse around his digit as he kept his pace. Working you through your release as he pressed sloppy, wet kisses to your temple.

You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d wished the same, coming into the kitchen to see him still in full hero gear after work. Dirt and grime covering his body as his mask was pulled up over his forehead to show his blackened eyes, bending over to grab the carton of juice from the fridge as he held it up to his lips to chug it. Watching his Adam’s apple bob as the liquid flowed, giving you the perfect view of him as you tried to busy yourself to hide the fact you were blatantly staring.

Or the moments where he’d come out of the bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips to shout at you for using the taps in the kitchen while he was showering. The cheap apartment had one flow of hot water and it shut off that luxury whenever it was used elsewhere. The cold water catching him off guard as he glared at you, water droplets drooling down his perfect skin and making him look more like an ancient god or deity than your roommate.

“So why didn’t you?” You asked when you’d come down from your high.

“Huh?” Bakugou’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt before.”

“I like livin’ with you,” He shrugged, “Didn’t wanna jeopardise that.”

“You wouldn’t have,” You smiled, pulling yourself back from his neck to meet his gaze, “I like you too.”

“That mean I can finally eat this pretty little pussy?” He groaned, shuffling his hips, “Been thinkin’ about it since the day I met you.”

“Later, please—” You pawed at the hard bulge between his thigh, his pre staining the fabric as you pressed against the tip.

“Fuck,” He grunted, shamelessly bringing his fingers to his lips to get a taste of you. His tongue sweeping against his digits to clean them of your slick, “Gonna take you over every damn surface in this house, princess.”

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shorts, Bakugou lifting his hips off the couch to help you drag them down just enough to free his heady cock— the sight of it better than you’d ever imagined in those nightly fantasies.

He was thick and long, bulging veins that forked along the length of him only made him seem that much more intimidating as his balls sat heavy at the base. Neatly trimmed blond hairs decorated his pelvis as they created a pretty trail along his abdomen, unable to resist running your hand along it as his stomach folded at the touch. A sharp hiss sucked sharp through his teeth as you wrapped your hand around him at the base, holding him steady so you could see the tip. The head a swollen pink as pre continued to bead at the slit, drooling down towards his frenulum as you moved to settle between his thighs. Wanting a taste of him yourself as you swiped your thumb over the leaky tip of his cock.

“Oi, I thought you said later,” He teased, rough hands steady on your hips to stop you from moving.

“Please,” You whined pathetically, “Wanna taste you.”

You brought your thumb to your lips as your tongue swiped at the surface, tasting him on your tongue as your lashes fluttered. Crimson eyes focused on your movements as his cock twitched in appreciation, tempted to let you do whatever you pleased. But he’d been waiting far too long for this moment, and there was no way he could wait any longer.

“You little minx,” He groaned as you sucked your thumb, “I promise later.” He groaned, tugging at your shorts, “Do you like these?”

“Yeah, they’re— what the fuck, Katsuki?”

You gasped when you heard the sharp sound of ripping fabric, “I said I liked them.”

“Sorry,” You could tell from the smug grin on his face that he was anything but as he positioned you above his leaky cock, “I gotta have you now.”

You held onto his shoulders as he wrapped a large fist around his cock, dragging the tip through your slick as he felt it catch against your tight entrance. His other hand on your hip slowly dropping you down onto his length as you felt the pleasurable ache of him stretching you open ebb through your pelvis.

“I got you, sweetheart,” He groaned, watching his cock slowly disappear inside you as he felt your warm walls wrap snugly around him, “Gonna take such good care of you.”

You felt hot, the heat radiating from your sex sweltering and yet you didn’t want to let go. The thick girth of his cock filled you perfectly as you felt him pressed against every ridge and groove of your cunt like he was made for you.

Your lips move together languidly, tasting the saltiness from his upper lip as you move together in tandem. Wet and sloppy while his tongue strokes yours, desperation evident by the way you try to deepen the kiss. As though you’re trying to melt into him, to feel him devour you whole.

“Oh, shit.” You choke back a cry when you feel the tip of his cock hit a spot deep inside you, certain you’ve never had something quite so big before.

You struggle to lift yourself up with your legs spread wide over his thick thighs as you grind yourself against his lap. Your clit catching against the trimmed hairs at his base as you roll your hips with desire, your chest pressed taut to his as you start a lazy pace. The scorching heat inside the apartment makes it difficult to breathe as you writhe in his lap, his warm breath fans against your skin almost feels cooler than the thick air clouding the room.

“Kats. It’s too hot.” You whine pathetically, your pace clumsy and sluggish as the desire inside you burns hot and heavy.

“You started this.” He retorts cockily with a smug smirk on his face.

“I did not.” You pout, “This is your fault.”

“Stop whinin’” He reaches back to bring his palm down on your ass in a rough smack, the sweatiness of his quirk has his skin tacking to you as it increases the sensation, clinging to your skin as you gasp in surprise. A painful pleasure courses through your veins as the skin prickles beneath his touch, your pliant walls clamping down around his girth in retaliation.

Without hesitating he reaches his large palms back to cup a cheek in each hand, lifting you up languidly as he marvels the glossy sheen your slick leaves on his cock.

“You just sit there and look pretty, let me do the work.” He spread is thighs wider, giving himself more air as he shifted your weight. Picking you up and dropping you down on his length as he listened to the pretty sounds that spilled from you like a siren, drawing him in and capturing his heart as you pulsed around him.

“Why couldn’t you have got an ice quirk?”

Clammy hands paw at his shoulders as Bakugou repeats the motion, skin tacking to skin as he bounces you on his cock. The kinetic energy builds heat swiftly and harsh as you feel the stickiness against your skin. Your wetness seeps out against his pelvis and matts the hair at his base, catching your clit with each drop of your hips.

“Shut the fuck up,” He scoffed, “You won’t be sayin’ that come winter.”

The thought of having his warm body to warm you during those cold winter months, still being with him then— had you clenching around him.

“Oh yeah? You like the sound of that?” He grinned, “Can feel this pussy clenchin’ around me.”

“Fuck, Katsuki.” The heat was becoming unbearable, radiating from your core as it burned molten lava. The coil inside you dangerously close to snapping as you danced on the crux of your release, gasping for air as he changed tact. Holding your hips tight under sweaty palms as he planted his feet flat on the ground, pistoning his hips up into your pliant sex, “There— oh, god. Right there—”

“That’s it,” He rasped, watching your tits bounce with each rapid thrust, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“‘m gonna cum,” You choked out between moans, feeling the curved tip of his cock drag against the spongy spot inside you with each thrust, “Oh shit—”

“Cum for me,” He growled, “Cum all over my cock.”

The tips of Bakugou’s thumbs pressed against your pelvis, tightening his grip as it only increased the pressure. Sweat trickling down your temples as he sent you vaulting over the edge into euphoria.

“Good girl,” He grunted, feeling your walls clamp down around his cock as you willed him to come with you, trying to milk him of his seed.

The pleasure was unlike anything you’d felt before, mind-numbingly intense as you cried out a jumbled mess of his name. Your nails digging crescent moons into his skin as he hissed beneath you, shamelessly searching for his own end as the heat radiated from your body. Sliding against each other from the sweat that now trickled down your skin, leaving a glossy sheen against you both as he used you for his own pleasure.

“I’m gonna cum,” Bakugou grunted, moving to lift you off his cock before you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, unbothered about the stifling heat in the room as you kept him tight against you.

“Cum inside me, Katsuki.” You gasped a he choked back a grunt, your words all it took to meet his own end.

His guttural moans are sinful, erotic as you cling to him with fervour. Committing the sensation to memory as though it’s the last time you’ll have him like this, as if the heat has him in this delirious state. And maybe it does—

You never thought Bakugou could look so pretty like this, completely vulnerable as he exposes his most intimate self to you. Thick, white spurts of cum spurt from his tip as he empties his balls inside you.

“Fuck, baby.” He breathes hot and heavy as you feel his chest rise and fall against yours.

Bodies slumped together on the couch as you feel the dampness of skin against skin, your vest that now sits useless around your waist is soaked and warm as the fabric clings to your body.

“I’m so sticky,” You whine childishly, making no attempt to move as Bakugou’s fingers trace absent-minded patterns along your exposed back.

“How the fuck dya think I feel?” He rasps, “My ass is stuck to the couch.”

“Eww,” You tease, running your nose along his collarbone as you take in the musky scent of him, “We’ll have to get another couch.”

He catches you by surprise as he presses the forgotten ice pack to the back of your neck, although it’s mostly melted it’s a stark contrast to your sweltering body as you flinch in surprise. Your cunt clenches around him at the sensation as Bakugou grunts from the attention.

“Oh shit, don’t do that sweetheart—“ He hisses, wrapping an arm around your back to hold you tight against him, “You’ll make me hard again.”

Something that you’re not sure you’d mind, even though your body is screaming out for a different kind of relief now. Desperate to cool your temperature down as you scrunch your nose in irritation.

“I feel so gross.” You complain as he gives your ass another playful spank as you barely move from the impact, your bodies stuck together with a mixture of heat and sweat.

“Got no one to blame but yourself, princess,” He groans, “I was just mindin’ my business until you came over in those little shorts.”

“You weren’t complaining when you were balls deep.” You moved your head back to glare at him.

“My balls feel like they’re on fire now,” He scoffs, leaning forward to peck your pouty lips, “Cold shower?” He asks, although he’s already decided he’s showering with you— he’s taking every moment he can with you now.

[thedensworld]

Time Is Brewed | L. Sm

Genre: angst, time travel, fantasy, exes au!

Summary: After discovering that the old brewing machine he had just purchased allowed him to travel back in time, he tried to fix his relationship with you.

Seokmin had already visited the past three times this week. If he told his best friends, Mingyu and Myungho, they wouldn’t believe him. As always, they would tell him to stop being delusional. But hey, being delusional had led him to run a successful café in a prime location in Hongdae!

This time, Seokmin found himself back on the same day—the day he decided to quit his managerial job. That familiar knot of anxiety settled in his stomach as he stepped into the office. But something was different. Something stronger. He wasn’t the same nervous wreck he had been years ago. No. He was ready for this.

He handed in his resignation letter the same way he had back then—hand outstretched, a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His boss took it, eyes scanning the paper. And then the magic moment arrived.

Seokmin cleared his throat. "You gave me plenty of chances to grow, and I’m grateful for that," he said, voice smooth, not a quiver in sight. Who was this confident guy? Oh right, it was him. "But you're wrong. You are wrong to say I won’t succeed without this company."

Those words—he had swallowed them down so many times, had watched them burn in his throat, unsaid. But now? Now they slid out like butter. The tension he didn’t even know he was carrying was gone, evaporating into thin air, leaving only the crisp taste of freedom.

His boss blinked, clearly startled. Good.

The silence between them stretched on, but Seokmin didn’t even flinch. He was done. He had finally spoken up.

And then, just like that, the weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying started to lift. He walked out of the building with his box, each step feeling lighter than the last. The door closed behind him with a soft whoosh, as though it were sealing away everything he no longer needed.

Outside, the air tasted different—fresher, like the world was offering him a second chance. He walked toward his car, a grin tugging at his lips. He wasn’t leaving something behind; he was heading somewhere, toward something.

He sat in the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel. The world seemed to pause around him. The weight of his past—all of it—felt distant now. Almost like someone else’s.

For the first time in forever, Seokmin wasn’t weighed down by the fear of what was to come. He wasn’t haunted by the what-ifs. No, now all he could feel was that little spark of satisfaction deep in his chest. He had finally done it. He had stepped away from a life that had never felt quite right.

