#no i have not read the last chapter. not dealing with that now.

[foreveia]

c(alc)ulus ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; hard 2 explain but there's a happy ending so u shld read (jk its a college!au, frat boy!au)

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x f!reader

⨭ word count; 9.7k

⨭ descriptions; you're the last person kei wants anything to do with, but not even he can deny it: he, and the entire frat, needs you.

⨭ warnings; frat boy levels of alcoholism, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i love math but love blondes more. i also love rly long fanfics with plot and pretty language and feelings, so hope y'all enjoy this super long mess of a frat!universe haikyuu with college-core drinking habits, calculus talk, and a whole lot of simping for kei <3

one.

Kageyama is failing calculus.

This statement wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal—after all, he had barely passed most of his classes his whole life, getting into college solely with his athletic skills and having zero intentions to stay in academia in the future. He’s in university primarily just to have something to fall back on, and he has made it exceptionally obvious that he does the bare minimum to get his degree by sleeping through his lectures and procrastinating his homework to the night it’s due. He doesn’t, and has never, cared much about school, and has somehow made it through life anyway, so really, in most circumstances, Kageyama failing a class wouldn’t be a big deal at all. 

However, in this circumstance, Kageyama is also a brother of Kappa Alpha Rho, and therefore his grades reflect not just him but the brotherhood, meaning him failing a class has fully become Tsukishima’s problem, making this, in fact, a very, very big deal. He thinks he’s screwed.

And it’s completely your fault.

Tsukishima glares at the email notification sitting at the top of the screen, clenching his jaw so hard that he feels his back molars ache. 

ASU Policy Update: New Funding Requirements for Student Organizations

He’s already read it twice, but he clicks on it again anyway, as if the words would magically change now that it’s his third try. His fingers drum against the desk, anxious and annoyed all at once.

Effective immediately, all university-funded student organizations must maintain a collective GPA of C+ (2.3) or higher to remain eligible for financial support from ASU. Organizations failing to meet this requirement will be placed on academic probation for a select amount of time, after which, if under the minimum, will be denied funding for the academic year. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and shuts his laptop a little harder than necessary. His knee bounces under the desk as he stares at the wall, running the numbers through his head. A D- average to a C+? That’s not a small jump. That’s a fucking leap.

And it’s because of you. But then again, of course it is.

Tsukishima doesn’t even know you personally, but he knows of you. Everyone at Furudate University knows of you. It’s honestly impossible not to.

Your name gets thrown around like a fucking urban legend: the math department’s golden girl, every professors’ favorite. The kind of student whose name gets printed in bold on the Dean’s List every semester, top of the class in every single way, looking down at everyone else from your haughty position up there.

You’re the poster child for academic excellence, and this is exactly the kind of sanctimonious, holier-than-thou rule someone like you would pass.

He can practically see you in his head, sitting in some committee meeting, smug as you argue for “higher academic standards,” completely unaware of the absolute nightmare you’ve just created. 

He rubs his temple. He doesn’t have time for this. If Kappa Alpha Rho loses funding, they lose access to the house stipend, the event budget, the formal venue deposit—

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, already clicking through the chapter’s internal roster. He zeroes in on the worst grades. Not surprisingly (albeit disappointing nonetheless), Kageyama’s name jumps out immediately.

He has a 37 in Multivariable Calculus.

Tsukishima closes his eyes and counts to five. It doesn’t help. His laptop screen just glares back at him, the double-digits in bright red. He’s dragging the entire GPA down, significantly so. 

So if Kageyama fails, they’re all fucked. 

Tsukishima opens the frat group chat.

(11:42 AM) tsukishima: who here actually passed multi calc

It takes all of five whole seconds before the chat explodes.

hinata: LOL NOT ME yamaguchi: barely but yea? noya: i didn’t even know multi was real lmao

Tsukishima pinches the bridge of his nose. They’re useless. They’re all fucking useless.

(11:43 AM) yamaguchi: wait is this about the gpa thing? are we actually losing funding? tsukishima: we will if kageyama fails calc hinata: bro just make him pass it then tsukishima: do you think i control his brain (11:44 AM) tanaka: wait hold on. are you saying if we fail we’re actually broke?? yamaguchi: tsukki wouldn’t joke about this lol hinata: WHAT DO U MEAN BROKE. LIKE. BROKE BROKE?? noya: LIKE WE GOTTA PAY FOR KEGS OUTTA POCKET BROKE???

Tsukishima watches the messages roll in, each response growing increasingly more unhinged. He feels his blood pressure rising, ticking up with every single one.

(11:45 AM) tanaka: WE CAN’T LOSE FUNDING FORMAL IS IN 3 MONTHS hinata: NOOOO NOT FORMAL noya: NOOOOOOOOOO NOT FORMAL tanaka: WHO THE FUCK IS GONNA PAY FOR FORMAL

Tsukishima sighs, dragging a hand down his face. This is exactly what he didn’t want. The second these idiots realized the frat’s funding was actually on the line, everything was going to implode. Where’s the rest of the exec board right now? He misses them.

(11:46 AM) yamaguchi: okay but seriously what’s the plan tsukishima: kageyama needs to pass calc obviously tanaka: okay but like. how

Good fucking question.

Tsukishima leans back in his chair, thinking. Kageyama isn’t stupid—not in the traditional sense, anyway. He just doesn’t give a shit. If he had a decent tutor, someone to force the information into his thick skull, he might actually stand a chance.

(11:47 AM) tsukishima: does anyone know a decent tutor (11:48 AM) yamaguchi: y/n

Tsukishima physically recoils.

(11:48 AM) tsukishima: like… vpaa y/n??? yamaguchi: yeah?? she’s the best tutor in the math department hinata: wait isn’t she the one that profs never shut up about lol tanaka: bro we’d be paying for a 5-star tutor with beer money noya: u think she’d go for it tho?? hinata: tsukishima just bat your pretty little eyelashes and get her to help us 🤩 tsukishima: i will block you

There is no way in hell he is asking you for help. Absolutely not. Because if there’s anyone on this entire campus that would not hesitate to let Kappa Alpha Rho crash and burn, it’s you.

But then, Daichi—super convenient timing for the president to come in right now—sends the real kicker.

(11:49 AM) daichi: Text Y/N. Now.

Tsukishima grinds his teeth. His fingers hover over the keyboard. For a very, very long moment, he just stares blankly at the screen, until finally, he types.

(11:50 AM) tsukishima: someone send me her number.

And Tsukishima thinks, for not the last time, that he’s absolutely screwed.

two.

For someone who’s actively ruining his life, you’re surprisingly… okay.

At least, you were over text. You responded within minutes, and—without sarcasm, without question, without any needed negotiation—agreed to a tutoring session the next day. 

Tsukishima thinks he should be wary of this. Surely you have some ulterior motive, something that’s meant to prove to him (and yourself) just how much smarter you are than everyone else. 

Ah, yes. That’s probably it. You’re going to use the dumb frathlete to make yourself feel good.

After some contemplation, Tsukishima decides that he should be there. As idiotic and annoying as Kageyama can be, he’s still his brother, and Tsukishima isn’t about to let some pretentious academic just mock and insult him; Kageyama is shitty with words, so the least Tsukishima can do is be there to snap back for him. 

Tsukishima is almost certain that you’re doing this solely to stroke your ego. After all, why else would someone like you agree?

That being said, twenty four hours later, sitting across from you at a library table, he’s forced to admit—begrudgingly—that you’re actually not… terrible.

Tsukishima watches you carefully, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the moment you slip up—some trace of superiority, some indication that you think this is beneath you. But to his surprise, you don’t smirk, you don’t sigh in frustration, you don’t roll your eyes every time Kageyama gets something wrong.

You’re just… patient. Shockingly, infuriatingly patient.

“Okay,” you say, tapping the corner of Kageyama’s notebook with your pen. “Walk me through your thought process. How did you get to this step?”

Kageyama stares at his paper, scowling. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you got this part right,” you say, circling something in the equation. “So let’s build from here.”

Kageyama frowns deeper, pressing his pencil so hard that the lead tears a little hole—Tsukishima expects you to finally snap, to lecture him for not paying attention, but instead, you just tilt your head and try again.

“I think you’re having trouble with double integrals, so let’s break those down first, okay?” you say, not at all unkindly, before flipping open your notes and locating the respective chapter in the textbook. Tsukishima notices, with mild surprise, that you don’t even have to check the table of contents—you go straight to the right page.

And then, even stranger: your own notes are written beside the original text. Your annotations are precise but casual, breaking down the wordy explanations into clear, digestible pieces; your diagrams take up the margins, and where there’s extra blank space, you’ve doodled functions, arrows, sometimes little stick figures interacting with equations.

Tsukishima shouldn’t care. He doesn’t.

But something about it—about how thoroughly you understand this shit—sticks with him.

And as you start explaining, Tsukishima quickly comes to understand why they call you the best in the department. 

Your voice is even, steady, and you don’t just read from the textbook—you reframe the concepts completely, breaking them down into comparisons, real-world applications, diagrams that actually make sense. It’s the kind of familiarity that takes years of experience and countless hours of practice, and you obviously have gotten to an incredible degree of expertise. And most importantly, when Kageyama hits a block or stumbles over the formulas, you don’t get irritated.

You just adjust.

Again. And again. And again.

Until finally, something clicks.

Tsukishima watches, arms crossed, as you do something no professor, no TA, and certainly no frat brother has managed before: you make Kageyama think. You make him care. Kageyama straightens slightly in his seat, gripping his pencil a little tighter; he scribbles something down, then nods to himself, like he actually understands. 

Tsukishima leans back, exhaling through his nose. 

He hates to admit it, but Yamaguchi was right: you really do know your shit. 

three.

An hour passes like this. Slowly, but gradually, Kageyama works through his problem set, stopping every so often to ask questions. You answer every single one without hesitation, without even having to double check, with the complete confidence of someone who simply knows that they’re right. 

Then, completely unprompted, you ask, “So, do you play volleyball?”

Kageyama pauses mid-writing. The question catches him off-guard—catches both of them off-guard, actually.

Tsukishima gives you a sharp look, but you just smile, amused.

“You retained information best when I used sports analogies to explain,” you continue, tapping the end of your pen against the table. “And when I used a volleyball as an example for triple integral applications, you corrected me on the radius in like, two seconds.”

Kageyama blinks. Then, looking somewhat sheepish, he mumbles, “Wow, that’s crazy. I’m on the university team.”

“That’s cool,” you say simply, clicking your pen. You doodle absentmindedly on an extra sheet of paper, this time drawing a little volleyball in the corner. “Our executive VP is on the team too. Sakusa.”

Kageyama hums an affirmation. “Yeah, we’re both starters.”

“As a sophomore? That’s really impressive,” you say. Tsukishima thinks that you’re pretty impressive too, considering you’re a sophomore just like them, but you don’t seem to be even thinking about that. “Why are you taking calculus, then? What’s your major?”

“Physics and kinesiology.”

“I didn’t peg you as a STEM guy,” you muse, still sketching in the margins. You’ve now switched to drawing a little banana.

Tsukishima, despite himself, huffs a quiet laugh.

Kageyama flushes slightly. “I, um, want to go pro after college,” he admits, ears bright crimson as he speaks. “So kinesiology felt right for an athlete. And for physics, well, I’m a setter, so I want to, um… I want to be able to calculate the velocity of the balls I send with more accuracy.”

It’s a ridiculous reason. Maybe even a stupid one. Definitely the stupidest reason Tsukishima’s ever heard for taking an incredibly intense and complex major like physics.

But you don’t laugh.

You just nod, smiling to yourself. “Thanks for letting me help you with your process, then.”

There’s a moment of silence, before Tsukishima bluntly remarks, “You’re weird.” 

It comes off slightly ruder than intended, and you pause, your pen coming to a halt on the paper. He adds, quieter than before, “I mean, you notice things like that?”

Your nose and forehead scrunch up in slight confusion, expression so befuddled as if he were simply asking you if the sky was blue. 

“Well, yeah.” You say this as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone is different, with different interests and learning styles, and things get easier to understand when you break things down on their terms as opposed to yours. So of course I’ll pick up on things like that. I try to be observant of all the people around me.”

When your eyes meet his, he instinctively is on edge. Your tone is still light, but there’s something pragmatic about your eyes that makes him feel apprehensive, like he’s standing at the edge of a 50-foot fall and you’re watching to see if he’ll take the jump. It’s like you’re taking all of him in, like you’re taking everyone in. Like you see things other people don’t. 

If Tsukishima is being honest with himself, this perceptiveness is something he lacks. He willingly disregards much of the people and the things around him; it's a defense mechanism he has perfected over the years. It’s easier to stay detached. It’s easier to keep to himself; it’s easier to be indifferent. 

To be blunt, your astuteness unnerves him, and it’s a sensation he’s not used to grappling with. There’s a raw honesty in your gaze that feels almost invasive, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed facade. You two had just met, but for a brief moment, he wonders if you can somehow see through him because despite your cheerful and carefree attitude, you are looking to understand people in a way he never has.

He quickly looks away, breaking the intense eye contact. “I guess that’s one way to look at it,” he mutters.

You don’t reply because your attention has already shifted back to Kageyama, with you leaning over his notebook and exclaiming, “See, you got this!” 

Kageyama has solved the several problems you gave him, his work still amateur but complete. You scan his notebook, pointing out the few areas where he could simplify his work, but the overwhelming beam on your face is nothing short of proud, and it incites a completely new determination in Kageyama. Despite his usual stoicism, your encouragement has visibly boosted his confidence and Tsukishima watches as the boy smiles and nods along when you flip the textbook to a new chapter, declaring loudly, “Okay! Let’s move onto vectors!” 

As you continue to explain, Tsukishima watches the two of you with a slight mixture of exasperation and something else he can’t quite put a name to. You are honest and true and it’s wholly unfamiliar, tiring in a way where he is overwhelmed. He’s not quite sure how to describe how he feels right now, sitting here with you together: maybe it’s a touch of admiration for you, maybe it’s just relief that someone else is dealing with Kageyama’s math woes for a change, but either way, at the end of it all, he finds himself settling back into his chair, a small, almost imperceptible amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Minutes turn into hours, and before you know it, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the library floors. By the time the library's closing announcement echoes through the halls, you have made it through half the vector fields unit and Kageyama has filled several pages of his notebook with neatly written solutions. 

“Well, let’s finish up. I think we’ve made some good progress today,” you decide, stretching your arms above your head. You begin to gather your things—if you’re not all out soon, the librarians will come and yell at you for sure.

“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Kageyama says earnestly, closing his notebook. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You are. Just keep practicing those problems, okay? You’ll pass this week’s quiz for sure if you keep at it,” you say cheerily. “Just text if you ever need any help. I’m always around.”

Your enthusiasm seems genuine, like you really do want to help Kageyama succeed. Tsukishima’s not sure what to do with this information.

He should be suspicious. Should assume there’s something in it for you—some academic accolade, some resumé boost, some smug satisfaction in proving you’re better than everyone else. But you don’t gloat. You don’t even act like this is a favor Kageyama—or, by extension, the frat—owes you for the rest of time. 

You just offer your help like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to give this much of your time, your energy, your effort.

It’s strange. It makes him uncomfortable.

“You’re always around?” he says, unable to stop himself. His voice comes out dry, skeptical. “Sounds like you have way too much time on your hands.”

You blink, then laugh, genuine and light.

“Not really,” you say, slipping your notes into your bag. “I’m just good at making time for things that matter.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and for some reason, that sentence sticks in his brain.

Good at making time for things that matter.

Before he can think too hard about what that implies, Kageyama—completely unaware of the odd shift in atmosphere—stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll text you,” he says. “Uh. If I get stuck.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied. “See you both next time.”

And with that, you’re gone, stepping out of the library doors, the evening sun catching in your hair before you disappear down the hall.

There’s a brief silence.

“…She’s nice,” Kageyama says, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Tsukishima sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound weird about it.”

Kageyama scowls but says nothing, already distracted by whatever thought process is rattling around in his thick skull.

Tsukishima, however, lingers.

He doesn’t want to admit that today went better than expected. That you weren’t condescending, that you didn’t treat Kageyama like a lost cause, that you were actually kind of impressive to watch. That there’s something about the way you carry yourself—the way you see people, notice things, care about things—that makes his stomach twist in a way he doesn’t like.

He exhales sharply. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and starts toward the exit, brushing off whatever this feeling is. After all, this is just the first session.

There’s still plenty of time for you to prove him right.

four.

After the fifth tutoring session, Tsukishima notices two things.

First: since you’ve started helping Kageyama, his calculus average has jumped dramatically from a 37 to a 60. Considering he has to catch up on the whole semester, this much progress in such a short amount of time is insane, and Tsukishima—who has spent years watching Kageyama be a stubborn idiot—is actually kinda baffled by it.

Second: it’s not that you look down on him, or Kageyama, specifically. You just look down on Greek life as a whole.

It takes him a while to realize it. At first, he assumes it’s personal—that you have some vendetta against Kappa Alpha Rho, some deep-seated superiority complex. But then, over the next few weeks, he starts paying closer attention.

You don’t sneer at Kageyama’s jersey. You don’t mock him for struggling, don’t look at him like he’s a dumb jock barely worth your time.

But when Tanaka and Noya come to pick Kageyama up after a session, still wearing their frat hoodies from some brotherhood event, Tsukishima catches the way your eyes flick to their letters. The way your lips press together, just slightly.

When Kageyama makes an offhanded comment about formal, you barely react—just a small exhale through your nose, something unimpressed.

And then there’s today.

You’re explaining another concept—Tsukishima isn’t really listening; Kageyama is nodding along, so he figures he doesn’t need to pay attention—when Hinata, of all people, shows up at the library. He bursts through the doors like a chaotic, overexcited golden retriever, completely disregarding the quiet study environment as he waves both arms above his head.

“Kageyama!”

Kageyama physically tenses. Tsukishima watches, vaguely amused, as he slowly turns to the orange-haired idiot now bounding toward them.

Hinata slaps a recruitment t-shirt onto the table. “You left it at the house, dumbass! Daichi said to bring it to you.”

Kageyama looks vaguely murderous. “Shut up.”

Tsukishima smirks. And then, he glances at you.

And there it is again: that brief flicker of something. That same exhale through your nose.

You don’t say anything, don’t react much at all—but Tsukishima sees it.

You hate frats.

And now, he wants to know why.

Luckily for him, it actually doesn’t take much to find out. 

It comes up casually, in the way most revealing things do—offhanded, unguarded, something you don’t realize you’re giving away. 

Kageyama is the one who brings it up. Not intentionally, obviously—he's never been intentionally insightful a day in his life—but between scribbling down an answer on his problem set, he suddenly asks, “Why’d you make that rule, anyway?”

You glance up, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The GPA thing,” he clarifies. “You’re the VPAA, right? So it was your idea.”

Tsukishima watches as you blink, your grip tightening just slightly around your pen.

Then, after a moment, you exhale, setting it down. “It wasn’t just me,” you say. “It was a committee decision.”

“But you agree with it,” Tsukishima says, leveling you with a look.

Your lips press together. There it is again—that tiny flicker of something. Then, you sigh. 

“It’s just frustrating seeing people waste their potential,” you say finally, voice careful, deliberate. “I mean, don’t you want to succeed?”

Ah. So that’s what it is: you think that all fraternity boys are idiots who only care about partying and drinking games. You think they don’t care about their futures. That they’re lazy, entitled, wasting the opportunities they have.

Tsukishima exhales slowly through his nose, tipping his chair back just slightly. He should be annoyed. He should be pissed off.

But instead, he just smirks.

“You think we’re all just dumb party boys, don’t you?”

Your eyes flick to his. You don’t answer, which, really, is answer enough.

So obviously, he challenges you.

“Come to the house,” he says. “See for yourself.”

Your expression shifts into something guarded, something skeptical and unimpressed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you clearly don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Tsukishima says simply.

Kageyama, ever helpful, chimes in: “Hinata’s even worse at math than me.”

Tsukishima watches you pause, purse your lips, obviously considering. It’s a long pause, you staring down at the desk for a full minute, until finally, you sigh. “Fine.”

Oh, you’re in for a disaster.

five.

Walking into the Kappa Alpha Rho house for the first time, you’re not sure what you were expecting.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t… this.

The first thing you’re hit with when you enter the house is, simply put, noise. 

The music is loud—too loud for a weeknight, you think absently, because there’s no way none of these guys have morning classes tomorrow. Someone in the kitchen is yelling indistinctly over the sound of clinking glass, and from somewhere deeper inside the house, there’s a resounding crash, followed by an enthusiastic, “It’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry about it!”

Tsukishima watches as you visibly tense, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. You’re standing near the entrance like you’re considering leaving, like maybe you’d rather walk straight back out the door than step even a foot further into this chaos. You wouldn’t be the first: he’s seen people walking into the house for the first time and immediately regretting every life choice that led them here. The frat is loud, messy, chaotic in a way that isn’t easy to handle if you’re not used to it. And you—pristine, calculated, Type-A to your very core—are definitely not used to it.

He watches you closely, waiting for you to scoff any second now, to turn around and walk out.

But then, you hear it. 

“Integrate or drink, loser!”

As an applied and theoretical math double major, the sentence instantly piques your curiosity, and you can’t, in your conscience, just walk out after hearing that. So you square your shoulders, and saunter in.

And when you see it, you stop in your tracks.

The scene before you is, frankly, absurd. Kageyama is standing at the end of a beer pong table, furrowing his brows like he’s solving a differential equation rather than playing a drinking game, and Hinata, vibrating with excitement, looks one misplaced shot away from combusting. Around them, the rest of the guys are watching with varying degrees of amusement: Tanaka and Nishinoya are grinning like they already know something Kageyama doesn’t, Yamaguchi is stifling laughter behind his hand, and Tsukishima—leaning against the wall, arms crossed—is watching you.

You glance at the table. The setup is questionable, at best. The cups are unevenly spaced, some tilted at an angle that defies both gravity and common sense. The whiteboard behind them has the remnants of what was probably meant to be a scoring system, though it's mostly illegible thanks to a combination of bad handwriting and smeared marker. And then, of course, there’s the absolute nonsense of what just came out of someone’s mouth.

You shift your gaze to the ping-pong ball in Hinata’s hand, then to Kageyama, who still looks personally insulted by whatever just happened. You blink once, then twice.

“What,” you say flatly, “am I looking at?”

“The future,” Nishinoya says dramatically, throwing an arm around Tanaka. “The greatest intellectual drinking game of our generation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sugawara mutters. You didn’t even notice him and the other two, presumably, seniors, sitting lazily on a couch against the wall and supposedly monitoring. 

“It’s simple,” Hinata says, barely containing his enthusiasm. “You make a shot, the other guy has to solve a math problem right, or they drink.”

Silence. You stare at him.

Kageyama’s expression darkens. “It’s stupid.”

“You’re just mad because I got the last one right,” Hinata shoots back.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! The integral of sine is cosine, dumbass!”

“The answer was negative cosine—”

“Same thing!”

“It is literally not.”

“You know what,” you interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Forget I asked.”

At this, Tsukishima makes a quiet noise—something between a laugh and a scoff—but you don’t look at him. You’re too busy assessing the catastrophe in front of you.

Because, to be honest, this is ridiculous. A complete mess of a game, poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. But…

You bite the inside of your cheek.

The concept isn’t terrible.

It’s just wrong. And you, for better or worse, cannot let a flawed system stand.

Tsukishima watches as something in your expression shifts. You set your bag down with purpose, stepping closer to the table, eyes narrowing as you take in the setup. Then, voice completely serious, you say, “You’re playing it wrong.”

The entire room pauses.

Tanaka, who has a ping-pong ball balanced on the tip of his finger, squints. “Huh?”

“You’re playing it wrong,” you repeat, arms crossing as you survey the table like it’s a crime scene.

Hinata frowns. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” you say, “you are.”

Tsukishima raises a brow, intrigued. You’re not mad at them for playing. You’re not disgusted by their antics. You’re just… offended by the execution.

“The whole premise doesn’t work,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the cups. “You can’t just shout out an integral and expect them to solve it in two seconds. You need rules. A system.”

Tanaka exchanges a glance with Nishinoya. “Bro,” he says, in awe. “We don’t have a system?”

“We do have a system,” Kageyama huffs.

You promptly ignore him, already reaching for a marker. “Okay. If we’re going to do this right, it should work like this.”

And just like that, you take over.

In what seems like an instant, the frat house—which is usually ruled by sheer chaos and barely functioning groupthink—is now operating under your direction. You’ve got the whiteboard in a chokehold, a marker uncapped and poised between your fingers as you outline a system so airtight, so horrifyingly efficient, that even Tsukishima has to admit it’s impressive.

Suddenly, the game makes sense. Instead of random, impossible integrals, each shot now corresponds to a category—concepts from the last five chapters, ranked by difficulty.

And as if just to add to the disbelief, everyone is listening.

Kageyama, glaring at the rules with an unreal intensity, is following along, his brows furrowed like he’s mentally poking holes in your system but failing to find any. Tanaka and Noya are nodding like you’ve just changed their lives. Ennoshita, who had previously been lurking near the drinks table, is watching you rewrite the game’s structure with increasing fascination.

Even Sugawara nods sagely. “She makes a good point,” he says solemnly. “The game did lack structure.”

“Thank you,” you reply, as if this is a serious academic debate and not an impromptu beer pong overhaul.

Tsukishima can’t even be mad about it. Not when you’ve very quickly become the most interesting thing in the house.

And especially not when he watches you, against all fucking odds, join in. As if you were some god tier frat boy in a past life, you sink a cup with infuriating ease on your very first throw, the ball arcing perfectly without any slightest bounce back. You don’t even blink. 

As if on cue, the whole house erupts.

Tanaka and Noya nearly combust on the spot, clutching each other in sheer exhilaration, while Kageyama’s jaw drops so fast you think it might actually unhinge. Even the seniors look mildly impressed. 

And Hinata… well, Hinata looks very afraid. 

“You—” he starts, pointing at you like he’s about to accuse you of something heinous.

But you don’t let him. You simply cross your arms, unimpressed, and say, voice smooth as ever, “Basic derivative. Give me an answer, or drink.”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then, absolute carnage.

Hinata scrambles for the marker like his life depends on it. “Uh—uh—five x to the—no, wait—”

You tilt your head. “Is that your final answer?”

“Shit, no—”

“You took too long,” you say, entirely unsympathetic. “Drink.”

Hinata lets out a strangled noise of distress as Tanaka and Noya dissolve into laughter. Even Daichi, who up until now has been observing like a wise elder, shakes his head in amusement as Hinata accepts his fate, downing his drink in defeat.

Tsukishima watches the entire thing unfold, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.

Huh.

He’d expected you to bail before even stepping past the threshold. Expected you to scoff, maybe say something scathing about how frat boys had the collective IQ of a teaspoon, and leave without looking back.

And yet, here you are, rewriting the rules of a drinking game with the kind of ruthless efficiency that would put actual math professors to shame. Even worse: you’re winning.

By the time you sink your third consecutive shot, the rest of the guys have gone from mildly entertained to genuinely invested. Even Kageyama, who Tsukishima assumed would be sick of math by now, is begrudgingly playing along, answering derivatives and integrals like his pride is at stake.

Tanaka and Noya have fully accepted you as one of their own, chanting your name every time you land a shot. Hinata, despite his earlier humiliation, is practically buzzing, clearly determined to redeem himself. Even Yamaguchi, who usually prefers watching Tsukishima verbally eviscerate people from the sidelines, has been sucked into the chaos, trying (and failing) to solve an integral before Kageyama can.

It’s a disaster. A ridiculous, mathematically-inclined disaster.

And you—poised, serious, utterly deadpan as you call out equations like you’re running a boot camp—are the reason for it.

Tsukishima doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Yamaguchi elbows him.

“You’re enjoying this,” Yamaguchi says, low enough that only Tsukishima can hear.

Tsukishima scoffs. “Please.”

But Yamaguchi just gives him a knowing look, then pointedly nods toward you.

Toward the way you command attention without even trying. The way you challenge their game without hesitation. The way your focus sharpens when you're confronted with something that, even in the realm of absurdity, still needs to be corrected.

Tsukishima exhales slowly, shaking his head.

Of course you’d walk into a frat house for the first time and immediately take over. 

Of course you’d turn a drunken joke into an actual intellectual challenge. 

Of course you’d be—

“Tsukishima.”

He blinks.

You’re looking at him now, one brow arched, an extra ping-pong ball in your hand. The room quiets just a fraction, the weight of attention shifting ever so slightly. “You haven’t played yet,” you say simply. Your gaze is intense, and it makes his stomach twist, his chest strangely warm. 

Tsukishima stares at you for a long moment.

Then, very slowly, he pushes off the wall. Rolls up his sleeves.

“Alright, genius girl.” He steps up to the table, arms loose, completely at ease. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The room erupts once again.

And for the first time that night, you grin.

six.

After two months of knowing you, Tsukishima notices something else.

Your bag always contains not just the calculus textbook but several others as well. Every time he sees you on campus, you’re sprinting from place to place, dashing between study halls and libraries and the ASU building. Whenever Kageyama does need help, you’re true to your word and always there, but Tsukishima observes the way you rub at your temples when you think no one is looking, the way you blink a little too long, like you’re stealing micro-moments of rest in the middle of a conversation. The way your hands tremble slightly when you reach for your coffee, as if you’ve been running on caffeine and sheer willpower alone.

So one day, after Kageyama has already run off to his volleyball practice and it’s just the two of you in the frat house’s study room, Tsukishima finally asks the question he’s been wondering for weeks.

“Why do you do this?”

You still, your hands stopping midway as you pack up your belongings. You pause, looking up at him. “What do you mean? Tutoring?”

“Well yeah, tutoring, but also everything else—ASU, TA-ing… all of that. Why?”

You hum as you think over his question, a thoughtful look gracing your features. For a minute, it’s just silent in the room.

“I mean, do I need some grand reason to do it?” You decide after a moment of consideration, shrugging. “There’s a few reasons, I guess. But the biggest one is just that I genuinely like helping people. Like, being there for them and getting to see things click for them. That’s super rewarding in itself.”

“And the other reasons?” He watches you intently.

Clutching your laptop to your chest, you sigh, biting your bottom lip tentatively. It’s the first time he’s really seen you look vulnerable, now that he thinks about it. You’re always so calculated.

“Well– I guess it’s actually only one other reason. It’s also just… the only thing I’m really good for– sorry, at. But whatever, that’s kind of just–” you’re stumbling through your words before you cut yourself off mid-sentence, shaking your head. “At the end of the day, the only reason that matters is that I like seeing other people succeed.”

He nods slowly, sensing your discomfort and deciding not to push any further. “Yeah, okay.”

A small, wistful smile grows on your lips. “In the end, I’ll still be here. The time will pass anyway. I might as well spend it helping people find the happiness I find in math, you know?” 

“So you’re tutoring him again tomorrow?” 

You nod. “Mhm, from noon until two. I would go longer, but I think he has practice, so I’ll probably just do some work. I have a few policy briefs to go over.”

“Were you not busy enough today?” He drawls, gesturing to the sagging bag on your back. 

You laugh with pink cheeks, almost as if embarrassed at the question; you slightly scratch the back of your head. “Um, well, I don’t know. I had a really early class and then I had TA stuff, and then two tutoring sessions, and then a committee meeting and then this. So a pretty packed schedule, I guess,” you admit. Tsukishima gives you a look, and you quickly wave your hands. “I’m good though! I like all of it, so it’s not like it’s bad. It’s a lot, but not the worst, so it’s okay.”

Tsukishima watches you closely, taking in your words and the lilt in your voice. He can see the fatigue etched on your face, the prominent dark circles ringing under your eyes, but there's also a light in your eyes that speaks volumes about your genuine passion for what you do. It’s the same look that sparks up when you watch Kageyama succeed at a problem, the one that makes your eyes look like they’re dancing with fire and sets that weird fuzzy feeling in his stomach going again. It's both admirable and concerning, and he can't help but feel a strange mix of respect and worry.

“You really care about this, don’t you?” he says softly, almost more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, I do,” you reply. Your voice is purely sincere, completely direct. “Even if I’m super busy and stressed out and tired, it’s all worth it because I get to be a part of someone’s life becoming even just a little bit better.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing everything you’ve said.

He used to hate you. He deemed you pretentious for the GPA rule, assuming you were just another overachiever with a superiority complex, or someone who enjoyed making things harder for people like him and Kageyama. Even beyond you personally, he’d always mocked people like you for flaunting their overtly virtuous and self-righteous personas, always seeming to crave attention and recognition for their altruism. 

But now, for the first time, their actions don’t seem self-serving: it’s a sacrifice, a genuine and earnest effort to make a difference that has nothing to do with personal gain. You don’t push people to do better because you think you’re above them. You do it because you believe they can be better. Because you care. Because, despite everything, you genuinely want to see people succeed. You dedicate all of yourself to others, to strangers unaware of your existence, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Simply because you can. 

You’re standing there, shoulders weighed down by the sheer number of responsibilities you carry, yet still speaking with unwavering certainty. You don’t expect anything back—in fact, you barely even take credit for the work that you do. You are just kind for the sake of being kind; even when you’re exhausted, even when you have nothing left to give, you keep going. You work yourself to the bone for the sake of everyone else, and no one seems to notice—not your professors, not the students you tutor, not the countless committees that rely on you.

Except now, Tsukishima does.

And because he doesn’t know what else to do with this realization, he sighs and just says, “You should eat before you go.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The house is making dinner.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re here anyway. Might as well eat something before you collapse.”

You huff a quiet laugh, but there’s something warm in your expression, something soft. “I’m not going to collapse.”

Tsukishima raises a brow. “Yeah, well. You look like you might.”

You roll your eyes, but to his surprise, you actually consider it. Then, after a pause, you sigh. “Okay, fine.”

And when you follow him toward the kitchen, Tsukishima tells himself it’s nothing. That he doesn’t care. That he’s just making sure you don’t keel over in the middle of a lecture hall somewhere.

But later, when you’re laughing at something Yamaguchi says, plate balanced in your hands, that strange, unfamiliar warmth creeps up his spine again.

And he thinks, not for the first time, that he might be screwed.

seven.

Since the first day you had dinner with them a few weeks ago, you’ve come to spend more and more time at the KAR house. 

And well, you admittedly didn’t see it coming, but you like the Kappa Alpha Rho boys.

They’re loud. They’re class clowns. They spend many, many weeknights drinking and blasting 2000’s pop at maximum volume, so much so that you can hear the telltale tunes of old Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears from halfway down Frat Row. They are, in many ways, exactly what you expected.

They’re also… really sweet. 

They’re all extremely determined to help each other to succeed. They care about each other so deeply; they’ve opened their arms to you, too, without question or complaint. They’ve looked after you in a way that you’ve never been cared for before. They gifted you a frat hoodie—your initials stitched beside the KAR letters. You have a designated mug in their kitchen cabinet. They don’t even ask if you’re staying to slide a plate in front of you at dinner. Tsukishima watches you closely whenever you pick at your food, and you pretend not to notice when he scoops an extra helping onto your plate.

They’re driven too, in their own way: as if inspired by Kageyama’s improvement, they’ve all begun to care about school, even if their study methods always seem to include some variant of rage cage or beer pong. You’ve seen how passionate they’ve grown about it, celebrating each small academic win as if it were a final exam. The whole fraternity has been clawing their way out of academic ruin, grinding through assignments, struggling through tests, pulling their GPAs up one painstaking decimal point at a time, going from one of the organizations with the lowest GPAs to being so close to the C+ minimum.

They’re so close. So close.

But technically, the frat still falls under that 2.3 minimum.

You realise this, sitting at your desk in the ASU building, because the deadline for organizations on academic probation to get their GPA up is inching closer and closer. The deadline that you set. From the policy that you put into place.

You stare at your desktop screen, at the open PDF of the passed policy, unblinking. The text is sharp and unforgiving. Academic probation lasts one semester. Organizations must raise their cumulative GPA to at least 2.3 by the end of that period or risk losing university funding. No exceptions.

