#now ask her to beg for a seat for you

[saatorus]

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.���

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

[fushiguho]

roommate! choso is being awfully mean! maybe he’s just jealous that you’re seeing other people after you’ve let him cum inside you how many times? </3

warnings dom! choso, fem! reader, mean/bully choso, breeding, possessive, unprotected sex, mentions of cheating, mentions of impregnating the reader and keeping her forever, implied free use, spitting in mouth, choso has a filthy mouth

“where are you going now?”

briefly, you glance up from the makeup palette in your hand. choso’s hard, darkened gaze catches yours in the mirror of your vanity. he leans against the wooden frame of your bedroom door with his arms crossed over his chest, eyeing you silently as you doll yourself up. you smile cheekily, patting your cheeks with blush.

“on a date.” you hum.

“with that loser?”

you scoff, rolling your eyes at his predictable bitterness. what a jealous fuck, you think as you turn away to fish for a tube of lipgloss. his feet patter softly as he creeps further into your girlishly ornamented room. an enervated sigh parts your lips when he plops a seat at the edge of your bed, sitting adjacent to you.

“is that what you’re wearing?” he muses. something unreadable mars his face as he reaches over, tugging at the thin fabric of your tiny silk dress. “bit much for a second date, huh?”

god, he is just so painfully in love jealous that it’s ripping him in two. he hates the way you smell, the way you do your hair, the way you giggle at everything. he almost can’t stand to watch as you play dress up for a man who doesn’t even fuck you properly—not to choso’s standards anyway.

after the first date you brought the man home, and much to both of your dismay, you were greeted with choso’s unwelcoming presence—a slender and shirtless frame sprawled across the couch like the damn man of the house. he held a can of soda and a glowering snarl that he hoped would ward the loser off.

but later that night, he could make out the sounds of your pleasureful cries as they bled through your bedroom walls. he felt sick to his stomach, but then he could hear the way you mistakenly moaned his name instead, and it ruined him. he stroked his poor, aching cock so angrily that night, nothing evident but you.

that loser wouldn’t push you up the bathroom sink and yank your panties down. he wouldn’t whisper horrible things into your ear while fingering that pretty, aching pussy. definitely wouldn’t rub your clit so sloppy that you’re begging to feel his cock instead. choso knows he’s the only man that will fuck you the way that slutty cunt deserves.

“does he know that you let me fuck you like a slut?” choso asks offhandedly. he’s mindlessly twirling one of your makeup brushes between his fingers, chin resting within the palm of his opposing hand. “and that you begged me to cum inside of you like what… an hour before your first date?”

you smooth your hands down your dress, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. choso is brash and bitter and impolite and you made the honest mistake of falling for him; now you can’t seem to get rid him. you’re addicted and he knows it—knows he’s the only one that’s ever made you cum, the only one that’s seen the way you really like to fuck.

“you should tell him,” he’s closer now, button nose pressed to your cheek, inhaling. “think he’d stay with you if he knew that his new little girlfriend was letting her roommate cum inside of her pussy, huh?”

“c— choso, he’s on his way, please.”

“he’ll just have to fucking wait then, won’t he?”

a big, cunning hand is spreading your thighs and cupping your bare pussy. choso gasps, utterly staggered by the sudden warmth of your sticky arousal and how it’s drooooling down the palm of his hand. you can’t help but to bite your lip, swallowing the pathetic little whimper that sits in your chest.

“were you gonna let him fuck you in this?” as one of his big hands trail beneath the fabric of your dress, you nod. “yeah? were you gonna let him pull your dress up like this and fuck that pretty little pussy?”

“yes,” it’s only a breath as you roll your hips into his hand, chasing that warm, delicious friction. “but i want it to be you… wan’ you to f-fuck me. he doesn’t touch me right.”

“i know, baby,” he coos, holding out his hands for you. “he’s a fucking loser, isn’t he?”

a loud, assenting whimper leaves you as you clamber over to him. choso grins widely, something wicked flickering in his darkened gaze as he pulls you onto his lap. he audibly inhales your scent before groaning into your skin. warm, calloused hands creep further up your dress, silky fabric bunching around your waist. you’re dizzy off of his touch, head spinning like a record as you arch into his embrace. god, you’re perfect like this.

this always feels so right and you hate it. you hate the way he smells, the way you let him touch you, the way he makes you feel. you hate how the palpable thud of your heart beats somewhere much deeper, much more aching. and you hate that he knows how to get you so fucking wet that you’re crying to feel his big, pretty cock inside of you.

“please just fuck me,” you’re just whining so perfectly for him while you impatiently fist the waistband of his sweats. “choso, please?” you sound hungry, much like your gaze and eager hands as you successfully bare his long, pretty shaft. “i want it… wanna feel your cock before he gets here.”

“yeah? you want me to ruin that pussy before you go? you’re so wet for it,” the entirety of his palm is sliding between your swollen, glossy lips and you shudder. “you missed my cock, huh?” the smile that cracks along his face is unmistakably possessive.

your arousal drips from his fingers like honey as he grips the base of his hooked shaft, indulgently slathering your essence down to his balls. another big hand claims your hip, forcing you up to hover over the glistening head of his cock, slick dripping. choso slaps his sticky tip against your sloppy entrance thrice before sinking deeeep inside of your cunt in one, mean thrust.

he holds you still, toned arms wrapped near possessively around your body so that he can fuck you in place. you’re swallowing all of his long, intentional thrusts, that pretty pussy sucking him in so fucking deep that you’ve forgotten why you even wanted to move on in the first place.

choso lets off a deep, gutteral moan while grazing his teeth over the column of your throat. he licks your skin hungrily, his tongue so hot and wet that it makes you tighten around him in a horrendous need. arousal drips from your perfectly stuffed cunt down to the fat of his balls as they slap against your ass in loud, audible plaps!

“you’re mine,” choso breathes, fingers latching to the nape of your neck. “forever, you hear me? you’ll never escape me,” he’s forcing your head back to mark up your throat. a hand pulls you closer, deepening your pretty little arch. “don’t care how many fucking men you bring over here… you’ll just have to explain to them why you’ve already got someone else’s cum inside of you, won’t you?”

you gasp, brows furrowing in arousal. “cho, you’re s-so mean,”

“and he’s too fucking nice… you don’t like nice guys, they don’t fuck like this,” choso’s thumb drags over your aching clit and you whine into his ear. “he will never fuck you the way i do. god, does he even know that you like to get fucked like a w-whore, huh?” his lips settle against the warm spot that pulses below your jaw. “do you beg him to fuck you harder? deeper?”

“n-no, fuck… c— chosooo,”

“probably fucks you like you’re made of porcelain—too scared to break you but little does he fucking know.”

choso’s hand closes around your throat and you moan, pretty eyes threatening to cross like such a slut. he squeezes the sides of your neck, slender fingers creeping up your jaw. the pad of his thumb is prying your mouth open and rivulets of drool cascade down his hand. he kisses you sloppily, groaning into your honeyed mouth while tasting your saliva. for a moment he pulls away, a shiny wisp of spit tethering your bottom lips together.

“open your mouth,” he mutters, squishing your cheeks.

and you do, that wet, pretty tongue lolling out so obediently while you wait for his next command. choso’s fingers are threading throughout the hair at your nape, drawing your head back. his darkened gaze catches yours, holding the cruel contact while spitting into your awaiting mouth. a nasty, guttural sound leaves him as he begins to suck on your tongue, kissing you hungrily.

you’re a wreck, crying and whimpering around his cock like such a nasty girl while he fucks you from beneath, muttering nothing but filth into your ear. he’s stretching you out completely, his long, curved shaft fucking to the very back of your sloppy cunt like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. and his hand are everywhere—wrapping around your throat, pulling at the fat of your ass, spreading you apart, and grazing over your hard, sensitive nipples.

“i wanna cummm,” you whimper. a cloud of dizzying arousal swirls in your tummy, your wet, aching pussy tightening around his cock so desperately. “wanna cum with you, please? choso, wanna feel your cum while i cum…”

“yeaaah, you want me to breed that pussy?” his cock throbs when you nod to him, balls tightening unbearably. “should just knock you up and keep you here forever… bear all my fucking kids, huhhh?”

the thought of bearing his children alone is what has you gushing down the length of his cock without warning. you’re gone, rutting your hips and arching your back like the greedy little thing he knows you are. you’re making such a mess, arousal trickling down to his balls, and it’s the feeling of your sloppy orgasm that has choso spilling a hot, syrupy load inside of your pulsing cunt.

“take it, take it… take all of my f-fucking cum, baby,” his hips stutter, breath hitching as he stuffs his face into the crook of your neck, hungrily biting your skin and growling. “you’re allll fucking mine—mine to fuck, mine to breed, mine to use whenever i want, yeah?”

choso nods your head for you, fingers digging into your cheeks while forcing your head up and down. pleased, he slips himself out of you to set you onto your bed, kindly pulling your dress back into place. a cruel smile plays his lips as you press your thighs together, knowing that his cum is leaking from your pretty little hole and surely staining the silk of your dress.

a loud knock at the front door makes you gasp, choso smiles.

“tell that loser i said hey.”

[fear-is-truth]

loser bf! RODRICK HEFFLEY hc

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw﹒headcanons

loser bf!rodrick, who makes a huge show of pda whenever his brother is around. he’ll sling his arm around your shoulder and be like, “yeah, greg. my girlfriend. isn’t she hot?” greg is still fully convinced rodrick’s paying you to be his fake girlfriend, though he has no idea where he’s got the money.

loser bf!rodrick, who lets you sit in on band practice and tries so hard to keep it together, but the second his bandmates start flirting with you, he completely falls apart. his drumming gets so off-tempo that they have to stop and start over.

loser bf!rodrick, who lent you his algebra textbook and completely forgot he’d been doodling your name with his last name all over the margins. when you handed it back, smirking, he looked like he wanted to die.

loser bf!rodrick, whose idea of a date is a night drive to the gas station, where you both load up on slushies and hot dogs. you sit in the parking lot and steal bites off each other’s food (even though you have the same toppings)

loser bf!rodrick, who awkwardly asked his mom to use the “nice-smelling” laundry detergent on his shirts because he knows you like to steal them after having sex and he doesn’t want you thinking he’s gross.

loser bf!rodrick, whose mom acts like you’re already part of the family, offering you snacks and calling you “sweetie” every time you visit. she loves to (unintentionally) embarrassing her eldest son by showing you all of his baby pictures. all the while rodrick hides in the basement.

loser bf!rodrick, whose dad corners you during family dinners and awkwardly tries to sell you on how “rodrick is really a fine young man, despite, uh… some quirks.” you just nod politely while rodrick sits there, sinking into his chair with a beet-red face.

loser bf!rodrick, whose bandmates are constantly making moves on you, asking if you “need anything” during practice or offering to carry your stuff. rodrick will get so pissed that he threatens to kick them out of the band. you think it’s hilarious how defensive he gets.

loser bf!rodrick, who always gives you the front seat in his van, no questions asked. greg has to squish in the back with the instruments, too bad lol.

loser bf!rodrick, who pretends to be terrible at eyeliner just so you’ll do it for him. in return, he paints your nails—or you can also paint his (in exclusively black).

loser bf!rodrick, who acts reluctant whenever you drag him into photobooths at the mall. the two of you end up making the dumbest faces before you lean in and kiss him right on the mouth… with tongue.

loser bf!rodrick, who lets you doodle on his arm with a sharpie, and he refuses to wash them off. they stay there until they fade completely.

loser bf!rodrick, who finally starts wearing deodorant consistently because of you. it’s not even something you asked him to do—he just noticed you sniffing his shirts a little more critically and panicked. now, he’s always freshly applied before seeing you.

loser bf!rodrick, who gets hard every time you kiss him.

loser bf!rodrick, who tries his best to keep his room somewhat presentable whenever you come over. he knows it’s still a fucking disaster by normal standards, but for rodrick, clearing a path to the bed is a grand romantic gesture.

loser bf!rodrick, who’s obsessed so with seeing your hickeys on him. he never bothers to hide them—in fact, he wears them like badges.

loser bf!rodrick, who almost accidentally used the wrong side of the condom when you had sex for the first time.

loser bf!rodrick, who absolutely melts when you tug on his hair during sex. he didn’t even realise he had a thing for it until the first time you did it. now, he practically begs for it without using words, tilting his head back and grinning like a total idiot whenever your fingers get close.

loser bf!rodrick, who keeps every random thing you’ve ever given him — notes you’ve passed to him in class, concert tickets, even candy wrappers.

loser bf!rodrick, who hates being bossed around but will do anything you ask, especially if it involves you kissing his cheek or ruffling his hair in thanks. he’s so whipped and everyone knows it.

loser bf!rodrick, who brags to greg about how sexy and smart and pretty you are, just to rub it in, but secretly feels like he doesn’t deserve you. he gets this dumb, soft look on his face whenever you’re around, like he still can’t believe you chose him.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[sttoru]

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you’ve been one of sukuna’s many concubines for quite a while now. yet, you still cannot get rid of the jealousy in your system whenever he interacts with the other women in his harem.

wc. idk around 1 to 2k

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. angst (hurt to comfort), fluff, suggestive at the end. heian era. you call sukuna ‘my lord’. reader gets called ‘brat, little girl’. size difference. no part2, don’t ask i beg. not beta read.

“get back here, brat,” sukuna raises his voice as he follows you. he isn’t one to care about others’ emotional outbursts, yet here he is, chasing you after you’ve poured out your heart to him.

you don’t know why you’re this upset. you do know, however, that it’s childish of you to walk away mid dinner. you should’ve just stayed seated and refuse to let the thoughts consume you.

now you’re speed walking down the hallways of the estate—your legs carrying you as fast as they can without actually making a run for it. your mind keeps replaying the ‘unsettling’ scene that caused you to flee.

you remember it vividly. the sound of sukuna’s low, amused chuckle. how intrigued it was because of something another concubine told him—how he stopped chewing to say something back to her. which he rarely does.

hell, you’ve never seen him laugh around his other concubines.

“i do not wish to talk to you right now, my lord,” you reply, voice raised so the distance wouldn’t make it a hassle for the king of curses to hear you. you know that feisty attitude of yours entertains sukuna to no end.

he raises an eyebrow once he’s heard your voice; how it’s dripping with envy and hurt. you’ve never reacted like that before—at least not in his presence. it made him want to figure out why and how.

though, he can easily guess the reasoning behind your sudden defiance.

“oh, that so?” sukuna hums. he’s lenient with you this time around. he could catch up to you in under a split second, but he decides to give you that sense of accomplishment first before completely destroying it. he walks after you slowly, your fast steps being the same tempo as his slow pace.

you don’t answer. you’re stubborn. you have no right to feel jealous. you are a fairly new concubine—only a couple months ago did you join sukuna’s harem. yet, the time spent with him was precious.

he treats you differently. everyone notices that. everyone tells you the same. you know he does by the way he lets you off the hook with most stuff you say and do.

you don’t know what you did to gain his favouritsm, but it’s addicting. his attention is addictive. real addictive.

you had sworn not to develop any unneccessary feelings for that ruthless sorcerer. but, with the way sukuna treated you so gently behind closed doors, it was impossible not to.

you eventually reach the doors to your chambers. you slide them open and wish to close them behind you, only for a big hand to halt those movements. you freeze in place and refuse to look up at the owner of that said hand.

“look up,” sukuna demands. his voice causes goosebumps to appear on your arms, but you still don't budge. he clicks his tongue. that’s your first warning. two more and your punishment will be carried out, “we can do this the hard way too if you want.”

you turn your head, your fingers curling around the material of your kimono. you really should not feel this way about a little interaction between sukuna and his other concubine. that is none of your concern. what he does with those other women is none of your concern.

and yet. . .

“i don't want to,” you retort. sukuna walks into your room with a sigh. each step he takes forwards, you take backwards. your back finally bumps against the wall next to your bed.

sukuna towers over you, his tall and big frame making you feel vulnerable. especially with the way those red eyes of his are staring down at you. he crosses all four of his arms before speaking.

“tell me what’s running through that head of yours,” sukuna inquires sternly. he isn’t playing around anymore, you can tell. you glance the other way—knowing that he will laugh at you the moment you tell him why you’re upset.

you have a feeling he knows the reason behind your tantrum anyway.

“it’s nothing of importance, my lord,” you shake your head and relax your tense shoulders to make you seem less upset. your words have some truth in them—you don’t think your feelings of envy hold any value to him.

sukuna sighs again. he’s trying his best not to be annoyed at you. you’re his favorite and he wishes not to sadden you any further. he steps forwards, one hand moving to cup the side of your face.

his rough fingers play with a string of your hair, “i’m not stupid, little girl. i don’t like it when my woman is in distress.”

your heart skips a beat. this is what confuses you—how he can go from stern to gentle and vice versa. it’s surprisingly unexpected, which makes you long for more. even if his behaviour is confusing.

you look up at sukuna. your eyes meet for the first time in a good couple minutes. the corner of sukuna’s lips curls up into a satisfied smirk. that’s one step closer to getting you to open up.

“now,” the king of curses lowers his head to your eye level, the proximity all the more nerve wracking. he holds your jaw super tightly out of the blue. it makes you whimper.

“spit it out.”

there it is. the duality of the man strikes once more. you swallow the spit that’s been building up in your mouth. you bite your bottom lip lightly, trying to gather and form the right words to explain yourself.

sukuna wouldn’t understand. he’s a cold-hearted man who doesn’t care about such ‘trivial’ matters. he’ll just call you stupid, pathetic or whatever other derogatory term.

you stop your thoughts for a moment.

“it’s really just a stupid thing,” you mutter. your fingers curl around sukuna’s wrist—the one hand he’s using to firmly hold your jaw. you take a deep breath in, “i did not like it when you, errr. . . when that woman talked to you at the dinner table.”

your voice is clearly dripping with jealousy. pure, pure jealousy. and for what? because he talked to his other concubine. you feel stupid. you thought you discarded your personal feelings for the sorcerer before you the moment you turned into one of his many women.

“that woman?” sukuna tilts his head, feigning ignorance. that little grin on his face tells you enough. he’s playing with you like some form of entertainment. well, technically you are.

he wants you to be specific. he’s forcing you to be by acting like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

in all honesty, sukuna’s already forgotten what that woman had said to him. it wasn’t and still isn’t worth remembering. all he can recall is your adorable facial expression when you saw him interact like that with his other concubine.

that little frown on your face was priceless. it makes him want to keep teasing you.

“you know who i am talking about, my lord,” you huff, trying to look away, but get stopped by sukuna readjusting his grip on your jaw. he firmly yet gently taps your cheek once and you know what it means.

“attitude,” sukuna warns with a quick hiss. he can let you say whatever you want to him, but you also have some limits regarding which tone you use with him. you apologise quietly under your breath.

the king of curses nods in satisfaction before releasing the grip on your jaw. his large hand trails down to your neck, thumb rubbing up and down your throat, “so, my little girl is mad at me because i talked to another concubine of mine, huh?”

you nod mindlessly. sukuna can easily get you to comply with him—to obey his every word, simply with his actions. the terms of endearment he uses are the cherry on top. they slip off his tongue so easily with you.

“tsk tsk,” sukuna shakes his head. his hand is now on the back of your head, fingers tangled into your hair. he’s staring down at you with a smug expression. he knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger, “how childish of you.”

you knew that would be one of the things he’d say to you. what you didn’t expect is for him to go for a kiss right after. his lips land on yours firmly, and to no surprise, you instantly return the gesture.

your arms wrap around his neck—your chest pressing against his. sukuna wastes no time in picking you up and letting your legs encircle his waist. he’s not pulling away for air to breathe and you don’t either.

“you’re going to listen to me, yeah?” sukuna murmurs between passionate kisses. he’s holding onto you tightly with two arms, his free hands roaming over your body whilst he pins you against the wall.

when you whimper out a weak, high-pitched ‘yes, my lord’, he smirks against your mouth before turning to kiss your neck. he slightly bites the skin to make sure you’re paying attention to him.

“i don’t remember what that woman said,” sukuna continues, nearly out of breath because of the kisses he’s leaving all over you. he easily grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head on the wall, “i was too busy lookin’ at a much prettier concubine of mine.”

he pulls back a little so he can look you in the eyes. you’re panting and embarrassed by what he just said. one of his hands finds your face again, tracing the shape of your mouth.

“my favourite,” sukuna whispers whilst licking his lips. you can see it in his eyes: he’s silently planning out how he’s going to remind you of your place. your place as his favorite concubine.

he dips his head back down, aiming for the valley between your breasts. he closes his eyes before sucking on the surrounding flesh;

“guess i’ll be nice for once ‘nd show you just what it means to be my favorite so that you’ll never dare forget it again.”

[dynaboomboom]

🖇️: drunk needy bf! katsuki bakugo begging to make his girlfriend feel good

“y’all we gotta get going. i CANNOT deal with this man’s shit anymore.” mina exclaimed, as she tried to keep poor blacked out denki on his feet. you, katsuki, jiro, and eijiro were seated on the couch you guys had reserved for the night.

“yeah, we should all get going. we’re on the last shot anyw-“ jiro said before getting cut off by mina. she grabbed the whole bottle of tequila you guys were drinking and drank the last few drops of alcohol straight from the bottle.

“remind me to never ever go clubbing with him again.” mina said as she wiped her lips. everyone seated at the table giggled both at fucked out denki and stressed out mina. even katsuki.

“MAAAAANNNN THATS THE FIRST TIME IVE SEEN BAKUGO SMILE WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK” eijiro screamed out, feeling a bit tipsy himself. it was true though. katsuki was never really the type to giggle at such silly things, so you were a hundred percent certain that your boyfriend was drunk.

“suki, you alright?” you asked katsuki, facing his red hot face. he gave you a smile and nodded, placing his face on the crook of your neck. you weren’t sure if you were that drunk that you were imagining things or that really just happened.

he looked up at you, your faces mere inches apart. “you’re so pretty.” he said as he looked into your eyes, giving you a warm smile before placing his head back to where it was. you felt your cheeks heat up even more.

the rest of the group booked separate cabs and on the ride back home, katsuki could not keep his hands off of you. his hand was either holding yours or placed on your thigh, all while his head was rested on your shoulder. you closed your eyes to regain some kind of focus but everything was just spinning and all you could feel was how high up katsuki’s hand was placed on your inner thigh.

your eyes burst wide open when you felt katsuki’s lips peppering quick and sloppy kisses on your neck, moving up to your ear.

he gave your earlobe a light bite before whispering “baby, you’re so fucking pretty”. his voice was deep and full of lust, which expectedly turned you on.

“suki, wait til we get home” you said in a shaky voice, barely able to control yourself either. He continues to give you small kisses around your neck and cheeks, giving your thigh light squeezes from time to time. just as his hand was dangerously close to where you wanted him to be, you arrived at your destination.

katsuki quickly paid for the fare and basically dragged you into the house. once the front door was shut, he carried you on his shoulder and headed straight for the bedroom. you squealed and tried to escape but you were no match with your boyfriend’s strength.

he gently placed you on your shared bed and crawled on top of you, face inches apart, staring at you through his half closed eyes. you could smell the tequila coming from his lips. his lips. his soft, wet, juicy lips. he caught you looking at his lips which made him giggle.

“can I kiss you?” he asked. althougg you’ve been dating for a few months now, katsuki always asks for permission. you found it cute how he still asks for permission to kiss you when he was practically almost fingering you in the cab earlier.

you nod, but this wasn’t enough permission for katsuki.

“say it, sweets”

“yes, kiss me. kiss me, kats-” you were cut off by his lips smashing onto yours. yes was all he needed to kiss you like there was no tomorrow. you could taste the liquor as he slid his tongue into your mouth. it was aggressive and needy and it got you both yearning for more.

you slid your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, which earned you a groan. he moved his kisses to your neck, continuing his unfinished work. sucking just below your ear which made your grip on his hair tighten, making him groan again.

“you look so fucking good in that skirt” he said breathily as he continued sucking on your neck.

“fuck, I need you so bad. will you let me, baby?” he asked as he grinded into you. you could feel his growing bulge, which made you feel hot all over.

“baby, you’re drunk. I-i’m not sure we should. you might not like the idea tomorrow when you're sober” you said hesitantly. althougg you’ve done it before, you weren’t sure about doing it drunk. You guys haven’t talked about it before and you were worried for some reason that he would regret it the next day.

“ what the fuck are you even talking about?” he asked as he continued kissing your neck. You placed your hands on his shoulders, slightly pushing him away.

“i want you no matter what state i’m in. i mean, unless you’re not comfortable with it” he said as he looked you in the eyes, meaning every word.

“please let me make you feel good”. he continued kissing you, leaving sloppy wet trails on your neck. his hands slid under your shirt, resting on your waist.

you were still hesitant, worried about what he might think tomorrow. but fuck did his lips feel good on your skin. his lips made its way back to your ear, nibbling on your earlobe.

“baby please, I need you so bad. please please please let me make you feel good” he whispers breathily into your ear. his pants were basically about to pop open due to how hard he was. you bit your lip in contemplation but it was hard to think straight when his lips and hands were all over your body like that.

“i promise i’ll make you feel soooo good.” he said almost whining. he grabbed your hand and slowly placed it on his bulge. you couldn’t say a word, all you could do was look at him needily.

“feel that? that’s all for you, sweets ”

at this point, your mind could not think straight anymore. all you could think about was how good his dick would feel inside you, stretching you out, filling you up, hitting so fucking deep.

“please”. katsuki said, almost feeling defeated. that was all it took to make you break

“how good?” you asked in a taunting way. you were surprised where all this confidence is coming from. katsuki smirked at the sudden answer and took his tank top off, exposing his godly torso.

he tilted his head to the side, amused at your newfound confidence. “is that a yes then?” he asked as he moved a stray strand of hair behind your ear

“fuck me.”

“Yes ma'am” he said with a big smile. that was all he needed to rip open your top, exposing your bare breast. he bit his lips at the site and wasted no time to connect your buds with his lips. as he sucked and licked your right breast, his hand found its way to your other breast fondling with your nipple.

the sudden contact made you arch your back, letting out a small moan. his left hand moved from your breast to your inner thigh, gently moving up to rub his fingers on your clothed cunt.

“so fucking wet” he said before slipping his index and middle finger through your panties and into you. you grabbed his hair and moaned at the sudden stretch

“baby please” you whispered

“look who's begging now” he said, ammused

he then flipped you over so your face was now buried in the pillows. he grabbed your waist and pulled your ass up, your entire ass and pussy on display right in front of him. he gave your clothed cunt a quick kiss before fumbling with his pants, pulling it down together with his boxers. he hooked his fingers on the hem of your panties and pulled them down in one go.

“let’s keep the skirt on, alright sweets?” he leaned near your ear. all you could do was nod, no other thought but his dick inside you. he tucked your hair behind your ear again before positioning himself.

“so fucking pretty for me” that was the last thing you heard before he quickly thrusted into you in one go, going as deep as he could.

“oh fuck suki! you’re so fucking big!” you cried out due to the sudden stretch.

“damn right” he said as he continued to mercilessly thrust into you, not bothering to slow down for you to adjust. he grabbed onto your hips, watching intently how your ass bounced after each thrust.

you grabbed onto the pillows above you for some kind of support, your fists turning white due to how tight you were gripping onto them. you couldn't help but moan loudly with every thrust hitting the deepest parts of your insides. katsuki gave your ass a sharp slap which only made you moan even louder.

you gave him a confused look when you felt him pull out of you completely.

“lay on your back, sweets. need to see that pretty face all fucked out”

he flipped you over once again and placed one of your legs on his shoulder. he positioned himself right at the entrance but not going fully inside.

“baby” you whined

he smirked before thrusting into you sharply, pistolling his hips in and out of your dripping wet cunt. the position only made him hit even deeper, making you grab his shoulder and dig your nails into his skin.

“fuck, youre so tight” he said within grunts.

you felt the knot start to tighten when he started to rub your clit with his thumb

“oh my fuck, suki!” you screamed, nearing your release.

“im close, im close, suki! fuck!” you were spurting out words without thinking. all the remaining thoughts in your brain was how good your boyfriend was fucking you.

katsuki grunts at how fucked out you looked beneath him. His pace was starting to become irregular, meaning he was nearing his release too.

“go on sweets, right behind you” he rubbed your clit faster, feeling you clench around him even tighter.

“fuck! i’m cumming suki, fuuuckk!” you moaned out. katsuki gave a few final hard thrust before pulling out and releasing all over your abdomen.

he plopped down beside you, both of you trying to catch your breath. you were still feeling dizzy both from the alcohol and the amazing sex you just had. katsuki placed a quick kiss on your forehead before standing up from the bef to clean you up.

“you did so good” he said gently as he wiped his release off of your abdomen. you smiled at him, not having the energy to talk or move. after he cleaned you up, he tossed you one of his shirts before leaving the room to get you both some water.

when he entered the room, you were already out like a light. he giggled at the site, placing the glass of water by your night stand before shimmying under the covers. as soon as your bodies touched, he felt himself drift off to dream land as well.

a/n: hi yall this is my first ever fic here on tumblr! 😁 i cant believe my first post is abt me thirsting over bakugo. i swear im capable of soft sweet wholesome thoughts too 😔 anyway, hope u guys like this! 💥

[princesssmars]

thinking of this escape the butch vi fanart. a Lot.

nsfw. fem!reader. roleplaying + rough sex. very light degradation mixed with praise. also inspired by that dbd clip of ghostface and the survivor under him...yeah. penetrative strap-on sex (r!receiving). recorded sex.

wc : 1.954

"come on pretty girl, you said you wanted this, right? so go on and smile for the camera."

like every other story, the erotic memory of your girlfriend pounding you into your carpet actually had a rather sweet beginning.

see, you were a fan of horror movies. slashers, body horror, psychological, just name it and you've probably watched it. most of your friends found it odd, always declining when you'd invite them to catch a late night showing of a new flick.

oh but not your vi. whenever you were absolutely dying to see the hottest new horror in theaters, you knew it'd only take a phone call and playful begging for her to pull up on her motorcycle and whisk you away to the big screen.

you couldn't ask for a girlfriend who understood your passion better. but maybe this time you were...a little too passionate.

it really started when the next big slasher hit theaters, a solid hit with the at first glance simple plot of a psychotic butcher chasing down. a group of college kids who mistakenly stumbled into his shop. everywhere you went people were raving about it, gassing up the style, the characters, the gore, saying it'd be one of the next greats. so of course you wanted to be there opening weekend comfy in a reclining seat with an overpriced popcorn in one hand and a way too big soda in the other.

so of course luck would have it that you randomly fell sick that weekend, stuck in bed with a crazy fever. then the weekend after that a giant storm left you no choice but to cancel your plans, then next week your car had troubles-

safe to say, you were incredibly thankful that theaters quickly gave up on films and sent them to streaming. while you were upset you wouldn't get the full theater experience, when vi recommended an at home movie night date you couldn't pass it up.

and so there you were, snuggled in a comfy pajama set with a bowl of popcorn on your coffee table as you curled up into the side of your butch. you loved the movie, but most of all you loved the killer. a simple yet oh so intimidating design, you admired the bloodied butcher as it dropped a meat cleaver into another unlucky victim.

"jesus, those reviews weren't kidding." vi whispered under her breath, eyes wide and face bright from the colors of the screen.

you gently jabbed your elbow into her side, "aww, don't tell me your scared, baby."

"oh you wish. this movie is great, i've already got my next halloween costume down."

it was...inexplicable, the reaction you had. it was almost like your brain short circuited, rebooting until the only thing you could seen in your mind was vi, your sweet strong and incredibly built girlfriend standing above you in the same costume on screen.

okay, maybe it was explainable - it made you horny. but to be fair, you were shocked at it yourself. you'd heard of some girls thirsting over numerous masked and sinister killers in horror, but you'd never felt any such attraction.

but now your imaging vi in that way, able to see her chasing you down so clearly it makes your heart race.

and of course she noticed, because your love noticed everything about you. her eyes drifted across your face, noticing how your wide eyes were tracked on the screen like it was your job, how you licked and bit your lips and took in stuttered breaths.

and oh, did she revel in it.

she didn't bring it up again until that yearly costume party was creeping around the corner, and she tried not to laugh when you not so suavely suggested that you might as well dress up as the final girl from the movie, for consistency purposes of course.

she also had to hide her smugness seeing your reaction to her stepping out in the costume for the first time. she could see your eyes trailing over her bar arms, the fake (and edible, for reasons) blood decorating her skin and the brown leather apron that stretched across her torso. if she didn't have a plan for you that night, she would have said screw the party and taken you on the couch at the drop of her plastic meat cleaver. but of course, good things come to those who wait.

but waiting doesn't mean behaving. she acted properly during the first few hours of the party, posing for pictures with your mutual friends and taking delight in eating the themed goodies laid out. but it wasn't long until she started to tease, coming up behind you and wrapping you in her arms, biting her lip when she could subtly feel you relaxing in her arms before trying to push yourself back into her.

it got to the point where she just had to take pity on you, with only a few more touches and hidden squeezes bringing out your clinginess as you practically glued yourself to her side, arms wrapped around her bicep as you stared up at her with those eyes you just knew she couldn't resist.

as soon as you stepped into the doorway of your house she was on you, hands squared on your shoulders as she pushed you into the wall behind you, her hips pushing into yours in just the right way that you swore you'd lose your mind.

"oooh, someone's eager huh? y'know, i had a feeling you were always into roleplay, but i couldn't imagine this -"

"vi, c'mon, please. just, j-just -" you whined, half out of arousal and half out of embarrassment at being so.

"just what, huh pretty? tell me what you want and ill give it to you."

you bite your lip, eyes darting to the side as you debated on if you were really ready to go that far. but then one of her gloved hands is coming up to your face, a finger pulling your lip out of your hold. its only when you see her blue eyes zero in on a spot beneath your face that you know she left a trail of the fake blood, both of your breaths hitching in your throats.

"do you...do you still have that camcorder in your closet?"

"oh my god, oh my god, 'h my...god!"

you don't register the woman above you loud laughing at your moans, nor do you pick up on the handheld camera still recording every reaction om your face. all you can focus on is the absolutely debilitating pressure in your cunt, your girlfriend's strap down right splitting you open as she fucks you almost like she hates you. the thought sends a shiver down your spine, drawing out more mewls that are muffled by the plush of your rug when your head plops onto the ground before one of her hands is wrapping in your hair and tugging you up, not wanting to miss even a second of you.

"god damn, who knew i'd get this pretty little slut alll to myself tonight, huh?" she grunts, a yellow glove digging into the dip of your back to make you arch even more for her, to take everything she's giving you.

like you had a choice. not that you really want one, anyway.

"aww, poor baby keeps drifting out of it. maybe i should take pity on her and stop -"

her fake pouting rings in your brain and is followed by her hips slowing down, her strap starting to slip out of you before you thrust yourself back into her, letting out a moan do loud if you weren't so far gone you'd be mortified, but at the moment you cant find it in yourself to care.

"n-no! no no no no please don't stop, 'can take it, promise." you intermittently thrust your hips back as you whine, even looking back and up at her and trying your best at the puppy eyes she seems to always do so well, eager to do anything if it means she'll keep fucking you.

and when you gaze up at her looking like that, big round eyes complemented by ruined makeup, your kissed and bitten tits hanging out of your costume top right in the view of the camera, not to mention the slightest glimpse of her strap peeking out from the end of the curve of your ass, how on earth could she even think of not giving in to you?

most of the time she would drag this out, edge you until you were begging and crying for her just to brush a hand over your thigh. but maybe tonight she'll go easy on you, just because she's feeling nice.

so she sets the camcorder a the perfect angle on the table, grips both of your hips in her palms, and starts to absolutely wreck your world.

she truly cant wait for when she'll be watching this footage back over with you later, how you'll groan and push at her out of embarrassment when you witness just how desperate you are in this moment, meeting each one of her thrusts with a vigor she hasn't yet seen and moaning so loudly she's sure you'll be receiving a message from your landlord in the morning.

and she knows in the future you'll be pestering her too, because just in the crack of the constant plaplaplap! of your hips and the gorgeous ass noises slipping from between your lips she can hear herself, too, strained little grunts and cut off growls of "so perfect, so damn perfect for me," and "takin it so well, god, knew you wouldn't run from this-"

her hand yet again comes up to you, only this time wrapping around your neck to arch you even further back for her to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, cold fake blood smearing over your mouths. it's only when you blink up at her and see her smiling while licking the blood off of her lips that you cum, sight going white as you clamp down so hard on to her strap she struggles to keep fucking you through it as she carries both of you through your shared moments of bliss.

its a sweet silence as you both come down from your highs, your body relaxing into the carpet before she gently slips the toy from inside you and off of her hips, quickly turns off the camcorder and maneuvers you both on to the couch, pulling a blanket over you as you settle into the softness of her chest.

vi is the first to break the silence, pressing a plethora of sweet kisses to your head, "so, how did you like it?"

"ugh, don't make me answer, you already know." you groan, digging your head into her shoulder in a pitiful attempt to escape her teasing.

"cmonnn, wont make fun of you, i promise. i wouldn't mind doing this again, y'know."

"...seriously?"

"hell yeah, that was...a lot more fun than i expected. maybe next time i could...i dont know, chas you through the woods or something. just an idea."

of course you notice just how quickly she came up with the idea, and of course she notices how your breath hitches the same way hers does.

[urmum-lovesme]

Bunny (P9)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reade

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: well- here's the next part gang 🤟 Next part is gonna take me 3 day at least pls don't gang up on me and track me down I beg.

warnings: mentions of alcohol and drunkenness, police stations, abuse, bad father daughter relationship, aggression, blood, bruises, malnutrition, sad bunny but soft!Rafe (idk ig?)

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13)

The restaurant is warm, filled with the scent of sizzling meat, it’s small, family-run, where the walls are covered in colourful tapestries and old generational photos. A string of mismatched fairy lights flickers above the booth, casting a golden glow over the chipped wooden tables. It’s comfortable and homey- somewhere that the two girls come all the time given the owners are Sofia's family friends, somewhere Y/N would usually feel at ease.

But not tonight.

She’s sitting across from Sofia in a corner booth, her fingers idly picking at the tortilla chips in front of her, breaking them into tiny pieces but never bringing them to her mouth. Her stomach feels heavy, but not from hunger. The weight in her chest has been there for two days now, pressing down on her every time she tries to push her reality out of her mind. Sofia on the other hand, is talking animatedly, her dark eyes bright with excitement;

“—and then he tells me he’s never been to the Cut before- I mean I know he's new but can you believe that? Like, he’s lived on this island for three months, and he’s never even crossed the bridge for more than a minute?” She shakes her head playfully before continuing,

“I mean, it’s probably a red flag, right? Or maybe it’s, like- cute? No you know what, he needs me to show him around right? I'm not delusional but I really feel that this time its dif-”

Y/N hums absently, nodding as she moves the chips around her plate, the low hum of their conversation in the restaurant blends with the soft guitar playing through the old speakers near the register. Sofia keeps talking, something about how 'this new guy actually texts back', how he asked her about her day, how it’s refreshing. Y/N wants to listen, she really does. She wants to be present, to ask the right questions and tease Sofia about her obvious crush. But all she can think about is the fact that there’s a baby inside her.

A baby she didn’t ask for.

A baby whose father is a faceless, nameless shadow.

Her fingers tighten slightly around a broken chip, her jaw clenching and this time, Sofia notices. She pauses mid-sentence, her gaze flicking to Y/N’s untouched food, the way she hasn’t really reacted to anything she’s said.

“What’s up with you?” Sofia asks, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, “and don’t tell me you’re just tired, because I know when you’re lying to me.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. She presses her lips together, willing herself to keep it together, but under Sofia’s knowing stare, her walls start to crack. She exhales sharply, finally looking up from the mess of now broken crumbs.

“I don’t even know Sof,”

She mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper. Sofia’s expression softens, and she reaches across the table, resting a hand on Y/N’s,

“Hey, come on.- you’re my best friend. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

Y/N swallows hard. She wants to tell her. But saying it out loud makes it real, and she’s not sure she’s fully ready for that. Instead, she just stares down at the table, trying to figure out how to even begin. She shifts slightly in her seat, exhaling through her nose. She knows Sofia won’t drop it- she never does when she knows something’s off. So she pushes out a breath and shrugs, giving Sofia a tired half-smile.