His chest felt lighter. His head felt clearer. And hey, wasn’t that the definition of freedom?

Seokmin let out a long breath, not realizing how much he had been holding in. "Finally," he murmured, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

For the first time in ages, he wasn’t looking back. He wasn’t looking at anything. He was just moving forward.

And that felt, well... pretty darn good.

"Now, I should go back to the present," he murmured to himself.

But—

Oh?

"Why am I still here?" he muttered in confusion.

Usually, he could return to the present whenever he wanted. But now? Something was stopping him. His fingers tightened around the wheel. Was it because he was in the car?

He quickly stepped out and stood under the warm afternoon sun.

Still here.

A wave of panic surged through him. What if he couldn’t return this time? He had worked so hard to build and manage his café for the past seven years. He couldn’t just be stuck in the past.

"Seokmin?"

The familiar voice made his heart skip a beat. He turned quickly, and there you were—walking with a group of colleagues before they left you to approach him.

"Are you leaving for somewhere?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Seokmin’s heart pounded in his chest at the sight of you. It had been so long since he last saw you with short hair. He had almost forgotten that you worked in the same building as him. He never expected to run into you while revisiting this moment in time.

"Y/n.. Hi…" he greeted, but his voice came out awkward.

You let out a soft chuckle. "Why are you acting so weird?"

Seokmin bit his lower lip. He just couldn’t tell you that in the future, you would date him, love him, and then break his heart after five years.

Shaking his head, he let out a small, nervous laugh. "It's just…" He hesitated, holding his breath. Could he say it? After a moment of deep thought, he exhaled and finally admitted, "I kinda miss you, I guess."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Sorry? You miss me?" you echoed, confused. "We literally saw each other this morning in the elevator."

You laughed, thinking he was joking. But Seokmin wasn’t. He might joke about a lot of things, but when it came to you? Never. You just didn’t know.

"Hey…" You stepped closer, your brows knitting together in concern. "Are you okay? You look a little red, Seokmin."

His breath hitched at your sudden closeness. Before he could react—

Darkness.

And then—

The familiar scent of coffee beans and the soft hum of a jazz tune playing in the background.

Seokmin found himself back in his dimly lit café, sitting at his usual spot. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to process what had just happened.

He was back.

But for the first time since discovering his ability to travel through time, a strange, lingering feeling settled in his heart.

Seokmin took a deep breath before sighing heavily. Seeing you again—even if it was in the past—was harder than he had expected. He didn’t think his heart would race so much from reliving an old conversation.

He remembered that day vividly. The day he resigned. The day he first told you he was leaving the company. And, unknowingly, the day that sparked everything between you two. It had started as a simple chat, just two coworkers talking. But that conversation had brought you closer.

A series of rapid knocks pulled him back to reality. He blinked, turning toward the glass door, where Mingyu stood with a deep frown on his face.

"I was knocking like crazy while you just sat there daydreaming. Long day, man?" Mingyu asked, stepping inside as Seokmin unlocked the door for him.

Mingyu walked over to the table where Seokmin was sitting and set down a couple of plastic bags, the weight of them making a soft thud against the wood.

"Myungho's on his way with food," Mingyu added, already pulling out his phone and scrolling through it like the conversation was over.

Seokmin reached for the drinks Mingyu had brought. They were heavy, and judging by the labels, definitely on the expensive side. He raised an eyebrow.

"Are you planning to get wasted in my café tonight? In case you forgot, I have to open at seven in the morning," Seokmin said, eyeing his friend with mild exasperation.

Mingyu sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair. "Relax, man. We'll take it slow. We won’t get wasted—you know me." He threw Seokmin a playful wink before turning his attention back to his phone.

As the three of them gathered, Mingyu immediately took charge, arranging the food and drinks with an excitement that had no real reason behind it. He always got overly invested in things like this. Meanwhile, Myungho—the calmest of the three—watched in silence as his two friends bickered over something as trivial as street food plating.

"Put the tteokbokki in a bowl, obviously," Seokmin argued, gesturing toward the steaming dish.

Mingyu scoffed. "No way, a plate makes it easier to pick up!"

"And the tangsuyuk sauce?" Myungho finally chimed in, sipping his drink. "Poured or dipped?"

Seokmin and Mingyu both turned to him at the same time.

"Dipped."

"Poured."

They glared at each other, neither willing to back down.

Classic.

But just as Seokmin prepared to defend his stance, Myungho’s voice cut through the playful atmosphere.

"Did you get the invitation?" he asked suddenly.

Seokmin turned to him, momentarily distracted. "What invitation?"

Mingyu let out a sigh, shaking his head as he watched Seokmin successfully pour all the sauce over the tangsuyuk. Defeated, he dropped his chopsticks and leaned back in his chair.

The three of them sat in a small circle, their laughter fading as the conversation shifted.

"So you really didn’t get it," Mingyu mumbled, nodding to himself.

Myungho pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward Seokmin, showing him a digital invitation.

You're getting married.

The words glowed against the screen, and as Seokmin scrolled through the details, the color drained from his face.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged a quick glance, guilt settling over them. This gathering hadn’t just been a casual hangout. It had been arranged for one reason—to soften the blow, to distract Seokmin from the inevitable heartbreak.

Seokmin’s hands tightened around the phone before he slowly slid it back across the table. He looked at his friends, a chuckle escaping his lips, but there was no humor in it. Only disbelief.

"Woah…" His voice was quiet, but the betrayal in his eyes was evident. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Is it him? That guy?"

They knew exactly who he was talking about—the so-called "best friend" who had played a part in your breakup.

Mingyu shook his head. "Not that one."

Seokmin let out a bitter laugh, his grip on his drink tightening. "So it's another guy, huh? She's quick, though." His words were muttered, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than them.

A heavy silence fell over the table.

Myungho sighed before raising his glass. "Let’s not talk about other men," he said, his tone firm as he held his drink out for a toast.

Mingyu followed, clinking his glass against Myungho’s. They both waited for Seokmin.

For a long moment, Seokmin didn’t move. His heart pounded against his ribs, beating twice as fast, as if it was ready to burst.

Then, finally, he exhaled, forcing a small smirk onto his lips as he lifted his glass.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Screw that."

And with that, their drinks clinked together—a silent agreement that, for tonight, they would drink away the pain.

"I’M SERIOUS!!!"

"That machine has taken me back to the past four times already!" Seokmin slurred, his words tumbling over each other as he waved his hand toward the vintage brewing machine sitting proudly on the counter.

Mingyu let out a loud laugh, his own face slightly flushed from the alcohol. He might have been drunk, but not that drunk—not to the point where he’d start believing Seokmin’s wild claims. "Where the hell did you even get that?" he asked, barely able to stifle his laughter.

"From an old man across the road," Seokmin explained, his words slightly incoherent. "I was just trying to help him, but he insisted I buy it—for very cheap, I swear."

Myungho chuckled, clearly amused by the drunken storytelling. "Alright," he humored him, leaning back in his chair. "So where exactly did you travel to?"

Seokmin perked up, turning to Myungho with an appreciative look. At least one of his friends was paying attention.

"First," he began, raising a finger. "Remember our road trip to Busan after we graduated?"

Myungho nodded, recalling the memory.

"That was one. Then I visited the day I broke my mother’s vase when I was six." He sighed dramatically. "Got scolded all over again, by the way."

Mingyu scoffed, swirling the drink in his glass. "Wow, what a life-changing experience."

Seokmin ignored him. "And then, I went back to the time my sisters ganged up on me to tease me mercilessly." He shuddered at the memory, throwing a side glance at Mingyu, who was looking at him with pure judgment.

"And the last one," Seokmin continued, his voice growing softer, "was the day I resigned. Seven years ago."

Mingyu chuckled once Seokmin finished his tale. "I told you to stop daydreaming. You drank too much, now your brain’s broken." With that, he took another shot, shaking his head.

Seokmin was ready to throw a punch at Mingyu, but Myungho, ever the peacekeeper, reached out and held him back.

"Did you change anything?" Myungho asked instead.

Seokmin froze at the question, caught off guard. "I don’t know... I didn’t visit to change anything. So…"

"But is there something you want to change?" Myungho pressed, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. "I mean, isn't that the natural instinct? If you could go back, wouldn't you want to fix something?"

Seokmin fell silent.

Mingyu, ever the skeptic, mouthed to Myungho, You actually believe him?

Myungho simply giggled and shook his head. Mingyu covered his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter as Seokmin sat there, lost in deep thought.

Was there something he wanted to change? A regret so strong that he’d risk altering the past?

Then, after a long pause, Seokmin exhaled.

"There’s one thing," he admitted, his voice quieter now.

Both Mingyu and Myungho looked at him, their amusement fading slightly.

"There’s something I want to fix," Seokmin said, looking up at his friends with newfound determination.

And for the first time that night, neither of them laughed.

*

Seokmin was pacing around, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of his cafe. Today was one week before your wedding day. He could still see the date written on the elegant invitation in his mind. He sighed, a weight in his chest that he thought had long since lifted. But deep down, he knew he hadn’t moved on—not really. His heart still ached for you, even though you had broken it more times than he could count.

The cafe had just closed, a long day finally over. He had worked the after-lunch shift too, his staff shorthanded. After bidding them goodbye as they went home, Seokmin lingered by the counter, cleaning up the remnants of the day. His eyes, however, were drawn to the brewing machine sitting in the corner.

It had been a week since he last used it. The discovery that it could send him to the past had shaken him. After that morning, he’d told his staff to leave the machine alone, insisting it was just a decoration—something for the aesthetic. He couldn’t risk anyone else getting sucked into its mystery, let alone the confusion of being sent back to the past.

But tonight, it called to him.

With a resigned sigh, Seokmin walked over to the machine and began making his coffee. He didn’t know why—he wasn’t in the mood for it, not really. But it felt... right. He prepared the coffee the same way he always had, the routine grounding him. Once he was finished, he sat at a table, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

Taking a deep breath, he let his mind wander, the way it often did when he needed an escape. Seokmin was always a dreamer, his thoughts effortlessly drifting toward places and moments he longed to revisit. His eyes fluttered closed as he imagined the soft, familiar surroundings of his old apartment. He could feel the weight lifting off his body as he let the image grow sharper, clearer.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip of the warm coffee. But when he opened his eyes, the world had shifted. The cafe was gone, and in its place was the worn wooden dining table of his old apartment. The warm glow of the lamplight bathed the room in a cozy, nostalgic hue. In his hands, the red mug had changed too, filled not with coffee but with hot chocolate—the one he always made for himself after a particularly long week at the cafe.

He remembered this moment, so clearly. It had been a quiet evening after an exhausting week, his body sore from hours spent on his feet. He had come home that night, craving comfort, craving something familiar. And here it was, as if the past had pulled him back in.

For a moment, Seokmin let himself just be there, soaking in the memory. But deep down, the question gnawed at him. Could he change anything if he stayed? Could he find a way to stop this—to stop you from marrying someone else?

"You're home."

He could hear your voice, and though he expected it, the familiar ache in his chest didn’t lessen. He had been here before, so he knew what was coming next.

A fight.

Arguments.

Yells.

Tears.

He remembered it all too well—the tension that always seemed to hang between them.

"You remember home today?" Your voice was laced with sarcasm as you leaned against the fridge, eyes locking with his.

In the past, he would’ve said, "Don't start it."