You remember writing that clause, steady in your resolve at the time. It was supposed to be fair. Cut-and-dry. The goal was to push organizations to take academics seriously—to ensure that no fraternity or club skated by on empty promises and minimal effort. But now, the words feel different. They feel wrong.

You click open the academic records, searching for Kageyama’s name. His grades appear on the screen in neat rows: a scatter of past failures, single digits that make your chest ache, then a stark and steady climb. He’s sitting at a B-average now, a remarkable turnaround considering where he started. 

But as you do the math quickly (a habit at this point), calculating projected GPAs based on their current grades and the remaining assignments for the semester, you realise the bitter, indisputable results: no matter how hard they push, it won’t be enough. KAR’s overall GPA still won’t meet the minimum.

The weight of that realization settles deep in your stomach.

Your policy is flawed. 

For the first time since writing it, you see its error clear as day: it measures results, but not effort. It punishes past failure while ignoring present growth. It demands perfection in a system that, by design, allows only for progress in small, slow steps.

Something about that feels deeply, fundamentally unfair.

You think about the very principles that allowed you to sit here in the student union building, to have earned the title of Vice President of Academic Affairs. Because you’re not a natural genius, either: you’ve put in countless hours of hard work and effort into your studies, pulled countless sleepless nights and worked through countless practice problems just to get things right. Your policy was meant to encourage others to do the same. 

To reward hard work, and drive. 

And you’ve witnessed it for yourself, out of a group of rowdy, rambunctious frat boys.

You inhale sharply and sit up, rolling your chair forward. The cursor blinks in the empty document in front of you, a quiet invitation.

Slowly, carefully, you begin to type.

eight.

The night before the deadline, the Kappa Alpha Rho house is unusually quiet.

It’s strange. Even with music thumping from the speakers, even with bodies packed into the living room and voices rising in conversation, the usual energy—the chaotic, unrelenting, borderline obnoxious joy—is gone.

The party isn’t really a party. It’s a wake.

They all know what’s coming. Without funding, they’ll barely be able to keep things running. They’ll have to gut their budget, cut out every major event, every tournament, every social they used to host. They’ll lose their momentum, their presence on campus. They aren’t naive; they know what happens to a fraternity that can’t sustain itself.

So they drink. They celebrate what they were while they still can.

Tsukishima stands near the kitchen, beer in hand, watching the scene with a quiet irritation that hasn’t left him in days. It’s not just the situation—it’s you.

Because you’re not here.

And you haven’t been, not for days. No texts, no calls, no sudden appearances at dinner. No slipping into the house with your laptop and a resigned sigh, no sarcastic quips over Tsukishima’s shoulder while he studies. He knew you’d take this hard—he’s watched the way you’ve thrown yourself into their academic comeback, has seen the way your eyes light up when someone passes a test or raises their grade.

But he never thought you’d disappear.

The realisation sits heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. It bothers him more than he wants to admit.

“Have you heard from her?” Yamaguchi asks, appearing at his side with a drink in hand.

Tsukishima exhales sharply through his nose. “No.”

Yamaguchi frowns, but doesn’t say anything else.

The thought festers in Tsukishima’s mind as the night stretches on. He should be angry at you. A part of him is angry at you. But mostly, it just doesn’t make sense: no possible explanation he comes up with does. You’re not someone who runs from responsibility; if anything, you take too much of it on yourself. But if you’re not here, if you can’t even look at them, then maybe you really do feel guilty. Maybe you really do think you failed them.

The idea makes something twist in his gut, makes the irritation curdle into something else.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that feeling.

So he stands there, arms crossed, listening to the frat he’s come to love mourn itself in real time.

And then the front door opens.

The music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound—the soft creak, the shuffle of movement as someone steps inside. Tsukishima looks up, and the irritation he’s been holding onto vanishes in an instant.

Because it’s you.

You look exhausted. Shadows hang under your eyes, and your hair is slightly disheveled, like you’ve spent too many hours hunched over a desk. But still, you’re here.

And in your hand is a folder.

You walk straight toward him, weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. His breath catches in his throat before he realizes he’s holding it.

You stop in front of him, holding out the folder.

“Here,” you say simply.

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just stares at you, at the folder stamped with the massive, obnoxious university logo, at the way your hand doesn’t waver. Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes it, fingers brushing against yours as he pulls it open.

His eyes scan the page.

ADDENDUM TO THE ACADEMIC PROBATION POLICY

His heart stutters.

It takes a moment for the words to register. The fraternity’s cumulative GPA is still below the requirement. But this—this thing you’ve spent the last few days working on, the thing you’ve evidently been breaking yourself over—it changes everything.

Organizations that show substantial improvement will still qualify for funding. As long as they continue to raise their GPA, they won’t be penalized.

He blinks. Once. Twice. The words blur slightly as he rereads them, brain struggling to keep up.

And then he looks up at you.

“You did this,” he says, voice lower than he intended.

You smile, small and tired but real. “You deserve it.”

Tsukishima feels like the air has been knocked from his lungs. 

For a moment, he can’t speak. He can’t move. He just stares at you, at the quiet certainty in your expression, at the exhaustion lining your face, at the way you’re standing here, in his house, telling him that they deserve this. He’s digesting the fact that you cared enough about them, that you respected their effort so much that you admitted your system’s faults to the entire university, published and notarized with physical proof.

Then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—he grabs your wrist.

The folder nearly slips from his grasp as he pulls you toward the center of the room, toward the rest of the fraternity. Someone notices first—Hinata, probably, judging by the sudden yell of surprise. Heads turn. Conversations still.

“What’s going on?” Kageyama asks, brow furrowed.

Tsukishima doesn’t answer. He just holds up the folder.

And then he watches it happen. The shift. The confusion, the realization, the moment the words sink in.

Kageyama’s eyes go wide. Yamaguchi’s jaw drops. Someone swears. Someone else shouts. And then, chaos simply erupts.

Because the next thing Tsukishima knows, they’re celebrating.

It’s different from before. This isn’t a goodbye party anymore. It’s loud, and wild, and joyful. There’s yelling and laughter and Hinata practically tackles you in excitement before you’re pulled into a flurry of hugs and cheers. Someone turns the music up. Someone else pops open a bottle of champagne that they were definitely not supposed to be saving for this occasion.

Tsukishima doesn’t join in.

Instead, he watches you.

Watches the way you’re laughing, exhausted but triumphant, surrounded by the people who care about you more than you realize. Watches the way they pull you into the celebration like you’ve always been one of them.

Watches the way you belong.

And for once, he doesn’t fight the way his chest tightens at the sight.

nine.

The party winds down eventually—not the joy, just the noise.

Most of the fraternity has either passed out in their rooms or sprawled out in various corners of the house, too tired (or too drunk) to make it any further. The music is still playing, but softer now, reduced to a faint hum that drifts through the open windows. Even the air feels different—lighter, easier, like the very house itself is breathing again.

Tsukishima finds you on the back porch, sitting on the steps, nursing a half-finished White Claw. He hesitates for only a second before stepping outside, letting the screen door creak shut behind him.

You glance up at him but don’t say anything as he sits down beside you. There’s no need to. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It lingers, settled, like something well-worn and familiar, like you’ve known him forever.

It’s Tsukishima who breaks it first.

“Why?”

You tilt your head. “Why what?”

He huffs, staring down at his beer. “Why’d you do it?”

You blink at him, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Because I was wrong.”

Tsukishima looks at you then, sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. You don’t waver under the weight of it, and he remembers the way you look when you simply know something, that quiet certainty, that unshakable conviction. It sends a warmth through his chest, the same warmth he’s been trying to ignore for weeks now, the same warmth he always seems to feel when he’s with you.

“They deserved to have their efforts rewarded,” you continue, voice steady. “I wrote that policy thinking I was setting a fair standard, but all it did was punish people for starting at a disadvantage. They—” you gesture vaguely toward the house, where distant laughter still filters through the walls—“worked their asses off. I watched them do it. I wasn’t about to let that mean nothing.”

Tsukishima doesn’t respond right away, but he doesn’t need to. The way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers drum once against the step before curling into his palm—he gets it. He knew before you even said it.

“You didn’t have to kill yourself over it, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t.”

He levels you with a look.

You sigh, glancing away. “Okay. Maybe it wasn’t easy.”

That’s an understatement, and you both know it. You don’t admit just how much effort it took, how much red tape you had to cut through, how many meetings you had to schedule, reschedule, and push through just to get the addendum approved in time. You don’t tell him about the sleepless nights, about the pages of drafted revisions, about the quiet, gnawing fear that it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t tell him how you single handedly powered through academic records for every single organisation on campus, just to make sure this change gets written into law. 

You don’t have to.

Tsukishima already knows.

He clicks his tongue but doesn’t push the subject further. Instead, he shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “Tanaka and Noya are already losing their minds over events now that the funding’s secure.”

You snort. “I can only imagine.”

“They’re talking about a full house party lineup, a tournament series, and some kind of insane spring break trip.” He exhales sharply, something that vaguely sounds like a laugh. “It’s exhausting just listening to them.”

You smile softly. “Sounds about right.”

He hums in agreement. Then, almost offhandedly, he adds, “They mentioned formal, too.”

You nod, swirling your drink absentmindedly. “Makes sense.”

A beat of silence.

Then.

“…Can I take you to formal?”

You freeze.

It’s not like you haven’t been asked out before, but it’s different coming from Tsukishima. Maybe it’s the way he says it—not cocky, not casual, not even teasing. Just direct. A little uncertain. A little careful.

You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. Just for a moment.

It’s a moment too long.

Tsukishima sighs, looking away. “Forget it.”

And that’s when you see it—so brief, so subtle, but there. The way his shoulders tense, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his fingers twitch like he’s bracing for something. Like he expected you to say no. Like he’s already trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

Before you even think about it, you reach for his hand. Your fingers lace through his, warm and solid, and you squeeze lightly, grounding him.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you to take me.”

Tsukishima goes still. He stares first at your joined hands, like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re holding his. Then, slowly, his gaze flickers back up to yours.

His voice is quieter when he asks, “…Not out of pity?”

“Have I ever done anything out of pity?”

He considers that for half a second before huffing out something that’s almost a laugh. “…No.”

“Exactly.”

You don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, you shift slightly, moving just a little closer, lifting your interlocked fingers as you lean into his side. It’s easy, natural, like something inevitable.

For a moment, Tsukishima doesn’t react.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your hand back.

The porch is quiet, the sounds of the house fading into the background. Somewhere inside, Tanaka and Noya are still arguing about something, Kageyama is grumbling, someone bursts into laughter—but out here, it’s just you and Tsukishima, sitting in the soft glow of the porch light, hands entwined.

Neither of you says anything else. You don’t need to.

And in that moment, Tsukishima is certain that he’s screwed. But right now, with you curled up next to him, knowing you deeply the way you seemed to know him the first time you met him, remembering everything that has brought you two here, to this moment, he is equally certain about this: he will be there. He’ll keep noticing things about you that you think no one bothers to see, and he’ll be the support that you always offer to others but never ask for. He’ll let you—make you, if he has to—rest; he’ll take care of you the way you do for everyone else. 

And above all, he’ll be the person to prove to you that you are incredible. Not just for being good at tutoring, not just for being good at math, not just for being good at school, but that he’s in awe of you and who you are. 

He’ll love you how you should be loved. 

He swears it.

⨭ closing notes; very very attached to this one bc i started it in 2019. yes, 2019. she's gone through an insane amt of rewriting and cuts, but i am super proud of this final draft and i rly rly love it. this is also 1/3 of my asu trilogy so look out for that!!! as always #comment #like #reblog i literally see them all and it keeps me going :') thank u all sm if u made it to the end!

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VI

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 8.928 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW (p in v, unprotected, implied m!masturbation); Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

OMG Bonnie what is that? A JJ chapter? Yeah, maybe I went insane. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

JJ takes a slow step forward, his shoulders rolling back, his fingers still coiled tight around the handlebars of his bike. There’s a heat rolling off of him, a barely contained energy that makes your stomach twist.

His gaze drifts over to you. The rage burning through his eyes as he climbs down, drifting through Rafe’ arms, how they wrap around you, how close he’s holding you to him. – What’s going on, huh? – His voice is taught, barely restrained. You think of the hiss a rattlesnake makes before pouncing, the barely restrained violence simmering under each sound. – What are you doing here?

– I could ask you the same thing, Maybank. – Rafe hums. You call his name, trying to reel him back before it gets dangerous, but he seems entertained more than anything. – We’re a little far from the salvation army. Not much for you to do around here.

– Rafe!

The kook holds your hand to his chest when you push him, smiling down at you like it’s the funniest thing in the world. – I’m just having a little fun with him, that’s all.

– Get off of her, Rafe.

He’s looking at you with a focus that’s never a good sign, but don’t miss the way his eyes flick to where Rafe’s hand still lingers at your waist. The moment stretches, thick with the weight of his anger, but you can’t bring yourself to move first.

Rafe doesn’t bother hiding his grin. If anything, it grows, slow and deliberate, like this is the most fun he’s had all night. – Why? You scared she won’t come back when she realizes there’s more to life than being leeched off of by her brother’s friends?

– Rafe, this isn’t funny.

– JJ must think it is, it’s the only thing he does well. – Rafe drawls, tilting his head as he finally steps back from you—but not without dragging his fingers along your side, a pointed reminder. – Right, JJ?

JJ’s lips press into a thin line. His fingers flex around the handlebars, his nostrils flaring as he exhales hard through his nose. His gaze cuts to you now, sharp and demanding. – What the hell are you doing with this asshole?

His voice grates you. Every word echoing in your head like nails on a chalkboard.

– This is none of your business, JJ.

He doesn’t even pretend to hear you. – Kie told me what happened at work. We were all worried about you.

You open your mouth, but Rafe hums before you can speak, stepping in again, loose and easy, barely putting in effort but still commanding all the space between you. – Worried? Were you worried that you’re finally gonna have to get a job and deal with your own shit?!

– You don’t know what you’re talking about, okay?! Shut the fuck up!

– Or what? Are you gonna freeload off of me too?

JJ moves before you can stop him. His bike crashes to the pavement as he lunges, fists already clenched, fury twisting his face. Rafe barely shifts, like he’s been expecting this all along, like he’s been waiting for the moment he can finally push JJ over the edge.

– THIS SHIT ISN’T ABOUT YOU RAFE!

You step in fast, hands catching JJ’s arm before he can swing, your pulse hammering. – JJ, don’t. Fuck off. Don’t fucking do this right now.

– He’s the one who needs to fuck off! We’re talking right now, it’s none of his fucking business! – His breath is ragged, his muscles stiff under your grip. But Rafe just grins, smug and taunting, eyes alight with something dark. – Tell him to go away.

– You can’t tell me that yourself? Is that how much of a bitch you are, JJ?

JJ lunges, nearly pushing you into the asphalt by mistake. Rafe’s the one that catches you, his hand steadying you as you hold JJ back. – LET GO OF ME!

– JJ step the fuck back, I’m not even kidding you.

– He started it!

Rafe whistles lowly, laughing just under his breath as his arm wraps around you again. – Your brother really knows how to pick them, doesn’t he?

– Not helping, Rafe.

– I’m just trying to enjoy myself while you talk him down from his tantrum. I’m great.

– Stop fucking talking to her like that!

– Or what? You gonna hit me? – He muses, tilting his head, like the thought actually amuses him. – Go ahead, man. Take your shot. I bet it’ll feel real good.

JJ’s jaw tightens, his arm twitching under your hold. You can feel the war inside him, the barely restrained urge to throw that punch, to finally give Rafe the fight he’s clearly asking for.

But you don’t let go.

And JJ doesn’t swing.

For a second, the only sound is the thick silence between you.

Then Rafe sighs, exaggerated and disappointed. – Shame, – He mutters, stepping back, shaking his head like JJ’s let him down. – I was really hoping you’d play along, JJ. It’s been what? A week since you last got arrested? Has it ever been so long? I bet they’re missing you down at the station.

He flashes a grin at you, sharp and knowing, before brushing past, hands moving over your back like he owns you. – Y’know what, baby? We should really get going. I’m getting kinda bored.

– You’re out of your fucking mind if you think she’s going anywhere with you.

– JJ. – You warn, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

– She came here with me, buddy. Maybe you wanna look around you. – He glances at you, blue eyes gleaming as he takes you by the arm. – C’mon. It’s getting late, right? Your brother’s probably struggling to figure out the oven right now.

– You don’t know what the fuck your talking about. – JJ growls.

– You’re gonna go home with this pogue? –The question comes out in a hum, almost condescendingly. His laughter thrills up your spine like a shiver of fear. – You’re gonna let him strongarm you like this?

You swallow, breathing in deep.

Rafe’s grip on your arm tightens, fingers warm against your skin, but you don’t move. His smirk twitches—just barely—before he tilts his head, watching you with curiosity, even if the smile he’s giving you doesn’t seem too pleased.

JJ notices too. He exhales sharply, barely holding himself together. – You’re not leaving with him.

His voice is low, coarse. And he’s clinging, moving his arms within your hold like a whiny kid. But it’s not a plea. It’s a demand.

Rafe hums under his breath, low and pleased, like this is all going exactly how he wanted. – She’s not staying for you, JJ. – He flicks his gaze over, like he’s looking at something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. – You have John B’s useless ass to thank for her not leaving with me right now.

JJ clenches his jaw so tight you swear you hear his molars crack. – Shut the fuck up, Rafe.

Rafe grins, slow and knowing. – I will if she makes me. Right, baby? Maybe you can give me a goodnight kiss before I go.

JJ takes a step forward, but you press a hand to his chest, stopping him. He seethes, nostrils flaring, but you shake your head. – Just go, Rafe. Please. – Your voice isn’t sharp—it’s tired, annoyed.

And that’s exactly why Rafe thrives on it.

He tsks, squeezing your waist in his hold on you before pulling his keys from his pocket. – That’s okay. We’ll have plenty of time for that tomorrow, right? – He leans in, voice dipping lower. – You can make it up to me.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. – Rafe—

– You’re cute when you get all flustered. – He laughs, tapping your chin with his knuckle. – I’ll call you later.

JJ lunges, and it takes everything in you to shove him back.

Rafe just whistles, all relaxed amusement, stepping back with an easy grin. – Damn, Maybank, you’re really gonna let her hold you back like that?

JJ is shaking in anger, chest heaving.

Rafe doesn’t wait for an answer. He shoots you a wink and a lazy salute before finally turning away, tossing over his shoulder, – Don’t miss me too much, baby.

JJ exhales sharply, shaking off your hold. His head drops for a second, his hands clenching at his sides before he looks at you, eyes blazing. – What the hell was that?

You swallow hard, the weight in your chest pressing down heavy. – JJ—

But he shakes his head. – Nah. No way. You don’t get to brush this off. – His voice is rough, disbelief coating every syllable. – Tell me you’re not— He stops himself, exhaling sharply again before taking a step back, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. – Tell me you’re not seriously falling for this shit.

You don’t know what to say.

Because maybe you don’t have an answer he wants to hear.

– Oh my God. – You don’t know what exactly in his face shifts, but you feel the air around you thicken. – You are, aren’t you?!

– Spare me the outrage, JJ. I’m not in the mood for your lectures.

– The guy is a fucking psychopath! There’s no fucking way you do’t see that! He’s insane!

You roll your eyes, a sigh falling from your lips before you can think of it. – You say that like you’re some sort of model of normalcy.

– I can’t fucking believe you!

– I don’t fucking need you to believe me, JJ. Clearly you fucking don’t. It doesn’t matter what I say, you already have your pitchfork ready! So what exactly am I supposed to be getting out of this?! Huh? Tell me. – A beat of silence lingers between you, as you turn your back on him. It’s long past 6 PM. The sky is pitch-black. – Can we just go? I don’t wanna do this.

You can see the gears turn in his head when you speak. His eyes soften, jaw unclentching. – I’m trying to look out for you. – You scoff. – Look, I know you’re stressed and all, but you don’t need to be taking it out on me, okay?! Chill out.

– Thanks, Mother Teresa. I feel much calmer now.

– Can we just put down the boxing gloves, right now?!

– I don’t know JJ, can we? I can’t put my guard down with you for a moment. Because that’s what you do. You tell me I should calm down, and when I do, you come up with some insane shit to piss me off all over again!

JJ watches you, chest still rising and falling like he’s trying to catch a breath that won’t come. Then his expression shifts—like something clicks into place, like he’s realizing something he doesn’t like.

His lips curl, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek. – Are you serious? – His voice is quieter now, almost disbelieving. – This is where we’re at?

You shake your head, swallowing back the lump in your throat. – I don’t want to do this right now, JJ.

– Oh, that’s rich. You don’t wanna do this right now? – He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. – You wanna pick a better time? Should I make an appointment? Because it’s like you never have time for me these days! You’ll speak your mind, talk all the game you fucking want, but when it’s time to talk about my feelings, suddenly you’re too tired to deal!

Your stomach twists.

JJ scoffs. – You know, I keep trying. I keep trying to get through to you, and you just— He stops, shakes his head again, shoving a hand through his hair like that’ll help get rid of some of the frustration bleeding off of him.

– Trying to what, JJ? What is it that you’re trying to get through to me so much? That I can’t even talk to people while you go around fucking whatever girl you want? – The words come out before you can stop them.

– That’s funny, I don’t remember leaving with your mortal enemy!

– And I don’t remember kissing your best friend after leaving your bed, JJ. But here we are!

JJ goes still.

For a second, neither of you speak.

Then he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head like you’ve just confirmed something he was trying not to believe. – There you go again, – He mutters, half in laughter, half in scorn. – You’re insane. Like. You’re actually sick in the fucking head. You and Rafe are perfect for each other. Maybe that’s why you’re here right? I was too normal, so you got bored. And that’s why you’re here in the Country Club, fucking that psychopath!

You stare at him, heart still pounding, but there’s something else gnawing at the edges of your mind now—something off. Something you didn’t notice in the heat of it all.

The country club.

You’re not at your job.

You’re not at home.

You’re not even on your side of the island.

Your stomach twists again.

– JJ, – you start, voice quieter now.

But he doesn’t hear it, or he doesn’t care. He scoffs again, throwing his hands in the air as he turns away, pacing. – I should’ve known. I should’ve listened to John B. He always said you were fucking twisted! But leave it to me! It’s my fault or thinking you could act like a person for once!

Your pulse stutters.

You don’t even register his words.

You don’t remember telling him where you were.

Your job isn't anywhere near the Country Club. You didn’t text him. You didn’t call him.

So how did he find you?

Your skin prickles as you stare at him, the words barely coming out. – JJ... how did you know I was here?

– What?! – He laughs, like you’ve just said something stupid, but you’re not gonna let him do this. Keeping your face neutral, even while your blood runs cold, you repeat:

– How did you know where I was? – He looks at you for a moment, frozen in place. You don’t even see him breathe. But the thoughts run wild behind his eyes, his mouth hanging open, unable to keep up with the speed at which his mind is running. – Answer me. How did you know I was here, JJ?

– I— He swallows, looking between each of your eyes frantically. – I was gonna pick you up at work,

– At a quarter to seven PM? You know I get the bus. It leaves at 5:20. You know that.

– Why are you making a big deal out of this?! I was driving to the wreck and I saw you here—

– No you weren’t. The wreck is East. To get here, you need to be going West.

He’s quiet again.

– Are you following me? How did you even— Realization dawns on you. JJ and John had your phone all day after you left. The notification you saw when you finally got it back, was from your maps app, which you’ve never opened in your life. You pull your phone out of your pocket. The location is on, but you don’t remember activating it. You open your messages. The latest contact is JJ. But you haven’t texted him in days. The chat is empty. – You sent my phone location to yourself, didn’t you? You and John are fucki— Your voice dies within your throat. The hair at the back of your neck standing. – John doesn’t have my password, though.

– You’re acting insane.

– How the fuck did you figure out my password, JJ? It’s a thousand characters long. I expect that shit from Pope, but— You stop again, opening your settings. A second fingerprint is set there, next to yours. – What the fuck is wrong with you?

– Don’t turn this around right now!

– That’s rich, JJ! And I’m the one who’s insane?! You’re a fucking stalker!

JJ scoffs, but it’s different now—less angry, more… wounded. Like you just slapped him in the face instead of uncovering something deeply fucked up. He shakes his head, stepping back like he needs distance from you.

– Are you serious right now? – His voice is quieter, rougher. – After everything?

You stare at him, blood still thrumming in your ears. – After everything? JJ, you just—

– No, you don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it. – He lets out a breathless laugh, dragging his hand down his face. – I knew something was off. I knew you were pulling away. I knew you were sneaking around, lying to me—

– I’m pulling away because you’re messing around with Kie!

– I’m not! Baby, I— He’s slapping himself, pulling out his hair. – I was trying to make you jealous, okay?! I just want you to pay attention to me! But you’re either glued to your phone talking to Barry, or you’re around John B, doing everything for him, everything I want you to do for me!

– What the fuck are you talking about?! He’s my fucking brother, JJ!

– BUT HE DOESN’T DESERVE IT! – He screams, the vitriol burning against his lips like acid. – He was always horrible to you, and I was there! I was there! I wanted you!

– What are you talking about?! You’ve hated me since we were kids!

– NO! I— I wanted you to look at me. I just wanted you to—Please. Just look at me, okay? I don’t want you sneaking around with Barry or with Rafe, or whatever! I want you here! With me!

– Sneaking around—JJ, you broke into my fucking phone—

– Because you wouldn’t fucking talk to me! – His voice cracks on the last word, and it throws you for a second—because the anger is still there, but there’s something else now, something desperate. His hands are in his hair, gripping like he’s holding himself together. – Do you even hear yourself? Do you even care? Or are you just gonna act like I’m some fucking psycho and not the guy who’s been there for you? The guy who—who has wanted you since I was kid?!

Your breath catches.

JJ exhales sharply, jaw clenching like he hates himself for saying it, for letting it slip out in the middle of this.

– You were there for me. – He continues. – When your brother couldn’t be. When my dad started— When he drank. You remember that, don’t you? You took care of me. You always took care of me. John B couldn’t get that! Even if he tried, y’know, who knows, maybe he did! But he was always this golden boy! Your dad, he— He treated him like he could do no wrong— He’d never get it. But you did! You always got me!

You’re quiet. Because you remember.

You remember taking a beating for JJ the day John sent you there to give him his surfboard. You remember laying there on the floor, his dad pulling you by the hair, because you stood there while JJ ran. You remember the face he made when his dad threw you out.

How he fell apart in your arms.

How you remained there, holding him, as he bled through your clothes.

And it tears you apart.

Because the way he spoke to you before, is exactly the way his father used to speak to him.

– But yeah. Sure. I’m the stalker. I’m the crazy one. – He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. – You’re so fucking worried about me following you, but you don’t care that you’re running straight to him! – His eyes flash with something sharp, something dark. – You think he gives a shit about you? You think Rafe fucking Cameron isn’t watching your every move, waiting for you to fuck up so he can sink his claws in? Like Barry did? – He steps forward, voice lowering like he’s telling you some ugly secret.

Your heart jumps in your chest at the mention. JJ knows this is a low blow. – You don’t know anything about Barry and me.

– I know he hurt you. – He’s almost pleading. – He hurt you because you were with him, when you should’ve been with me.

– JJ—

– I did this to protect you. Let me protect you. Like you protected me.

There it is. The flip.

You feel like you might faint.

JJ exhales shakily, his fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. The anger is fizzling out, but what’s left is somehow worse—smaller. He looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly it’s like all the fight drains out of him.

– I can’t keep doing this. – His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He shakes his head, eyes flickering away like he’s embarrassed, like you’ve just torn him down completely. – I don’t—I don’t know how else to prove it to you. How else to make you see that I just wanted to keep you safe.

His shoulders drop. He looks exhausted.

– But you don’t believe me. You won’t ever fucking believe me, will you? – He laughs, but it’s hollow, broken. – It doesn’t matter what I do. Doesn’t matter that I would literally die for you—Jesus Christ, I would, and you don’t even fucking see it. I’d do anything for you, and you’re just standing there, looking at me like I’m a fucking monster.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

– I mean—fuck, what am I supposed to do? Huh? – His voice cracks. His eyes are glassy now, but he swipes a hand over his face before anything can fall. – You want me to apologize? I will. You want me to beg? Fine. – He laughs breathlessly, shoulders shaking as he sinks down onto the curb like his body just gave up. – I’ll fucking beg.

Your stomach twists.

– Just— he exhales, hands clinging to your hips. – Can we go home? – His voice is so quiet now, so defeated. – Please. I don’t wanna fight anymore. I don’t wanna—fuck, I don’t even care. Just let me take you home. That’s all I want.

He looks up at you, and for the first time tonight, he looks fragile. Worn down. Like he’s carrying something too heavy for him, and the only thing keeping him from collapsing is you.

And God help you, part of you wants to believe him.

– JJ. – Your voice is sharp, but your hands are shaking. – This isn’t about that—this isn’t about you wanting to take me home. This is about what you did—

– I know! – he cuts in, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His hands fist in his hair, like he’s trying to hold himself together by sheer force. – I know, okay? I fucked up, I fucking know— He stumbles over his own words, gasping, like the weight of it is physically pressing down on him. – But I can’t—

His voice breaks.

– I can’t lose you over this. Over Rafe fucking Cameron and his bullshit.

The air between you shifts. Something inside him just collapses.

– Please. – His chest is heaving, his eyes wet, his whole body trembling like he’s about to snap. – I don’t—I don’t know how to make you stay. I don’t know how to fix this. – His voice cracks again, and this time, his knees buckle.

You barely have time to react before he’s falling into you, grabbing fistfuls of your clothes, his breath hitching against your belly. His whole body is shaking.

– I’m sorry. – His words spill out in a frantic, broken rush. – I’m so fucking sorry. Please—please don’t go. Just—just let me take you home, baby, please—

His arms tighten around you, like if he holds on hard enough, he can force you to stay. And God, you shouldn’t. You should push him away, make him listen, make him answer for this.

But he’s crying.

JJ Maybank—loud, reckless, impossible JJ—is sobbing into you like a little kid, like he’s breaking apart right in front of you.

You inhale shakily, your hands hovering before you finally give in, falling before him on the ground, wrapping your arms around him, pressing your cheek against his hair.

– It’s okay, – you whisper, even though it isn’t. Even though nothing is.

But it’s all he wants to hear.

JJ exhales sharply, his whole body collapsing into yours with something like relief. – Don’t leave me.

– I won’t.

And maybe you mean it.

Maybe that’s the scariest part.

You let him fall apart against you, his body wracked with silent tremors as he clings to you like a lifeline. His breath is uneven, ragged, hot against your skin, and his fingers fist into your top, desperate, like letting go isn’t an option. He presses closer, his whole body sinking into yours, like he’s trying to disappear inside you, like that’s the only place he might be safe.

And you let him. You hold him as his shoulders shake, as he fights to keep from outright sobbing, as the weight of whatever broke him presses down so hard you swear you can feel it, too. He’s unraveling in your arms, piece by piece, like he’s been holding himself together for so long that the second you touched him, he lost the strength to keep pretending.

So you kiss the top of his head, soft but steady, and something in him shifts.

JJ exhales, a long, shuddering breath against your skin, like you’ve reached inside him and pulled all that tension from his chest. His body, wound so tightly, begins to loosen—his grip on you eases, but only enough for his hands to smooth over your back instead of clutching desperately. He leans into you now not just from pain, but from something quieter, something softer.

You feel it in the way his breathing slows, in the way the tremors start to fade as your fingers trace slow circles over his back. His arms tighten around you again, but it’s different this time—not frantic, not desperate. Just… needing you. Needing to be here, against you, in your warmth, in this small, quiet moment where he can finally let go.

His face stays buried in the crook of your neck, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse but steady.

– I’m sorry, – He murmurs, again and again, lips moving against your skin.

You shake your head slightly, your fingers still stroking his back. – It’s okay.

And maybe for him, it actually is. Maybe just for a moment, with your hands in his hair and his body wrapped around yours, he feels something like peace. He doesn’t let go—not yet. He holds on, reveling in the comfort you offer, pressing into you like he never wants to leave. Like you’re the first real breath of air he’s had in a long time.

You stay like that, until the silence grows too heavy and you sigh. – We should go.

JJ doesn’t argue. He pulls back slowly, blinking, his eyes still red-rimmed but calmer, softer. His fingers linger at your waist before he finally steps up, exhaling like he’s reluctant to leave the space you created for him.

The drive is quiet, with him pulling your arms tighter around him everytime he gets the chance. You don’t protest. For a moment it's almost comforting, sitting on the back of his bike, without a word being spoken between you. But the feeling sits there, in your chest, that shiver you got when you realized he’s been following you.

It's not just caution.

It's not strangeness.

It's fear. A real, tangible fear of what he did, of what he can still do. Of what he might have continued doing had you not realized it. —It curls up around your throat, that fear. Pressing against your windpipe. You almost struggle to breathe.— You remain there, arms fastened around him as he slows down, pulling the brakes just before your house, even when he finally stops.

JJ leans back into you, breathing deep, clutching your hand to his chest, his body completely relaxed against yours. You’re still wondering. Mind still running.

How long had he followed you for?

Had he been trailing you? Close behind, just out of reach, or had he stared at your location, waiting, watching you without seeing you?

You don’t know which is worse.

– John B’s with Sarah tonight. – JJ mumbles, his head thrown back against your shoulder, the ends of his hair tickling your face. – I saw him sneak out. He’s probably gonna sleep there. – You hum, not really sure of what to say. – Pope and Kie are gone too. – His thumb brushes over the back of your hand slowly, his voice growing deeper, lower. – It’s just the two of us now.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t know what to say.

JJ looks back as you throw your leg over the other side of the bike, and climb down. He still clings to your hand like he’s got you on a leash: you have to remain there as he pulls the key from the ignition, as he sets his things in the top-box, as he leans back against the seat, pulling you in for a kiss.

You meet his mouth briefly, close-lipped, his fingers interlocking with yours as he pulls you in for another, and another, and one more. – I missed this. – He whispers, eyes barely open, already leaning in again.

– It’s been two days. – You remind him, but JJ only laughs.

– Two too many.

You don’t resist when he pulls you closer. His hands find your hips, sliding beneath the waistband of your jeans, calloused fingers pressing into the small of your back like he’s trying to mold you against him. He kisses you again—deeper, messier, his breath warm and tinged with something desperate.

JJ doesn’t just want this. He needs it.

That's what you like about him. He takes like he can’t get enough. He begs, and he grasps and he clings and he needs you like he needs air to breathe.

His hands are restless, traveling up your ribs, down your waist, over your thighs, like he’s trying to make up for lost time, like touching you might steady him, might ground him. But it doesn’t. The more he touches you, the more insatiable he gets. He’s humming against your lips, sighing into your touch, a little frantic, a little unsteady.

You pull him inside, but JJ can’t seem to break the kiss. He takes your hands to the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently, his lips dragging from your mouth to your jaw to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin between whispered pleas.

– Touch me, – he breathes, his voice cracking like the weight of everything is still right there, lingering beneath the surface.

Your fingers slip into his hair, threading through the strands, and JJ shudders. He melts against you, knees almost buckling as he exhales a sharp, shaky breath.

– Fuck, – he mumbles, almost laughing, giddy and drunk on your touch. He’s clinging to you now, pressing his body into yours, murmuring against your lips, deeper, please, until you give in, kissing him the way he wants. The way he needs.

He moans softly, hands gripping your waist, pushing your top up just to feel your skin against his palms. He’s lost in this, lost in you, smiling against your mouth in that dazed, breathless way, like nothing else exists beyond the way your body fits against his.

Like everything is fine.

Even it isn’t, not really.

You lead him to your room, kicking the door behind you as he falls back on the bed, tearing his shirt off of him as if it were burning. He doesn’t even give you the time to think before he’s pulling you on top of him.