“It’s just... JJ and I got into it a few days ago. And I guess it’s just- taking a toll on me more than I thought it would.”

It’s not a lie.

Not really

“You and JJ always fight. Like, all the time. It never lasts more than a day.”

Sofia’s brows furrow as she looks to the girl comfortingly. Y/N presses her lips together again, tracing the rim of her water glass with her finger, “Yeah, well… this time, he’s not talking to me. He’s just been… I don’t know. Distant? He only texts me if he needs something or to tell me he’s crashing at John B’s.”

She shrugs again, trying to make it seem like it’s not a big deal, even though it is. Because JJ has never done this before. Even when they fought, they never really ignored each other. And now, when she needs him more than ever, he’s pulling away. Sofia watches her carefully, taking in the way Y/N won’t quite meet her eyes, how she keeps fidgeting with her glass.

“Okay, yeah... that sucks,” she admits. “But, this is JJ we’re talking about? He’s your brother. There’s no way he stays mad at you forever- I mean, I literally watched you two try to strangle each other over an out of date Pop-Tart, and five minutes later, you were splitting it in half.” Y/N lets out a small, hollow chuckle at the memory, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes and Sofia sighs,

“Look, I get it. It sucks when things feel off between you two. But whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Y/N nods, but she doesn’t say anything because although her relationship with JJ is an issue at the moment- it isn’t the problem.

But he’s a safe excuse.

So she lets Sofia keep talking, lets the conversation shift back to her and the guy she’s seeing. But even as she nods and hums at the right moments, she can’t shake the feeling that things are starting to slip out her grasp.

The ride home is quiet, the low hum of Sofia’s car filling the space between them. Y/N watches the streets pass by, the neon lights of convenience stores and run-down gas stations casting eye-catching glows. As they pull up in front of her house, she exhales and turns to her best friend, guilt tugging at her,

"Sorry I was pretty shitty company today."

Sofia scoffs softly waving her hand in dismissal before shifting in her seat to face her, "No, you weren’t. Don’t be silly." She leans over, pressing a quick, reassuring kiss to the side of Y/N’s face. Y/N musters a small smile, trying to believe her.

"I love you."

"I love you too, girlfriend. See you tomorrow?"

Sofia tilts her head, giving her a gentle smile in return. Y/N nods, lifting a hand to send her a playful air kiss before stepping out of the car. She watches Sofia drive away, then turns towards the house, her eyes catching on the familiar sight of JJ’s bike parked in the driveway. Stepping inside, she finds him in the living room, shoving clothes into a bag. He doesn’t look up right away, just keeps moving, shoulders tense. Y/N hesitates, watching him.

She wants to tell him everything.

She wants to fall apart right here and let him put her back together, just to be held by someone who would understand. Yet the way he’s been acting- the distance, the short replies- makes it feel impossible. He finally glances at her, expression unreadable.

"You good... ?"

It nearly breaks her and she forces herself to nod quickly, swallowing down the lump in her throat answering,

"Yeah. You?"

"Been fine."

JJ shrugs, his voice flat as he responds- and that’s it. They both know there’s something wrong, but neither of them know how to fix it. Y/N’s gaze flickers to the half-packed bag beside him. Her throat feels thick as she clears it before she asks,

"Where are you going?"

"John B’s for a few days."

JJ doesn’t stop what he’s doing as he answers. She nods, pretending it doesn’t sting, pretending she doesn’t feel him slipping further away instead putting on a small smile and mumbling out an,

"Oh... okay."

For a second, he hesitates at the sound of her voice.

His fingers grip the zipper of his bag a little tighter, like maybe he wants to say something more, but then he just exhales sharply, slings the strap over his shoulder and mutters,

"I’ll see you later."

And he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him, and all that’s left is silence. Y/N stands there, staring at the empty space where he stood, the weight of his absence pressing down on her. Her mind wanders but she startles at the sudden, shrill ring of the landline. Her brows furrow as she looks over at it. Nobody ever calls the house phone, she's even been meaning to cancel the damn thing for months now, but it always slipped her mind. A weird feeling creeps up her spine as she crosses the room and picks up the receiver.

"Hello?"  

There’s a brief pause, then a robotic voice filters through the line:  

"This is a collect call from—" a short beep sounds before a gruff, familiar voice cuts in,

"Luke Christopher Maybank." 

"—an inmate at Kildare County Police Station. Do you accept the call?"

Y/N's stomach drops and she exhales sharply, pressing her forehead against the wall as she closes her eyes. For a second, she considers hanging up. Just letting it ring out and pretending she never picked up, but instead, she reluctantly whispers,

"Yes"  

A click can be heard and then his voice, rough and slightly muffled rings out from the other end, "Y/N?"  

She swallows, "Dad?"  

"You gotta pick me up," he grumbles. "These fuckin' cops got me locked up for nothin’. Just some bullshit drunk and disorderly charge—it's all a misunderstanding, alright? Just—just get down here."  

Y/N presses her palm to her face, dragging it down as she leans heavier against the wall. She doesn’t say anything right away. What is there to say?  Why was she picking up her own father from the police station- last time she checked in every other normal families home it was the parents picking up the teenagers. Luke huffs out a frustrated breath when she doesn’t answer fast enough.

"C’mon, girl, I know you’re there. Don’t be difficult, just come get me. And—" he pauses,

"bring some money with you." 

Y/N stills and her heart sinks. Money? All she has left is that two hundred and fifty dollars, well now two hundred since she had to tank her car up. The money she was saving for her... problem. Her fingers curl tightly around the phone cord as she stares at the floor, cursing him in her mind, rage bubbling up in her chest. Luke snaps, his voice sharper this time,

"Can you hear me or wha-"

"-yes I can fucking hear you, alright?"

Y/N bites out before she can stop herself. A little too harsh. There’s a beat of silence between them before he hums, a low, warning sound, but he doesn’t say anything else. She feels a little nervous, knowing she shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. She never should have spoke to him like that. The telephone beeps, signaling the time running out. She exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I'm coming."  

Luke sniffs, shifting on the other end, "You better be kid."  

The line clicks dead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N steps into the Kildare County Police Station, her shoes clicking sharply on the tile as she walks toward the counter. The air smells stale, the buzz of the overhead lights almost as grating as the noise in her mind. The officer behind the desk looks up at her and she clears her throat, her voice steady but flat,

"I'm here for Luke Maybank"

The officer nods, picking up the phone to make a call. But before she has time to stand there, Shoupe steps out from behind the door. He notices her immediately, the familiar face giving her a slight pause. He says offering her a nod,

"Y/N"

"Shoupe."

She looks up, a tight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. He asks, his hands resting on the counter leaning in slightly.

"How’ve you been?"

"Good."

She keeps her answer short and stiff. He raises an eyebrow, as if he expected more before continuing,

"Well, I've been good too thanks for asking."

Y/N hums noncommittally and glances at the floor. Shoupe has always been kind to her, but at the end of the day he's still part of the police... and she can't really trust him, and he knows that. Shoupe exhales and motions to the officer at the desk.

"I’ll take care of this one."

He takes the place of the previous officer, fingers tapping rhythmically to type into the computer. Y/N glances around the waiting room which is practically empty, except for a middle aged man fast asleep in the far corner chair. Shoupe pulls out a piece of paper from the printer and places it on the counter infront of her.

"Your dad’s bail is $500."

Y/N’s eyes flick down to the piece of paper, mouth going dry at the sound of the number. Her eyes flicker across the document and land on the digits printed out in bold. Her hand slips into the pocket of her hoodie and takes out the $200 she’s been clinging to, counting it out slowly before offering it to him by placing it on the counter.

"That’s all I’ve got."

"Y/N..."

"Shoupe," she cuts him off, "That’s literally all I have left."

She gives him a look as if it should be obvious that she's clearly done with all of this. Shoupe runs a hand over his forehead, his eyes softening as he looks down at the cash on the counter. He sighs heavily.

He knows what goes on in that house.

Knows the toll it’s taken on her and JJ, but legally, he can’t do anything unless they report something. He winces, clearly not liking the way she’s speaking to him, but he doesn't push it.

"Look Y/N, I’ve told you before, if you and JJ ever need help... if you’re ready to talk about your dad, about what’s going on-"

"-I have nothing to say -he’s my dad."

She interrupts him again, eyes narrowing, voice steely but her heart is thumping heavily in her chest. There’s a long pause as he studies her, but she doesn’t flinch. Her expression is unreadable. Finally he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"I can’t keep doing this, Y/N."

He says it softly, almost apologetically. He looks at the money again, then back up at her. He hesitates for a long moment before shaking his head, clearly wrestling with his own conscience. But then, after another long pause, he reaches out and takes the $200 from where it lay,

"This is the last time I it slide."

Y/N doesn’t respond, just stares at him for a beat. She knows she should probably feel something- relief maybe, but instead she just feels tired.

"Thanks"

She mutters, and she doesn’t bother to offer any more words.

Shoupe turns to leave, and when he returns Luke steps into the reception, his presence filling the space with that familiar weight she’s always hated. His eyes land on her immediately, and he plasters on a grin.

“Hey, kiddo”

He greets, the warmth in his voice as forced as the fatherly act he’s putting on. Before she can react, he pulls her into a hug. It’s stiff, his arms heavy around her, and Y/N doesn’t exactly return it. She just stands there, barely breathing, eyes momentarily flicking toward the reception desk where she knows Shoupe is watching. Luke’s grip tightens briefly before he steps back, clapping a hand on her shoulder like nothing’s wrong.

“C’mon, let’s go home huh?”

Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides toward the exit, acting like this is all just some minor inconvenience. Y/N doesn’t move right away. Her gaze moving back to the front desk, landing on Shoupe who’s watching her with that same expression, like he’s waiting for her to say something- to do something.

But she swallows down the lump in her throat and turns away, walking after Luke without another glance back.

Outside, he's is already waiting by the passenger side of her car, leaning against the door, like she didn’t just use the last of her money to get him out of a cell. Y/N doesn’t say a word as she steps toward the driver’s side. The moment she clicks the unlock button, Luke pulls the door open and gets in without hesitation, shutting it behind him.

She lingers outside for a second, inhaling sharply. Her fingers twitch at her side before she finally lifts a shaky hand, curling it around the handle. She pulls the door open and slides in, shutting it behind her with a quiet thud. The quiet settles thick between them and the air in the car feels suffocating. Luke is staring straight ahead, unmoving, unreadable. Y/N doesn’t look at him. She can’t. The tension makes her skin crawl, makes her hands itch to grip the steering wheel just to have something to hol-

CRACK

A sharp, blinding pain explodes across her face.

Her head snaps to the side, and for a moment the world blurs as blood splatters across the driver’s side window, red prominent against the glass. She cries out, the sound involuntary, ripped from her throat as agony spreads through her skull. Before she can process, before she can even breathe, a rough hand seizes her by the t-shirt, yanking her against the door.

“Don’t ever fuckin' speak to me like that again.”

His voice is a low growl, thick with rage, spit flying as he sneers at her and his fingers dig into the fabric, twisting and constricting. Y/N’s hands fly up, wrapping around his wrists, but she’s helpless—he’s too strong, too relentless. The pressure makes it hard to breathe, hard to think beyond the burning pain radiating from her nose.

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Luke slams her against the door again, harder this time. The whole car shakes.

“Is that fuckin' clear?!”

A sob breaks from her, raw and shaky, “-yes.”

His grip tightens, “What was that?”

“Yes sir.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, voice barely above a whisper, trembling. He stares at her for a moment longer, the fury in his eyes making her stomach churn. Then, with a sharp shove, he releases her, sending her back against the seat. Luke exhales harshly, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the moment, then mutters,

“Drive”

Y/N’s whole body is trembling, her breaths uneven. Slowly, her shaking hand lifts, fingertips grazing the sticky warmth dripping from her nose. She pulls back, eyes locking on the crimson staining her fingers.

“Now.” His tone is sharper this time, a warning.

“If you ain’t gonna drive right now Y/N, I swear to God you’ll be limpin' home.”

She doesn’t hesitate after that.

With jerky, frantic movements, she starts the car, the engine roaring to life. Her head is pounding, the sharp sting of her broken nose making her vision blur, but she forces herself to focus. She pulls out of the lot and onto the road, the streetlights casting long shadows over her shaking hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beach parking lot is empty, save for her car, parked near the dunes. It’s late- but there’s no way in hell she’s going home, not tonight.

Not all alone with him there.  

The air is thick with salt, the distant crash of waves the only sound cutting through the quiet. Her car door is open, letting in the cool night breeze, and the windows are rolled down. It helps her breathe, helps her not feel so confined.  

She flips down the visor mirror, tilting her face slightly to the side. The faint glow from the overhead light highlights the swelling creeping along the bridge of her nose, the discoloration already setting in- a deep, ugly bruise spreading beneath her skin.  

She sighs.  

In the cup holder, a fast-food cup sits, condensation dripping down the sides. It was full of ice earlier, but now it’s just cold water. Her passenger seat holds a damp, crumpled t-shirt, stained slightly red from when she pressed it to her face after the bleeding slowed.   Her fingers ghost over her nose, wincing when even the lightest touch sends a sharp sting through her skull. She drops her hand, pressing her head back against the seat with a quiet exhale.  

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at nothing, just listening to the waves. The night stretches on, then the low rumble of an approaching engine made her fingers twitch against the steering wheel. She flicked the mirror shut, cutting off the reflection of her slightly swollen nose, and turned her head just as the black Range Rover slowed to a stop a few feet away. The headlights dimmed, the driver’s door opened, and out stepped Rafe.

Two whole days.

Forty-eight hours since she’d told him and in all that time, not a single word, she didn't see him once.

Now he was here.

He walked toward her car, his movements purposeful but not rushed. The glow of the parking lot lights bounced off his sharp features, making his expression unreadable. When he stopped at her open door, he glanced down at her in the darkness, his mouth parting slightly before he finally spoke.

“Hi”

Y/N swallowed, feeling like she was made of glass, like she had to keep herself still or she’d crack.

“Hey.”

Her eyes flickered downward. He was holding something—an envelope, brown and slightly crumpled at the edges his voice calls out,

"I had a feeling I'd find you here"

Her brow furrowed slightly, curiosity prickling at her, but before she could ask, Rafe exhaled through his nose and said,

“I think we should talk.”

She hesitated, then gave him a small nod, eyes darting away as she jerked her chin toward the passenger seat in silent invitation. As Rafe moved around the car to get in, she saw it—the bloodied t-shirt still crumpled where she’d left it. She quickly snatched it up in an instant, shoving it into the back seat just as Rafe opened the door.

He settled into the passenger seat, the dim light from the dashboard casting a faint glow over them. He glanced at her, ready to speak, but then his expression shifted. His brows furrowed, his jaw tightening as he took in the dark bruising spreading across her nose, the faint swelling along her cheekbone. His voice was sharp, edged with something she didn’t want to name.

“The fuck is that?”

“I fell down the stairs.”

Y/N barely blinked responding- many years of experience had taught her to lie without hesitation. Rafe let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head.

“And what? The stairs punched you in the face when you got to the bottom?”

Her fingers curled into fists against her lap, the muscles in her jaw tightening, “Just shut the fuck up, Rafe. If you don’t have anything to say, get out of my car.”

"I'm trying to be nice-"

"Yeah? Well I don't want your niceties"

His nostrils flared, exhaling a long, irritated breath, but he pushed it down. His fingers drummed once against the envelope in his lap before he finally stilled. Rafe shifted in his seat, gripping the envelope before exhaling like he was about to say something.

“So, I—”

Before he could get another word out, a loud growl echoed through the car. She froze, her lips pressing together as if that could take it back. Apart from the lunch she’d had with Sofia, she hadn’t eaten anything else all day. Her body had clearly decided to remind her of that at the worst possible moment.

“Sorry”

She mumbled, trying to act like it was nothing. Rafe gave her a look, one brow lifting.

“Do you need to eat or…?”

She shook her head quickly, “I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced at all, he looked skeptical as he started patting his pockets, digging around like he was searching for something. After a few seconds, he pulled out a slightly squished protein bar and held it out to her.

“Here.”

Y/N stared at him, blinking in disbelief and Rafe rolled his eyes.

“Relax, it’s Topper’s. He left it in my car.”

She hesitated for a moment, glancing between him and the protein bar before finally taking it from his hand. “Thanks,” she muttered, unwrapping it and taking a small bite, the dull ache in her stomach started to ease almost instantly.

Rafe just watched.

Y/N’s eyes flickered to the envelope in his hands as she chewed the protein bar. She gestured to it with her fingers, swallowing before asking,

“What is it?”

“It’s a trip to Charleston. With a hotel booked near a—” His jaw tensed, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“Near a clinic.”

Her chewing slowed- then it stopped altogether.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the bar as she stared at him. Two days. He hadn’t spoken to her in two days, and in that time… he had organised this? She asked, her voice quieter than before.

“What?”

“I found a clinic in Charleston. One that’s, you know… quiet.” He lifted the envelope slightly as he shifted in his seat.

“Booked an appointment for you.”

Her fingers crumpled the wrapper before shoving it into the empty cup holder. Slowly, she reached out, taking the envelope from him, her fingertips brushing against the brown paper as she peeled it open. Inside, there were neatly printed documents- clinic appointment verification, hotel booking confirmation, the details laid out in plain ink. She stared at them, her eyes scanning over the words but barely processing them.

“You did this…?”

“Yeah.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first, she wasn’t sure what to say or how to respond. Rafe ran a hand over his jaw, his voice quieter now.

“You deserve to have that option you know.... It’s not like you asked to get pregnant.”

Her fingers curled around the papers, her grip tightening slightly. She nodded once, her throat suddenly feeling tight. A breath passed her lips, and then, in the softest voice- so quiet because if it was any louder, she knew it would waver- she murmured,

“Thank you.”

She pulled out the clinic information, her eyes scanning over the details. “It’s for Tuesday evening,” Rafe said, watching her as she read. “Least busy time of the week.” Y/N nodded slightly, and she turned the envelope upside down, letting the rest of its contents slide out- and then her breath hitched.

A thick wad of cash fell into her lap, the weight of it heavy.

Her fingers hesitated before picking it up, and as she held it, she could already tell- it wasn’t some small stack of bills- it was a lot. She turned to him, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Is this for all the clini—”

“No,” he cut in before she could even finish, shaking his head, “the hotel, the ferry, the clinic—it’s all been paid for.”

Her brows pulled together in confusion. “I'm sorry... ?”

“It’s been paid for”

He repeated, voice firm. She glanced down at the money again, gripping it a little tighter. She lifted it slightly, gesturing as she asked him.

“So… what’s this for?”

“It’s for Friday.”

Rafe exhaled through his nose and her stomach clenched slightly. Friday. The evening she'd spent being his- private dancer. “Oh” she muttered, realization settling in. Rafe’s jaw ticked, and he gave her a small nod.

“Yeah… it’s yours.”

Y/N looked down to the green paper biting her lip before she flicked her fingers through the thick stack of bills, her breath catching as she counted. Her eye's widened in disbelief and she recounted it all again- slowly and surely, yet the result was the same.

Three thousand dollars.

Her head shook immediately, “Rafe, I can’t take this.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I— I can’t take this,” she said more firmly now, shoving the cash back into the envelope.

“This is insane. We didn’t even—fuck, I didn’t even 'dance' for you”

She said and both of them knew exactly what she was referring to when she spoke of dancing. His jaw clenched as he sighed out,

“Just take it.”

“No.”

His frustration spiked slightly, “Can you stop being so fucking stubborn and take the money?” Y/N met his stare head-on, her grip still firm on the envelope. Yet neither of them backed down. Rafe exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping against his knee before he tried again.

"Just take the money… please."

His voice was lower this time, a little less sharp, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes weren’t as hard as before. Y/N looked back down at the envelope in her lap, her fingers grazing over the edges. Her chest felt tight, torn between her pride and the harsh reality of needing it. She let out a quiet breath, then slid the money back into the envelope without another word. Deep down, as much as she hated accepting it, she knew she needed it.

Y/N looked back down to her lap and picked up the folded pieces of paper, the crinkling of the paper broke the heavy silence and she stared at it her fingers slowly dragging over the surface, tracing the edge of the ferry ticket she’d just pulled out.

There were two.

Her thumb brushed over the printed words on the tickets, her gaze flickering between them. The cold night air from the open window tugged at her hair, but she barely noticed. “Thought you’d want to take someone with you...” he said, nodding toward the tickets,

“So you’re not alone.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she caught the sincerity in his gaze. It was strange, this version of Rafe, the one who wasn’t demanding or mocking, just... there. She couldn’t help but feel the tight knot in her chest loosen just slightly.

“One of your Pogues or something”

He added. She let out a small, heavy sigh as her head leaned back against the headrest. Her fingers fidgeted with the tickets again, but this time it wasn’t because she was trying to make sense of them. It was because something in her stomach twisted- an ache that had nothing to do with hunger anymore. Her gaze dropped to the tickets in her hands, the crinkling of the paper loud in the quiet car.

“They don’t know”

She said softly, her voice barely a whisper, the words tumbling out like an admission she hadn’t meant to make. Rafe’s expression shifted, his brows furrowing as he turned to look at her more intently.

“What?”

Y/N’s lips parted, but she hesitated for a moment. She swallowed hard, her eyes still on the tickets, the words coming out barely above a whisper,

“No one knows”

The car seemed to get even quieter, the sound of the ocean in the distance a hum. She could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up tp him. The silence stretched on, thick and unspoken, until finally, she turned to face him, her voice low but steady.

“…You’re the only one who knows.”

Rafe froze.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. His fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening, but all he could do was sit there, processing what she’d just said. Y/N’s words hung in the air, and she couldn’t quite shake the vulnerability that had seeped into her bones- the weight of the secret that had been hers alone to carry. She stared down at the ferry tickets again, her fingers absently shuffling them in her lap, but her mind was elsewhere. After what felt like hours, she broke the silence. Her voice was small, fragile,

“Would—... would you go with me?”

The question hung in the air between them, tentative and raw, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t meant to ask it, hadn’t planned on it, but there it was, slipping out like a confession. Rafe didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at her, his face unreadable, his eyes scanning hers like he was trying to figure out if she really meant it.

If this was truly what she wanted.

The seconds dragged by, stretched thin as they sat in the car, Finally, Rafe spoke out, his voice low, almost as if he's not sure he heard her correctly. 

"Me?"

Y/N nodded, her gaze steady on him, her fingers tightening around the ferry tickets.  He already knew deep down what his answer was going to be, but the question still caught him off guard and he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to go with her- but because he wasn’t sure what it would change between them. He sighed, his hand twitching against his thigh before he turned to her fully, meeting her eyes. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah... I’ll go with you."

There's a long pause as the words settle between them, and Y/N looks at him for a moment, as if waiting for him to take it back, but he doesn’t.

He means it.

taglist: @xoxosblogsblog @moonywhisp3rs @i-love-gvf @my-name-is-baby@ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @mariamadison6-blog@rafesgurl@rafecameronswhoore @lovelytoomusic @mysticbby2009 @vanessa-rafesgirl@silkenthusiasts @partygirl14 @amterasuu @xoxo-ada @icaqttt@ivysprophecy @mauvesmax @larema121 @ggraycelynn @emeloyy @pluviophilis@slut-4-gojo @willowpains @wtfisastiles @rafecqmeronslove @pleasstory@lolasangelz @beau-dabomb @psychocitylights @constantsadness @rhianthebest@emmiesummers @sfotiegiuls @ggraycelynn @larema121 @emeloyy @pluviophilis@urgoldens @insominagirlss @urfavoritebrunette007 @mauvesmax @miniiminie@kythefangirl25 @niyalovests @scream4mami @aizawawify @prettybabyyyy@barbiefan14 @keennerdslover @rafeysslut @rafeysworldim19@jennieonline@hannieskzzz@sugak00kie03@gabrielaperez11@simonejacpbsen@bambigirl10

[nikkento-writes]

Babysitter - Part 1

Pairing: dad!Toji x babysitter!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~1.7k

cw: age gap (reader is 21, Toji is in his 30s), language, cheating, smut – PIV sex (doggy style), breeding kink, daddy kink

Summary: You're hired to babysit little Megumi for the summer, but you end up taking care of his father, Toji, as well.

Author’s Notes: This is repost from my old blog! I initially got this as a request and it became my first Toji fic ever, and certainly not my last lol. I'm posting this again because I actually wrote a Part 2, check it out! Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

You stand in front of a quaint house, checking your watch for the time. It’s been almost ten minutes now since you knocked, no answer. You gave the number from the listing a call, still nothing. Rolling your eyes, you take a seat on the steps leading to the door, waiting.

It’s the summer before you head back to university for your senior year. In an attempt to make some extra cash, you took a job as a babysitter through local ads in the paper. The first two clients were completely normal; this one is already leaving a bad taste in your mouth. 

Fifteen minutes have passed. You try once more, pounding on the door with your fist as loud as you can. Heel turned, ready to leave, it suddenly swings open, revealing a muscular man with black hair, glaring at you. “What the fuck do you want?” 

You step back, startled by his intimidating presence. Stuttering, you answer, “I’m the babysitter.”

He continues to stare at you, eyes following your body up and down, studying it. “Babysitter?”

Before you can explain any further, you hear a car rolling into the driveway. A woman in professional attire steps out quickly. “I’m so sorry I’m late!” She rushes towards you, holding her hand out to shake yours. “We spoke on the phone. I got stuck in traffic, I’m so sorry.”

You smile at her. “It’s okay.”

She faces the man, expression switching from cheery to dreary in an instant. “Toji, where is Megumi?”

He scratches his head. “Huh?”

“Megumi. Our child.”

He sighs. “Right. Uh, I’ll go get him.” 

While he’s gone, the woman pulls you aside, speaking in a hushed voice. “That’s Toji, my husband and Megumi’s father. Unfortunately, he’s a complete deadbeat. That’s why I want to hire you. I started my new job and I need someone to take care of Megumi while I’m gone during the day.”

She swallows hard, blinking to fight off oncoming tears. “I have no one. I’ve been shunned by my family, my husband doesn’t give a shit about ours, and I’m all alone trying to give Megumi a good life. I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m desperate. This is just until I can save enough money to hire a full-time nanny.”

She grips onto your wrist with both her hands, begging for help. Truthfully, it’s a lot to unravel, more drama than you anticipated. But the anguish in her eyes tugs at your heartstrings. Plus, knowing it’s temporary doesn’t make it seem so difficult. How bad can it be? “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Relief washes over her. “Oh thank god. Thank you. Thank you. Let’s go inside and I can give you a tour.” She leads you through the entrance, removing her shoes as you follow her. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Toji is home most of the day, but he’s always couped up in his room, doing god knows what. Just leave a meal or two outside his door twice a day. That should be enough.”

“Huh?!” 

She glances at you with a nervous smile on her face. “Yeah. I told you, he’s good for nothing.”

You don’t respond while you maneuver through the house, barely paying attention while she shows you around. It almost sounds like you’ll be babysitting two children…

~~~

The first two weeks of your new job go by smoothly. Megumi is an adorable baby; he’s almost two-years-old with hair as black as his father’s. While he never really smiles, he doesn’t cry either, expression usually stern, unless he needs a diaper change. He’s self-sufficient, always immersed by his own toys until it’s time to eat. Overall, he’s easy. 

Toji, on the other hand, is another story. 

You follow his wife’s instructions, leaving two meals outside his door, breakfast and lunch. And this asshole has the audacity to critique it! The bread wasn’t toasted enough. The eggs were too runny. There wasn’t enough seasoning on the meat. All this criticism while each plate is licked clean, not a crumb to spot. He’s never even uttered a simple thank you. 

But what he lacks in social skills or personality, he makes up for in his physique. In between meals, he works out in the living room lifting weights, doing push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups at the frame of the door. It lasts for over an hour, and by the end of it, he’s shirtless, dripping with sweat. You’ve done everything in your power to avoid staring but it doesn’t prevent your mind from conjuring all types of lewd thoughts about him. You’re ashamed to admit that he is physically attractive, only because everything else about him is utter trash. Still, it doesn’t hurt to look, right?

On the third week, there’s a shift in energy between you two. When he isn’t working out or going out to meet with his sketchy friends, he’s usually couped up in his bedroom, ignoring you and Megumi. This morning, he actually joins you in the kitchen. You stare blankly at him, stunned by his sudden appearance. Megumi is unfazed by his father as he tries to pull your wrist towards him to get a spoonful of mushed up peas. 

When he catches you, Toji glares. “What?”

“Um, nothing. Just surprised to see you here.” You clear your throat, focusing back on the baby. 

He rolls his eyes. “This is my house. I can do whatever I want.”

“Yes, of course. Sir.”

For some reason, this triggers him. He stands up abruptly, stepping to you, leaning his face towards yours. The scar on the corner of his lip twitches when he gives you a wicked grin. “That’s right. I’m in charge here.”

You flinch from him, scared, maybe even slightly aroused. He’s intense, that’s for sure. But part of you finds it exhilarating to be in his presence. 

Megumi whines for more food, to which Toji grabs the utensil from your hands to start feeding him. “Damn kid, he’s hungry all the fucking time.”

You sit up in your seat, regaining your composure. “You shouldn’t curse in front of children.”

He faces you, chuckling. “Curse? Seriously? What are you, five?”

You cross your arms, answering, “I’m twenty-one.”

“Interesting.” There’s that naughty smirk again, as if he’s thinking something obscene in that twisted head of his. And while you should be turned off, you’re not. You squeeze your legs together, pussy throbbing between your thighs. And of course, he notices this. He must, because he leans forward, lips grazing your ear, whispering, “Come by my room whenever Megumi is taking his nap. That’s an order.”

~~~

This is bad. Very, very bad. 

You're supposed to be better than this. Clearly, you aren’t, because you’re currently getting railed by your employer’s husband while his child sleeps peacefully in the next room.

“Fuck, this pussy is tight,” he groans, pumping his thick cock in and out of you. You’re bent over the edge of the bed, his hips smacking against your ass as he thrusts into you. He’s got a tight grip on your hips, nails digging into your flesh, pounding away at your greedy pussy, absolutely drenched with arousal and lube. Your face is sticky with perspiration, pillow soaked with sweat and drool. It’s a fucking mess, but it doesn’t matter, because all you can think about is Toji fucking you until you’re seeing stars. Until your head is empty and nothing but his fat cock is occupying your thoughts.

“God, you’re squeezing me so fucking hard, princess. You gonna come again?”

You nod erratically, reaching your fingers to your clit. He smacks it away, doing it himself, his thumb flicking against your swollen bud. “Fucking come on my cock then. Make it nice and creamy for me, got it?”

His cock is buried deep inside you, hitting your sweet spot over and over until you unravel, gushing around him once more. You’ve lost count on how many orgasms you’ve had in this short amount of time. 

After your climax, he doesn’t pull out, fucking you even rougher. Your body is pliant around him, yielding to his every touch like putty. You’ve lost control of yourself, completely enraptured in the intense pleasure he surrounds you with. 

He leans forward, chest pressed to your back, lips brushed to your ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. Give Megumi a little brother or sister. Would you like that?” He’s crazy. Completely unhinged. Absolutely fucking psycho. 

“Fuck yes, I want that,” you moan. “Give it to me, daddy. Breed me.” 

And apparently, so are you. 

“Oh fuck yeah, take my fucking cum then,” he growls. The bed creaks violently below you, his backshots brutal and frantic now, cock desperate for release. “I’m gonna get you fucking pregnant. Make you mine.”

He shoots his hot load inside you, stuffing you full of his cum. He doesn’t stop until he’s fucked it deeper into your pussy, watching with that sexy look on his face as his creamy cum leaks out of your slit.