But now, when he thought about it, he realized it was always him who started it. All of your frustration, your anger—it had been triggered by his absence. He hadn’t been home for three days, choosing to stay at the cafe to pour himself into work for the five-year anniversary. His team was counting on him, but he had let that responsibility push you to the side.

"I'm sorry," Seokmin mumbled, his voice low, but sincere.

Your frown softened a little, though there was still a flicker of something in your eyes—a question, a need for something more than just the apology he had offered. You didn’t seem to fully believe it yet.

"Why are you home, then?" you asked, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, a guarded expression remaining on your face.

Seokmin paused, his old reflex kicking in. The Seokmin from before would have answered defensively, “Can’t I? It’s my house too. I pay the rent.”

But now, a more mature version of him stared back at you, a version that had grown, that had learned, that understood the weight of words and actions.

He gulped, swallowing the bitterness that tried to crawl up his throat, before answering, "Because... because I miss you." The words slipped out, almost painfully, and he could feel the lump in his throat. He fought the tears threatening to fall, but he could feel them—hot, sharp—and you seemed to notice.

Seokmin set the mug down on the table, his hands trembling slightly. He wiped his face quickly, trying to regain his composure, but it was no use. He had already cracked.

And before he knew it, you were there, pulling him into an embrace.

The warmth of your touch, your familiar scent—it hit him like a wave. He hadn’t expected to break down so quickly, but here he was, clinging to you as if he could somehow undo all the hurt he had caused, all the time lost between the two of you. He hadn’t come here for this, but it was happening anyway—this rush of emotions, this sudden rush of longing.

You pulled back just enough to brush a hand through his hair, your fingers gentle and soothing, sending a ripple of calm through him.

"You must have had a hard time preparing for the event," you murmured, your voice soft, understanding. Your touch was comforting, like a balm to the rawness he was feeling.

Seokmin pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate intensity. "I'm so sorry... Forgive me, please."

You looked at him with concern, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that made his heart ache. "Hey, you don’t need to apologize this much. You know I'll forgive you..."

And then, you kissed him. Just a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips. The butterflies that erupted in his stomach were almost overwhelming. After a year without your touch, your kiss felt like a sweet, familiar melody, bringing him back to life in an instant.

"You know I’ll always forgive you," you whispered, and in that moment, Seokmin’s heart clenched painfully. He had forgotten what it felt like to hear those words from you. Had you always been this forgiving? He couldn’t remember, but right now, it felt like everything.

“Don’t cry, baby... I’m sorry too…”

Your words hit him like a wave. You were apologizing? He almost couldn’t believe it. You had always been the tough one, the one who hid your emotions beneath a hard exterior. You never apologized for the fights, not unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, it was rare. But now, here you were, admitting you were sorry too. It was a side of you he hadn’t seen in so long.

"I'm sorry that I acted like that earlier," you added, your voice thick with emotion. "I was just... worried."

And just like that, the warmth of the moment began to slip away. Seokmin felt the coldness creep back into his bones, like a shadow settling over him. The sound of the jazz music he always played in the cafe swirled around him, pulling him back to reality.

He was back in the present.

This wasn’t the past.

And yet, somehow, this feeling—this hope—remained, flickering in his chest.

*

Seokmin was surprised when he saw your best friend walk into his cafe. He watched as your best friend placed his order while Seokmin was busy fulfilling other customers’ requests at the dessert counter. After a brief moment, your best friend found a table, sitting down with his phone in hand, seemingly lost in thought. Seokmin could feel a slight tension in the air, but he brushed it off as he prepared the order: an Americano and a slice of carrot cake.

He walked over to deliver the order, trying to maintain his usual calm demeanor. "Seungkwan, right?"

Seungkwan looked up in surprise, his gaze shifting around as he realized where he was. His eyes widened slightly at the realization that he was in Seokmin’s cafe—the cafe owned by his best friend’s ex.

"Oh, Seokmin. How are you?" Seungkwan asked, the air between them suddenly feeling awkward. Seokmin made an effort to ease the tension.

"I'm good. How about you? Still working in fashion editorial?" Seokmin asked, trying to be warmer to someone who, in the past, had felt like a potential threat to his relationship with you.

Seungkwan blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. "Actually, I haven’t worked in fashion for almost three years now. I’m in TV show production now," he said with a slight shrug.

Seokmin, embarrassed by not knowing, quickly took the business card Seungkwan offered. It had been a while since they had spoken, and Seokmin only remembered Seungkwan’s involvement with the fashion industry. He felt a little sheepish, but Seungkwan waved it off.

"It’s okay, no reason for you to know that. Anyway, your cafe is doing great," Seungkwan added, his eyes scanning the bustling space, clearly impressed.

The two of them sat at a table together, a rare moment where Seokmin found himself truly getting to know Seungkwan. He had always been your best friend since college, but the few interactions they had shared had never gone beyond awkward pleasantries. Seokmin now realized that he barely knew the person who had been by your side for so long.

In fact, he remembered the last time Seungkwan had been in his life. The memory stung, but he pushed it down as they continued their conversation, both men navigating the strange space between them.

“You ungrateful bastard.” Seungkwan’s words were sharp the last time they had ever saw each other.

Seokmin's eyes widened as he stepped into his apartment after a week of staying in the cafe. He had barely any clothes left there and needed to change. His mind was still trying to forget the argument that had taken place the last time he was home. It was like any other argument—filled with tension, unspoken words, and frustration.

There had been countless times Seungkwan was mentioned during arguments. Seokmin didn’t know him well—just that he was a friend of yours from university. Despite meeting him a few times, there had always been a lingering, uncomfortable atmosphere between Seokmin and Seungkwan, one that others could feel but no one would openly acknowledge.

But when he stepped into the bedroom, everything seemed to freeze. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then stared again, certain that what he saw couldn’t be real. There, in his bed, was Seungkwan, your best friend, lying on his side of the bed.

It didn’t take long for the familiar anger to rise in Seokmin’s chest. His thoughts raced back to every argument, every moment Seungkwan had been mentioned, and the air of discomfort between him and Seungkwan.

He tried to shake it off, but the image of Seungkwan in his bed was burning into his brain, and the frustration, the years of pent-up tension, exploded.

“What is this?” His voice was thick with disbelief, his hands gripping the doorframe.

Your gaze flicked nervously from Seokmin to Seungkwan, and before Seokmin could react, you were moving towards him, pulling him out of the bedroom. “It’s not what it looks like,” you said quickly, but your voice trembled with uncertainty.

Seokmin’s eyes were wide, his heart pounding. “What do you mean ‘it’s not what it looks like’? Why is he in my bed?” His words were clipped, his frustration quickly building. He couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening.

You kept your voice low, trying to stay calm. “Seokmin, listen to me. It's a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Seokmin’s voice rose, unable to contain the anger. “What part of my bed being taken by him is a misunderstanding?”

You sighed deeply, stepping back slightly to avoid his fiery gaze. “He’s my best friend, Seokmin. He needed somewhere to sleep. We weren’t—” You cut yourself off, realizing how it sounded.

Seokmin’s face darkened. He laughed bitterly, the sound bitter on his tongue. “You think I’m stupid? You want me to believe you’re ‘just sleeping’?” He stepped closer to you, his voice shaking with emotion. “Are you cheating on me with him? Is that it? This whole time, while I’ve been working my ass off, you’ve been with him?”

You took a step back, stunned by his words. “No! I’m not cheating on you!” you pleaded, the frustration in your own voice rising. “Seungkwan’s my friend, my best friend. Why does it always have to be this way?”

Seokmin was pacing now, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to hold it together. His emotions were getting the best of him. “Because I saw it with my own eyes, Y/n. I saw him in my bed, sleeping next to you—” He swallowed hard, trying to get the words out. “What if I had walked in and seen something else? What if I had found you in the middle of... whatever it is you’ve been doing?”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head frantically. “Seokmin, that’s not what’s happening!” You reached for him, trying to calm him, but he stepped back, avoiding your touch.

Seokmin let out a strained laugh, one filled with pain and betrayal. “Just sleeping? That’s your excuse? What do you expect me to believe? You’ve been so cold lately. So distant. And now this? I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I’ve been distant?” you shot back, the words sharp. “You’ve been gone for days, Seokmin. Days! And now you come back here accusing me of—of what? Cheating?”

Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking, his breath coming faster now. “Don’t act like this is my fault. You can’t even look at me the same anymore. Every time I try to come home, it feels like I’m stepping into a house full of secrets and lies. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m not the one who’s changed, Seokmin!” Your voice cracked, the weight of your words taking their toll. “You’ve pulled away. You’ve been gone, busy with the cafe. You didn’t even have time for me, for us. And now, you show up and this is what you do—accuse me of things that aren’t true!”

The argument grew louder, more intense. Words flew like daggers, each of you trying to hurt the other before the pain could sink too deep. Seokmin was on the verge of breaking down, but his anger was keeping him from seeing clearly. You were both caught in a whirlpool of hurt, accusations, and unsaid words.

Then, as if on cue, Seungkwan appeared in the doorway. His eyes were bleary from sleep, his head clearly pounding from the night before. He stepped out into the living room, rubbing his face and looking between the two of you.

“What’s going on?” Seungkwan’s voice was groggy, his confusion evident. He hadn’t expected to find a warzone when he came out of the room.

Seokmin whirled on him, his anger still burning hot. He grabbed Seungkwan’s shirt with both hands, his voice low and threatening. “What the hell are you doing in my bed with my girlfriend?”

Seungkwan blinked, still half asleep. “Relax, man... We were just sleeping.”

The words barely registered before Seokmin’s fist flew through the air, landing a punch on Seungkwan’s jaw. Seungkwan stumbled back, the shock of the hit taking him by surprise.

“Seokmin, stop!” You screamed, rushing forward, but in his anger, Seokmin pushed you aside, not realizing what he was doing.

You gasped as you hit the floor, but before Seokmin could even react, Seungkwan lunged, his fist connecting with Seokmin’s face. The force sent Seokmin stumbling backwards, his lip splitting from the impact.

“Get the hell out of here, you bastard!” Seungkwan shouted, his chest heaving with adrenaline as he shoved Seokmin toward the door.

Seokmin, dazed and bleeding, stood frozen for a moment. His heart pounded in his ears, the adrenaline still surging through his body. But as Seungkwan pushed him out, his own words haunted him.

“You ungrateful bastard.” Seungkwan’s words were sharp, final, as he slammed the door in Seokmin’s face, leaving him outside in the cold, heartbroken, and alone.

*

Seokmin took a sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through his body, but as he opened his eyes, something felt... off. The familiar scent of freshly brewed espresso and sugar filled his senses, yet the details around him seemed different.

He wasn’t in his apartment, where he had specifically visualized it. Instead, he was in his café—a year ago.

The table in front of him was the same, scuffed in places where he had absentmindedly tapped his fingers while brainstorming new recipes. The dessert counter was still small, a far cry from what it had become over time. The soft hum of the café's old refrigerator buzzed in the background, a sound he had long since tuned out.

Seokmin’s brows furrowed. Why am I here?

Just then, his phone vibrated. A message.

Y/n: Can you come home? I have a really bad stomachache.

Seokmin stared at the screen, a strange sensation creeping up his spine. He knew this message. He had received it before—exactly one year ago.

Now he remembered.

That night, you had asked him to come home, but he hadn’t. He had stayed at the café, drowning himself in dessert recipes, convincing himself that work was more important. He had ignored your message, promising himself he’d check on you in the morning.

But the morning had come, and by then, something had already started to break between you.

Seokmin clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his phone.

This was the moment. The turning point.

If he went home tonight, would it change anything between you?