You try to guide him through the motions, letting his hands explore, letting him pull you closer, letting him bury his face in your neck, all while your mind is somewhere else. Detached. Floating.

Because underneath it all—beneath the heat of his mouth and the weight of his body and the way he pleads for you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart—there’s that feeling.

That cold, creeping thing at the back of your mind.

That fear.

It wraps around your throat, pressing tight, squeezing, reminding you of what he did. Of how long he must have followed you, watching, waiting, just out of reach.

Of how much worse it could’ve been if you hadn’t noticed.

JJ doesn’t see it. He doesn’t feel it. He only sees you, only feels your hands, your lips, the comfort he’s so desperate to take from you.

– I missed this, – he murmurs again, voice slurring slightly, hands still moving, still searching. – Fuck, baby I missed this so much.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly, before finally answering.

– I know.

And you let him keep touching you, let him revel in this, let him have this, because maybe if he does, he’ll calm down. Maybe if he does, you’ll feel safe again.

JJ exhales against your skin, his body completely unwound, pliant beneath your hands. – Take it off. – He groans, hands shaking against his breeches. – Take it off of me, baby. Please. I just want you to be on me. I need it. Please.

You don’t need to be told twice.

He watches, almost breathless while you strip him bare, moaning at every touch, hips bucking every time you brush against him.

That doesn’t last long though.

It isn’t enough that just your hands are on him. So he drags you onto his dick, still clothed, and he grinds himself into you, eyes rolling back.

There’s something raw about the way he touches you—like he’s savoring every inch, like he’ll be going through withdrawal unless he doesn’t hold on tight enough. His fingers dig into your sides as he pulls your hips into his, his laugh breathy, almost delirious.

– God, I fucking love this, – he mutters against your shoulder, his hands slipping beneath your top, his thumbs brushing lazy circles over your skin.

This.

Not you—this.

The warmth. The closeness. The way you let him touch you, take what he needs. – You love this too, right baby? Your hips— He moans, head thrown back when you roll your hips against his cock, the fabric of your jeans giving just the friction he needs to work himself up. – You're so fucking good at this.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he kisses up your throat, his lips tracing familiar paths, his breath hot and unsteady. He hums when you card your fingers through his hair again, pressing into your touch like he’s melting from the inside out.

He's getting wilder, humping you with this reckless abandon he never seems to shake off. But you can see him unraveling. Just the friction isn't scratching the itch.

He needs more.

– Take it off, baby. Please. Please. – he sighs, voice catching, eyes blown out. – Fuck, give it to me. Just ride me.

You hesitate. Your fingers still against the nape of his neck. The sounds he makes, strangled, anguished. Like he’s going mad.

You actually hear him whine when you lift your hips, and his hand flies down to palm himself while he watches you pull the jeans down.

He tilts his head up, catching your mouth again, dragging you deeper into him. His hands slide down, gripping the backs of your thighs, pulling you closer until he's practically in you.

But you don’t let him sink in just yet.

It's more fun when you drag it out.

When you move against him, teasing him, watching him twitch and moan and plead with nothing but the wetness, the softness, the warmth.

There’s a slow, creeping sickness curling in your stomach.

Because you’re leading this. Because you know what he needs, and you’re not quite giving it to him. Because you’re letting him press closer, letting him unravel, letting him forget—for just a little while—that anything is wrong at all.

And a part of you wants to forget too.

It feels good.

It doesn’t matter what he did, what he would do, because he needs you. He can’t get enough of you. He won't leave.

– Please. Please. – He repeats it like a mantra, writhing beneath you, clutching you so fucking tight. His hips go rogue, bucking wildly. – Please let me fuck you. I need to fuck you. Please. Fuck, I can't take this anymore!

The laughter that falls from your lips almost seems to stoke the flames.

He groans out loud when tip pushes into you, and for a second, his entire body just collapses against yours, heavy, needy.

Then his hands slip under your bra again, tugging at the fabric, his breath hot and desperate against your skin.

– Let me see you, – he murmurs, voice thick, rough. – G-Go ahead, baby. I need you to move. Please.

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression open in a way that makes you ache.

JJ wants you. That much is obvious.

But more than that—he wants to disappear into you.

To sink into your warmth, your touch, your body, and let it drown out whatever’s eating him alive from the inside.

Your stomach twists.

His fingers have long stopped tracing slow patterns against your ribs, now he's bruising you, nails digging in, shaking, waiting. Pleading.

You could give him what he wants. It would be easy. So, so easy.

But for the first time since this started, you wonder if you should. – And who said you deserve that, JJ?

– Huh?

– Because with the way you talked to me before, I don’t think you do. – You move, just slightly, and he folds, back arching. – I think you’re gonna have to convince me.

– Please. Baby, please.

– You think I'm pathetic. – You tsk, your hips rolling so slow his eyes flutter when they roll back. – I'm not the one who’s begging, though.

– Please! – He's screaming now, and you’re moving faster. The bed creaking beneath you. – I need it! Faster, baby. Faster!

He's splayed out, a puppet with the strings cut loose, yet he's anything but relaxed. You can feel him tensing, hands fisting the sheets so tight his knuckles have gone white.

He screams.

Almost yelping when you start going at the pace you know he likes. And it still isn't enough. He still grabs your hips, pulling you closer, and closer, again and again, banging against that soft spot within you like it's the only thing that can relieve him from this torture.

And you let him.

You ride him like a bronco, as if he’s trying to fuck you off instead of closer. As if he isn't begging for it. Screaming for it. – MORE, BABY, PLEASE!

You want more too.

At some point you lost yourself in trying to punish him, and it started to feel good. You're biting him, teeth dragging against the skin at the crook of his neck, the spot that always makes him shudder, that always makes him writhe.

Your nails have mapped half his body over.

He's red. —His face, his eyes, his lips, his scratches.— He’s gasping. Shaking. His whole body trembling, his eyes rolling back. You can’t even make sense of what he's saying anymore.

The only thing that leaves his mouth are these incoherent pleas, these oohs and aahs that make you laugh, humming to yourself as you ride into your orgasm, feeling him fall apart.

– F-uck, fuck! Don’t stop! Feels so fucking good baby, so fucking good! – He pushes it in faster, but it's still not enough. He needs more, he was going mad! Grabs you by the waist, tosses you on the bed, rutting like a wild dog, head thrown back, eyes rolling upwards. – Fuck! Fuck! Feel s-feel so fucking good!

All that was heard was your laughter, the pleased little gasps that escape your mouth as he fills you up over and over and over again, animalistic and heaving, laughing as well, but out of his mind, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure, by the building release. He crashes against you, once, twice, getting careless. But by then he couldn’t hold it in. More! More! is all you heard from him.

And then you felt it.

His body shudders all over again, still rutting like his life would end. – God. God! I need to cum— fuck! I need— I need— Keep going! Don’t fucking stop baby, don— FUCK! FUCK!

You felt him coat your walls, white, hot, and endless. By then, you were shaking as well, the waves of your own climax washing over you as you arch against him.

He collapses over you, trembling and crying as he smiles, moaning your name in that shaky, adoring voice, eyes clinging to you in utter joy as he pumped lazily, through your climax and his, he still needed more of you. – It won-won’t stop. Fuck, there’s so m-much of it. – Laughter. Yours, his.

Your mind is blank.

He's heavy, heaving, still inside you.

JJ's breathing is ragged, each exhale a shaky whisper as he remains, still there, still trembling with the aftershocks. His hands wander aimlessly across the sheets, his body warm and heavy, as though he's been consumed entirely. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, and a soft whimper escapes him as he reaches for your hand.

– Baby... can you...? – His voice is slurred, broken, as if he’s still caught between the pleasure and the exhaustion of it all. His hand gently tugs at your wrist, his fingers brushing against your skin. – Just... touch me. Please... softly.

There was that, too.

He was always sweeter when he was done.

You give a soft, reassuring smile, your fingers gently grazing his messy hair, pushing the strands out of his face, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, lingering for a moment before you speak in the same soft, soothing tone. – I’m here, JJ. I got you.

He hums in response, his eyes fluttering closed, a content sigh escaping his lips as you run your fingers through his hair, the action slow and comforting. – I’m... Fuck— Laughter buzzes against your skin as he presses his lips on you again. – I'm never getting used to this... I’m not used to this, – he mumbles between shaky breaths, his hand coming to rest on your arm, the weight of his touch grounding him. – Feels... too good. I need you to... keep me close. Just... just a little longer.

You hate the way your heart skips.

But you love the way he says it.

The way his voice brushes against your skin when he pleads, so softly, so sweetly. Like he could never do you harm.

You shift slightly, pulling him into your chest, the warmth of his body a constant reassurance. His hand rests over your heart, the frantic pace of his pulse now slowing, but his face is still pinched with that lingering tension, a mix of exhaustion and need for reassurance. He lets out a soft groan as you press your lips to his temple, whispering, – I’m right here. You’re okay.

His breath evens out, and as the minutes pass, you keep stroking his hair and kissing his head, each kiss lighter than the last, until his body relaxes fully, his grip on you loosens. – Love you.

You feel yourself tense up.

It’s not the first time he says it.

But it might be the first time you know he doesn’t mean it.

Still you smile down at him anyway, pressing another gentle kiss to his forehead before whispering back, – Sure you do, baby. Go to sleep, okay?

He doesn’t need much encouragement.

JJ's never been easy to tire out, but when he does, it's immediate. His ear is pressed to your chest, to your heart, and you wonder what kind of dreams he’ll be having with that soundtrack, but it doesn't take long for his breath to even out.

The house is quiet.

Completely so.

And though you're glad John wasn't there to hear it, laying there, without his snoring to lull you into even halfway into reality only means that it crashes against you like a bucket of cold water a soon as JJ is out.

The day dawns on you, as it has done several times, but still the loathing blooms in your chest and spreads through your body faster than your mind can process.

You're broke.

You're jobless.

The girl you thought was your best friend is a snake.

The boy that's sleeping on you is a stalker.

Your best prospect right now is famously the most spoiled and volatile person on the island. That, because your best friend, the person that could actually get you out of this, has faded away after abandoning you, and you have no idea if he’ll even come back.

What's funny is that this is the thought that hurts you most —Not that you're unemployed, that your now previous boss could ruin you forever, that your relationship with only family member is as unstable as your financial situation, or that the people you thought you could trust don’t care about you— that Barry is gone.

Something he has been plenty of times before.

You lie there in the stillness, the weight of JJ's body pressing against yours. The sheets feel too warm, too much, a world you can’t find a way into. JJ’s steady breathing is a lullaby of sorts, pulling you toward the edge of exhaustion, but it’s not enough to quiet the thoughts tumbling relentlessly in your head.

Barry's absence gnaws at you —You know he’s not gone forever, not really. Or at least you hope so. He’s done this before, pulled away just long enough for you to convince yourself it doesn’t matter. And yet, it hurts like it does. Like it’s different this time.

You turn your head to glance at him—JJ, still sleeping soundly, unaware. His face is soft, the usual edge to his features dulled by exhaustion, but even now, with him so vulnerable in your arms, you feel the invisible distance between you grow. He’s a comfort, but only in the way a warm blanket can make you feel safe when the storm is too loud. And it is too loud. So loud you can barely breathe through it.

Your fingers trace patterns along his skin, but it’s absent, mechanical—the world outside the room, the boy in your arms, the life that’s slipping from your fingers, and the ghost that won’t stop haunting you, and you don't even know why.

Barry.

You know, deep down, that it’s not about him being gone. It’s about the fact that, despite what JJ has just tried to convince you of, Barry actually is the one person that was there for you.

When your father went away, he celebrated with you. When he was declared missing, he comforted you, even if you said you didn't care. Even if you didn't even know you needed it.

And maybe that's the problem: He saw you better than you saw yourself. He knows you. Really knows you.

But does he now?

So much has changed in two days.

You can’t even tell yourself it was real anymore because everything you thought you knew about him, about you, is shifting—becoming something else you can’t identify.

There’s no way to put a name to it, though, is there? That dull ache you’ve learned to live with. Not quite loneliness, but not contentment, either. Just an empty space where hope used to live, and you're so used to it now that you don’t know what it would feel like to fill it.

You let your gaze fall to JJ again, watching the way his back rises and falls with the easy rhythm of sleep. Maybe this is it—this is what you have now. A boy who doesn’t even know what he’s asking for when he whispers his need into the quiet night. And you, too tired to push him away, too lost to turn to anything else. You can almost convince yourself it’s enough, and for a second, you do.

But then, Barry’s face flickers in your mind again, like a ghost.

You wonder, just for a moment, if you would’ve been able to say anything if he were here. If you would’ve told him how much you needed him to help you, how much you needed him to be here, not just physically, but with you in the way that only he ever did.

But he’s not here.

And you’re not sure when he will be again.

The buzz of your phone slices through the silence. You freeze. What's the likelihood that he would call you right then, when you needed him most?

You slide from under JJ, and he grumbles, hands reaching for you even deep into sleep, but you don’t see it. All you see is the unknown number flashing on your screen amidst the darkness, and your heart races as you bring the phone to your ear. – Bee? – The word falls from your lips almost fearfully. You don’t want to know where he's been, what he's doing, or how much of what he had to take to call you like this, in the middle of the night. But you’re impatient to hear his voice, you just want to know if he's okay. – Bee, is that you?

The line scratches softly, the familiar sound of skin whispering against the microphone echoing in-between the two phones. Your pulse thrums against your ear. – Not bee. – You finally hear. – Are, actually.

– “Are”? Barry, what are you talking about? What did you take?

– It’s not Barry, baby. – The edge of his words resounded even through the distance. Pleased, but not quite satisfied. – It’s Rafe.

You let go of a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

– Oh, “R”. Okay I got it.

He chuckles, a long, breathy noise. His breathing is heavy. – Did you put the cry-baby to sleep or is he still up whining?

JJ turns in his sleep. His arm, still lying, lax, over your lap shifts, and he pulls himself closer, brow brushing against your thigh. – JJ is… gone.

– Good. Thought I was gonna have to call CPS or some shit. – He scoffs, turning, in bed, you gather, since you hear the squeak of furniture.

– How considerate.

– Well, baby, I'm nothing if not considerate. – He hums. – What are you doing awake?

Regretting your life decisions, pondering the benefits of suicide. – Thinking of you. – It was meant to be a joke, but it didn’t sound like one as it slipped from your lips.

There's half a second of silence from him before you hear that laugh again, like you shocked him.

Rafe Cameron was shocked.

That's definitely a headline.

You can almost hear the smirk on his face. – I was thinking about you too, baby. What are you wearing?

You scoff, almost rolling your eyes. – Rafe.

He laughs again, even breathier. – Sorry. Was that too soon? – His bed creaks again. – You don’t seem like the kind of girl who needs a lot of foreplay.

– Hilarious.

– I was really hoping you'd give me a taste of what you’re wearing tomorrow, though.

You look down almost unconsciously. The only thing covering your skin is sweat. – Definitely not what I'm wearing right now. Unless you're hiring for a job other than personal chef.

Rafe’s quiet again. He moves around. You can hear him breathing. – Maybe I am. What kind of job are you thinking?

– Well, aren’t you the little hiring agency? Should've met you before. There’s some things on my resume I'm definitely not proud of. – He laughs with you now, though there's something strange in his tone. – Did you talk to your governess, or that other guy you said you didn't know the name of?

– Did. We'll be waiting for you.

– Well, you call and I come. – He laughs at the double-entendre, another noise escaping his lips. – What time should I be there?

– How's 10 AM sound?

– Perfect, Rafe. Thank you. Again, really. I can’t thank you enough.

– You're welcome, baby. You really are. – He groans, the bed creaking. JJ moves around again, his head on your lap, hands around your knees, and he mumbles something unintelligible. – What was that?

– Sorry, uhm. Just… thinking out loud.

You swallow, but Rafe doesn’t miss a beat. – And what are you thinking about?

– About… What I'm gonna wear. – Improvising was never really your forte.

Rafe hums, a long stretch of the M, then something smaller, a sound you can't quite catch. – That skirt. – He sighs. – The blue pleated one.

You pause.

– What?

– It's pretty. – Is all he says, then a groan, or a purr. The phone falls on his pillow, you can hear it scratch against his skin as he moves. But the way he says it, as if he’s seen it a thousand times in the two days you've known each other, as if he can picture you wearing it right in front of him. – Fuck, baby. You’re so pretty.

The compliment grates at your ears.

How does he know your clothes?

You think of the skirt. Your blue pleated skirt. It's been ages since you've worn it. It's way too short. You’ve outgrown it a while ago. – What else, baby?

– Hm?

– What else are you wearing for me?

His bed creaks again, over and over, and he doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just sighs.

– I, uhm. I don’t know. – What even is this conversation?

– Far as I'm concerned you don't need to wear anything. You can come— He laughs, low and unsteady, a strangled “yeah” cutting through the word. – Come as you are.

You feel a trickle of repulse run down your back. You don’t wanna talk to him anymore. You don’t want to talk at all.

– Talk to me, baby. – He groans, again.

– I, uhm. – You kick the nightstand, the noise echoing loudly around your room. – Shit, uhm. Sorry, that's my brother. I'll see you tomorrow.

You kill the line before he can say anything else.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @sassyvillaintrophy @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 6!

and what a week it's been... idk about you all, but i'm very much looking forward to all the 8b spec fic after seeing That One Leak...

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

a graveyard in blue | moonlightmornings/@moonlight-mornings | 12.9k | GA

After a call goes south because of limited resources and an equipment malfunction, Eddie's brave move to rescue a young girl takes a nasty turn. i love how this captures the energy and vibe of a rescue!! genuinely feels straight out of an episode <3

and i'd do it over and over again | playinginthunderstorms/@playinginthunderstorms | 4.4k | E

Buck and Eddie hook up at the end of "Confessions". oh when i tell you i savoured this one... such a wonderful fic that captures buddie's first time so so perfectly!! i love how their dynamic is written here <3

everything in between | simplyylupin | 2.1k | T

They’re quiet for a moment, mulling over the unsaid, and then Buck’s bringing his phone closer to his face, eyes squinting. “Are you naked?” the absolute codependency of these two <3 so good!!

hot ghost problems | ebjameston/@ebjameston | 40.9k | T

The ghost would prefer to go by Buck, if Eddie wouldn’t mind. this was a reread! i was reminded of the magic system here and revisited it - can confirm that magic and ghosts and all that are so very good here, and i love the diaz siblings!!

i'll tell them put me back in it (and i would do it again) | paleredheadinascifi | 4.8k| T

Eddie doesn't know how to make his listening history private. Buck doesn't know what to do with the words in front of his eyes. Chris cannot believe he has to deal with either of them. the sheer brilliance of this concept... such a lovely look at the buckley-diaz dynamics! i was smiling the whole way through <3

it's golden, like daylight | rarakiplin/@hoediaz | 8.7k | T

“Shut up,” fingers dig into his ribs, “I mean, would you want to? Be married again?” such wonderful firefam dynamics!! i read this last week, i think, and already reread it this past week as well. a new favourite for sure <3

lonely little love dog | littleghost/@ghostlandtoo | 24k | M

When the 118 is closed for reconstruction after an earthquake, Buck is a floater for different stations around the city. He tries not to let it get to him. Much. this is such a fascinating look at buck's character!! and i LOVED the mara scene <3

parabola | semperama/@semperama | 4.6k | T

“Hey, uh. By the way.” Buck’s been thinking about this, and he has to say it now, or it’ll explode out of him at a much worse time, in a much worse way. “Make sure you don’t forget to change your will again.” truly no fic captures the angst with a happy ending tag like this. also this fic is how i learned that there's a special ao3 tag for eddie's will, which sounds about right. anyway, point is, this is wonderful!!

the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love | lemonzestywrites/@lemonzestywrites | 25.7k | E

After the events of 6x13, Buck is worried he's lost his charm in bed. Eddie eagerly offers his services to prove otherwise. a reread of one of my favourite fics <3 there's something about the intersection of smut and feelings realisation and introspection in this fic that just hits so very hard, it's lovely <3

the whale fall principle | fastcardotmp3/@fastcardotmp3 | 95.5k | M

Daniel Buckley lives, but he’s still deciding what that means. Maddie is having a baby, but it isn’t her husband’s. And Evan knows his purpose. Until he doesn’t anymore. okay so definitely heed the creator chose not to use archive warnings tag here (there are specific warnings in the chapter notes) but holy shit, this fic. genuinely the best buckley sibling dynamics i have read, like, maybe ever. such a wonderful eddie and chimney and everyone, and such gorgeous writing!! if this one sounds up your alley, you're in for a treat <3

to ebb and flow | akapeterman/@akapeterman | 5.1k | GA

buck is sick, eddie is worried, and christopher is an angel. they'll be okay. i've really been vibing with sickfics lately, can you tell? this is another lovely lovely fic, such great hurt/comfort/domestic fluff!!

wait for me to come home | written_promises | 1.9k | GA

Eddie comes back home to LA from Texas to find Buck waiting for him… in his bed. Because he’s been living in Eddie’s home. and eddie's bed is exactly where buck should be<3 so soft and sweet and beautiful!!

we return to each other in waves | cozycatwriter/@leon-trans-kennedy | 3.1k | GA

“Yes I do. Of course I do. You saved Chris and looked after him the best you could during a tsunami-and you’re still recovering from an embolism from having your leg crushed on the job. The least I could do is look after you and let you stay the night. Besides, Chris would want you to stay.” post-tsunami fics my beloveds <3 it genuinely makes me so happy to see new ones pop up, and this is truly an excellent one!! i love the bed-sharing especially!

you need a friendly hand (and i need action) | AmZamReads | 13.1k | E

Eddie picks up pottery as a hobby and accidentally blows up on Instagram for "accidentally" posting thirst traps of him throwing on the wheel. Buck stumbles across the account and immediately becomes obsessed with Eddie's hands, and horny shenanigans ensues. this fic makes me wish i could make pottery. i love eddie's pottery friends!! and a lovely buddie dynamic too <3

[waynes-multiverse]

You have no idea how excited I was for this series and it did not disappoint in the slightest! It hit all the right spots, love!! I'm so thrilled to see where it goes from here 😍🫶

Details below 😉👇

First of all, it's one thing to wake up to yelling, but the freaking air horn?! Wow, our poor boy 😂😂

You shot him an odd look, but he ignored it, shifting slightly to make sure the blanket hid the… Predicament he was currently dealing with.

I feel like that would've been on her, though 😆 If I had a boy roommate and surprised him in the morning, I wouldn't be shocked to my core to encounter morning wood lmao

The angst and constant (adorably idiotic) overthinking of Dean's during their whole shopping trip was delicious! I devoured that shit, girl. And when the crotchless panties showed up – dead 💀

The worst part? You were always the person he talked to when he was confused about something. But now you were the one person he couldn’t talk to about this.

Ooof, and that is always the downfall 🙈 They're not gonna communicate properly throughout this whole fic, are they? Am I gonna be yelling at you a lot? Probably. But all out of love 😂😘

Benny chuckled, lining up his next shot. “I think the real question is, why the hell did you stay?”

Benny cracked me up with this line. I could so imagine him saying that with that little smirk of his 😆

I loved the guys' night out and how all of them, without a fail, made fun of Dean and knew from the start what he was talking about 😂😂

And that childhood meeting story about killed me with cuteness! Stawp 😭💕🍭

“Honey, I’m home!” Dean called out as soon as he stepped into the apartment. The words left him out of habit, that same old teasing lilt in his voice. It was an inside joke that had stuck over time—born the day you’d both moved in together after college, a decision fuelled by practicality more than anything else.

Uh-huh. I'm not believing a word he's telling me right now 😂 Gabe was right. Denial is a powerful drug lol

Gary from marketing.

Ugh, not Gary from marketing 🙄 (Honestly, who still names their child Gary these days? Not exactly a name I wanna scream in bed. No offense to any Garys reading this 😂)

You frowned up at him, your brows knitting together like a scolded child. “You’re no fun.”

I'm a sucker for a wasted reader/wasted Dean. (Happy) drunk people are the freaking best gift 😂🥂

I swear, if Dean doesn't communicate his feelings properly, I will throw a shoe at the screen of my laptop, hoping it will goddamn hit him 😅

But that kiss?! HOLY HELL 🔥🔥🔥 (Please ma'am, may I have some more of this hotness?)

And I love that Dean realized she was too drunk for this, but now I'm genuinely worried how the next morning will go? 👀 Are they going to be awkward about it, avoid one another, or actually talk? (Yeah, I know. The last one is a stretch lol). I'm aware of the fic title and love the friends with benefits trope, so I'm so stoked for all the angst to come and flourish in the next chapters! 😁👏

The Arrangement - Part One

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean has a conflicting dream about you, his best friend, that has him questioning feelings he'd never allowed to see the light of day before. However, he might not be the only one…

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings/Tags: Swearing, feelings, some spicy times, nothing too heavy...

AN: Happy Release day!!🎉 Honestly, i can’t thank you all enough for the excitement around this series since announcing it! I've fell in love writing this story 🥹 and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it ❤️

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Dean smiled lazily as he felt a warm palm slide up his chest, the body behind him pressing closer. Soft lips trailed kisses along his neck and shoulders, sending a shiver down his spine. He hummed in contentment and shifted onto his back, his tired eyes opening to the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen.

Her eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief, her lips curving into a playful smirk before she leaned down, peppering gentle kisses along his jaw. His eyes fluttered shut again as she sucked lightly at his pulse point, his breath coming quicker. A low groan rumbled from his throat as he gripped her waist, pulling her up into a heated kiss.

Her tongue caressed his, her touch sending fire through his veins. Her hand slid down his abdomen, fingertips grazing lower and lower beneath the sheets, his pulse pounding—

"WAKE UP, LOSER!"

Dean's eyes shot open, his body jolting as the blaring shriek of an airhorn filled his room. He yanked the covers tighter around himself, his heart racing from both the rude awakening and the remnants of his dream.

"What the hell, Y/N?" he growled, glaring at the culprit as he covered his ears. You grinned triumphantly and finally put the airhorn to rest.

Dean huffed, flopping back down on the bed and throwing an arm over his face, trying to will away the heat rising to his cheeks.

What the fuck? Was all he could think, his sleep-addled brain scrambling to make sense of why he’d just had a sex dream about you.

You, meanwhile, were way too chipper for his liking. 

"C’mon, Dean-o, up and at ’em." You patted his leg, and he flinched like you’d just burned him. You shot him an odd look, but he ignored it, shifting slightly to make sure the blanket hid the… Predicament he was currently dealing with.

"What’s with the drill sergeant wake-up? Can a guy not sleep in on a Saturday?" He grumbled, voice still rough from sleep, and other things.

You pouted. Actually pouted. And Dean had to force himself to look away from your lips—lips that had just been doing unspeakable things to him in his dream.

"You promised you'd go Christmas shopping with me.” You reminded him, completely unfazed by his mood.

Dean frowned. "That doesn’t sound like something I’d promise."

You hit him with your classic 'don’t bullshit me' look. And, yeah, okay, he remembered now. He'd offered last week, wanting to help you survive the chaos of last-minute shoppers—and use the trip to grab gifts for his own family.

"Fine, yeah. Just give me ten minutes to wake up, alright?" He relented, desperate for you to leave so he could deal with his little… Issue.

“Thanks, Buddy." Your voice was smug, like you knew he’d never actually say no to you. Because, let’s be honest, he never did.

Dean sighed as you closed the door behind you. He let his head fall back against the pillow, running a hand down his face.

What the hell?

Why was he dreaming about you like that? You were his best friend. You’d been inseparable since fourth grade. Sure, you were beautiful, but that had never been an issue before.

…Had it?

Dean groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Nope. Too early for a deep dive into that mess. He rationalised it away—one, you were attractive. Two, you were close. And, statistically speaking, didn’t most guy-girl friendships eventually veer into weird territory at some point?

Yeah. Totally normal. No big deal.

Except… Two hours later, standing in the middle of a lingerie store, Dean realised he was totally screwed.

Before that, he’d spent the last two hours hauling around a bunch of your shopping bags like a damn pack mule. Only one of them happened to be his, with his completed gift purchases for everyone he needed to buy for. Though to be fair to you, your arms were just as full. He was bewildered at your ability to buy so much for so little.

Your immediate family only consisted of three people—Bobby, Ellen, and Jo—but you had argued that you had your friends, his family, and him to buy for. The latter of which, he’d told you not to do.

However, it fell on deaf ears as always. Every Christmas and birthday, it was the same. But Dean couldn’t fault you for it—you always got people gifts that were meaningful to them, and you got so much joy from giving that he could never say anything other than thank you.

What he wasn’t thankful for was your complete inability to stay focused. Every shop you entered, you’d get distracted by little knickknacks, convincing yourself someone needed them, rather than the original item you came for. It made the day so much longer, but despite the fatigue in his arms and the chaos of holiday shoppers, he was enjoying himself.

Though, that was a given with you.

You were naturally a people pleaser, but knowing how much Dean hated shopping, you’d made it your mission to keep him entertained. You’d made him laugh—laugh to the point his belly ached and tears were shed. The day had surprisingly become enjoyable. But then you'd dragged him into this store, and his brain short-circuited.

The window displays alone had him spiralling, lace and silk-covered mannequins taunting him with thoughts he really didn’t need to have. About you. And then you, completely oblivious, pulled a matching red lace bra and thong off a rack, holding them up for inspection.

Dean swallowed hard.

He’d done your laundry before. You two split chores in the apartment, and he’d handled your underwear plenty of times; never thinking twice about it. So why the hell was he suddenly imagining you in them now?

Was this really because of the dream? It had to be.

And then, like you hadn’t already sent him into cardiac arrest, you giggled, holding up another pair. "Hey, check this out—crotchless panties."

Dean barely choked back a groan as you stuck your fingers through the open section like it was the funniest thing in the world. His brain, on the other hand, provided a detailed mental slideshow of all the things he could do to you in them.

Jesus Christ.

He needed air.

"I—uh—I gotta step outside. Promised Sammy I’d call about a gift for Mom," he lied, voice tight.

You barely glanced up. "Okay."

Dean bolted like his life depended on it, shoving through the doors and inhaling the crisp winter air. "What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" He muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

A passing woman gave him a scandalised look as she walked by with her kid. He shot her an apologetic smile before leaning back against the brick wall, blowing out a heavy breath.

He tried to clear his mind, but every time he pushed the R-rated thoughts away, softer images replaced them. The way you smiled. The way you laughed, head thrown back, eyes crinkling. That stupid fluttery feeling hit his stomach again.

Dean frowned.

Was he sick? Hallucinating?

The worst part? You were always the person he talked to when he was confused about something.

But now you were the one person he couldn’t talk to about this.

Another half hour crawled by before you finally emerged from the store, a small bag swinging from your wrist. Dean’s eyes locked onto it like it held the answers to the universe, his mind immediately spiralling.

What the hell did you buy?

He told himself he didn’t care. He really didn’t. But his brain clearly had other plans because now he was picturing you in every single thing you could’ve possibly picked out.

Lingerie? Pyjama's? Something sheer, lace- nope!

He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on literally anything else, but it was a lost cause. By the time you both made it back to the apartment, he felt like his brain had been put through a damn blender.

You, however, were completely unbothered, tossing your bags onto the floor with a content sigh before flopping onto the couch. "Pizza should be here soon. You wanna pick the movie?"

Dean blinked, barely processing the words. Right. Normal best friend things. Hanging out. Eating pizza. Watching a movie. That’s what you two did. That’s what you’d always done.

Maybe that’s all today was—a momentary lapse. A weird, fleeting thing brought on by lack of sleep, the stress of shopping, and, most probably, the objectifying dream he’d had of you. It didn’t have to mean anything more than that.

Yeah. He could shake this off. No big deal.

Letting out a slow breath, he dropped onto the couch beside you, snagging the remote. "Fine. But if I pick, you’re not allowed to bitch about it."

You hummed, already scrolling through your phone. "I make no promises."

A small smirk tugged at Dean’s lips. This was normal. Easy. Just like always.

And for the first time since this morning, he let himself believe it.

The following Friday, Dean found himself at the Roadhouse with Benny, Cas, and Gabe. It was the kind of place that felt like a second home.

The Roadhouse wasn’t fancy—hell, half the decor was older than they were—but it had its own charm. The regulars, the outdated rodeo-style décor, the worn wooden bar top that had seen more spilled whiskey and thrown punches than anyone cared to count.

The walls were lined with old beer signs, neon lights buzzing softly under the hum of conversation. The jukebox in the corner cycled through rock classics, always a little too loud, but that was part of the place’s charm.

Dean and the guys had been coming here for years—long before they were even old enough to drink. You had, too. Being Ellen’s stepdaughter meant you practically grew up in this place, and while Ellen had a strict no-bullshit policy, she wasn’t blind to the fact that teenagers would be teenagers.

As long as you and the guys stayed under her watchful eye, she let you each have a beer or two when you were younger, making damn sure no one got carried away. And if anyone so much as thought about sneaking more? Well, Ellen had a way of shutting that down real quick. She was tough, sharp as a whip, and had a stare that could make a grown man fold—but she cared, more than she’d ever admit.

Jo helped out too, working the bar some nights in between her law enforcement studies. She’d been slinging beers and rolling her eyes at the group’s antics since she was old enough to work behind the counter, always quick with a sarcastic remark when any of them got out of line. 

You and Dean had spent countless nights here, watching as the Roadhouse shaped who you all became.

Benny leaned against the pool table, lining up his shot with an easy, practiced confidence. Dean had seen him do it a hundred times—his friend had a natural ease about him, a steadiness that made him damn good at their job. 

They spent most of their days working maintenance for RHP Properties, fixing busted pipes and dealing with tenants who thought every flickering light meant the world was ending. Benny made the long hours bearable.

Cas sat nearby, nursing a whiskey, his sharp blue eyes scanning the table like he was analysing some historical battle strategy. He always had that serious, thoughtful air about him. It made sense—he was a history teacher, working his way toward becoming a professor. His brain just worked differently.

And then there was Gabriel, though he liked to go by Gabe, Cas’ cousin. Though you’d never guess it just by looking at them. 

Where Cas was serious, methodical, and downright broody at times, Gabe was his exact opposite—carefree, unpredictable, and always ready with a joke. The contrast between them was almost comical, like night and day, order and chaos.

Currently half-draped over the bar like he owned the place, Gabe was laughing at something Rachel, the new bartender, had said. She was easy on the eyes—exactly the kind of woman Gabe set his sights on. And judging by the way she giggled and blushed under his usual blend of wit and charm, he’d hit his mark.

Gabe had always been that guy—the one who could talk his way into or out of anything, a natural-born trickster with a grin that could disarm just about anyone. No one was entirely sure what he did for a living, some mix of marketing gigs and side hustles that somehow kept him afloat. According to him, it was all about “the art of persuasion.”

Dean just called it bullshit.

The night had settled into an easy rhythm—drinks flowing, pool games stretching long enough to become more about talking shit than actual competition. Gabe, as always, had the floor, spinning some ridiculous story about a one-night stand gone wrong.

“I’m telling you; she had three snakes. Just slithering around the damn apartment like it was normal,” Gabe insisted, gesturing wildly with his beer. “One of ‘em was watching me, man. I swear it knew.”

Benny chuckled, lining up his next shot. “I think the real question is, why the hell did you stay?”

Gabe shrugged. “What can I say? I have a hard time walking away from an adventure.”

Cas, who had been nursing his whiskey with a bemused expression, finally spoke up. “It’s a wonder you haven’t been killed yet.”

“Give it time,” Benny muttered, sinking his shot.

The conversation shifted, everyone throwing in their own weird hookup stories—bad timing, embarrassing moments, things they wished they could forget. Dean had been mostly listening, chuckling at their dumb-assery, when the thought that had been nagging him for days finally slipped out.

“Is it, uh… normal to have a sex dream about a friend?”

Benny didn’t react at first, too focused on sinking his shot, but Gabe, ever the opportunist, caught onto it immediately. “If it’s about Y/N? Yeah, totally.”