Lifting you up to lay comfortably on the bed, he rolls beside you, kissing you sloppily until Megumi’s whimpers blare through the baby monitor, indicating that he’s awake. Toji laughs, smacking your ass as you crawl over him to return to your real job. 

~~~

You spend the remainder of your summer employed at the Fushiguro household until you have to go back to school. You and Toji continue to fuck each other silly every day that you’re working. 

The day before you leave for college, you say your goodbyes to the family. Megumi’s mom, who remains blissfully unaware of your sins, hugs you tightly. “Thank you so much for all your help. I’ve finally saved enough money to afford a full-time nanny, so we’ll be fine.” 

“It was my pleasure. I had a lot of fun. With Megumi,” you clarify, avoiding Toji’s gaze as he watches from the kitchen. 

“Seriously. You’re a good person. I hope you know that.” She smiles, truly grateful. “And thank you for taking care of my good for nothing husband too.”

As the guilt of this dirty, filthy secret eats away at you, Toji stares at you from across the room, smirking. 

[windyremedy]

reeling revelation

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader

scenario: finding out their bestfriend is a dad in the most unexpected way possible.

Time constraints and lack of availability are impossible to avoid and meeting up since after highschool had only gotten harder and harder. Each time they actually got close to hanging out, someone suddenly has to cancel because of either work related issues or whatever else it may be. Though everyone’s understanding for the most part including Mina but her in particular quite frankly had enough.

So when Bakugou called Kirishima up explaining that he couldn’t make it after 4/5 of the Bakusquad members attended she just couldn’t let it happen again and so she and really all of them were graciously invited (totally did not whine and beg) to the Bakugou household which doesn’t happen very often.

Last time anyone came there was back when they were just starting out their pro hero lives. It was honestly a surprise to everyone aside from probably Midoriya that Bakugou got married so early but they were invited to your wedding and from what they could tell you were super nice.

When they finally knocked on the huge door they were expecting everything else but an unimpressed look of what seems to be a mini Bakugou, almost a mirror copy of their best pal’s expression who did not inform them that he was now a dad.

Although he wasn’t a complete copy and paste with most of his facial features being from his mom and mainly baby Bakugou’s hair being a different color but his eyes, oh they knew that sharp ruby stare from anywhere. It was actually kinda worrisome how he seemed to pick up Bakugou’s temperament at their antics. Maybe they would even feel kinda intimidated (as much as you can with a baby at least) but he looked too cute all bundled up in an all might themed suit with a white pacifier in his mouth.

“Bakugou! you never told us you had a baby?” Mina excitedly exclaimed, squealing from the cuteness.

“Yeah! I thought we were your best buds??!!” Kaminari dramatically shouted in betrayal.

Bakugou shuffled Ryuu to a more comfortable position after the little one turned away from his loud friends.

“Didn’t know how to bring up and well you never asked.” he answered busy handling Ryuu who was getting more agitated by the second.

“So it’s our fault you never shared this big fact about your life?” Sero half joking half wryly asked.

“Yeah, you dumbasses would fuckin— shit nevermind.” He tried to recover placing his palms around Ryuu’s ears.

“Why is he so annoyed already? don’t tell me you’ve been talking bad about us?!! don’t hate me baby Bakugou.” Kirishima pleaded.

“S’ names Ryuu and he’s not mad at you, just thought it was his mom at the door. Come in before he actually kicks you out.”

“You mean you kick us out?” Kaminari corrected.

“Yeah, yeah.”

As they stepped inside the house they took notice of the evident amount of family pictures along the walls and on cabinets. Both admiring and unnerved about seeing Bakugou look so soft in all of them. They’ve seen many expressions from Bakugou before some more than others (like annoyance and anger) but this was a wholenother level they weren’t at all used to.

Leading to the living room where building blocks can be seen scattered across. They each took a seat around the area, Mina asking about your whereabouts as she sat.

“She’s coming back soon, supposed to be here today but her work called this morning and she had to come in.” he informed going into the connected kitchen.

“Ohhh that’s why you couldn’t come.” Kaminari solved albeit a bit late.

“Yep, sorry about that.” he apologized although not sounding at all affected by not being able to meet up with his self proclaimed friends (they are friends).

Grabbing a bottle of milk from the fridge as he fed it to Ryuu who sleepily closed his eyes.

“Bet you didn’t want to anyway. I mean I wouldn’t either, look how cute this little guy is.” Sero admitted getting cute aggression from Ryuu’s chubby little cheeks.

Bakugou only nodded, half heartedly listening to the conversations while chiming in once in awhile before getting back to rocking Ryuu to sleep. Who seemed to be dozing off before he jolted up after hearing the familiar ring of the doorbell.

“Hold on a second.” Bakugou briefed before going to the open the door, not knowing he was being secretly followed.

“Hey Kats.” you greeted lovingly as he pecked you on the lips, hugging you in the process as well as Ryuu whose arms signaled that he wanted to be handed over for a hug too.

“Hello to you too my little dragon.” you smiled as he wrapped his small arms around your neck.

Standing there by the doorway both of you failed to notice the scooby stack happening behind the corner of the doorframe sniffling at the domestic sight.

“This is so beautiful.” Kaminari sobbed.

Kirishima nodded in agreement. “What a manly sight indeed.”

“I’m so proud of him.” Mina whispered whilst shedding a tear.

Setting aside the dramatics Sero smiled, happy for his friend. “He definitely made it.”

©windyremedy

[heavenlybodies333]

Virgin Fucking Mary - M.R.

she told you she’s celibate, but she told me I can rail her shit

Theo had been your best friend since before either of you could properly walk, a bond that never wavered, even as you grew older and Hogwarts became your shared stomping ground. Your friendship was simple, easy—even if he did have a habit of oversharing details of his sex life that you could really, really do without.

You were sitting with Theo, Enzo, and Blaise at the Slytherin table, picking at your food while Theo recounted—far too enthusiastically, might you add—his latest escapade.

"Mate, I swear, I had her begging—"

"Merlin, Theo," you groaned, stabbing a piece of fruit with your fork. "Honestly, I don’t know why you put yourself in these positions when you know you're leading these girls on."

Theo just grinned, unbothered. “Can’t help it, darling. You know how they get when I—”

"You ever try talking to these girls first? Or is it straight to sticking your dicks down their throats?" Before you could roll your eyes, a presence dropped into the seat beside you. The scent of smoke and something inherently masculine curled around you, the unmistakable cologne of Mattheo Riddle invading your senses.

"What's this, then?" His voice was low, amused as he reached over, stealing a chip off your plate. "You giving Nott a lecture on morality, princess?"

You exhaled sharply through your nose, refusing to turn toward him. “Just asking if you whores ever have a conversation with a girl instead of thinking with your—” his hand reached over your plate once again, taking another chip.

"Now, where’s the fun in that?" he mused, popping it into his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, refusing to engage. "Of course you would say that, Riddle."

Theo let out a loud, amused groan, smacking the table. "Alright, alright, calm down, Thou Holy Virgin Mary"

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

Blaise shook his head, laughed under his breath. Enzo snorted into his drink.

But Mattheo—Mattheo—practically collapsed against the table, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his seat. "No fucking way," he wheezed, pressing a hand to his chest as he recovered.

Your cheeks burned. The heat spread down your neck, prickling against your skin, but you refused to let it show.

"You lot are laughing at me," you huffed, tossing your fork onto your plate, "but at least I don’t have to worry about pushing a fucking kid out of me anytime soon."

Mattheo snorted, his amusement shifting into something more smug. "Yeah, okay, princess," he drawled, leaning into your space. His voice was low, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, glinting with something dark. "No wonder you’re so uptight. Explains why you’re such a bitch."

That pissed you off.

You turned to him slowly, eyes narrowing, expression carefully composed despite the way anger coiled hot in your gut. The others had already lost interest, falling back into their own conversations.

“Oh, I’ll have you know, Riddle,” you said, voice low, syrupy-sweet. “A girl can take matters into her own hands.”

Mattheo blinked. Just once.

You didn’t wait for a response. You stood smoothly, grabbing your book bag, and just for good measure, you leaned down just enough to let your lips ghost near his ear.

"You’d be surprised what I can do without a man."

And then? You walked away. Swaying your hips. Feeling his eyes burn into your back.

By the time you reached the door, you dared one last glance over your shoulder.

And there it was.

Mattheo, still seated, still staring, his expression caught somewhere between surprised and fuck, I’m turned on.

It was late, the library was completely empty with the exception of those in the moving portraits keeping you company. Most students had long since gone to bed, leaving only a dim glow of candlelight flickering between the shelves.

And you weren’t stupid. You had felt it.

The shift in the air. The way the back of your neck tingled. The weight of a stare burning between your shoulder blades.

You knew it was him.

Still, you pretended not to notice. You turned the page of your book, eyes trained on the words, until—

“Taking matters into your own hands, huh?”

His voice was low. Smooth. Dark with something predatory.

You didn’t jump. Didn’t react. Just hummed, dragging your gaze lazily up to where he stood.

Mattheo leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, dark curls falling into his eyes.

You raised a brow. “Something you need?”

His lips curved. “I think you know exactly what I need.”

A slow heat curled in your stomach. You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What, Riddle? A book? Help with your homework?”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, caging you against the table. His hands found the wood, fingers curling against it as he leaned down—so close you could feel his breath against your cheek.

You refused to look up. Refused to acknowledge the warmth pooling low in your stomach.

But Mattheo? He knew.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he murmured.

His fingers brushed your thigh.

You swallowed hard. “And what’s that?”

Mattheo tilted his head, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth.

“You can show me,” he murmured. “How you take matters into your own hands.”

He saw the way your fingers twitched against the table. The way your lips parted just slightly, as if debating whether to let yourself fall or run. And, like the smug bastard he was, he waited.

“Nothing to say?” he mused, his breath brushing the side of your jaw. His fingers drummed against the wood, lazy, slow. “Funny. You had plenty to say at lunch.”

The heat between you was unbearable. His knee pressed between your legs, just enough to send a spike of need through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache building low in your stomach.

Mattheo saw.

Felt it.

And then—he pushed deeper.

“I bet you like it,” he murmured, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw. “Being the good little princess. The one no one can touch. The one no one fucks.”

Your breath hitched.

“Bet you get yourself off thinking about it, don’t you?” His lips brushed just against your ear. “How desperate they’d be to ruin you?”

You clenched your teeth, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted.

He saw it anyway.

Felt the way your body betrayed you, thighs squeezing around the knee he’d wedged between them, the pulse of your breath, the heat rolling off you in waves.

Mattheo hummed, pleased.

Then, before you could react, his hand slid under your skirt.

You gasped. “Mattheo—”

But he wasn’t listening.

“I mean, let’s be honest, yeah?” His knuckles brushed the inside of your thigh. “A girl can take matters into her own hands, sure—but it’s not the same, is it?”

He leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear. dragging his fingers higher, pressing against the damp fabric of your underwear.

“Look at that,” he mused. "Virgin Mary isn’t so innocent after all."

Your fingers curled against the table. "I will kill you."

He just laughed, dark and low. "Yeah? You gonna do it with my fingers in your cunt, or after I fuck you stupid?"

Your brain short-circuited.

Mattheo used your stunned silence to his advantage, slipping his fingers beneath your underwear, dragging them through the slick pooling between your thighs.

"Fuck, Mattheo—"

He hums, watching your face, the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together in pleasure.

"You’re soaked," he smirks. "Thought you didn’t like me."

"I don’t like you," you pant, back arching as his fingers move faster, working you open, leaving you breathless.

He laughs. "Sure, princess."

He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss, at the emptiness. But then he’s undoing his belt, pushing his slacks down just enough, and your stomach tightens at the sight of him—thick, hard, leaking at the tip.

Mattheo catches your gaze, smirking. "You’re staring."

You roll your eyes, even as you hook your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Are you gonna talk all night, or are you gonna—fuck—"

Because he’s already sliding inside, pushing into you inch by inch, stretching you open in the most devastating way.

"Shit," he groans, hands gripping your thighs. "So fucking tight."

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, head falling back as he fills you completely. You feel everything—the way he pulses inside you, the way his breath stutters against your neck, the way he’s holding himself back, barely resisting the urge to ruin you.

"Mattheo," you whisper. "Deeper, please—"

Something in him snaps.

His grip tightens, and then he’s fucking you—hard, deep, brutal. Every thrust shoves you harder against the wall, knocking the breath from your lungs. You cling to him, nails raking down his back, thighs trembling.

"That what you want?" he rasps, snapping his hips forward, making you cry out. "You want me to fuck you deeper?"

You can’t answer. Can’t think. All you can do is take it, take him, let him fuck you so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.

"Should’ve known," he mutters, biting down against your shoulder. "All that attitude—just a needy little slut underneath, huh?"

You whimper, gasping his name, digging your heels into his lower back, urging him closer, deeper.

Mattheo groans, pulling back just enough to look at you—your lips swollen, your pupils blown wide, your expression absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You look so good like this. Bet Theo would kill me if he knew."

You’re too far gone to care.

"Don’t stop," you plead, voice breaking.

He doesn’t.

He fucks you through it, fucks you until you’re falling apart around him, nails dragging down his spine, thighs squeezing tight around his waist as your orgasm rips through you.

"You feel that?" His voice was wrecked, panting, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he buried himself inside you. "That’s what it’s like when a real man fucks you, sweetheart."

Mattheo groans at the feeling, his pace stuttering, his grip bruising. And then he’s spilling inside you, breathless and wrecked, pressing his forehead against yours as he cums, his thrusts erratic as they slowed.

You were still catching your breath, skirt bunched around your waist, Mattheo’s hands gripping your thighs with a possessive kind of desperation. As he finally pulled out, breath heavy against your ear. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back, taking in the sight of you—disheveled, marked up, and absolutely wrecked beneath him.

His fingers brushed over your thigh before he whispered, “Was that your first?” His voice was dripping with smugness, already assuming he knew the answer. “Did you like it?”

You tilted your head up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. Oh, Mattheo…

“Do you really think I’d lose my virginity to you?” you mused, voice laced with sweet mockery as you reached for your skirt, slipping it back on with slow, deliberate movements. You adjusted it, smoothing out the creases, completely unfazed by the way his expression darkened.

Mattheo’s smirk faltered. “What?”

His expression shifted—something sharp, something dark. "What the fuck does that mean?"

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder with an easy smirk. "It means, sweetheart," you said, voice dripping with faux sympathy, "that you really should have a chat with Theo sometime."

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering before realization settled in like a slow-burning fire.

"Oh," you mused, tapping your chin like you were deep in thought. "You don’t know about him, do you? About how he doesn't really get the whole 'kiss and don’t tell' thing?"

You slung your bag over your shoulder, taking your time fixing your hair in the reflection of a nearby window. turning to face him, "I don’t kiss and tell—but unfortunately for you, Theo definitely does." you said sweetly.

His brows furrowed. "Theo—what the fuck are you talking about?"

You leaned in, just close enough that he could smell the faint hint of perfume on your skin, the remnants of whatever sin you two had just committed. "Ask him about me sometime," you murmured, a smirk playing at the edges of your lips. "I’m sure he’d love to share the details."

You turned to leave, but not before tossing one last dagger straight at his ego. “Oh, and Mattheo?” You glanced over your shoulder, giving him one last look-over. "Next time, try lasting longer."

Then you walked out, leaving him alone in the dim glow of the library—jaw tight, fists clenched, drowning in the bitter aftertaste of his own ego—because for once in his life, Mattheo Riddle wasn’t the one doing the ruining.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: slut me out

here’s part 2 for you whores

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

[willowsnook]

halfway to always

quinn hughes x sharks!reader

summary: reader is Macklin and Will's bff who works for the Sharks. She gets invited to the lakehouse after meeting Jack Hughes who thinks she would be perfect for his brother.

There was a week-long break after the Devils played the Sharks, and Jack Hughes was eager to take advantage of a couple of extra days in the sunny weather of San Jose. After a grueling stretch of games, a beach day sounded perfect.

“We just need to stop and pick one more person up, and then we’ll be good to go,” Macklin Celebrini said as he slid into the driver’s seat of the car.

“Who?” Jack asked, shifting in his seat to glance at Will Smith in the back.

“Y/n,” Macklin answered simply.

Will furrowed his brows. “Does she even know we’re coming?”

“No, but I’m sure she isn’t doing anything,” Macklin chirped, grinning. Will snorted in response, clearly used to this kind of behavior from him.

“Who’s Y/n?” Jack questioned, still confused.

“She’s our best friend,” Will said casually. “She also works for the Sharks in player personnel, which is how we met her.”

“Yeah, her job was to make sure we started acting like adults, and now she’s stuck with us forever,” Macklin joked.

Jack smirked. “Is she dating one of you?”

“I wish,” Will scoffed. “She says that we’re babies. But she’s our best friend for real; you’ll love her.”

When they finally made it to your door, Jack immediately understood why they were both so attached to you. You were stunning. Your long hair was piled haphazardly on top of your head, and you answered the door in an oversized Sharks sweatshirt and shorts, your bare legs curled slightly from standing in the doorway. There was an immediate spark of curiosity in Jack, but what entertained him most was the way your expression immediately twisted into mild annoyance the second you saw Macklin and Will.

“What are you doing here?” you asked warily, your voice laced with irritation.

“Come to the beach with us, please,” Macklin begged, giving you his best puppy dog eyes.

“I’m busy,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest.

“No, you aren’t,” Will countered, stepping around you and waltzing into the apartment like he owned the place. “This is Jack, by the way.”

“I know who he is,” you grumbled, stepping aside to let them all in.

“Sorry to intrude,” Jack said sheepishly, and you waved him off.

“This is like every day of my life.”

Will and Macklin made themselves comfortable on your couch as you sighed, resigning yourself to their plans. As much as you griped about babysitting them, they were your best friends. What had started as a work obligation had turned into late-night hangouts, last-minute road trip plans, and a friendship you wouldn’t trade for anything.

You disappeared into your room to change, and when you emerged, Jack’s eyes instinctively followed you.

“Did you bring sunscreen? Food? Water?” you asked, hands on your hips.

Will and Macklin exchanged a sheepish glance before shaking their heads.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, moving into the kitchen to gather supplies.

“She’s like our mom,” Will told Jack, watching as you furrowed your brows in concentration while making sandwiches. “We’d probably die without her.”

“She tells us we’re like Ollie and Andy from Bob’s Burgers all the time,” Macklin added with a groan.

Jack snorted. He leaned against the counter, watching you thoughtfully. There was something about you that reminded him of his older brother.

“She’s kind of like Quinn,” he mused.

“That’s actually a good comparison,” Macklin said, nodding. “They’d be a hot couple.”

“Macklin,” you warned, hearing him loud and clear.

“What?” Macklin shrugged innocently. “I’m just saying. You’re both responsible adults who take care of children like us.”

You rolled your eyes, placing the last sandwich in the cooler. "I've never even met Quinn."

"But you've watched him play," Will pointed out with a smirk. "Remember when you said his edge work was—"

"Finish that sentence and I'm not packing any beer," you threatened, pointing a knife still coated in mayo at him.

Will immediately clamped his mouth shut while Jack's interest was piqued. "What did she say about Quinn's edge work?"

"Nothing," you said quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "Just professional observations."

Will smartly kept his mouth shut as you finished packing the cooler. Soon, you were all piled into the car, en route to the beach.

Once there, Macklin took off toward the water while you fell into step beside Will, Jack trailing slightly behind.

“You good?” you asked Will softly. He had been acting a little off since earlier—nothing obvious, but you knew him well enough to catch it.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. You shot him a look, and he sighed. “A lot of people are saying I should get sent down.”

Your heart clenched. You knew he was struggling a little, especially compared to how well Macklin was doing.

“A lot of people aren’t Coach,” you said gently. “You know what you need to work on.”

“I know,” he admitted. “The pressure is getting to me.”

“I’ll come in early with you this week to set up drills,” you offered.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “You’re too good to me.” He threw an arm around your shoulders as you walked down the beach together.

Jack watched the interaction quietly. He knew how tough it was to be a rookie in the NHL, and it reassured him to see that Will had someone looking out for him. He thought about Quinn and how the weight of being a captain seemed to be isolating him more and more.

As the day went on, you and Jack got to know each other better. He was charming, easy to talk to, and you found yourself enjoying his company more than expected.

“Do you have the summer off too?” Jack asked as you reapplied sunscreen.

You chuckled. “No, some of us have real jobs.”

Jack blushed. “I meant, do you get any time off?”

“I take most of my PTO during the summer,” you admitted.

“You should come to the lake with us,” he suggested. “Macklin and Will are already coming, and we have plenty of extra space.”

You hesitated, meeting his hopeful gaze. “I don’t want to intrude on guy time.”

“There will be other girls there,” he assured you. “And honestly, I don’t think they would survive without you.”

Macklin and Will reappeared, both dripping wet.

“Convincing her to come to the lake?” Macklin asked, moving his wet hair purposely over you to drip. You swatted at him but he jumped out of the way laughing. 

“Please come, Y/n,” Will pleaded.

You sighed, leaning back against your towel. “Fine.”

Jack grinned. Maybe this trip would be more interesting than he thought.

—----------------------------------------------------

You landed in Michigan the evening of your first day off. Will came to get you and he swept you up in his arms the second he saw you. 

“I missed you,” he exclaimed dramatically as you giggled, finally pulling apart. 

“It’s been like three days buddy,” you reminded him, passing your bag off for him to carry. 

“Three days too long, it’s been boring without you,” he complained. 

“I doubt that,” you replied, amused. He talked your ear off on the ride to the house, mentioning that you just had time to drop your stuff off before they had a bonfire that night. 

Macklin was sitting on the steps as you pulled up, bouncing up eagerly the second he saw you. 

“Y/n!” He yelled bolting towards you. 

“Hi Mack,” you laughed into him, melting into his familiar embrace. Will carried your stuff in and you let Macklin lead you into the house. 

“Hey Jack,” you greeted, waving to the boy who was waiting in the entryway. He pulled you into a hug. 

“Good to see you, y/n,” he said before tugging your arm. “Let me introduce you to everyone else.”

You met his younger brother Luke, his teammate Nico and his girlfriend, and then finally his older brother. 

“I’m Quinn,” the oldest Hughes brother said, sticking out a hand to you. He had an amused expression on his face which you knew had to do with the two bouncing balls of energy that were behind you. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

"All good things, I hope," you said, feeling a flicker of self-consciousness as Quinn's hand lingered in yours a moment longer than necessary.

"Mostly complaints about how you force them to act like grown-ups," Quinn replied with a slight smirk, releasing your hand. "Which, honestly, is impressive. Getting Macklin to pick up after himself when he stayed with us was a challenge."

You laughed, feeling yourself relax a little. There was something about Quinn that put you at ease—a quiet confidence that contrasted with Macklin and Will's chaotic energy.

"I'll show you where you're staying," Jack offered, grabbing your bag from Will.

"I can take it," Will protested, but Jack was already heading up the stairs.

"You can fight over who gets to carry her stuff later," Quinn said dryly, giving you an apologetic glance that sent butterflies to your stomach. “The fire is already started.” 

Sure enough there was a nice fire going in the backyard. A hodgepodge of lawn chairs and patio furniture surrounded it and you sat down on a comfy outdoor couch, Macklin plopping down right next to you. His arm slung behind you and you leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. 

“Long day?” He asked and you nodded. 

“Had to tie up some last minute things at work and then of course saved all the packing for before the flight.” 

“Sounds like you,” he teased and you rolled your eyes smiling. 

“How’s it been here so far?” You asked. 

“Fun, I missed the Hughes’ bros so it’s been good to catch up,” he told you. “The break will be good for us, especially Will.” 

You looked over at Will, who was talking animatedly about something with Luke.

“I’ve been worried about him,” you admitted. 

“Me too,” Macklin agreed. “He’ll figure it out.” 

Quinn was watching you from across the fire, sipping his beer slowly, much to Jack’s amusement. 

“Are you sure they aren’t in some weird throuple thing?” He finally asked, breaking the silence. Jack snorted, glancing over to you and Macklin. 

“I promise you they aren’t,” he confirmed. “Just good friends.” 

Quinn hummed noncommittally, taking another sip of his beer. His eyes hadn't left you since you'd arrived. There was something captivating about the way you fit so seamlessly into their group yet maintained a quiet authority over the rookies.

As the night progressed, you found yourself drifting between conversations. Luke was telling you about his latest game when Quinn finally approached, offering you another drink.

"Thanks," you said, accepting the cold beer from his hands. Your fingers brushed briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through you.

"So, player personnel," Quinn began, settling into the chair beside you. "That's an interesting role for someone so young."

You raised an eyebrow, “thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he backtracked. “Just thinking about how I would have enjoyed coming to the Canucks a little more if it was someone like you helping me versus a fifty year old man.” 

“Someone like me?” You teased, grinning widely as the older brother blushed. 

“You know what I mean,” he mumbled. 

You laughed softly, taking a sip of your beer. “I do, actually. A lot of guys coming into the league are barely out of high school, moving across the country, or even from overseas. It helps to have someone who understands what that transition is like—who can be a little more... relatable.”

Quinn nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Makes sense. I remember my first year was a whirlwind. You must have your hands full with those two.” He nodded toward Macklin and Will, who were now arguing over the best way to roast a marshmallow.

“You have no idea,” you groaned playfully. “They’re like two overgrown puppies. They mean well, but I swear I spend half my time keeping them from doing something stupid.”

Quinn chuckled. “Sounds familiar. Jack and Luke were the same way growing up. Still are, honestly.”

You turned to face him more fully, intrigued. “So, does that make you the responsible one? The one who keeps everyone in check?”

He smirked, taking another sip of his beer. “I try, but Jack and Luke don’t listen to me half the time. I think they see me more as the grumpy older brother who ruins their fun.”

You tilted your head, considering him. “I don’t think you’re grumpy. More like... observant.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he looked away, watching the fire. “Maybe.”

You studied him for a moment. Quinn was quieter than his brothers, more reserved, but there was an undeniable warmth to him—something steady, reliable. You could see why Jack and Luke looked up to him, even if they didn’t always admit it.

“So,” Quinn said, breaking the silence. “What did you say about my edge work?”

Your cheeks immediately flushed, and you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Oh my god, I knew Will was going to say something.”

Quinn’s smirk deepened. “I’m just curious. Professional observations, right?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Fine. I might have said it was some of the best I’ve ever seen.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Might have?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Okay, I did say that. Happy now?”

Quinn took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah. I think I am.”

The air between you felt charged for a split second before Macklin’s voice rang out, breaking the moment.

“Y/n! Come settle this for us. Who’s making the better s’more—me or Will?”

You turned to Quinn, laughing. “Duty calls.”

Quinn watched as you walked toward the rookies, effortlessly slipping back into your role as their unofficial big sister. Jack nudged him from the side, a knowing grin on his face.

“You’re screwed,” Jack muttered.

Quinn just hummed, eyes still locked on you. “Yeah. I think I am.”

The next morning, you woke up at sunrise, admiring the pretty sight from your window. Throwing a sweatshirt on, you headed down the stairs into the kitchen where you were surprised to see you weren’t the only one up. 

“Morning,” Quinn greeted, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee.

“I’m shocked to see someone else up,” you greeted, amused. You moved around him to pour your own cup before turning back. 

“My body is too used to early mornings, can’t sleep past 8 now,” he admitted and you nodded. 

“I’m the same way,” you said. “Probably for the best though.” 

You opened his fridge and stood there puzzled. 

“What?” Quinn asked.

“You have literally no food,” you said, turning to him in confusion. He shrugged his shoulders. 

“We order out a lot or just grill,” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

“Is there a grocery store nearby?” You asked.

“I think so,” he said.

“Okay let’s go,” you said, moving to find your shoes. Quinn chuckled but listened, grabbing his keys off the counter. 

He followed you around the store amused, chiming in when you asked him for an opinion but mostly just admiring you. 

“What were you going to eat on the boat today?” You asked, one hand on your hip as you looked at him over your shoulder.

“Good question,” he replied with a grin and you rolled your eyes. 

“Mr. Responsible my ass,” you muttered. He paid for the groceries and you helped him load them into the car before going back to the house. 

Once you were back, the two of you worked in silence. You making lunches for the day while Quinn cooked eggs, sausage, and potatoes for when everyone else woke up. 

The kitchen filled with the aroma of breakfast as you and Quinn worked side by side, falling into an easy rhythm. You'd occasionally brush against each other reaching for utensils or ingredients, each contact sending a small jolt through you that you tried to ignore.

"You're good at this," Quinn observed, watching as you efficiently packed sandwiches for everyone.

"Taking care of man-children? I've had plenty of practice," you replied with a smirk.

He laughed, a warm sound that made your stomach flutter. "I meant cooking, but fair point."

"My mom always said if you're going to do something, do it well," you explained, carefully wrapping each sandwich. "Even if it's just making lunch for a bunch of overgrown hockey players.”

Quinn's eyes lingered on you longer than necessary. "I think we have similar mothers."

The smell of breakfast eventually lured the others downstairs, one by one. Macklin was the first to appear, his hair sticking up in every direction.

"You're cooking?" he asked, eyes widening as he took in the sight of you and Quinn working side by side in the kitchen.

"Someone had to," you replied, shooting Quinn a playful glance. "Otherwise you'd all starve."

"Or survive on takeout," Quinn added.

Will stumbled in next, making a beeline for the coffee. "Y/n's cooking? Thank god."

"Actually, Quinn made breakfast," you corrected, nodding toward the spread of eggs and sausage. "I'm just prepping for the boat."

"Team effort," Quinn said quietly, and you felt a small flutter in your chest at his words.

By the time everyone was fed and the kitchen cleaned up, the sun was high and you had just changed into your swimsuit, throwing on an oversized tshirt as a coverup. You followed the boys down to the dock, laughing with Will about something. Nico and his girlfriend were doing something else for the day so it was just the six of you on the water. 

Jack got in the driver’s seat and brought you all out to the middle of the lake before sitting idle. Macklin flipped off the boat into the water and you laughed as you watched him come back up. 

“The water’s great, get in,” he called out to you and Will. You pulled off your tshirt, revealing the bright red bikini you had chosen for the day and Will whistled. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Quinn muttered as his eyes took in your figure, lost in a trance. Jack gave him a knowing grin which he returned with his middle finger. 

The day went by quickly and you had a lot of fun; it was nice to just relax and not think about work for once. As it was winding down, Jack got ready to drive back but beckoned you over. 

“You want to drive?” He asked and you bit your lip.

“I don’t know how,” you admitted and he patted his lap for you to sit down. You could feel Quinn’s stare from across the boat. 

“Sit,” he commanded and you smirked, settling onto his lap, your back into his chest. 

“I know what you’re doing,” you told him, looking over your shoulder to Quinn.

Jack chuckled, his breath warm against your ear. "Just helping out a friend," he whispered, guiding your hands onto the steering wheel. "It's easy. Just keep it steady."

You couldn't help but glance back at Quinn again. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark as he watched Jack's hands over yours. There was something thrilling about his reaction, though you tried to push that thought away.

"Eyes forward," Jack instructed, giving Quinn a smug look over your shoulder.

You focused on steering, surprised by how much you enjoyed the feeling of control as the boat cut through the water. The wind whipped your hair around your face, and you couldn't hold back your laughter as Jack guided you through a slightly sharper turn.

When you finally docked, Quinn was the first off the boat, mumbling something about going to shower.

The guys wanted to go out that night so you quickly showered and changed into a pair of loose jeans with a black lace bodysuit. You curled your hair and applied a thin layer of makeup, relying on the tan that was already appearing on your face to do most of the work. 

Will was waiting outside of your door when you came out and he frowned as he took in your outfit.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, suddenly self conscious but Will just rolled his eyes. 

“What’s happening y/n? Are you going to fall in love with Quinn and leave us behind?” He complained and you barked out laughter.

“Nothing is happening Will,” you promised. “I’ll never leave you.” 

You pinched your cheeks with your fingers and he swatted at your hands. 

“You irritate me,” he grumbled. 

“But you love me,” you cheered, following him down the stairs. 

The bar was packed, buzzing with laughter and music as bodies pressed together in the dim glow of neon signs. You thrived in places like this—loud, chaotic, full of life. The second you stepped inside, you lit up, greeting people as if you'd known them forever. Quinn watched you, as he always did, lingering just close enough to keep an eye on you, but not close enough to draw attention to it.

“Drinks first, then dancing,” you declared, grabbing Luke’s arm and tugging him toward the bar. He groaned but didn’t resist, while Quinn followed a few steps behind, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

By the time you had a drink in hand, you were already scanning the crowd, eyes gleaming with mischief. A new song pulsed through the speakers, and you gasped. “Oh, this is my song! Luke, let’s go.”

Luke barely had time to react before you grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward the dance floor. “No, no, no—why me?” he protested, even as he stumbled after you.

“Because you’re fun, and I said so,” you shot back with a grin.

Quinn huffed a laugh into his beer as he leaned against a nearby pillar, watching as you seamlessly slipped into the rhythm of the song. You moved with an effortless confidence, laughing as Luke—reluctant at first—eventually gave in, mirroring your steps with exaggerated, playful movements. You twirled under his arm, your head thrown back in laughter, and Quinn felt something tighten in his chest.

"What are you staring at?" Jack's voice snapped Quinn out of his trance.

"Nothing," Quinn muttered, taking another swig of his beer.

Jack snorted. "Right. Absolutely nothing. That's why you haven't taken your eyes off her all night."

Quinn shot his brother a warning glance. "Drop it."

"All I'm saying is, she's single. And she clearly likes you," Jack said, nudging Quinn's shoulder. "I've never seen you this interested in someone."

"I'm not—" Quinn started, but stopped when he saw Macklin approach you on the dance floor, spinning you around effortlessly. The ease between you made something twist in his stomach.

"She's their friend," Quinn said finally. "It would be weird."

"Or," Jack countered, "it would be perfect. She already knows the hockey life. She puts up with the two of them all the time.” 

“You seem to be forgetting the fact that I live in Vancouver and she lives in San Jose,” Quinn said sharply and Jack took a deep breath. 

“True,” he admitted, not knowing what else to say. 

An hour later you were beat, and desperate to go home. Unfortunately that sentiment wasn’t shared by the others. 

“Just stay a little longer,” Luke begged, and you shook your head, a small smirk on your face. 

“I’ll be fine to walk home, my social battery is just drained,” you told him. Quinn appeared behind you, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“You’re not walking home by yourself,” he said firmly and you rolled your eyes. 

“I’ll be fine,” you argued but he stood strong. 

“I’ll come with you, just let me close my tab,” he said. You started to complain but he was already pulling you along. The two of you set out back to the house in silence, him caught up in his head about what Jack had said earlier. You were in the same boat, trying to figure out your budding feelings for someone you felt like you couldn’t have. 

“Are you tired?” He asked once you reached the house. 

“Not really, just tired of talking,” you admitted and he gave you a small smile. 

“Movie?” He suggested. You agreed and went off to change into something more comfy before joining him in the living room. You sat a healthy distance apart while he put on a Marvel movie, per your request. Halfway through he looked over to see you with your arms wrapped around yourself. 

“Cold?” He asked and you tore your gaze away from the screen to meet his. 

“A little.” 

He reached down to grab a blanket from the basket next to the couch and threw it over himself, patting the spot next to him. 

You hesitated for a moment before sliding closer, allowing Quinn to drape the blanket over both of you. The warmth of his body next to yours was immediate and comforting.

"Better?" he asked, his voice lower than before.

"Much," you murmured, trying not to focus on how your thigh was now pressed against his.

As the movie continued, you found yourself gradually relaxing, your body naturally leaning closer to Quinn's. You weren't sure if it was the couple of drinks you'd had or the late hour, but something about sitting here with him felt right in a way you hadn't expected.

When your head eventually dropped onto his shoulder, he tensed for just a second before carefully adjusting his position to make you more comfortable. His arm came around you hesitantly, and when you didn't pull away, he let it rest there.

"This okay?" he whispered.

You nodded sleepily, fighting to keep your eyes open. When the credits finally rolled, neither of you made a move to get up. You were drifting off and Quinn was just enjoying the silence. That was shortlived as the rest of the guys got back from the bar, amused at the scene in front of them.

“Good movie huh?” Jack teased and you buried your head into Quinn’s chest in embarrassment. His arm was still hung around you 

"I should go to bed," you mumbled against Quinn's shirt, feeling the rumble of his chuckle vibrate through his chest.

"Probably a good idea," he agreed softly, though his arm remained firmly around you.

Will and Macklin exchanged knowing glances, while Jack made a dramatic show of yawning and stretching. "Well, we'll just head upstairs then. Goodnight, you two."

You reluctantly pulled away from Quinn's warmth, avoiding his eyes as you stood. "Thanks for walking me home. And for the movie."

"Anytime," he replied, his voice a little rougher than usual.

You could feel his gaze following you as you headed up the stairs, and it took every ounce of willpower not to look back.

The next couple of days were filled with you and Quinn dancing around each other, nothing ever happening. As the evening of your last night approached part of you was disappointed but another part was relieved. You didn’t need to get attached. 

The plan for the night was to grill out and Quinn manned the grill while you got the rest of the food set up. You were next to him with a plate for him to pile the burgers on when Will came bouncing over. 

“We should set off fireworks,” he suggested, excitedly. 

“No,” you and Quinn both said at the same time. 

“Fine mom and dad,” he grumbled before stalking off. His words made you catch your breath and you avoided Quinn’s stare from next to you. 

“We do look a little domestic,” he finally said and you giggled. You spent most of the evening with Will and Macklin who were already pre-depressed that you were leaving tomorrow. 

"I'm not even gone yet," you laughed as Macklin dramatically draped himself across your lap on the patio furniture.

"But tomorrow you will be, and then we'll have to go back to San Jose, and you'll be all professional again," he whined.

"I'm always professional," you protested, though the words rang hollow even to your own ears. The truth was, you'd let your guard down here—with Will and Macklin, but especially with Quinn.

"You know what I mean," Will said, sitting on your other side. "No more movie nights, no more beach days. Just you telling us to tie our ties properly and reminding us about media training."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the fondness that washed over you. "We still hang out all the time.. Just... with fewer Hughes brothers around."

Your eyes drifted to Quinn, who was cleaning the grill. 

“Yeah too bad for you,” Macklin teased and you blushed making Will laugh. 

“She’s got it bad,” he sang. You pushed the boys off, shooting them the finger before walking over to where Quinn was. 

“Need help?” You asked. He smiled at your question before shaking his head. 

“Nah, I’m finished,” he told you. “Sit with me?” 

You followed him to the opposite side of where your two gremlins were, in a more private area. Quinn sat down in a lawn chair and you started to sit next to him but he tugged at your hand, pulling you down into his lap. 

You froze for a moment, surprised by his boldness, but then settled against him, your body fitting perfectly against his. The small fire pit in front of you cast a warm glow across your faces as Quinn's arms wrapped loosely around your waist.

"I've been wanting to do this all week," he admitted quietly, his breath warm against your ear.

You turned slightly to look at him, your faces now inches apart. "What stopped you?"

Quinn sighed, his thumb absently tracing circles on your hip. "A lot of things. The distance, for one. My brother being the one who introduced us. Those two over there being attached to you like barnacles," he nodded toward Will and Macklin, who were now engaged in what appeared to be a marshmallow-eating contest.

You laughed softly. "They are pretty clingy."

"I don't blame them," Quinn murmured. “This is selfish because I know you have to leave tomorrow but I just wanted to touch you at least once.”

“I’m glad you did,” you whispered,

Quinn's hand moved to your chin, tilting your face toward his. "Yeah?"

You nodded, barely breathing as he leaned closer. "Yeah."

His lips brushed against yours, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as you responded. You shifted in his lap to face him and he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving along yours softly. The two of you were in your own world, caught up in only each other. 

After a bit you pulled away, staring deeply into his eyes before sighing. 

“What’s wrong angel?” He asked and you gave him a sad smile. 

“I like you Quinn,” you admitted, 

“And that makes you sad?” He teased and you let out a short laugh. 

“I’m sad because there isn’t anything we can do about it,” you said and he didn’t say anything for a bit before pressing his lips against your forehead. 

“I know.” 

pt. 2 here

[s1rawb3rry]

Cupid’s arrow has struck… the wrong target!

Oh cupid… do you love me, or do you love me not?

synopsis: As a cupid, Y/N's job has always been to make people fall in love– that has been her task for centuries. However, everything goes horribly wrong when Jake accidentally locks eyes with her instead of his intended match. Now, she's stuck with a hopelessly in-love Jake, following her around like a lovesick puppy. The worst part? Cupids aren’t allowed to fall in love…

word count: 10.3k

warnings: fluff fluff fluff, no smut, maybe a little suggestive, absolutely smitten and hopelessly in love jake, he fell first and fell harder, acts of service jake, jake is somewhat yn's boss, magic (???)

genres: office au, cupid au, rom-com, slow burn

pairing: enhypen Jake x reader

featuring: Chungha

a/n: oh my god this took FOREVER but im so glad its done im so happy with it hehe

Taglist: @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @jaehoodies @morganaawriterr @luvashli@kireistrawberryjayla @annovaz @bambieheeseunglee @firstclassjaylee @flowerwinds @veilstqr(comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

Cupids don’t wear halos and wings, or float around on fluffy clouds. At least, not anymore. We live among humans, blending in seamlessly, living for the purpose of matchmaking. Year round, we work behind the scenes of every soulmate pairing. This has been my classified, top secret occupation in the world for centuries, that I wouldn't trade for anything. When I'm off the clock, I work at a dull office job– that I love!– but it's boring enough to allow me to keep up with my much more important tasks. 

Seeing my Boss slowly making his way near my desk, I planted my hands on my keyboard and started to type away, pretending to be fully immersed in the spreadsheets that are on my computers. In actuality, my mind was completely preoccupied, I kept eyeing the thin paper folder with the name “J.S.” on it. I was assigned my last assignment before my much-needed “cupid break”. The thought of rest made me giddy enough to move my hips in my office chair and hum an off tune harmony. 