He exhaled, forcing himself to think. Why had he chosen to stay at the café back then? What had been so important that he ignored you?

He had spent months after your breakup searching for answers—wondering why you had grown distant after five years together, why your warmth had slowly faded, why you had let someone else—Seungkwan—fill the space he had left empty.

Was that why you pulled away? Because you had already found someone else?

Seokmin shook his head. He had spent so much time blaming you, convincing himself that you had betrayed him. But deep down, he knew the truth—he had left you alone long before you ever looked elsewhere for comfort.

He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He wasn’t going to give another man the chance to take his place.

Wasn’t that why he had returned to the past in the first place? Because he didn’t want to lose you? Because he couldn’t bear to see you with someone else?

Without hesitation, Seokmin grabbed his keys and sprinted out of the café, the cold night air biting against his skin as he rushed toward your apartment.

"Y/n..." he called softly as he stepped inside, his heart hammering in his chest.

His breath caught when he saw you curled up on the couch, clutching your stomach. Your face was pale, and beads of cold sweat clung to your temple.

Seokmin crossed the room in long strides, kneeling in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was tight with worry as he reached out, scanning your expression. His fingers brushed against your forehead—it was damp, too cold.

You barely lifted your gaze to meet his. “I don’t know… It hurts so much…” Your voice was weak, barely a whisper.

Panic surged through him. He had no idea the pain had been this bad. Had you been suffering like this all night, alone?

Without another thought, Seokmin scooped you into his arms, holding you close.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said firmly, his mind made up.

This time, he wouldn’t leave you waiting.

Seokmin sat in the cold, sterile hospital hallway, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white. The scent of antiseptic burned his nose, the bright fluorescent lights overhead only worsening the pounding in his skull.

The image of you, unconscious on the hospital bed, your skin sickly pale, was burned into his mind. He hadn't realized it was this serious. Hadn't known you had been suffering like this while he was too caught up in his own world, his own ambitions.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Please, just let her be okay.

The sound of footsteps made him lift his head, and he shot up when he saw the doctor approaching.

"How is she?" Seokmin asked immediately, his voice rough, desperate.

The doctor sighed, pulling down his mask before speaking. "She's stable now, but..."

Seokmin's heart pounded harder. The pause stretched too long. "But what?"

The doctor gave him a solemn look. "She was pregnant."

Seokmin felt the words hit him like a truck, his breath catching in his throat. Pregnant?

His vision blurred for a second, his mind racing back through time—had you known? Had you tried to tell him?

"But due to excessive stress and prolonged neglect of her symptoms," the doctor continued, "she suffered a miscarriage."

The word rang in his ears, shattering something deep inside him.

A miscarriage.

His legs felt weak, his hands trembled. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

There had been a baby. His baby. A life that had barely begun but was already gone.

Seokmin stumbled back onto the chair, his body cold, his mind reeling. He gripped his hair, exhaling shakily.

He had been so blind. So selfish.

All those times you had asked him to come home. All those moments when you had reached out, needing him. And he had ignored you, stayed at the café, convinced himself that his time, his dreams, his work mattered more.

And now, there was no going back.

His baby was gone.

And you—how were you supposed to handle this? How much pain had you endured alone while he had been too distracted, too distant to see it?

"Hey, do you know I'm never into women? I always have a boyfriend." Seungkwan’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable hitting him like a hammer to the chest.

Seokmin sat there, unmoving, the weight of those words settling deep in his bones. His breath hitched as the realization sank in—how wrong he had been.

All the accusations. The doubts. The fights.

All the times he had glared at Seungkwan, convinced that he was the reason for your distance, the reason you weren’t looking at him the way you used to. He had let his insecurities twist everything, had let jealousy consume him until all he saw was betrayal where there was none.

And while he had been drowning in his own delusions, you had been suffering in silence.

He pressed a hand over his face, his fingers trembling.

"I'm not cheating on you."

Your voice from that night played in his head, softer now, weaker. He could still see the way your face had crumpled at his accusations, the way you had begged him to believe you.

But he hadn’t.

He had let his pride win. He had let his anger control him.

And now, here he was—watching you lie in a hospital bed, pale and weak, after losing the baby he never even knew existed.

Guilt clawed at his throat, suffocating him.

"I should have been there."

But he wasn’t.

And now, it was too late.

*

Mingyu watched as Myungho sprinted down the hospital corridor, his breathing ragged, his face a mix of panic and frustration. Neither of them had expected to receive a message from one of Seokmin's staff, informing them that their friend had been found passed out in his café that morning—with ten empty espresso cups scattered around him.

Myungho raked a trembling hand through his hair, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Is it because of her wedding? Is that why he did something this stupid?" He turned to Mingyu, eyes desperate for an answer, but Mingyu looked just as lost, just as shaken.

Seokmin, their bright, ever-smiling friend, had nearly died of a heart attack.

Mingyu let out a heavy breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he sank onto one of the waiting chairs. His fingers fidgeted, betraying the unease thrumming through his body. "The wedding is tomorrow," he muttered, voice hollow.

Myungho stiffened at the words. He knew it. They both did. But hearing it out loud made it feel more real, made Seokmin’s pain more tangible.

Mingyu swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Doctor said if they hadn’t found him sooner, it could've been fatal."

Myungho clenched his fists. "That idiot," he cursed under his breath, his voice cracking. His eyes burned with unshed tears, the weight of almost losing Seokmin settling heavily on his chest.

Seokmin's eyelids fluttered open, the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room coming into focus. His body felt heavy, his head pounding as if a jackhammer was drilling into his skull. His mouth was dry, tasting faintly of bitter coffee and regret.

Before he could fully register his surroundings, a sharp gasp filled the room.

"Seokmin!"

Mingyu and Myungho rushed to his side, their expressions a mix of relief and frustration. Mingyu gripped his arm tightly, as if making sure he was real, while Myungho hovered nearby, his jaw clenched.

Seokmin blinked sluggishly, his throat constricting as he croaked out, "Where am I?"

Mingyu scoffed, shaking his head. "Where do you think? You're in the hospital, you dumbass." His voice wavered, trying to mask his emotions with irritation, but his grip on Seokmin’s arm gave him away. "You nearly died."

Seokmin groaned, attempting to sit up, but Myungho immediately pressed him back down with a firm hand on his chest. "Don’t even try. You drank ten cups of espresso in one go, Seokmin. Ten! Do you have a death wish?!"

Seokmin closed his eyes briefly, letting their words sink in. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he asked the only question that mattered to him.

"Did she get married?"

The room fell silent.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged glances, their expressions darkening.

Seokmin's hands clenched the sheets, his breath growing unsteady. "Tell me," he pleaded, his voice cracking.

Myungho sighed, rubbing his temples. "Seokmin—"

"Did she or did she not get married?!" Seokmin's voice rose, desperate, raw.

Mingyu exhaled heavily, then finally muttered, "Not yet."

Seokmin's heart lurched. He wasn't too late. Not yet.

Ignoring the dizziness washing over him, he tried to push himself up again. "I need to see her."

"Are you insane?!" Myungho nearly shouted, pushing him back. "You almost died, and the first thing you want to do is chase after her?!"

Seokmin grabbed onto Myungho’s wrist, eyes wild with determination. "I have to stop it." His voice was barely above a whisper, but the conviction in it made both of his friends freeze.

Mingyu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don’t even know if she wants you to stop it, Seokmin."

Seokmin swallowed hard, his chest aching. He knew that. He knew he had no right to do this. But he also knew one thing for certain—

"I need to see her."

Mingyu let out a long breath, gripping his knees as he tried to process Seokmin’s words. Myungho, on the other hand, looked like he was on the verge of throwing something.

"Are you even listening to yourself?" Myungho snapped, glaring at Seokmin. "You just woke up from almost dying, and your first thought is running after her wedding? What the hell do you think is going to happen?"

Mingyu leaned forward, rubbing his temples. "Even if you do see her, then what? Do you expect her to come back to you just because you showed up? Do you think this is some kind of drama where the moment you say ‘don’t marry him,’ she’ll run into your arms?"

Seokmin’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His mind was clouded, tangled between desperation and the overwhelming guilt crushing his chest.

"This isn’t about what you want anymore, Seokmin," Myungho continued, his voice quieter but firm. "She’s about to start a new life. Whether or not she’s happy with it, that’s not something you get to decide."

Seokmin’s breathing became uneven, his heart pounding against his ribs. "But what if she’s making a mistake?" he murmured.

"And what if she isn’t?" Mingyu shot back. "What if she’s already moved on and you’re the only one stuck in the past?"

Seokmin’s fingers curled into the hospital blanket. That thought—her moving on, being happy without him—made his stomach twist painfully.

"I need to know," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

Mingyu ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "You’re being selfish, man. You don’t need to know. You want to know. And there’s a big difference."

Myungho sighed, looking away for a moment before turning back to Seokmin. "You think this is love, but it’s guilt eating you alive. You regret everything, and you think if you see her, if you stop her, maybe it’ll fix something in you. But it won’t."

Seokmin clenched his jaw. "I just—"

"You just can’t accept that you lost her."

The words cut deeper than Seokmin expected. His vision blurred slightly, his throat tightening.

Seokmin’s breath hitched, his shoulders trembling as he gripped the blanket beneath him. His head hung low, strands of hair falling over his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the way his body shook. A choked sound escaped his lips, something between a breathless laugh and a sob, as if he himself wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged a glance, their own expressions heavy with helplessness. Neither of them had an answer—because if moving on was easy, Seokmin wouldn’t be here, collapsing under the weight of what-ifs and regrets.

"I ruined everything," Seokmin whispered, his fingers pressing into his temples. "I should’ve come home that night. I should’ve listened. I should’ve believed her." His voice cracked at the last part, and his body folded in on itself.

He sucked in a sharp breath, but it did nothing to steady him. The dam he had been holding back for so long finally burst. A sob tore from his throat, raw and painful, his hands clutching at his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

"I thought I was doing the right thing." Another sob. "I thought I was protecting us." His words were barely coherent between gasps. "But I— I pushed her away. Over and over. And then when I finally—when I finally wanted to fix things, it was too late."

He pressed his fists against his eyes, trying to stop the flood of tears, but they kept coming. "She waited for me," he rasped. "And I never came."

Myungho, usually the colder one, exhaled and sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He placed a hand on Seokmin’s back, firm but gentle. "You can’t change the past, Seokmin," he murmured. "No matter how much you regret it. You can't change anything."

Seokmin let out a bitter, broken laugh through his tears. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

Mingyu kneeled beside the bed, gripping Seokmin’s wrist, grounding him. "You grieve, man," he said softly. "And then, one day, you start again."

Seokmin squeezed his eyes shut, his body wrecked with sobs. He had spent so long running—running from his emotions, from his mistakes, from the truth. And now, there was nowhere left to run.

All that was left was the ache in his chest and the cruel reality that no matter how much he cried, no matter how much he wished, he could never turn back time.

*

"No one can change things but themselves."

Seokmin let out a quiet chuckle as he read the faded tagline on the back of the vintage brewing machine. He ran a hand over its worn surface, the once-polished metal now dulled with age.

He pulled it from the counter, his fingers tightening around the handle as he lifted it. There was a strange sense of finality in the action, as if he were physically removing a part of himself from the past. He exhaled slowly. It was time to say goodbye.

It had taken him a month to come to terms with the truth. No matter how much he wished otherwise, he couldn’t change the past. Even after experiencing what felt like a second chance, he realized that some things were simply meant to happen. His mistakes, your choices—they were both pieces of a larger story that he had no control over.