Dean nearly choked on his beer. “What? No—it’s not—”

Gabe grinned, tilting his head like he was enjoying watching Dean squirm. “Not what? Not about her? Or not just a dream?”

Dean scowled, scrambling to recover. “Jesus, Gabe, I didn’t say it was about her. It was hypothetical.”

“Uh-huh.” Gabe leaned against the pool table, twirling the chalk in his fingers. “Sure, man. Hypothetical.”

Dean exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the weird, twisting feeling in his gut. “Just saying, dreams don’t mean anything, right? Just… brain static.”

Benny chuckled, finally looking up from the table. “Depends on the dream, brother.”

Dean glanced between them, suddenly feeling like he was the only one missing something. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gabe smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It means you’ve been making googly eyes at her since we were, what—fifteen?”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “The hell I have.”

Gabe ignored him, tapping his chin. “Honestly, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner.”

Benny sighed, shaking his head as he sank another shot. “Sorry, brother. Gotta agree with the gremlin on this one.”

Cas, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice calm and matter of fact. “It’s always been very obvious.”

Dean stared at them, mouth opening and closing. “You guys are insane.”

Gabe shrugged, completely unfazed. “Denial’s a hell of a drug. You’ll catch up eventually.”

Dean gripped his pool cue a little tighter, his next shot suddenly feeling a lot more difficult than it should have.

Benny, ever the voice of reason, leaned on his cue. “Ain’t anything bad, Dean. You two have known each other since you were what? Nine. Been joint at the hip since. You know all her family, she knows yours. Hell, she’s practically—”

“If that were true, something would’ve happened by now,” Dean cut in, shaking his head.

Gabe snorted, swiping Dean’s beer before he could stop him. “Not if you’re in denial, my friend.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, frustration curling in his chest. Their words were ringing too damn true, and it was freaking him out. “You’re all outta your damn minds.”

Gabe just smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, Winchester.”

The conversation haunted him. All the way back to the apartment.

He’d walked the couple of blocks from the bar to your shared place, his friends’ words swirling around his mind, needling into places he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Dean knew he cared about you—he always had. But wasn’t that normal after knowing someone for so long? You were practically family.

His thoughts drifted back to the first time he met you. Fourth grade. The old, rusted swing set at the park near his house.

He’d been shoving loose gravel around with the toe of his sneaker when he heard a loud laugh—sharp and unbothered. Looking up, he saw a girl launch herself off the swing at its peak, landing in a heap on the ground with a thud.

He winced. That had to hurt.

But instead of crying, you rolled onto your back, a grin splitting your dirt-smudged face as you stared up at the sky. "Holy crap, that was awesome."

Dean frowned, more confused than anything. "You just busted your knee."

You sat up, inspecting the scrape with a shrug. "Eh, I’ve had worse."

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and grinned. "Think you can jump higher?"

Dean, never one to back down from a challenge, snorted. "Duh."

And that was that. A competition was born.

For the next hour, you and Dean had taken turns swinging as high as possible before flinging yourselves off, measuring who could get the most distance. By the time the sun dipped low, both of you were covered in dirt and scrapes, laughing like idiots.

When his mom finally called him home for dinner, he’d hesitated before brushing off his hands and looking at you. "Same time tomorrow?"

You grinned, teeth flashing. "You’re on, Winchester."

And just like that, Dean had found his best friend.

Now, years later, that same friend was tangled up in his head in a way he couldn’t ignore.

And it scared the hell out of him.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dean called out as soon as he stepped into the apartment. The words left him out of habit, that same old teasing lilt in his voice. It was an inside joke that had stuck over time—born the day you’d both moved in together after college, a decision fuelled by practicality more than anything else. 

Splitting rent was cheaper, and as best friends, it had made perfect sense. Somehow, though, the whole thing had felt oddly domestic from the start, and Dean had cracked the joke that first night—throwing open the door with a smirk, announcing himself like some sitcom husband. You’d groaned, thrown a pillow at him, and it had just stuck. Something easy, something comfortable.

From somewhere deeper in the apartment, your voice called back, warm and casual. “Hey!” You greeted him as he shrugged off his worn leather jacket and toed off his boots with a sigh, rolling his neck to ease the tension there. 

“How were the guys?” You called out again.

"Yeah, they're all good," he answered absentmindedly, trying not to think about that last conversation he’d had with them as he headed straight for the fridge, already contemplating his options.

His hand gripped the cool metal of the handle as he swung it open, his face falling at the sad excuse for groceries staring back at him—half a six-pack, expired milk, some takeout containers he didn’t even remember ordering.

Right. Grocery shopping. Definitely overdue.

"Hey, you feel like ordering in tonight?" He called out over his shoulder. "Pizza? Chinese? Maybe both, live a little?"

But before he could get an answer, movement in the corner of his eye pulled his focus, and his breath caught in his throat.

You stepped out of your room, and just like that, Dean forgot how to breathe.

His hand slipped from the fridge handle as his entire focus tunnelled in on you. You weren’t just dressed up—you were knockout gorgeous. 

A sleek, black dress hugged your figure in a way that should’ve been illegal, the fabric clinging in all the right places before tapering off mid-thigh. Your legs—long, smooth, and so much more on display than he was prepared for—were accentuated by the sharp cut of your stilettos, heels so high they had no damn business being on your feet, yet somehow, you walked like you owned the world in them.

Dean swallowed hard.

His gaze flickered to the subtle details—the delicate chain resting just below the hollow of your throat, the way the dim lighting in the apartment caught the shimmer of your earrings, how your makeup was just enough to highlight what was already perfect. 

You smelled different too—a new perfume perhaps? Something subtle but undeniably you.

The air in the apartment felt thick, like it was pushing down on his chest.

You didn’t even notice his staring. Instead, you were focused on the couch, leaning over slightly as you grabbed your purse, your fingers quickly checking through its contents. "I can't," you said lightly, barely looking up. "Got a hot date, remember?"

Dean blinked, your words cutting through his haze like a blade.

“Date?"

His stomach twisted.

You straightened up, finally glancing at him with a smirk. "Yeah, with Gary from marketing?" You prompted, slinging your purse over your shoulder. "He asked me out last week—I told you about it?”

Gary from marketing.

Dean’s brows furrowed as the memory came rushing back—how you’d offhandedly mentioned it while he was distracted with something else, how he’d muttered some half-assed response at the time, maybe even made a joke—

"The guy with the tragic haircut?" he muttered, the words coming out before he could stop them.

You laughed. "That’s the one."

And just like that, it hit him.

He’d been so caught up in his own damn thoughts about you lately—trying to reason with himself, trying to make sense of the way things had shifted between you lately—that he hadn’t even thought the world would still be turning for you.

He’d been sitting in the passenger seat, clueless, while you’d been steering your own damn life without him.

And now?

Now, you were standing there, looking like that, all dressed up for some other guy—some idiot named Gary, who got to pick you up and take you out, who got to be the reason you put on that dress, who got to see that smile meant for him tonight.

Dean’s chest felt tight, a slow, bitter realisation creeping in.

This wasn’t like all the other times.

You’d gone on dates before. He knew that. He’d teased you about them, had even tossed out protective big-brother-ish warnings to guys who had no clue the words felt foreign in his mouth. But he’d never felt anything about it before.

Not like this.

Not like his chest was caving in.

Not like a bitter, ugly heat was curling around his ribs, settling deep into his bones.

Not like he wanted to throw his jacket back on and hunt down ‘Gary from marketing’ and make damn sure he knew he wasn’t good enough for you.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Right." His voice was quieter than he meant it to be, rough around the edges as he forced the word past the lump in his throat.

He watched as you did one last check in the mirror by the door, smoothing your hands down your dress, adjusting your lipstick in a way that made his stomach tighten even more. You looked excited.

Dean clenched his jaw.

And just like that, the jealousy settled deep in his bones, hot and unyielding.

He didn’t want to picture it—you laughing at some stupid joke Gary made over dinner, Gary sliding his hand over yours, maybe leaning in close at the end of the night, lips hovering over yours.

But the thoughts came anyway.

And it wrecked him.

You shot him one last glance, oblivious to the storm raging inside of him. "Don’t wait up, Winchester."

And with that, you were gone.

Dean stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.

His chest felt tight. And then the bitter realisation hit him. 

His friends had been right.

Dean couldn’t sleep.

For the past two hours, he had been tossing and turning, alternating between staring at the ceiling and squeezing his eyes shut, willing sleep to come. It never did.

How the hell could he sleep when his mind was torturing him with images of you—with Gary?

His stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of it, bile rising in his throat. His mind painted vivid, unwanted pictures: Gary’s hands on you, his lips on your skin, your soft laughter, the way you might be looking at him right now—the way you should be looking at Dean.

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if it would shake the thoughts loose. It didn’t.

With a frustrated exhale, Dean sat up, rubbing a hand down his face. This was pointless.

There was no way in hell he was going to get any rest like this, not with his heart pounding and his mind running laps. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching his sore muscles before making his way into the living room.

His feet carried him straight to the kitchen, to the cabinet under the sink where he kept a bottle of whiskey for special occasions.

This qualified.

He poured himself a shot and downed it in one go, barely wincing at the burn as it slid down his throat. The second one went down just as easily, a bitter warmth settling in his chest, but it didn’t quiet the storm in his head the way he hoped it would.

His eyes flicked toward the clock on the microwave.

1:37 AM.

You were still out.

Another shot. Another slow burn in his chest.

Dean knew he had no right to be this worked up about it. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He wasn’t anything to you except your best friend—your roommate. That was the problem.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.

When the hell did everything get so complicated?

It wasn’t just the dream. Sure, it cracked something open in him, but if he was honest with himself, there had always been something simmering underneath. He could see it now—in the way his past relationships never worked out, how no one else ever seemed enough because in the back of his mind, he was always comparing them to you. The way he told you things he didn’t tell anyone, not even his own mother.

Seventeen years.

You had been in his life for seventeen years. That was longer than most marriages. 

Damn, he really was an idiot. How could he have been so blind to it, so ignorant to what was staring him right in the face the whole time? 

Then, he heard it.

The distinct jingle of keys outside the door, followed by a clumsy, muffled “shit" breaking him out of his reverie.

Dean sighed, setting his glass down before pushing off from the counter. He made his way to the door just as he heard another "fuck", then a quiet thud—like something hitting the floor.

Through the peephole, he spotted you crouched down, fumbling for your keys, struggling to fit them into the lock.

You were clearly drunk.

Dean shook his head with a smirk, unlocking the door from his side just as you managed to steady yourself, one hand braced against the door handle. The moment he pulled it open, you stumbled forward, nearly toppling over—until his arms caught you.

You crashed into his chest with a soft “Hmph.”

Dean's arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you up as you melted against him, giggling into his shirt. The scent of alcohol clung to you, a mix of whiskey and whatever fruity drink you had been sipping on all night.

“Jesus." You huffed, pushing off him, though you wobbled as you tried to find your footing. Dean kept his hands out, ready to catch you again if needed.

"You good, sweetheart?" He asked, raising a brow as he took in your dazed smile and glassy eyes.

You grinned up at him, your expression pure blissed-out drunkenness. "I'm just perfect, Dean’o."

Dean smirked at the nickname, but before he could say anything, you reached up and grasped his jaw between your thumb and fingers, squishing his cheeks slightly.

“Okay, alright—enough of that.” He groaned, peeling your hand away. You didn’t seem to realise your own strength at the moment, and if you squeezed any harder, you were gonna leave a dent in his damn face.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, before your attention drifted over his shoulder. Then your expression dropped into something heartbreakingly close to a pout.

“Awww,” you whined. “You’re drinking without me?”

You sounded genuinely upset, your lower lip pushing out in an exaggerated fashion. Before Dean could respond, you made a clumsy grab for the bottle on the counter.

But Dean was quicker.

Before your fingers could wrap around the neck of the whiskey bottle, his hand closed over yours, pulling it away with ease. “Yeah, no. You’ve had enough,” he said firmly, setting the bottle behind him and out of reach.

You frowned up at him, your brows knitting together like a scolded child. “You’re no fun.”

Dean smirked, amused at how downright grumpy you looked, like a kid being denied dessert. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You need some water, sweetheart. Not more booze.”

You huffed dramatically, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t want water, I want whiskey.”

“Tough,” Dean said, already turning to grab a glass from the cabinet. “You’re getting water.”

Your pout deepened as he filled the glass from the tap, sliding it toward you. You eyed it like it personally offended you before reluctantly picking it up and taking a sip—your way of conceding to his demand, albeit with an exaggerated sigh.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. You were something else.

Once you were distracted with your water, he leaned against the counter again, crossing his arms over his chest. He could still feel the tension coiling in his gut, the jealousy he’d been drowning in all night, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“So,” he started, keeping his tone casual, but his fingers clenched against his biceps. “How was it?”

You blinked up at him, confused. “How was what?”

Dean gave you a look. “Your date.”

At that, you scoffed, setting your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Oh, that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “It was awful.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, surprised by how quickly you admitted it. He’d expected you to defend the guy, maybe try to convince yourself it had been a good time. But no—just flat-out awful.

“Yeah?” He prompted, keeping his voice even, but he could already feel his chest loosening just a little.

You leaned against the counter, your drunken state making you extra expressive as you talked with your hands. “First of all, the guy is so uptight. Like, I swear, he’s never laughed in his life. I tried joking around, and he just blinked at me like I was speaking another language.”

Dean snorted, already picturing it.

“And then,” you continued, eyes wide with disbelief, “all he did was talk about himself. Nonstop. Like, dude, I asked him one question—one—about his job, and suddenly I was stuck in a TED Talk about marketing strategies. Like I don’t work for the same company.” You threw your arms out in a ‘are you kidding me’ gesture.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like a real winner.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” you said, holding up a finger. “So, we order food, right? And I get a cheeseburger, because, you know, I wanted a damn cheeseburger.”

Dean nodded approvingly. “Good choice.”

“Right?” You gestured wildly, as if proving your point. “But Gary—freaking Gary—looks at me and goes, ‘Are you sure you wanna eat that? You should really watch your figure.’”

Dean froze. His smirk disappeared.

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he couldn’t believe the words had actually come out of your mouth.

Then his expression darkened, jaw tightening. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wish.”

Dean’s grip on his bicep tightened, his teeth grinding together. That prick. He had known from the start that Gary was a tool, but this? This was another level.

“So,” you continued, a mischievous glint in your eye, “I did what any rational, level-headed woman would do in that situation.”

Dean arched a brow. “And that was?”

You grinned, leaning in like you were about to tell him a secret. “I threw my drink in his face and left.”

Dean stared at you for a beat, then—He laughed.

A deep, genuine laugh that rumbled in his chest as pride swelled in him. “No shit?”

“No shit.” You grinned, clearly pleased with yourself. “Right in his smug, stupid, judgy face.”

Dean shook his head, chuckling. That’s my girl, he thought, though he would never say it out loud.

��But instead of coming straight home,” you continued, twirling your glass of water between your fingers, “I didn’t wanna deal with your I told you so—”

Dean smirked. “I would’ve said it.”

You shot him a look. “—so, I went to the Roadhouse instead. Had a few drinks, bitched about my failed date to Jo and Ellen. Ellen cut me off and called me a cab.” Dean huffed. That sounded about right.

For a moment, he just watched you, taking in the way you had perked up again, the lingering frustration in your eyes slowly melting into something softer.

You were here.

Not out with Gary. Not waking up next to some guy who didn’t deserve you. Not letting some self-important idiot tell you who you should be.

You were home. With him.

And as much as he wanted to tell you that he had been losing his damn mind all night, picturing you with someone else—he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, and smirked.

"Well," Dean said, tilting his head with a smirk. "At least you got a good story out of it."

"Yeah, I guess." You hummed, swirling the water in your glass. The initial amusement faded as your shoulders dropped slightly. Dean caught the shift immediately, his brows pulling together.

"C’mon, you can’t really be cut up about a guy with an Edward Scissor-hands haircut and zero game." He teased, hoping to pull you out of whatever downward spiral you were heading into.

It worked—your laughter bubbled out, a full, belly-deep laugh that made the tension in his chest ease. But then you sighed, the sound quieter this time, more pensive. "It’s not him I’m cut up about."

Dean watched you carefully as you traced the rim of your glass with your finger. "I just feel like I can never meet a good guy."

Something inside him twisted.

What about me?

The thought came unbidden, sharp and intrusive, and he shoved it down before it could take root. Instead, he nudged you with his elbow.

"That’s not true." His voice was lighter now, teasing again. "What about Mikey? The guy with the lisp?"

His grin widened as he mimicked a lisp, knowing damn well you’d dated the guy for barely two months in your sophomore year before his clinginess drove you up the wall. The look of horror that crossed your face had him biting back a laugh.

"Oh my God, Dean!" You gawked at him before landing a solid punch to his arm. "That is so mean!"

"Ow," he complained through his laughter, rubbing the spot you hit. "I’m serious, though! He was a real sweetheart.” He exaggerated the lisp again, barely dodging your next swing.

"I swear to God—" You huffed, turning to stomp off, but before you could escape, he caught your arm gently.

"Okay, okay, I’m done. Scouts honour." He held up three fingers in a mock solemn gesture.

You gave him a look—like you absolutely did not believe him—but still, with a huff, you reclaimed your spot opposite him and took another sip of water.

Then, almost absentmindedly, you sighed. "I mean, it has been a long time."

Dean’s brow furrowed. "A long time since what?"

You hesitated for a brief second before shrugging your shoulders, brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. "Since I’ve had sex."

Dean choked on his own damn saliva.

You frowned in concern, but he quickly waved you off, reaching for his whiskey to cover up the way his throat had suddenly gone dry.

You leaned back against the counter, lost in thought, completely oblivious to the war you’d just started in his head.

"I just—I don’t even need romance, you know?" You shrugged. "At this point, I’d settle for a little fun. I even bought new lingerie for tonight, just in case, and now"— you gestured vaguely to yourself, "totally wasted."

Dean swallowed—hard.

His mind was already in dangerous territory, but now it plummeted straight into the gutter.

You’d bought lingerie? For tonight?

His gaze instinctively flicked down for half a second before he caught himself, before he could let himself really think about what you were implying. Because if you had planned for tonight—if you were wearing it right now—

God help him.

The image hit him like a freight train. You, laid out in something lacey and delicate, something sheer enough to tease but not reveal, maybe even those crotchless panties you’d pointed out the other day in that damn store—his stomach twisted, his fingers curling around his glass with a little too much force.

And the worst part? Some other guy was supposed to see you like that tonight.

That thought sent something hot and possessive burning through his veins.

Dean exhaled sharply, gripping the back of his neck as he forced his gaze anywhere but at you.

"Gary didn’t deserve to see you like that." The words left his mouth before he could stop them, his voice lower than before.

You scoffed. "Yeah, well, no one else is seeing it either, so it really doesn’t matter."

It matters to me.

Dean forced himself to take another sip of whiskey, as if that would drown out the thoughts swimming in his head.

With a stretch and a yawn, you set your empty glass down and pushed off the counter. "Alright, I’m gonna head to bed. Thanks for making me drink water, Mom." You teased, because Dean was always more like a mother hen than a strict father.

Dean smirked, watching as you stepped closer. He expected you to give him a casual pat on the arm or maybe ruffle his hair like you sometimes did when you were feeling particularly annoying.

Instead, you leaned up on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Or, at least, that’s where it was meant to land.

At the last second, whether it was the whiskey in your system or just bad aim, your lips caught the corner of his mouth.

You gasped softly, your breath fanning over his lips, and then you giggled. "Shit—sorry."

Dean didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because you were still right there, inches away, your body just barely brushing his, your eyes flicking down to his lips.

Something in the air shifted.

The easy playfulness between you dissolved into something else—something warm and electric, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Your smile faded, lips parting slightly as you lingered, hesitating just a second longer than necessary.

Then, before he could say a damn thing, before he could even think—

You leaned in again.

And this time, you kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant, your lips pressing against his in a way that felt like a question. Like you were giving him the chance to pull away, to stop this before it could turn into something neither of you could take back.

Dean’s entire body locked up. His mind screamed at him to push you away, to remind you that you’d been drinking, that this was just a moment of drunken impulse, that tomorrow you might regret this.

But then you pressed in closer, deepening the kiss, your fingers skimming up his arm, and his resolve shattered.

A low, quiet sound rumbled in his throat as he gave in. Completely.

His hands found your waist, gripping tight, pulling you against him as he kissed you back. And not just kissed you—devoured you. All the tension from the past few days, all the frustration, the longing, the confusion—it poured out of him like a damn breaking.

Your lips were warm, soft, intoxicating in a way no drink could ever compare to. He let himself get lost in it, let himself feel it—how perfect you felt against him, how natural this was, like it had been inevitable all along.

You sighed against his mouth, your fingers sliding up into his hair, and Dean groaned, tilting his head to deepen the kiss even further.

He didn’t know when his hands had moved, but now one was tangled in your hair, the other splayed against the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. And fuck, you felt good. Too good.

This was dangerous.

And when you finally pulled away, lips kiss-swollen and breaths unsteady, Dean couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His heart pounded like a war drum; each beat a sharp, insistent reminder of the storm raging inside him.

He should say something. Do something. But every word he might’ve spoken tangled in his throat, choked by the weight of what had just happened.

“Woah,” you whispered, your voice barely more than breath. Your eyes flickered between his and his mouth, never quite settling, like you were just as caught in the moment as he was. Your cheeks were flushed, heat radiating from your skin, and the ghost of your breath still lingered against his lips, dizzying and sweet.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t dare move. The air between you crackled, fragile and electric, holding him captive in a moment he wasn’t ready to break.

He was waiting for you. Like always.

Your breath ghosted against his lips, and that was all it took.

You kissed him again, this time with more heat, more purpose, fingers tangling into the front of his shirt as you pulled him in. Dean let out a rough sound—somewhere between a groan and a sigh—before his hands found your waist, gripping tight as he backed you up against the counter. The edge dug into your lower back, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the way he was pressing into you, solid and warm and overwhelming in the best way.

His hands slid down, grasping the backs of your thighs, and before you could fully process it, he lifted you effortlessly onto the countertop.

A surprised gasp left your lips, but Dean was already there, swallowing the sound as he kissed you again, deeper, slower, his fingers digging into your hips. You pulled him in, locking your legs around his waist, desperate to feel more of him, and his hands wandered—exploring the soft, bare skin of your thighs, gliding higher, pushing the hem of your dress up as he went.

He trailed kisses down your jaw, moving to your neck, and when his lips found that one spot—the spot—you let out a soft moan, your head tipping back instinctively.

Only to smack it straight into the cabinet behind you.

The entire moment shattered.

You winced, immediately bringing a hand to the back of your head. Dean jerked back, eyes wide with concern.

“Shit—are you okay?” He cupped your jaw, scanning your face for any sign of real pain.

For a second, you just blinked at him—then, out of nowhere, you started giggling.

Dean frowned, still searching your eyes, but when you kept laughing, it broke him. He snorted, shaking his head, then let out a deep, full-bodied chuckle, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He pulled back, still grinning, rubbing a hand down his face. “That’s gotta be a sign, right?”

You sighed dramatically. “That the universe hates me?”

Dean smirked, his hands settling on your hips. “That you’re not sober enough for this.” His answer was loaded, a heavy realisation for himself that you were in no state of mind to be making any rational decisions right now, and that he should've known better than to take advantage of that. 

You pouted slightly, but you both knew he was right. Still, there was something soft in his expression as he helped you down, steadying you with warm hands on your waist. The moment your feet hit the ground, you swayed a little, still a bit disoriented.

Dean caught you instantly. “Okay, yeah. You need to lie down, sweetheart.”

You groaned but didn’t fight him as he led you to your room, making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet. Once you were settled, he disappeared briefly before returning with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol, setting them on your nightstand.

“You’re a saint,” you mumbled, already sinking into the mattress.

Dean huffed a laugh. “Not quite. Just don’t want you becoming a pain in my ass in the morning when your head’s pounding.” He said as he helped pull off your shoes and settled you under the covers.

You cracked one eye open, looking at him with something unreadable, something soft. “Could never hate you, Dean.” You mumbled half asleep. 

He looked at you, lingering for a second too long. Then stood, with a small exhale.

“Call me if you need anything.” He told you as he walked to the door. You hummed your acknowledgment, and with that, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dean barely made it to his own room before he collapsed onto the bed, dragging both hands down his face.

What the fuck just happened?

The feel of you, the taste of your lips—it was burned into him now, like some kind of cruel brand.

It was just a kiss. Just a few incredible, amazing kisses. But now he knew for sure, no one would ever compare now.

And that thought terrified him.

Because tomorrow, you might not even remember. And if you did, would you be embarrassed? Regret it? Or worse, hate him?

Dean stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, mind racing.

Yeah. He was so fucked.

AN: There we have it folks, the first chapter! It was a long one 😅 I know, but I'd love to hear your thoughts/feedback etc ❤️

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Next Time...

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay still. No sudden movements, no giving anything away. But then your gaze betrayed you—just for a second, barely a flicker—dipping down to his mouth. Shit. Because now you could feel it again. The way he kissed you, rough but deliberate, like he had wanted it. The taste of whiskey, the heat of his hands, the way his fingers had curled into your hips like he was holding on for dear life. Dean cleared his throat. Stepped back. "I’m gonna head to the store," he said, too casual. It took a second for the words to register. "Oh. Yeah, okay." He hesitated—like he might ask you to come with him—but then he smirked instead, lips twitching. "Would’ve invited you, but, uh… You kinda look like the walking dead. Don’t want you cramping my style.” Your head shot up, glare locked and loaded. "Ass." Dean just grinned. "Try not to die while I’m gone." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug as you exhaled, long and slow, staring at the door like it might offer some kind of answer. Yeah. You were so screwed.

[percywinchester27]

The new Mrs. Winchester (20)

Word count: 3.1K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Chapter warnings: Implications of sexual abuse, mentions of torture, PTSD, angst, flesh trade, language, mention of violence and murder; reader discretion is strongly advised.

Series Summary: After spending over two years in captivity, and enduring assault, torture, and degradation of every kind, Y/N is finally sold off to the highest bidder. But when the deal is masked as a hushed marriage to a wealthy and powerful man, Y/N knows it means a few more nights of brutal torment ending in certain death. After all, why else would a man like him, want someone like her, except to fulfill desires so depraved that they would require owning a person. However, the Winchester mansion has mysteries of its own, woven in lies, betrayal, and death. Smack in the middle of it, she finds both hope and a home, in the person she least expected to find it with. But when it comes down to it, will she be able to save the thing that matters the most?

A/N: Guys, I so hope you like this chapter! It was a pleasure to write :)

Beta: My darling, @deanssweetheart23

“You are the most frustrating thing in the world,” you said to the burner phone standing silently on the tabletop. Only one person called or messaged on the phone and it had stayed quiet for a whole week. The longer it remained silent, the sadder you became. Sam’s desperation to prove his innocence must have turned into frustration and then anger. After all, he’d done everything right and had still been accused of something heinous by you. Anger would be natural. But you were scared that maybe the anger was turning into apathy now. Sam’s silence was proof.

Abby’s mother had fallen ill, and with a tight hug, she had bid you goodbye for the weekend. You felt lonelier than ever in the house. No Abby, no Jack, and no Han to wait for you at the pier when you lit a lamp. But most of all, no Sam.

The terror that had gripped you since first seeing Nick had dissipated some, but you were still afraid that he might turn up in the mansion and you would have to face him again. So, you spent most of your days in Martha’s kitchen, reading Wordsworth and his sad poetry.

However, after a week of skulking around the house like a phantom, you decided to open the forbidden connecting door to Sam’s room. Maybe seeing his pictures, trophies and books would bring some solace. The room looked as benign as the last time you had seen it, on the day before the gallery opening. The pictures were all there on Sam’s nightstand, now with a thin film of dust over them. Sam had locked the room from outside when he’d left, so no staff could get in, not a soul… except you. 

The sheets on his bed were perfectly made and you wondered if this is how he treated all the hotel rooms in the world, too, leaving them just as he had found them as if he’d never been there. But these sheets had held him close in nights, wrapping their silk around his body in a way you could only dream of. Quietly, you lifted a well-made corner and slipped underneath, hoping to envelop yourself in some trace of him. The sheets did not smell of him anymore. Despite all your efforts, the room did not seem like his at all with him gone. You remembered the line from your story of Eros and Psyche. When Psyche lost her trust in her husband, Eros, left in anger and despair… All love and beauty seemed to evaporate from the world in its entirety. 

You curled up on your side, twisting in the sheets, feeling Psyche’s frustration in every bone. Everything had been going smoothly, but you had let doubt corrupt your head and now Sam was gone. As you twisted on the bed, your hand touched something rough beneath the sheet. You sat up, discarding the sheets completely and reached out to find an envelope. You turned it around to see your name etched on top in Sam’s elegant handwriting.

You nearly tore the envelope in your hurry to get the contents out. Inside was a letter addressed to you.

Y/N,

I wanted to come clean. I wanted to tell you everything, but I’d be damned if I overstepped my boundaries and crossed the line of your consent. Not again. But if you are reading this, it means you’ve chosen to come to my room, and climbed into my bed of your own volition. It means that your consent was involved.

So, let me tell you how you ended up here in my bed, in this moment. Let me tell you everything from the very beginning.

Jo’s pie was still fresh on the table when we set out to find her, and that’s where we found it three days later when we returned. Dean took one look at it and his knees gave out. We’ve been through some tough times, Dean and I, but never had I seen him so scared in my entire life. When they found Jo’s body, Dean drove his car into a cliffside three days later. You probably don’t know this, but he loves that car and it came back wrecked, but still less wrecked than him. You told me about the days when your dad returned home between tours and he had this haunted look in his eyes, the look of witnessing death, causing it… seeing the people you love suddenly die. I might have looked that way, too.  Jo was like a sister to me growing up and she was dead, and Dean wasn’t just my brother, he was my whole world. Slowly, but surely, I was watching him waste away right in front of my eyes.

I didn’t see my mother die– another person who died because of me; died for me– but I was old enough to watch my father slowly kill himself. He’d return from these long trips and I would run to him, but he never spared me a glance. After all, I was the reason his wife wasn’t with him. He’d loved that woman more than anything in the world. I believe Dean reminded him of all the good times he’d shared with his wife, but I was a reminder of the peace he’d lost. If she hadn’t run in to save me from the fire, she’d be alive and breathing with him. No, he wasn’t outright cruel, but slowly as he drowned himself in whiskey, the whiskey truly drowned him. Dean found him like that in his study one night, without a heartbeat, but a drink still in his hand.

Dean became just like that in the months after Jo’s death, always clutching a bottle, eyes red and out of his mind. I can’t count the number of times I’d picked him up from bars with bloody knuckles and a bruised face, and I felt helpless watching my brother go the same way as my father, wishing, just wishing I could go back in time to stop Jo from leaving alone. One day my life had been good, not perfect, but good, and the next day it had been dragged to hell.

The first time I saw a light in Dean’s eyes was when the sheriff, Jody Mills, came back with some definitive proof. Before Jo, two other bodies had been recovered from Lincoln lake. And though they bore signs of more heinous abuse, the MO appeared to be the same, similar disappearances, similar disposal. There had been other disappearances as well, but no trace of the bodies and more than half of those could be traced directly to the estate. It was easy to put together the story… a human trafficking ring was active in the area. 

I saw my brother go from the edge of destruction to grasping at the threads of hope for justice. He threw himself into Jody’s investigation with this feverish energy. But no matter how hard he tried, or anybody tried, eventually, we all hit roadblocks. No one could get on top of the ring, and it got worse when Jody found out that even her superiors in the police were involved. She didn’t have any pull with federal law enforcement. Not then anyway. I was just starting to worry that I would lose my brother all over again when Jody came up with the plan… with this plan.

The plan was easy enough and by now I’m sure you know most of it, though, I didn’t think it would work. No one who has seen us growing up would believe I could throw him out, but Dean had a solution to that as well. ‘Just replace all staff’ he’d said. At first, I went along just in desperation to save Dean from the abyss he was in danger of falling into. Finding out who did this to Jo had become his life’s mission. I couldn’t take it away from him without losing him, too, but I didn’t really believe he and Jody would manage to implement it. But then there came a day when I had to make the decision, to be in or out.

I’d have died before letting Dean down, but that night he made me promise that I would go along. He had already transferred all his property and estate rights save for the shares, but that night he begged me to say yes… to do this abhorrent thing of paying money to own a human being. He justified it with fancy words… said I’d be saving a girl from life in hell, but I knew it for the depraved act it truly was. I don’t remember the things I said to my brother that night or the wreckage I left of the door and furniture, but in the end, I had to give in. How could I not? 

And so, before the day break Dean left, and the very next day, I assumed power of the board and estate. The first to go was Dean’s portrait from the gallery, and then every last item that could be associated with him was purged from this God-forsaken house. I moved in a week later and then within a month, the staff was replaced. Being cold and detached from them was hardly even work once Dean left. I was heartbroken enough to shut myself within me. But still, selfishly, I couldn’t let go of Jack and Martha, I was scared that I would be lost to even myself without them. After all, do you even exist if no one around you knows you?

So far the plan was working, but then suddenly it worked too well. The whispers that we had planted were taking root now. The word that I was looking to buy finally reached the right ears and one day, a man accosted me outside the office, offering the deal. He handed me a card with a location and asked me to be there at eleven the next morning. There, he had a photo book ready for me to pick from. Up until then, I had never hated myself more. To even look at the pictures, as if I was some kind of God to choose which one to save… which of these women was eligible to be rescued from this prison, and put into a different one. My prison wouldn’t have the torture of this one, but a place where she would be dragged to without her own free will would be a prison nonetheless.

I had to choose. One. I closed my eyes, gulped and vowing to come back for the rest after this one, I opened that photo book. And there you were on the 5th page. I stopped there and did not flip further. The man said you were not up for sale, that you were Boss’s favourite. I doubled the price, he wouldn’t agree still, I tripled the price. He made a call, and when I offered to pay five times the amount, the man on the other end of the line must have agreed because we sealed the deal. I got to keep the photo.

And Y/N, this is what I don’t get… I could have decided to keep flipping through those horrifying pictures and picked another, but once I saw you, there was no one else. Something about the look in your eyes… At least that’s what I told myself as I signed the cheque and asked to keep the picture. But the truth was, I didn’t want another man to ever look at your picture again. I’ve never looked at it again, myself. I came back and nearly burnt it, but then decided against it. You’ll find it in a brown diary on the top of the cupboard. Do what you please with it, only you should have that right.

You accused me of not looking you in the eye because I thought less of you, but how could I? After what I had done, I could barely stand to meet my own eyes in the mirror. I keep telling myself it’s the look in your eyes in the picture that made me stop, but what if I confessed that I liked the fall of your hair. In that moment I could nearly imagine the feel of your skin, your lips. How am I any better than all those men? How could I ever face you after that? How could I stand next to you on a podium and not want to die from the guilt of it all? How could I even breathe the same air? So, yes, Y/N, I didn’t meet your eyes. At the wedding, I didn’t look at you, didn’t touch your skin, because you deserved better than a depraved person like me even existing in the same room as you.

There’s one other thing I never told you. The night after the wedding, I opened the connecting door. I had to tell you the truth, fall at your feet and apologise profusely for the dastardly act, so my conscience could know some peace. The guilt of what I had done wouldn’t let me be, and when I did push that handle, I found you curled up on the floor, clutching your body. That’s when I knew that as long as I lived, I would never forgive myself for it, never hate myself more than I did in that moment. I vowed to never open the door again. Every night following that one, I would pace to the door, stand inches away, grazing the handle but never opening it. The routine reminded me of Pandora’s story. How in the end after unleashing all kinds of pain on the world, her box only held hope. Hope remained. Opening the door felt like that, it felt like giving up the little hope that someday you might forgive me.