“What's the matter with you?” Chungha asked once she noticed my movement, her desk in front of mine. I smiled like a kid on christmas, well really rest did feel like christmas to me, “i got my final assignment before my break. I just have to find this Jake Sim.” I whispered to her. She smiled, sharing my excitement. Chungha has been one of my, if not the, closest friends for years. She is the person who knows everything about me, she knows me like the back of her hand. She is the one and only person that I could ever trust with this secret job. 

“I swear I heard that name not too long ago… “ she said, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, trying to remember. I jump in my seat, lean forward to reach her desk and hold her hand in mine, “I beg you, tell me who he is so I can go into this break early.” I whisper-yelled, misery clear in my voice.

As she was laughing at my desperation, the clear glass office door swung open with an exaggerated creak. Our Boss strides in like a man who will make the biggest announcement of the decade, again. He always makes this grade entry, makes you feel like he will say something important, only for you to find out it's absolutely nothing. His dramatic flair is only rivaled by his complete lack of self-awareness. I suppress an eye roll and stare back at my spreadsheets, these seem way more interesting in fact. 

“Team!” he calls out, his voice booming as he stands at the front of the office room, making a couple chairs turn around and make multiple people stop talking and clicking their keyboards. “I’d like you all to meet your new supervisor for the upcoming project I already told you about–” he told us about a new project? – “This is Jake Sim, our new project manager. So he will only be here for a couple of months until the deal with the other company is sealed.”

My eyes widened and my ears perked up when I heard that name. I glanced at Chugha who was already looking at me with that same bulging eyes. There he is– Jake, my new assignment. He stood tall in the sharp lines of his suit, his dark hair neatly swept back, and his dark eyes carrying a quiet intensity. As the Boss continued talking, jake gave the group a friendly but reserved smile. As his eyes were scanning the room, as if he's trying to memorise our faces. I tried to follow his gaze to get his perspective on my colleagues. Maybe I can find his pair in the office?

As my eyes look back at him, our eyes lock. He held it for a second before he gave me another polite smile. I returned the smile fast enough before he continued his scan of the room. I perch up on my seat when I notice Jake staring for longer than usual at the other side. My eyes land on a coworker, Mira. Both of them also exchange a polite smile. 

As the boss continued to babble about the new project, that familiar feeling comes to me: when an idea of a couple clicks in my mind. Jake and Mira, they seem perfect together, well on paper they do. I open my Jake’s paper file and quickly read the notes written on him, trying to confirm to myself that he is a perfect match for Mira. Warm personality. Charismatic. Loyal. Energetic… Oh, it’s spot on.

“Alright team, that's all for today. You can get back to your work.” he wrapped up his speech, which dragged on longer than needed, motioned to Jake to follow him. Jake smiled and nodded his head at us one last time before turning his back on us. I clicked my pen and started scribbling some notes about Mira in Jake’s file. I can not waste time on a case like this. I can get in and out quickly out of it, sending them on their merry way. I beamed with excitement, unwrapping a chocolate covered almond from my drawer and popping it in my mouth.

“I remember now where I heard his name,” Chungha whispered to me. I looked up from my notes, paying my attention back to her. “He has been going to the café I always go to after work. I heard the barista always calling his name, that's why it's familiar.” 

“Wait, that's perfect,” I said as the idea sparked in my mind, “if we can get Mira to come with us to the café, I can absolutely do the job there.” I continued with Chungha nodding at me. “Leave it to me, I will ask her.” she said, getting up from her office chair. I watched as she walked over to Mira, starting up a conversation with her. A moment later, her head turns to me, smiling, I smile back and do a little wave to her. 

I pull my eyes from her, when I notice the light of the office in front of us turn on. That office is almost always empty, so my surprise grew when I saw Jake again, standing at the doorstep with a small moving box. He walked over to the desk and placed the box on it. Oh that's his office now. Well, him being right across from us just made my job a whole lot easier. I can monitor the progress of my work firsthand, almost front-row seat to a movie I directed.  

-♥︎-

As the workday wrapped up, the three of us settled on a table in the café, the scent of bitter roasted coffee beans filled the air, making me wrinkle my nose each time the barista made a new espresso. Mira and Chungha were chattering up a storm, drinking their coffee orders while I stirred my strawberry milkshake’s straw absentmindedly, barely registering anything that is being said. My focus was set on the door, waiting for him, in any minute, to come in. Every second that passes is a second closer to my break. I take a sip of my drink, trying to suppress my excitement.

Yet, nature called at the worst moment, “I'll be right back, I need to use the restroom,” I said, sliding out of my seat and leaving my milkshake barely touched. They nod at me before returning to their conversation. 

As I step out a few minutes later, wiping my hands on a paper towel, I pause just outside the restroom door. As if it’s a twist from fate, I find myself standing in a perfect spot to have the perfect shot. Jake was standing, waiting for his coffee, not noticing me. His position is exactly where I need him, flawlessly aligned with Mira. Excitement ran through me, It’s almost too perfect. 

Almost there… One clean shot– quick and easy.

Letting my muscle memory instinctively reach for a cupid arrow, I take a steady breath and discreetly wind up my arrow. My heart bubbles in my chest in anticipation. Just as I’m about to let the arrow fly…

“Hey, did you notice that–” Chungha said, coming from behind me, disturbing the silence.

I gasped, her sudden loud voice making me jump forward and making my heart leap to my throat. My hand jerks, my aim going completely rogue, accidentally hitting Jake. I gasped again, “oh my god, no!” panic sets in my bones as I walk forward to try to recover the arrow.  Before I can even process the rest, my foot catches on a stray chair leg making my world tilt. 

I closed my eyes, bracing my fall before I felt two tight arms around me, steadying me effortlessly. When air got back to my lungs, I opened my eyes to find Jake's face inches away from mine. Oh dear god, please no… “I’m so sorry,” I said, the words left out of my mouth with my mind running much faster. Am I sorry that I fell or that I accidentally struck him? This was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to see Mira, not me. 

His usual polite warmth in his expression softens into something more tender, something deeper. His brows furrow just a little, as if he's suddenly aware of a feeling—a feeling that stirs something in him undeniable. The more I look at his eyes, the more my plan crumbles.

“Are you okay?” Jake asks, his voice low and surprisingly gentle, his gaze lingering a little too long. His grip on me is still tight, my heart and stomach felt twisted in knots, as if they were bound together. This doesn’t feel like love—it feels more like alarms blaring in my mind.

Chungha, my traitor of a best friend, noticed the mistake she just made. Her eyes darted between us, her face painted with realization. I could see her from the side of my eyes trying to come up with a last-minute fallback plan.

“No way!” she exclaimed almost cartoonishly with an exaggerated gasp, practically lunged forward tugging me out of his grip with force, “I—uh—I forgot something at the office! Come on, let’s go!” she lied, turning her heel to the opposite side of the cafe, with my heels right behind her.

With my heart still pounding, I slapped a 20 dollar bill on our table, grabbed my coat and pushed both Mira and Chungha out of the café. I could feel his piercing gaze on me as we were shuffling out of the café. He was still looking at me as I was walking away—like I was the center of his universe. 

-♥︎-

Later that night, I stood in my dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by flour, sugar and butter. My stand mixer whirring loudly with the warm smell of cookies coming from my oven. My hands trembled as I measured out the flour, my mind still reeling from everything that had just happened. I turned off the mixer, slowly adding the flour.

Chungha leaned against the kitchen counter, looking in the oven to see the cookies. Then her eyes landed on the already freshly baked cookies on the counter, still warm. She watched my unsteady movement with a confused expression, her eyes held concern. “This is the batch number…?” she asks, leaving the question for me to finish.  

I exhaled a shaky breath, trying to steady myself and my hands. “Baking calms me down,” I muttered, my voice tense, matching how my muscles felt, “besides, it’s the only thing that doesn’t make my head feel like it’s about to explode.”

“I’m sorry…” she said quietly after a moment passed, her voice full of guilt, referring back to what happened in the café. I sighed in defeat, putting down the mixing bowl. I gave her a weak but genuine smile, “it's not your fault. I'm the one who was impatient,” I said before going back to my bowl, “I never rushed the process of pairing a couple, look where that got me…"I trailed off, scraping the side of the bowl a little too roughly. 

She stayed silent, looking at me, waiting for me to actually explode. My frustration bubbled up again when I dropped my spoon on the floor, even dropping spoons is putting me on edge. I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath to ground myself, “this whole situation is too risky,” I started once Chungha picked up my spoon and started washing it. 

“Men liked me before, but none were under the influence of a Cupid’s arrow. It's just too strong. If this goes wrong, if I fall in love, I will systematically lose my job. I love my job, you know that.” I rambled, pouring out what's in my heart.

Chungha was silent, listening to me, “So… what now?” she asked, uncertainty laced her voice.

I exhaled a shaky breath, turning back to my mixing bowl, “I have one week. A week before the arrow’s effect turns into true feelings.” I said, grabbing a new, clean mixing spoon, not sure if I was trying to focus on the dough or just distract myself from my spiraling thoughts. My hands moved automatically, though my mind raced, “I have a week before this turns into a full-on disaster. If I don’t reverse the arrow in time.”

“That’s not a lot of time.” Chungha commented, taking a cookie. “You're not helping, Chungie,” I grumbled. She laughed, biting into a cookie, “don’t worry, we’re in this mess together.” she said, her hands found my tense shoulders, reassuring me. I just nodded, leaning into her. 

I began to bake again, the nervous energy inside me didn’t dissipate. There was no time to waste. I couldn’t let him genuinely fall in love with me. Not when everything I’d worked for hung in the balance. My hands shook slightly as I carefully scooped the cookie dough onto the tray. I close my eyes for a second. 

Focus. One week. I can reverse the arrow’s effect. I have to reverse it. 

♥︎ DAY 1 ♥︎

I strolled into the office with my heels clicking behind me. I readjusted my purse on my shoulder when I noticed a pink drink sitting beside my keyboard. Condensation beads down the plastic cup, the whipped cream still holding its shape—fresh. 

“You got me a milkshake?” I gasped in awe, turning to Chungha. She appeared from behind her screen, brows knitted together, “I got you a milkshake?” she echoed my question, leaning to the side to see what I’m talking about. 

I blink at her as if she just sprouted another head. "Yes, this!" I said, looking back at the milkshake, squinting at a small sticky note attached to the side of it. I carefully unstick it from the drink, holding it like it’s evidence in a crime scene. 

forgive me for making you leave early yesterday… - Jake

I closed my eyes hoping, wishing, the earth would open up and swallow me. Of course it was him. Chunghun leaned forward to catch the note, squinting. A smile grew on her face, “okay, you gotta admit that this is cute.” I shoot her a glare, “I need to thank him.” I said, placing my purse on my desk and grabbing the milkshake. Chungha’s grin widened at my announcement, “you caused this.” I reminded her playfully before leaving.

Each step I took toward his glass-walled office feels oddly heavy. It’s just a thank-you. Nothing more, not a big deal. Knocking the door twice made Jake turn around. His eyes brightened when he saw me, just like a puppy who was told they will go on a walk.

“Hello, sir,” I greeted, the milkshake suddenly felt a little too heavy in my hands. 

"Good morning," he says, a smile full of warmth and admiration spread across his face. Oh, he got it bad…

I held up the milkshake, "Thanks for this. You really didn’t have to." I said, returning the smile sheepishly. 

His eyes glowed with adoration, "Consider it an apology. Hope I got the right flavor?" he said, motioning to the milkshake. I should be the one apologising.

Then it dawned on me, he did remember the flavor… "Yeah," I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. "You did."

He opened his mouth to say something, but a sudden interruption from outside the office stopped him, “Team!” our Boss shouted before his voice became muffled to me. Slightly jolting, I gave Jake an apologetic look, “I must go. Thank you again for the milkshake, sir.” I said, watching him walking towards me. 

“Jake,” he said, as if he’s correcting me. His gaze flickering between my eyes.

I stared blankly at him, “I’m sorry?” 

“Please, call me Jake.” 

-♥︎-

Avoiding him was proven to be impossible. It started off small: he held the elevator door open for me even when I was still ten steps away, he would offer to buy me anything and everything the cafeteria offered, even suggesting ordering something. But now it was the worst situation. We had a meeting before we could leave for the day, something about that project the Boss keeps fussing about. Focusing, however, was beyond me.

Between Jake sitting besides me and the lack of sleep last night, my brain was running on fumes. The anxiety of this whole situation tangled itself around me, and that damn milkshake moment kept playing in my head like a broken record. I blinked hard, trying to fight off the weight of exhaustion dragging my eyelids down. My notes in front of me blurred together. The voices in the room became distant, background noise to the quiet battle I was losing against sleep. 

A small piece of folded paper appeared on the table in front of  me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jake's hand retreating back to his side. I tried to decipher his face from the position i was in, but his expression was unreadable. Carefully, without trying to pull attention towards us, I unfolded the note. 

Are you feeling okay?

I stared at his handwriting in black ink, oddly neat, like he had taken his time. I reached for my own red pen, scribbling down how I just didn't sleep well last night. I refolded the paper, sliding it back to him. A few seconds later, his response appeared in front of me.

Close your eyes. I can cover for you.

I almost snorted, exhaustion making everything funny now. What is he even talking about? Hesitating only for a moment, I grabbed my pen and scribbled back something. I straighten my back, trying to wake myself up. Again, his response popped up in front of me. 

Trust me on this one. No one will notice.

I frowned in confusion, but before I could decide on how to respond, he subtly tilted his body, his broad shoulders blocking me from view. All I could see was his back and how everyone else was listening to the meeting.

Slowly, undeniable fatigue took over me, making me shut my eyes. 

-♥︎-

“Hey… Wake up.” 

A hand shook my shoulder gently,  pulling me from the depths of my nap. I stirred, my mind still heavy with exhaustion, before I finally blinked my way back into consciousness. Once my vision focused, I found Chungha standing beside me, casually packing my notepad and pens into my purse. 

“Meeting’s over,” she announced, tilting her head. “I was this close to tucking you in and leaving you here." she laughed, putting my purse on my lap. I groaned, stretching out my arms as I forced myself upright. My body still felt sluggish, my brain foggy from sleep. The conference room was empty now—everyone was gone.

 “Now, come on, let’s go eat something. I’m starving…” she grumbled, heading towards the door. As I stood up and slung my purse over my shoulder, I slipped my hands into my coat pockets out of habit. The sleepiness fog vanished the moment I felt a piece of paper already in my pocket. I pulled it out only to find very similar handwriting in black ink.

Didn’t have the heart to wake you up.

It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. 

♥︎ DAY 3 ♥︎

I had spent the last two days trying every trick, every strategy, everything and anything in my power to undo this ridiculous mistake. Yet, every desperate attempt led me to a dead end. It was completely hopeless. 

I tried acting uninterested, distant, cold, downright dismissive towards him. Jake would greet me every morning, warm smiles and bright eyes. It took every ounce of willpower not to match his puppy-like energy, to keep my response flat and indifferent. "Morning," I’d say, voice devoid of emotion. But no matter how lifeless I sounded, his grin never wavered. 

I also attempted to make him lose hope by acting like I have a ‘secret office admirer’, Chungha’s idea. We thought, maybe, this would make him give up on me.

“Are you sure this will work?” I whispered, watching her place a vase of flowers– that she picked– onto my desk. She shrugged at me as we eye the soft yellow and white rose bouquet with a small note. It looks legitimate, at least in my eyes. I sighed as I popped a chocolate covered almond in my mouth.

When I felt Jake’s presence coming closer, I started acting as if I just noticed the bouquet, putting on a full play in front of Chungha. His steps slowed as he passed my desk a few steps away, watching me pull out the note that was with the roses. I made sure to read out the note in a loud voice, I cleared my voice, "To the most beautiful woman in the office. I hope these flowers bring you as much joy as your smile brings me, your secret admirer." I read, acting surprised while turning to Chungha, “that is adorable.” she played along, smiling.

His chuckling made me turn my head towards him, “didn’t know there were secret admirers in this office…” he muttered, hands in his pants pockets, his tone dripping with amusement. I glanced at Chungha who’s now completely turned away from us, speaking to another colleague. 

He bent down his head a little to read the note in my hand, his cologne was woody and intoxicating. I could see his slicked back, soft, black strands. His closeness made a fluttering warmth spread through my chest. “What’s funny is that they call themselves an admirer…” he started, his voice snapping me back to reality, “... yet they got your favorite color wrong.” he said, eyeing my outfit, my accessories, my desk decorations– all pink. He looked at me one last time in the eyes before turning his heels, leaving my heart into a wild, nervous rhythm and warmth rising to my face. 

That was not the intended effect, and not on the right person.

Desperate times called for unflattering, repulsive measures. I was standing next to the vending machine after buying myself a Coke. Jake and a couple other colleagues were standing on the other side, chatting away. Perfect position. 

I took a long, fast and exaggerated sip of Coke, stood for a moment when I felt the carbonation bubble up in my chest. I eyed Chungha who was on her phone, slowly sipping her coffee. 

Then, it erupted like a thunderstorm. A loud, unexpected burp that could’ve registered on the Richter scale. Chungha choked on her coffee, the room fell silent, eyes were on me. I stood there, waiting. Surely, this would do it. No one finds that attractive.

Jake burst into laughter, his eyes glistening with adoration, “Impressive," he said, smiling and nodding before turning back to his conversation.

I turned back to Chungha, my jaw to the floor, “oh he didn’t find that disgusting. Quite the opposite.” she whispered to me, smiling in amusement, “I want to throw my Coke at him.”

I told myself that the next time he compliments me, i would be ready to shut it down. I was standing next to the printer, waiting for it to finish printing a paper that the Boss asked me to finalise. Jake passed by me, his eyes shimmered with light when he noticed me. "You look nice today." he said, stopping right dead in his tracks. 

Bingo. I smiled sweetly, itching to put on another play. "Oh, thanks! I haven’t washed my hair in three days." I beamed, brushing my hair with my hands. A normal person would recoil. A sane person would be appalled. But him?

"Still looks stunning," he said easily, tilting his head. "What’s your secret?"

I wanted to scream. Who gave him permission to be this… tantalizing? 

If I couldn’t drive him away with disgust, maybe I could with annoyance, if I just bother him enough to make him lose interest. I thought about barging into his office every hour or so, each time asking for something different but completely useless. I thought that if I just got under his skin, he would get tired of seeing me. I already went in, asking for a stapler, even though both him and I know I have one on my desk. Yet he gave me his without hesitation.

Half an hour later, I stood in front of his office door again, knocking as hard as I could, making sure that even my knocking was irritable to listen to. I opened the door after I heard a faint ‘come in’ from the other side.

I walked into his office as if I owned it. "What are you working on?" I asked him, as if he's not my higher up and could fire me. He looked up from his laptop, amused. "Something very important," he replied, still smiling.

Each time I left, I felt a little more defeated.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at his office. "Still working on something important?" I asked. Oh my god please, any reaction.

This time, he just laughed and shook his head. "You tell me. You seem very interested." he grinned, his arm propped up with his head resting in his hand. I stared at him, searching for a flicker of frustration, anything to indicate he was growing tired of this. But no, he looked at me like I was the one who painted the sky.

Then, I decided to really test how far I could push him. “Hey… uhh…” I squinted at him, tapping my forehead as if I’m really trying to remember something, “What was your name again?” I asked, trying to act casual, pulling out some chocolate covered almonds from my pockets and popping them in my mouth. This reverse the arrow mission will actually get me fired.

He raised an eyebrow, but there was no sign of irritation, only humor. Jake let out a soft laugh, shaking his head in return. Slowly, he pointed to his nameplate that’s on his desk. “Jake Sim,” he said, dragging out his name with a knowing smile.

I stared at him for a second. Was he really going to play along with this? Did he seriously not mind being the target of my ridiculous antics?

♥︎ DAY 5 ♥︎

I was in front of my computer’s screen, the room was filled with the sounds of keyboards clicking and telephones ringing. Focusing on any type of work was impossible, all I could think about was him. I thought to myself that I should still try to set him up with someone else, Just get him interested in someone. I leaned back into my chair, my gaze following Jake who was at the water cooler. He was standing casually, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up just enough to show off his forearms. The way he moved—effortless, composed, yet somehow magnetic—was enough to make my thoughts spin out of control.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I flew up from my chair and headed towards his direction. “Hello, sir,” I said, politely. Oh suddenly I remembered what manners are…

He turned around his signature warm smile appearing the moment our eyes met. “Hey,” he replied, voice as smooth as ever. “Need a refill too?”

“Yeah, just a little,” I replied, but before I could move, he already took another cup. After he filled the other cup, he handed it to me. “Thank you, sir.” 

He huffed a laugh, “you know, the ‘sir’ ages me by a lot.”

“Right, I’m sorry. I forgot.” I said with a soft laugh.

We both stood there, side by side, the silence almost comfortable but the tension between us thickening. Then I broke the silence, “You know, don’t you think Mira is cute?” I asked, trying to sound natural as I fiddled with my paper cup filled with water. “I mean, she’s very elegant. Charming. Professional as well, don’t you think?”

Jake nodded, listening intently, but I noticed him drifting his gaze lower. I froze, my breath catching as I saw his fingers carefully adjust the small cupid bow-and-arrow pendant on my necklace that had somehow gotten tangled. His touch was so gentle, almost like he was afraid to hurt it—or maybe afraid to hurt me. My heart skipped a beat as he carefully set it back in place, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow.

His focus was still on me, his eyes lingered on mine for a heartbeat longer than I expected. And when he spoke, his voice was so sincere, it made my chest tighten. “She’s okay,” he shrugged, “but she’s not what I’m looking for.” His gaze never wavered, locking with mine as if trying to make sure I understood every word, every feeling behind them.

-♥︎-

Later that day, I went to the restroom before heading home for the day. As I was walking towards my desk, I noticed a couple familiar candy wrappers on my desk with a sticky note next to them. They were my chocolate covered almonds, the same brand even. I pulled the sticky note and stared at the neat handwriting, the words so simple, but they made my heart flutter more than it should have. 

It simply read, enjoy. Again, not signed. 

My fingers lingered over the edges of the paper, tracing the strokes of his pen. I stuffed the sticky note into the drawer of my desk, trying to ignore the strange feeling in my chest. But even with it hidden away, the flutter in my chest didn’t go away. If anything, it only grew stronger. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. I couldn’t let myself feel this way.

♥︎ DAY 7 ♥︎

It was almost the end of Monday, and I felt completely defeated. None of the tricks had worked. Not the cold, distant act, not the jealousy plan, not even trying to be completely gross—nothing. Every strategy I tried to reverse the effects of that damn arrow had failed. It was like Jake just couldn’t be swayed. I was beyond tired, drained in every way. I hadn’t even seen Jake all day, and that should’ve been a relief. but honestly, it instead felt like something was missing. Every time I passed his office, there was a strange ache in my chest.

By the time the clock finally struck five, I gathered my things, shoved them into my bag, and walked out of my office. Today was the last day to reverse the effect, I’m seriously fucked. 

As soon as I stepped outside, the sky opened up, and rain poured down in sheets. The cold wind cut through my jacket, and my already exhausted mind screamed at me to just hurry up and get home. Groaning, I fumbled with my purse, mentally preparing myself for the walk home. 

“don’t tell me you're walking home in this.” a voice called out from behind me, cutting through the sound of the rain.

I turned around, I saw Jake with his bag in one hand and an umbrella in another. His hair was slightly messy, but still looking incredibly soft. His blazer was draped over his arm, leaving him in his button down white shirt. I forced a laughed, “"It’s fine. I don’t live that far," I said, trying to downplay how miserable I felt. "Really, it’ll just take a minute."

His eyes told me didn’t seem convinced, though. “Let me give you a ride home,” he offered in a heartbeat, but I quickly shook my head. “I’m fine, sir. Really, I—”

Before I could finish my sentence, he interrupted, pulling off his jacket and holding it out to me. "Take my jacket at least," he insisted. As I hesitated to say no, he held up his blazer in front of me, the insides of the blazer facing me. I sighed in defeat– more like too exhausted to argue– and slid my arms into it while he held it for me. As I was fixing the collar, he gently pulled my hair out from underneath the blazer. His fingers traced my neck, leaving hot trails behind. I turned around to see strands of hair falling on his forehead. 

"Here, take this too. You will catch a cold." he muttered, handing me his black umbrella. “Thank you, really…” I said, flustered by the gesture. He flashed a warm smile, “anytime.”

without another word, he turned and ran toward his car, the rain pelting his back. As he reached his car, he paused and turned to wave at me. I watched him, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through me. He looked like a soaked puppy—wet, tousled, and far too endearing for his own good. It made my heart give a little thump.

"See you tomorrow!" he shouted, his voice muffled by the rain.

I waved back, an involuntary smile tugging at my lips. As I watched him get into his car and drive off, I had accepted the fact that he was in love with me. But that does not mean I will fall for him. Ever. 

Pulling the jacket tighter around me, the weight of his gesture still warms me. As I was walking in the opposite direction towards my apartment, I instinctively reached out for my phone and put my hands in his blazer’s pockets thinking it was mine. I frowned as I felt small wrapped spheres in the pocket. Pulling it out, I found a familiar sight: my chocolate almonds.

I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head, despite the growing flutter in my chest. That idiot really was hopeless.

-♥︎-

A few weeks have passed after the arrow’s effect has indefinitely settled in. My cupid duties have been on pause for a while, but not the office job. Our Boss kept on giving me– and it seemed like it was only me– many different tasks to finish for this upcoming project that forced me to stay late, after my usual office hours. 

The office was nearly empty. The usual hum of ringing phones and clicking keyboards had long since faded, leaving only the soft buzz of overhead lights. I leaned in my office chair with a sigh, rubbing my burning eyes from my screen. My documents were scattered around, words blurring together and losing their meaning. 

Despite all my attempts, my mind circles back to Jake. Guilt was eating me alive as I felt like I ruined his life, his love life. He was meant to fall in love with someone who can be with him, someone whose world aligned with his own. The guilt was so unbearable that I started avoiding him. I would turn to the opposite way whenever I sense he's nearby, I would be late for meetings on purpose so I could sit away from him, I would take the stairs so I don’t cross pathways with him in the elevator, I would make it seem like i get an important phone call each time I see him coming my way. I could see that it hurts him, but my remorse was overwhelming. Slowly but surely, his own attempts to speak to me reduced.

Even though his office wasn’t in my line of vision, I could sense his gaze on me from time to time. He was also still in his office, only his desk lamp was on, with him clicking away, very concentrated on his own computer. Whenever I stayed late at the office, Jake seemed to always be there too, leaving only us on our floor. He would never say anything to me, he wouldn't even step inside the shared workspace. He would stay in his office, but I could feel his presence from across the office. 

My eyes scanned over to the clock, 1:12 am. I took a deep breath and returned back to my screen. The sound of a foot creaking open made me stop reading a sentence midway. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. His footsteps were slow, but purposeful as he made his way to my desk.

“You’re working way too hard.” Jake’s voice was softer than I expected, like he was choosing his words carefully, with his hands in his pockets. I couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh. Before I could shut him down, he continued, “Do Cupids get paid overtime as well?”

My grip on my mouse tightened, my heart stilled. For a split second, I thought I misheard him. Surely the lack of sleep made me a little delirious. My eyes looked up at him before I could stop them, Jake had this knowing expression.

My stomach twisted in knots, my head is spinning, “I think you should head home, sir.” I dismissed, my eyes locking back to my screen with a thumping heart. God please tell me I’m imagining this…

He glanced down at the scattered notes on my desk before his gaze flickered back to me, “It’s funny, isn’t it?” Jake said, his smile not reaching his eyes, “You can make people fall in love… but you don’t know what to do when it happens to you.”

I swallowed hard, trying to stay still, unreadable even though every nerve in my body was on high alert. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jake raised a brow. “Really? You have no clue what I’m talking about?”

“No clue.”

He let out a quiet exhale, his expression unreadable. A moment has passed of complete silence, I was praying that the earth’s crust would crack open and swallow me. 

“At first, I just had a feeling that something was up...” His voice wasn’t accusing or even angry, just observant. “Miss. Chungha slipped up and said something about how you ‘messed up’ the matchmaking…” the more he spoke, the more my chest tightened itself on my pounding heart. 

“And then,” he continued, watching me carefully, “I saw your open files on your desk a couple of times, with the names of couples you helped.” I winced, I should’ve been more careful.  

The fragile rawness of my soul felt like it was on open display. It felt like he had carefully taken apart every building block of my defense that i had built and was looking at what was is actually underneath.

The feeling of guilt emerges once again when I look at his sincere eyes. I felt like a deceiver and a liar, he had to know at this point, there was nothing left to hide. I sat up straighter than I already was, forcing my voice to stay even and failing miserably, “the love you feel for me isn’t real. I was supposed to matchmake you with someone—”

“I know.” he said it softly, with certainty.

I blinked, “what?”

Jake tilted his head slightly, watching my reaction as if he were giving me a moment to process it, a soft smile on his lips. “I know about the arrow, Y/N.” He said my name so gently it made my chest ache, my heartbeat pounded in my ears. “I’ve known for a while.” 

“However…” he said, leaning on a desk that was near mine, “i think the effect wore off faster than it should have. I think two days later I was feeling normal again.”

I closed my eyes to ease my beating heart, exhaustion and this deranged conversation was a dangerous mix at this hour,  “that’s impossible.” 

“If I had a choice,” he said, making me open my eyes and look up at him again, “I’d still want you.” He held my gaze before looking at my lips and then back into my eyes. 

I could no longer compute rational thoughts, or any thoughts at that. The world was spinning and steady all at once. Jake straightened himself and turned his heels towards the exit, “Don’t stay too late, okay?” his voice called out before he left, without facing him. 

He left me with my heart racing, feeling completely ruined. The weight of it all pressed down on me as tears fell down. I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was making me cry– Jake finding out my sworn secret? Jake knowing I messed up on said secret job? or the fact that I have been feeling my powers slipping away? The thought of losing everything I had fought for because of my growing feelings was unbearable. My tears unraveled faster than my realisation that I actually fell for him.

-♥︎-

As if my life couldn’t be any harder, our Boss announced an emergency work trip across the country for a couple of client meetings, big ones at that. The kind that could define the next few months of the company’s future. Our trip was a haze for me, I stayed near either Chungha or Mira the entire time. My jake avoidance persisted despite the tension in the air, if i just act like none of this exists, it won’t affect me. 

Before I knew it, we were off the plane and checked into our individual hotel rooms. The hotel lobby had this muted hum of chatter and telephones ringing filling the space. As to not waste time, we were all immediately called down for the first client meeting. As I sat down, my B oss handed me a notepad with a pen, “please, take notes during the meeting.” I just nodded, no energy left in me to argue.

As usual, Jake was running the presentation. Though, this serious and composed attitude was a side of him that I hadn’t seen before. It caught me off guard, the way he stood at the front of the room, the projector illuminating his face as he explained the new project to the clients. His voice was steady, authoritative, and it was clear he was in his element. 

My notepad and pen sat in front of me, waiting to be used. But as the meeting progressed, I found my focus drifting from the content of the presentation to Jake. my eyes kept following his movements, how his hands gesture as he explained the key points, how his fingers occasionally adjusted his tie or brushed his hair back in that absent-minded way. The way his dark hair slightly tousled as he leaned forward, the little crease between his brows that appeared when he was deep in thought. In this room, in front of clients, he was assertive, and maybe even a little intimidating.

This was a stark contrast to the Jake who has been putting almond chocolates on my desk, or the one who always complimented my perfume choice of the day, or the one who leaves endless sticky notes at my desk. He was different, and it was… captivating.

I tried another attempt to focus on the presentation by scribbling down the client’s questions, what Jake was saying. The meeting continued, and Jake seemed to glide through it effortlessly. Every once in a while my mind would wander back to him, how easy it seemed for him to command the room with just his presence, how natural he was at all of this.

Soon enough, the meeting wrapped up. The clients were satisfied, Jake finished his presentation with a final handshake and brief thank-you to the clients. Our team packed up soon after, I raced to leave the suffocatingly hot room. The moment that our Boss gave us the green light that we can leave for the day, I beelined to the elevator, itching to just take off these stifling layers of clothes. 

Once I reached my hotel room, I started a cold shower immediately, letting the icy stream douse over my skin to cool the heat that had been building ever since the meeting. I needed to clear her head, to push away the fluttering thoughts that refused to leave my mind. As I stood under the water, I kept remembering how Jake moved, the sharpness in his gaze and how my body responded to his subtle but undeniable presence. How can someone look like a cute puppy one second then the hottest man alive the next?

After washing my hair and body, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in the hotel’s bathrobe. My skin was still tingling from the cold water, my face still flushed from my racing thoughts. I left the bathroom and tried to find my phone in the pile of mess I left before rushing in the shower. 

Soft knocking was heard from my door, making me stop my search. It must be one of the girls. Another series of knocks made me pick up my pace and rush over to the door. When I opened it, it was, in fact, neither of the girls. I locked eyes with Jake instead. He was only in a light blue button down shirt, the sleeves were rolled up. His hair was a little messy compared to how it looked in the meeting.

It took a moment for the both of us to register the situation, the ‘I’m only in a robe’ situation. Jake stood there, looking just as flustered as I felt, making me tug the robe tighter around my figure. His gaze quickly flicked downward to the floor, clearing his throat, “god, I’m sorry. I will come back lat-” 

“It’s alright, really.”

“I just need your notes of the meeting earlier,” he said, his eyes now looking at me. “Oh shit, I completely forgot,” I pinched the bridge of my nose. 

I went back into my room, trying to find my notepad and my phone now, “I swear I can’t find anything. The plane landing, then the meeting… it was all too fast.” I said as I rummaged from my stuff. Jake held the door open, watching me frankly running around the room. “I’m sorry, this is really unprofessional of me…” I uttered. As if professionalism has been common in my behavior these past months…

Jake stepped in my room, letting out a short laugh because of my state, “take it easy, I’m not in a rush.” he said, letting the door click shut behind him. After moving my sweater to the side, I found the notepad tucked under it. I got up on my feet and handed it to him, “here they are, I'm so sorry again…” 

“No need to apologise, hun,” he chuckled, taking the notes from hands. The nickname made my heart flip. Considering my current state, this was a really bad time for flirting.

Instead of just walking away or leaving the room, Jake comfortably opened them right there, standing at the door. He quickly scanned through them, his brow furrowing as he reread a few lines. He looked the same way he did in the meeting—so serious, so focused. His lips barely moved as he reread the notes, his entire body leaned forward in concentration. Every little thing he did—how his fingers brushed against the paper, the way he chewed the inside of his cheek when he concentrated—it all made my mind scream at me to stop looking, to stop thinking about him this way, but my body betrayed me.

“Your face is burning up,” he asked, his voice soft but laced with genuine worry. “Did you catch something from the plane ride?” 

Before I could react, Jake gently placed his hand on my forehead, then my cheeks, my jaw, his touch surprisingly tender. His hand lingered for a moment, trying to assess if my red face is because of a fever. The warmth of his skin was clashing with my ice cold shower earlier. He came a little closer as his hand cupped my face, still trying to see if I’m sick. 

I looked up at him, I probably looked dazed, “sir…” I finally said something, my voice was barely a whisper. My eyes involuntarily flickered to his pink lips.

“When will you get it that it's ‘Jake’ to you?” he said, his thumb moving from the side of my face to my lips, his touch sent shivers down my spine, his own eyes looking at my lips. The air between us thickened as he leaned in, letting our lips touch. 

His hands found my waist, pulling me closer to him. Each kiss was more urgent than the last. My fingers tangled in his now extremely messy hair, pulling him deeper. His cologne was stronger than ever. If I could memorise this feeling, if I could memorise how he tasted and felt, before it slipped away I would. There was no thought—only the desperation to feel more, as if this is our one and only chance to hold each other. 

I pulled back slightly, catching my breath. His forehead rested against mine, "for a Cupid," he murmured with a chuckle, "you're quite confusing." I couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh, my fingers found the nape of his neck. 

Just as the distance between us closed again, a loud knocking echoed from the hotel door. “Y/N! Why aren’t you picking up your phone?” Chungha’s voice rang through the door, filled with concern and a touch of annoyance.

I froze, panic seizing me in an instant. "Oh no," my eyes wide with realization. "Jake—" I barely whispered, my mind racing as I quickly backed away from him. Jake immediately took a step back, his hand held mine, his face turning to confusion as he caught the urgency in my eyes. “I can’t be seen like this with my Boss,” I whispered to him urgently. 

We scanned the room, finding a hiding spot for him. I ended up grabbing his wrist, leading him to the closet near the door in a hurry. Without protest, I pushed him into the small space as he ducked into the closest with a chuckle, leaving me to try to regain control of the situation.

I rushed to the door and opened it just enough to reveal Chungha’s expectant face. "Hey, what’s going on?" she asked, her eyes darting over me as she stepped inside. I waved my hand frantically, trying to act casual. “Just came out of the shower,” I said, motioning to my robe that I was still wearing, that I was wearing while kissing our Boss.

 “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, trying to distract her. Chungha raised an eyebrow, “I tried, but you weren’t answering. I wanted to order something, I wanted to see if you wanted anything.” She glanced around, stepping further into the room. Her attention was diverted, I could feel my heart pounding, the sound of Jake shifting in the closet just beyond the thin closet door.

I took a deep breath once Chungha was out of my line of vision, and then hurriedly, without thinking too much about it, shooed Jake out the closet. “Go, go, go!” I whispered urgently.

He smirked, “you’re cute when you panic." he commented, as if this was the right moment to do so. “Oh my god, i will kill you with my bare hands, go!” I whispered, pushing him out the door.  

“I'm hesitating between pizza and sushi. What do you say?” I heard Chungha’s voice call out as I clicked the door shut. I swear my hotel’s door looks like a revolving door.

“I'm fine with both!” I responded, trying to catch my breath. I leaned against the door for a second, pressing my palms to my flushed face, trying to ground myself. My heart was still racing, my skin still burning from his touch, and worst of all—my lips still tingled from the kiss.

What the hell was I doing?

-♥︎-

After many meetings and conferences that we were all forced to sit through, the familiar hum of the office was back—the ringing phones, the clatter of keyboards, the distant murmur of coworkers chatting by the coffee machine. Everything was the same. Except me.

I sat at my desk, blankly staring at my screen. I blinked, trying to focus on the words that are blurring together, but it was no use. I felt like a zombie, just so drained– not just physically, but in a way I couldn’t even describe.

The little magic I once felt at my fingertips was gone. I used to hear it, the universe’s quiet whisper, the way love threaded itself through the world like a melody only I could recognize. But now? Silence.

Jake noticed my changed humor. Of course, he did. He noticed the pile of untouched almonds on my desk that he left on desk, how I poked at my lunch instead of eating it, and how I barely even reacted when Chungha cracked a joke during their break. 

Chungha noticed, but she knew I wanted space, so she didn’t push. Everytime i would space out in my thoughts, she would put her hand in mine, kiss my hand ever so lightly before leaving me to it.

I would catch him staring– his brows drawn together in concern. I would frown back at him, feeling my chest bubbling with unreason frustration. I hate this. I hate the way he looks at me like I am slipping through his fingers, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. And most of all, I hated how much I felt, how much all of this hurts. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to care this much. I wasn’t supposed to lose this part of myself. And yet, here I am. A complete mess without it.

I decided to go home early, my Boss just waved me off while on the phone, muttering a ‘whatever’ under his breath. If I had strength in me, I would have reacted to his rudeness, but I just quietly walked to my desk. Chungha watched me pack my purse, “heading out?” she asks, her eyes sympathetic. 

I weakly smiled back at her, “i will see you on monday, i promise,” 

“Lemme walk you home, you look pale,” she said, standing up from her seat and ready to put on her jacket. “No, stay. I will be fine. Plus, I don't know what’s up the Boss’ ass right now, but he won't appreciate both of us leaving,” 

Her shoulders slumped down, “alright, as you wish.” she said in defeat, pulling me in a tight hug before letting me leave. 

-♥︎-

The knocking at my door stirred me out of my nap. I groaned as I lifted myself off my couch, still in my office clothes. I was so tired that I just collapsed on the couch the moment I walked in. I pulled the thin blanket I used tighter around my shoulders as I made my way to my apartment’s door. 

The knock came again—gentle but insistent. I glanced at the clock on my wall, 11:45pm. No way it's Chungha… she would've come by earlier than this hour. My eyes and heart still feel heavy, the nap was not enough. I caught a glimpse of myself in my small hallway mirror, hair poking from every direction, puffy eyes, red face. With a sigh, I unlocked the door and used all the force I had left to open it.  

The moment it opened, I froze and my throat dried up.

Jake stood there, holding a basket in one hand and some leftover containers in the other. He was no longer in his office suit, instead he was wearing jeans, a simple shirt and a basketball hat, however his heavy signature Rolex is still on his wrist. His brows knitted together in concern the second he saw my face. 

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat, “I thought you were under the weather, so I made you some beef stew and cookies,” he continued, lifting the leftover containers slightly. I stare at him, and then at the food. 

Then, it just hit me all at once as tears filled my eyes. The fact that he’s here trying to fix something he never caused, or the fact he cared so much he cooked me food and dessert, or the fact that I have been unreasonably angry at him, all just made those tears spill over. 

“I… I can’t—” my voice broke, “I don’t know how to fix this. Any of this.”

Jake’s face shifted from confusion to alarm the moment he saw my tears. “Y/N,” he murmured, his voice softer but laced with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked, set the food down as I let out a choked sob. The amount of crying I have been doing has been leaving my head pounding against my skull. 

“Everything. I just…” I trailed off, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks. I felt pathetic, to be quite honest. He opened up his arms without hesitation, through my tears, I got closer to him and wrapped my arms around him, steading myself.  