He couldn’t be selfish anymore. You had your own life, your own decisions. And he had to respect that.

After being discharged from the hospital, Myungho had insisted he move in with him, at least for a while. “You need someone to keep an eye on your dumbass,” Myungho had said, dragging him into his apartment without giving him a chance to protest. Mingyu had taken over managing the café in his absence, making sure everything ran smoothly while Seokmin recovered.

Their support had been the reason he didn’t completely fall apart.

And now, standing in his café once again, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time—strength. Not just physical strength, but the kind that came from acceptance.

He was back.

And this time, he was ready to move forward.

Seokmin froze for a moment as he spotted the old man standing across the road, watching him with a knowing look. The same old man who had sold him the vintage brewing machine all those months ago—the one who seemed to have known more than he let on. Seokmin blinked, still trying to process the bizarre turn of events.

The old man raised his hand and waved, an almost mischievous grin on his weathered face. Seokmin's heart skipped a beat.

He made his way over, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. “You finished using it?” The old man asked, his voice gravelly, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. “Can I get it back?”

Seokmin hesitated for a second, the weight of everything that had happened still lingering in his chest. He glanced down at the machine in his hands, the one that had been his link to the past. "You know it too?" Seokmin asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "This machine... it can send anyone back in time?"

The old man’s smile widened, and he nodded knowingly. "I always knew," he said with quiet certainty. There was something in his eyes—a kind of ancient wisdom—that made Seokmin feel like he was standing before someone who had seen far more than he let on.

Without waiting for any further conversation, the old man reached out and took the machine from Seokmin’s arms. Despite his age, the man was surprisingly strong, and Seokmin couldn’t help but watch in awe as the old man effortlessly carried the machine.

For a moment, Seokmin stood there, frozen, as he watched the old man walk away, the heavy sound of his steps receding in the distance. It felt surreal—like the end of a chapter, yet Seokmin couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning of something far more complex.

As Seokmin stood there, watching the old man walk away, he couldn’t shake the nagging question in his mind—the tagline he had read on the back of the brewing machine. It had been on his mind ever since he first set eyes on it, and now, with the machine being taken away, it felt like there was a final piece to the puzzle that was still missing.

"Hey," Seokmin called out, his voice catching the old man’s attention before he disappeared completely. The old man turned around, a knowing smile playing on his lips as if he had been expecting this.

“What’s the tagline about?” Seokmin asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "The one that says, 'No one can change things but themselves.' What does that really mean?"

The old man chuckled softly, the sound a raspy yet warm laugh that seemed to carry the weight of countless untold stories. He looked at Seokmin with a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

"It takes two for everything," the old man replied, his voice low and deliberate. "You couldn’t be the only one who wants it."

Seokmin stood in silence, the brewing machine now a distant memory in his hands, and the words of the old man echoed in his head. “It takes two for everything.” Was he truly ready to let go? To stop trying to control the outcome?

As the seconds ticked by, he realized that maybe, just maybe, the key wasn’t about turning back time, but about moving forward.

Seokmin’s phone buzzed with a new message. It was from Myungho.

Myungho: You're home already?

Seokmin frowned at the screen, his frustration rising. He quickly typed back:

Seokmin: Stop texting me like a creepy boyfriend!

Not even a minute later, his phone rang. It was Myungho calling this time. Seokmin groaned, rolling his eyes before answering.

“Why do you keep bothering me? What do you want, Myungho?” Seokmin grumbled as he headed back to the cafe, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clung to him.

“Mingyu texted me, saying he saw your cafe lights still on!” Myungho said with a teasing tone, clearly amused.

Seokmin, now annoyed, rubbed his temples. “I’m just done recycling, okay? What the heck, how does Mingyu know my lights are still on?”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and then Myungho’s voice came through, dripping with sarcasm. “CCTV?”

Seokmin froze mid-step, eyes widening in disbelief. “Ya! How dare you guys monitor me with my own CCTV?! We should’ve had a talk about this! You’re creepy, you know that?”

Myungho let out a laugh, clearly unfazed by Seokmin’s outburst. “Just get home already. I’ll text you in an hour!”

Seokmin scoffed, shaking his head in amusement as he made his way toward the cafe. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Before Seokmin could respond further, Myungho ended the call with a cheeky, “Don’t make me come over there and check on you myself!”

Seokmin chuckled in disbelief, muttering to himself. “As if I needed another reason to feel like I’m being watched…”

Seokmin woke up slowly, feeling the weight of Myungho's arm draped over his chest. His mind was still foggy as he tried to process the situation. Had Myungho come over last night? He had no memory of it, but the warm pressure on his chest was undeniable.

“Go away, Myungho,” he mumbled, trying to shift the arm off him and pull the blanket back over himself, desperate for more sleep.

But just as he was about to drift off again, a sharp slap landed on his cheek. His eyes snapped open in shock, his heart racing. He turned to see you standing by the bed, a frown plastered on your face, looking down at him with a mix of confusion and frustration.

“Myungho? You dream about your friend?” you asked, your tone biting.

Seokmin’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. His mind couldn’t keep up with what was happening. Y/n? His eyes blinked rapidly, still disoriented from sleep.

He quickly turned his head toward Myungho, expecting to see his friend there, only to find the bed next to him empty. His eyes darted back to you, wide with surprise.

“Y/n?” Seokmin whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

You raised an eyebrow, still standing in the doorway. The shock on his face must’ve been evident because your expression softened slightly, your concern starting to show. “I should be asking you that,” you retorted, your arms crossed over your chest. “Why the heck were you thinking i'm Myungho? Were you two—”

“No!” Seokmin interrupted quickly, his face flushing red. He sat up straight, heart pounding. “No, it’s not like that. I… I thought it was Myungho… but it was you…” He trailed off, still struggling to make sense of the situation. “What are you doing here, Y/n?”

You stared at him for a moment, your gaze shifting from confusion to something softer, but still tinged with frustration. A small sigh escaped your lips before you spoke again.

“Why am I here?” you asked incredulously, a bemused look crossing your face. “What are you talking about? I'm your wife, Seokmin. This is my house!”

Seokmin’s breath hitched in his chest. His mind was reeling, unable to catch up with the rush of confusion, panic, and overwhelming guilt. He ran a hand through his hair, still stunned by the situation. His thoughts felt like they were slipping away from him, like he was in a dream, but everything was too real.

“Y/n…” Seokmin’s voice trailed off, still searching your face for some kind of explanation. “How did we— why did I—” He couldn’t find the right words. The mixture of emotions was overwhelming. Was this real? Had everything really led to this?

You shook your head slightly, your expression softening as you walked closer, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "Seokmin, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?"

Seokmin stared at you, the words stuck in his throat. He could feel the weight of everything crashing down on him—everything he had been running from, everything he had tried to avoid. But in that moment, with you sitting so close to him, so real, it all felt too much. Too real to escape.

Seokmin blinked, his mind racing as he looked down at his own finger. He felt the weight of a wedding band there, the same one he saw on yours. His eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest.

"We're married?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words couldn't quite sink in. "How?"

You rolled your eyes, clearly frustrated by his confusion. "A month ago, Seokmin! Stop being ridiculous or you’re going to be late."

Seokmin could hardly process what you said. "Late for what?" His mind was still trying to catch up, the fog from his sleep mixing with a heavy sense of disbelief.

You stood up from the bed and walked toward the door, tossing over your shoulder, "Your branch cafe opening, of course. We’ve been planning it for weeks now."

His eyes followed you as you left the room, still reeling from the whirlwind of information that felt too surreal. A month ago? He ran a hand through his hair again, trying to piece together the puzzle. He couldn’t remember any of it—the wedding, the plans, none of it. Everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers, like he had missed an entire chapter of his own life.

Seokmin hurriedly followed you, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. "But I didn’t… I didn’t drink any coffee, and I’m sure I didn’t return to the past," he muttered to himself, almost as if convincing himself.

You stopped in your tracks and glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Seokmin, you’ve been acting strange all morning. Maybe you should just focus on today, alright? You’ve got a cafe to open."

"But I—" He was cut off by the sound of his own phone buzzing in his pocket. The reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. His mind had been clouded with confusion, but now it was clear—there was no going back.

"I know you're a newlywed, but please don't be late for today!" Mingyu's voice came through the phone, laced with frustration.

Seokmin froze, staring at his phone in disbelief. What was happening?

His thoughts were still spinning, trying to make sense of everything. Newlywed? A month ago? The cafe opening? The weight of it all was sinking in slowly, but it felt like his mind couldn’t keep up. His fingers tightened around the phone, and he felt a rush of panic creeping in.

"Mingyu… what’s going on?" Seokmin asked, his voice shaky as he stood in the hallway, still unsure of the reality he was facing.

On the other end, Mingyu sighed heavily. "Are you serious right now, Seokmin? You’re supposed to be here in an hour. Get it together."

Seokmin’s heart pounded in his chest as his mind raced. What did he mean, 'get it together'? Everything felt like a blur—like he had woken up in someone else’s life. The wedding ring, the cafe opening, your presence beside him—it was all too much to process.

Seokmin glanced over at you, still standing in the doorway, your arms crossed with a gentle but knowing expression on your face. You had your life figured out, but he… he was stuck in a whirlwind of confusion.

"Seokmin," Mingyu’s voice cut through his thoughts. "You need to snap out of it. You're really scaring me now."

Seokmin closed his eyes, trying to focus, but the weight of everything pressing on him was overwhelming. How could he have missed all of this? How could he have forgotten?

"Okay," Seokmin finally said, taking a deep breath and trying to steady his racing thoughts. "I’ll be there."

He hung up the phone and looked at you, the one person who seemed to know what was going on. "I—I don’t know what’s happening," he admitted, his voice softer now. "But I need to figure this out, Y/n."

You smiled slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting as you walked toward him. "One step at a time, Seokmin. Let’s get through today, and then we’ll talk."

Seokmin nodded, still in a daze, but he felt a strange sense of reassurance in your words. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

*

Seungkwan stepped into your place, drinks in hand, and immediately noticed something on the kitchen counter. "That's cool," he remarked, eyeing the vintage brewing machine with curiosity.

"I didn’t know you were into vintage stuff," he added, raising an eyebrow as he set the drinks down.

You rolled your eyes playfully, brushing him off as you arranged the coffee table in front of the couch, placing the food you had ordered earlier. "It's just for display," you said, trying to downplay it.

Seungkwan chuckled and sat down on the floor, pulling bottles out of the bag with a grin. "Is it really okay to drink here? Your boyfriend won’t be home, will he?"

You sighed, glancing at him as you adjusted the arrangement on the table. "I told you, he hasn’t been home for days. I don’t know what to do anymore," you admitted, the frustration in your voice barely concealed.

Seungkwan looked at you, concern flickering in his eyes. He set the bottle down and leaned forward, his tone softening. "Let’s forget about him for now, okay? Tonight’s about you. Let’s drink, relax, and leave all the stress behind."

His words, filled with sincerity, brought a small but genuine smile to your face. "Yeah," you said, finally letting yourself breathe a little easier. "Tonight, we forget about everything else."

"So, I went back to the past, where he came home, and I didn’t act like a crazy bitch asking where he was or what he was doing. I saw how hard he was working for our future," you said, your words slurring slightly, but there was an undeniable sincerity in your voice.

Seungkwan watched you closely, his gaze thoughtful. "Do you always know why he worked so hard on the cafe?" he asked, his tone soft but probing.

You nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yeah, it’s his romantic dream. I knew that all along, but I still acted like an asshole." Your voice faltered slightly, regret creeping in as you admitted your mistakes. "I let my insecurities get the best of me."

Seungkwan fell silent for a moment, processing your words. Then, almost as if he was speaking to himself, he muttered, "Maybe I’m just jealous... that I couldn’t make my dreams come true the way he did. He has something to fight for, something to believe in."

There was a quiet vulnerability in his voice, one that made you pause. You glanced at him, recognizing that his words weren’t just about your boyfriend. He, too, was struggling with his own battles, hidden beneath layers of laughter and bravado.

The day you found out you were pregnant, only to lose it in a heartbreaking miscarriage, felt like a cruel twist of fate. It was the morning where the two of you finally sat together, yet Seokmin was still letting you go, giving you space to breathe but also unintentionally distancing himself further. Maybe that’s how it was meant to be. Even after you returned to the past, even after you tried to fix things, it felt as if nothing would change. The bond you once had was slipping away, like sand through your fingers.

As you stood by the trash, about to dispose of the old brewing machine—the same one that had brought you back to the past—your thoughts were tangled with regret and confusion. That’s when you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, and you looked up to find the old man, the one who had given you the machine, standing there near your place.

"Oh, you're here..." you murmured, surprised yet not entirely shocked.

The old man smiled faintly, as if he’d been expecting this moment. "Can I get it back?" he asked gently, his voice carrying a quiet understanding.

You nodded, the weight of his words from before still lingering in your mind as you handed the machine back to him. It felt as if he had been a silent witness to everything that had transpired.

Before he walked away, he turned to face you one last time, his gaze penetrating yet wise. "Do you know," he began, his voice a low murmur, "you can’t change someone unless they themselves want to change?"

His words hit you like a heavy realization. He was right. It shouldn’t just be you who wanted change; it had to be him too. It had to come from both sides. The problem had never been about fixing things alone—it was about the both of you, working through it together.

With that, the old man walked away, leaving you standing there, holding onto the truth he'd just given you. A truth you didn’t know you needed to hear.

The end:)

[aspenmissing]

hey, first of all i want to say that i love your writing and style! could you please do arcane characters (jinx, silco, jaycee, victor, vander) with a reader who’s a mercenary? like what their reactions would be, would they accept it or not, the relationship dynamics

ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ?

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 7291 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ (ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ! <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the machines Jayce had been working on. The golden light of the sunset streamed through the window, casting long shadows across the room. Y/N stood by the door, her coat already on, fingers tracing the outline of the weapon at her hip.

“Where are you going?” Jayce’s voice broke the silence, heavy with suspicion. His eyes flicked between her and the door.

Y/N hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice steady, but there was an undeniable tension in her posture. “I’ve got a job to do, Jayce.”

Jayce stood from his workbench, brow furrowed. “A job? At a time like this?”

Y/N met his gaze, but there was an air of detachment about her now, a barrier she’d put up without realizing. “I don’t have the luxury of waiting around, Jayce. I need to work.”

Jayce took a few steps toward her, confusion and concern written on his face. “It’s late, Y/N. What kind of job requires you to leave now?” He crossed his arms, unwilling to let her go without an explanation. “You’ve been so distant lately... What’s going on?”

Y/N looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes. The truth of it—whatever her job was—felt too complicated to explain, even to him. She hadn’t expected it to come to this, but she couldn’t back out now.

“I’m just doing what needs to be done,” she said quietly, her voice betraying no hint of vulnerability. “I’ll be back soon. You don’t need to worry.”

Jayce’s gaze hardened, his frustration starting to bubble over. “I do need to worry, Y/N. You’re disappearing in the middle of the night, and you won’t even tell me why. I want to understand, but you’re shutting me out.”

The quiet tension between them deepened, his worry unmistakable. He wanted to keep pushing, to demand more, but he could see the look on her face—the quiet resolve that made him take a step back. She wasn’t going to tell him, not now, and she wasn’t giving him a choice.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Finally, Y/N spoke again, softer this time. “I’m not asking for your permission, Jayce. I’m not asking for your approval.”

Jayce took a slow breath, his mind racing. He had never seen her like this, so closed off, and it gnawed at him. “I don’t want to control you. I just... don’t understand.”

Y/N looked at him one last time, her eyes softening slightly, but her resolve remained firm. “I’ll explain when I can. Just... trust me, okay?” Her voice was quiet but insistent.

Jayce swallowed, his frustration mixing with an overwhelming sense of helplessness. He nodded, though the knot in his chest remained tight. “Okay, Y/N. But I don’t like this.”

With a final glance at him, Y/N stepped out into the night, the door closing behind her softly. Jayce stood still for a long moment, watching the space where she had been, his mind spinning with unanswered questions. He didn’t know what she was doing or why she was leaving so late, but he knew one thing for sure—he wasn’t going to stop thinking about it.

=

The hours passed slowly, the silence in the apartment weighing heavily on Jayce. He had been cleaning, trying to distract himself from the ache in his chest. He picked up the stray papers and straightened the furniture, but his mind kept returning to the argument. Her words. The cold finality of it all.

As he moved into their bedroom, something caught his eye—a loose floorboard in the corner of the closet. It had always been there, but tonight, his curiosity got the better of him. He bent down, prying the board up with a creak. His heart raced when he saw what lay beneath it: a stash of money, far more than they’d ever had in the apartment. Along with it were weapons—blades, smoke bombs, and a few tools that looked disturbingly familiar. And then, the papers.

A hit list.

Names, dates, locations. His hand trembled as he skimmed through it. Some of the names were ones Y/N had mentioned in passing, but he’d never thought much of them. Now, seeing it laid out so coldly in front of him, the truth hit him like a punch to the gut.

She wasn’t just working. She was a mercenary. A killer. All this time, she’d been living a life of violence, and he had been blind to it.

Jayce’s stomach churned. He had known something wasn’t right, but this... this was beyond anything he’d imagined. His breath hitched as he placed the papers down gently, trying to steady himself. He felt betrayed, but not in the way he expected. This wasn’t about her safety—it was about who she was. The person he loved was capable of taking lives, and he couldn’t ignore that.

The door creaked open a few hours later. Y/N stepped in, her eyes immediately finding his. She froze at the look on his face.

“Jayce,” she began, her voice hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure how to face him after everything.

“No,” Jayce cut her off, his voice low but firm. His heart pounded in his chest, his fists clenched. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me anymore.”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she realized what he was talking about.

“I found it, Y/N,” Jayce continued, his voice thick with anger and disbelief. “I found everything—the money, the weapons, the list. I know what you’ve been doing. I know who you are.”

Her eyes flickered toward the floorboard, and Jayce saw the guilt flash in her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to find it. But now that he had... there was no denying it.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” she whispered, her voice small. “I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

Jayce stepped forward, his face twisted with a mixture of hurt and fury. “You’ve been lying to me, Y/N. All this time, you’ve been living a double life. And I—I thought I knew you. I thought we were building something real. But now I find out this? This is who you really are?”

Y/N's breath caught in her throat, but she didn’t look away. She didn’t deny it. “This is who I was, Jayce. This is what I’ve been trying to escape. But it doesn’t just go away.”

Jayce’s anger flared. “I’m not talking about what you’ve been trying to escape, Y/N. I’m talking about what you’ve become. You’ve been killing people. For money. How many have you—how many have you taken out for a job? How many lives have you ended?”

Her gaze faltered for just a moment before she steadied herself, her voice thick with emotion. “I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t want you to know. But this is my life, Jayce. This is what I do.”

“No,” Jayce shot back, his voice trembling with emotion. “This is who you’ve chosen to be. You could have stopped, Y/N. You could have walked away, but instead, you’ve kept it all a secret, lying to me the whole time.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, her shoulders sagging. “I didn’t want to drag you into this... I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Jayce’s chest tightened with frustration and disbelief. “How am I supposed to see you, Y/N? As the woman I thought I knew, or as a killer?”

“I’m still the same person, Jayce,” she whispered, her voice strained. “I’m still me.”

Jayce shook his head, his voice shaking now, though he tried to keep it steady. “I don’t know who you are anymore. You’re not the person I thought I was in love with. You’ve been killing people, Y/N. And I can’t—” He cut himself off, struggling to keep his composure. “I can’t be a part of this. Not like this.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Y/N’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t look away. She had known this moment was coming, but now that it was here, she didn’t know how to make him understand.

“I never wanted to lose you,” she whispered.

Jayce stared at her for a long time, his heart breaking. He wanted to reach out, to hold her, to make everything right again. But he couldn’t reconcile the woman he loved with the reality of what she had done. How could he?

“I can’t do this, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “I can’t love a killer.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She simply stood there, silent, the weight of his words pressing down on her.

VIKTOR

Viktor sat at his desk in the quiet of his lab, the rhythmic sound of his fingers tapping against the surface of a mechanical device he'd been tinkering with. His mind, however, was elsewhere—always elsewhere, it seemed. Thoughts of Y/N had occupied more of his time recently, more than he'd care to admit. Their moments together were filled with a sense of warmth and intimacy, but beneath it all, a question lingered in his heart: How much of her life did I truly know?

It wasn’t the first time he had noticed the occasional bruising on her arms or the subtle weariness in her eyes. The absence of certain details made him wonder, but he never pressed her on them. She was strong, capable, and fiercely independent, but it was this same strength that left him both in awe and, admittedly, in concern.

That night, the truth came in a way neither of them expected.

Y/N had walked into his lab, a rare tension in her posture. She looked like she hadn’t had a decent night's sleep in days. She had a light wound on her shoulder, one she’d probably already cleaned herself, but Viktor noticed the way she winced when reaching for something on the shelf.

“Y/N…” Viktor's voice was soft, but his gaze didn’t leave her. He’d learned to read her well enough by now, knowing when something was wrong even if she didn’t voice it.

Y/N met his eyes with a slight frown, but she didn’t hide the fatigue. “It’s nothing, Viktor. Just a scrape.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was firmer now, his steps carrying him closer to her. His gloved fingers gently traced the edge of her wound, inspecting it carefully, before his eyes lifted to hers again. “How did this happen?”

She hesitated, the weight of his gaze on her unsettling her for a moment. She’d always kept this part of her life separate from him, knowing how he would react. But she couldn’t lie anymore—not when he looked at her like that.

“I’m a mercenary, Viktor. That’s how.”

His body stiffened. The words hit him like a sudden blow, sharp and unexpected. Mercenary. He had always suspected there was more to her than the brilliant mind and the warm smiles she gave him, but to hear it out loud—mercenary—was a different kind of shock.

"You… you?" Viktor's voice trembled, not from anger but from concern and disbelief. The idea of her being involved in such dangerous work was foreign to him. “Why? Why would you—”

“Because I have to, Viktor,” she interrupted, her voice a little too sharp for his liking. She stepped back, brushing her hair out of her face, trying to hide the pain in her eyes. “Because I don’t have a choice. I can’t live off the kindness of others forever, and Piltover’s never exactly been kind to people like me, has it?”

Viktor wanted to argue, wanted to say something to take away the hardness in her tone, to remind her that she was more than just a survivor of the streets, more than just a weapon. But the words stuck in his throat.

He looked at her, at the woman he loved, the woman who had survived more than anyone should have to. His chest tightened with the realization that she was carrying burdens she had never shared with him, and for the first time, Viktor felt helpless. Helpless and afraid of what this meant for her, for them.