Meeting your eyes in the dining hall that first time might be the bravest thing I’ve ever done, Y/N. It took all the courage in the world to hand you that portfolio, when I don’t even deserve to touch the sheets on which you drew. But each time you looked at me, smiled, or said yes to my beseeching efforts to take you around the property knowing you’d had several tours already, I let that hope bloom and when you agreed to be my friend, I vowed to never be untruthful to you. Ever.

So, no, I didn’t know you had already met Dean, that he was your friend. I hope you believe me.

From the very first attempt to speak with you, my only wish has been to gain your trust. Not to elicit information, but to become worthy of your faith, to be the confidant you confided in of your own free will and not out of a trick. I can see how wrong I was. I am sorry.

You’ve barged out on me twice now and locked yourself behind the door. But you shouldn’t have to put yourself in prison again and again. This letter might be a prelude to proving that Dean and I never colluded against you, but we’ve both had our interests in play. You’re the only party here that’s entirely faultless. You shall not be bound to a prison again. I will not allow it. And if the only way of setting you free from the bars of your room is for me to be out of sight, then that’s no price to pay at all. 

I won’t be back for a couple of weeks, and even when I am, I’ll make sure to be out of your way. 

I made you a promise, Y/N, that you will be safe in this house. That promise stands, even if it’s me you seek safety from. I may not be what you need. But I am still a man of my word. 

You WILL be safe.

-Sam

A drop fell on Sam’s name at the end and you hurriedly shirked the paper before any more drops ruined the letter. Rapidly, blinking at the wetness on your lashes, you rushed to Sam’s cupboard, throwing the doors open. Blindly, you patted the topmost drawer and found the leather-bound diary. The picture was wedged right in the middle. You stared at your own nearly naked form, kneeling with your knees splayed wide, torso bent forward and eyes staring into the camera. With a shock you realised, you barely recognised the face. 

The girl in the picture did not look anything like you. She had primmed eyebrows and a thin,  perfect face full of make-up. Her wide eyes held not an invitation, but almost a challenge: Come find out for yourself. 

Is that what Sam saw?

You moved to the mirror in Sam’s room to check your face, with fuller, unkempt eyebrows and hair that had long outgrown the coiffed cut. The skin didn’t have the perfect complexion but held faint splashes from where the sun had touched it. There were also the hints of wrinkles at the corner of your eyes– laugh lines.

Thinking back, everything seemed abundantly clear as to why Sam’s footsteps had always sounded so close to the door. You had assumed a cupboard or a desk there, but all those nights it was just him hovering, torn between guilt and self-hate. Why when you’d had the workers move his things to your room before the renovation, Sam had panicked about who touched his things, because he was scared of someone seeing the picture you now held in your hands.

Now that it was in your hands, you didn’t know what to do with it any more than Sam did. You should be feeling pity for that girl, chaffing her bare knees on the floor, but all you felt was a strange hatred. She was your past, but she would be your future, too. The imperfect but happy girl in the mirror would soon become a memory.

One week had passed and with one more week to go until Sam returned, you vowed to the girl in the mirror, that as long as she was your present, you would do everything in your power to keep her happy.

As far as Sam was concerned, he’d had his chance to get his truth out. It was your turn now.

*****************************

A/N 2: I LOVED writing this chapter! The nuances of Sam's admission and the delicate nature of his emotions were just so damn satisfying to put into words! What did you think?

Oh, I can't wait to share what's coming with you!

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[fiddleleafedfig]

Oh my sweet love, you're perfect for me

Now, for the very last time:

Read chapter twenty here xx

Very sentimental rant below the cut

Almost one entire year ago, I sent one of my best friends a voice note about setting a new goal for my writing.

Overall it was kind of a big deal for me personally. I’d just told my friend group that I was writing creatively, fanfic nonetheless. I remember telling them that I’d published on work, another was sitting pretty in my drafts just waiting to be published.

And I remember telling my friend that 200k words were (for some reason) the golden standard in what constitutes as a long fic. And I, drunk on stiff drinks and too much wine and the sound of the Atlantic Ocean outside of my conference hotel window, declared that fuck if, I think I might be able to write 200k words.

I already had a story in mind. A vague sort of idea sitting in my drafts.

(The original idea was of a fic 20k words tops)

The next day, whilst at a corporate training at this work trip, I sketched out the first outline of what would become Calling off the dogs.

Since then my life has changed.

I’ve had the most fun in writing I’ve ever had. I’ve moved, I’ve gotten a cat, I’ve made friends for life and mutuals for as long as they’ll have me.

I love this story.

I love how perfectly imperfect it is. I love how I’ve written 200k words and that there are people just like me, out there, reading and commenting on every chapter.

Thank you 🩷

Form the bottom of my heart, thank you 🩷

[gvshing]

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─PRETTY GIRL DEALING─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

(warning for weed usage and dealing!!)

⊹₊⋆CHAPTER ONE⊹₊⋆

This isn’t something Ellie nor you were new to. Ellie’s dealt for a while now, and you’ve been partaking for a while now. But, that doesn’t make Ellie any less nervous every single deal she does, or you when you go to somebody new to buy from. This time being Ellie. Quickly hitting the send button on your phone and tossing your phone onto the bed face down, you’ve done it. You’ve texted Ellie, you’ve made first contact. Just a simple “Hello :) Is this Ellie? My name is Y/N. Dina told me to text you!” but the anxiety still courses through your veins. As does Ellie’s when she reads the text from the new client. Checking your phone every 10 seconds you finally receive a text back an excruciatingly long 10 minutes later. “Hey! Yes, that’s me. We can meet in my dorm after my last class at 3 if that works for you? I’m in dorm building 5, room 5D.” You exhale deeply in relaxation of the hard part being over. Thank god, you’re almost home free with weed in hand. Just need to get through these next few hours and then you won't have to buy again for like a week. And, if you decide you hate her, you’ll just find somebody else to buy from. Yeah, no biggie. 

The next few hours pass in a blur, filled with drafty classrooms and monotone lectures from professors. You rush back to your room and grab everything you need. Wallet, key card, a bag to look inconspicuous, and your phone. Sending a quick “on my way!” text to Ellie you shove your phone in the bag and continue on your journey to her dorm room. Arriving at the door, the anxiety blooms in your chest. You knock lightly on the door to not alert any neighboring students. Ellie looks up at the sound of your knock and feels butterflies erupt in her chest. Her hands get sweaty from anxiety and she heads slowly towards the door. ‘You do this all the time. This is no different than usual. They’ll come in and tell me what they want, we’ll make awkward conversation while I weigh it out, I’ll exchange it for the money and then we’ll awkwardly say goodbye, just like always. If I decide I hate them, I won’t sell to them anymore and I’ll tell Dina never to send her people to me ever again.’ Ellie gives herself a pep talk on the way over to the door. She swings open the door and there you are. You’re standing awkwardly, clearly anxious, twiddling your thumbs and looking all around the halls. Unaware of Ellie’s presence, she clears her throat slightly and startles you. Jumping a bit, you look up at her and smile. “Hi! Sorry, I was off in lala land. You’re Ellie?” She moves over to let you walk inside her dorm room. “Yep. You’re Y/N? You said you’re a friend of Dina’s?” You nod and stand awkwardly in front of her desk. On her desk sits her laptop and various papers, most likely homework. A small plastic spaceman figure sits next to an opened and seemingly old Dr. Pepper, polaroids of Ellie’s friends and most likely her father litter the cork board that sits above her desk. 

“So… What can I get for you?” Ellie crouches in front of her nightstand and pulls out a box that has a silver padlock on it. “Oh! Right… Can I get an eighth?” You ask hesitantly, wondering if you’re being greedy for asking the college dealer for that much all at once. She nods and quietly opens the lock. She stands up, now unlocked box in hand, and moves towards you. “I’m sorry, I’m just gonna..” She mumbles and smiles softly at you. You move out of the way of her desk and sit down on the very edge of her bed instead. “So.. how long have you known Dina?” She asks, with a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “We met last semester. She saw me lost at a party a friend had ditched me at. She instantly came over and helped me. Though, I probably looked like I was about to go crazy and ruin the party, so I'm sure she was trying to prevent that. It was still incredibly kind of her to befriend me so quickly and without hesitation, we’ve been pretty good friends since. She spoke very highly of you. Told me I should come see you when my dealer graduated last semester, and I trust her judgement.” You spill out, leaving out the fact that Dina had also told you that Ellie was incredibly anxious and slightly awkward sometimes. “Oh, nice. Yeah, Dina is one of my best friends. She’s great. You said an eighth?” You nod and look around at the rest of her room. Her comforter is a darker green shade and her bed is unmade, showing off the matching sheets underneath. Her nightstand has more Dr. Pepper cans and a framed picture of her and the man you’re assuming is her dad. She has posters sporadically placed on her walls of her favorite movies and bands. A guitar leans against the wall next to the desk she’s standing at. “You play guitar?” You ask, trying to make conversation. “Yeah, Joel taught me when I was younger and I just really latched onto it.” She explains, growing more nervous to be talking so in depth. She normally doesn’t talk this long or even take this long weighing the product. But, with her hands shaking more than usual due to the anxiety of being around somebody so pretty, she’s having a hard time grasping the weed and remembering how many grams are in an eighth. “Sorry, I’m almost done. Um.. It’ll be 20.” Ellie continues before you can ask anymore questions that make her sweat even harder. You stare at her in surprise. “Only 20? Are you sure? My old guy would charge like 40.. And that was on the rare occasions of a discount.” You say confused. “Yes!” Ellie blurts out a little too fast. “Yeah, yeah. Just the twenty. It’s your first time buying from me, and if Dina likes you, I’m willing to risk that you’re not a snitch..” Ellie fumbles for an excuse as to why she’s charging you such a small amount, unable to tell you it’s really because if she could, she’d give it to you for free. Nobody that pretty should have to pay for something so small as weed. Unfortunately, she needs to make money somehow and even through the clouded vision of seeing a pretty face, she knows giving it to you for free could bite her in the ass later. You smile at her wide and stand up fast. “Thank you, Ellie! That’s so kind of you!” Ellie blushes at her name coming off your lips. She shoves the weed into a small ziplock and hands it to you, still shaking. You grab the weed out of her hands and give her the twenty dollar bill. She shoves it in the box quickly and turns back to you. Your arms wrap around her, before either of you can process it, and you squeeze her. “You’re the best! If you change your mind let me know and I’ll bring some more money for you. Seriously Ellie.” You mumble into her shoulder. You quickly press a kiss against her cheek and wave bye at her. “See ya!” You call out as you’re leaving. “Yeah… See ya..” Ellie mumbles back. Face flushing red from the feel of your lips against her cheek. She throws herself onto her bed and stares at the ceiling in disbelief, stupid grin plastered across her face. 

“God, what’s wrong with me…” Ellie asks herself. She picks up her phone and sends a quick text to Dina. “Y/N’s nice. You’ve never mentioned them before.” Ellie hoped that didn’t sound obvious. She shoots you a text as well. “I hope you enjoy it. Lmk if you need more. :) Thanks for stopping by.” She hopes that doesn’t sound obvious either, or desperate. 

You open your dorm room and skip in. Giddily you shove the weed into your own stash box and sit down at your desk. You open and close your laptop three or four times, before deciding that studying was not in the cards tonight when you were already preoccupied with the thoughts of Ellie and your bold move of kissing her cheek. You didn’t even register you had done it until you had already left her room. You were just so excited about the discount and meeting the pretty girl. When you had realized you stopped dead in your tracks and groaned deeply. “Why would you do that? She probably thinks you’re weird now.. Fuck, way to go Y/N” you mumbled to yourself as you continued on your way home. You pushed the thoughts aside and got excited about the weed you were going to smoke later. 

You pull your phone out of your bag, surprisingly forgotten about even checking it. Too many thoughts had been swirling around for you to even think about checking it. When you flash it on you have two unread messages. One from Dina reading, “Ellie said you stopped by! I’m glad you finally went and saw her! She’s my bestie and she’s great and you’re great so I figured it’d be easy work for both of you. And no shade to either of you, but you could both use more friends and that was my secret plan this whole time. >:)” Rolling your eyes at Dina’s text you quickly send a reply thanking her. And your other message is from Ellie. You blush reading the message and re-read it two or three times. You text back a simple, “Thank you, I really appreciate it! It was great to meet you. I’ll def come see you again soon :) Also, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with my kiss on the cheek!! I didn’t even realize I had even done that until I left the room, which is even more embarrassing and I’m sorry ugghhh” You lightly set your phone down on the desk and take a deep breath to calm your nerves. Okay, weed acquired from the pretty girl, time to smoke the pretty girls weed. 

Ellie grins reading your text and sets her phone down, deciding that she’ll reply when her heart isn't about to beat out of her chest and land on the cold, hard floor. Dina had taunted Ellie after her message. Turns out she was being obvious about her attraction towards the new client. Dina had known her long enough though to know what Ellie means when she’s trying to be slick. And to be fair, Ellie’s not good at being slick. Ellie pulls out her own stash of weed and starts to roll a joint, a reward for not being as awkward as she was expecting, especially all things considered. 

Feeling more relaxed from the high, Ellie drafts her reply back to you. “ Doors always open for you. Happy to have met you. And no worries at all! I didn’t mind at all, especially not from someone as pretty as you. :)” Ellie sends it before she can overthink it too hard and tosses her phone on the bed and walks away from it, anxious from the flirting she’s currently doing. Flirting she normally doesn’t do. She grabs a Dr. Pepper from her mini fridge Joel had gifted her before she left for college and sat down at her desk. Opening her laptop, she pulls up Youtube and presses on some random gaming video for background noise. She sets down her drink after taking a large gulp from it. Reaching over to her bed, almost falling out of her desk chair, she grabs her phone. Already forgetting she was avoiding looking at it, getting increasingly anxious over her blunt flirting with somebody she just met. Somebody she just sold weed to nonetheless. Immediately she’s reminded of it though when she looks at her screen and sees you’ve replied. “Hahah, that makes me feel less embarrassed. I know it’s kinda late… but you’re free to come over and smoke together if you want :) as a way of thanking you for the discount of course.” You had replied five minutes ago. Still time to take you up on your offer. Should she go? Or make an excuse? She could easily say yeah it’s too late, let’s take a raincheck. But, she doesn’t want to. She wants to see you. She wants to get to know you. You were nice and sweet. You were pretty. She won’t fumble this ball like she always does. She can’t. Dina would be so mad at her as well. She went out of her way to push them together and at the very least they should try and be friends. Otherwise Dina’s efforts have gone to waste. Right. Yeah, exactly. “Yeah that sounds good. Where are you at?” Ellie bites the bullet and quickly sends the text before she can back out. You send your location back instantly and without even a full minute in between, Ellie’s on her way.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Okay!! Sorry it was a bit rough and a bit short!! i'm back to writing for the first time in a long time, so, I'm trying to find my footing again :'). Not too sure how long this will be!! so please bare with me :0.

[nodutra19]

This might be my favorite episode in the whole series. Though I don't play "favorites" for the most part and just look at things as a whole, rather than through rankings.

By critiquing patriarchy and gender, RGU necessarily critiques hero worship. Now, I haven't actually studied up on hero worship just yet. It's an idea I became familiar with after reading The Pike by Lucy Hughes-Hallett. After BHM, I'm gonna read three of her other books, starting with Heroes: Traitors, Saviors, and Superman: A History of Hero Worship. Maybe I'll write about RGU and hero worship by the middle of next month.

In particular with this episode, and as has been built over time, is the idea of "special people." A few episodes ago, Akio waxes poetic over how "special" Utena is, and how special people don't know they're special. There's a few layers to that, but here I wanna focus on the hero worship aspect in terms of Souji/Nemuro.

I've loved this episode for a very long time. It truly feels like a wrinkle in time and space. It gives me nostalgia for a where and when I never laid personal witness to. Last year around this time I read American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer by Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin. The very first chapter has the quote:

Around the globe, scientists were soon to be celebrated as a new kind of hero, promising to usher in a renaissance of rationality, prosperity and social meritocracy. In America, reform movements were challenging the old order. Theodore Roosevelt was using the bully pulpit of the White House to argue that good government in alliance with science and applied technology could forge an enlightened new Progressive Era.

For some reason I never drew this connection to RGU until today. It did tickle me on my rewatch last year but still.

"Genius." What a loaded word! I've read about geniuses, from Marx to Oppie to Tolstoy to Nabokov and now to W.E.B Du Bois, and they were all just as foolish as they were intelligent! I think we see here a sort of prefigurement to Akio and his relationship to Prince Dios. Literally they are the same, but Prince Dios lives on as a separate image to which Akio aspires because 1.) He wants to regain lost time and 2.) These are the demands of patriarchy.

But that's all it really is: an image. An idea. A rotten ideal in white. "But is that what she really wants?"

In this case, Professor Nemuro somewhat does fit the mold of a "genius." A genius is an odd person, a disconcerting changeling. A Byronic solitary figure who "doesn't fit in," who "stands out," who "comes into your life like a hurricane." They're a little beyond human ken. They are a "god among men." They are often "hard to work with." And the worship is just as cultic and religious as all these romantic phrases imply.

Of course, most of their contemporaries think lesser of them than what subsequent myth making would imply. In the case of Marx, he could be a bit grumpy (and was a D1 bum in the funniest sense. An iconic debt shuffler) and had terrible handwriting. You'll often hear people say "Smart people think so fast they can seem rude" or "Have bad handwriting." Behaviors and traits that would otherwise be pathologized are at least excused if not embellished if someone is a "genius."

I think there are other layers to this stuff, especially, I imagine, for those who are ace and aro, but I dunno enough about that to get into the weeds about it.

To bring things real close to RGU, I remember some years ago getting into a conversation with some several years older than me. They were an immigrant, and so I helped them with dealing with the culture shock they were facing. Eventually we got to talking about generations, and they said "I think this generation [referring to mine, Gen Z], will change the world. If more people were like you, things would be better." I was obviously flattered, especially the second bit, but the first bit had always bothered me. As I'm reading through David Levering Lewis's biography on W.E.B Du Bois for BHM, I'm reminded of how Du Bois came up with the idea of the "Talented Tenth." They were essentially the Black Vanguard who would lift the Black race up. Later on, however, he revised it to the "Guiding Hundredth," which attempted to democratize the idea and expand racial lines to something more intersectional. Having gained this knowledge after that conversation, I realize why I was bothered by what that person said: it seemed another form of idolatry. Changing the world isn't the work of a chosen few predetermined by a secular mandate of heaven (In Oppie's time, it was scientists. Nowadays, the "heroes" are entrepreneurs and venture capitalists), it will involve all of us, of all walks of life.

My thoughts are very soupy on this subject, so pardon if I seemed rambly and unfocused.

I'll at least leave a few quotes:

I've become convinced that genius is a vastly overrated commodity. I think this country is full of geniuses, guys and gals so bright they make your average card carrying MENSA member look like Fucko the Clown. And I think that most of them are teachers, living and working in small town obscurity because that's the way they like it. —Stephen King Insomnia

To hell with the philosophy of the great men of this world! All great wise men are as despotic as generals and as rude and insensitive as generals, because they are confident of their impunity. —Anton Chekhov, after souring a bit on a late controversial play by Tolstoy. As translated by Rosamund Bartlett

Genius…means little more than the faculty of perceiving in an unhabitual way. —William James The Principle of Psychology

That last quote is part of the epigraph of the Du Bois biography I'm reading. So rn I got a lot on my head about geniuses, professors, heroism, hero worship, masculinity, etc.

For Marx and Tolstoy, I recommend the biographies Love and Capital: Karl and Jenny Marx and the Birth of a Revolution by Mary Gabriel and Tolstoy: A Russian Life by Rosamund Bartlett (along with her excellent translation of Anna Karenina)

Fansub release + translation notes for Utena ep 22!

さすがに何でもよく知ってるわね。でもそれだけの情報網があるなら、早く奴らの正体も突き止めて欲しいわ。

You know everything, don’t you Juri? With such a vast intelligence network, I wish you’d hurry up and find out these people’s true identities. (literal translation)

You know everything, don’t you Juri? I wish you'd put your little birdies to work finding out just who is behind this. (final translation)

情報網 (jouhoumou) is an interesting word to use here! It literally means “intelligence network”, so Nanami is implying that Juri has a bunch of spies feeding her everytthing that happens at the school. To actually use the word “intelligence network” sounds a little but out of place in English though, so I rephrased the line a little to sound more conversational and accusatory.

Boy: しばらく消えないでしょうね、根室教授。 Nemuro: ん？なんだい？ Boy: 雪の事ですよ、教授。

Boy: Won't disappear for a while still, eh, Professor Nemuro? Nemuro: I beg your pardon? Boy: I was talking about the snow, Professor.

There’s a double meaning in the first line here — the boy could reasonably be talking about the Professor himself not clearing out for a while. That was actually my original phrasing: “Won’t clear out for a while” but Anya suggested “disappear” which is actually much closer to the original Japanese phrasing so I changed it to that. I think this exchange preserves that passive aggressive dig at the Professor pretty well!

あの人は花が散るのを見たくないんですよ。こうすれば短い命の花も少しは長持ちさせることができる。でも、こうまでして永らえても花自身は嬉しいんでしょうか？

She hates it when the petals begin to fall. This way even a short-lived flower can be made to last a little longer. But… I wonder how the flowers feel about their existence being prolonged like this.

This is one of my favourite exchanges in the show! I think this really emphasises how Japanese sentence structure and general way of phrasing things differs drastically from English. A literal translation of the first sentence would be something like “That person does not want to see flowers scatter”. Each part of the sentence sounds weird if translated individually:

あの人 - “that person” being used because Japanese prefers that phrasing to third person pronoun “she”.

花が散る - “flowers scatter” is the most natural way to say “petals fall/die” in Japanese but sounds very odd in English

見たくないんですよ - “does not want to see X” also sounds very funny when translated directly to English, but simply conveys the idea that she doesn’t like seeing something happen.

When taken as a whole, complete idea though, the sentence can easily be translated into something that sounds natural in English: “She hates it when the petals begin to fall.”

The hardest part of this to translate was the last sentence. I originally had translated it like this: “So much work to make them last, and yet I wonder if the flowers themselves are happy.”

こうまでして - to go this far/to put in this much effort/to put in this much work. However, this is more of a tone setting phrase than a meaning carrying phrase, so it’s okay not to translate it directly.

永らえる - to prolong something’s lifespan. This is hard to translate because while the phrasing works in Japanese, the preserved flowers are actually dead. So you can’t translate it as “I wonder how the flowers feel about being made to live so long” or something of that ilk. My original translation of “make them last” works, but I prefer the final translation of “existence being prolonged”. It sounds more applicable to Mamiya’s situation, and this exchange is all about that metaphor.

永遠に憧れる心が美しく思えたりするだけだ。

(lit.) We just think of a heart that longs for eternity as beautiful. (??)

We just romanticise the idea of eternity.

Another great example of Japanese phrasing that sounds super weird when translated directly, but can sound very natural when the core idea behind the words is translated properly. “Romanticise” is such a succinct one-word translation of the several word phrase 「憧れる心が美しく思えたり」!

Thank you to my amazing editor @dontbe-lasanya for their help with the episode as always!

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Rose divider taken from this post.

[duckiemimi]

[lostxmelody]

ah yes. right on time for pride month - what do you mean it's almost over?

my apologizes for the delay again but as you may find, it is quite long. 40k words long, to be exact. please take your time reading as i will now hibernate for the rest of the year (/j)

happy ch.3 !!!

[foolofatook001]

“Tell to me, Tam Lin,” she said, “Why came you here to dwell?”

“The Queen of Faeries caught me, when from my horse I fell. And at the end of seven years, she pays a tithe to Hell— I so fair and full of flesh, I fear it be myself.”

("Tam Lin," Fairport Convention version)

Here’s the thing— Martyn knows how this kind of story is supposed to go.

The plucky hero goes into the heart of the enchanted wood, and through a bit of cleverness and the virtue of their pure heart, they rescue the victim from the horrible entangling grasp of whatever evil faerie creature has them. Now, he wouldn’t say he’s got a pure heart, necessarily, but he is certainly clever, and, well— he’s made several forays into the enchanted wood, as it were, and gotten away unscathed each time. 

But what do you do when the victim refuses to leave with you?

He’s tried reason. He’s tried logic. He’s tried gifts. He’s tried impassioned pleas. Ren still keeps going back to the Shadow Lady. He keeps insisting he’s not enchanted and that “his Queen” wouldn’t take away his free will, which is unfortunately exactly what someone enchanted and without free will would say, so he can’t really take Ren’s word for it. 

He’d love to work with Ren, really he would. (He’d love to get into that very solid and defensible tower with a proper moat and everything, too.)

He just doesn’t want to take on a fae as well. 

The Shadow Lady has extended her reach far, and though Martyn knows she’s got limits on her power, the sight of her doing something to Ren to make him harmless to her when he went red— something with enough magic to black out the sun in the middle of the day and nearly knock Martyn to the ground with the pressure— well, he’s pretty sure that speaks for itself. Grian had warned them about her, early on in the game, and though Grian is lost to the red names now, his warning still holds water, at least in Martyn’s mind. 

Maybe the problem is that he’s thinking about this as the wrong kind of story. Maybe this isn’t one where the clever hero spirits away the innocent victim from the faerie queen, leaving her to curse his name from afar. 

Maybe he’ll have to take up dragon-slaying. 

[neo-shitty]

spring day never latches on to a permanent face. it takes the form of the people i miss whom i have no way of reconnecting with. ever since i read that message in my inbox, it has taken the form of you, kesya.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Cimson Blood

Chapter 41: Revenge

Summary: A surprise trip to America has things turning in a direction no one thought they would

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,390

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, a/b/o, alternate universe, dead dove: do not eat, graphic violence, torture, on screen death, stabbing, knives, choking, punching, blood, aftermath of death, emotions, angst, trauma, very small hint of comfort

A/N: Please, please heed the warnings. This chapter deals with some heavy topics and rehashes a lot of Chapter 34. I've put a trigger warning before everything starts and if you don't want to read it then skip from there to the next section. You'll be able to put two and two together from there.

Also if you haven't seen, I went back and changed a pretty major plot point from chapter 34 onward and it will need to be read to really understand this chapter

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“You’re in charge.” John says, passing over the keys to Dr. Keller. “Hold down the fort. Take some time for yourself.” 

“Invite over Ashley.” Kyle winks as he passes. 

“Cute.” Dr. Keller says, rolling her eyes. 

“Call if anything happens.” John continues, ignoring Kyle’s remark. “You know how to get a hold of us.” 

“I do.” Dr. Keller nods. “I’ll make sure the cottage is still standing when you get back.” She glances at the car. “Take care of her.” 

“We will. We’ll make sure she’s still in one piece when we get back.” 

“You better.” Dr. Keller says, giving him a look. “Safe travels.” 

Kyle closes the car door, cutting off the rest of the conversation. You’re squeezed in the back of the car between him and Johnny. It is a tight squeeze between the two of them and their broad shoulders. It’s not the most comfortable position, but the decision to leave one car behind has sealed your fate. 

Simon is in the front passenger seat, looking about as happy to be there as you feel. His arm is leaned against the door, his gaze set out the front windshield. His scent is thick in the air, musky and leathery. It’s a mixed cocktail of scents in the small enclosed space, but Simon’s is the loudest. 

John opens the driver’s side door, climbing into the car. It felt cramped before, but now it feels almost claustrophobic. 

“Just an hour drive and you can stretch your legs.” He says, and you know he’s talking to you. 

“Where are we going?” You ask as he drives down the long driveway. 

“America.” He says, giving you the same answer he gave you before. 

“Why?” You ask, knowing what the answer is going to be. 

“We have some things we need to take care of.” He answers simply. 

“What things?” You pry, already guessing where this conversation is going to go. 

“I already told you.” He replies. Simon glances at him, but says nothing. 

“You told me nothing.” You purse your lips. 

“It’s a surprise.” He says, almost like he’s rehearsed this before. 

“I hate surprises.” You say, leaning back in your seat, your scent souring a bit. “If you bothered to pay attention you’d know that.” The last bit is hardly more than a murmur, but you know he heard you in the enclosed space. 

It falls silent in the car, the five of you sitting there awkwardly after the exchange. It’s been a long time since you’ve been so bombarded by their scents all at once, and it’s been a long time since they’ve been so surrounded by your own scent. It reminds you of that time months ago after Simon returned from his solo assignment when you’d kissed in the car and nearly drove them all insane with an explosion of your scent. 

Only this time, your scent has gone sour with your displeasure and agitation at the lack of information from John.

This time Simon is the first to cave, cracking the car window to let in some air and disperse the heavy scents. 

It’s going to be a long hour. 

Traveling is your worst nightmare. 

Or, at least, traveling like this. 

It’s only the five of you on the plane, some private jet that Kate had procured. It’s a nice plane, but at the same time, being enclosed with your pack for nine hours isn’t exactly ideal. You thought the cottage was bad at times, but at least there you could go outside and escape from them. 

Now you’re really stuck with them. 

Thankfully they’ve mostly left you alone for the duration of the flight, letting you sit in your seat with a book in silence. John and Simon have been in a corner conversing for the better part of the flight, glancing at you every so often. Johnny has slept through most of it, reclined in a seat not far from them. You wondered for a moment if he was faking it to listen in, but when the snores started you knew he really was out. Kyle is in a position not unlike your own, huddled in a seat with a book, minding his own business. 

You really want to know what John and Simon are discussing, what has held their attention for so long. It’s gotten heated a few times, John’s brows pulling into a frown, his lips moving rapidly. Simon’s shoulders keep squaring and relaxing, giving you insight into the rise and fall of emotions during the conversation. You can imagine his face mirroring John’s, his brows pinching in worry or frustration or perhaps even anger. 

Whatever it is, it’s serious enough to last a good part of the flight.

You’re ushered into a car almost as soon as the wheels touch the tarmac and the plane has stopped. You’re stuck between Johnny and Kyle again, but at least the SUV is spacious enough to not have you crammed in like sardines. Your legs are stiff and sore after sitting for the better part of eight hours, but you’re not about to complain. Not with the way John’s hands are gripping the steering wheel. 

If you didn’t know better, you might have thought he was having second thoughts about whatever is happening. 

You still don’t know. 

They still haven’t told you. 

The airstrip the jet landed in looked to be a private one as well, isolated in a grassy area with rolling hills of green and a few sparse trees missing their leaves. You almost fear it might be Texas again, given the warmth of the air for a time so late in the year, but you want to believe they wouldn’t be that cruel to you. At least you hope that’s the case. 

The drive takes longer than the one in England, time seeming to stretch on endlessly as it did in the plane. You’re tired after the flight, but curiosity is keeping you awake and aware. You almost wish you had your book, but it’s stuffed in the back with the small bag you’d been allowed to bring. The others had small bags as well, and you can only imagine what is inside them. 

It makes your insides crawl with nerves. 

The exhaustion becomes too much as the naked trees and rolling hills continue to pass by outside the car. It’s quiet in the car, the tense silence not even enough to keep you awake as your head begins to droop onto Kyle’s shoulder. 

You’re jolted awake as the car comes to a stop. 

The muffled sound of car doors closing outside reaches your ears as you peel your eyes open. 

“Come on.” Kyle says softly, gently shifting you with his shoulder. “Time to get up.” 

You let out a quiet grunt, rubbing your eyes. The world outside is full of grey sky and naked tree limbs from the angle you’re at. John and Simon’s doors slam as they exit the car, the warmth on your other side disappearing as Johnny gets out as well. Gravel crunches outside as Kyle opens his door, easing you so you’re sitting upright. 

The SUV is parked facing another one, and the world behind it opens into more green fields. Kyle slides out of the car, hitting gravel before offering you a hand. You blink the sleep from your eyes, taking the offered hand. 

There’s three other SUVs parked in the gravel, people dressed in plain clothes moving around an old, rickety barn. John is standing halfway between the car and the barn, conversing with Kate. You blink in surprise. You haven’t seen her since she dropped you off with your pack almost a year ago now.

Whatever they’re discussing, it seems to be serious. 

Kyle puts a hand on your back, leading you towards them. 

“Hi honey,” Kate greets you with a small smile, the seriousness melting on her face in almost a performative manner. “How are you holding up?” 

“I don’t know.” You say, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Depends on why I’m here.” 

“You didn’t tell her?” Kate says in surprise, turning back towards John. 

“I knew what she’d say if I told her.” John says. 

You purse your lips again, disliking being talked about as if you’re not standing right there.

Kate looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t, instead she takes half a step back. “Better get this over with, then.” 

John turns towards you, wrapping a hand around your wrist. “Come on.” 

You almost dig your heels in and demand he tell you, but you don’t. You have a feeling you’re about to find out regardless as he leads you towards the barn. Simon and Johnny are waiting by the doors, Kyle following close behind you. Nerves are starting to flutter in your stomach, your insides twisting in fear. What the hell is on the other side of those doors and why does everyone seem so serious about it? 

Johnny’s face is hard set, Simon’s eyes blank as John pauses in front of the door for a moment. 

They’re not themselves. 

You’re looking at Task Force 141. 

Simon slides the barn door open, your stomach clenching painfully. It’s dark in the barn, but not dark enough you can’t see. Grey light seeps in through holes in the roof and sides, giving the barn an eerie look, like you’re about to step into a horror movie. 

John’s hand tightens around your wrist, tugging you forward into the musty air inside the barn. You want to dig your heels in now, fight him and scream not to drag you inside. Your hand is shaking, curling in on itself until your nails dig into your palm. 

“Hi darlin’. Didn’t know you’d be joining us too.” 

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut, the breath leaving your lungs. 

“Phil.” You breathe, nearly choking around his name. 

He’s seated in the middle of the barn, restrained in a chair. He looks far too comfortable and casual sitting there, greeting you like he would an old friend. 

There’s a table beside him filled with all sorts of instruments. Knives, scalpels, an ice pick. 

Your stomach twists as you realize what’s about to happen. 

The other four approach Phil, leaving a gap so you can see him as you linger behind. You have half a mind to turn and run out the now closed door, but something keeps your feet frozen to the ground. 

“You’re wasting your time.” Phil says, addressing the four members of your pack now. “I don’t know where Shepherd is.” 

“That’s not why we’re here.” John says, his voice deeper and rougher than it had been just outside. “You tortured a member of our pack.”

“Our omega.” Johnny says through gritted teeth. 

“Oh I see, a little revenge then.” Phil says, a smirk lifting on his lips as he stares at you. “And you brought a little audience.” 

***Content Warning: Torture ***

You jump as Simon takes a step forward, rearing back before punching Phil across the face. His head snaps to the side from the force of it, a grunt leaving his lips. Simon grips his chin, yanking his head back to the other side so Phil is looking up at him. 

“We’re going to do the same to you that you did to her.” He growls out. 

The words have a shiver tickling down your spine. 

Simon releases Phil before drawing his fist back to throw another punch. Nausea churns in your stomach as something cracks, the sound echoing in the silence. 

“Solid hit, big man.” Phil grins, spitting onto the floor before sitting up straight again. “You’re going to have to hit me harder than that.” His eyes flicker to you as you stand there in shock. “You can ask your omega how hard I hit her.” 

Johnny surges forward, wrapping his hand around Phil’s throat. “Give me a knife. I’ll cut his tongue out.” 

Phil lets out a choked sound, your own throat constricting a bit from the memory of Phil’s hand choking you. Tears fill your eyes as Phil’s face begins to go purple from the lack of oxygen. 

“Easy.” John says, easing Johnny off of Phil. “We’re not done yet.” 

Phil lets out a choking cough, his hands straining where they’re tied to the arms of the chair. “Not bad.” He coughs out, his face still red. “Gonna have to try harder than that.” 

John punches him in the face, sending his head snapping the other direction. Blood trickles from his lip, his tongue darting out to lick the wound. 

“Of course the alpha would spill the first drop of blood.” Phil says, letting out a chuckle, his gaze returning to you. “This is going to take a while, sweetheart. Why don’t you go back outside and wait for your boys to be done, hm?” 