“Oh, love…” he sighed after hearing another sob from me, his voice filled with nothing but warmth. Without a word, he guided me inside, shutting the door behind us. After setting the basket on the kitchen’s counter, his eyes landed on me again. I probably looked like hell, from the work clothes to the unkempt hair to the probably smudged makeup.

“Y/N…” his voice comforting but hesitant. “Talk to me.”

My throat tightened, not allowing me to speak. When he saw new tears threatening to come out, Jake inhaled, with a quiet murmur of, “come here,” he led me toward the couch. I didn’t argue. Didn’t think. All of those actions took too much energy. I just simply followed, letting myself collapse next to him on the couch.

The grief of losing a part of my identity, the exhaustion, the feeling of failure, the weight of everything—it all felt heavier than ever. I shifted slightly, curling up and resting my head on his lap. He didn’t flinch or hesitate, his fingers found my back, running slow, soothing circles on it. 

After a while, the apartment became calmer, the soft hum of the city could be heard outside my apartment window. Jake’s been quiet ever since, every so often you would only hear my sniffling. I let out a breath I have not realized I was holding.

“I’m no longer a Cupid,” I murmured, eyes staring blankly at the side of the small living room, face pressed up against Jake's chest. “And I don’t know what that means for me.”

Jake hummed thoughtfully, his fingers never stopping their soft movements. “Well,” he said, amusement lacing his voice, “you could always be my retired Cupid.”

I huffed out something close to a laugh. “That sounds exhausting.”

“Nah,” he grinned. “Just means you get to sit back and let me do all the chasing. Nothing new.”

I giggled against his chest, hearing his heartbeat again once my laughter faded. “Can I be honest with you?” I asked hesitantly, looking up at him from my position.

“Always.”

I swallowed hard before I spoke up again, “I was… mad at you for a moment,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “For making me fall for you.”

He blinked, surprised, before suddenly laughing. “Wait—that’s why you were avoiding me? Shit, I thought you regretted the kiss.”

“That’s not the case.” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Jake stared down at me, one brow raised and a smile slowly forming on his lips. I opened my mouth to backtrack, to save myself, but all that came out was a flustered, “I—I mean, it was—you were—”

he let out a full, warm laugh. “Oh my god,” I groaned, immediately burying my face back into his chest “I hate you.”

“You enjoyed it,” he repeated, smug now.

“Stop talking.” I whined, my voice muffled against his own laughter. 

-♥︎-

I walked into the office the next morning, my shoulders feeling much lighter. A warm smile spreads across my face as I greet my coworkers, noticing a slight rosiness in my cheeks. The bounce in my steps slowed down when I noticed a large bouquet on my office desk. 

“Always a special delivery for the Miss…” Chungha said, the bouquet completely blocked me from seeing her. I snorted a laugh at her comment before I stepped closer to the bouquet. I ran my fingers ever so slight over the soft petals of the pink roses, my heart doing an embarrassing little flip as I spotted a note tucked between them. Carefully, I unfolded the small card.

For my retired Cupid.

Unsigned. I huffed sharply with a smile, a mix of amusement and something warmer blooming in my chest. Instinctively, my gaze flickered upward—to the glass walls of his office. And, of course, he was already looking at me, probably saw my whole reaction. 

Jake didn’t even pretend to be subtle. His chin rested on his hand, smiling and eyes glistening with that same familiar puppy love. I rolled my eyes, a smile still on my lips, I pulled out my phone.

“For someone no longer under Cupid’s influence, you’re really not acting like it.” - “Me”, Delivered 30 sec ago

[patheticdarling]

Her Sacrifice

Summary: The assassins had no such luck finding Prince Aemond but what were they to do when they stumbled upon the beloved wife of King Aegon instead? Her belly swollen with his heir.

Warnings: Blood & Cheese/murder/gore & blood/cursing/threats/blades/pregnancy/kidnapping/funeral/incest (reader is helaena's older twin)

Word Count: 2236

"The other lords will be accompanying me for a drink in the Throne Room. Shall you join us, Wife?" Aegon asked, a slightly eager smile on his face, anticipating your agreement.

You sighed as you began to undo the braids in your hair, "The hour is late, Husband. I must rest."

Aegon pouted, "Just a cup! We've attended to our royal duties all day, have we not earned a bit of respite?"

"Respite is what I shall get with a good night's sleep. Not drinking until sunrise with you and your comrades," you teased. You stood from seat at your vanity, walking over and placing Aegon's hand on your growing bump, "Besides, do you not wish for our babe to be born healthy? So that they may grow into formidable dragon riders like their parents."

He smiled softly at your belly before kissing it sweetly, "You make a good point, my dear. Mayhaps I should stay in with you."

You shook your head, smiling down at him, "Do not let me stop your fun. You are right. The King deserves his respite. Besides there may not be many more nights where we get to enjoy ourselves," motioning to your bump.

"You are going to make a wonderful mother," Aegon stood from his seat, "I shall allow you to enjoy your last moments of rest then." He planted a soft kiss on your lips, "I love you, Y/N."

You stroked his hair, "I love you, Aegon."

Aegon kissed you once more before giving your belly a playful squeeze and disappearing from your chambers. You summoned one of your ladies to help you finish getting ready for bed. Thanking her as you got yourself comfortable between the silk sheets of you and Aegon's bed. Finally bidding her good night as she blew out most of the candles, leaving a few on for Aegon's drunken return.

You could not be sure of the hour when you heard your chamber doors creak open followed by the shuffling of feet. You did not even bother opening your eyes, assuming you'd feel the bed indent as Aegon stumbled towards it.

"Back so soon?" you teased, "I was only being half serious about the sunset-"

Suddenly, a large hand clamped over your mouth. Your eyes shot open as two men loomed over you. You screamed and panicked as the larger man used his other arm to keep you pinned to the bed.

"Quiet!" the smaller man pulled a blade out, pressing it to your throat, "Unless you want me to bleed you like a pig."

You nodded, terrified of what these men could do, "W-Who are you? What do you want?"

"Its not our wants you should be concerned with, Your Grace."

"Who sent you? What do y-you want from me?" your voice shook.

"A life is owed. It wasn't supposed to be you. A son for a son we were told," the smaller man shrugged, "But it seems Prince Aemond isn't in the castle tonight."

Of course, you thought. This was about Lucerys. Your younger brother had taken the boy's life and that was a deed that could not go unpunished. You knew how deeply your eldest sister loved all of her children. The loss of one would be devastating. Taking Aemond's life made sense. But taking yours? And the life of your unborn child? That was not in Rhaenyra's nature. This was plotted by someone far more sinister and dark.

"My uncle sent you, didn't he?" you spoke up. They both sent stares to the other, "Daemon Targaryen. He sent you to kill one of us."

The large man scoffed, "Aren't you a smart one?"

"Shame those smarts won't do you any good now, will they?" the smaller one mocked.

"Please," you tried to beg, "Do not do this. No good will-" The large hand came down on your mouth again.

"That's enough," he grunted before turning back to the smaller man, "I'll hold her down and you cut."

Your blood ran cold at his words. Not only were they going to kill you but they were going to tortuously cut out your unborn child. They both yanked you further down the bed until you were flat on your back. You tried to kick, scream, bite, thrash as much as you could but the man proved to have almost inhuman strength. The smaller man raised his blade, that same sadistic grin plastered on his face before he began to dig it into the lower part of your abdomen.

White hot pain seared through your body as he continued to slice into you. Your vision was blurred with tears and you could have sworn your throat was raw from your cries. Though the pain was so intense that you could not process the sounds that might have been leaving you. Warm blood pooled all around you, the once ivory sheets now a deep crimson. One last gasp left you as they pulled your child from your body.

Suddenly you had remembered your mother telling you about the pains of childbirth when you first married Aegon and all anyone could talk about was you producing his heirs. She had a rather negative approach that utterly terrified you. So, you decided to find comfort in Rhaenyra's advice instead.

"I will not withhold the truth from you, it truly is the most excruciating pain a woman must go through."

You groaned, "That is not what I had wished to hear, Sister."

"You did not let me finish. The process is hard, yes. And you will feel the urge to curse the Gods or even your husband and swear to never bear anymore children," you both laughed, "But the moment you hear those sweet cries and your babe is placed upon your chest, the pain is forgotten. And nothing has ever seemed so worth it. Then you will know, right then and there, that you would do it all over again if it meant you could finally find that purest form of love."

And yet, you would never discover that beautiful feeling your sister had painted so clearly. The room was almost eerily silent besides the dripping of blood onto the stone floor.

"What do you know?" the man panted as he held your lifeless infant, "A son. Congratulations, my Queen."

You could not speak as you felt your body numb itself. Tears falling with no cries as they stuffed your son's body into a sack. It was as if you could feel your heart shatter. The men finished their sinister act before fleeing through a secret passageway. You tried little to fight the heaviness in your eyes. Perhaps this was all a horrible dream and if you shut your eyes, you'd open them to find yourself in bed with Aegon's arms wrapped securely around your belly. The last thing you could muster was a small smile at the sentimental image as your vision faded out completely.

"Sister?" Helaena called out into your bed chamber, "I did not wish to wake you but Aegon is being so loud and I cannot sleep with him-" Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of your mangled body lying on the bed. Your figure lifeless and your eyes vacant as you stared at the canopy. She approached your body, a shaky hand reaching out to touch your face to be met with utter stillness. Helaena backed out of the room slowly, tears flowing down her cheeks before sprinting to find some sort of help. As if anyone could undo what had already been done.

"I-I don't know what happened. I came in and she...she was..." Helaena's voice cracked with sobs as various people filed into the royal bed chamber; the Kingsguard, the Dowager Queen, the Hand, and lastly, your husband.

They all stopped at the sight before them, their eyes welling with tears and their stomachs churning. The Dowager Queen let out a heavy sob as all their attention turned to the King. Aegon approached your body cautiously.

He fell to his knees, his hands cradling your bloodied face as he sobbed, "My wife, my dearest-"

Nobody dared say a word as Aegon mourned over you. His sobs heavy with grief as he called out your name over and over again. The Queen Mother clutching Helaena's arm as they cried with him. The Kingsguard hanging their heads low in shame at their failure to protect their Queen. Otto Hightower, known to be quick with his word, said nothing.

The council meeting that followed was one full of dread and grief. Most of the council mourned, the Hand schemed, and the King could do not but curse the Gods and swear revenge.

"Your Grace, perhaps we should speak of the funeral arrangements for the Queen-"

"No," Aegon was quick to stop the Hand, who raised a brow at his grandson's denial, "I will not have my wife's body dragged through the streets like a dog!"

"Not dragged, honored!" Otto corrected him before lowering his tone as he spoke to the King, "Y/N was my granddaughter and I loved her. She deserves the funeral of a Targaryen princess, a Targaryen queen. The small folk wish to mourn their Queen and the heir she carried. And they need to know who is responsible for this."

Aegon's face twisted in disbelief, "How could they not already know?! Who else would do this save the bitch queen of bastards?!"

"We must know for certain, Your Grace," Lord Jasper suggested, "If it was not your sister, this may prove to be an even bigger threat to the crown, to you, my King."

Aegon scoffed, "I do not care what threatens me. My wife is dead. And my child," he stifled a sob, "That cunt did this, I know it. Her and her kingdom of traitorous bastards will burn for it."

Before anyone could speak, the doors of the council chamber opened as Lord Larys entered. He bowed meekly as all eyes turned to him.

"My lords, Your Grace," he greeted the council.

All stood still, "State your purpose, Lord Larys," the Hand spoke.

"We have apprehended one of the assailants. A gold cloak, known for his brutal nature. The guards caught him fleeing the Gate of Gods. He carried the child's body in a sack."

The King hardly wasted any time, stomping over to the doors, "I shall kill him myself."

"We might retrieve further information about who is to blame for this tragedy after questioning," Ser Criston stopped Aegon from leaving as Otto spoke, "I trust in your skill set, Lord Larys."

The Strong Lord bowed before exiting the room. All eyes turned once again to the King and his Hand.

"We will hold the service for both the child and mother-"

"I said no," Aegon grunted, "My wife and child will not be put on display for the Realm."

"Your Grace, we might use this to our advantage in the war you wish to march into. Your people need to know the depravity that Rhaenyra is capable of. The great houses of Westeros will see that she is not fit to rule given her cruel nature. They will flock to your side and with them, their armies and bannermen."

Aegon continued to shake his head. He could not just let them see you or your child like that. They did not deserve it.

"Mother," he turned to the Dowager Queen for support.

Alicent approached Aegon's chair, "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it might be the right one."

The King could not muster anymore fight, "Have the Silent Sisters prepare the Queen and child for their journey. Behind them will be Princess Helaena and the Queen Mother."

"No, I do not wish to be a spectacle," Alicent argued but her father would not hear it.

Your husband visited your body as the Silent Sisters began to prepare it. They had cleaned the mess and dressed you in one of your favorite dresses, the emerald color complimenting your skin and hair.

"Your Grace, it is ill-fated to look upon the face of death," Maester Orwyle warned.

"That is not the face of death, Maester. That is my wife," Aegon spoke, "Leave me with her."

Maester Orwyle and the Silent Sisters bowed before leaving the King with your body. He softly stroked the hair from your face as he broke into sobs once again.

"I am so sorry, my love," he cried, "I-I should have been there to protect you. And our son." Maester Orwyle had informed His Grace that the child you carried was a prince, a perfect heir, "You truly would have been the most wonderful mother. You were already a perfect wife and Queen. Motherhood would have come naturally."

Aegon recounted how well you did with Rhaenyra's last two babies, the ones she had with his uncle Daemon. As much as he did not care for his half-sister, he knew you did. Always quick to defend her, even against your own family. So, he was forced to ask himself, how could she do this to you? To your child?

"They will pay for what they have done," your husband muttered to you, "I will win this war. I will win it for our child. I will win it for you. With fire and blood. Your sacrifice will not be for naught, my Queen."

[leejenowrld]

overdrive

word count — 33k 

genre — smut, fluff, angst 

synopsis — jeno is a legend written in midnight asphalt, too fast to catch, too reckless to forget, the kind of driver who disappears into smoke and sirens with your pulse still racing. you were never meant to touch that world—underground races, rigged bets, bloodstained payoffs but you’ve always known how to gut it from the inside. your job? dig up the dirt, rip through the rot, and run the exposé that takes down the syndicate from the top down. he was supposed to be your double-cross, your decoy and your downfall wrapped into one. you were supposed to stab him twice, once for the story, once for survival but instead, you let him fuck the truth out of you. now you’re in too deep, hips grinding in the front seat of his getaway car while your recorder’s still running, chasing headlines with your back arched and your mouth gasping his name. and the closer you get to the finish line, the more you realise—some stories don’t break, they burn.

fic warnings/contents — explicit language, explicit content, dark themes & moral ambiguity, violence, corruption, and crime, includes sabotage, mechanical tampering, crashes, assault, threats, illegal racing, blackmail, hacking, emotional dissociation, trauma aftermath from car crashes and near-death experiences, lots of fucking in this phew, explicit sex, semi-public settings (garage, racing tracks, in cars), mid-race blowjob scene, public/risky sex, oral sex while driving, power dynamic, dominance, sensory overload, rough, emotionally charged sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), praise, begging, name-calling (good girl/baby/slut/reporter girl), dirty talk & possessiveness, jeno is quite vulgar, dominant and unwelcoming at first and very hot, just wait, appearances from nct dream ‘00 line and mark, lots of racing (duh), badass hot y/n who races too, lots of technical talk, size kink, overstimulation, creampie, choking, spit, mild breathplay, light bondage, physical restraint. plot moves quite fast, did as much world building as i could. i hope you enjoy 🖤 been working on this a few weeks actually, this won the poll but i knew it would win any poll 😭 that’s why i’ve managed to upload it a week before jeno’s birthday <3 

likes, reblogs and asks always appreciated 🖤 banner made by my lovely @umwaitwhatwhy

You tell yourself you won’t feel anything walking into this building. You practised it all morning, the tight jaw, the steady breath, the look of quiet indifference that could carry you through a firing squad without blinking but he moment you step into the thick glass lobby of Han & Associates, so blandly named it makes your teeth ache, sterile and sharp in its simplicity, it all feels like a weight sinking against your ribs. Cold marble floors gleam beneath your shoes, harsh with the echo of each step, and the walls rise tall and unfeeling, lined with a history of racing prints yellowed by smoke and dust. A history Taeyong once belonged to, long before he sold out his soul for ink and scandal. Long before he fastened his claws into your neck and called it mentorship.

The receptionist doesn’t even look up. She just tips her head toward the far office door, like she’s seen a thousand broken people walk this hallway before you. Maybe she has. Inside, the air is stale with old whisky and the scratch of metal blinds rattling in the breeze from the half-cracked window. His office isn’t flashy. No, Taeyong never believes in flash. He believes in power that sits quiet beneath the surface, like oil slick under water, waiting to catch fire. Framed covers of his greatest hits hang crooked on the walls, headlines that have dismantled careers in six-inch fonts. They watch you now like ghosts of every mistake you’ve ever made.

He doesn’t look up as you step in. He just flips a page in the file spread across his desk, fingers stained faintly with nicotine. "You know why you’re here," Taeyong says, voice flat like the ash at the bottom of his glass. His tone is sharp, old Seoul roughness beneath the polished newsman accent. "Sit."

You sit, spine stiff against the chair, hands knotted in your lap because you know better than to let them tremble.

He slides the folder across the desk. A slick of photographs spills out: Soul Line Motors, chaos captured in still frames. One of the racers, lean and sweat-drenched, jaw set in grim fury as he stands beside a car swallowed in smoke. Another, caught mid-brawl, fists raised and eyes wild beneath a mess of dark hair. A third, covered in grease from cheek to collarbone, mouth pressed tight like he’s swallowed a curse. There’s a scan of betting slips too, edges worn, one name circled in red ink like a target. The file reeks of desperation, theirs, yours, his.

“Officially,” Taeyong says, pausing to swirl his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light like it’s molten gold, “you’re their compliance monitor. League assigned. Eyes and ears inside the garage.” His gaze flicks to you, sharp as a blade unsheathed, but he doesn’t rush the moment. He lets it stretch, like he wants you to sit with it, feel the weight pressing into your chest. “They need you because they’re drowning,” he adds, voice dropping lower, rough like gravel beneath tyres. “That whole team’s hanging by threads and they know it. Race-fixing charges. Illegal betting syndicates. Dodgy sponsorship money bleeding into their books. They risk clawing at the bottom of the league’s and now they’re crawling to you, begging for a way out.”

You say nothing, but your pulse tightens beneath your skin. He sees it. Of course he does.

“They’ve agreed to it publicly,” he continues, swirling the whisky in his glass until it laps against the sides. “They think you’re their saviour. League compliance, external oversight, someone to parade in front of the cameras so the sponsors start breathing easy again. They’ll give you access to everything. Garage, transport, race strategy. They’ll feed you what they think you want to see. Give you a pretty little show of redemption.”

His lips twist, sharp and knowing. “But unofficially,” he says, and this time he leans forward, placing the glass down with a quiet, final clink against the desk. He lets the word hang there between you like a blade suspended over your throat. “You’re my goddamn guillotine.”

The words land hard, heavier than they should. You hold his stare, forcing your expression flat, emotionless. You will not give him the satisfaction of seeing the old panic ripple beneath your skin. “You burn them properly,” he goes on, steady and merciless, “you give me something with blood on it, and maybe” — he tips his head, smirking like the outcome is already sealed — “maybe we’ll scrub your name clean.”

You say nothing. Not yet. But the fire builds in your chest, slow and choking. “Fail me, sweetheart,” Taeyong finishes, voice soft as a blade at your throat, “and I’ll bury you deeper than the racers.”

But it’s not enough for him to leave it there, and you know it. He’s the kind of man who likes to carve the knife in slow, twist it until it scrapes bone. He draws the folder closer, flipping it open again, letting the photographs spill across the desk like crime scene evidence. His fingers tap the image of the team’s car mid-spin, smoke curling from the tyres like breath from dying lungs. “They trust you,” he murmurs. “They think you’ll save them. But you’re not there to write them a fairytale, are you? You’re there to build me a fucking obituary.”

Your eyes flick over the faces in the photos — strangers, for now. Faces that will soon become names, names that will become weapons in your hands if you play this right. Or chains around your neck if you don’t. You inhale slow through your nose, sharp enough to cut through the staleness of whisky and dust. “I don’t need a maybe,” you say, voice low but clear, each word carved from the stone of your ribs. “I need my career back.”

Taeyong’s grin sharpens, cruel and thin. “Then make me bleed for it.”

He pushes the folder across the desk until the edges brush your fingertips, like a final transaction sealed not with a handshake, but a dare. You let your fingers close around it slowly, deliberately, as though by holding it you’ve already begun the execution. And as you rise from the chair, his gaze doesn’t follow the file. It follows you. Tracks you like a predator watching prey too confident to run.

“Bring me their ashes,” Taeyong says, the final word curling like smoke from his tongue, “and we’ll talk.” Your pulse beats hard at your wrist as you turn away, the weight of the dossier under your arm a cold reminder of the fire he’s asked you to set. You can feel him watching you as you leave, heavy and certain, like he already sees the blood on your hands.

The garage breathes like something alive. Heat coils in the ribs of the building, simmering beneath the fluorescent lights that flicker as if they, too, are choking on the weight of oil and sweat and smoke. You taste it at the back of your tongue, thick and acrid, sharp as the cut of gasoline in the air. The walls feel too tight for the number of bodies inside, men scattered around a makeshift briefing table, chairs scraped out at angles like they’ve already abandoned any notion of formality. It isn’t a room built for you, and you feel it instantly, the moment your shadow crosses the threshold.

Outside, above the main bay door, a crooked neon sign hums faintly through the haze, tubes buzzing a sickly red. ‘THE PIT’ it reads, jagged letters flickering behind a cracked plastic shell, an arrow beneath it scrawled like graffiti, pointing you straight into the belly of the place. No need to ask what they call it. The name hangs in the air like everything else here — burnt, broken, and permanent.

Eyes slice across your skin before you even take your seat. Heavy, unwelcoming. They don’t bother to mask their distrust, their disdain curling like exhaust smoke between their teeth. You keep your spine straight, folder pressed beneath your palm, your compliance badge clipped clean to your lapel, though it feels less like authority and more like a target painted over your chest.

You settle into the corner without a word, let their tension simmer unchecked as they shift in their seats, restless energy bouncing off the scuffed concrete floor. You watch them the way you’ve been taught to watch: quietly, precisely, as if they might confess something in the way their knuckles flex or their shoulders stiffen against the press of your presence.

There are seven men carved from collisions and chaos, every one of them carrying the wreckage of races gone wrong in the set of their jaws and the shadows beneath their eyes. Their faces you do not yet know, not in the way that matters. You know the leaked reports, the back-page headlines, the photographs that Taeyong had spread before you like playing cards in a rigged game. But here, in the raw heat of their den, they are something else entirely.

The principal, Lee Doyoung, stands at the head of the table like he’s bracing against a storm he already knows is coming. A former racer turned league-forced team manager, he carries the look of a man who’s seen too many podiums crumble and too many egos catch fire. He doesn’t smile when he sees you, but he offers a nod — clipped, formal, like it costs him something to say. “Welcome to Soul Line,” he says, voice rough, thick with the gravel of old track injuries and older disappointments. “You’ll find we run things tight here. Fast. Loud. Occasionally off the rails.”

His gaze sweeps over the group, then lands on you like the weight of a steel girder. “But we know why you’re here. League oversight. Full compliance.” A beat. His eyes don’t blink. “If we want to see the season out, we give you what you need.”

A scoff breaks from one of the drivers before the sentence is cold. He sits with his chair tilted back on two legs, arms folded loose across his chest, mouth curled into something between amusement and threat. His eyes track you slowly, too slowly, a mockery of interest as he drags them down the line of your body and back up again like you are not worth the respect of subtlety. “Guess we’re really fucked if they’re sending babysitters now,” he drawls, earning a few low snickers from the others.

You keep your expression blank, though your pulse sharpens in your throat. You have known men like him your entire career. Men who mistake cynicism for cleverness, who wield bravado like a shield against their own creeping fear. You will make him eat those words soon enough.

Your gaze slides past him, past the sneering technician polishing a wrench like it might become a weapon, past the mechanic whose arms are folded tight across his chest as if he’s physically holding in his disdain. But it’s the last man who catches you hardest. The one who entered late, who carries the weight of the room like it is stitched into his spine. He doesn’t look at you right away. He drops into his seat with the fluid ease of someone who has spent his life in the cockpit, on the razor’s edge between glory and ruin, and when he does finally glance your way, it isn’t a look. It’s a strike.

Dark eyes pin you where you sit, sharp and dissecting, as though he’s already found the weakest seam in your composure and is toying with the idea of pulling it loose. He says nothing, but his mouth curls, the smallest twist of disdain, and then he looks away, like you’re beneath even his scorn. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself against the heat blooming beneath your ribs. He doesn’t know you yet. Not properly. He doesn’t know what you’re capable of, or the ruin you’ve been sent to deliver.

The principal barrels on, dragging the meeting into its grim necessities. Racing schedules. Sponsor obligations. League deadlines. Fines stacking like storm clouds on the horizon. You listen, tuning the words against the rhythm of your own thoughts, already fitting pieces into place. You can feel it in your bones — the edges of something bigger, something rotted beneath the surface of their bravado. They are bleeding, and they know it. The league has forced you into their camp as a measure of survival, but Taeyong made it clear before you ever stepped foot in their garage: you’re not here to save them. You’re here to light the match.

You wait for your moment. Then you take it. “Your last race transport logs are incomplete,” you say, your voice clean, sharp, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Several discrepancies in reported fuel usage and unaccounted travel hours. I’ll need immediate access to your internal records. Financials. Telemetry. Pit strategy.”

The silence that falls is not empty. It is electric.

His gaze snaps back to you, and this time it isn’t passive. It’s fire. His chair scrapes against the floor as he shifts forward, forearms braced heavy on the table, like he might devour you whole. “Maybe try watching a race before you question our pit stops,” he bites, his voice low and rough, edged with venom meant to sink beneath your skin.

It burns, but you welcome the heat. You meet his glare without flinching, without yielding an inch of ground. You’ve weathered worse storms. You’ve stood in boardrooms with men far more dangerous than him and watched them collapse under the weight of your evidence. You will watch him fall, too.

Before the tension can snap fully, the principal slams a hand down on the table, the crack of it loud enough to startle a few of the younger crew. “Enough,” he growls. His eyes are locked on the star driver, sharp with warning. “Cooperate. Our image is all we have left.”

The driver’s mouth tightens into a grim line, but he leans back in his seat, exhaling a slow, disdainful breath through his nose. His compliance is a farce, but it is compliance all the same. You press your advantage. “Full access,” you repeat, flipping the page in your folder, letting the rustle of paper cut the silence. “No exceptions.”

They bristle, but no one argues. The meeting fractures slowly, the tension bleeding out in all directions, footsteps retreating into engine bays and shadows, muttered curses tossed between teammates like tired rituals but he doesn’t move. He stays right where he is, anchored to the far end of the garage like the heat itself comes from his body — and maybe it does, because you feel it before you see him.

That awareness creeps up your spine like a lit fuse, slow and warm and unforgiving. You turn, too slow to play it off, and he’s already watching you. Not staring. Watching. Like you’re the track and he’s waiting for the moment you crack open. He’s stripped the fireproof suit halfway down his body, sleeves bunched around his waist, bare skin sheened with sweat under the flickering fluorescents. There’s oil smeared just under his collarbone, and something about that detail makes your throat go tight. The way he moves is thoughtless, practiced — wiping his jaw with a grease-stained rag, tossing it to the floor like it offended him — and then his gaze drags across your face, down the line of your throat, slow enough to sear.

He doesn’t smirk, not right away. It takes a moment. A shift in weight, a flicker of something darker in his eyes, and then his mouth curves — not amused, not mocking, but like he’s already three steps into a game you haven’t agreed to play. Like he knows what you taste like when you lie. Like he’s betting you’ll do it again.

Your eyes drop. Not because you want to, but because something pulls you there, to the sharp angles of his chest, the flush of his skin, and then lower. The suit at his hips is half-unzipped, loose where he’s shoved his hands into the waistband, and just above his belt line, the stitching catches your eye. A name. White thread on black fabric, the kind that isn’t meant to be read up close, only seen in motion, on a screen, under floodlights.

Lee Jeno.

The name tastes electric in your mouth, even unspoken. Of course it’s him. The face of Soul Line. The firebrand. The golden boy you once dragged in an article so brutal it got syndicated across three continents. You’d called him borrowed brilliance, fame wrapped around arrogance, a wreck waiting for the right turn. And here he is. Real. Sweat-slicked and simmering. Looking at you like the headline still bruises.

His voice comes low, too low, like it’s meant to hit somewhere private. “Thought you’d be older.”

You blink.

“More polished,” he adds, stepping forward a little. Not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air. “More bitter. Guess I expected someone who writes like that to look less…” His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, and the words coil hot between your ribs. “Soft.”

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your hands.

And then, finally, with a quiet breath that sounds too close to laughter — “You watching me, reporter girl?”

The words drip with something more than mockery, something darker, more deliberate, like he’s testing to see whether you’ll flinch or lean closer, whether you’ll break the standoff or let it stretch. He doesn’t know you’re not here to write a story, and you don’t offer him the truth. You meet his stare with a calm that costs you nothing on the outside but everything beneath your skin, letting the silence rise and settle like ash in the space between you. His jaw tenses, subtle, but sharp, like he’s not used to being left without the last word, like your stillness disrupts a rhythm he’s always been able to control. You don’t move. You let him sit in it. Let the tension braid itself through the heat of the garage, through the pulse low in your stomach, through the wire pulled tight between your spine and his. It’s not a line anymore. It’s a fuse. Not a story, you think, gaze still locked on his. A reckoning.

The pit doesn't sleep. Not really. Even now, hours after the meeting, the place hums like something alive beneath your skin. Doyoung’s words still sting, but they echo even louder once he’s gone, once it’s just you and the low thrum of the garage and the weight of what comes next. He gestures for you to follow with a jerk of his chin, and you do—past towers of stripped tires, the wet slap of coolant against concrete, the clatter of tools tossed onto workbenches like punctuation marks to arguments you haven’t earned the right to hear.

He doesn’t speak. Just leads you through the cluttered belly of the team’s world, deeper into the haze of oil and engine heat, until you find it: a narrow staircase, half hidden behind thick cables and hanging fire blankets. Upstairs, a converted office no bigger than a janitor’s closet. A mattress shoved in the corner, still wrapped in plastic. A flickering lamp. Two cracked windows with grime crusted into the corners. A desk that looks like it’s lost more battles than it’s won. It smells like oil, aftershave, and sleep deprivation. There’s a mug ring on the windowsill, long gone dry.

Too close to the noise. Too close to him. You’re in their lungs now. Daylight burns through the haze the next morning, and you’re dropped into their rhythm like a stone in the mouth of a river. No one slows down to make room for you. The introductions aren’t warm. They’re tests. You can feel it in every glance.

Renjun doesn’t look at you. Just turns a bolt harder when Doyoung says your name. Jaemin grins too wide and doesn’t blink long enough. His eyes skim your badge like he’s already calculated what it would take to strip it from you. Mark’s nod is brief, his eyes flicking from your clipboard to your boots to your mouth, then away. Donghyuck says, “Hey, compliance queen,” like he’s tasted the words before and decided they weren’t sweet enough. Eric mutters something under his breath. You catch “babysitter.” Sunwoo doesn’t say anything at all, but his eyes follow you with the patience of someone waiting to see where you’ll crack. And Jeno—Jeno doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look. You try not to flinch. Try not to look like the heat in the room is coming from more than the furnaces humming behind the walls.

You watch them prep for Daegu. That’s what they call it, like it’s a war and not a race. The Daegu Circuit. One of the tightest, most closely surveilled tracks on the internal league run. Only the top four teams are allowed to qualify, and Soul Line’s barely clinging to their spot. One more DNF— Did Not Finish, the league’s clean term for crashes, mechanical failures, disqualifications or some other issue that prevents them from crossing the finish line— and they’re out. No second chances. You know the pressure it puts on them. You feel it in the sharpness of their movements, the way even the laughter is clipped now, short-lived.

Jeno’s scheduled to run solo for the first lap trials tomorrow. Sunwoo and Jaemin will alternate team sets after that, and you’re expected to be there for all of it—every checkpoint, pit stop, and debrief. League orders, official oversight. You’re embedded under the guise of compliance monitoring, positioned as the league’s neutral eye, a silent safeguard to ensure they play by the book. That’s what they think you’re here for. What they don’t know is that your real assignment started the second you stepped inside. Last night, while the rest of the garage ran on fumes and noise, you stayed in the loft with the lights off, watching from the window and writing notes no one asked for. Notes meant to kill careers.

The garage operates nonstop, no digital logs, no formal security system. A direct violation—the league requires time-stamped movement for every staff member on the floor, and Soul Line tracks nothing. The main car still bears a sponsor logo flagged last season for money laundering—tied directly to illegal betting rings. It’s currently under investigation, not cleared, not safe, and definitely not allowed to be plastered across a vehicle that’s meant to represent professional sport. You clocked Renjun and Mark mid-argument near the toolshed, whispering about a part being “too hot to use again,” something that sounded like it could cost a race or a life. Renjun slammed the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the wall.

Later, after lights out, Sunwoo and Jaemin sat hunched over a tablet replaying what looked like race footage but you know the league archive doesn’t release raw data without clearance. It was off-grid, off-record, and all the more valuable because of it. Everything you’re gathering is being dressed up as routine monitoring. It’s not. You’re here to help them dig their own grave, and they don’t even know they’ve handed you the shovel.

When you asked for the transport and fuel logs, Donghyuck smiled too easily. “We clean them up before inspection,” he said, then laughed—too sharp, too knowing, the kind of laugh that doesn’t ask to be questioned. Not long after, you caught Eric hauling crates labeled SCRAP, only to spot the corner of a box split open, revealing modded engine parts you’ve never seen on any licensed schematic. And Jeno—when you approached him about accessing his telemetry files, he didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up. “They’re encrypted,” he said flatly. “Ask again and we’ll all pretend this meeting never happened.”

You logged every word.

But it’s more than just infractions. It’s how they move. How they function. Like a body. Flawed, bruised, stitched together by necessity and something more raw. You watch Jeno check Sunwoo’s wrist mid-conversation, eyes darting to a bruise like it offends him. You catch Mark slipping electrolyte tablets into Eric’s water bottle. No fanfare. Just instinct.

They aren’t clean. Not even close. But they’re not monsters either. And that’s what makes it worse. Because if they were easy to hate, this would be easy to do. If they were just reckless boys with oil on their hands and arrogance in their veins, you wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. But they’re more than that. They fight. They bleed. They care, even if they pretend not to. And somehow, in the thick of all that noise and grime, they’ve started to feel more real than anything you’ve had in months.

Your notes are ready. Your evidence stacks high. But you still feel it—the ache under your ribs when Jeno walks by without a glance, the itch in your spine when the music dies just as you step into the room. You’re the knife. You know it. The one thing they didn’t see coming. The quiet cut that could end all of this. You keep telling yourself your career is on the line. You keep pretending you don’t like how the pit smells like sweat and steel and something real, that it doesn’t settle under your skin in a way your last newsroom never did, that it doesn’t feel like the first place in years where the silence is honest.

The floorboards creak as night settles into the pit, the kind of quiet that doesn’t mean peace—just pause. You can still hear the click of cooling metal, the soft thrum of a charger left humming too long, the faint static of the radio someone forgot to turn off. But it’s him that makes the air shift. Jeno walks back from the showers, shirtless, a towel slung low over his shoulders, jaw set in brutal silence. Water clings to his skin in thin rivulets, tracing over bruises like old maps, burns like ghosts. His body is carved in motion, every step too fluid, too confident, like he doesn’t know how to exist unless he’s in control of the room. He doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. But the moment the lamp in your window flickers against the glass and casts your silhouette into the open air, he slows. Not much. Just a fraction. A stutter in his stride like muscle memory reacting to something it doesn’t know yet but already wants to learn. Then he keeps walking.

Your chest aches. Not soft or sweet, it burns. Like friction. Like pressure. Like heat trapped beneath skin. It’s not affection. It’s not even desire. It’s something more dangerous. Hot and reckless and wrong. You think that’s the end of it. You think you can breathe again. You’re wrong. The garage has emptied—mostly. The lights are low, the shadows long. You’re bent over a stack of reports by the storage wall, trying to focus on the ink, on the facts, not the way your blood is still pulsing too loud in your ears. You don’t hear him approach but you feel him. That heavy, quiet presence that always moves like a storm forming behind your spine.

“Looking for cracks in the concrete?” he asks, voice rough and too close, low enough that it vibrates behind your ribs. You turn. He’s cornered you, not physically—not yet—but the space between you feels paper-thin.

You don’t blink. “No, looking for the truth.”

His eyes darken. “You think you’re gonna catch us slipping, compliance girl?”

“You don’t know me.” The words slice out before you can stop them, low and sharp, but not enough to cover the crack in your voice. He hears it. You can tell by the way his eyes narrow—not surprised, not amused, but focused, like he’s finally found something worth pressing into. The air between you stretches tight, thick with heat and history neither of you want to name.

“No?” he murmurs, stepping in closer. His voice drops, gravel-edged and deliberate, like he’s chewing on something filthy he intends to spit at your feet. “I know exactly what you are.”

Your back tenses. “Then say it.”

He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough to make the space between your mouths feel criminal. “You’re not here to fix anything. You’re not here to save us. You came to prove what you already think is true. That we’re cheats. That we’re dirty. That we’re broken boys who never deserved a shot at the circuit. You came with a shovel, and you’ve been digging since the minute you walked through that door.”

His breath grazes your cheek, hot and damp and way too close. Your fingers twitch against the folder at your side, but you don’t move. You hold your ground. He’s trying to get under your skin, and the worst part is—it’s working. “You’ve been here less than a night,” he continues, and now there’s a darker undercurrent curling beneath the heat of his voice, “but you already know where to look. You already know which bolts to count, which questions to ask, where the smoke’s thickest. You don’t talk much, but your eyes don’t stop moving.”

He takes a step closer, and you swear the air gets hotter, heavier, like he’s dragging all the oxygen into his orbit just to see how long you can go without it. Your back hits the metal siding behind you, a cold kiss against the heat burning beneath your skin. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence presses in, devastatingly close. “You think you’re subtle? You think we haven’t seen your type before?” he says, voice quiet now. “You’re not. You think we haven’t seen people like you before? Girls with pens and clean nails and that little moral high ground look in their eyes? You came here with a target and a deadline. You came here to catch us in the act, I don’t think you understand how obvious it is.” 

Your stomach drops. Because that’s the truth. And he’s not supposed to know it.

He leans in, just enough that your shoulders brush when you inhale. “And I bet you already have, haven’t you?” he murmurs. “Already scribbled something down about Renjun’s parts, or Jaemin’s footage, or the decal on the front wing. I bet you can’t wait to file it, can you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s a roaring in your ears, and it isn’t from the garage anymore. You came here with leverage. You came with power but suddenly, he has all of it.

“I asked you a question.” His breath is on your neck now, burning at the base of your throat. “Are you gonna pretend you’re still neutral? That you’re not already writing our autopsy in that pretty little head of yours?”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Because you thought you were playing a long game. You thought you had time. You thought they’d be easy to fool but he’s already seen through you and somehow, that terrifies you more than the exposure. Part of you wonders what else he sees and worse—how much of you he’s seen.

You expect to be gone by morning.

It’s the first thought that surfaces when the light cracks through the warped blinds above your head, thin and bleached and too sharp for how little sleep you got. You sit up slow, spine aching from the floor mattress, mouth dry, stomach tight. Last night, the way he cornered you, the way he looked at you like you’d already bled the truth all over the floor, you were sure it meant the end. You were sure Doyoung would be waiting outside the door, clipboard in hand, ready to escort you off the premises with a warning not to come back but when you step down into the pit, no one says anything.

Doyoung doesn’t even glance your way. The rest of the crew moves around you like smoke — clipped greetings, loud tools, sharp energy that crackles beneath the concrete. And Jeno? Jeno walks past you like you’re air. No nod. No look. Not even a flicker of recognition. Just the firm, deliberate press of his shoulder brushing yours, like he’s reminding you that you’re still in his way.

And yet — you’re still here.

You follow them to Daegu in the back of the team transport. No one talks to you. Jaemin scrolls through footage with Sunwoo, muttering under his breath. Donghyuck hums something tuneless, tapping out a beat on his knee. Renjun’s buried in his notebook. Mark sleeps with one earbud in. Eric keeps glancing at you like you’re the threat no one’s acknowledging but still, no one tells you to leave.

The Daegu Circuit rises like a concrete beast against the sky — industrial grey carved into sunlit asphalt, flanked by swarming paddocks and glass-walled control towers that glint like they’re watching. Heat shimmers off the ground in waves, thick with burnt rubber and sweat and the static buzz of engines throttling into warm-up. The scent hits first — scorched tires, petrol, synthetic lubricant — and then the noise swallows you whole. Every few seconds a car screeches down the trial lane, tires screaming against the edge of control. Officials are shouting orders from booths and radios, pit crews hauling gear across the compound in a chaos that only makes sense to those who’ve lived inside it too long to question. You follow the Soul Line crew at a measured pace, clipboard in hand, badge clipped neat to your jacket, your eyes sharp behind your sunglasses even as your chest coils tighter with every step. You’re not supposed to be here. Not really. Not after last night. Not after what he said. But your name hasn’t been stripped from the roster. Your badge still opens the gates. And no one’s told you to leave.

Not even him.