He reached for her hand, his fingers trembling as they clasped around her wrist. "I can't… I can’t stand the thought of you putting yourself in danger like this. You’re not just a tool or a weapon to be used. You’re—"

"Don’t you dare!" Her voice cracked, though she immediately regretted it. She pulled her wrist free from his grip, but there was no anger in her now, only the exhaustion that had haunted her for so long. "You don’t get it. I can’t just walk away from this. The world doesn’t let you do that, Viktor."

His heart clenched at the coldness in her voice. He’d always known she was strong, but now he understood the depth of her strength—how it had been forged in the fires of survival. He also knew that his love for her couldn’t change the past she carried, nor could it remove the life she had chosen.

But Viktor, in that moment, made a vow to her, even if she couldn’t see it yet. He would try. He would try to pull her out of that life, no matter how impossible it seemed. He would fight for her, fight to give her a future where she didn’t have to run through the shadows, a future where she could stand in the light.

“I won’t accept this, Y/N,” he said softly, his gaze intense with emotion. “I’ll find a way to get you out of this life. I swear it. I will not let you keep sacrificing yourself for a world that doesn’t care.”

Y/N’s heart raced as she met his gaze, the sincerity in his words cutting through the stubborn wall she’d built around herself. She’d always been alone in this, never allowing anyone to carry the weight of her decisions. But Viktor… Viktor was different. And in that moment, she realized something: Maybe she didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Tears blurred her vision, and she found herself leaning into him, her arms wrapping around his chest in a moment of vulnerability. “I don’t know how, Viktor. I don’t know if it’s even possible.”

“I’ll find a way,” he repeated, his voice firm with the resolve of someone who had never been afraid of the impossible.

And as he held her close, Y/N knew, deep down, that this was the beginning of a new chapter—for both of them. The road ahead would be uncertain, but with Viktor by her side, she felt the first stirrings of hope, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.

"I believe you," she whispered.

JAYVIK

Viktor had always been the one to see the best in Y/N, always wanting to pull her away from the dangerous and destructive path she had walked. As a former Zaunite himself, he understood the world she came from but believed she deserved something better. His thoughts on her being a mercenary were never far from his mind, especially now that they had been sharing their lives together in Piltover.

But then there was Jayce. Jayce, with his idealism and his unwavering belief in what Piltover could become, had always seen things in black and white. To him, Y/N's role as a mercenary, her life steeped in violence, was something to be condemned. He had been pushing for a long time that she could do better, could be better, and when he found out the full extent of her work, he felt betrayed. His disappointment wasn’t just in her profession—it was in her choices, and more so in how those choices might affect their lives.

It was a particularly tense night. Y/N had just come back from a job, her hands stained with blood, and the weariness in her eyes spoke of the toll this life had taken on her. Jayce couldn't hold back any longer.

“Y/N, you don’t have to do this anymore,” Jayce said, his voice tight with frustration. “This mercenary work, it’s dangerous, and you—" He paused, glancing at Viktor. "—you kill people. I can't stand by and watch this. You’re better than this. We need to do something about it.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed, but his tone was measured. “Jayce, I understand your concern, but we need to consider all options. Y/N’s lived this life for so long, and forcing her to leave it behind might not be as simple as we want it to be.”

But Jayce, his passion for justice overriding everything else, snapped, “We could hand her over to the Enforcers! They can help her, clean her hands of all this blood.”

The words hit Y/N like a blow to the chest. She hadn’t been planning on it, but hearing Jayce's proposal—so cold and impersonal—was the breaking point. She couldn’t stay here if they were going to treat her like a criminal, especially not Viktor, the one who had seen her struggles and still cared.

Without saying a word, she stood up and walked into their shared room. Viktor tried to stop her, but Jayce’s anger and the guilt that washed over him paralyzed him in place. Y/N didn’t look back. She gathered a few belongings—some clothes, her weapons, a few trinkets that reminded her of better times—and stuffed them into a small bag. She wrote a letter, her hands trembling as she penned the words:

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but I can’t stay in a place where I’m unwanted. I’m sorry for not telling you, Viktor. You were my strength, but I can’t live in your world if I’m a constant reminder of the things I’ve done. Jayce, I know you think this is for the best, but I can’t be part of that world. Goodbye. – Y/N.

With the letter left on the bed, Y/N moved to the window. She’d grown used to escaping through the quiet and discreet ways of the streets, even in Piltover. She slipped through the window and disappeared into the night.

=

Back in the living room, the silence between Viktor and Jayce grew heavy. Jayce's anger had faded, leaving behind only worry and regret. He stood from his chair and began pacing, his steps sharp and restless. “Where did she go?”

Viktor’s voice was quiet but firm, tinged with sorrow. “She’s gone. And we’ve lost her... or perhaps, we never truly had her the way we thought.”

Jayce’s frustration flared up again. “Now she’s gone!” he snapped, his tone sharper now. “We can’t even find her.”

Viktor stood, his posture resolute but his gaze full of regret. He moved closer to Jayce, his hands tightly clasped in front of him. “Maybe... maybe we don’t need to find her. Maybe we need to let her go.”

Jayce’s head snapped up, disbelief in his eyes. “Let her go?” His voice cracked with emotion. “After everything we’ve done? After everything we’ve been through? You’ve spent years helping her, and you’re just going to let her walk away?”

Viktor’s expression softened, and he shook his head. “What choice do we have, Jayce? We can’t force her to stay. She’s not our prisoner. She has to choose her own path, just as we’ve had to choose ours.”

The weight of Viktor’s words settled over them both, like a heavy fog. It was then that they realized the truth: they hadn’t just lost her to the conflict between Piltover and Zaun, nor to the violence of her mercenary work. They had lost her because, in their desire to protect her, they hadn’t understood her. They hadn’t truly seen the burden of the choices she’d carried for so long. In the end, they’d tried to control her when all she needed was the freedom to choose for herself.

VANDER

Vander wiped down the bar with a steady hand, the faint smell of sweat and smoke lingering in the air. His gaze flicked across the dimly lit room, watching as the last few patrons stumbled out of the door, their laughter and slurred words echoing as they disappeared into the streets of Zaun. The soft creak of the door swinging open caught his attention, and there, standing in the threshold, was Y/N. She had become a permanent fixture of his bar over the years, the kind of person who didn’t need an invitation—she just showed up, like an old friend he’d always known.

He poured a drink into a glass and slid it in front of her. She didn’t acknowledge the gesture, her eyes still focused on the space in front of her, lost in thought. But he noticed her hands, clenched tight around the glass, the way her knuckles were bruised, the way her fingers were still a little stiff from a fight she’d probably won, but at a cost.

"You're looking worse than usual," Vander finally said, his voice rough with concern as he set down the rag he’d been using to wipe the counter. His eyes narrowed on the bruise stretching along her arm, just above her elbow, a deep shade of purple that looked fresh. It was darker than any of the ones he’d seen before, and that alone made him worry more than he wanted to admit.

Y/N didn’t look up from her drink. Her fingers slid across the glass, tapping absently, but her gaze never wavered. She exhaled slowly, a puff of air that barely disturbed the stillness in the room.

"You worry too much, Vander," she replied, her voice light but not dismissive, the kind of response she always gave him when he made these observations. "It's not that bad."

Vander’s frown deepened. He leaned in, his massive frame towering over the bar, the weight of his years in the business bearing down on him. He knew what kind of work she did. He knew the dangers. But this was different. The cut on her jawline—there was a jagged, almost careless edge to it, like someone hadn’t bothered to finish the job. And the bruises were too frequent now. Too visible. He’d seen mercenaries take a beating, but not like this. Not every time. Not in the way it wore on her.

"Where the hell do you get these bruises from, love?" Vander asked, his voice rough but gentle, as he reached out to lightly run his hand over the dark marks on her arm. His touch was hesitant, tender, a stark contrast to the hardened mercenary she had become.

Y/N didn’t immediately answer. She took a slow sip of her drink, savoring the burn of the liquor, as her fingers lingered on the edge of the glass, like she was trying to steady herself. Vander didn’t rush her. He never did. She would talk when she was ready. Or not at all.

After a moment, she set the glass down with a soft clink, her gaze flickering to his but never meeting it fully. Her voice was flat, emotionless, as she spoke.

"Alright," she said, like she was finally letting something spill out, but the words didn’t come easily. "The bruises? They’re from the people I kill."

Vander’s hand froze. For the first time in years, his heart skipped a beat. He looked at her, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of her words. His chest tightened with disbelief, but he forced himself to steady his breath. This was the reality she lived, but hearing it from her—it hit differently. "You're kidding, right?" His voice was hoarse, more vulnerable than he intended.

Y/N met his gaze then, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp, almost cold. There was something in them that made him take a step back, like he was finally realizing just how far gone she was, how far she’d slipped from the girl he used to know.

"Would you rather I lie to you?" she asked, her voice almost too calm, a touch of bitterness under the surface. "I go into places where people don’t just roll over and let me take what I need. Sometimes it gets messy. But the job’s the job. And I’m good at it."

Vander’s heart sank. He’d always known she had her battles, but hearing her speak so matter-of-factly about killing—it gutted him. The weight of her words pressed heavily on him, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He’d seen her fight, seen the deadly precision she had, but this wasn’t just about skill. This was a life that left scars. Deep ones.

"And you don’t mind?" Vander asked, his voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. "Living like that, taking lives... what’s it all for?"

The question hung in the air, and for a long moment, Y/N didn’t respond. She seemed lost in her thoughts, her gaze distant as her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her glass. Then she spoke, quieter now, almost like she was trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

"I don’t mind. Not really," she said, the words heavy with resignation. "It’s what I’m good at. What I’ve always been good at."

Vander exhaled slowly, trying to push down the knot that had formed in his chest. He knew. He understood. It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was the truth of her world, one he couldn’t change. He’d seen too many people lose themselves to this life, and it pained him to know that Y/N, of all people, had gotten caught in its web.

"You might be good at it," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "but you don’t have to live like this forever."

Y/N chuckled softly, though the sound was bitter, the corners of her mouth twitching but not quite forming a smile. "Maybe not forever. But for now? It’s what keeps me going." Her gaze met his again, this time filled with a quiet sadness, a resignation that she wore like a second skin. "You’re right, though. It catches up to you. But what else is there? What else is there when you’ve spent so long down this path?"

Vander didn’t have an answer. He couldn’t. She wasn’t asking for salvation, wasn’t seeking redemption. She was just surviving. And that reality hit him harder than any punch she’d ever taken. She was caught in a cycle, one he had no idea how to break, even though he wanted to.

"One of these days, it’s gonna catch up to you," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of all the years he’d spent watching people slip through his fingers, knowing they’d never find peace. "You can’t outrun it forever."

Y/N didn’t flinch at his words. Her gaze remained steady, as though she had already accepted it all. She didn’t look afraid, didn’t look like she was trying to escape the inevitable. She simply nodded, her face unreadable. "Maybe. But when that day comes, I’ll be ready."

It was the answer he had feared, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from hoping. Vander let out a long, defeated sigh, his heart heavy with the weight of her words. He knew she wouldn’t change—not like this. Not unless something finally made her stop.

"Just be careful, kid," he said softly, the concern in his voice undeniable, the ache of a man who had seen too much loss. He rested his hand on the counter, his fingers tapping lightly as his gaze followed her every move.

Y/N gave him a small, fleeting smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes but was enough to let him know she appreciated his concern. It was there for a moment—just a flicker of something human before it was buried beneath her usual tough exterior. She slid off the stool, her movements efficient and practiced, like she had a thousand places to be.

Vander watched her, knowing this wasn’t a goodbye. She always came back.