“No.” John says, his hand closing into a fist again. “She’s going to watch every last bit of this.” 

Your stomach churns as he throws another punch at Phil, this one landing with another sickening crack. You don’t really want to watch this, but at the same time, there’s a sick sense of satisfaction filling you as your pack takes revenge on your behalf. Your omega is nearly purring, watching in glee as they drive punch after punch into Phil’s face. 

“You’re going to have to try harder than that.” Phil chokes out around Simon’s hand where it’s wrapped around his throat. 

“We’re just getting started.” Kyle says, grabbing a knife from the table. 

Phil lets out a pained yell as Kyle stabs the knife into his bicep, slowly dragging it down his arm. It’s deeper than Phil had cut you, blood pouring out of the open wound. Your stomach twists, nausea bubbling up into your throat. How easy this all seems for them. 

How easily Phil had tortured you. 

Your fingers trace the thin, pink line down your own arm, your skin burning with a reminder of what happened to you. 

The realization of what’s happening settles in as Kyle drives the knife into Phil’s chest, dragging it downward in another deep cut. You do want to turn around and go outside. You don’t want to watch this anymore. 

The soft call of your name has you coming back to yourself. Your pack has turned to face you now. You hadn’t even realized that you had turned your head away. Tears have trailed down your cheeks, your breath hitching. 

It’s John that’s called your name, his hand outstretched. He’s holding the ice pick. Your shoulder throbs at the sight of it. The memory of one almost exactly like it being stabbed into your scent gland has a whimper leaving your lips. You know what he’s asking, what he’s offering. Phil inflicted the worst pain you’ve ever felt onto you. Now you’re being offered the chance to do the same to him. 

Your omega is screaming, yelling at you to take it, to return what he did back to him. It’s his fault this happened. Weeks of pain and agony that you will always remember. He did that to you. 

You’re moving before you even realize it, your fingers wrapping around the cold metal. Your omega is taking over again, driving that instinctual violence forward again. Simon is standing behind Phil, holding his head to the side. He looks like shit, his face already bruising and covered in blood. The metallic scent of it is strong, your mind flickering back to those soldiers, his soldiers, the ones you killed with that knife. You wonder what happened to it, if it’s still laying out in the forest, the last lingering remnant of the violence that happened there. 

You stare down at Phil, at his exposed neck. He’s jerking against Simon’s hold, as if he knows and understands what’s about to happen, as if he can already sense the pain that’s about to be brought on him. Does he? Does he really understand? 

He’s about to. 

Your hand moves before you can stop it, driving the ice pick as hard as you can into his scent gland. He lets out a yowl of pain as the metal slides under his skin and into that sensitive spot. You remember it, the lightning-like pain rushing through your body, every nerve-ending on fire, every movement agony for days and days and days. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” You say, pushing the ice pick as far as you possibly can into his body. “It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Worse than all those years I sat in that institute thinking about my family, the family you helped tear me away from.” You take a step back, leaving the ice pick in his shoulder. “You’ll never forget it, that kind of pain.” 

Simon wraps his hand around the ice pick, pulling it free. Blood seeps out of the hole, pouring down Phil’s chest. He jerks in his restraints, his eyes squeezed shut. 

“You deserve to feel that kind of pain.” You say, taking another step back. 

“Look at you.” Phil laughs, tilting his head up with a wince. His eyes are on you, focused solely on you as you stand there. “Tough little thing. Turning more and more like your father, aren’t you?” His words bite at the back of your brain, your omega screaming at the insult. His eyes leave you, instead roaming over the three members of your pack standing in front of him. “No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t hide her away from this world, could you?” 

He’s not talking to you anymore. 

“You’d always leave a stain on her. Eventually it would come around. She’d get caught up in a life like this, a life of violence and bloodshed. Proud of yourselves?” He lets out a chuckle. “You ruined such sweet innocence.” 

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth.” Johnny growls as Simon moves back around so he’s standing next to you. 

“Ooh, hit a nerve did I?” Phil laughs, turning his gaze to you. “You know your dad never checked you made it to the institute? As soon as you were out of his sight he could finally stop caring about you.” Phil licks his lips. “I should have just taken you right then. No one would have known the difference. None of this would have happened. You’d still be just a sweet little innocent girl, just like you always should have been.” 

Anger and rage burns through you at his words. Years of repressed fears and emotions surging out all at once. Later you’ll wish you could blame it on your omega, that she took over in this moment, but that’s not the case. It’s you in your true form, in your own rage at Phil for his words, for his actions, for the ways he’s ruined your life even still years later. 

Time slows as your fingers wrap around the knife strapped to Simon’s side. It slides out of its sheath easily, your body moving forward as you grip it tightly in your hand. It won’t be the first time, your brain flashing back to all of those men, men who would have done worse things to you had your omega not acted on instinct. She’s screaming at you now, still, clawing at the poorly constructed cage you’ve forced her back in, calling for violence. 

You’ll give it to her. 

The knife cuts through his skin easily, sliding downward as you stab it into his neck. Blood spurts out, coating your hands in the slippery liquid. Adrenaline courses through your body, your vision going red as you yank the knife from his throat, blood spraying out of his artery from where you’ve severed it. It’s like some gruesome renaissance painting as you’re pulled back, an arm around your waist tugging you backward away from the quickly fading body in the chair, your mouth still open in an enraged scream. 

The knife drops from your hand as you’re tugged backwards, your body falling against a solid one. Your legs feel like jelly as the adrenaline pumps through your system, your blood covered hands shaking as you stare at the lifeless body of a man you once thought of as a family friend. A man who played such an integral part in your life behind the scenes. A man who was almost your alpha, a man who would have been your alpha had it not been for the woman standing outside. 

The man who tortured you and brought you more pain than you’ve ever felt in your entire life. 

He’s dead now. He can’t ever hurt you again. 

Nausea churns in your stomach as you sit there, staring down at your blood-soaked hands. It’s deep red and sticking to your skin, no matter how much Kyle tries to wipe at it with a t-shirt. Your body has gone numb as reality has settled in. 

You just killed a man. 

“Easy.” Kyle says, his hand warm against your chilled skin as he wraps his fingers around your arm. 

You’d jerked away from him, nearly slipping off the edge of the trunk. The trunk of the SUV is open and you’re seated on the edge of it, toes pushing into the gravel below to hold yourself up. Kyle had been trying to wipe the dried blood off of your hands, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, some of it wouldn’t come off. 

“Here.” Footsteps approach in the gravel, the rocks crunching under boots. “Go help Simon.” 

Rougher hands replace Kyle’s, wrapping around your wrists. You jump when the cold water hits your hands, shocking you out of your dazed state. You lift your gaze up to John’s face as he wipes the blood from your hands, the shirt quickly becoming stained with red streaks. 

“This wasn’t our intention. I just want you to know that.” He says, his gaze focused on your hands. “We didn’t bring you here to kill him. I just thought you might want to know what was going to happen to him. Closure. Maybe you could rest easier knowing he wasn’t ever going to see freedom again.” 

“He won’t see anything ever again.” You murmur. 

“It doesn’t make you a bad person. Heat of the moment. He was saying some vile things to you.” John tries to comfort you. 

“But that doesn’t mean I had to kill him.” 

“Maybe not. He wouldn’t have lived much longer regardless.” Your hands are starting to feel raw with how hard John is scrubbing them. It’s almost like he’s trying to wipe the fact you’re a murderer from your hands. “None of us will think any less of you for what you did.” 

You stare down at your hands as John finally relents his scrubbing. The blood is gone, but you’ll always remember the look of it staining your skin. “I’m sorry.” 

John squats down in front of you, his hands closing around yours. They’re so warm compared to your own chilled skin. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“But I do. Phil was right. I’m not innocent anymore. I’m not a good omega. I lost that when I let her take over.” Tears slip down your cheeks, warm against your skin. 

“That doesn’t make you a bad omega.” John says, reaching up to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “You’ve done what you had to do to survive because of our failures. We failed to protect you like we promised and we forced you into situations you shouldn’t have ever been in. We will never be able to apologize enough for what we did.” 

“I’m scared, John.” You whisper. “I don’t want to be like this anymore.” 

His brows furrow. “Be like what?” 

“I still feel like she’s in control.” You say, more tears sliding down your cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve come back to myself at all.” 

Tears still sting your eyes as you sit in the back of the car, watching the flames through the rearview mirror. 

“Unfortunate that the old barn burned down.” Kate says, her voice slightly muffled through the closed car door. 

“Feel sorry for the poor soul stuck inside.” John says. 

“Too bad they’ll never be identified.” 

Their words nearly make you sick again. How easily they talk about it, how easily they can detach themselves. It is their job, you suppose. This is just a normal occurrence to them. It scares you, how easily they confront death and dismiss it. It’s cold and unwelcoming, just like their attitudes had been upon your arrival. You should have known just by that. You should have turned and left when you wanted to. 

Maybe then you’d have less blood on your hands. 

Phil did deserve it, after everything. At least this way you know he won’t try to find you again, won’t try and get revenge of his own against your pack. One less loose string to worry about, John had said. 

There’s just one more that needs to be tied off. 

“Any sign of Shepherd?” John asks. 

“None yet.” Kate answers. “Alex and Farah are investigating a couple of leads. You’ll be the first to know if they find anything.” 

“Good. The sooner we can find him, the better.” 

“He can’t hide forever.” Kate says. “We’ll find him eventually.” She glances towards the car. “You’ll be alright?” 

John is quiet for a moment. “Eventually.” 

“You need anything...” 

“We’ll be sure to let you know.” 

Cold air rushes in with the smell of smoke as Kyle opens the car door. He slides in, quickly closing it. 

“We’re almost ready to go.” He says, shifting so he can put your seatbelt on for you. You’re glad he’s doing it. You’re not sure you could have managed it anyway. “Another long flight back to England.” 

You feel like you’ve spent more time on a plane in the last few hours than you have in your lifetime. You’re not even sure what day it is, or what day it will be when you get back. A week could have passed and you’d never even notice. 

“We’ll stop and get food before we go.” Kyle continues. You know he’s trying to talk to keep you distracted. “Anything you want in particular?” 

Food is the last thing you want right now. 

“Something we can eat on the road I suppose. Don’t want to linger too long anywhere.” Kyle trails off as the doors open, Johnny and Simon climbing in. It’s a tighter squeeze this time thanks to John’s coat that he put on you to keep you warm. You don’t really need it in the car, but his scent is the only thing keeping you sane right now. 

“Ye doin’ alright?” Johnny asks as he puts on his own seatbelt. 

You hum in response, not trusting yourself to answer. You don’t trust yourself to say much of anything right now. 

The smell of smoke hits your nose again as John opens the driver’s side door, climbing into the car. “Let’s get out of here.” He says, putting on his seatbelt before the car rumbles to life. 

You lean back in the seat, staring at the smoldering ashes in the rearview mirror until they disappear around a bend as John drives away from the scene. Warm fingers brush the back of your hand, Kyle’s gaze down on your lap as he slowly curls his fingers around your hand. You stare at his hand for a moment before you look away, curling your fingers around his. 

You don’t remember much of the flight back. You slept through a good part of it, reclined in a seat just like Johnny had been on the flight to America. You barely remember the drive back to the cottage, spending most of it in a sleepy daze with your head propped on Kyle’s shoulder. 

Dr. Keller is there to greet you when you return, some delicious smell wafting from the open door of the cottage. It makes your stomach churn after hours of no food. You haven’t had much of an appetite, the memories of what had happened too fresh to allow you much else but the blissful ignorance of sleep. 

You drag your feet up the steps of the cottage, passing Dr. Keller in a haze as you head straight for the comfortable familiarity of your bed. You can hear quiet voices through the wall as you manage to work your heavy limbs out of your clothes and into something more comfortable. 

You just want to sleep more, sleep forever if it were possible. In sleep you don’t see the blood staining your hands, the spurt of blood from Phil’s neck where you’d stabbed him. You don’t see the light fading from his eyes, his body falling limp as he dies by your hand. In sleep you’re not a murderer, you can go back to when things were easier, when nothing mattered but being a good omega for your pack. Back when your only stress was making a good impression and doing your job like you’re supposed to. 

What a shitty omega you’ve become. You can’t even hold your pack together anymore. 

It’s not like they’re putting in much effort themselves, though. 

Maybe you should let things fall apart. Maybe it would be easier on everyone if you just moved past this, moved on to an unhappy, short life in a care facility while your pack got to live out the rest of their days with nothing but a painful memory of the short stint they got as a full pack. 

Phil was right. You’re not a sweet innocent little girl anymore. That person died as soon as you were forced into this pack. Maybe this was inevitable. By being forced with them you would always become like them. Good omegas learn to adapt to mesh well with their pack, giving up personality and wants in favor of making alphas happy. Maybe this is what they want, maybe this was the way things were always going to end up. You were doomed from the start to become just like them. 

You press your face into your pillow as tears slide down your cheeks, willing yourself to fall into the sweet embrace of sleep once again. 

“John told me what happened.” Dr. Keller says as you sit outside in the cold morning air. “I just want you to know that it doesn’t make me think any less of you.” 

You wish she would. You wish she’d yell and reprimand you for killing someone. You wish any of them would call you a bad person, a wicked soul capable of taking the life of someone else. 

They’re all acting like it’s normal, like it was nothing. 

You hate it. 

“You’re not a bad person.” She says. 

“I killed someone.” You retort. 

“Did you?” 

Her words make you pause. You did. You remember the blood staining your hands, the warm spray of it from Phil’s neck. It was your hand that drove the knife. 

“I want you to walk me through what happened. Step by step.” She says. 

You let out a sigh. It’s not the first time you’ve been over it in the last day. “They were torturing him, but he wouldn’t stop talking. He said that he wished he had just taken me instead of sending me to the institute, and how that way I’d still be an innocent little girl.” Your voice starts to shake. “I got really mad. I barely remember grabbing the knife.” 

“Right there.” Dr. Keller interrupts you. “Walk me through that second by second. What were you feeling beyond just anger?” 

You pause for a moment, thinking it over. What were you feeling? “Blinding rage.” You say. “I was so angry because he helped ruin my life just because he wanted me.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Just the idea of being his...” Nausea churns in your stomach. “It’s like my brain went numb. It acted on instinct. I didn’t even know Simon had a knife until I was grabbing it.” 

“What was your omega feeling in those moments?” 

You pause to think again. You hadn’t taken into consideration your omega during your ruminations, when you’d told Dr. Keller your side of the events the last few times. “She was...angry too. But, at first, she liked it. She liked Phil being tortured. She wanted me to stab him with the ice pick.” You swallow thickly. “Why did I do that? Why didn’t I say no?” 

“Revenge is a fascinating part of human thought processes.” Dr. Keller says. “In the moment, it fires up those reward centers of the brain. It feels good, feels satisfying. The desire to act on those impulsive needs to dole out justice against someone that wronged you is natural. While it’s not the best idea, it’s just human nature to want to get revenge. In the heat of the moment, logic is the last thing on your mind. Throw in an uncontrolled omega and you may find yourself doing things you don’t want to do, and you don’t know why.” 

“So it was her fault.” You say, wiping your nose. 

“Not exactly. Instincts are complicated things to consider. Instincts don’t care about your feelings or what society considers acceptable. They’re natural, ingrained behaviors in response to certain stimuli and events. A bear chases you, you run. An alpha threatens you, your omega fights back. While yes, what you did may be morally questionable, in the moment, your omega didn’t care about morals or societal expectations. You felt threatened and uncomfortable and your omega acted on your behalf.” 

“It’s because she’s out of control.” You say. 

“Yes. You let her out of that specially crafted cage you learned to keep her in, and now she’s going to fight tooth and nail to stay out. You’re in a very delicate state and it’s not surprising your omega decided to act for you.” 

“She’s so violent.” You say quietly. 

“Omegas and alphas only show themselves for a handful of reasons. Usually those involve danger or extreme emotions. Omegas especially show themselves when violence is needed. We are all fighters at our core, even omegas. You yourself may not be a violent person, but your omega is unsettled. She’s on high alert and any perceived threat could set her off, or any moments of high emotions, such as witnessing what you did.” 

You look down at your hands, imagining them covered with blood again. “I wanted to leave. I should have.” 

“We can’t change what we’ve done in the past. Your omega was likely largely responsible for what happened in those moments. While that doesn’t absolve you of guilt entirely, that also means you weren’t fully in control of yourself when it happened.” She reaches out, putting a hand on yours. “I believe you when you say you didn’t want to do it. I don’t think you’re capable of it in your right mind. You’ve been through a lot over the last few weeks. I thought it was a bad idea to take you, but you know John.” 

“He thinks he knows what's best because it’s what he thinks is best.” You murmur. 

“You can confront him about that.” Dr. Keller says, leaning back in her chair. 

You snort. “That will go well.” 

“It might. Your pack has expressed their willingness to change, to adapt to what you want. You have the power to change your pack. If you don’t like the way they’re doing something, then tell them.” She gives you a pointed look. “They won’t know what to change if you don’t tell them what you want to change.” 

“I’m scared to ask them.” You admit. 

“Why? Why are you scared to ask them?” 

“Good omegas adapt to their pack, they don’t ask. They don’t ask their pack to change just for them.” 

She gives you another look. “Don’t go regressing that far on me.” She shifts in her seat, leaning closer to you. “We’ve talked about this before. You’re a part of this pack too, just as much as they are. You have a right to communicate your needs and your wants just as much as they do. You’re an equal in this pack, and they’ll be the first to agree with that. While their actions of late have been questionable, they do still care about you and want to make you a true equal in this pack.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You huff. 

“Then let them show you.” She says. “What’s the harm in asking?” 

“They say no.” You say. “I don’t think I could handle it if they said no.” 

“But what if they say yes?” Dr. Keller squeezes your arm. “You’ll never know until you ask. In my professional opinion, I think you hold more power now than you realize. A lot of things happened to you, but a lot of things happened to your pack as well, and within those bonds.”

“Yeah. They’re all fractured now.” You say. 

“They’re in rough shape, but they’re not unfixable. You have to want to fix them. You’re the only one that can fix them.” 

“I don’t like that power.” You say. “Part of me wants to end things.” 

“But, that means there’s a part of you that wants to repair them. As your doctor, I suggest listening to those thoughts more than the ones telling you not to. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s worth your time to try.” 

Tears fill your eyes as you sit there, thinking over her words. You do want to try. You want to try so badly, yet you can’t help that nagging in the back of your mind that everything will go back to the way it was before. 

“What do you need?” Dr. Keller asks softly, brushing some of the hair from your face as you cry. 

What is it you need? A new brain, a reset button, some amnesia? All things you can’t have. You’ll have to choose with what you do have. What do you have? A pack that desperately wants to help you. They’ve told you that themselves. Kyle told you things would get better, but here you are with more blood staining your hands. Kyle wouldn’t lie to you. Not like that. 

You have the power now. 

“Johnny.” You sniffle. “Get me Johnny.” 

NEXT ->

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[caramelkoo]

before we shatter — jjk [one]

genre : established relationship, idol!jungkook

word count : 6k

summary : dating an idol is fun, they said. having a family with one is fun, they said. Until you're falling face forward because of your reality. A reality where Jungkook dreams of a future and a reality where your own future is collapsed.

chapter warnings : nsfw, strong language, mature content, fluff, so much angst, smut, talks of infertility, clit sucking, fingering, Jungkook worships her, dirty talk, doggy style, reader is in so much pain i love her sm, fall vibes <33, gift giving as a love language, pussy slapping with his d, big dick energy, jungkook is desperate. that's about it please mention if i missed anything.

read part two here

a/n : based on this ask so thank you anon for coming forward and giving me a chance to write this. i also wanna mention that im no doctor so please forgive me if i didn't do the topic of infertility justice. the second part gives more clarity in their case so please be kind to wait. enjoy and im v v grateful for you. you're so loved.

When you were a child, barely five, an orange butterfly came flying outside your front door. Your mom told you about it since she saw it first causing your entire face to instantly light up like the fourth of july.

An inexplicable joy filled your whole body making your day ten times better, not that you were having a bad one. A five year old can’t have a bad day whatsoever.

After you were done chasing it around, secretly hoping that it would land on your nose just the way they show on television, you had to let it go and head back inside. 

Oddly enough the next morning you saw it again, this time it was not flapping its wings like it had last night, instead it was sitting on the window beside the door. Quiet and still. 

You, ever so curious, had to ask your mom about it. “It might find comfort there,” she said. 

Up until you met your boyfriend you had spent the majority of your time wondering where your comfort place is, what is that one place where you can just be yourself and not pretend to be some stoic woman. A place which lets you cry whenever you want but also replaces those tears with wide smiles and loud giggles. 

Turns out, it’s your boyfriend’s arms. 

It’s true. Jungkook with his kind, sparkly bambi eyes and bunny smile stole your damn heart a few years ago and is not willing to give it back. Although you can’t complain, in a world where people can’t seem to find the one for themselves, the angels up there granted you a guy every inch a gentleman. Safe to say it’s not one like one of those titular relationships you've come across. 

He’s your solace, a roof where you can safely just about exist. 

He heals you.

Dating an Idol comes with several perks, the biggest one of those being dealing with the huge amount of selective criticism. You feel hurt, of course, but when you’re with Jungkook, they are nothing but words behind a pixel. A pain that only lasts momentarily. 

This pain though, is not as mundane. This one is making your stomach twist in apprehension. You’ve lost the count of how many deep breaths you’ve taken.

“I’m afraid this is a case of infertility miss _____” the doctor says, earning your attention.

You’re not able to form a word, however that does nothing to stop your subconscious mind from screaming, I knew it.

Being stupid enough to think you were well prepared to hear her say this, you mustered up the courage to enter the four walled white space which, at that time, didn’t feel as narrow as it does now. It’s almost as if it’s closing up on you.

Only after you sat before the woman in white coat and bad news, did you realize how gut wrenching this actually feels.

You face her with a weak smile, one that doesn’t actually reach your eyes, “Are- are you sure you’re not mistaken?” 

Dr. Ana leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. The move itself tells you more than you need to. “Miss _____, I know it’ll be hard for you to come to terms with this but I suggest you try. I would also like to tell you, and I hope I’m not overstepping, but you can always go with adoption. The options are endless.” 

Your throat feels awfully dry and you gulp. “Thank you uh, can I ask you for a favor?” 

“Anything”

“If you happen to cross paths with Jungkook, please don’t mention anything about this to him.” 

Dr. Ana flashes you a kind smile, “Of course not ____. It’s your personal matter. I wouldn’t dare.” 

“Thanks a lot.” 

With one last nod you excuse yourself from her office. Your phone buzzes inside your pocket and you take it out, seeing Jungkook’s number stare up at you. 

“Hey” 

“Hey, my love. Are you busy?” His voice nearly brings tears to your eyes. It also brings up a question. Will he act the same towards you after you tell him where you are and what you just heard? Will his voice be filled with the same amount of excitement and affection for you? 

“No, honey. I’m actually at my sister’s place. She was craving some alone time with her husband and asked me to babysit Coco”

You can visualise him awing already. Jungkook has grown attached to your sister’s daughter a little too much. His bond with Coco is just so bright it makes you wonder if they happened to be an actual father and daughter duo in the past life. They’re both full of beans and it’s a delight to see them both together. 

He chimes, “Ah my little Coco bean. Is she near? Let me hear my angel.” 

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you try to come up with any transitory excuse that doesn’t make you run for the hills. “She’s sleeping right now. Made me work for it but I managed to settle her down” 

Jungkook moans from the other side of the line and you mentally curse yourself. Not only are you lying through your teeth but also using your innocent niece as a pawn. From the day you began dating Jungkook, you’ve not looked at any other man. For the first time now, you have this nagging feeling as though you’re cheating on him. 

“Well, alright next time then. When are you coming back home?” 

“As soon as they do. Do you miss me already?” I tease.

“Pfft me and miss you? Impossible” 

You gasp, the audacity of this boy. “How rude!!”

Your goofy boyfriend dares to chuckle, “I carry you with me everywhere I go, love. It’s hard to miss someone who’s this close to you every time of the day.” 

It doesn’t take you long to grasp what he is referring to. The heart shaped bracelet rests proudly on his wrists and the man had refused to take it off ever since you gifted it to him. A sense of longing already creeps up in your heart, twisting it until you run out of breath. 

Your chest expands as you fill it with much needed air, “Listen, honey I’ll give you a call soon yeah? I think Coco has woken up and I must go check if she needs something,” you fake a chuckle, “You know how she gets when she’s irritated” 

“Oh yes of course. Promise to give me a call soon?” 

This time the smile on your face is genuine, “I promise” 

“Give Coco a kiss for me. I love you.” 

“I love you.” 

There’s a heavy weight on your chest as soon as you hang up the call. Maybe it has always been there. So, for a couple of minutes you just stand there in the hallway of the hospital taking in the sterile smell and worrisome patients, praying that the highest power up there gives you one last chance so you could try and fix what’s been ruined.

The commotion around you does nothing to overtake the voices in your head and sadness fires through you as you feel like you’re burning your boats. Despite all of that, you pray for one last time, this time for again being strong enough to let go. 

Let go of your happiness.

Let go of your salvation.

Let go of your comfort.

Let go of Jungkook.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

You click the door shut behind you, hanging the coat on the rack. You’re not even done turning around when a muscular arm wraps around your abdomen and you’re pulled back against a taut chest. 

“I missed you” his voice is muffled against your jumper.

You run your palms over Jungkook’s forearm, stopping to interlace your fingers with his.The way his hands fit with yours is adorable to you as if they were made to do so. The bracelet on his wrist is cool against your skin and you smile. “You know what’s funny? This guy I talked to earlier said it’s impossible for him to miss me” 

He rests his chin on top of your shoulders, cheeks warm against yours. He has grown out a stubble which makes him look manlier for some reason and you can’t stop caressing it with your fingers whenever you cup his face.

“You’re talking to other guys?” If you hadn’t known Jungkook better than himself, you would have missed the pout of his lips when he said that. 

You turn your face and place a sloppy kiss on his cheekbones, “Only my favourite guy in the whole world.” 

He breaks out in a toothy grin and holds your gaze. “You’re my favourite girl too but I think you already know that.” 

You nod but the pang of guilt is still lingering in your heart. “Still love hearing it.” 

Jungkook releases you from his embrace and walks back, rounding the kitchen counter until he’s holding up a large bowl. “Ready for our fall ritual?” 

Jungkook and you have been using your mum’s recipe to bake chocolate chip cookies every fall and while you enjoy baking with him, the thing that you take the most pleasure from is his face when he munches on the first cookie.

It’s one of your favorite sights ever. It takes quite a bit of effort to bake them but hell if you wouldn’t do it all over again just to see him close his eyes and moan like it is the best thing since sliced bread. 

You join him behind the counter and look around. From the way the batter has already been prepared you suppose he’s been at it for a while. There are some chocochips in a small bowl across from you with some cranberries next to them because he knows you like them in your cookies. 

“You don’t ever forget about the cranberries, do you?” 

“Nope. They’re your favourite plus if you eat well, I can eat you well– ouch,” he jumps, “What was that for?” 

You offer him a glare which does nothing to stop the smile threatening to break out of your lips, “Behave” 

His face inches closer to yours, “Now honey don’t be acting like I didn’t give you the best orgasm this morning” 

Oh well, how can you forget about that? Ninety nine percent of the time you love waking up in his arms while he’s the big spoon but there’s that one percent where he wakes you up with his head between your legs, sometimes with his face under your shirt sucking on your nipples. Indissoluble passion within him. His ability to satisfy you with his mouth alone needs to be studied because god if you don’t crave more and more. 

You blink, once twice thrice, “You’re incorrigible” 

He lets out a cackle at your flustered face as you wonder when you will stop blushing like a fool around him. It’s been years and he still makes you feel like you’re wrapped up in a ball of jitters. Jungkook leans back and straightens up. He plucks the apron from the counter before coming up behind you. “Hold your hair up for me” He demands. 

You grab a fistful of your hair and lift them up as he settles it on your neck before tying the knot at your back. With one last kiss on the back of your neck he joins you. 

“How long has it been since you began making this?” 

“Not long ago. Thought I’d wait for you to come back home and then continue”

You watch him add the chocochips into the dough. His tattoos are barely visible behind the cozy sweater he’s wearing. At the risk of sounding like a hypocrite, Jungkook with his perfect physique and gorgeous face looks good in everything, more so naked, but nothing triggers your cuteness aggression more than him wearing a fluffy knitted sweater, believe it or not. One which you knitted at that.

He pulls your attention away pausing your little drooling session, “How’s Coco bean doing?” 

A sudden urge of getting close to him creeps up and you sneak between the counter and him, hugging him as you nuzzle your face in his chest. He smells like cinnamon. He places a gentle kiss on the crown of your head before resting his chin there. 

“You smell so good” 

“Thanks and she’s as chaotic as ever. Nailea bought the cutest pair of pyjamas for her,” you look up at him,  “She looked like a loaf of bread when they made her wear it.” 

“No way. Should we buy her another one of those?” he pulls back, barely able to hide the excitement on his face.

“You’re gonna spoil her” 

“Damn right I will and if you call this spoiling, wait till I get one of those made by me.” 

There it is. 

If Jungkook wasn’t so fond of children, would it have been easier for you to cope? You do realize that you’re a stone’s throw away from losing him for once and for all. In the old days you heard somewhere that it takes a strong man to save to save himself and a great man to save another.

You want to be that brave person who saves him from lifelong loathing and regret towards you.

This turning point in your life gives you two options, one where you can hang by a thread and bite your tongue while you continue your life with him, another where you set him free. The latter one wins and you, however, lose. 

“Hey you went silent there. You okay?” He cups your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing your cheekbones so gently you try not to cry. 

You nod and flash him a smile. Or at least you try to smile and detach yourself from him. “Perfect. Let’s get those cookies baking shall we?” 

Jungkook keeps looking at you with an expression which tells you he’s trying to search for something, but you try not to give anything away. Yet.

He gives you a look, his eyes sparkling under the low light in the room,

“Wait here for a second i’ll be right back” 

“Where are you goi-”

“Just a second. Don’t move” His voice trails off as he goes further into the bedroom. A minute later when he comes back, there’s nothing different about him except the sneaky smile on his face. He walks towards you and grabs you by the waist as he sits you on the counter. Your hands instantly clutch his shoulders for support. 

“What is happening, baby?” You mumble, clearly in a fog. 

He says nothing as he gets down on his knees. Taking a hold of your right leg, he places it on his thigh. You swallow.

He looks up, clashing his eyes with yours, “You ask too many questions, do you know that?” 

Seconds later he’s taking something out of his jogger pocket and a cool sensation brushes your skin. You peek down, curiosity finally killing the cat as you see a silver anklet adorned by a pink stone in the middle of it embraced around your ankles. 

His name is a whisper on your lips, “Jungkook”  

He gets up, facing you as he stands. But not before pecking the anklet as well as your skin. His face which earlier was eerie, now entirely soft. 

“Mom sent this for you.” 

You don’t hold back tears this time, letting them run free. You glance at the jewellery again as it shines under the light of the kitchen lamp. The pink stone glares at you as if it knows you’re not worthy of such a valuable item. 

“It’s beautiful”

He gently wipes the tears away,

“It’s just the beginning, love. I’m not gonna stop until I see a band wrapped around your finger. I feel too lonely being the only one there.” 

You playfully smack him on the chest, a giggle slipping free. With a tired shake of your head you admit, “This is overwhelming” 

“What is?” he asks,

“All of this,” you keep your gaze on him, sniffing as you continue,“Your little acts of service, your love, your presence and now this gift. I feel like I’m taking too much not giving enough” 

Your throat feels too tight, as if someone is just cutting off your air supply when you should be feeling free in his arms. 

Jungkook’s eyebrows tense as he reaches for you. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear he tries to reassure you, “Don’t say that. I hate when you question your worth,” he pecks the back of your hands, “These hands feed me, hold me when I need them to, give me warmth, gentle touches”,

His lips find both of your eyes next as you close them, feeling his soft lips on them,

“These eyes tear up with happiness every time you listen to me in the studio”,

Your ears follow next, “These ears tolerate my snoring”,

Then your lips, “And this mouth, my favourite, whispers ‘i love you’ to me every morning, leaves kisses on my skin, screams my name and most importantly, forms the loveliest smile when I make you happy.” His eyes are oh so gentle as he says this. 

You’re about to respond when his phone buzzes on the counter next to you. Your heart stops. Fuck is it Dr. Ana?

To your surprise, it’s Jimin’s number on the screen.

“Pick it up, honey. It might be important.” 

His thumb presses on the red button as he declines the call, “I’ll talk to him later. My girlfriend comes first.” 

Neither of you say a word as the room gets filled with a comfortable silence. The cookies are long forgotten, your eyes doing all the talking. Even if you try your hardest you’re not sure you can say anything which is remotely justifiable of what he just said to you.

Jungkook is so much more than meets the eye, he’s vulnerable, he’s empathetic, he’s loving. His eyes shine the brightest when he’s happy about something and you’re so full of contempt about the fact that eventually you will be the one to snatch away that shine. This hornet’s nest is going to ruin me, ruin him. 

“I wanna kiss you so bad” He whispers, leaning closer but you stop him with your palms on his chest.

“Wait, I-I want to talk about something” 

His voice is downright pleading when he says, “Later baby. I’m fucking gonna die if I don’t take that mouth right now. Please?” his breath touches your bare lips. 

Feeling a flutter in your chest you nod and he leans towards you, hand cupping your lower jaw as he touches his lips to yours. Softly at first, then his pace quickens. Your hands grab his sweater as you pull him even closer, deepening the kiss. His moan echoes followed by your own as you both lose yourselves in each other. You let go of every menacing thought and just focus on the taste of his lips. 

He pulls back slightly, taking a deep breath as he fills his chest with air. Those beautiful lips are pink and swollen from the heated kiss you just shared with him. Getting rid of the sweater, he tosses it aside as his eyes sparkle with amusement.

Without wasting any time he begins nibbling at your neck, slightly biting onto it as your hands run over his back. He’s so beautiful it takes your breath away. Not to toot your own horn but you have the most gorgeous boyfriend and you’re not ashamed to show him off. 

His lips ghost over your nipples from over your high neck top and you groan.

“Jungkook, please” 

He pulls back with a smug look on his face, “Please what ____?” 

“Please fuck me. I need your cock so bad.” 

“Yeah? Is that what my girl wants?” 

At this point your body is thrumming with anticipation and desire as you watch him move his hands closer to the waistband of your pants. His hands pause when they meet the lace material, his pupils dilate. 

He smiles, “It’s the one I gifted you. Were you hoping for this huh?” 

Your lips stretch into a smile. You hadn’t particularly hoped for this, no, because your relationship with him is not just based on physical pleasures. You guys have sex of course, but it’s not the prominent part of the bond you share. It’s more than that. The lace lingerie set was gifted to you by Jungkook on a random day. It was one of those quote unquote just because gifts. 

“What do you think?” you ask, giving him a quick kiss. 

He grabs you by the back of your neck and holds you there for a moment before leaning back and looking straight into your eyes. “I think you should lose it or else I’ll ruin it” 

You gasp, swatting him on the bicep. “Don’t you dare. It’s my favourite pair”  

Without preamble he picks you off the counter making you wrap your legs around his waist. You both are so close it takes your breath away. Chest to chest, groin to groin, face to face with lips inches away from each other’s as you share a breath. 

He walks into your shared bedroom as you clash your lips against his, pulling his lower one between yours, earning a groan out of him. You both are downright feral, letting your hands run over every area of each other’s body. Jungkook’s hands grabbing your ass, yours pulling on his hair lightly before trailing down his chest, pausing on his pecs. 

When you reach your bedroom, he sits himself down with you on top of his lap. Your hips move forward and you hiss as your still jean clad pussy brushes his cock. He’s so hard you wonder if he’s close to coming already. 