The Daegu Circuit isn’t kind. It stretches wide beneath a noon-struck sky, every surface gleaming with heat and speed and warning. The concrete hums under your boots as you walk behind the Soul Line crew, the pit lanes lined with cables and sun-bleached crates, radios crackling in sharp bursts, tyre stacks sweating under plastic sheeting. The official sectors shimmer in the distance, white and silver, pristine in a way that only makes Soul Line look more like a threat. Their garage bay is one of the smallest, pressed against the wall like an afterthought, tools half-unpacked, engines still being tuned like they’ve only just made it in time. Inside, the tension breathes. Renjun’s crouched low beneath a console, swearing into his headset, one hand braced against the floor while he tries to salvage something from the tangle of wires. Mark hovers behind him, flicking between telemetry maps on a smudged tablet. Jaemin’s pacing, muttering about torque splits, while Eric hauls tyres across the back wall with his jaw clenched so tight it looks painful. Sunwoo’s in the corner, quiet as always, arms crossed but eyes sharp. They don’t acknowledge you when you step inside, but you didn’t expect them to.

You find Jeno almost instantly — not because he says anything, but because the gravity around him shifts the moment you’re near. He’s standing near the centre console, suit rolled to his waist, shoulders drawn back like he’s already locked into race mode. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Just nods once at Doyoung, low and clipped, before slipping his gloves on without looking away from the track layout glowing in front of them. You catch yourself staring. You always do. His focus is a weapon in itself, hard and quiet and absolute. 

But just as Mark adjusts the last split screen, the telemetry panel behind him flickers — once, then again — and dies. Not all at once. It stutters first, a blink too long to be a delay, then freezes mid-read. Data spikes flatline. The right side of the monitor collapses into black, a red alert flashing in the corner like a wound torn open. You hear the sound more than see it, a high whine of static cutting through conversation, pulling all eyes to the screen.

And then everything stops moving.

“Fuck,” Sunwoo says, already moving. “Internal feed’s down.”

Renjun curses louder, diving back under the system rig. Mark blanches, tapping the screen again, again. It doesn’t blink back. The air in the garage thickens, seconds dragging in real time. This trial run is Jeno’s solo, a compliance-mandated lap that needs to be broadcast live, internally tracked, and logged in the system for Daegu to count as cleared. The league officer walking toward them clearly knows that too. Clipboard already open, expression unreadable. You feel the current change, flicking sharp as a blade through the air.

Doyoung hesitates. “We’re resolving it,” he says, already one breath behind.

“You’ve got two minutes,” the official replies, watching the garage like a hawk. “No recorded data, no compliance confirmation then the run will be void. You’ll have no other choice but to forfeit.”

You don’t wait. You already saw the clause in the league documents. You made sure of it. You take a step forward, voice level, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Fallback protocol. Clause Twelve, subsection three. In the event of a system crash during a compliance run, the assigned league officer may ride passenger to record manual telemetry.”

Doyoung’s head jerks up. “That’s not—”

“You signed it,” you say. “Three weeks ago. When the league granted your provisional license. Page seven.”

The official nods. “She rides. Log everything manually. If she doesn’t get in now, you lose the lap. Final call.”

Jeno turns, and the air inside the garage locks around your throat like a vice, like every breath between now and the next word could be your last. He doesn’t speak, not at first — just looks at you, slow and measured, gaze slicing clean down your body before dragging back up to meet your eyes, and what you see there isn’t anger, not exactly — it’s colder than that, more precise, the kind of quiet that only comes before something breaks. His jaw ticks once. His fingers tighten around the edge of his helmet, the leather glove groaning faintly beneath the strain, and when he finally opens his mouth, it’s not a voice that comes out, it’s a verdict. “No one gets in my car.”

“She’s cleared,” Doyoung says, the words low, reluctant. “You knew this might happen.”

“No one’s ever ridden with me,” Jeno says, sharper this time, a little louder, like the rest of the garage might’ve forgotten. He looks at Doyoung, not at you. “No one.”

“And if you refuse,” you say evenly, not moving, “the league will log a compliance rejection. Which means a penalty. Which means disqualification. Which means you don’t race again today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe ever.”

Jeno’s jaw ticks. You can almost feel the tension coming off of him in waves now, tightening the space around you until it’s hard to breathe. For a second, you think he might really say no. Just walk off the track, consequences be damned but he looks at Doyoung again, then the league officer, then at you.

And then he turns away.

You don’t wait for permission. You hand off your clipboard to Mark, strip off your jacket, and climb into the passenger side of the car. The cockpit is already sweltering, every inch of metal radiating heat, the air thick with engine fumes and burnt rubber and something deeply, unmistakably him. You pull the harness across your chest, snap it tight, adjust the mic at your collar. He doesn’t look at you. Just pulls the helmet over his head, flips the switch on the ignition, and settles into the driver’s seat like he’s preparing for war.

The cockpit is brutal. Not just the heat, though that clings to your skin like a second suit but the size of it, the pressure, the closeness. Every surface smells like metal and flame retardant, burnt rubber and sweat. You pull the harness across your lap and shoulders, click it into place, but your hands aren’t steady. The helmet’s bulkier than the ones you trained on. You miss the chin strap the first time. Then fumble the latch. Your fingers scrape against the buckle, trembling just slightly, just enough to piss you off. And then you feel it — that shift beside you, the weight of someone watching, the silence tensing.

Jeno doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look but he reaches over, short and sharp, and his fingers slide under your jaw to catch the edge of the strap. He tightens it with one quick pull, firm enough that your breath hitches, not from the pressure but from him. His arm brushes your chest as he pulls back. The side of his hand grazes your collar. Still, he doesn’t look at you. Just settles into his seat like the interruption didn’t happen, like he didn’t just touch you like that.

Your knees graze again when he shifts, suit creasing against your thigh. You try to breathe. Try not to notice how loud the engine sounds, how much hotter the air is inside the cockpit. Your fingers go for the mic clip at your collar, but before you can adjust it, his hand is already there — securing the wire, fixing the placement. His breath ghosts your temple when he leans in. The scent of him is clean sweat and smoke, and something electric underneath. The car hums beneath you, but it’s his voice that rips through your nerves.

“Don’t speak unless I ask a question,” he says, quiet, controlled, like each word is measured against the beat of your pulse. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. And if you so much as breathe out of rhythm…” His jaw flexes. “I’ll eject you mid-lap.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The words knot somewhere behind your ribs, too tight to untangle. But then he speaks again, low, like the cockpit was meant to carry his voice straight to your spine.

“I can feel everything in this seat,” he murmurs. “Every twitch. Every shift. So sit still. Unless you want me to know exactly what you’re thinking.”

You go still. Not because he told you to but because you don’t trust what’ll happen if you don’t. The heat rises. The harness digs into your hips. His thigh presses back into yours, and when the engine roars to life, it doesn’t drown him out — it amplifies him. He still hasn’t looked at you.

The engine roars and every other sound is swallowed whole, like breath caught in the chest and held too long, like the track outside has cracked open its jaw just to take you. The world becomes motion, breath and pressure. The engine screams, your spine slams back, and the air between you and Jeno becomes blistering. His voice is in your ear — low, rough, pure focus. Every sharp inhale echoes through your headset. His grip on the wheel is brutal. Controlled. Every turn pulls you with him, the G-force snapping through your ribs like a wire strung tight.

You don’t speak at first. You’re just observing. Watching. But not neutrally. Never neutrally. The cockpit hums with vibration, every shift of his body dragging your attention deeper into the tension between movement and control. His thighs tense when he shifts gears — a sharp flex and release, muscle tightening against the harness straps. There’s sweat on his neck, a glint of it catching the light where it gathers just beneath the helmet. His knuckles are pale against the wheel, movements exact, like he’s not driving but commanding the track to yield.

Then Seoul unspools around you.

Through the side panel, the city blurs — silver and glass and colour. Neon flickers on the edge of your vision, signs in hangul flashing past like constellations blinking out mid-sentence. For a heartbeat, you catch the Han River in full view, stretched like a ribbon of mercury beneath the sun, cutting the skyline open — and in that same breath, Jeno takes a turn so sharp your shoulder slams into the cockpit wall and he doesn’t so much as flinch. You swear the car lifts, even for just a second. He brings it back down like gravity answers only to him.

It’s electric. Blinding. Your pulse doesn’t match the engine anymore — it’s faster. Hotter. You can’t tell where your breath ends and his begins. You call the data aloud, sharp and steady, even when your hands tremble across the board, even when your legs are shaking, even when you’re sure this — this right here — isn’t compliance anymore. It’s something else. Something living. Something hungry.

The fourth lap coils around you like a whip, tighter than the last. Speed builds with a different weight now — not just velocity, but violence. The track narrows in sector three, the turn pinched between two cement barriers, and the pressure doesn’t let up. You feel it in your chest. In your teeth. In the low, steady growl of Jeno’s breath through the comms. His hands are surgical on the wheel, knuckles bloodless, every movement calculated — until the blur in the left mirror shifts.

Onyx Line. You catch it first — that flicker of silver, too fast, too close. They aren’t just overtaking. They’re closing in. The rear of your car jolts, the slightest kiss of impact, subtle enough to slip under compliance review but hard enough that you feel your harness snap tight across your ribs. The car pulls slightly left. Jeno curses under his breath, sharp and low, already correcting but the pit doesn’t flag it. No one calls it out. Not a sound comes through the headset but static.

You lean forward before you can think better of it, your voice breaking the seal of silence like a blade slicing clean through water. “They’re trying to box you in.”

He doesn’t respond. Not right away. But you see the way his shoulder tenses, just barely, and that’s answer enough. “Sector five’s downhill,” you continue, voice tight, fast. “They’ll try to push you into the brake zone. Cut your line.”

His voice hits like a strike. “Stay out of it.”

You snap your head toward him. “I’m not trying to win,” you bite. “I’m trying to keep your fucking car on the track.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even twitch but the way he exhales, harsh, through his teeth, feels like a warning. Still, you see it. The hesitation. The gear shift that’s half a second late. The doubt crawling under his skin. “They’re baiting you inside,” you say, lower now, steadier. “But the outside gives you more line. You’ll see it on the curve. Take the edge early. If you time it right, you can box them in.”

Another beat passes. Long. Stretching over the scream of the engine, the blur of the city flashing by in streaks of steel and sun. You think he’s going to ignore you again but he moves. He takes the curve just before the downhill, earlier than regulation, tighter than safety and for a split second, you’re convinced you both might die. The tires scream. The car skids by inches and then Onyx Line is behind you, choking on your tailwind, and the pit erupts in your headset, all voices shouting over each other, asking how the fuck he pulled it off.

Jeno doesn’t answer them. He doesn’t even breathe for a second. Then his hand slams the gear forward. The car launches into the next sector like it belongs to the sky. His shoulder knocks into yours on the turn, hard and deliberate. His voice cuts in through the headset — lower now, rougher, something carved out of disbelief and heat and something you can’t name. “You’re in this now, compliance girl.”

The pit explodes in static, voices tripping over each other as the comms erupt, but you keep going, eyes locked on the telemetry feed as it scrambles to catch up. “Brake late at the next split,” you murmur, voice steady despite the rush burning through your limbs. “Sector five runs hot. It’ll mess with the tire balance.” You don’t expect him to listen, not really, but he does. He obeys without thinking, not out of trust but instinct, and the car veers tighter into the split than it should, clinging to the curve like it’s magnetic.

“There’s a blind curve in six,” you add, just before the track swallows it whole. “Ride the left edge. You’ll see it before they do.” His hands adjust again, every muscle in his arm taut beneath the suit, the twitch in his wrist perfectly timed. The car cuts clean through the turn, a whisper’s width from the wall, and Onyx disappears from the rear feed like smoke blown out a window. The tension in the cockpit doesn’t ease, but it changes, shifts into something harder to name. It’s just the two of you now — and for the first time since the engine kicked, you know he’s not ignoring you anymore.

“You trained for this?” he mutters, the words rasping low beneath his breath, unreadable but laced with something that might be curiosity, might be wariness.

“I watched you,” you say, your voice quiet but certain, your pulse a war drum beneath your skin. “You telegraph more than you think.” You don’t hear a reply at first, only the sound of his breathing, the precise tension of his fingers tightening on the wheel, the cabin pulsing with every heartbeat.

Then something shifts. He leans in slightly, like he wants to feel your words closer, and adjusts the mic at his collar. His voice crackles through your headset again — low, direct, enough to drive a current down your spine like exposed wire. “Keep talking.”

So you do. You trace every turn as if you were born in his blind spots. You anticipate the angles before the corners show, you call out variances in downforce before the system even flags them, your voice slicing through the cockpit in rhythm with his hands. You read the patterns, warn him about the tire rotations from other teams, the lift coming off the left apex that’ll cause drag if he doesn’t compensate. He doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t acknowledge it. But he listens. You feel it in every adjustment, in every calculated risk he lets you steer him into, in the way his body keeps echoing your commands before the pit can even breathe.

When the final sector looms — fast, brutal, and risky — you barely have to think. It’s already mapped in your head. But his voice returns before you can speak, deeper this time, more grounded, like he’s testing something. “Your move, compliance girl,” he says, and it’s not mocking anymore. It’s an invitation. “What’s the play?”

And you give it to him without pause, without flinching, because you’re not observing anymore, not monitoring, not logging. You’re in it. Like you’ve been racing beside him your entire life.

You barely make it off the track before he grabs you.

Not rough but fast enough that it startles the breath from your throat. One second, you’re caught in the afterglow of chaos, the echo of the crowd still humming in your chest, the thrum of victory laced tight around your ribs. Then his hand is on your arm, all heat and command, dragging you off-course, away from the crew, away from the laughter and the noise. No warning. No words. Just Jeno, moving like something’s clawing at the inside of his lungs. You think, for a moment, he might take you upstairs, toward the office loft or the van where your things are. Somewhere private, but neutral. But he doesn’t. He leads you past the edge of the paddock, past the backup tires and crates of gear, and then down — a stairwell tucked behind the west bay, steep and shadowed, concrete cracked like it’s holding old confessions in its bones.

He doesn’t speak as he pushes you against the wall. It’s not violent, but it’s firm — his hand braced beside your head, his body close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. He smells like smoke and sweat and burned rubber, like victory bleeding into adrenaline. His suit is peeled halfway down, clinging low to his hips, and his breathing hasn’t evened out. His jaw is locked. His eyes, when they finally lift to yours, are full of something you can’t name. It isn’t fury. It isn’t triumph. It’s raw.

"You’re done," he says, voice frayed and low.

You blink once. "What?"

"You don’t ride again. You’re finished."

You almost laugh, because it’s ridiculous. "Because I helped you win?"

His eyes cut into yours. "Because you could’ve fucking died."

And there it is. Not anger. Not pride. Fear. Laid bare in the rasp of his voice, in the way he looks everywhere but at your mouth, your throat, the line of your collarbone — like he wants to forget the sight of you pressed into his cockpit seat, your breath uneven in his headset. “You didn’t care when I got in the car,” you say quietly.

He exhales sharply. "I cared the second they clipped us."

The air between you crackles. That hit — Onyx slicing in like a blade — you’d both felt it. But where you’d felt the lurch in your chest and anchored yourself with facts, data, instinct, he had felt something else. Something he doesn’t know how to name.

You step closer before you can think better of it, and his shoulder stiffens like your nearness brands him. “So that’s what this is? Fear?”

He shakes his head once, slow. “No. This is me not making the same mistake twice.”

You frown. “What mistake?”

“Trusting you.” And now it sinks in. You should’ve seen it coming — the shift in his tone, the sharpness of his silence in the car, the way his hand tightened on the wheel every time your voice cracked through his headset. This was never just about the race. It was about you. About what you did. What you wrote.

“Picture this,” he says, and his voice isn’t angry yet — just low, heavy, like he’s dragging the memory up from the wreckage. “I’d just graduated. Fresh out, brand new to the circuit. Doyoung tells me there’s a profile being done — says your company’s covering my debut, and that you would be writing it. I was fucking proud. More than that. I was excited. It felt like everything was falling into place.”

He steps closer, and this time his eyes don’t leave yours. “I looked you up. Read every article. Not one hit piece. Not one cheap headline. You wrote with bite, yeah, but it was honest. It gave people a chance. I thought maybe I’d get that too. Something that said I was worth watching. Something that said I belonged.”

His breath catches, sharp. “I waited for that article like it meant something. Like it’d be the start of a career that wasn’t just noise and sponsorships and pressure. I thought maybe you’d see me.” His jaw tenses. “And then it dropped.” His words hit like rubber burning on pavement. “The article you fucking wrote.” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to.

“You called me a ‘golden boy burning on borrowed fuel.’ Front page. Bold font. Byline gleaming like a fucking trophy. You made me a headline, a punchline, a warning to every sponsor with a checkbook. You didn’t just report on me — you defined me before I even got a chance to drive.”

He shakes his head once, slow. Bitter. “And then I see your name again. This time on the roster. Walking in like some league-appointed savior, like you’ve got our best interests at heart. Flashing that badge like it means something, talking like your clipboard’s gonna fix what you broke.”

His gaze turns hard.

“You don’t get to ride with me ever again. Not after that.”

Your breath catches before you can steady it. You weren’t ready for that—him. Not like this. Not with every word sharpened to a blade and dragged across your name like it deserved to bleed. You knew there’d be fallout. You braced for resentment, for jabs and silence and looks that cut like wire but you didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect him to speak like the memory of your words still echoes in his bones, like you didn’t just write a headline—you carved a scar.

You open your mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Just air. Shaky and shallow. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard like it can anchor you, like it can excuse you. “That article,” you start, voice thinner than you want it to be, “it wasn’t supposed to—”

He doesn’t say anything, but you see it. The way his jaw flexes. The way he looks away like he might lose it if he doesn’t.

“I was given a brief,” you continue, forcing the words out now, faster than you can clean them up. “I had a deadline. I didn’t—I didn’t know who you were yet. I only had what they fed me. I didn’t have access to the real—”

He laughs. It’s hollow. Like a backfire. “You mean the story they wanted you to write?”

You flinch. Your throat burns. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you. I swear to God, I didn’t know it would get that kind of traction. I thought—I genuinely thought I was doing my job. That if there was pressure around your name, maybe it would spark a second look. Maybe someone would pay more attention, take a deeper interest, give you the shot you—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in. Not loud. Just final.

You fall quiet. Shame clawing up your spine, curling beneath your ribs. Because it sounds stupid now. So fucking naive. Like anything about this world was ever that simple. “I didn’t think it would follow you,” you say eventually, quieter. “I didn’t think it would haunt you.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And you wish he hadn’t. Because there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn—anger, yes, but beneath it, hurt. Deep. Unshakable. “Well, it did.”

You nod slowly, swallowing back the sting in your throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I need you to know I carry it.”

His stare is merciless. “So what? You come back to rewrite it? Give the golden boy a redemption arc so you can fix your reputation?”

His voice bites like asphalt in a crash, but it’s the next words that land deeper, lower. “You're a fucking liar.” He steps closer, jaw tight, the fury in his eyes steady, unwavering. “You walk in with your badge and clipboard, talking about compliance and reform like you’re here to save us, but you reek of motive. You want to document a downfall. You want to be the one who caught us mid-sink, wrote the article that buried the last illegal thread of racing alive. You think I can't see it? You think I don't know exactly what you're doing?” His breath shudders, close enough now that you feel it trace your collarbone. “I won’t let that happen. I won't let you turn us into your fucking headline.”

You freeze. Because he’s not wrong and that terrifies you. Not because you slipped up. You haven’t. Not once. You’ve kept every expression measured, every line rehearsed, every observation veiled under the perfect sheen of professionalism. But somehow, he knows. He sees straight through the armor. Reads the red under the ink. You should hate it. You should push back but your heart is thudding too loud to think straight, and for a moment, all you can feel is the echo of his words inside your chest.

You lie. To him. To yourself. To whatever compass used to point toward your version of right. “No,” you say, swallowing down the tremor in your voice. “I came back to tell the truth this time. All of it. Even if it buries me.”

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his lip twitches. But you keep going anyway. “Soul Line matters,” you say. “You all do. Mark. Renjun. Jaemin. Sunwoo. Eric. Donghyuck.” You meet his eyes. “You.”

Your voice softens, not with guilt but with something closer to conviction. “People need to see what this team is. Not just the grit, not just the mess. The heart. The way Mark checks the tire heat twice when no one’s looking. How Renjun runs his hands over the frame like it’s skin, not steel. Jaemin never stops running his mouth but he always knows where everyone is. Sunwoo barely speaks, but he watches everything. Eric’s bruised to shit and still carries half this team on his back. Donghyuck acts like this is a joke, but he’s the one who checked on me after the lap.” You swallow, hard. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this place is?” Your eyes don’t leave his. “And you— You didn’t say a word to me. Not once but you reached for the wheel differently when you thought I was scared.” You breathe in, shaky. “So don’t tell me that you don’t care.”

You hesitate, because the words don’t come easy, not when they feel like confessions. “The way you raced today,” you murmur. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Your voice is low, measured, like saying too much too fast might break the moment. “The control, the instinct—after they clipped us, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t panic. You adjusted mid-corner like you’d already accounted for it. Like your body knew before your brain did. That’s not luck. That’s not just talent. That’s precision. That’s discipline.”

His face doesn’t move, but you catch it — the flicker behind his eyes, the twitch in his jaw. You keep going. “And you shielded me,” you say. “No hesitation. Just one arm across the cabin. One second, and you were already moving. You didn’t look at the track, you looked at me. You made sure I was still breathing before you even thought about finishing that lap.”

Your voice slips softer, but firmer too. “That’s why I respect you. As a racer, yeah. But also—” your breath catches for a second, and you force yourself to hold his gaze “—as a man. You don’t just drive like you want to win. You drive like you’re protecting something. Even if you don’t admit it.”

He blinks. The silence between you deepens, too thick to step through. So you stop thinking. You step back, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your shirt before you even realise what you’re doing. It peels over your head and falls to the floor in a single, soundless breath. You don’t know why you do it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the charge still running hot beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the way his eyes have been stripping you bare since the second lap. Maybe you just want to see if anything can crack that iron control.

“Fuck, Y/N.” It’s the first time he’s said your name. And it breaks something open.

His gaze doesn’t drop. “So teach me,” you whisper. Your voice is softer now, trembled but sure. “Teach me what the truth is.”

His jaw locks. His head shakes once. “Don’t do that.”

You step into him like you’re crossing a threshold, not a room. His breath hitches when your hand curls around his wrist, dragging it slow across the line of your waist, then higher—up, over the swell of your ribs, until his palm rests against your bare skin. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t breathe. You guide him like you want him to feel every shiver, every beat pulsing under your skin. When you reach behind you, fingers finding the clasp, you don’t break eye contact. The snap is quiet. The fall of the straps even quieter. Your bra slips off your arms and hits the floor, and his hand is still there—hot, motionless, like the heat’s bleeding straight through his skin into yours.

“Come on,” you whisper, breath skipping, mouth parted just enough to taste the tension between you. “Am I really so bad?”

His stare drags like a touch, slow and hungry, not blinking, not breathing, just devouring every inch of skin you’ve exposed. His gaze catches on your tits first, bare and flushed, then your mouth, still wet from biting back sound, then your eyes—dark, blown wide, waiting. There’s nothing soft in the way he looks at you. It’s possession, plain and fucking filthy, like he’s already imagining what you’d feel like with your legs spread and your voice wrecked. His jaw clenches, hard, sharp, and you watch the muscle jump as he swallows it down. His voice, when it comes, is ruined—low, gritty, like it scrapes out from the back of his throat with too much want behind it. “No,” he says. “I am.”

And then he’s on you. His hands crash into your waist like they’ve been starving for the shape of it, fingers spreading wide and squeezing hard enough to bruise. You don’t get a chance to brace for it—your back slams into the wall with a dull, shuddering thud, and then his mouth is on yours, open and wet and biting. His teeth clamp down on your lower lip like he’s trying to punish you, dragging it between his before sucking the sting away with a tongue that doesn’t ask for permission. Your moan slips out before you can stop it, high and trembling, thick with want, and he swallows it like it feeds something in him. He kisses like he’s coming undone, like breathing doesn’t matter, like the only thing that exists is your mouth and how filthy he can make it. There’s no rhythm, no pause for air, just spit and teeth and tongues clashing, everything loud and hot and desperate. One thigh wedges up between your legs and pushes until it slots perfectly under your cunt, grinding up with bruising pressure. Your hips jerk, rolling down hard without thought, chasing that friction like a drug, grinding against the dense, flexing muscle of his leg until your clit starts to throb.

You claw at him, frantic, hands bunching the fabric of his fireproof suit as your fingers scramble for something—his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head—anything you can cling to while your body rocks shamelessly down on his thigh. The friction is sharp and constant, your thin layers doing nothing to soften the ache, and every shift of his body presses him harder into the soaked heat between your legs. You can feel how wet you are, can hear it when he shifts, the drag of your cunt sticky and slick against his thigh. You moan again, louder this time, and his breath catches like he’s unraveling just from the sound.

“Jeno—” you gasp, broken and shaky, but he doesn’t let you speak. His growl vibrates against your lips, rough and low and filthy, and he drags his mouth down your throat, licking a slow, hot stripe over the pulse hammering at your neck. He sinks his teeth into the skin just beneath your jaw, not hard enough to break it but enough to make you whimper, then trails lower, mouth latching over your collarbone and sucking until it stings. You shiver as he shifts his attention to your chest, mouth pressing over your shirt, tongue tracing where your nipple sits beneath the fabric before his teeth catch and tug. Even through the layers, you feel it. It burns straight through your chest and down between your legs, making your thighs twitch around his. You arch off the wall, grinding harder, desperate for more, your head falling back with a curse when the pressure gets too good to handle.

Your legs wrap around his waist without hesitation, the movement automatic and hungry. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you in one swift pull, gripping tight until you’re pinned between him and the wall, his hips rocking up into yours with a force that makes you gasp into his neck. The grind is brutal. He fucks up into you through the layers of your clothes like he means to leave a memory of it in your bones, his cock thick and hard and straining against his suit, dragging against the soaked seam of your underwear every time his hips jerk forward. You clutch at him, nails scraping down his back, mouth open and panting against his skin as the pressure builds and builds and builds. You roll your hips with him, chasing every harsh thrust, every obscene press of cock against clit, each one knocking the air out of your lungs. You can feel how close you’re getting—how the wet heat between your legs starts to pulse, how your thighs start to shake, how your voice starts to break with every breathless moan.

He’s cursing now, jaw clenched, breathing ragged, and he mouths it against your skin like a prayer turned blasphemy. “You hear that?” he grits out, voice low and wrecked, hips snapping up again so hard your moan turns into a cry. “That’s you. That’s how fucking bad you need it.” His hand curls into your hair and yanks your head back so he can look at you, so close his nose brushes yours, his forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “Say it,” he growls, grinding into you again, his cock rubbing right where you’re soaked through and throbbing. “Say it’s mine.”

Your voice catches, slips out soft and slurred, “It’s yours,” but it’s not enough. He slams into you again, harder, until your body jolts against the wall. “Jeno, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”

“Then take it,” he growls, his mouth crashing into yours again. “Take everything.”

He doesn’t give you a second to react. One hand wraps around your wrist, tight and unrelenting, dragging you across the dim space until your knees knock against the sleek side of a car you haven’t seen before. It’s tucked behind the main garage bay, half-assembled, stripped for parts, wires hanging loose from the open console. The floor is stained with oil, and the air is thick with the scent of burnt rubber, engine coolant, and old heat. Fluorescent lights above flicker, throwing your shadows across the walls in broken stutters. Before you can steady yourself, he spins you, forces your chest down onto the hood. The metal is still warm from testing, hot against your ribs. Your palms slide over the surface, searching for grip, but he’s already there. One hand plants flat between your shoulder blades, holding you down, the other bunches your skirt, yanking your underwear aside with a rough tug that makes your breath catch.

His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice so raw it barely holds shape. “You wanted the truth?” he murmurs, the words thick with hunger and need, it pressed into you like a brand. His hand flexes at the base of your spine, anchoring you there, and then his hips drive forward in one brutal thrust. The sound you make is a strangled cry, punched out of your chest as your body jolts forward against the hood, metal squealing beneath you. The burn is instant. Sharp. Hot. Stretching you full in a single stroke that knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you trembling. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust, just breathes heavy against your neck as his cock pulses inside you, thick and unforgiving, dragging heat through every nerve. You clutch at the edge of the car, gasping, because nothing in you feels untouched anymore—not your body, not your pride, not the part of you that wanted to win this. He thrusts again, and it feels like truth. Violent. Inescapable. Yours.

The first thrust knocks the wind out of you, the second drags a moan from somewhere low and guttural, and then he stops pretending there’s rhythm. It’s just force now, just the slap of skin against skin and the raw scrape of breath in your lungs. He fucks into you like he’s hunting something he lost in you. Your thighs are slick and trembling, knees starting to buckle under the pressure. The hood rattles beneath your stomach as you clutch at it for balance, palms sliding over the gloss. He slaps your ass—hard, fast—then grabs it, fingers bruising deep as he mutters against your shoulder, voice all gravel and heat. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and dark, “making a mess all over my cock, crying for it like you didn’t come in here thinking you were above all this.” Then he thrusts again, hard enough to knock the thought from your brain, deep enough that your mouth drops open around a gasp that never gets the chance to land. The metal screams under you. Your hips jolt. Your back arches. His hand slides up the curve of your body, wraps around your throat like he owns it, and then he leans in, chest hot against your spine.

“You wanna act like you’re here to help?” he snarls, teeth dragging along your ear. “Then fucking take it. Prove it.” You barely register it—just the shift of his weight, the grind of his pelvis—and then his spit hits your tongue, thick and warm. Your lips part for it like they know better than you. You swallow, loud and deliberate, and the growl he lets out rips straight through you. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand it into memory, every sound you make echoing off the walls, every curse from his mouth driving you closer to the edge. You don’t even notice your moans getting louder until his hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the cries that come with the next thrust.

“Quiet,” he mutters, hot against your ear. “You don’t want them hearing how wet you are for the man you tried to destroy.” It hits too close. Shame and arousal twist inside you, something dark and desperate, and you grind back against him harder. 

The heat off the car hood is blistering, licking up your stomach, sweat sliding down the dip of your spine in a slow, stinging crawl. Your thighs ache from how wide he’s forced them, every thrust a punishing slam that jars your ribs against metal. His grip on your waist is bruising, teeth gritted behind every ragged breath as he watches your body fold and tremble for him. He’s deep—so deep—cock splitting you open raw, dragging against every nerve ending like he’s trying to ruin you from the inside out. But it’s not enough. Not when you start pushing back harder, grinding on him like you need to feel every vein, every ridge, every hateful inch. That’s when he shifts.

His hand slides up from your hip slow, the drag of his fingers steady and possessive as they coast over the sweat-slick plane of your stomach, trailing up past the swell of your ribs until he’s curling them under your chin. He tilts your head up, not gently—just enough to force you open, to bare your throat to the hot, smoky air, mouth slack as your breath stutters out. He doesn’t squeeze. Not yet. Just holds you there like you’re something to own, something to break open and rearrange. His mouth is right at your ear now, the shape of his words scraping across your skin like gravel. “This what you wanted?” he rasps, voice all venom and heat, hips still pounding into you with an unrelenting pace. “To fuck the man you tried to bury? Say it.”

You hesitate. It’s instinct. A flicker of resistance, a breath too long—but that’s all it takes. He punishes you for it instantly, hips snapping forward with a brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you, slamming your stomach against the car. You cry out, hands scrambling to brace against the hood, body jolting with the force of it. His grip tightens, not choking, but controlling—commanding the angle of your head, forcing you to feel everything. “Say it, reporter girl,” he snarls, mouth at your cheek, tongue hot behind clenched teeth. “Or I’ll stop. And you’ll beg for me next time.”

You manage something—a broken whimper, a plea that barely makes it past your lips—and it’s enough. But he’s not done. Not even close. His fingers slide between your lips next, two thick digits forcing their way into your mouth until you’re gagging around them, drool spilling out past your chin. “That’s it,” he grits, pace vicious, cock driving into you so hard the whole damn car shudders. “Take it. Choke on it if you have to.” You suck around them desperately, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, and he watches with something dark and starved gleaming in his eyes. Then he leans in and spits into your mouth again—slow, messy, deliberate—watching the way your throat works as you swallow it down like you’ve been starved for it.

And then his hand comes down. Fast. Sharp. The slap cracks across your ass, lower this time, angled to sting—and it does. Fire lashes up your spine and your knees nearly buckle. Another lands before you can recover. Then another. Until your thighs shake and your breath starts to hitch, your body trembling under the weight of every mark he leaves behind. “Gonna mark you up,” he growls, breath ragged against your ear, “so every step back to the team hurts. Let them see who you belong to.” You whimper again, half-lost already, and he doesn’t waste another second—rips your panties the rest of the way off, shoves the soaked fabric into your mouth without hesitation. “Quiet now,” he mutters, slapping your thigh one more time, rougher than before. “Earn it.”

He moves again. Shifts his stance—one knee braced on the bumper, hands planted on your hips like he’s anchoring you to the car—so he can fuck up into you with more force, more depth, the angle cruel and perfect all at once. Your cries are muffled, swallowed by lace and cotton, but your body can’t lie. You’re shaking. Tightening around him. One of his hands slides down, rough fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision, rubbing fast, merciless, until your vision whites out and your legs give. You’re close. Too close. You feel it crash up your spine, that blinding wave about to drag you under—

“Don’t cum,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your cunt clenches, high-pitched whine muffled behind the panties, and his pace only gets rougher. “Not until I say,” he snarls, fucking you harder. “Not until you beg me to fill you.”

You sob around the fabric, shaking your head, then nodding frantically, fingers clawing at the edge of the hood as you choke out, "Please—please, Jeno—need it, need you to fuck me full, need to feel you drip out of me when I walk—please—I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, just don’t stop."

He hisses a curse, pulls out too fast, too rough, and before you can protest, he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. "Up." He hauls you with him, dragging you behind a stack of tires near the far end of the garage. You trip over something—rubber, crates, you don’t care—but he catches you, spins you, and sits down hard against the slicks, dragging you onto his lap in one violent motion. "Ride me," he says, voice cracked open. "Fucking ride it out."

The space back here is secluded, shadowed, almost intimate in the way the light cuts low across the floor, catching on chrome rims and glinting off metal. The rubber smell isn’t harsh; it’s heady, grounding, mixing with sweat and sex and the sharp bite of gasoline in a way that makes your head spin. The walls are close enough to press against, heat rising from the stacks behind you, from the slick surface of his fireproofs, from the furnace of his body beneath yours. It’s filthy, but it’s beautiful—hot and heavy and yours.

Your thighs tremble but you obey, dropping onto him like you’re starving for it, the stretch instant and obscene. His cock drives into you thick, soaked, and you swear you feel him everywhere at once—under your ribs, punching up into your lungs, deep enough to make your whole body jolt. You gasp, clawing at his chest as he groans, head tilted back against the wall, sweat beading down his throat.

You wrap your arms around his neck, press your chest against his, and move—grinding, lifting, fucking down on him with a pace that’s feral, greedy, loud. He holds your hips tight, knuckles white against your skin, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits against his chest, the way your mouth drops open when you take him deep. You whine, high and shameless, your moans echoing through the cavernous space.

He thrusts up to meet you, fucking into your heat with brutal rhythm, each stroke a wet slap, each drag of his cock filthier than the last. "That’s it," he pants, voice wrecked. "Make a mess. Drench me. Let it pour." One hand slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, vicious circles, the other wrapped around your throat again, holding you just at the edge of too much.

"Gonna cum on my cock like a good little whore?" he murmurs, lips at your jaw, breath hot. "Do it. Paint my dick, make it fucking messy."

You sob out a gasp, cunt pulsing, bouncing faster, chasing that brutal edge. The way he fucks you from below—rough, precise, desperate—makes your whole body seize, and you’re so wet you hear it, the slick suck of every thrust. He slaps your ass once, then grabs it, bouncing you harder, fucking up as you fall down, and the rhythm is animal, unhinged, ruined.

"You hear that?" he growls. "That’s your pussy, baby. Fucking greedy. You love this shit, don’t you?"

You nod frantically, tears caught in your lashes, babbling nonsense against his mouth—"Yes, yes, need you, so full, can’t stop, don’t stop, please"—and he snaps, slamming into you harder, chasing his own high now, sweat slicking your bodies, his mouth dragging over your throat, your tits, your shoulder.

"Keep going," he grits out, voice raw. "Let the whole fucking circuit hear you."

And you do. You fall apart with his name on your tongue, his cock splitting you open, the taste of him still thick in your mouth, the sound of skin and breath and heat echoing around you like thunder.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He growls your name through clenched teeth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane, like he’s driving blind and you’re the last red flag waving before the finish line. His grip bruises into your hips as he fucks up into you like he’s still chasing time, like the race never ended, like the adrenaline hasn’t left his bloodstream and he needs this—needs you—to come down. But he can’t. He won’t. You’re the sharpest corner he’s ever taken, tight like a hairpin turn, and every thrust is a gamble between glory and total wreckage.

Your body jolts with each impact, spine pressed to the wall, hips crashing down against his with unrelenting pace. It’s not rhythm—it’s instinct, pure reaction. Your hands twist in his hair, your teeth catch on the side of his throat, and you can’t even feel your thighs anymore. You ride him like you’re trying to outrun something—maybe the shame, maybe the fear, maybe the way your chest cracks wide open every time he moans like that for you.

“Fuck—fuck—Jeno, someone could walk in—someone could see—” You whisper it, voice shredded, barely there between gasps. But you don’t slow down. You can’t. Your cunt clenches around him every time your body bounces, muscles fluttering with aftershocks and overstimulation. The thrill of being seen sharpens everything—your moans louder, your movements filthier, like you're taunting the risk of exposure.

“Let them,” he snarls, voice guttural, mouth dragging over your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. His eyes are glassy, wild, his entire body wound tight as a snapped throttle cable. “Let them see what it looks like when you get fucked open by me. Let them hear how wet you are when you take me this deep.”

And you are—wet, noisy, shaking. The sounds your bodies make are obscene, echoing between tire stacks like muffled gunshots. Your back hits the wall again, and you arch into it, your nails dragging down his back so hard they tear through the thick fabric of his fireproofs, scraping welts over burning muscle. You want to leave marks. You want to ruin him like he’s ruining you.

“You’re wrecking me—” you cry, voice high and broken, “worse than any crash.”

He grunts, slamming into you harder, more erratic, his control unraveling with every breath. “Good. I want you fucking totaled. Want you so ruined you can’t walk back out of here without my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking, heat spiraling fast and brutal. Your clit drags against his pelvis, your cunt so swollen and sensitive you’re already teetering again. The tension inside you coils sharp and thin like tire rubber screaming over asphalt.

“Cum again,” he demands, voice ragged, breath hot against your cheek. “Right fucking now.”

You do. It rips out of you with a scream, your whole body seizing up, mouth slack, eyes wide, and you swear you see white. It doesn’t crest—it detonates, a chain reaction through every nerve ending. Your vision blurs. Your legs tremble. You cum so hard your body goes limp against him.

And still—still—he’s not done. He wraps his arms around your back, locks you in place, fucking up into your oversensitive cunt like he needs to leave a permanent imprint. Like he can’t stop until he’s emptied himself inside you so completely that nothing else exists. You can feel it building, the way his thrusts stutter, the way his jaw locks, the way he gasps your name like he’s about to crash into something massive and final. You drag your nails down his spine one last time and beg, “Inside. Please, finish inside.”

He slams into you once—twice—then again with a guttural growl, hips jerking, cock twitching deep in your cunt. Heat floods you, thick and hot, and his whole body shudders with it, chest pressed to yours, breath caught between a moan and a curse. You stay wrapped around him, shaking, dripping, ruined. And for a long, breathless moment, all that’s left is the smell of sweat and rubber, the echo of moans, and the heat of his body buried deep inside you like he never plans to leave.

After that night in the garage, everything shifts. You fall into a pattern—not routine, not schedule, just moments stolen between obligations and lies. A blur of weeks, shadows of time lost to bodies instead of words. You haven’t touched your bed since the race. Every night ends in Jeno’s room or doesn’t end at all. You lie to everyone, skip out early, fake texts about being home when you’re already naked on his sheets. It becomes the only place you sleep, wrapped in warmth and sweat, in his chain brushing your collarbone, in the slick drag of his fingers pushing back into you before you can drift off. Every orgasm tastes like betrayal. Every moan feels like a secret wedged deeper into your chest.

The first time after the race, it’s in his car—on the track, engine ticking beneath you, heat rising from the hood. You crawl into his lap, knees scraping leather, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air. His gloves are still on. His racing jacket is unzipped just enough for your hand to slide inside. He mutters something about visibility—how anyone could see—but he’s already hard, already guiding your hips down onto him. You ride him with your forehead pressed to his, moaning into his mouth as the last of the floodlights dim behind the fogged glass. Your thighs slap into his, slick and fast, and when you come, it’s soundless, breathless, your spine curling like you’re trying to hold it in.