As she reached the door, her hand resting on the handle, she glanced back at him over her shoulder, her expression softening just for a moment. "Thanks for the drink, Vander. I’ll be back tomorrow."

And then, like a shadow swallowed by the night, she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The bar was eerily quiet now, save for the soft clink of glass as Vander wiped the counter once again, his mind heavy with the conversation that had just passed. He wondered if there would ever be a day when Y/N’s past wouldn’t haunt her, when the blood she had spilled would finally stop following her.

But deep down, he knew—she had already made her peace with it. And all he could do now was wait, hoping that someday, she would find a way out before it was too late.

SILCO

The air was thick with tension as Y/N and Silco walked down the darkened streets of Zaun, their boots echoing against the damp concrete. They were out on business, making a quiet exchange of information and goods, but the unsettling feeling that always accompanied the underbelly of the city lingered in the air. The smell of rust, oil, and the faint odor of decay was a constant in the heart of Zaun, but to Y/N, it was nothing new.

Silco walked beside her, always keeping a few steps ahead, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. There was something about the way he carried himself, the dangerous aura that surrounded him like a shield. He was a leader, the face of Zaun's rebellion, but in moments like this, away from his empire, there was something softer, more personal in the way he interacted with her. He was kind, in his own way, though he never let his guard down fully.

"You always know how to make an exit," he said, his voice a low murmur as they turned a corner, heading toward a less familiar part of Zaun. "I can't say I'm not impressed."

Y/N smiled, her lips curling up slightly. "I’ve been doing this long enough to know how to keep people from getting too close."

The light from the street lamps cast long shadows, and Y/N couldn't help but notice how they highlighted the contours of Silco’s face. The sharp angles of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows as he scanned the area—it was the face of a man who was constantly at war, both internally and externally. But tonight, there was something different about him. His gaze lingered on her longer than usual, and for a fleeting moment, she felt an unfamiliar warmth in his eyes.

She quickly shook the thought away, dismissing it as just the danger of the city making her mind wander. But even as she tried to focus on the task at hand, something about Silco’s presence affected her in ways she couldn't explain.

Before she could process the thought, a noise broke the silence. Heavy footsteps and muffled voices. The kind of sounds that signaled an ambush. Y/N’s instincts kicked in immediately, her hand reaching for the dagger at her belt. It was too quiet, too calculated. Whoever they were, they had been waiting for them.

“Stay close,” Silco murmured, his posture shifting as he prepared for the inevitable. His voice had changed, quieter now, but still commanding. The tone he used when he wasn't giving orders, but when he was preparing for something personal.

Y/N gave a small nod, her fingers now wrapped tightly around her blade. There was no need for more words. They had worked together long enough to know their roles—her as the silent predator, him as the strategist, always watching from the back with a plan already forming in his mind.

A group of men, cloaked in shadow and armed with crude weapons, emerged from the dark alley ahead, blocking their path. They had been expecting trouble, but the sight of these men still made Y/N's stomach tighten. They were too many, too brazen.

"What’s this, a little surprise party?" she asked coolly, her voice calm, almost playful. It was a tactic, a way to keep the attackers off balance. But it also helped her hide the cold calculation that ran through her veins in moments like this.

The men smirked, their confidence growing at the sight of Silco standing there, calm but still very much a threat. They probably thought they could take both of them, with their numbers on their side. But Silco’s eyes flicked to Y/N, sensing the change in the air. He had always known her reputation—how deadly she could be—but tonight, there was something more. Something darker.

=

Without warning, Y/N moved. She was a blur of motion, swift and efficient. In seconds, she was upon the first man, her dagger slicing through his throat before he even had time to react. Blood splattered across the ground, painting the pavement in an ominous red. But Y/N didn’t flinch. She was a force of nature, her movements fluid, practiced, like a deadly dance she had performed a thousand times. Her strikes were precise, never a wasted motion. She never hesitated.

The remaining men charged, but they were no match for her speed and precision. One by one, they fell. Y/N was everywhere at once, her blade cutting through the chaos like a whisper of death. She had no time for their weakness, no patience for their feeble resistance. A twist of her wrist sent another attacker crumpling to the ground, gasping for breath as the life left his body.

The last man, his face pale with fear, tried to flee. But Y/N was faster. She caught him by the arm, spinning him around before slamming her knee into his stomach. The air left his lungs in a strangled gasp. She didn’t let go, keeping him close as she gave him a final, merciless twist of her wrist. His body went limp, his eyes wide in shock.

Silco stood back, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the entire exchange with a detached sort of interest. His eyes never left her. He had always known she was dangerous, but seeing it firsthand—the ease with which she killed, the beauty in her efficiency—it unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected. There was something about her that seemed untouched by the violence she wrought, a calmness in her cruelty that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was effective—it was how she moved through it all, as if it were second nature. He couldn’t help but wonder, with a flicker of unease, if she had become too accustomed to this life.

Y/N wiped the blood off her blade, her expression unreadable, but there was something colder in her gaze as she surveyed the bodies. The adrenaline was still coursing through her, but she held it in check. She knew how to remain controlled, how to mask the fleeting emotions that bubbled beneath the surface. It was what kept her alive.

Silco took a step closer, his boots clicking lightly on the pavement. He was no longer the cold, calculating leader. There was a quiet admiration in his eyes as he took in the aftermath.

“You’re... quite the sight, Y/N,” he said, his voice laced with something that was neither admiration nor fear, but something deeper—something that went beyond the mercenary he had always known. “I didn’t expect this, not from you.”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart still racing from the fight. She didn't respond right away, her focus still lingering on the men who had dared to cross them. She had learned long ago that silence spoke volumes. But this time, the silence between them was heavier. It was as if she had revealed more of herself than she ever had before.

Silco's voice softened, his tone lowering in a way that felt oddly intimate. “I always knew you were capable, but to see it like this... I didn’t expect you to be so... cold.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked to him, and for the first time, she allowed herself to meet his gaze with something more than the icy mask she usually wore. “Cold, huh? Maybe. Or maybe I just know how to handle myself,” she replied, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of her lips. There was a quiet confidence in her voice, the kind that came from years of surviving the worst of Zaun.

Silco was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching hers as if trying to understand something he had never noticed before. It was as though a door had been opened, revealing a side of her that he hadn’t seen. He had always known she was strong—her reputation alone was enough to prove that—but this... this was something else entirely.

He took a step closer, his voice soft but steady. “You are more than you let people see, Y/N.”

Her heart skipped a beat. His words lingered in the air between them, hanging like a heavy fog. She met his gaze, her breath catching for a moment as she sensed the weight of his words. There was a vulnerability in his eyes now, a crack in the armor that she had never seen before. Something unspoken passed between them, a shared understanding of the darkness that each of them carried.

Before she could respond, he stepped back, his mask slipping back into place with an ease that made her wonder if he had ever let it fall. He gave a small nod, his usual cool demeanor settling back into place.

“We should go,” he said, his voice now colder, as if the moment had never happened. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the shift, the unspoken bond that had formed between them in the heat of battle. It was a quiet understanding, a recognition of the darkness that existed in both of them. And for the first time, it seemed like Silco wasn’t the only one who had seen it.

Y/N nodded, her eyes lingering on him for just a moment longer than she intended. There was a connection between them now, something deeper than friendship, but neither of them was ready to acknowledge it. As they turned to leave, their footsteps in sync, the bond that had been forged in blood and violence grew just a little bit deeper, like a secret neither of them was ready to share.

But as they walked off into the night, Y/N couldn’t help but wonder just how long it would take before the truth between them would finally come to light.

JINX/POWDER

Y/N’s boots hit the cold concrete of the alleyway as she moved swiftly, her breath visible in the cool night air. A job was a job, and this one was no different. The target was a high-ranking official from Piltover—a man with more than enough dirt on him to make his life miserable. Y/N had learned to ignore the whispers of morality, focusing only on the coin and the fact that she needed to survive.

But the night was anything but quiet. She had known that Jinx would be nearby. The chaotic girl was always lingering around the edges, always popping up when things were about to go sideways. Y/N wasn’t worried. Jinx was a friend, albeit a strange one, and she’d learned to expect the unpredictable from her.

She crouched down behind some crates, eyes trained on the man in question. One clean shot—that was all it would take. But as she readied herself, a faint giggle echoed from somewhere behind her. Without turning around, she sighed.

“Jinx, you’re not supposed to be here,” Y/N muttered, still focusing on her target.

“Oh, come on!” Jinx’s voice rang out, gleeful and full of energy as she swung around a corner, wearing her usual psychotic grin. “What’s the fun in sneaking around if you’re not going to let me play?”

Y/N turned her head just as she pulled the trigger, the silenced shot ringing out before the target crumpled to the ground, dead.

Jinx’s wide eyes sparkled with pure excitement. She bounced over to Y/N, crouching beside her as she inspected the fallen man’s body. “Holy crap! You really did it! You just… killed him! Just like that! Boom! POW!”

Y/N wiped her hands off, watching the target’s life slip away. It wasn’t her first, nor would it be her last. “Yeah,” she said calmly, standing up. “That’s the job. And you're not supposed to see this.”

Jinx didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, her eyes gleamed with pure enthusiasm as she flitted from one side of Y/N to the other. “So, how many people have you killed? Like, a million? A hundred? A thousand? Ooooh! Do you do it with knives? Or guns? Or bombs?” She grinned wickedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Is it like a game for you? Do you get all excited and giggly like me?”

Y/N paused for a moment, unsure how to respond to the wild questions coming from Jinx. But the girl's curiosity was as boundless as her chaos, and she had to admit, it was kind of refreshing. She’d been living this life for so long, and nobody had ever really asked her about it like this.

“Not a million,” Y/N said, shrugging slightly. “More than a hundred, though. Sometimes I use knives—close range. Sometimes guns—long-range. And sometimes I use explosives, but that’s only for specific targets. I try not to make a mess. It’s easier that way.”

Jinx let out a squeal of delight, clapping her hands together. “Oooh, messy or clean, it’s ALL fun!” She paused, thinking, before peering up at Y/N with wide eyes. “Do you do it for fun, or is it like, a job? Do you ever feel bad about it? You know, like, ‘Oops, did I really kill that guy?’ or is it just like… BOOM! That’s what happens when you mess with me?”

Y/N thought about it for a second. “It’s a job. And no, I don’t feel bad. People who need to die usually don’t leave much room for second thoughts.”

Jinx seemed to take that in, then tilted her head. “Yeah, I get that! I’m the same way! You can’t just play around with people who don’t deserve it, right?” She grinned, clearly relishing the thought. “But still, it’s so cool that you just… do it. Like, you make it look easy. You’re like a real-life hero in your own story!”

Y/N chuckled darkly, shaking her head. “I’m no hero, Jinx. Just a mercenary.”

Jinx pouted for a moment, then bounced on her feet again, full of excitement. “Well, you’re my hero! You know that? You’ve got all the cool moves and make it look all smooth! I wanna be just like you when I grow up—except with more explosions! BOOM!”

Y/N’s lips curled into a smile despite herself. “Maybe you should leave the explosions to you. But if you ever need a lesson in making it clean…” She raised an eyebrow. “I could teach you a thing or two.”

Jinx’s eyes widened like saucers, and she nodded eagerly. “YES! Teach me, teach me! I wanna be a mercenary! We’ll be a team, Y/N! You and me, taking down bad guys, making things explode, and making everything go KA-BOOM!”

With that, Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a bit lighter than she had in a while. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who lived in this world of violence and chaos after all.