Rough hands scrape over your back, hips, down your thigh before they finally settle on either side of your waist, gipping them tightly but also with a hint of gentleness. One thing you admire about your man is that he doesn’t treat you like a fragile woman, he knows you’re strong and you’ll not break if he’s rough with you. 

Jungkook pulls back from your lips.“Fuck honey, you’re such a goddess. Look at this body. I still can’t believe I get to call you mine” 

You shake your head, totally under his spell. “I’m the lucky one here, baby. You have no idea how lucky I am.” 

His hand brushes over your ass before he dips it inside your pants, reaching your already soaked pussy as he pushes a finger inside you. This earns a whimper from you as you tip your head back. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, ____. Want me to show you how lucky I am?” He takes the finger out before pumping it back again. You moan as his other hand gips the nape of your neck and he brings his mouth to your neck, biting on it. 

“Oh my god” you cry, seeing him suck the finger clean and face forming an expression filled with the deepest level of satisfaction as he closes his eyes. 

Setting his eyes back on you, he sighs, “This isn’t my first time tasting you, honey. But it gets better every fucking time and I find myself craving you an unhealthy amount, you know that? Do you know how crazy I am for you? Could eat you out everyday and wouldn’t need anything else to feel full.” His words send a shiver down your spine. “You’re my favorite meal.” 

He pushes three fingers back inside with a slight force and you let out a scream, arching your back. He takes one nipple into his mouth and gives it a long suck, letting it go with a loud pop. 

“Oh yes, just like that. Suck it again, baby” You beg and he does exactly that as he takes the other sensitive bud into his mouth. 

You’re not sure if you have been this vocal about your needs with anyone before him. Not that you dated a lot, for a person who’s a hopeless romantic to the core you’ve always found yourself waiting for the right one. Additionally, you believed your body to be as sacred as a temple. Surely there had to be a guy somewhere who would treat it as such.

Then, enters Jungkook who not only was out of your league metaphorically but literally. He lived miles away from your place so there was not a chance you could have let anything take place between the both of you. But as they always say, the heart wants what it wants. To put it briefly, there was chemistry, a connection you didn’t want to lose.

Strong fingers pump into you. In and out, in and out. “You’re so wet. What do you say? Should I lick you clean?” 

“Yes, ah oh my goodness that’s sooo good” you toss your head back, slowly grinding against his hands. 

He wraps an arm around your waist, lifts you off his lap and tosses you back on the bed. Keeping his eyes still locked with yours he gets rid of his jogger, letting his cock spring free.

It bobs and you lick your lips, already wanting to take it into your mouth but you know for a fact that he wouldn’t let you do that, not because he doesn’t want you to but because he wants to give you the highest amount of pleasure first. As he always does. 

Jungkook lets out a shaky sigh as gives his cock a pull, his eyes running over your whole body. Up and down then back at your face again. You’re still not fully bare in front of him while he’s standing there, all in his glory. 

“Lose the pants” he commands. 

You immediately slide out of them and toss them on the floor somewhere. He grabs you by the hips, jerking you to the edge of the bed as he sinks down on his knees. Spreading your legs wider he releases a breath. Warmth touches your wet pussy and you prop yourself up by the elbows to look at him. 

You need to look at him if you want to stay sane, have to feel him with you here. Shivers run through you even by the thought of not being able to feel him and this ever again. This might as well be your last day on this god awful planet from the way the ache in your chest keeps on increasing. It makes a home there, not letting you entirely forget about the eventualities. 

“God you’re dripping, honey” 

“For you” you admit.

Hot and wet kisses are left to the inside of your thigh and your hands find the back of his head as you grip it lightly. 

His head lifts up, his eyes finding yours, “Don’t hold back,____. Grip it as tightly as you want to. I don’t want any hesitations because when I fuck you, I’m not going to be holding back. You hear me?” 

A desperate moan leaves you, and he rewards you by kissing your pussy. Keeping his eyes on you, he doesn’t give you a chance to whine out your needs before his tongue is licking a single line up your clit.

He moans and gently tugs on your clit. “Such a perfect cunt” 

You push his head against your pussy and rock forward, chasing your orgasm. 

“Feels so good, feels so perfect, baby” you murmur.

Just when you’re starting to feel the climax incoming, when Jungkook suddenly grabs you by the waist and flips you, so he’s lying down and you’re on top. Then, he grabs you by the back of your neck, pulling you for a heated kiss. 

He pulls back, “Sit on my face, my queen” 

Your eyes widen and you hesitate, but you don’t want to. You wanna let go, knowing you’re lucky enough to get something like this in this lifetime, so you give in. He hoists you up by the hips, positions you over his face and pulls you down. His warm breath feels like a soft whisper against your pussy. 

You cry out in pleasure as soon as his tongue dives deep inside you, squeezing your tits in your hands. Grinding against his face, you close your eyes and just… feel. Feel the heat, feel the emotions, feel the intimacy, feel the ache in your chest.

A thought crosses your head and you wonder if you’re doing something wrong, something selfish. Touching him like this and getting consumed by him feels like you’re doing nothing but ruining him. 

He sucks on your clit with sheer eagerness and desire, pulling you further down so you’re putting your weight on his face. Concern perks up and you look down, trying not to crush him but it seems like he couldn’t care less. 

“Let go, honey. Just focus on my mouth.” 

Let go. God, how bad you hate those words. They feel like acid in your ears. 

“Keep going, Jungkook. Don’t you dare stop” you cry out. 

Soon enough you’re aching your back, cunt pulsing against his lips as you come. He swallows every single drop as if he’d die if he doesn’t and leaves you in awe. You slump, letting your body relax.

Much to your amusement, he doesn’t give you enough time to relax before he’s turning you over until you’re on your knees. Hot passionate kisses are placed on your sweaty back, pulling a gasp from you. 

“What a fucking sight. I wish you could see how stunning you look right now and it’s all because of me, isn’t it? This glistening back, this wet cunt,” he strokes a finger down your pussy, “It’s all because of me and you dare to call yourself lucky?” 

You catch a sight of him stroking himself over your shoulders and your breath quickens. 

His abs are glistening with sweat and his chin still has your cum on it. 

He smirks, “Like what you see, honey” 

“You’re beautiful” 

His eyes soften, letting his hands drop from his angry and already leaking with precum cock, he grabs either side of your hips and lines himself against your needy pussy. You let your head drop on the mattress and clench your fist, preparing yourself for him. He gives your cunt a slight slap with his cock before filling you in, groaning as he goes deeper.

You moan, “Fuck baby. That’s so deep.” 

“You’re so warm, honey. You feel like home” he thrusts again. 

His hands grip yours, and he covers your body with his own, still thrusting inside with rough movements. His chest feels warm and safe against your back as it fills you with a deep sense of safety, protection and love.

You match every thrust of his with your own, moving your hips backwards. Your tits are getting equal attention from him as he pinches the two sensitive buds between his fingers. 

You both chase your high with you screaming out his name and him whispering yours like a prayer. He gives in one last thrust before he’s coming inside you, his teeth biting on your shoulder. You’re following him soon as you grip the bed sheet tighter in your fist, moaning as you come. 

Before you collapse, he pulls you upright and lets his cock slide out of you. His fingers push his cum inside your throbbing cunt, making your stomach twist in pain.

You murmur. “I love you” 

His lips stretch into one of those lazy smiles you love so much. “I love you too, my precious girl. Now, do you wanna sleep or go make those cookies?” a sloppy kiss is pressed on your forehead. 

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders you pull him on top of you, “Should we save those for later? I really wanna cuddle” 

He presses a soft kiss on the tip of your button nose, “Sure. Let me clean you up first. You don’t have to move an inch, just relax.” 

Minutes later he’s coming back with a bottle of water and a bowl of marshmallows. You bite back a chuckle when you look at his face. There’s such a deep crease between his eyebrows you’d think he’s trying to win a game of uno or something. 

But it’s short lived when he places the items on the nightstand and gazes at you, his eyes having the same funny look they had earlier in the kitchen.You try to summon your most unbothered and good natured grin but it doesn’t do shit to stop the electricity from running through your blood. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, biting your lip.

An uncertain laugh slips out of him, “I don’t know. I’m- God, I really don’t know but I have this weird feeling that something is not right.” He begins cleaning you up but you can’t shake the feeling of nervousness and anxiety away. 

You know for a fact that he’s right. Something is not right, in fact nothing is right. 

He peeks at you from between your legs, “Hey, what is it that you wanted to talk about?” 

The air whooshes out of your lungs. Should you come clean? Is it the right time? 

You huff a tight laugh. “It’s nothing actually. Can we talk about it later?” 

When he’s done cleaning you up he places a small kiss on both your knees and stands up. Offering you a nod, he says, “Whenever you feel like it. I’m not going anywhere” 

Yet. He’s not going anywhere yet. 

You grin, “I wouldn’t let you” 

He lets a laugh slip out as he walks inside the bathroom. Then, he comes back, settles himself beside you and brings you closer by wrapping his arm around your waist. His feet find yours as he touches the anklet with them. 

“Let’s sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up” he promises. 

Morning comes quickly as the sun casts its glow on your sleepy yet excited eyes. Holding out a hand, you try searching for your boyfriend next to you, but a slight sting arises in your heart when he’s not there. You open your eyes, adjusting to the sunlight. 

Although, you hoped you did not wake up, you hoped death consumed you in your sleep because the person across from you is a total stranger. A stranger whose eyes are misty and mouth is pulled down in deep frown, a sunflower bouquet in one hand and the other one holding a blue file so tightly you can see his knuckles turning white.

Jungkook holds out the file to you, “How long were you planning to hide this from me,____?” 

For the first time in your life, you hate your name. You hate how bitter it sounds coming from his mouth like this.It has always been “____, you’re my everything,” “I love you,____”, “_____, you mean the world to me”.

Acid bubbles in your stomach at his words, and you can’t help but sob. You wonder if the butterfly was preparing you for this day. If she could talk, what would she have said to you? 

The words that leave him next might as well be daggers in your chest, "Tell me, honey. Is it the important thing you wanted to talk about but held back just to get a good fuck out of me?"

@fluttershy-vanilla @theyysam37 love you pookies. enjoy <3

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.)

And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[alygator77]

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 3 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse (emotional abuse but it can be a bit suggestive/interpreted as physical, from naoya not satoru) » 【note, this chapter contains explicit sexual content (m masturbation)】

ꨄ words: 13.3k

ꨄ a/n. oh wowie, here it is. i hope ya'll enjoy this chapter and thanks for reading ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

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ch 3 // fractured realities

Streams of light filter in through the drapes of your bedroom, casting a soft glow across the room.

A groan escapes your lips as you feel a dull throb on your temple—a reminder of the countless glasses of wine and champagne you indulged in at the gala. But as fragmented images of the evening flood your mind, your headache doesn’t end there.

You kissed Satoru Gojo.

Correction—you kissed the hell out of Satoru Gojo.

Each detail is more vivid than the last—the warmth of his breath, the firmness of his hold, the taste of him, and his soft groan that you swallowed against your lips.

God, it felt too real, too intense.

You sit up in your bed, rubbing your temples as you try to shake off the lingering effects of last night’s revelry, but you can’t ignore the fluttering sensation that stirs within—your cheeks growing hot from the memory.

Ugh. Being hungover and flushed is not a combination you enjoy.

When did Satoru start having such an intense effect on you?

You want to blame it on a lapse of judgement—perhaps the alcohol lowered your inhibitions? Sure, let’s go with that. That feels better than admitting that maybe you secretly wanted to kiss Satoru Gojo.

He’s insufferable after all—you can’t stand him…right?

Fuck, this is confusing.

Why does it feel like there has been a subtle tension between you and Satoru that has been simmering beneath the surface for a while now, each interaction, each glance, adding fuel to the fire?

Every shared look carries an unspoken promise, every touch lingers a fraction too long, leaving your skin tingling and your heart racing. It’s as if you’re both walking a tightrope, balancing on the edge of something profoundly transformative.

Are you imagining things?

Silently cursing yourself, you know these thoughts you’re having will only make things more complicated. This is simply a contract—nothing more.

Transactional. Business.

With a deep sigh, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, hoping to shake off these intrusive throughs with a stretch of your muscles.

If only it were that simple.

Perhaps a shower will help clear your mind—a chance to cleanse yourself from the remnants of last night’s indulgences.

Shuffling towards the bathroom, a yawn escapes your mouth as you rub your eyes tiredly, reaching for the door. But the moment you open it, you freeze in your tracks.

With nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, Satoru stands outside the shower, droplets of water glistening on his bare chest, each bead tracing the defined lines of his muscles. You can’t help but notice the way the water trails down his torso, accentuating every ridge and curve. It’s as if he’s been sculpted from marble, each detail painstakingly crafted to perfection.

For a moment, neither of you move—a stunned silence filling the room as your eyes lock.

His damp hair sticks to his forehead in an almost boyish manner, contrasting sharply with his otherwise commanding presence, and your eyes trail downwards…

Oh.

The smooth contours of his abs carve a path down towards the towel hanging precariously low on his hips, leaving little to the imagination.

Your heart races, and you feel a blush rushing to your cheeks. Your eyes flicker back up to Satoru’s and fuck, he caught you—eyes twinkling with amusement as his lips slowly curl into a self-satisfied grin.

“Good morning to you too. Enjoying the view?”

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as your eyes widen, blinking rapidly, trying to snap yourself out of your daze.

“I... I didn’t realize you were in here,” you stammer, voice higher than usual.

Satoru’s smirk widens as he reaches for an extra towel, rubbing it against his head to dry his hair. He then drapes the towel across his shoulders and meets your gaze with an alluring glint.

“Well, if you wanted to see more, you only had to ask.”

Pressing your lips together in protest, you try to regain some semblance of composure. Satoru had always teased you—don’t take it too seriously, you tell yourself.

Clearing your throat, you advert your gaze, though the crimson hue still remains on your cheeks.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It was an accident—besides, you’re the one who forgot to lock the door.”

Satoru lets out a contemplative hum, feigning innocence as he walks towards the sink.

“Guess I’m not used to sharing a bathroom,” he leans against the counter and crosses his arms, eyes surveying you with a mischievous glint, “You’re to blame too though, could’ve at least knocked. Unless, you were hoping to join me?” he grins.

Your eyes widen, and you can feel the blush creeping up your neck.

“In your dreams, Satoru.”

A low chuckle escapes him as his stare bores into you—oh how he lives for this. Satoru’s always loved seeing you flustered, but this? This is something else entirely, a new level of satisfaction he hadn’t anticipated.

“Sure, sure,” he pauses, then tilts his head to the side. “But you’re still standing there, aren’t you?”

You swallow hard, eyes flickering between his face and his chest, unable to decide where to look. His satisfaction grows with every falter in your gaze, his knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Each glance is a step deeper into a trap of your own making, an unspoken admission that he holds more sway over you than you care to admit.

“Just... put some clothes on, please. And yes, I’m standing here because I’d like to take a shower. Aren’t you done? Why are you still here.”

“Oh sure, I’m done. You can shower, but aren’t you gonna return the favor? Do I get a show too?”

Your breath catches in your throat at his boldness, the heat in your cheeks spreading down your neck. The intensity of his gaze pins you in place, a silent challenge that sends a shiver through your body.

“Not a chance,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “This isn’t some kind of peep show.”

Satoru gives you an annoyingly innocent pout, rubbing his neck with a sly grin, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Tch. Too bad. Would’ve been a great way to start the morning.”

You roll your eyes, pushing past him to get to the shower.

“Out,” you command, pointing towards the door.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, still chuckling as he walks out.

“Alright, alright. Enjoy your shower, princess.”

You lock the door firmly behind him—heart pounding and your thoughts in disarray. As you step into the shower and the warm water cascades over you, you can’t help but replay the scene in your mind, each word and gesture etched vividly in your memory.

He’s just teasing—you remind yourself as you try to push away the fluttering feeling in your chest. Don’t take his words seriously, your relationship is a charade.

You close your eyes, letting the water wash over you, but the confusion remains.

Fuck. This is getting complicated.

ꨄ︎

The moment you close the door firmly behind him, Satoru leans against it for a moment, his smirk fading into a more contemplative expression.

He runs a hand through his hair—the sight of you, wide-eyed and blushing, had done more to him than he cared to admit. Exhaling slowly, he realizes that he’s in deeper than he thought.

As his thoughts drift back to the kiss you had shared at the gala, a familiar heat pools in his lower abdomen. The way your lips had felt against his—soft and inviting—the memory of your taste, the way you fit so perfectly against him…fuck. It stirs something primal within him.

He can’t deny the growing attraction he feels. After seeing you there with your cheeks flushed and your eyes surveying him, he had wanted to pull you closer, to see if your lips were as warm and inviting as he remembered.

Satoru groans as he adjusts his towel, feeling the fabric brush against his growing erection, trying to focus on anything other than the way you looked at him—the way the framework of your sleepwear accentuated your curves, the indent of your nipples peeking through the thin satin of your tank top. God, his desire only intensifies.

The contract was clear—no emotional entanglements. Yet here he was, aroused as his mind is consumed by you. He can’t help but wonder…what would it be like to explore this connection further, to let go, to give in to his curiosity completely.

Would it be so bad to just…fantasize?

He hears the shower turn on from behind the closed door—God, he can just imagine what it would be like to slide his hands all over your bare body.

Reaching down, he unwraps the towel from his waist, his cock slamming against his abdomen as it springs free from confinement. He curses under his breath; this wasn’t supposed to happen. He shouldn’t be thinking of you like this, but he can’t help but reach down and grip the base of his girth—he needs this, he wants this.

He needs you.

A soft groan escapes his lips as he begins to stroke himself, his hand moving slowly as he traces a familiar path over his length. There's a dull thud as Satoru's head hits the door, his eyes fluttering shut as he gives in to his imagination.

He can picture it vividly in his mind, the way the water would slide over your body, the way you'd respond to his touch... fuck, he can practically hear the little gasps and moans that would escape your lips as he touches you, the sounds that would drive him wild.

He bites his bottom lip, his hand moving slowly, trying to be as silent as possible. The thought of you, just on the other side of the door, excites him even more.

His breath comes out in short gasps as he imagines you, wet and wanting under the spray of the shower. The way your body would arch beneath his touch as he slides his digits between your warm walls. The water would run in rivulets down your body and you’d shiver under his touch, whispering his name, begging for more.

His breathing grows heavier as he speeds up his pace, envisioning you on your knees before him, your head bowed in submission, wet and flushed, looking up at him with a half-lidded desire in your eyes.

He wants you so desperately it's painfully evident in every movement—it’s almost too much to bear.

Your name slips from his lips – a desperate plea rather than a simple invocation. Fuck, it feels so good to have your name rolling off his tongue as he does something so indecent.

He can almost feel your hot, wet tongue swirling around his sensitive head, tasting him, savoring him. His free hand trails down to cup his balls, rolling them gently between his fingers as he pumps faster, just as you would while you take every inch of him in your pretty little mouth.

“Fuck…” he hisses through clenched teeth, his pace quickening as he chases the release he so desperately craves.

He shouldn’t be doing this, especially not right outside the bathroom door. But in this moment, he can't bring himself to care. Nothing else matters but you.

He pictures himself taking you right there, pushing you against the tiled wall, claiming your mouth in a fierce kiss as he thrusts himself deep inside you. The image of you quivering in pleasure drives Satoru further into madness. His strokes become erratic, desperate.

Satoru's entire body tenses, muscles coiling tight as he throws his head back. A desperate whine slips past his clenched teeth “Fuck…I’m gonna…”

His hips jerk erratically, pumping his cock in time with the spasms wracking his body. He whimpers as spurt after spurt of hot cum coats his stomach and chest, the sticky fluid painting his skin with evidence of his forbidden desires. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, each syllable punctuated by another forceful stroke as his hand continues to move, milking every last drop.

Panting heavily, he slumps against the door, his heart pounding in his chest while his spent cock twitches with residual pleasure. As he slowly comes back to reality, he realizes what he's done.

This wasn't supposed to happen—he was meant to tease you, not end up teasing himself. But there was no denying the effect you had on him anymore.

Fuck.

What the fuck is he thinking? This can’t happen again.

He needs to take another shower.

ꨄ︎

Stepping out of the shower, you wrap a fluffy towel around your body as the warm steam curls around you. You begin to head back to your room, but the moment you open the bathroom door, you are caught off guard, immediately met by one of the house staff, holding out a freshly laundered robe.

“Good morning, ma’am. Your robe.”

“Thank you,” you hesitate slightly, trying to offer a polite smile.

Taking the robe, you begin to make your way to the walk-in closet, yet another staff member is waiting with a selection of outfits.

"I've picked out a few choices for today's events, Mrs. Gojo."

You take a deep breath, "Thanks, I'll take a look."

It’s barely morning and you already have staff at your beck and call—sure, they mean well, but it’s suffocating. You’re not one for a lot of attention.

As the staff member steps aside, you examine the array of outfits.

Your eyes scan the elegant dresses, tailored suits, and chic ensembles neatly arranged on hangers. It’s not quite as elegant as the gala, but it’s clear that Satoru must have something important planned for the day. Each outfit exudes sophistication and class, far more extravagant than your usual attire.

As you run your fingers over the fabric of a particularly stunning dress, a ball of nerves settles within you. The thrill of wondering what Satoru has in store is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. You select the dress, hoping it aligns with whatever he has planned.

After slipping into the elegant dress, you make your way to your vanity. But just as your fingers curl around the handle of your hairbrush, a maid materializes at your side, yet again.

"Good morning, ma'am. Can I assist you with your hair today?"

Is a moment to yourself too much to ask?

Your headache from last night’s wine lingers, and the incessant stream of people is beginning to fray your nerves—it’s really too much.

Offering another polite smile, you try to mask the mild irritation simmering beneath.

"No, thank you. I can manage.”

The maid nods and steps back, only for another staff member to glide in right behind her, almost as if choreographed.

This one carries a gleaming silver tray adorned with an array of high-end skincare products, each bottle and jar meticulously arranged, their labels promising luxury and perfection.

"Your skincare routine, ma'am."

You close your eyes momentarily, trying to remain patient, your voice as calm as you can manage.

"I appreciate it, really, but I have my own products."

The staff member hesitates, her expression a mix of confusion and professionalism.

"Of course, ma'am," she replies, inclining her head respectfully before retreating.

As the door closes behind her, you release a long, weary sigh. The constant attention is smothering, and you long for the simplicity of your old life.

Those quiet mornings, the sweet solitary moments where you could just… be – without the pressure of performing or living up to impossible standards.

But like it or not, this is your reality now. Guess you’ll just need to find a way to navigate it without losing yourself in the process.

ꨄ︎

By the time you make it downstairs, Haru is already seated at the elegant dining table, her small hands fiddling with her silverware. Satoru sits at the head of the table, reading through some documents.

The table is laden with a lavish breakfast spread—perfectly arranged fruits, pastries, and an assortment of gourmet dishes. The scent threatens to overwhelm you as the lingering effects of last night’s indulgence in wine and champagne churn in your stomach.

"Good morning," Satoru says, glancing up with a grin, looking annoyingly refreshed.

Rubbing the temple of your head, you attempt a tired smile.

“Morning.”

Satoru watches you with amusement as you slide into your seat. The rich aroma of the elaborate breakfast instantly greets your nostrils, prompting a groan to escape your lips.  

"How are you feeling?" he quirks a brow.

"Like I drank half the wine cellar," you grimace.

Satoru leans back in his chair, his grin widening, and Haru giggles, watching you with wide curious eyes as you bury your face in your hands.

“Mama sleepy,” she declares with the wisdom of a two-year-old.

“Yes, Haru…Mama is very sleepy,” you mutter, peaking at her through your fingers. Despite the hangover, that innocent laugh brings a small smile to your face.

Satoru chuckles, setting his documents aside as he reaches for his mug.

"You should’ve stuck to the champagne, lightweight," he teases, bringing his coffee up to his lips.

You shoot him a half-hearted glare.

"Not helping."

A chef sets down a plate of perfectly arranged eggs benedict directly in front of you with a flourish, each element meticulously placed. The aroma wafts up and you instinctively push the plate away.

"Actually, do you have any toast? With jelly?" your voice tinged with a mix of disgust and desperation.

The chef looks momentarily puzzled, a slight furrow forming on his brow, but he nods politely.

"Of course, ma'am."

You abruptly get up, deciding to find it yourself. Making your way to the nearby pantry, you move with purpose as you begin rummaging through the neatly organized shelves. You feel Satoru’s amused gaze following your every move. Turning, you see him leaning back in his chair, a bemused smile playing on his lips as he watches you with evident curiosity.

“You're like a college student after a party. All this gourmet food and you want toast?"

Your fingers brush past jars of exotic spices and imported oils until you finally find what you’re looking for—a simple loaf of bread and a jar of ruby-red jelly. The familiar, comforting sight of them brings a small, satisfied smile to your lips. You turn to Satoru, holding up the items triumphantly.

“I just want something simple.”

As you set the bread and jelly down on the counter, Haru, perched nearby with wide and curious eyes, giggles at the sight.

"Mama wants toast!" she announces gleefully, her little voice echoing through the kitchen like a bell.

A grin curls up your lips as you unclasp the bread bag.

"Yes, mama wants toast," you say, popping a slice into the toaster. Leaning casually against the marble countertop, you shift your gaze to Satoru. “Anyways Mr. Gourmet, what’s the plan for today?”

Satoru leans back, his eyes narrowing playfully as he studies you.

"Well, I was thinking we could go over some things regarding Gojo Corporation. There are a few upcoming projects I’ve been meaning to discuss with you and I’d like your insight."

You arch an eyebrow, mildly caught off guard by the suggestion.

"Really? You usually handle all that on your own."

He nods, the movement slow and deliberate.

"True," he concedes, "but as my wife, I think it’s time you start coming back to the office with me. I want you to be more involved, and it’s important for everyone to see us working together as a team."

Your eyes widen in surprise.

"You want me to be more involved? I’m just a secretary."

Satoru shrugs with a casual air, but there’s a determined edge to his voice that tells you he’s thought this through.

"I’ve taken on a lot more responsibilities lately, and I could use your help. Besides, your insights have always been valuable to me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the sudden pop of the toaster pulls your attention away.  Turning your focus to the toast, you carefully spread jelly across the warm slice, but the task does little to settle the fluttering sensation in your chest.

This is a big ask.

You've always been behind the scenes, a secretary who knew the inner workings but never sat at the table where decisions were made. And now, here he is, trusting you with responsibilities that feel like they belong to someone else—someone more experienced, more confident.

It’s strange, surreal even, that Satoru would entrust you with such a significant role. Even if this is just a charade, this role requires more than just understanding the business. It requires being a partner in the truest sense.

“So…you’re serious about this? Gojo Corporation, we’re doing this together now?” you ask, returning to your seat, your voice carrying a hint of uncertainty as you search his eyes for reassurance.

Satoru nods.

“Absolutely. I think it’s time we show everyone what a true power couple looks like,” he replies, punctuating his words with a wink.

Leaning forward, he rests his chin in the cradle of his hand as he props his elbow casually on the table. His gaze locks onto yours, a glint of something more behind his deep blue eyes.

“Besides,” he continues, his voice softening slightly, “the office just isn’t the same without you.”

You take a slow bite of your toast, savoring the buttery warmth as it spreads across your tongue, but it’s nothing compared to the unexpected warmth blossoming in your chest at his words.

“Yeah, right,” you murmur, “You just want to make me do all the paperwork."

His grin broadens, the corners of his mouth lifting into that familiar, dangerously charming smile that always seems to disarm you.

"Guilty as charged."

Haru reaches out eagerly, her tiny fingers wiggling with impatience.

“Toast!” she demands with all the confidence and adorable assertiveness of a two-year-old.

You tear off a small piece and place it into her eagerly awaiting hand. She takes it with a giggle, her eyes lighting up as she munches happily.

As you lift your toast back up to your lips, you catch Satoru’s gaze lingering on you. There is a subtle shift in his expression—a depth of emotion, a certain tenderness that makes you wonder what he could be thinking.

"What?" you ask, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your tone, though you’re not entirely sure why.

He doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch as a grin tugs at the corners of his lips. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he finally speaks.

"Nothing," he eventually says with a playful yet genuine edge. “It’s just... interesting to see you choose something so ordinary.”

“Sometimes less is more.” you counter, a hint of challenge in your voice. “Besides, not everyone grew up with chefs and staff at their beck and call. It’s a bit much sometimes.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, the smirk widening as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Oh? Are you saying my lifestyle is too much for you?”

You gesture broadly around the lavish room.

"Look at all this,” you exclaim, your voice tinged with a mix of awe and exasperation. “The staff, the gourmet meals, the constant attention. It's like I'm living in a palace. I can't breathe without someone trying to do something for me, and I can’t even cook for Haru without feeling like I'm stepping on someone's toes."

The words spill out before you can catch them, each one landing with a weight you hadn’t fully anticipated. There’s an undercurrent of something deeper in your tone, a tension that has been simmering just below the surface—an unease that you’ve been trying to push aside, but now, in this moment, it bubbles over, impossible to ignore.

Satoru’s gaze sharpens and he arches an eyebrow as he catches the subtle shift in your demeanor.

"You miss cooking?" his voice softening with genuine interest.

“Yeah, I do,” you confess, your voice tinged with a mix of longing and resignation. “It’s one of the few things that makes me feel grounded, like I’m in control of something. Plus, Haru loves my cooking.”

He regards you with an intensity that catches you off guard.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way. You know… you’re welcome to cook whenever you want. This is your home too, after all.”

There’s a brief pause as he seems to mull something over, his eyes distant before snapping back to yours with a newfound determination. He leans forward slightly, his eyes locked onto yours.

“How about this—you cook dinner tonight? I’ll tell the chef to take the night off.”

You blink, momentarily taken aback by the offer.

“You’d really do that?”

"Why not?" he says with a shrug. "This is your home now, for the next year at least. Besides, it’ll be nice to see you in your element, and I’m curious to taste your cooking."

A spark of excitement flickers within you at the idea, the thought of returning to something familiar and comforting lifting your spirits.

“Alright then,” you agree, a playful challenge in your tone. “But don’t complain if it doesn’t meet your gourmet standards.”

“I’m sure it will be perfect,” he responds, his voice filled with a quiet confidence that sends a ripple of anticipation through you.

He leans in closer, his elbow resting on the table as he tilts his head, his intense gaze locking onto yours. The proximity makes your heart skip a beat, the air between you charged with an unspoken connection.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he adds, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for you.

You hold his gaze, trying to maintain your composure, though you can feel a flutter in your chest.

“Just promise me you won’t hover in the kitchen,” you quip, lifting an eyebrow as you lean back slightly, creating a bit of space to steady your racing heart.

Satoru’s grin only widens, a playful glint sparkling in his eyes as he mirrors your movement, leaning back as well.

“No promises. I might want to learn a thing or two."

You cross your arms, challenging him with a smirk and a pointed look.

“You? Help out in the kitchen?”

The disbelief in your voice is clear, though a small smile tugs at your lips. The idea of him, the polished and ever-confident Satoru, navigating the chaos of a kitchen is almost too absurd to imagine.

He laughs, a rich sound that fills the room, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, I can follow directions,” he protests, his grin broadening. “Just tell me what to do.”

You roll your eyes playfully, shaking your head in mock exasperation.

“We’ll see about that,” you quip, though there’s a part of you that’s curious—maybe even hopeful—that he might actually surprise you.

Before you can say more, Haru claps her hands together excitedly, her eyes sparkling with delight.

“Mama cooking! Yay!” she exclaims, bouncing in her highchair.

You laugh softly, ruffling her hair with affection.

“Yes, mama’s cooking tonight,” you confirm, the warmth in your voice mirroring the smile on your face.

Satoru watches the exchange with a softening gaze, a rare moment of quiet sincerity passing over his features. But then, with a stretch that seems to shake off the sentiment, he stands up, rolling his shoulders back.

“In the meantime,” he says, tone shifting back to business, “we should probably get ready to head to the office. There’s a lot we need to cover.”

ꨄ︎

As the car pulls up to the grand entrance of Gojo Corporation, you take a deep breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you.

It feels as though an eternity has passed since you last walked through those imposing doors, yet as you gaze up at the sleek, formidable building, a wave of familiarity washes over you, making it seem as if nothing has changed.

The towering glass structure looms above, its mirrored surface catching the early morning sun and casting a dazzling array of shimmering light that dances across the pavement. The reflections create an almost ethereal glow around the building.

As the sleek glass doors of Gojo Corporation glide open with a quiet whoosh, you and Satoru step through together, hand in hand.

The lobby unfolds before you, just as you remembered—spacious, modern, and a testament to impeccable design.

Polished marble floors stretch out beneath your feet, gleaming like a mirror under the bright, strategically placed lights. The air is filled with a soft, steady hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional click of heels against the floor.

Familiar faces turn towards you, their polite smiles masking the flickers of curiosity and speculation that dance in their eyes. You can feel the weight of their gazes, each glance a blend of respect tinged with a subtle undercurrent of skepticism.

The whispers are almost tangible, a low murmur that follows you as you move further into the lobby, their eyes tracking your every step.

Your hand instinctively tightens around Satoru’s, seeking reassurance in his steady presence. Satoru’s grip is firm yet comforting, his thumb brushing gently against the back of your hand in a silent gesture of support.

He leads you further into the lobby, his posture exuding confidence and ease, as if he’s entirely unbothered by the attention.

Each of your footsteps against the polished floor brings a flood of memories to you. There’s a palpable sense of nostalgia, a bittersweet longing for the simplicity and familiarity of your old workspace.

But everything has changed, hasn’t it?

Now, you’re his wife—at least, that’s the role you must play.

The weight of that title hangs heavy on your shoulders, transforming the once-familiar surroundings into a stage where every glance, every whisper carries a different meaning.

And Satoru—he has changed too.

The carefree son of the CEO you once knew has evolved into a leader in his own right. The transformation is subtle yet profound, etched in the way he carries himself, the way he interacts with the staff, and the way he commands respect without demanding it.

You can see the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders, a mantle he has taken up with a quiet determination.

As you approach the elevators, Satoru’s hand slips from yours, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin as he reaches out to press the button.

The elevator doors slide open with a quiet, mechanical whisper, revealing the sleek, mirrored interior. You both step inside, the soft hum of the elevator filling the space with a steady, soothing rhythm.

Satoru glances at you, his eyes catching the soft light reflecting off the polished walls. There’s a small, reassuring smile on his lips, one that carries a hint of warmth and something deeper—perhaps a silent promise that everything will be alright.

“So,” he begins, his voice casual, though you can sense the underlying focus in his tone, “today we have a meeting regarding a potential corporate merger with Mei-Mei's company.”

“Mei-Mei… I remember her,” you say, your brow furrowing slightly as you search your memory. “Isn't she from that high-end tech company?”

Satoru nods and leans casually against the elevator wall, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly working.

“That’s right,” he confirms, his voice steady and assured. “She’s quite influential in her field, a key player in the tech industry. This merger could be a significant step for us, opening doors to new technologies and markets.”

As his words sink in, you feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. You swallow hard, trying to push down the unease that’s bubbling up inside you.

“Alright. What’s our approach for the meeting?”

Satoru’s eyes meet yours, his gaze steady and reassuring. There’s a quiet confidence in his expression, a belief in your abilities that helps to steady your nerves.

“We’ll present our strengths,” he explains. “We’ll show them what we can bring to the table, the value we offer. Your insights will be invaluable, so don’t hesitate to speak up. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”

You nod, drawing in a deep breath to calm the flutter of nerves in your chest.

“Got it,” you reply, your voice more resolute now, bolstered by his confidence in you.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors glide open to reveal the executive floor, a space imbued with quiet power and understated elegance.

Satoru walks ahead, his stride confident and purposeful, and you follow closely, drawing strength from his unwavering presence.

As you enter the conference room, your eyes immediately land on Mei-Mei, already seated at the expansive table. She’s impeccably dressed, exuding an air of effortless elegance and control.