The next time it’s the underground garage storage. You trip over a loose axle and he catches you, laugh breaking into a grunt as he spins you around and throws you into a crate stack. Oil drums knock together. A motion sensor light blinks overhead, buzzing faintly. He kisses you like he’s daring the shadows to look—sloppy, open-mouthed, teeth scraping your jaw as he yanks your shorts halfway down and shoves inside you with one sharp thrust. You gasp into the collar of his hoodie, nails clawing for purchase against slick rubber and metal. He fucks you like the world’s ending—like the only thing that matters is the sound of your cunt swallowing him whole.

Some nights, you find him already under the car in the maintenance pit, oil-slick and shirtless, flashlight swinging from above. He sees you crouch down, doesn’t say a word—just grabs your hand and pulls you under with him. The air’s warm, still, heavy with grease. Your shirt rides up the second he lays you back. He mouths at your chest while his fingers hook into your waistband, dragging your underwear aside with one curl of his wrist. When his cock slides in, you both freeze—because someone’s walking overhead, boots clanging against the grates. You taste metal in your mouth from how hard you’re biting your lip. His hand covers it anyway, palm hot, thumb pressing into your cheek. He fucks you in slow, aching thrusts, each one dragging moans that barely make it out. When the footsteps vanish, he grabs your thighs tighter, slams deeper, makes the wrenches rattle.

Then the tow truck. He drives it out to the backlot under the excuse of testing hydraulics. You’re half-asleep in the passenger seat until he reclines it back and pulls you on top of him, his mouth already on your throat. You straddle him in the flashing pulse of red emergency lights, each blink casting sharp shadows across your ribs. You grind down hard, thighs burning, his grip brutal on your waist. The windows fog fast. Your moans echo inside the cabin, breathless and high, and he doesn’t stop even when your body shakes from release. You fall asleep on his chest after, heart hammering against his, the lights still blinking over you like warnings you ignore.

Another time, it’s the tarp-covered car shoved into a corner of the lot. It’s old, useless, rusted around the edges. He peels the tarp back halfway and tosses you onto the hood like he’s done it before in dreams. The metal’s freezing, biting into your back, but his mouth is fire on your skin. He fucks you like he wants to erase every second you spent away from him—fast, messy, teeth on your shoulder, hips rutting so hard the car rocks. You’re crying out nonsense, body seizing around him, legs locked tight behind his back. He doesn’t say anything after. Just watches you breathe, watches the way your chest rises and falls. Wipes sweat from your lip with the pad of his thumb.

The sex doesn’t stop. It never stops. You miss meals. Miss calls. Your inbox floods with messages you leave unread. You sneak out of meetings early. Sometimes you forget where you’re supposed to be—because you’re pressed against his door, begging for his fingers, his mouth, his cock. Your skin smells like him, tastes like spit and motor oil and need. His touch lingers in bruises: purple kisses blooming on your hips, teeth marks under your jaw, fading welts down your thighs. No one’s caught you yet—but people are watching.

Sunwoo lingers too long in doorways. Mark keeps looking up at the wrong moments, brow tight, mouth tighter. Jaemin asks about a missing route log one day in a meeting, and Jeno cuts him off so fast you flinch. Someone else jokes that you always look exhausted lately. Someone replies, “Jeno looks more relaxed.” He won’t look at you in those meetings. Won’t speak. But afterward—after—he corners you in the stairwell, lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times, thighs around his waist, your back against the concrete wall, his hand pressed over your mouth like silence is safer than truth. His hips snap up and he growls against your throat—he can’t stop, he won’t, if anyone finds out he’ll lose it but he’s long past caring. He pulls you into his room and locks the door after. 

You haven’t spent a night in your own bed since the race. Every night ends here—in his room, in his sheets, in a silence that tastes like sweat and unraveling. You wake up in different positions but always touching. His arm over your waist. Your leg between his. Your hand pressed flat to his chest like you’re anchoring something there. Jeno talks more when he’s tired. When your body is tangled with his, when your cheek is warm against the slick skin of his chest, when both of you are too sore to move and the air tastes like sex and silence. He tells you things no one else knows. how his dad measures love in achievements. How silence was louder than screaming in his house. How he learned to be useful before he learned to be loved. you hold your breath when he speaks, like you’re afraid the truth will slip through the seams if you exhale too hard.

You’ve learned that Jeno remembers everything he shouldn’t. Birthdays of people who don’t talk to him anymore. License plate numbers of teammates that quit years ago. The names of every street he’s ever raced on. He recites them to you at night, half-asleep, hand on your hip like you’re a part of the archive too. He tells you he never had a baby book, never had keepsakes, so he stores it all in his head—every win, every loss, every person that left. You find out he doesn’t keep photos on his walls because he hates proof that people grow distant. His memory’s obsessive, and somehow, he makes you feel like he’s memorizing you too.

He tells you he used to be angry all the time. That he still is, sometimes, but it doesn’t come out in fists anymore—not since he got kicked off his first circuit for breaking a guy’s jaw. That every scar on his hands meant something. That every win still feels like punishment. He hates the way people look at him. Hates the idea of being reduced to a pull-quote, a punchline, a headline he can’t rewrite. He tells you that if you ever wrote something about him—if you turned this into content, into evidence—he wouldn’t survive it. “Not ‘cause I’d be pissed,” he mumbles against your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. “Because it’d mean none of this was real.” You don’t respond. You just hold him tighter.

You learn he’s good with his hands beyond racing. The kind of boy who takes things apart just to know how they work, then puts them back together better. He builds things without instructions. Knows how to fix a leaking pipe, change his own tires, gut a dashboard and solder it new. He tells you he likes when his hands are busy because it stops his mind from going places he hates. That’s why he fucks with his rings so much. Why he always asks to fix things for people but never asks them to stay. He’s never said it aloud, but you realize: he’d rather be useful than loved.

You learn that he once got stranded in a thunderstorm and walked three hours home rather than call his father. That he’s afraid of deep water because he almost drowned once but won’t admit it out loud. That he hates cucumbers, doesn’t trust people who wear sunglasses indoors, and always triple-checks that his windows are locked before he sleeps. He tells you he never used to sleep through the night—until you. He says it so casually, you almost miss it. His trust is quiet, handed over in fragments, never begged for and you carry every one of those pieces like a secret map back to him.

Hope is the thing he fears the most. He doesn’t say it like that—but you hear it in the way his voice falters when he talks about the future. About the car he’s been building since he was sixteen. About the idea of leaving everything behind one day, driving until the roads run out. “I used to think I’d go alone,” he says one night, fingertips brushing lazy circles on your hip. “But now I think… fuck. I think I’d want someone there.” You’re quiet. He’s not asking. But the way he looks at you after—raw, hesitant, like he’s already bracing for the disappointment—makes your chest tighten until it hurts. He trusts you. And it terrifies him.

That night, he touches you differently. Slower. Like he’s scared he won’t get to again. His mouth moves across your skin in a blur of reverence and need, every kiss a silent plea to stay. He slides into you like a prayer, slow and deep, groaning against your throat when you wrap your legs around him. There’s no rush, no anger, just pressure building in waves, rolling through your body like heat caught beneath your skin. He keeps murmuring things against your lips, “I don’t want this to end… I can’t lose this… I need you to be real with me.” You kiss him like you’re answering, like the words are trapped in your chest and only your body can speak them.

His hand wraps around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw, voice low, not a question. “Tell me you’re not gonna write about me.”

You hesitate. Your thighs tremble around his hips. He sees it. Feels it. You still haven’t said anything, and the moment stretches thin and hot between you. He thrusts in again, slow and heavy, and again—a rhythm that builds without mercy. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t make me feel this and then turn it into something cheap.” His tone isn’t angry. It’s something far worse—broken.

“Jeno…” You breathe his name like it means something. Like you mean something. But it’s not enough.

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t fuck me over.” His voice catches like he already knows you will. “If you do this… if you turn this into an article, if you sell me out—it won’t just hurt. It’ll kill something in me. You understand? I won’t come back from that.”

You blink up at him, dazed, flushed, heart in your throat. “I… I promise. I won’t. I couldn’t. I swear, Jeno. I swear on everything.”

He groans, loud and guttural, like it splits him in two. He fucks into you deeper, harder, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading along his spine. “Say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

“I won’t hurt you,” you whisper, eyes wide, voice shaking, hands fisting the sheets beneath you like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded. “I won’t. You’re safe with me.” He doesn’t answer—not with words—but the kiss he gives you is slow, reverent, mouth brushing yours like he’s breathing you in, like the taste of that promise might be the only thing keeping him sane. His lips trail down your throat, along the slope of your collarbone, across your chest, every inch kissed like it’s sacred, like he’s trying to commit it to memory before it’s ripped away. His thrusts never falter, just slow to a rhythm that feels almost too intimate—hips rolling deep, dragging the pleasure out of you inch by inch, groaning softly every time you clench around him. He’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek, his fingers trembling where they brush the underside of your knee, and when he finally comes, it’s with his mouth on your skin, soft curses breathed against your neck like prayer. This isn’t just sex anymore. It’s survival. It’s surrender. It’s everything that might ruin you if you let it—but you can’t stop now. You wouldn’t even know how.

It’s the penultimate race in the league season, and tension clings to the night like smoke. Jeno’s team is neck-and-neck with their biggest rival—a flashy, overly sponsored crew known for bending rules and pushing boundaries under the guise of innovation. The circuit tonight is brutal. Carved through an abandoned industrial sector downtown, the track is lined with rusted scaffolding, sharp corners, and overhead floodlights that flicker like they’re watching. Underground and invitation-only, it’s one of the most dangerous courses in the league—high-speed, high-stakes, and reserved only for the elite. The air tastes like oil and ozone. Thunder rolls overhead, low and distant, as if the city itself is holding its breath.

Paranoia has gripped the circuit for weeks. There’ve been engine failures that don’t add up, drivers pulled from wrecks they swore weren’t accidents, and rumours of tampering passed between pit crews like cigarettes. Whispers say someone is rigging results, crashing contenders, tilting the balance in favor of a shadow player no one can name. The league board is on edge. Every pre-race inspection is stricter than the last. Every car is scanned, stripped, tested. No one trusts anyone.

Hours before the race, Jeno’s car throws a red flag during inspection. A supposed glitch in the turbo system—something about throttle torque maps and inconsistent boost ratios. He shrugs it off, says he’ll need a second in the car for calibration checks. The board’s backup tech is MIA. Chaos spirals. The committee wants the race to run on time. A lead official says, “Just send her in. She’s cleared the seat before.” The calibration error is bullshit. Everyone knows it—except the board, except the cameras, except the ones so desperate for order they’d believe anything wrapped in technical jargon. 

Jeno plays his part too well: straight-faced, tight-lipped, pointing to the interface and muttering about turbo sensors, drive lag, cornering offsets. The rival team is already in position, tension thick enough to feel in your teeth. This race matters and if the standings shift tonight, everything burns or everything ascends. And of course, there’s only one person they trust to monitor from the inside. One person who’s already survived the passenger seat. You. The board insists. The crew nods. Someone claps your shoulder. You see the smirk on Jeno’s mouth before you even slide into the car. This was always the plan. His hand brushes your thigh when you buckle in. You let him.

The tarp over the car is standard: a cooling technique for elite vehicles with borderline-illegal mods. But tonight it’s a veil. Steam clings to the edges, the outside world reduced to shadows and noise. Inside, you’re already fucking him. His gloves are off. His jacket’s unzipped to the sternum. You’re grinding in his lap, head tilted back, thighs shaking as his hands dig into your hips. The seat’s pushed as far as it can go. The scent of sweat and leather and exhaust coils around you. He fucks up into you slow, dragging the rhythm out like he wants to memorize it, like he’s burning your body into the shape of survival.

Your voice breaks on a moan, soft and mocking. “You faked the error, didn’t you?” His mouth finds your neck, biting down like a confession. “You lied—just to get me in this seat again.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t need to. The way he’s breathing says everything. His cock twitches deep inside you. His hand wraps around your throat, not to squeeze—just to feel the sound of you coming apart against him. “Tell me I was wrong,” you whisper, cunt clenching again. “Tell me this wasn’t the plan.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath broken. “I wanted you here. I always want you here.” He’s shaking beneath you, muscles locked as he slams up harder, your soaked thighs slapping against him. “I don’t want to race without you anymore.”

“You have five minutes,” he growls, voice jagged now, mouth dragging along your collarbone. “Three to come. Two to remember who you belong to.” You clench around him, shuddering, nails clawing into his shoulders. He slaps your ass, mutters something guttural—Mine. Outside, the countdown begins. Inside, your world narrows to the stretch of your cunt and the way his cock owns every inch of it.

He tells you to get off but you don’t. Not like he means. You slip from his lap, knees hitting the floorboard, breath hot against the zipper of his racing suit. Rain drums faintly against the tarp above, muffled only by the thunder of engines in the distance. Jeno grabs your wrist, panic flickering through his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” he rasps, but you’re already palming his cock, dragging it out with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes him hiss through his teeth.

“Focus on the road,” you whisper, lips brushing the head. “Let me handle the rest.” You take him into your mouth, wet and warm, sucking slow as the tarp flaps open. The lights burst through the mist. The flag drops. And Jeno’s foot slams the gas so hard the tires scream.

The car tears forward, jolting your body, but you steady yourself with one hand gripping his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock. His hand flies to the wheel, the other buried in your hair, not pushing—just holding. Like he needs the weight of your mouth to ground him. You suck deeper, tongue circling the swollen head, spit slicking down your chin as he moans, low and brutal. The track blurs past the windows. His body tenses, hips twitching every time your lips drag down his shaft.

“Jesus, baby… you’re gonna make me crash,” he mutters, voice strangled, one eye on the curve ahead, one hand yanking the gearshift while his knuckles go white around the wheel but he doesn’t stop you. He couldn’t if he tried. Your head bobs faster, sucking him down until your throat flexes around him, warm and tight and relentless. The sound of your mouth, the hum of your moan, the obscene slap of your spit and skin—it fills the cockpit like smoke.

He comes with a choked groan, thighs clenching, cock pulsing between your lips. Cum spills hot across your tongue, and he nearly veers off course from how hard he jerks the wheel. You swallow it down, kiss the tip with a smirk, and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. He glances down, dazed, blown open from the high, then back to the road like nothing happened.

You strap in, settle beside him, still panting. He says nothing at first, only breathes. Then he mutters, voice raw: “You’re fucking insane.”

You grin, eyes on the track. “And you’re still hard.”

The race embodies a scream. Smoke off the line, headlights carving through the dark, engines snarling so loud your bones vibrate. The track is narrow, brutal, a looped-out stretch of urban circuit walled in by concrete and shadows. Jeno’s hand finds yours just before the first corner, fingers tight, jaw clenched, the city reflected in his visor. You’re both strapped in, breath synced, heart rates out of control. He looks insane—sweat along his temples, hair damp under the edge of his helmet, one glove peeled halfway down his wrist as he shifts with surgical force. You watch the veins flex in his forearm every time he takes a turn. He looks like control itself. Like speed and danger and sex all wrapped in smoke. His voice cuts through your headset, low and cocky. “Next turn—cut left before the barrier. I’ll slide under them. Trust me.” But it’s you who leans forward, watching their tail, catching the hesitation—“Don’t. Brake now, feint wide, then drift in. They’re bluffing on the inside.” He does. You shave two seconds off the lap time. You don’t speak for a full minute after that, too breathless, too aware of the way your fingers are still laced tight. You’ve never felt more alive. Or more fucked.

Somewhere between the fourth lap and the chaos that follows, it hits you. He’s yours. Not in words. Not in soft post-sex whispers. But here, in this — the wheel under his grip, the blur of his jaw as he glances at you like you’re his compass, the way he speeds up just to hear you gasp. There’s something lethal in how you crave him. Something doomed in how easily you lean closer every time he glances back. There’s a moment—late, fast, brutal—where another racer jerks into your lane too early, trying to squeeze through a gap that doesn’t exist. Jeno doesn’t see it. But you do. “Right! Now!” you scream, grabbing the wheel. The car fishtails. The tires scream. You both slam sideways into the drift, metal sparking against the wall. But you pull through. His head whips toward you. There’s no sound in your earpiece, just the way his chest heaves, the wild throb of his pulse in his neck. You saved him. You don’t say it. You just squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

But that’s when the quiet changes. Something in the car flickers—a stutter in the dashboard feed. You catch it in the corner of your eye, a line of numbers that shouldn’t be moving. It’s not telemetry. Not yours. Not his. Something foreign. Embedded in the system like rot. You track it with your eyes while Jeno shifts into fifth, one hand still on your thigh. The feed updates again. A line of override commands, blinking too clean. You tap into the comms panel. There’s a secondary frequency active. B32-NT. It’s not familiar. Not part of the team. What bleeds through makes your stomach drop: engine values, route adjustments, foreign mod control codes. Someone is piggybacking Jeno’s system. You don’t know who. But it’s real. You stare at the display, reading it again and again—external override logged, failsafe pressure spike pending. Your throat closes. You realise what it means. Someone is trying to crash this car.

Jeno feels your stillness before you say anything. His voice flickers into your headset, hoarse. “What did you just see?” You don’t speak. Not yet. His knuckles whiten on the gearstick. The car rockets into the final lap. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he mutters, jaw tight, eyes locked forward. “Shit.” He knows, he knows but it’s not over. You wait. Let the race end, let the asphalt burn and the smoke rise and the flag drop. 

Only after—only after—do you pull him away from the others, into the dead space behind the pits, where the shadows bleed deeper and his breath hits the air like mist. “What the fuck was that?” you demand, voice shaking. 

He doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at you like he’s drowning. “I’ve been seeing traces for months,” he finally says. “Not our crew. Not my mods but someone’s in the system. Ghost signals. Live feeds but there’s no names or trace. Nothing solid.” You blink. Your blood roars. “You knew?” He nods. “I didn’t know who. I’ve been trying to figure it out but I come to a dead end every single time I try.” You don’t respond. You remember the override code. You remember the kill-switch. You remember the moment the data blinked red but none of it’s concrete. There’s no fingerprint. No face. Just shadows. Just ghosts. You think of your exposé. You think of Jeno. And for the first time, you don’t know which truth will hurt more.

You’ve spent months convinced you were chasing the right story. That if you followed the mods, the maps, the margins, it would all point back to him—to the crew, to the boys who let you in without knowing what you carried. But it doesn’t. This doesn’t smell like Jeno. It reeks of strategy. Of bureaucracy. Of someone older, higher, smarter. Someone with reach and reason. Your fingers shake when they curl into his jacket.

“If I hadn’t caught it…” you start, then stop, the thought unfinished. Jeno nods once, sharply. “I know.”

There’s a silence. Heavy. Final. The kind that feels like the edge of something. He stares past you toward the track, then back to your face. “They’re going to keep trying,” he says quietly. “Whoever they are, they’re not done. Not until someone crashes. Not until someone gets hurt.” And for the first time, it clicks. The engine failures. The stray crashes. The random spikes in pressure gauges across other teams. None of them were random. They were tests.

The next one was meant for him.

And now it’s war.

Your phone buzzes once. Twice. Three times. You don’t even have to check the screen to know who it is.

taeyong — why haven’t you given me any update?

taeyong — i told you to watch how the team responds to pressure and this won’t cut it.

taeyong — i told you didn’t i? if you don’t make this report good enough then it’s your job on the line.

To Taeyong,

I understand the expectations placed on me in observing the Soul Line team. While the environment has been intense and often volatile, I have witnessed a culture built around high-risk strategy and deeply embedded loyalty. There is a pattern of behavior that raises concern — particularly the team’s obsessive relationship with performance pressure, their willingness to override safety protocols, and their instinct to close ranks when challenged.

My observations suggest a structure driven by emotion over reason. The lead driver, in particular, displays erratic decision-making and a deep mistrust of external oversight. While I cannot definitively name breaches at this stage, I would strongly advise close review of their telemetry and performance mods pre-race. This team operates with intensity, but also secrecy — which makes it difficult to assess intent versus instinct.

This is not a final report. More information to come.

Sincerely, Y/N. 

You close the thread before it finishes loading. Your fingers tremble as you paste in the draft you’ve barely looked at since you wrote it. It’s nothing. A paragraph stitched together from half-truths and safe language, dressed up in professionalism but stripped of anything real. No names. No details. No conviction. It’s a lie written to hold off the blade. A submission designed to survive. You hit send. Jeno doesn’t know and that’s the worst part.

You find him in the garage two hours later, crouched beside the front wheel of his car, palms greasy, face shadowed beneath the low fluorescents. He looks up, just once, and it’s enough. The guilt finds your spine and crawls up your throat like poison. You kneel beside him. “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t even blink. “I’ve seen pieces of it before,” he murmurs, voice flat, quiet like he’s trying not to scare it away. “Data drops that didn’t make sense. Logs changed when I wasn’t looking. I thought it was glitching. I didn’t know it was gonna get someone killed.”

You look at him and it hits you all over again—he’s been carrying this. Alone. He rises slowly, wipes his hands on a rag, leans back against the worktable like the weight of everything has finally caught up to him. “I’ve been trying to trace whatever this is. For months. It’s not coming from our systems. It’s not a mechanic’s fault. It’s deeper. Admin-level. Someone’s been piggybacking my drives. Someone powerful. Someone who wants this team erased.”

Your heart skips once. Then again. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second, you see it—the fear beneath the fury, the exhaustion hiding behind his arrogance. “Because I didn’t know who I could trust,” he says. Then after a breath, quieter, breaking: “But I trust you.”

It cracks something open inside you. A sound escapes your mouth like apology. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his jaw, tilting his head toward you until your foreheads brush. His breath is ragged against your cheek. Your voice stumbles out between whispers. “You can trust me. I swear. You can.” He kisses you like he’s sealing a pact. Slow. Rough. Desperate. Your hands wind into his shirt, pulling him closer until you can’t tell where the lie ends and the truth begins.

That night, you hatch a trap.

You write a new report. Not for submission. Not for truth. For exposure. For whoever’s been listening in, trailing wires through Jeno’s system, shadowing every frequency like a ghost behind the wheel. The document is clean. Clinical. Just enough detail to sound legitimate—technical weaknesses, isolation tactics, a lone vehicle running test laps with no team support. You embed it deep, tuck it into a shared circuit file with just enough metadata noise to get picked up by the wrong person. The language is quiet, coded, nonchalant. But the subtext is loud: this car will be alone. this car will be vulnerable. this car is yours to take.

You don’t tell the others. Not yet. Just Jeno. You find him hunched over the console in the garage, sweat curling down the back of his neck, knuckles white where they grip the edge of the dashboard. He doesn’t turn when you enter. Doesn’t speak. You stand beside him in the hum of silence, until you finally say, “It’s sent.” His jaw tightens. 

“And they’ll believe it?” 

You nod once. “If they’re watching, they already have.” That’s the moment the tension shifts. From fear to strategy. From prey to predator.

But you need help. Someone who knows the systems deeper than you do. You meet them in a subterranean parking structure before sunrise. Jeno calls them a friend. You’re not sure what to call someone with knife scars and navy-black eyes who speaks in server terms and war metaphors. “Whoever’s behind this has admin keys,” they say, tapping their comm device hard against the dashboard. “That’s not sabotage. That’s infiltration.”

Jeno stiffens. His voice drops an octave. “Then we pull them out.”

It starts slow. Not with confrontation, not with grand declarations but with the quiet shifts only people who’ve bled for the same cause can feel. Jaemin’s the first to notice. He watches Jeno after a silent test lap, leaning against the side of the car with his arms crossed and something unreadable in his eyes. When Jeno climbs out, doesn’t meet his gaze, Jaemin says, “You’ve been hiding something.” It doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds like heartbreak. And when he says, “Whatever it is, I’m not letting you carry it alone,” no one argues. He’s the one who stays up all night with the code—hands steady, eyes burning—until he writes the patch that helps intercept the next signal. When you find him hours later, blinking against the harsh light of the garage monitor, he just asks, “You’re really with us?” And you nod. Because it’s the only answer that matters.

Sunwoo takes longer. His trust was never easy but one night, as you head out after a late strategy meeting, you find him leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, expression sharp. “Something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re not saying it but I can feel it.” He doesn’t ask for proof. He doesn’t even ask for the truth. Just watches you like he’s weighing every word you don’t say. And when the board tries to shut everything down on the eve of the final race, claiming rule violations and internal instability, it’s Sunwoo who steps forward. “She’s with us now,” he says in front of the entire committee. And he doesn’t flinch when they look at him like he’s signed a death warrant.

Renjun uncovers the siphon like it’s a wound he should’ve noticed sooner. He’s reviewing fuel data for the last ten races, his fingers jittering over graphs and overlays, until he goes still. The numbers don’t lie. “They weren’t trying to crash you,” he says, voice tight. “They were trying to drain you.” The fuel bleed is too small to flag, but over time, it chips away at power, speed, endurance. It’s sabotage disguised as sloppiness. He steps back from the console like it burns, shaking his head. “They made us think we were the problem.” And you don’t say it, but you think it, too. They still do.

Haechan’s the one no one expects. He laughs too loud, talks too much, flirts with danger and drinks like it’s sport. But in one meeting—mid-story, mid-smirk—he stops cold. “Wait,” he says, blinking. “Didn’t those two managers last month mention something about a new supplier?” He says it like a joke. But no one laughs. The room goes dead silent. You realise then that every piece was scattered across mouths and memory, too fractured to matter until now. Until Haechan put the last line on the page. His voice drops. “Fuck. I didn’t know I was saying it until I heard myself.”

None of them knew. That’s what hits the hardest. They thought they were slipping. Misjudging turns. Fumbling starts. Missing cues. They blamed themselves. Worked harder. Slept less. Pushed further into exhaustion trying to make up for mistakes that were never theirs to begin with. The kind of sabotage designed not to destroy in one clean blow—but to wear you down. Quietly. Slowly. Until you forget what it felt like to win without guilt.

This isn’t just about the team anymore. It’s about everyone who’s ever been chewed up by the machine and told it was their own fault for bleeding. Every mechanic who got blamed for a fault line they didn’t draw. Every rookie driver who was thrown onto the track like bait and then discarded the second the numbers dropped. Every sponsor deal that vanished without reason. Every whispered threat behind closed doors. Every statistic twisted into a weapon to justify silence. It’s about how power rewrites failure to look like yours. How they make you believe the crash was always coming because you weren’t fast enough, sharp enough, worth enough. It’s about the way guilt is planted like a virus, how doubt infects belief, how easy it is to punish passion when it stops being profitable. And now, you see it. You feel it. This was never just a race. Never just about winning. It was about survival. About memory. About saying: We were here. We mattered. And we won’t let you erase us.

And this time, no one’s backing down.

The car gets rewired that night. Jeno tears the system down to its bones, exposing every wire like a threat. Jaemin shadows him, rerouting frequencies, faking damage patterns, embedding a signal loop with just enough heat to draw attention. Renjun adjusts the fuel map, codes in a deceleration script that mimics failure. Haechan throws a tantrum in the middle of the garage, screaming about “another shit-tuned engine,” loud enough to echo through the lot. Sunwoo leaks it to the wrong board member. Lets them think the team’s imploding. That they’ve already lost. And you? You pull it all together. Stitch the lie into shape. Fold the tension into every look, every breath, every step you take beside them. You never say what you’re doing. Just that it’s time.

And beneath it all, that signal—the one you planted, the bait laced in weakness and noise—pulses steady in the circuit. Waiting. Watching. Daring someone to bite. The bait pulses like a heartbeat in the circuit. Waiting to be bitten.

Later that night, Jeno takes you to the edge of the city, where the asphalt is cracked and the streetlights flicker like bad memories. The car hums under your thighs, parked in a quiet stretch of road carved out from the ruins of an old industrial district. It's too late for traffic. Too early for dawn. The world feels suspended, caught between one breath and the next. You're wearing one of his jackets, oversized and half-zipped, thighs bare against the leather seat. When you look at him, he's already watching you.

"If you ever have to get out," Jeno says softly, tapping the wheel, "I want you to know how." You don't ask what he means by get out. You already know. And you don't ask why he sounds like he's preparing for goodbye. You just nod.

He shifts, pulling you across the center console until you're sitting on him. His hands settle at your hips, warm and grounding. The engine is off, but everything else hums—his breath, your pulse, the tension tangled between you. "I need you to feel it," he murmurs, guiding your hands to the wheel, then lower, to the gearstick. "Know where to shift. Know when to let go."

You nod again, but it doesn't feel like enough. You're trembling slightly, the nerves creeping in, but then he leans up, lips brushing yours, a kiss that’s almost reverent. "You're okay," he whispers. "I'm right here."

You adjust your thighs over him, the heat between your legs almost unbearable with the layers barely separating you. You feel him hard beneath you but there's no rush. No desperation. Just this. Proximity. Breath. Touch. His fingers graze up your thighs, slow and coaxing, sliding beneath the edge of the jacket as his lips press to your jaw. You start to move your hips, instinctive, grinding back against him in a slow rhythm that makes both of you groan.

Your palms are slick against the wheel, pulse jittering beneath your skin, and your thighs are still stretched across his lap when he reaches forward—slow, steady—one hand curling over your wrist to guide you. His voice is soft, nothing like the chaos that lives outside the car—just him and you, the silence between gear shifts, the scent of sweat and fuel hanging thick in the air. “Don’t oversteer,” he says, chin brushing your shoulder, breath warm at your jaw. “Feel the curve before you take it.” Your foot hovers too light over the gas, and he nudges it down with his own, body flush behind you, his hands covering yours on the wheel like a second skin. The car hums beneath you both, eager, alive. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

The engine purrs when you accelerate, and his arm tightens across your waist, anchoring you back into him, your ass dragging against the hard line of his cock still barely tucked back into his jeans. You feel everything—every twitch of muscle, every exhale when your fingers catch the turn just right. “Good girl,” he says under his breath, and you shiver. He teaches with tension, with touch, with the controlled burn of letting you drive while still having the power to take over. “Brake before the turn. Ease off just before the apex. You control the car—don’t let it control you.” His thigh shifts under yours, coaxing you into the perfect seat alignment. “And remember,” he whispers, dragging his lips along your neck, slow like sin, “you’re not just riding this thing. You’re fucking taming it.”

Your breath stumbles as the car surges forward, tires kissing pavement in the smooth glide of power managed, not forced. His hands roam—over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—as you take the wheel again, this time more confident, every instruction melted into the rhythm of your bones. His voice drops lower, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You know what the real thrill is?” he asks, hand slipping between your thighs to grip the inside of your knee. “Knowing exactly when to let go. And exactly when not to.” You squeeze the wheel harder. You don’t want to let go of any of it. Not the speed. Not the heat. Not him.

The curve winds in before you can think, but your body knows the rhythm now. You let go—really let go—hands light on the wheel, breath in your throat, smile spreading slow across your face as the speed pours into your bloodstream like electricity. The road unfolds like it’s yours to take, every shift smoother than the last, every press of the pedal syncing with the thrum of your pulse. You laugh, breathless, winded, heart flying, and Jeno’s grip tightens at your waist. “There she is,” he whispers against your skin, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Knew you were made for this.”

His hands move over you constantly—along your thighs, between your legs, curling under the hem of your skirt like he needs to feel you grounded in this moment. His voice drips into you between instructions, between praise. “Tighten your angle—fuck, good girl—just like that, you feel it?” And you do. Every word, every inch of his body behind yours, heat sliding down your spine in slow waves. You drive like you’re weightless, like the car is an extension of your body, like the world outside the windows no longer matters.

You ease the car into park with your hands still shaking. The engine idles beneath you, cooling slow, ticking in rhythm with the breath in your chest. Jeno doesn’t say a word. Just reaches behind him, clicks the seat all the way back, and reclines. His eyes lock onto yours in the rearview mirror. There’s no command, no invitation. Just him, waiting. And you—already turning, already climbing back into his lap like instinct, like muscle memory, like gravity.

You don’t pause. Don’t tease. You pull your panties to the side, reach between you, and slide down onto his cock in one smooth, breathless motion. His hands catch your hips like they always do—tight, reverent, greedy—and your knees dig into the leather seat as you start to bounce, fucking him hard and deep, the way he needs it, the way you need it more. His mouth finds your throat. Your moans fill the car. And everything else—the engine, the silence, the stars behind fogged glass—just disappears.

The car isn’t moving—not in the way it was meant to—but your body is. His seat’s all the way down, legs spread, and you’re perched above him like gravity gave up on rules. His hands frame your hips, fingers digging into the muscle like he can feel every inch of tension you’ve carried, every sharp breath you’ve been too afraid to exhale. The engine ticks quietly beneath you, warm like a secret. “You’re gonna need to know this someday,” he tells you again, softer this time, but not any less serious. “If it all falls apart, if I can’t drive… I need to know you’ll keep it alive. I need to know you can.”

You nod, even though you don’t understand all of it, even though the weight of what he’s saying lands in your gut like something hot and heavy and terrifying. You nod, because the way he’s looking at you makes your chest pull tight. Because this doesn’t feel like a lesson—it feels like a handover. Like trust being transferred with every breath, every stroke, every sound that slips out between you. He doesn’t ask if you’re scared. He doesn’t have to. He just touches you like he’s answering the question before you ask it. “Don’t think,” he murmurs again, low and careful, fingers sliding up the back of your neck. “Just feel me. Feel this. That’s what racing is.”

You do. You feel him hard against your thighs, cock resting right at the seam of your panties, your skirt bunched up around your waist. His voice is right in your ear, his chest under your hands, and when you roll your hips down slowly, it sends a shock through you both. “That’s it,” he whispers, breath catching. “Right there. That tension—that edge—that’s what you ride.” The metaphor’s thin now. Barely there. Because the pressure between your legs isn’t symbolic, it’s slick and real and throbbing, and you’re so wet you can feel the way your panties stick when you shift again. He growls low in his throat. “Fuck, you feel that? You feel what you do to me?”

You gasp, whisper his name, and this time he doesn’t stop you. He helps you pull his jeans down just far enough, his cock already leaking against his abs. You guide him in slow, your hand wrapped around the base until the stretch hits, and your mouth falls open like it’s holy. “Jeno—” It’s barely a sound. Just breath and need. He grabs your hips again, holding you steady as you sink the rest of the way, clenching around him so tightly he curses through his teeth. “That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, baby. You feel so fucking good—so perfect.”

You start to move, hips rolling in shallow, trembling circles, your hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only thing holding you together. He lets you take your time. Lets you find the rhythm. “You’re doing it,” he breathes, kissing under your jaw, sliding one hand down to guide the pace of your hips. “You’re riding it—fuck, that’s perfect—just like the curve, just like I taught you.” You moan, loud and desperate, because it’s so much—his cock filling you deep, the praise in his voice, the way he never stops touching you like he’s trying to memorize your skin. “Jeno,” you gasp again, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He doesn’t stop. He fucks up into you hard, once, twice, catching your rhythm, slamming deeper with every bounce. The car seat groans beneath you, the sound of wet friction loud and obscene, your moans catching on the rise of your breath. “Ride me like you own it,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Like it’s yours.” His hands slam you down harder and you cry out, head falling back. "You feel that? Every inch of you takes me so fucking well.”

“I love this,” you whisper. “Fuck—I love this.” He kisses you like the confession cracked him open, mouth devouring yours, tongue pushing deep, like the only way to breathe is through you. His hands are everywhere—your ass, your waist, up your shirt, gripping your tits through your bra and squeezing hard. “This is how I want you before every race,” he mutters against your lips. “Full of me. Fucked out. Focused.”

You ride him like it’s instinct, like every shift of your hips is mapped into muscle. You lean forward and lick up his throat, whisper, “Then win it for me.” He growls. Thrusts harder. “I will. You survive the track, you can survive this.”

You clench around him again, tighter this time, and he falters. “You’re gonna make me come,” he gasps, eyes fluttering. “Fuck—baby, keep going. You’re so good to me. So fucking good.” You press your forehead to his, eyes locked, and whisper, “Don’t pull out. I want it. Want it all.”

That’s what does it. That’s what undoes him.

He comes with a guttural sound, cock pulsing deep inside you, his hands shaking against your skin. And you—eyes fluttering, breath stuttering—come with him, thighs quaking, mouth open against his throat, everything in you breaking loose.

When it’s over, you don’t move. He holds you there. One hand tangled in your hair. The other still on the wheel. Like he’ll never let go. Like you're his now. Like this was never about racing. It was always about you. You stay curled over him, skin damp, chest heaving, his cum still warm and dripping down your thighs. He hasn’t let go of you, arms locked tight around your waist like if he loosens his grip you’ll vanish with the air. You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, breath still broken, fingers dragging lazy, reverent lines over his collarbone like you’re drawing a map only you can follow. “I’ll race the world for you,” you whisper, soft, certain, like it’s already been decided. He exhales like it breaks him. Doesn’t say anything back. Just kisses you—slow, deep, grateful—and lets his heart beat out the truth against yours.

The final league race doesn’t feel like an event. It feels like a reckoning. Night drapes over the circuit like oil, thick and untouchable, swallowing the edges of the stadium until all that’s left is light—too much of it, everywhere. Giant flood beams cut the air like surveillance drones, tracing arcs of brilliance across the gleaming hood of the Soul Line car. The stadium is full to the edges with noise, bodies stacked in metal seats, live feeds blinking across jumbotron screens but you don’t hear any of it. Not really. You only hear the low hum of the engine cooling beside you. The steady inhale-exhale of Jeno’s breath as he straps his gloves on. 

Then he reaches across you, slow and deliberate, one hand slipping under the curve of your ribs as the other pulls the seatbelt across your body, locking it into place with a sharp, metallic click. His fingers linger at the buckle, brushing the inside of your thigh, and when he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear, it’s softer—more dangerous. “Make sure you stay strapped in, baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

You smile—tight, breathless, too aware of the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg. The belt presses across your chest, snug and final, but it’s his voice that really pins you there, low and possessive, crawling under your skin like voltage. He’s already leaning closer, his weight shifted toward your side, sex dark in his eyes like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say with his mouth. “I’m not,” you whisper back, turning just enough that your mouth grazes the corner of his jaw. “Not unless you tell me to.” It’s not a flirt. It’s a vow. Because you know what’s coming—you know the track won’t forgive a single mistake, that the walls are closer than they look, and the enemy is watching from the sidelines. They’re inside the system. Inside the car and the only thing holding it all together is him. And you. And this.

Everything was already rigged to burn. A corrupted file wiped his telemetry logs four days ago—Jaemin caught it, barely, running backups at 3AM with trembling fingers and a whiteboard full of loops no one should’ve had access to. Renjun found brake inconsistencies again, this time not random. Targeted. Precision siphoning of his system only. Sunwoo nearly broke a monitor when he realised the race order had been tampered with—they were always supposed to run last. Now they’re first. No time to adapt, no time to pivot. The garage was chaos. Accusations, calculations, pacing but when the yelling stopped, the decision was unanimous. This isn’t about placing anymore. It’s about making it out alive.

So you laid the trap. Every member of Soul Line laced the circuit with blood. Jaemin coded a fake vulnerability into the car’s telemetry—just enough to look like an opening, a mistake. Renjun reconfigured the fuel intake readings to simulate a leak. Haechan played his part loud and reckless, laughing too hard, spilling the line you’d planned—“If Jeno hits 220, the whole thing might blow.” And you, sat in the shadows of the comms tower, uploaded a ghost report seeded with doubt. Analysis that said the team was cracking, that they wouldn’t survive the night. The bait was placed. All that was left was to wait.

Jeno starts strong. The engine growls under his touch, tyres hugging the corners like they were born for them. The route is brutal—tight bends, blind drops, no rails, a custom course knotted through the dead zone east of the city. A stadium-circuit hybrid, carved like a scar through concrete and gravel. You sit beside him under the guise of safety telemetry. The board doesn’t know you’ve simmed this race a hundred times. Jeno does. He’s the one who made you run it. He said, “If anything goes wrong, I want you next to me.” You said yes before your heart could catch up.

The first two laps are clinical. Calculated. You can feel the math of it in every turn he takes—precise, deliberate, clean. He’s all reflex and rage in perfect sync, slicing through corners like they’re nothing but slits in fabric, every movement mapped and burned into his bones. The engine purrs beneath you like it knows him, the track bends as if it wants him to win. It’s beautiful to watch but you feel it before he does—something small, off-tempo. The cadence of his breathing stutters. His right arm tenses longer than it should and his eyes, usually calm and locked forward, flicker just a little too often toward the apexes.

By lap three, it’s not subtle anymore. The steering wheel jerks in his grip. Not much, but enough. Enough to make him snarl and wrench it back like he’s fighting something beneath his skin. “Shit,” he bites out, jaw locked tight. “Something’s—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t. His knuckles are white, his chest rising faster now, the calm unraveling thread by thread. You glance over. His pupils are blown wide, trying to recalibrate, but the lights on the visor dance wrong—too quick, too loud, blinding instead of guiding. “It’s blurring,” he says finally, voice cracked with disbelief. “Fuck. I can’t—they tampered with my neuro visor.”

Then it hits again. This time, lower—his right glove spasms, not violently, but wrong. It twitches against the shift handle, gripping like it’s trying to pull control back from him, not support it. You watch his body stiffen, like he’s fighting his own limbs, not just the track. “They rigged the actuator,” he growls, the words jagged between clenched teeth. “It’s not syncing to my neural pattern.” That’s when the car bucks slightly under you, not enough to crash. But enough to warn. Enough to say this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a hijacking and if you don’t move now, one of you won’t make it past the next turn.