The moment she spots Satoru, her eyes light up with a warmth that feels just a bit too personal. A slow, sultry smile spreads across her lips as she rises gracefully from her chair.

“Satoru, darling,” she purrs, her voice smooth and honeyed as she glides toward him with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she wants. “It’s been far too long.”

Seeing her in person brings a rush of memories, sharp and unbidden—the sound of her voice, the way she says his name...

Mei-Mei isn’t just any business associate— she’s the woman who was once poised to step into the very role you now occupy.

Satoru’s father had been persistent he consider her for marriage, a match that had been pushed on him relentlessly.

The realization sharpens your senses, and as Mei-Mei continues to hold Satoru’s gaze with practiced ease, you steel yourself, determined not to let old rivalries or lingering doubts shake your confidence.

Satoru smiles politely, his expression composed and unreadable as he extends a hand to her.

“Mei-Mei,” he greets her, his tone smooth and diplomatic. “Always a pleasure.”

Mei-Mei’s eyes flicker with satisfaction as she accepts his hand, her touch light and fleeting, like a whisper of silk.

Her gaze shifts to you as she releases his hand, a spark of curiosity mingling with something more calculated behind her eyes.

“And who might this be?” she inquires, her voice carrying a subtle edge, as if she’s already assessing your worth.

“This is my wife, y/n” Satoru says smoothly, his hand finding yours. “She’ll be joining us for the meeting.”

Mei-Mei’s smile curves at the edges, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which narrow slightly as she studies you more closely.

“Of course,” she says, her tone dripping with courtesy that feels just a shade too polished. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

She pauses, her gaze sharpening with a hint of challenge.

“I must say, I haven’t heard of you before. What family do you come from?”

A twinge of discomfort ripples through you, a reminder of the stark difference in backgrounds. You swallow slightly, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I... I don’t come from a well-known family,” you admit, the words feeling heavier than they should. “I’ve worked with Satoru at Gojo Corporation for the past year.”

Mei-Mei’s smile shifts, the corners of her lips lifting just a fraction, but there’s a condescending glint in her eyes now.

“Oh, I see,” she replies, her voice laced with a faint, dismissive amusement. “How quaint.”

You force a smile, though it feels tight on your lips, refusing to let her patronizing attitude get under your skin.

As you move to take your seat at the table, you watch as she leans in closer to Satoru, her fingers grazing his arm in a gesture that seems almost too casual, too familiar.

“I must say, Satoru,” Mei-Mei purrs, her voice smooth and saccharine, like honey with a hint of venom, “you’ve been doing an impressive job with the company. Your father would be proud.”

Satoru nods, keeping his tone professional.

“Thank you, Mei-Mei. We’ve made some significant strides, and I’m optimistic about the potential this merger holds for both of our companies.”

“Of course, Satoru. I’m sure we can work out something that benefits both parties. After all,” she adds, her gaze lingering on him with a knowing smile, “we’ve always made a great team, haven’t we?”

Determined to assert your own presence, you clear your throat softly and lean forward, your gaze steady and unyielding.

“I’m looking forward to seeing how our strengths can complement each other,” you interject smoothly. “There’s a lot we can achieve together.”

Mei-Mei’s eyes flicker to you. She offers a tight smile, the warmth in her expression barely masking the sharpness beneath.

“Indeed,” she concedes, her tone now laced with a hint of challenge. “Let’s make this a success, shall we?”

The meeting begins, and you do your best to focus on the discussion, but Mei-Mei’s constant flirtation with Satoru gnaws at your nerves like a persistent thorn.

You can feel the tension building within you, your hands clenched tightly in your lap as you force yourself to remain composed, every muscle in your body taut with restraint.

Mei-Mei finds every opportunity to brush her fingers against Satoru’s arm, her touch lingering just a second too long. Her laughter rings out, a bit too loud and a touch too sweet, echoing off the walls of the conference room.

Every compliment she directs at Satoru is overly effusive, dripping with a familiarity that sets your teeth on edge.

Satoru, to his credit, remains the picture of professionalism.

His responses are polite but distant, a carefully maintained detachment that you admire even as it does little to quell the irritation bubbling inside you. He’s skilled at sidestepping her advances with an almost practiced ease, deflecting her attempts to draw him into her web of flirtation.

But despite his composed demeanor, each of Mei-Mei’s calculated gestures feels like a test—a deliberate provocation meant to unsettle you, to remind you of the history that lingers between them.

The subtle, unspoken challenge in her eyes whenever she glances your way only fuels the fire simmering within you.

“So, Satoru,” Mei-Mei says, leaning closer to him, “about the merger terms, I believe we should consider revising the profit-sharing ratio. It would be beneficial for both parties.”

Her tone is persuasive, almost coaxing, as she tilts her head slightly, letting her hair fall in a way that draws attention to the graceful curve of her neck.

But before Satoru can respond, you lean forward, your voice calm yet firm, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Actually, if you look at the numbers, the current ratio is fair and balanced, ensuring both companies benefit equally from this partnership.”

For a split second, annoyance flashes in Mei-Mei’s eyes, a subtle tightening at the corners of her mouth betraying her irritation. But she quickly masks it with a polished smile, her expression smoothing over as if the moment of discord never happened.

“I see,” she replies, her voice still honeyed but with a slight edge. “Well, perhaps we can discuss this further in detail later.”

Satoru, ever the diplomat, nods in agreement, his tone steady and measured.

“We can certainly revisit that point,” he says, his gaze shifting between you and Mei-Mei, acknowledging both perspectives. “But for now, let’s proceed with the agenda.”

As the conversation continues, Mei-Mei’s relentless flirtations with Satoru are becoming more and more unbearable.

Each coy glance she throws Satoru’s way chips away at your composure, and you find it harder and harder to maintain the calm facade you’ve been desperately clinging to.

Just when you think you can’t endure it any longer, Satoru glances at his watch and suggests,

“Let’s take a short break. We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

The words are like a lifeline tossed to a drowning person.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” you mutter, barely managing to keep the tremor out of your voice as you slip out of the room.

The moment you’re out of sight, you quicken your pace, your footsteps echoing in the hallway as you make a beeline for the supply room. The small, confined space offers a momentary refuge from the oppressive atmosphere of the conference room.

As you close the door behind you, the faint scent of paper and office supplies envelops you, oddly comforting in its familiarity, like a reminder of simpler times.

You start to rummage through the supplies, your hands moving automatically as you try to distract yourself from the image of Mei-Mei’s hands brushing against Satoru’s arm, her laughter echoing in your ears.

The memory plays on a loop in your mind, fueling the frustration that bubbles just beneath the surface.

You grab a few items—a stack of sticky notes, a box of paperclips—and begin organizing them on the shelf, your movements precise, almost mechanical.

Moments later, the door creaks open, and you look up to see Satoru standing in the doorway, a nostalgic smile on his face.

“Doesn’t look like you’re taking much of a break.”

“I guess old habits die hard,” your voice clipped, betraying the frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

“Seeing you in here brings back memories,” he continues, stepping further into the room, his gaze sweeping over the shelves as if he, too, is remembering the countless times you’d both found yourselves in this very spot, buried in work and conversation.

The familiarity of it should be comforting, but today, it only amplifies the growing disarray you feel inside. You huff, shaking your head in exasperation.

“Since I’ve been gone, it’s obvious someone isn’t doing the supply order right,” you gesture sharply to the cluttered shelves. “Everything’s out of place.”

He chuckles softly, closing the distance between you with a few steps.

“You always were meticulous about these things. Guess no one can do it quite like you.”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, you turn back to the shelves.

“This whole day has been a mess,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him, the words escaping in a rush of pent-up emotion.

Each item you straighten feels like an attempt to impose order on something far more chaotic than these shelves—a futile effort to regain control in a situation that seems increasingly out of your grasp.

Satoru raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against a shelf, his posture relaxed but his eyes attentive.

“Really? I thought things were going well,” he remarks, a hint of confusion in his voice.

You turn to face him, your frustration bubbling over, no longer containable.

“Well, they’re not,” you snap, the sharpness in your voice surprising even yourself. “This merger? It’s a terrible idea. It’s obvious Mei-Mei is just trying to squeeze as much revenue out of this deal as possible, and you’re letting her.”

Satoru’s teasing expression falters, replaced by one of seriousness. He uncrosses his arms, his posture shifting as he takes a step closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that wasn’t there before.

“What makes you say that?”

You cross your arms defensively, glaring at him.

“The terms she’s proposing are ridiculous. She’s pushing for more than her company deserves.”

“Why didn’t you say something during the meeting?” he counters, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.

You throw your hands up in exasperation, your emotions spilling over.

“How could I?” you quip, the words escaping in a rush. “Mei-Mei was too busy batting her eyelashes and finding any excuse to touch you. Every time I tried to speak, she’d cut me off or distract you with some flirtatious nonsense.”

Satoru’s eyebrow arches, and for a moment, a smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Are you jealous?”

Your cheeks flush involuntarily, and you turn back to the shelves, grabbing a stack of papers and slamming them down with more force than necessary.

“Of course not,” you retort, your voice tinged with frustration. “It’s just... unprofessional.”

He doesn’t back down, the smirk still playing on his lips as he steps closer, closing the distance between you until he’s right in front of you.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous, you know that?” he murmurs, his tone playful, almost affectionate.

That’s the last straw.

Your patience, already worn thin, finally snaps.

“You know what? It's hard enough trying to fit into this world without someone like her treating me like I don’t belong!”

You shove the papers aside, the sound of them scattering across the table punctuating your words, and start to walk past him, needing to escape the confined space.

Satoru’s smirk vanishes as he realizes the depth of your frustration. He grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks, and pulls you back to him. His grip is firm but gentle, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice sincere. “I didn’t realize how much this was bothering you.”

You look up at him, your vision blurring slightly as tears threaten to spill over. The vulnerability you’ve been trying to hold back finally breaks through, and the words tumble out before you can stop them.

“It’s just... it’s not easy being here, Satoru,” you confess, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “I feel out of place, like I don’t belong and I’m constantly being judged. It’s like everyone’s waiting for me to fail.”

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze softening as he studies your face, reading the depth of your distress.

“This isn’t just about Mei-Mei, is it?” he asks gently. “Does this have anything to do with that guy at the gala last night? The one that was overly familiar with you at the bar?”

You blink in surprise, taken aback by his perceptiveness.

“What? No, this is different,” you stammer, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation.

“Is it?” he presses gently, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your back of your hand. “Because I saw how he looked at you. And how uncomfortable you seemed.”

You shake your head, a mixture of frustration and exasperation bubbling to the surface.

“Naoya was just being his usual self, trying to provoke me,” you say dismissively.

“Naoya, huh?” Satoru’s voice hardens slightly, his expression darkening at the mention of the name. “He didn’t just try to provoke you. He was trying to undermine you in front of everyone. Who is that guy to you?”

The intensity in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat, and you can see that Satoru isn’t just curious—he’s genuinely concerned, and more than a little angry.

The protective edge in his voice tells you that he’s not going to let this go easily, and you realize that he’s picking up on more than you’d like to admit.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you weigh your words carefully.

“He’s... he’s Haru’s father,” you finally admit, the words leaving your lips in a hesitant whisper.

Satoru’s eyes widen in shock, the sudden revelation hitting him like a physical blow.

“What? Haru’s father? Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s a sharpness in his tone now, not out of anger, but out of the raw emotion of being blindsided by something so significant.

You drop your gaze, unable to meet his eyes, the weight of your past suddenly feeling like too much to bear.

“I didn’t want to burden you with my past,” you say quietly, your voice thick with regret.

For a moment, there’s silence, thick and heavy between you, and you can feel the tension radiating off him.

But then, gently, he lifts your chin with his fingers, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch is tender, his expression softening as he looks into your eyes, searching for the truth in them.

“You’re not a burden,” he says firmly, his voice steady, leaving no room for doubt. “And Haru is part of your life. That means she’s part of mine now too.”

You hesitate, the weight of his words settling over you as you struggle to find the right response.

“Satoru, I... I just didn’t know how to bring it up,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly with the vulnerability of the confession. “I didn’t want to complicate things. It’s just… I feel like I’m constantly being tested, like I have to prove myself over and over again.”

The words spill out in a rush, the pent-up emotions you’ve been holding back finally breaking free.

He sighs softly, his expression softening as he reaches out, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says, his voice gentle, but there’s an underlying seriousness in his tone. “But we can’t have any more secrets between us during this arrangement. If we’re going to make this work, we need to be honest with each other.”

The sincerity in his eyes, the warmth in his touch—it all combines to create a sense of safety, a reassurance that you’re not alone in this, even if this is just a charade, it’s the comfort you desperately need.

Tears well up in your eyes again, threatening to spill out as your emotions overwhelm you. You nod, swallowing hard to keep your voice steady.

“I understand,” you whisper, “no more secrets.”

Without a word, Satoru pulls you into a gentle embrace, his arms encircling you with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.

He holds you close, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm against your ear. “You do belong, y/n. And I’m not going to let anyone—Mei-Mei, Naoya, or anyone else—make you feel otherwise.”

As he speaks, his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and for a moment, you simply melt into his embrace, letting the warmth and security he provides wash over you.

Your heart races as his hand slowly moves up, fingers gently threading through your hair, his touch so tender it makes your breath hitch. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breath warm against your ear, grounding you in this shared moment of vulnerability.

But then, you pull back slightly, looking up at him, and it’s only then that you truly realize how close you are.

Your faces are mere inches apart, and the intensity in his gaze is almost overwhelming, drawing your attention to the way his eyes flicker down to your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse quickening as you feel the magnetic pull between you, the tension thick in the air.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans in, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours.

Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation building as his lips draw nearer.

But just before they brush against yours, a sliver of doubt crosses your mind—the reality of the situation, reminding you of where you are, and what you are to each other.

You pull back slightly, your voice barely a whisper.

“We should probably head back to the meeting.”

Though you say the words, your voice lacks conviction, betraying your true feelings.

Satoru’s eyes search yours for a moment longer, his forehead resting gently against yours as he takes a deep breath, the sound filled with a mix of reluctance and understanding.

He slowly pulls back, his hand lingering on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“Yeah, we should,” he agrees softly, though his tone carries the weight of unspoken emotions.

His hand slips from your cheek, the absence of his touch leaving you feeling a bit colder.

“Let’s get back to it.”

ꨄ︎

As you re-enter the conference room, Mei-Mei is already seated, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently on the table.

She looks up as you and Satoru take your seats, a sly, knowing smile playing on her lips.

“Ah, there you are,” she says, her tone dripping with faux sweetness, the honeyed edge barely masking the underlying condescension. “Shall we continue?”

Satoru clears his throat, his expression carefully neutral as he regains his composure. There’s a subtle shift in his demeanor, a steely resolve that wasn’t there before.

“Right, let’s continue where we left off.”

Mei-Mei’s smile deepens, saccharine sweet and just as poisonous, as she resumes her position with an air of unshakable confidence.

She leans forward slightly, her fingers stilling as she clasps her hands together, a picture of poised professionalism.

“Of course,” she purrs. “Now, as I was saying, the merger terms we’re proposing are quite favorable, especially considering the current market conditions. I’m confident that with a little cooperation, we can reach a mutually beneficial agreement. Perhaps we can revisit the profit-sharing ratio?”

Her words are delivered with the precision of someone who’s used to getting her way, but you can feel the subtle shift in her gaze as it flickers toward you, her eyes cold and calculating.

You glance at Satoru, seeking the silent reassurance that only he can offer in this moment.

He meets your gaze and gives you a subtle nod, the unspoken signal you’ve been waiting for. Your heart pounds in your chest, the adrenaline surging as you realize that this is your moment.

It’s now or never.

Summoning every ounce of courage within you, you rise from your seat, your voice steady and clear as it cuts through the tension in the room.

“Actually, we’ve reconsidered,” you begin, each word carefully measured. “After reviewing the terms, we’ve decided that moving forward with this merger is not in the best interest of Gojo Corporation.”

Mei-Mei’s eyes widen in surprise, her carefully crafted facade slipping for just a fraction of a second. The shock in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it, the brief crack in her confidence before she quickly regains her composure.

“Excuse me?” she demands, her voice sharp with incredulity. “Are you saying you’re rejecting our proposal?”

You meet her gaze unflinchingly, standing firm with a resolve that surprises even you.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” you reply, your voice steady and unyielding. “The terms you’re proposing are not equitable, and it’s clear that your company stands to gain disproportionately from this deal. We’re not interested in a partnership that doesn’t offer balanced benefits.”

Mei-Mei’s smile tightens, the corners of her lips pulling into a strained curve as she processes your words. Her composure is slipping, the veneer of control cracking as she realizes she’s losing her grip on the situation.

Desperation flickers in her eyes as she glances toward Satoru, clearly hoping to find an ally in him.

“Satoru,” her tone laced with forced sweetness, “surely we can discuss this further—”

“I trust my wife’s judgment completely,” Satoru leans back in his chair with a calm confidence, a proud smile playing on his lips as he watches you take control of the situation. “If she says the deal isn’t right for us, then we won’t proceed.”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for negotiation and the impact of his words is immediate.

Mei-Mei’s expression falters, the last traces of her confident facade slipping away as frustration and disbelief flicker in her eyes. She forces a tight smile, nodding curtly, her eyes hardening.

“I see. Well, it’s your loss. Our offer was quite generous.”

You hold her gaze, unflinching.

“We’ll find another opportunity that aligns better with our goals. Thank you for your time.”

Mei-Mei’s eyes narrow slightly, but she says nothing more. Instead, she gathers her things with an icy precision, each movement deliberate as she rises from her seat.

The tension in the room is palpable as she turns on her heel and strides toward the door, her demeanor frosty, the sting of defeat evident in her rigid posture. The door closes behind her with a soft click, the sound echoing in the suddenly quiet room.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the tension slowly melting away as a surge of relief and empowerment floods through you.

The adrenaline rush of standing your ground leaves you feeling both exhilarated and slightly shaky, but there’s also a newfound confidence simmering beneath the surface—a realization that you’re more than capable of handling whatever comes your way.

Satoru turns to you, his smile widening with pride as he meets your gaze.

“You handled that perfectly,” the warmth in his voice is like a reassuring embrace.

You return his smile, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over you.

“Thanks. I guess I just needed to find my voice.”

And find it you did.

ꨄ︎

As the sun begins to set, it casts a warm, golden glow through the expansive windows of the Gojo residence kitchen.

The light dances across the sleek, modern space, highlighting the clean lines of stainless-steel appliances and the smooth, cool surface of marble countertops.

You stand at the kitchen island, surrounded by a colorful array of ingredients—vibrant tomatoes, fragrant basil, and glistening cuts of meat, each carefully selected for the evening’s meal.

Satoru walks in, rolling up his sleeves with a playful grin lighting up his face.

“So, Chef,” he says with a teasing lilt in his voice, leaning casually against the counter as he takes in the scene before him. His blue eyes sparkle with excitement, “What’s on the menu tonight?”

You glance up from the cutting board, catching his gaze.

There’s a lightness in his demeanor, a boyish enthusiasm that makes you smile in return. The way he looks at you—like you’re the most interesting part of his day—sends a flutter of warmth through your chest.

“Nothing fancy. Just some homemade pasta and a simple salad. I hope that’s okay with you, Mr. Gourmet.”

“Sounds perfect,” he grins, moving to your side, ready to help. “What can I do?”

You hand him a cutting board and a knife, pointing to a colorful pile of vegetables waiting to be prepped.

“You can start by chopping these for the salad.”

He takes the knife, looking at it a bit awkwardly and glances at you with a sheepish grin.

“Alright, let’s see if I remember how to do this without losing a finger.”

You can’t help but watch with amusement as he makes a few tentative cuts, each slice uneven and clumsy. It’s clear he’s out of practice—or perhaps he never had much to begin with.

The sight of him, usually so confident, struggling with something so simple brings a smile to your face.

“Here, let me show you,” you say, moving to stand beside him.

Sliding closer, you place your hand over his on the knife handle, your touch gentle yet firm.

“You want to keep your fingers tucked in like this,” you instruct, demonstrating with your own hand, ensuring his fingers are safely out of the knife’s path. “And use a rocking motion with the knife, letting the blade do the work.”

You move his hand with yours, the rhythm of the knife creating a soothing pattern.

Satoru watches you intently, the proximity making your heart race. The warmth of his hand beneath yours sends a shiver up your spine.

As you continue to guide him, your hands move together in sync, and you can’t help but notice the way his focus shifts from the vegetables to you, his blue eyes flickering with something deeper than just concentration.

“Got it,” he murmurs softly.

You continue to guide his hand, feeling the rhythm of the chopping become smoother.

“Like this?”

“Exactly,” you reply, meeting his gaze, your heart fluttering at the intensity in his eyes. “See? It’s not so hard once you get the hang of it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes remain locked on yours, a playful spark mingling with the more serious undercurrent in his expression.

“Not hard at all, especially with such a good teacher.”

The moment lingers, the air between you charged with a newfound intimacy. Reluctantly, you step back, breaking the spell as you release your hold on the knife.

“I think you’ve got it from here.”

Satoru nods, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he returns to the vegetables with a newfound determination.

There is a new awareness in the way he handles the knife, as if he’s carrying forward the memory of your touch.

The two of you work in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the sizzle of garlic in the pan.

It feels oddly domestic, a far cry from the high-stakes world of corporate mergers and charity galas.

The simplicity of this moment, shared in the soft light of the kitchen, is a refreshing contrast to the complexities of your usual lives.

“You know, I never imagined I’d be doing something like this,” Satoru admits after a while, his voice breaking the silence. “But I’m glad I am.”

You glance over at him, catching the sincerity in his eyes, and you can’t help but smile.

“Cooking is kind of therapeutic for me, you know,” you say, your voice thoughtful as you turn your attention back to the task at hand. “It helps me clear my mind, and it’s something I can control, unlike so many other things in life.”

Satoru watches you for a moment, his expression softening as he absorbs your words. There’s a quiet admiration in his gaze, one that you can feel even without looking at him.

“You know, I gotta say, you’re really good at this.”

“Hm? Cooking?” you ask, glancing up at him with a curious tilt of your head.

“No,” his voice softens. “Balancing everything. Being a mother, dealing with me, and now standing up in that meeting. You’re incredible.”

His words catch you off guard, the sincerity in his tone wrapping around your heart like a warm embrace.

Your cheeks flush at the unexpected compliment, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the heat of the stove.

For a moment, you’re at a loss for words, the gravity of his praise settling in. You turn your attention back to the stove, stirring the sauce with a renewed focus, using the task to steady yourself.

“Thanks, Satoru,” you finally manage. “That means a lot.”

As you continue to cook, the tension of the day begins to melt away, replaced by a sense of calm that settles over you like a warm blanket.

The kitchen fills with the rich, mouthwatering aroma of simmering tomatoes, fresh basil, and garlic, the scents mingling together to create an atmosphere that feels both comforting and intimate.

Satoru moves beside you with surprising grace, each motion purposeful and smooth, belying his earlier claims of inexperience.

You find yourself stealing glances at him, admiring the way his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the toned muscles of his forearms as he works.

There’s a quiet concentration in his expression, a focus that draws you in, making it impossible not to notice the way he’s completely absorbed in the task at hand.

“Looks like you’re a natural.”

Your words earn you a grin, his usual playfulness shining through.

“Don’t jinx it,” he warns, making a particularly precise cut with the knife, his movements confident and sure.

You laugh, the sound light and carefree as you turn back to the sauce simmering on the stove.

“I think it’s time to taste this,” you say, stirring the rich, fragrant mixture with a wooden spoon. “Want to give it a try?”

Satoru nods, stepping closer, the space between you narrowing as he joins you at the stove.

You scoop a bit of the sauce onto a spoon, blowing on it gently to cool it down before lifting it to your lips for a taste. The rich, tangy flavors explode on your tongue, the perfect balance of sweetness and acidity.

“Mmm, I think it’s almost perfect,” you murmur, savoring the taste, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you let the flavors linger.

“Almost?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of challenge.

You smile, opening your eyes to find his gaze fixed on you, the intensity in his blue eyes sending a shiver down your spine.

“Here, taste,” you say, holding the spoon up to his lips, your hand steady.

He leans in, his movements slow and deliberate, every inch closer making your heart beat a little faster. His eyes remain locked on yours with an unspoken intensity, and as his lips close around the spoon, you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his reaction.

There’s a brief pause as he savors the sauce, his expression thoughtful.

“Wow, that’s delicious,” his voice low and sincere.

Just as you’re about to smile in response, you feel a light touch on your lip. Before you can react, Satoru reaches out, his thumb gently swiping at the corner of your mouth where a bit of sauce had lingered.

The unexpected contact sends a jolt of electricity through you, your breath catching in your throat.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his thumb to his own lips, tasting the sauce with a playful smirk that leaves you momentarily speechless.

“Now that’s perfect.”

The simple gesture, so intimate and unassuming, leaves you flustered, warmth spreading through your cheeks.

The kitchen seemed to grow smaller and the air thicker.

You quickly turn your attention back to stirring the pasta, desperately trying to steady your racing heart and regain your composure as you move the spoon in slow, deliberate circles.

“You always know how to make things interesting,” you manage to say, your voice betraying the flutter of nerves that Satoru has stirred up.

He chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through the small space between you, and you feel him step closer until his chest is nearly brushing against your back.

The warmth of his presence wraps around you, cocooning you in a sense of comfort and something more—something electric.

“I could say the same about you,” his breath warm against your ear.

You turn slightly, your breath catching as you realize just how close he is. His blue eyes, so focused and intense, lock onto yours, and the world seems to narrow to just the two of you.

Satoru leans in, his voice dropping to a soft murmur that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You have a way of making everything more exciting, y/n.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry as your eyes flicker to his lips and then back to his eyes.

The pull between you is magnetic, undeniable, and you struggle to maintain your composure.

“Maybe it’s just because you’re so easily entertained,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to diffuse the intensity of the moment with a hint of playfulness.

He grins, the expression sending your heart into a wild flutter.

Slowly, his hand moves to rest on the counter beside you, effectively trapping you in place. The gesture is subtle yet commanding, his body language exuding a quiet confidence that leaves you feeling both exhilarated and breathless.

“Or maybe it’s because you’re just that captivating,” he counters, his voice a hushed rumble that sends another wave of warmth through you.

“Okaaay, Mr. Smooth Talker,” you manage to say, your voice tinged with nervous laughter as you attempt to regain some semblance of control. “How about you help me with the garlic bread?”

The suggestion is your lifeline, a way to shift the focus and calm your racing heart before you’re completely lost in the moment.

Satoru’s grin widens, clearly enjoying your flustered state.

“Whatever you need, Chef,” he replies, his tone lightening as he pushes away from the counter and moves to the other side of the kitchen.

The distance between you offers a brief reprieve, allowing you to steady your breathing and refocus on the task at hand.

Get it together—this isn’t real.

ꨄ︎

The table is set with a simple elegance that mirrors the meal you’ve prepared—fresh pasta topped with a rich, fragrant tomato sauce, golden garlic bread still warm from the oven, and a crisp, colorful salad that adds a splash of vibrancy to the setting.

Haru, already seated with her eyes wide in anticipation, swings her little legs under the table, her excitement palpable.

“Mama, pasta!” she exclaims, her voice filled with childlike wonder.

Her gaze flickers from the steaming plates to the basket of garlic bread, her small hands already reaching for a slice as if she can hardly wait another moment.

Satoru chuckles as he takes his seat beside her, his smile widening at the sight of her enthusiasm.

“Patience, Haru,” he teases, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Let’s wait for your mama to sit down.”

You join them at the table, a soft smile playing on your lips as you take in the scene.

Carefully, you begin to serve the plates, starting with Haru. You scoop a generous portion of pasta onto her plate, the rich tomato sauce clinging perfectly to the tender strands.

“There you go, sweetie,” you say with a smile, placing the plate in front of her. “But remember, eat slowly, okay? We have all the time in the world.”

Haru nods eagerly, though you can tell she’s barely restraining herself. Her little fingers curl around her fork, her eyes never leaving the plate as she prepares to dive in.

Next, you turn to Satoru, serving him a plate with equal care.

The pasta glistens under the soft light, the aroma of garlic and herbs wafting up as you set it before him.

As you place the plate down, his eyes meet yours, and in that brief moment, there’s a silent exchange—one of gratitude, warmth, and something deeper, something unspoken but understood.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You nod in response, your heart warming at the connection between you, simple yet profound.

Meanwhile, Haru’s eyes widen even further as she finally takes her first bite.

The flavors burst in her mouth, her little face lighting up with pure delight. She chews enthusiastically, her expression one of sheer happiness, and you can’t help but smile at her reaction.

“Yummy!” she declares, her mouth full as she grins up at you.

Her words are filled with such genuine enthusiasm and innocence that it makes your heart swell with pride.

Satoru watches Haru with a fond smile before he too takes a bite of the meal you’ve lovingly prepared.

His expression shifts almost immediately to one of pleasant surprise, his eyes widening slightly as the flavors settle on his palate. He chews thoughtfully, savoring the blend of fresh ingredients and the care that went into the preparation.

“She’s right. This is amazing, you really outdid yourself.”

A smile spreads across your face, a warmth blooming in your chest at their praise.

It’s a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but the way they’re enjoying it makes it feel like the most special dinner in the world.

“I’m glad you both like it. It’s nice to be able to cook for you.”

As you begin to eat, the room fills with the sounds of contentment—Haru’s happy chatter as she dives into her meal, Satoru’s occasional hum of approval as he tastes each dish, and the gentle clinking of cutlery against plates.

The meal continues and the three of you fall into an easy rhythm, the conversation flowing naturally.

Haru tells stories about her day, her voice animated as she shares every little detail. Satoru listens attentively, his focus on her unwavering, his smile growing with each of her excited exclamations.

At one point, Haru insists on feeding Satoru a bite of her pasta, her giggles bubbling up like a stream as she carefully maneuvers the fork towards his mouth.

Satoru, ever the playful one, exaggerates the motion, opening his mouth wide and making a show of how delicious the bite is. He rolls his eyes in mock ecstasy, his exaggerated reaction sending Haru into a fit of laughter that rings out like the purest music.

The way Satoru looks at Haru, with such genuine affection and warmth, causes a tightness in your chest—a beautiful, almost overwhelming sensation that swells within you.

His eyes are soft, his smile unguarded, and in that moment, you can see just how much he cherishes these little interactions with her.

It’s a sight that tugs at your heartstrings, making you realize just how deeply he’s become entwined in both your lives.

Taking in this moment, you feel a deep sense of contentment, a quiet happiness that fills your heart to the brim.

This scene, so ordinary yet so special, feels like a moment you want to hold onto forever.

It is a culmination of everything you’ve been striving for—a sense of belonging, of family, of home.

Ah, but this isn’t real—just a charade.

Just as this warmth settles in your heart, a pang of bittersweetness follows.

Yet, despite knowing the truth, you can’t help but wish, just for a moment, that it could be.

Haru, now tired from all the excitement, leans against Satoru, her small head resting on his arm. Her eyelids grow heavy, her earlier energy now spent, and she begins to drift off, her breaths becoming slow and rhythmic.

Satoru glances at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

“You know,” he begins, his voice low and sincere, “I could get used to this. We should cook more often. Sharing meals like this... it’s nice.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a second, the line between reality and pretense blurs. You nod, but your mind races.

This is just a charade… right?

Yet, as you look into Satoru’s eyes, the warmth there makes you question everything. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of him that feels the same way you do—a longing for this to be more than just an act.

ꨄ︎

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the curtains of the Gojo mansion, casting a warm golden grown across the living room.

You sit on the couch as Haru plays on the floor, completely absorbed in her toys, her little hands guiding her dolls through an imagined world of adventure and make-believe.

Her soft giggles and murmured conversations with her toys bring a smile to your face, filling the room with a sense of peace and contentment.

Satoru had business to attend to, and before leaving, he made sure you had the rest of the day to spend with Haru.

It’s a rare and treasured opportunity, these quiet hours spent together, free from the demands of the outside world.

As you watch Haru, you feel a deep sense of gratitude for this time—this simple, unhurried togetherness that feels so rare in your often chaotic lives.

But then, the doorbell rings, cutting through the tranquility like a sharp knife.

You glance toward the door, your heart giving a slight, uneasy flutter.

Pushing aside the apprehension creeping into your chest, you rise from the couch, taking a steadying breath as you approach the door.

When you open it, you’re met with the sight of a stern-looking man in a crisp suit, his expression as unyielding as his posture.

There’s something about his demeanor that instantly puts you on edge. He’s holding an envelope in one hand, his grip firm, almost as if the paper holds some kind of weight beyond its physical presence.

“Mrs. Gojo?” he asks, his voice flat, businesslike.

The formal tone sends a shiver down your spine, and you nod cautiously, a sense of dread unfurling in the pit of your stomach.

“Yes, that’s me,” you reply, your voice a little more tentative than you’d like.

Without another word, he thrusts the envelope into your hands, his gaze unwavering as he says,

“You’ve been served.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and ominous. Your fingers tighten around the envelope as confusion and alarm spike within you.

“Served? For what?” you ask, your voice betraying the anxiety that’s quickly rising.

The man’s expression remains unchanged, impassive.

“Custody of Haru. Mr. Naoya Zenin is filing for full custody,” he states matter-of-factly, as if it’s just another routine task for him, another case on a long list.

The shock of his words hits you like a physical blow, your breath catching in your throat.

For a moment, you stand there frozen, the reality of the situation slowly sinking in as he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving you standing in the doorway, the envelope clutched tightly in your hand.

This can’t be happening.

With trembling hands, you tear open the envelope, your eyes darting across the densely packed lines of legal jargon. Each word seems to blur into the next as your heart pounds furiously in your chest.

This is happening.

A cold wave of dread washes over you, settling deep in your bones as the reality of the situation begins to take hold.

Just a few feet away, Haru is still playing in the living room, her laughter and cheerful babble a stark contrast to the turmoil that’s unraveling in your mind.

She’s completely oblivious to the storm that’s brewing, her innocence a painful reminder of what’s at stake.

As you stand there, frozen in place, your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your daze.

You glance down at the screen, your stomach knotting as you see Naoya’s name flash across it. With a sense of dread, you unlock the phone and read the message.

Naoya Zenin: There, hopefully I finally have your attention. I suggest giving me a call if you want to avoid this all.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, a toxic mix of fear and anger bubbling up inside you.

Your hands shake uncontrollably as you stare at the message, the smugness practically oozing from each word.

You force yourself to take a deep breath, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume you.

With shaky fingers, you dial Naoya’s number. Each ring feels like an eternity, and when he finally answers, his voice is dripping with satisfaction.

“Y/n, I was wondering when you’d call,” he purrs, his tone as smooth as ever, but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of smugness.

“What the hell is this, Naoya?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and fear. “You’re filing for full custody of Haru?”

There’s a pause, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice when he finally responds. He chuckles softly, the sound sending chills down your spine.

“I see you got my notice. Good. It’s time we discussed Haru’s future.”

The casual tone in his voice, as if this is just another business deal, ignites a fire within you. But before you can respond, he continues, his voice turning colder.

“I’m sending you an address. Meet me here tomorrow. Oh, and y/n.” his voice drops, becoming even more sinister, “I strongly suggest you don’t involve Satoru—unless you want this to become a nasty custody battle.”

His words hang in the air, a thinly veiled threat that tightens around your chest like a vice.

You stand there, phone in hand, the weight of his ultimatum pressing down on you.

The line goes dead.

strap in guys we are approaching some angst 🥺 oh if only reader knew how down bad satoru is for her 🥲 i actually really struggled with how i wanted this chapter to be structured, there are a lot of scenes i ended up writing that i opted to move to a later chapter because i just felt it was too rushed. the slow burn of this relationship is really important to me, so ultimately, i think it was for the best. would love to hear your thoughts! thanks for reading my fic 🫶🏻 → onto the next chapter ꨄ

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