The car lurches violently as the front wheel clips the edge of the track, the left fender skimming the barrier with a screech of metal that cuts through your spine like a live wire. You jerk forward in your seat, only held back by the belt he buckled for you minutes ago, and beside you, Jeno curses under his breath—short, raw, guttural. His gloved fingers fumble at the wheel, desperate to correct the turn, but it’s already too late. The steering isn’t responding. It’s not syncing with him anymore. You glance over and see the panic bleeding through his control—jaw locked, brow furrowed, sweat shining on his temple even under the floodlights. His arm jerks once, then again, not from the G-force, but from something worse. Artificial tension. Programmed resistance.

The glove—designed to sync with his neural output, to amplify his reflexes—is hijacked, every movement overcorrected, jerky, wrong. His hand twitches when he tries to shift gears, and the whole car jolts as the actuator fights back. “Shit,” he growls, mouth barely moving. “They did it. They fucking did it.”

You reach out without thinking, one hand gripping the wheel, the other bracing on the console. “Let go,” you say, low but steady, voice cutting through the static buzz in the cockpit.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He keeps trying, keeps pushing, glove spasming, head shaking as his vision struggles to sync. “No. No—don’t. This is my race. You don’t—this isn’t—”

“You can’t drive like this,” you snap, tightening your grip on the wheel as the next curve barrels toward you like a dare. He hesitates. Too long.

The tires shriek as you scrape another edge, rubber burning hot under the strain. Jeno swears again, chest heaving, both hands locked on a wheel that no longer listens to him. You turn to him fully, eyes locked on his, and say it with no room for negotiation. “Move.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to—”

“You’ll kill us.”

That’s what cracks him. Not the heat, not the pain, not the way the car’s barely clinging to the track anymore. It’s the way your voice breaks on the word kill. Like you’re scared. Like this isn’t a race anymore—it’s a goddamn trap.

His throat bobs. His fingers flex once. “Then who the fuck—”

“Me.” Your voice is steel, even as your heart pounds so loud it fills the cabin. “I’ve trained for this. You taught me. You said if anything ever happened—”

“That was theory,” he bites out, furious. “It wasn’t meant to be real.”

“It is real.”

He still won’t move. Not yet. His eyes flicker to you, then to the road. He doesn’t want this. Not because he doesn’t trust you but because he does, giving up control means risking you. Means putting you in the same danger he’s spent the whole fucking season trying to shield you from.

The car jerks again. The glove spasms. And finally, finally, he says it—hoarse and barely audible: “Don’t crash.”

You don’t answer. You crawl over him while the car flies forward at 210, knees knocking against his thighs, chest pressed to his as you shift across the console, hands never leaving the wheel. His hand catches your hip instinctively, holding you steady as you straddle the seat, and for a second it feels obscene, intimate, terrifying. Your faces are inches apart. His voice is shaking. “Please. Just—come back to me.”

“I will,” you whisper, breath against his mouth. “But only if you let me save you first.” And just like that, the seat shifts. The balance tips. You slide into position. The car keeps going. But now—you’re the one driving.

The world opens beneath you, a map of lines and breath and velocity, and you take the next curve with your entire body—lean into it like a lover, like the wheel itself is an extension of your spine. It responds instantly, shivering under your grip, humming with every calculated twitch of your hands, every demand you make of it. The engine doesn’t roar—it purrs. Like it knows it’s yours now. Like it always was. Jeno’s voice stays low in your ear, even as his chest heaves beside you, even as his hand—still trembling from the override—clutches the edge of the console like he’s holding onto the edge of a dream. “Brake before the ridge. Downshift out of turn six,” he breathes, but it’s different now. Less instruction. More awe. “That’s it, baby—just like that. Fuck, you feel that? That’s you.”

You follow it. Feel it. Own it. The track stretches wide and brutal ahead of you, but you don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Your nerves burn clean. Your thighs shake from the G-force but you never loosen your grip, not once. You taste sweat. You smell scorched asphalt. You are inside the rhythm now, part of the car, welded to every scream of the tires. And he knows it. “You’re doing better than I did,” Jeno mutters, almost stunned, and there’s reverence in the words, thick and raw and his. “You were made for this. Made to drive me fucking crazy. Made to win. My girl—fuck, baby—my girl’s got it.”

You take the next corner smoother than silk, the car humming obediently beneath you like it knows who’s driving now. You brake just enough to eat the turn and burst out of it cleaner than before. The curve releases you like a breath, and Jeno groans something low and ragged beside you—pride, arousal, disbelief, maybe all three tangled.

It happens subtly, almost like a whisper against the throttle. There’s a flicker in the dash—quick, irregular, a spike that doesn’t belong. It doesn’t come from your car. Your eyes narrow, trained now not just for speed but for sabotage. You shift your grip, steadying the wheel with one hand as your other moves to the console beneath. Jeno had wired in a private panel weeks ago, veiled beneath the false skin of a basic diagnostic feed. You access it without hesitation, fingers flying across the touchpad. The interface lights up in pale green, jittering with static, revealing a pulse signal threaded deep within the network. It loops, unnatural. You trace it.

The override isn’t yours. It doesn’t mimic your engine’s behaviour or Jeno’s previous telemetry. It’s foreign. Behind you, the crowd screams, the pitch shifting into something shrill. A rival car veers on the external feed, a sudden break in formation. You watch it spin, metal shrieking as it hits the side barrier. The violence is too precise to be clumsy. No driver reacts that late unless they’re fighting something stronger than themselves. You feel it all around you now—the wrongness crawling under your skin, sinking into your bones. Jeno’s jaw tightens beside you. His voice comes hoarse, barely audible over the roar. He tells you they’ve widened the net. This was never just about him. It never was.

The wheel vibrates beneath your hands. Not from the road. From the interference. The override is spreading like contagion, not targeting a single unit but siphoning through every admin-allowed frequency. It’s a lattice of control, invisible and lethal. You slam the brakes during a straight, heart hammering as the car jolts. You only need a few seconds—long enough to freeze the signal. Long enough to crack it. Jeno reaches down, retrieving the final card you both agreed on: the burner drive from the tech informant. He plugs it in. The interface floods with code. Terminal access granted. Live keys blinking red.

The track breaks apart in screams and smoke. Ahead of you, Vulcan’s lead car stutters mid-turn—then jerks violently sideways like something yanked the steering column out of his hands. He spins, crashes into the barrier so hard the right wheel flies off in a blur of shrapnel. Another vehicle—Strix blackline, number 08—loses throttle input entirely, the engine coughing once before the back half lifts clean off the road and scrapes into a wall. Sparks bloom across the asphalt. The crowd doesn’t know whether to cheer or panic. One by one, the remaining competitors jolt off pattern, their telemetry collapsing like dominoes. It’s not random. The sabotage is systematic, precision-led, triggered by control bursts hidden inside the league’s own admin shell. No warning, no way out. They weren’t just watching Soul Line. They were studying everyone. And now they’re erasing the field.

“What the fuck,” Jeno breathes. His hand clamps your thigh, grounding himself as the dashboard explodes with an influx of encrypted signals. You reach forward again, fingers flicking over data lines, your breath caught behind your teeth. 

“It’s not a virus,” you say. “It’s remote access. Someone’s inside the race feed right now.” You peel back the firewall layer, revealing a user ID pinging off internal relay towers with near-zero latency. “They’re not spoofing. They’re using board credentials.”

Sunwoo’s voice crackles through the comms. “Is this linked to the Vulcan crash?”

“Confirmed,” you answer instantly. “The override was triggered three seconds before Riku lost control. They injected a counter-steer command into his stabiliser.” You glance at Jeno. “This isn’t random. They’re targeting specific cars. This is a cleanup.”

Jaemin chimes in from the garage, breathless. “I’ve got a mirror trace running. It’s bouncing back from Admin Sector B.” There’s a pause. A tension shift. “Wait—there’s a burn key active. Top-level. It’s logging telemetry edits live from inside the circuit’s main control shell. It’s—” His voice drops out.

“Say it,” Jeno grits, eyes still locked on the feed.

“It’s someone in the oversight box,” Jaemin finishes, quiet now. “Someone who’s not supposed to be coding during the race. Someone high up.”

Another pause. This time, it’s Renjun who cuts through the silence. “The signal’s tag is TYX-019.”

The breath catches in your throat as the signal source surfaces. It's not masked. Not anymore. The encryption falls away, layer by layer, until what’s left is an IP address that doesn’t belong to any racer. It’s rooted inside the circuit’s oversight tower. It isn’t just plugged into the system. It is the system. Your head snaps up. Across the track, above the noise, you see the glass flash once. Behind it, someone rises from their chair. They rip their headset off. Turn without urgency. Like they never needed to watch the race to control it.

Your blood runs cold. Jeno is staring, frozen, a thousand unsaid thoughts carved into the furrow of his brow. You recognise that posture. The shoulders, squared and sure. The tilt of the head, casual, confident, careless. You see the control in it, the certainty. The familiarity.

It had always been him. The man who spoke in strategies and punishments. The man who told you what this team could never be. The one who warned Jeno not to rely on anyone who wasn’t willing to bleed for the machine. You never needed to say his name. Jeno never needs to say it either. The fury in his silence says enough. So does the betrayal laced into your breath.

The trap didn’t fail. It led him right into the open. The second the terminal lit up, the signal twisted back on itself—mapped, mirrored, exposed. It spread like voltage across every comm channel, a live hemorrhage of data, every byte blinking red. He tried to jam it, tried to bury it in backup layers, but Jaemin had already rerouted the failsafe. Sunwoo stalled the system alert. Renjun mirrored the trace. Haechan flooded the admin server with junk code, forcing the saboteur’s controls into full manual override. One by one, every defense he built was stripped bare—until the only thing left was the truth, screaming out from every feed like fire through oil. You and Jeno blocked each strike before it could land, swerving hard when the traction sensors spiked, gripping through wind shear when the brakes tried to lock. There’s no hesitation anymore. No fear. Just two of you, wired into the machine like bone and blood, carving a path straight through his empire of ruin.

You don’t look back. Not when you know he’s watching. Not when the trap is already tightening around his neck. Your focus is blistered into the track now—the ridges of rubber burned into the corners, the flash of red lights in the haze of smoke, the way the heat shimmers off the asphalt like warpaint. The track curves like a scar beneath the stadium lights, hard and brutal, a dead-zone circuit spliced together by black-market engineers and forgotten league veterans. The barriers are unforgiving. The crowds press in like gods waiting for blood. This is where everything ends. Or begins.

Jeno groans beside you, fingers digging into your leg like he’s trying to anchor himself to something that won’t collapse. His voice comes in bursts, broken from strain but steady in command—“Downshift now. Pull left. Clip the turn, don’t fight it.” He’s half-folded against the passenger seat, chest rising like thunder, sweat gleaming against his temple. And you—you’ve never felt more alive. The wheel pulses under your palms. The engine snarls with every push. The car doesn’t obey you, it belongs to you. Like it knows the stakes. Like it remembers every loss.

The sky above is black, endless, starless, but the finish line glows ahead in raw electric white. It isn’t hope. It isn’t mercy. It’s the reckoning they tried to erase. You take the curve clean, back wheels skimming the outer line like the track’s been carved into your muscle memory since the beginning. The engine doesn’t stutter. It listens. Breathes. Obeys. The final straight opens like a corridor built from velocity itself, the crowd screaming in a blur on either side, and you don’t hesitate—you fucking floor it. Jeno’s breath is ragged beside you, one hand braced over your thigh, voice cracking through the comms as he guides the last line. Your pulse pounds louder than the engine, louder than the cheers, louder than the sound of history reconfiguring beneath your tires and somewhere in the back of your mind, it hits you—this is why you’re racing. Because the trap didn’t fail. It worked. It lured him into the open, and now that the signal’s exposed—now that the grid runs red with proof—there’s no rewriting it. No mercy. Not when the boys gave you their faith. Not when Jeno trusted you enough to give up control. Not when every crash, every failure, every fucking death was orchestrated beneath the hands of a man who never planned to let them win. And now? You take everything back. Wheel first. Fire second. The finish line ignites in your reflection—close, closer—and you don’t blink. You burn through it.

The roar that greets you as the car skims the final straight could’ve shattered glass. The crowd is a blur, a heaving wall of noise and motion and light, but you barely register any of it. The world narrows to the strip of tarmac ahead, the tremble of the wheel in your hands, the heat of Jeno’s palm pressed over your thigh as he braces beside you, half-bent over from strain, voice breaking with every breath as he tells you where to go. The interface lights surge around the dashboard, warning signals flickering and dying, but the engine purrs like it was born under your command. It doesn’t fight you. It flies.

The car dips into the final curve, tyres screaming against the track’s brutal incline, and Jeno’s voice rasps through the static: "Ride it out, baby. This is it." The finish line pulses ahead like a horizon set on fire. A wind tunnel of adrenaline and steel rushes past your skull, but your grip doesn’t falter. You remember every simulation. Every late-night drive with his hand wrapped around yours on the stick. Every time he made you take control when you were too scared to. You drop gear, shoot forward like a bullet, and the final lap opens for you like a mouth to devour.

The line blurs. The car screams. You pass it.

And then—silence. Not in the arena, not really, but inside the car. Inside your chest. A stunned, ringing, breathless pause. You let go of the wheel. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the weight of what you did crash into you.

The Soul Line pit erupts. You see bodies flood forward from the sidelines, arms raised, mouths open in shock and triumph. Jaemin is the first out, sprinting before the gate’s even lifted, tablet still clutched in his hand, screaming into his comms. Haechan throws something in the air—his gloves maybe—yelling at no one and everyone. Renjun shoves him, shouts back, then runs for the barrier. Sunwoo stands frozen for a beat before he turns and punches the wall behind him with a sob you can’t hear. You did it. They did it. You won.

The car skids to a halt just past the barricade, engine whimpering as it cools. Jeno exhales like he hasn’t breathed in minutes. You lean forward, forehead pressed to the wheel, tears burning behind your eyes. It’s over. It’s done. The rule was clear—if the lead driver is compromised mid-race, the assigned onboard co-monitor is allowed to assume control. Legal. Binding. Iron-clad.

Jeno unstraps first, shoulders heaving as he yanks off his glove, arm trembling from the aftershocks still tearing through his system. He leans across you, lips parted, breathing hard, and the second he unclips your belt, his fingers brush your chest—slow, steady, deliberate. It’s not a rush. It’s reverence. Like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he needs to feel your heartbeat with his own hands before he can believe you’re still here. Then both hands cradle your face, thumbs pressing along your jaw, and his eyes lock to yours, wild and glazed and wrecked. “You fucking did it,” he says, voice raw like smoke. Then he kisses you—hard, filthy, all teeth and breath and tongue, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Your legs shake. Your mouth opens to him. Your hand curls into his shirt like you’re scared he’ll disappear. And when you whisper it back against his ear, hot and breathless—“I’d race the world for you”—he groans like it guts him, like you just said something sacred. “I’ll never let you drive alone again.”

It doesn’t end with the kiss. It spills over. He kisses your throat next, his hands gripping your waist, then pulls away only to press your forehead to his. You’re both panting, drenched in sweat, shaking from speed and adrenaline and survival. When the door opens and the air hits, it’s chaos—blinding lights, roaring screams, footsteps pounding toward you like thunder. But all you feel is his hand in yours as you climb out, legs barely holding steady. Jaemin gets to you first—pulls you into him like he’s been holding that breath the whole race. His hug is rough, arms locked around your shoulders, face buried in your neck. Haechan grabs your hand and kisses it, his grin so bright it hurts, then spins you like a trophy, shouting something incoherent. Renjun’s eyes are wet. Sunwoo won’t stop staring at Jeno like he’s still not sure if he’s alive. Everyone is touching you. Pulling you in. Wrapping you in something thicker than celebration. It’s family. It’s relief. It’s reverence.

And then it happens—someone screams your name. The crowd erupts behind it, all at once. Your name. His. Soul Line. Again. Again. Louder each time, until it drowns the rest of the world out. You don’t know where the sound begins or ends, only that it surges through your bones like a second heartbeat. You’re turning, eyes wide, and Jeno’s already there—grinning like a fucking maniac, face flushed, eyes lit up like he never stopped burning. He bends, grabs your thighs, and lifts you clear off the ground, spinning in a full circle like it’s muscle memory. You shriek, laugh, your arms flying around his shoulders, the whole world tilting with you. You’re still full of him. Still dizzy. Still slick between your legs. But none of it matters. You won. You lived. You burned through every trap and brought the entire empire down at your feet. The sky above is fire. The ground beneath you doesn’t exist. You’re in his arms, and the world is screaming your name.

Your voice breaks first—calm but serrated—as you speak into the open comms: “We caught him.” You don’t say his name. Not yet. The air inside the circuit seems to freeze, every signal cutting to static, every head turning, like the entire league leans forward at once, breath held. Behind the control booth’s tinted glass, a figure jolts. and in that instant—everyone sees it. Jaemin’s rerouted trace flashes across every display. A single admin key, red and blinking, logged into the override terminal. L.T. SEO / ADMIN OVERSIGHT / LEVEL 7 ACCESS.

The crowd erupts with gasps, shocklike a body blow. Someone screams from the back row. The feed cuts to a security camera view: the oversight box, backlit and exposed and there, in a suit that no longer fits the shadows, Taeyong stands. Still. Caught. Burned by every frame of proof lighting up the jumbotrons like a fucking execution.

Sirens split the air. Stadium security floods the stands, pouring into the VIP box. Jeno sees it first, on the in-car monitor. “He tried to kill us,” he mutters, voice low, deadly, shaking with rage he’s swallowed too long. “He tried to erase us.” You don’t flinch when the guards tackle Taeyong. You don’t blink as he’s dragged into the aisle. But you do feel Jeno’s hand slide over yours, tight, grounding, fierce. His other arm stretches out in front of you instinctively, shielding without a thought, the others closing in behind.

Taeyong thrashes once, face contorted, blood at the corner of his mouth from where he bit his cheek screaming. But when he catches your eyes through the chaos, he stops fighting. Just for a second. Something in him twists. He leans forward, teeth bared, throat raw. And then he spits the last thing he’ll ever get to say: “You think this ends with me?” His voice claws out, desperate, wild. “You haven’t won. You’ve only lit the match.”

Security hauls him back. The doors slam. The stadium shakes but you don’t look away. You can’t. Because this isn’t just victory. This is justice with blood under its fingernails. This is what it means to survive. This is Soul Line, standing where they were never supposed to. Jeno’s mouth brushes your temple. Jaemin’s hand curls at the nape of your neck. Sunwoo and Renjun step in tight, front and back, a wall around you, all of them watching, all of them ready for the next war.

The system is on fire and it’s your name they’ll remember.

You sink down onto him like it’s instinct. Like your body was made to take him. The backseat groans under your knees, the slick warmth of his cock stretching you inch by inch until your head falls forward and your lips part with a gasp. He’s already breathless beneath you, chest rising hard, hands splayed wide over your thighs like he’s scared to move. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Slow. Let me feel it.” You do. You go slow—not because you have to, but because you want to, because this isn’t about chasing a high or proving something. This is about him. About the way his eyes hold yours, the way his fingers curl tighter every time you rock your hips, the way his breath catches when you clench around him. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers. “So warm. So perfect.”

He sits up and buries his mouth against your throat, lips parting over skin that still tastes like adrenaline and gasoline. “I don’t care what happens to this league,” he says, words hot against your jaw. “They can burn it to the fucking ground. I’ve got you now. That’s all I give a shit about.” His hand moves to your back, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, like he needs to memorise you. You roll your hips again and he groans, forehead pressed against yours, his cock throbbing deep inside you. “I knew you’d save us,” he says again, almost to himself. “Knew it the second I let you in that car.” You press your lips to his collarbone and whisper, “You’re mine.” His answer is immediate. “Always fucking mine.” He thrusts up into you, slow and deep, and your whole body shudders from the contact.

The car rocks gently with your rhythm. Your thighs ache from how wide you’re spread over him, knees jammed against worn leather, but it’s nothing compared to the ache between your legs, the way his cock fills you like it’s claiming every inch you’ve ever called your own. “Jeno,” you whisper, dizzy from the heat in your belly. “I’m—fuck—I’m not scared anymore.” 

He nods, hands coming up to cradle your face, eyes locked on yours. “Me neither,” he says, voice breaking. “Not if I’ve got you.” And he means it. You feel it, in the way he touches you like you’re sacred. Like you’re not just the girl who took the wheel but the one who became the road, the one he trusts with his life, with his name, with every bruise he’s ever been too proud to show.

He fucks you gently but thoroughly. Like there’s no rush now. Like he’s waited his whole life to make you feel safe enough to fall apart on top of him. His hands trail under your shirt again, palms wide and firm against your ribs, and you shift your hips just right until you both groan, helpless, already too close again. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “You’re everything, baby.” Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as you kiss him again, tongues brushing, noses bumping. 

“Say it again,” you murmur. “Tell me I’m yours.” He doesn’t even hesitate. 

“Mine,” he whispers, again and again, like it’s the only word he remembers. “Mine, mine, mine.” His thrusts grow uneven and your body clenches, slick and hot, your orgasm curling like smoke in your belly.

You cry out softly when you come, back arching, cunt spasming tight around him, and he follows with a grunt, hips jerking up as he spills deep inside you, pulsing with it. His arms lock around your waist, holding you flush to him, breathing hard into the crook of your neck. You collapse together, his cock still buried inside you, both of you trembling. For a long moment, there’s no sound except the distant buzz of overhead lights and the ragged drag of breath. He doesn’t move, he just keeps you close. Keeps you his. His hands slide slowly up your spine, fingers tracing shapes you’ll never see but will feel for hours after. You rest your forehead against his and let your eyes close. The world doesn’t matter right now. Just this. Just him.

Because that’s the thing. He is beautiful, but not in the way people talk about. Not in the way magazines photograph or fans obsess over. He’s beautiful like a war-scarred city. Beautiful like danger dressed in silk—sharp where it shouldn’t be, and begging to be bitten. He’s beautiful like overdrive—too fast, too hot, made to ruin. Beautiful like the stretch of track you take without braking, knowing it’ll hurt, knowing you’ll do it anyway. His mouth tastes like sin with no exit plan, and he looks at you like he’s already bitten down, like you’re bleeding and he’s still hungry. He’s beautiful like a coffin carved for royalty, all cold elegance and finality, like something buried in silk but meant to haunt. Beautiful like the bruise you press again and again just to make sure it’s real. Like a hunger that’s learned your name, like the sound of metal scraping asphalt at 220, like the ache you begged for even when you swore you’d never need. He’s beautiful like the moment the engine blows out and the world still spins. Like blood on glass. Like the wreckage after the win.

His eyes dark and bottomless, mouth set in a line that knows disappointment intimately, jaw sharp like he’s always one second from grinding through it. You didn’t know his name when it started, but you knew his type. The kind built to break records and people in the same breath. The kind Taeyong sent you here to kill. He held your gaze too long that first night, saw you in a way that made your skin crawl, made your chest ache. Not curiosity. Not attraction. Recognition. Like he already knew the ending and was daring you to change it.

That was the night you learned what kind of danger he was. Not the explosive kind. Not even the cruel kind. The kind that watches. The kind that waits. The kind that strips you down without ever touching you. And back then, when he tilted his mouth and looked away, it felt like rejection. Now, it feels like memory. Now, it feels like fate. Because somehow, some way, the man you were sent to bury is the man who saved you. He’s the one who handed you the keys. The one who let you drive. Not just the car. Not just the race but everything. The whole fucking future. And now he sleeps under your fingertips, tangled with you in oil-stained leather, his heart beating like it belongs to your hands.

His cock is still inside you when you press your palms flat to his chest and shift, slow, dragging yourself up over his body while your thighs tremble and your skin clings to sweat-slick leather. Jeno’s still catching his breath, mouth parted, chest rising in ragged bursts beneath you—but the moment your cunt leaves him, soaked and pulsing, he groans like it hurts. His hands find your hips again, still possessive, still grounding you like you might disappear if he lets go. “Where you going, baby?” he breathes, eyes dark, voice hoarse. You don’t answer. You just keep crawling up, knees on either side of his ribs now, fingers threading through his hair, slow and deliberate. His tongue flicks out when you reach his collarbone, and you feel the change in him before he even opens his mouth. “Fuck. You gonna sit on my face?” It’s reverent. It’s ruined. It’s like he’s begging without saying please. 

You tilt your head, smirk down at him, and whisper, “Thought you’d never ask.”

He adjusts under you, eager now, both hands sliding down to cup your thighs, spreading them, dragging you higher with a low growl that vibrates through your skin. You brace against the roof of the car, knees wide, your slick already dripping down the inside of his neck, and when you lower yourself onto his mouth, it’s like dropping into fire. His tongue is hot, fast, greedy from the first second. He licks into you like he’s been starving for it, like your cunt is the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. You moan—loud, unfiltered, so fucking gone—and grind down harder, your thighs squeezing around his head. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. He pulls you closer, buries his face deeper, tongue working in tight, relentless strokes, lips sealing over your clit with a groan that sounds more like mine than anything else. His eyes flutter closed, but he keeps his grip bruising, keeps his rhythm perfect. It’s not just hunger—it’s worship.

You rock against him, hands scrambling at the car roof for balance, body jerking every time he sucks harder. The heat is unbearable. Your skin’s flushed, hips twitching, moans turning breathless. “Jeno—fuck, baby—don’t stop,” you pant, your voice barely holding together. He hums under you, the vibration shooting straight through your spine, and that’s when it hits you—how good he is at this. How much he knows your body now. Every flick of his tongue is intentional. Every moan from your mouth makes him devour you deeper. He wants to ruin you like this. He wants to be the reason you fall apart again, even after everything. Especially after everything. You grip his hair tighter, thighs trembling. “You love this, don’t you?” you gasp. “You love me like this.” His eyes open, blown wide and black, and he nods against your cunt, never breaking rhythm, never once letting you up for air.

Your orgasm builds hard, brutal, all at once. Your thighs shake uncontrollably, body locked in place as his mouth works you to the edge and shoves you right over it. You scream when you come, a high, broken sound, hips jerking, hands flying back to your own chest like you can hold it in somehow—but it’s too much. You grind against his mouth, riding it out, soaking his face, and he just takes it. Moaning like he’s the one coming, like this is what he’s made for. When you finally lift off him, everything’s soaked—his lips, his jaw, his hair, your thighs. He���s panting, looking up at you like you’re divine, like you own him. You lean down and kiss him, taste yourself on his tongue, and he grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in tighter. “Let me keep you,” he whispers. “Let me keep doing this forever.”

You nod, body still trembling, cunt still dripping, and slide back into his lap—right over his hard cock, still soaked from before. “Then show me,” you murmur. “Show me what forever feels like.”

He doesn’t stop kissing you, even as you come down, even as you breathe out his name like it’s the only thing that’s ever fit right in your mouth. His lips trail along your cheek, your jaw, your collarbone, reverent and soft like prayer, but the way he shifts his weight tells you he’s not close to done. His hands move with purpose, calloused palms sliding over your hips, guiding you back with him until the cool glass of the Soul Line car presses against your spine. He crowds in, chest against yours, heartbeat wild beneath all that black and gold, and when he kisses you again, it’s messier, needier, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that’s barely held back. “Turn around,” he murmurs, already spinning you by the waist, already gathering your hair in his fist. “Hands on the glass. Let them see what I get to keep.”

The breath punches out of you when he yanks your hips back, the curve of your ass meeting the sharp line of his pelvis. The engine’s long gone cold, but the metal burns against your chest as he presses you flat to the window, one hand braced beside your head, the other dragging your panties down and off with one clean pull. You gasp as his fingers return between your legs, two thick knuckles sinking deep into your soaked cunt, curling up until your forehead thuds against the glass. “Still so wet for me,” he growls, kissing the shell of your ear. “You never stop wanting it, do you?” Your thighs tremble as he scissors you open, as his voice goes darker. “Bet you were wet during the race too. Bet you loved knowing everyone was watching you take control with my cum still dripping down your thighs.”

He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with his cock in one harsh thrust, knocking the breath from your lungs. You moan—raw, full-bodied—and the sound fogs the glass in front of you. His grip is punishing, one hand wrapped around your throat now, the other gripping your hip so tightly you know you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. “Say it,” he pants into your ear. “Say you’re mine.” You gasp his name, whimper it, choke on it, and he fucks you harder. “Louder.” You scream it this time, legs shaking, nails dragging streaks into the paint of the car. “I’m yours, Jeno. I’m yours—I’ve always been.” He groans at that, lets go of your throat to grab both hips and slams into you with bruising rhythm, each thrust sending you forward against the glass.

You come hard, again, cunt squeezing him so tightly he has to pause, cursing, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. “Fuck—baby—fuck, you feel too good—” He thrusts again, again, until he’s spilling inside you, jaw slack, voice low and broken, hips grinding deep like he’s trying to leave a part of himself behind. He doesn’t pull out. He never does. He stays buried, arms wrapped around your waist, chest to your back, breath ghosting over your skin like he’s never going to let you go.

And you don’t want him to. You’d let him fuck you into every wall of this goddamn garage. You’d let him fill you up before every race just to remind you where you belong. With him. Always him.

"Overdrive: How Corruption Nearly Killed the Circuit and the Racer Who Survived It" — By Y/N.

They said speed was a measure of control. That the one who steered best survived longest. That the track didn’t care about legacy or blood, only how tightly you could hold a corner without breaking. They were wrong. The truth is, speed doesn’t save you when the system wants you dead.

For years, we’ve watched the League operate beneath the illusion of merit. Wins attributed to grit. Losses to lack of talent. The bodies left behind in the wreckage? Written off as unfortunate. A risk of the sport. But what if the danger wasn’t in the curve? What if it was in the hands behind the system?

I came to this team—Soul Line Racing—believing what I was told. That they were chaos in chrome. Unruly. Dangerous. A liability to the League’s reputation. I was sent to observe, to report, to deconstruct the myth of their underdog status. I came with suspicion in my chest and a deadline on my back.

And then I saw what happened when the lights went green.

Override signals triggered mid-race. Glove actuators seizing against their users’ neural maps. Visors blurring at the most dangerous moments of the track. Brake systems delayed by milliseconds—just long enough to kill. I watched a machine betray its driver, and I watched that driver—Lee Jeno—keep going.

I tracked the telemetry. Compared it. Cross-referenced accidents dating back three years. I found patterns. Rewrites. Dead code. I found an embedded signal hiding in the admin relay, quietly issuing commands that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with control. I followed the money. I followed the silence.

And I found Lee Taeyong.

Director of Oversight. Champion of “reform.” My boss. The one who stood at every podium claiming to love the sport while quietly orchestrating its downfall from within. His signature appears on system update logs that correlate to crashes. His admin credentials were used to access override commands during races that ended in injuries. His network of offshore sponsors kept drivers silent. When Soul Line gained traction, Taeyong clipped their wings. When other teams refused to play along, they crashed too.

Racing was never about the engine. It was about the illusion. That you could beat the odds with enough grip and guts. That if you were good enough—fast enough—you could outrun whatever was chasing you. But that’s the first lie the league teaches you: that merit gets you further than obedience. That surviving the track means you’re worthy. The truth is harder to swallow because what really determines who crosses that line isn’t reflex or training. It’s who the system decided would win long before the race began.

They told us Soul Line was reckless. Disobedient. Unfit for the spotlight. But I’ve never seen a team more precise in chaos. More united in disaster. They didn’t crack under pressure. They cracked through it because they had to. Because they were the only ones racing with a target on their backs and knives in their hands, trying to drive through a warzone masked as a sport. The league called them volatile. What they meant was: uncontrollable. What they feared was: unbought.

Jeno was never meant to live through that final race. That’s what haunts me. Not just that they tried to end him, but that they expected the world to clap for it. That they disguised the sabotage with press releases and data anomalies and thought we’d be too dazzled by the speed to notice the blood. He didn’t win because they let him. He won because we caught them first because his hands never stopped gripping the wheel, even when it was wired to betray him.

Taeyong didn’t build a racing empire. He built a weapon. One he used to silence, distort, erase. He turned racers into pawns. Data into death sentences and every time someone came close to exposing the pattern, he made sure their season ended early. What he underestimated was what happens when one of those pawns writes it down. Records the glitches. Maps the override spikes. Names him.

This isn’t just corruption. It’s psychological warfare. It’s grooming a generation of drivers to believe that failure is their fault, that crash means weakness, that burnout is proof they weren’t strong enough. It’s hiding the kill-switch inside the glove and calling it a feature. It’s rewriting telemetry mid-lap and blaming the body for not adapting. It’s trauma dressed in sponsorship.

We don’t need reform. We need demolition. Burn the tracks. Rewrite the oversight architecture. Install external forensic audits after every circuit. We need new language—terms that account for technological interference, for override injury, for sabotage trauma. Because this was never just about Soul Line. They were just the loudest ones screaming. Now the rest of the world needs to start listening.

THREE MONTHS LATER

The pit smells like torque and heat and victory now. Not desperation. Not danger. There’s a difference in the air that only those who lived through the fall can feel. It’s in the way the tools are stacked sharper, the way the boys walk like nothing can knock them down anymore. It’s quieter, somehow, even with the press screaming outside the gates. Seoul hasn’t seen peace since the article dropped. Since the expose tore through the league’s skin like shrapnel and bled everything open. Reporters started camping in the alleys around the pitt. Drones buzz low over the garages. Black vans idle outside at all hours. One news anchor called it “the Great Recalibration.” Another said you’d sparked “a new militant journalism.” You didn’t ask for any of that. All you did was write the truth but now the truth has teeth, and the world can’t look away.

Inside Soul Line’s garage, it’s not silence. It’s something stronger. Unspoken rhythm. Renjun wiping oil from his cheek with the back of his hand. Sunwoo muttering to himself as he calibrates a new telemetry mod that he swears can’t be hacked. Jaemin bent over the console, fingers flickering like they’re tracing god. None of them talk about the fallout. They don’t need to. They’re too busy building something no one can touch. And you’re in it. Fully. Woven into every thread. They don’t talk about Taeyong either. Not out loud. His name is sealed in court files and blacklisted from every league hall but they still flinch when telemetry glitches. Still watch the monitors like ghosts might crawl out of the data feed. You see it in Jeno’s shoulders, in the way he holds the wheel tighter now but he’s healing. They all are. Slowly, collectively, like bones re-setting.

They handed you the jacket this morning without warning. Matte black, sleeves heavy with gold circuitry. It looked like it belonged to you before it even touched your shoulders. The emblem glinted in the light like it knew. Like it always knew. Soul Line. Underneath it, stitched in clean, neat thread: your initials. Renjun didn’t say a word when he gave it to you. Just nodded, once. Jaemin met your eyes across the garage and didn’t look away. Sunwoo smacked your back and laughed, too hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the emotion in his chest. “Told you you were crew,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Passenger-seat ace. Journalism prodigy. Resident saboteur hunter. You’re one of us now.”

You wore the jacket all day. You still haven’t taken it off.

Jeno watched it all from the far side of the room, leaned against the frame of the garage door like he was guarding it. Or maybe just you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just tracked every movement, arms crossed, mouth unreadable. But later, when the boys cleared out and the light from the pit dimmed to a golden haze, he pulled you into the shadow of the garage and kissed you like it was a promise. Like it had always been you. “My girlfriend looks hot,” he said, voice hoarse. You touched the emblem on his chest and felt your own beat beneath his. Matching. Aligned.

You grinned, fingers toying with the edge of his jacket, voice light but laced with heat. “Leader now, huh?” you teased, tracing the gold threading with slow, deliberate circles. “Guess I’ll have to start calling you sir. Or would you prefer ‘daddy?’”

Jeno’s eyes darkened instantly, hands sliding down your ass to squeeze, rough and possessive. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips. “You’ve been calling me that since the day we met.” 

You tilted your head, smiled like sin. “Yeah, but now you run this place,” you whispered, lips barely ghosting his jaw. “Which means if I ride you right here, the whole league has to listen when you moan.” His breath hitched. His grip tightened. And just before he kissed you again, he growled low, “Get in the fucking car.”

The leadership changed with the speed of a whipcrack. Doyoung retired the same week the system crashed. Not in shame, but in solidarity. He stepped down from the circuit, stripped his badge, and walked straight into the fire. He joined the oversight board as its loudest reformer, made it his mission to burn every corrupted clause down from the inside. They tried to muzzle him with politics—he cut through them with statements and statistics, with field testimonies and footage only someone who’d been trackside for a decade could name by timecode. And Jeno? Jeno was never just the team’s driver. He was its spine. Its compass. Its command. The moment Doyoung stepped off the track, Jeno stepped up to the tower. Not as a poster boy. As a leader. As the one they now called captain. The racers followed him. The crew listened to him. The new rulebooks printed with his footnotes still scribbled in the margins. It wasn’t official but everyone knew. The face of the league wasn’t a boardroom name anymore. It was a racer with oil on his collarbone and your name whispered against his ribs.

The article detonated globally. Seoul moved first—broke their entire telemetry contract and formed a cleanboard task force within twenty-four hours. You sat in front of their oversight committee and explained how gloves could be re-rigged to force overdrive. How visors could scramble neural input without alert. You described how Jeno’s pupils blew wide and his hands twitched out of sync with his own mind. You showed them the data. You made them listen.

Then Japan paused its regional league entirely. “Under investigation,” they said. California followed—drivers unionizing, walking out mid-season until neural protections were guaranteed. Sweden leaked its own review. Four seasons compromised. Four years erased. Protest signs started appearing in circuits across Europe. “This track kills racers.” “No more ghosts behind the wheel.” “Override is not a malfunction.” It wasn’t just exposé anymore. It was revolution. It was all your words and Jeno’s voice and Jaemin’s code turned into a weapon.

They called your article the fuse. They called you the match.

And still, every time you come back to the pit, it feels like home. Like rebirth. Like the kind of place you weren’t born into but fought to earn. Jeno still tunes the cars like they’re alive. Renjun still calls you trouble. Jaemin still tracks your heart rate without asking. Sunwoo still tells you the only way to win is to never stop moving. You believe him now. More than ever. Inside the garage, the world is burning but it smells like fuel. Like the future. Like something no one can take from you now. Lastly, sitting just outside the frame—head tilted back, grease smudged across his jaw, eyes half-lidded from laughter—is the boy you didn’t mean to love, the one who handed you the keys anyway. Jeno. All yours.

The door shuts behind you with a muted click, and suddenly it’s like the world forgets how to be loud. The lights of the pit still cast a golden haze across the car’s shell, but inside it’s dim, thick with the kind of silence that feels earned, like the end of a war you both survived. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. You just look at him—at the boy who taught you how to survive fire by becoming it—and reach for his wrist as he drops into the passenger seat. He doesn’t stop you when you climb across the console and straddle him, your thighs spread, your breath caught somewhere between grief and victory. His fingers find your hips and squeeze like he’s checking if you’re still real. You are. Every inch of you aches with it.

Your mouth grazes his first—barely, softly, like a warning—and then he’s kissing you like he needs to know how you taste after all this. How you feel now that everything’s different. Your lips part and you take him deeper, tongue brushing his, pace unhurried and sensual, like you’ve got all night to relearn each other. He moans softly into your mouth when you grind down into his lap, his hands sliding under your shirt with a reverence that makes your pulse spike. You undo his belt one loop at a time, slow and teasing, until the leather falls open and he’s twitching against you, already hard, already waiting. There’s something frantic under his breath when he speaks, something that doesn’t match the calm in his touch. “I love you,” he says, hoarse, his mouth trailing kisses across your jaw. “Reporter girl.” 

You huff out a laugh, half breathless, half scandalized, and jab your fingers into his ribs, just enough to make him flinch. “Did you really just call me reporter girl while I’m literally on top of your dick?” you murmur, squinting down at him like you might disqualify him on the spot. 

He grins, shameless and crooked, even as his cheeks flush. “Sorry, sorry—baby,” he amends quickly, voice dropping as his hands roam lower, possessive now. “Sweet girl. The love of my life. The only person I’d let hijack my racecar and my heart in the same month.” 

You pretend to consider it for a second, then lean down again, kiss him long and deep and slow until he’s groaning into your mouth, fingers bruising around your hips. “That’s better,” you whisper against his lips, and when you roll your body down again, just to feel him jerk under you, you smile. “Now say it again but beg this time.”

His breath stutters, head tilting back against the seat as his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you down harder. “Fuck—please,” he groans, voice wrecked, all cock and desperation now. “I love you. I fucking love you. Say it back. Say it while you’re riding me, baby, come on—” His mouth finds your neck, biting down, kissing over it like it’s sacred, like you’re something holy and forbidden all at once. “Need to hear it,” he mutters, words caught somewhere between a moan and a command. “Say you love me.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding it in for years, spine arching into his hands, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “I love you too,” you whisper, and then louder, filthier, “I love you so fucking much, Jeno— with my entire heart.” He groans like it undoes him, like that’s what he’s been racing toward this whole time.

You sink deeper into him with a sharp inhale, your head tilting back as your body takes all of him in one deep pull. He curses under his breath, hands scrambling to hold your waist steady as your walls flutter around him. You start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding down until he’s buried so deep you feel the tremor in his thighs. His head drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there like he wants to mark it, but he doesn’t. He presses a kiss to the spot instead. Gentle. Lingering. “This,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against your skin. “This is everything I didn’t know how to ask for.”

You rock against him with slow, aching purpose, your fingers tangled in his hair, your chest pressed to his like you’re trying to fuse together. Each thrust feels like a vow unspoken—like you’re rewriting the way your bodies understand each other. The seat creaks beneath you, windows fogging with heat, your moans low and broken as you chase the edge. He holds your gaze through it, eyes dark, lashes wet. “Don’t stop,” he breathes. “Please, don’t stop.” You don’t. You ride him until he’s shaking, until your thighs burn, until the only thing left in the universe is the way he fucks up into you, whispering things that sound like prayers but hit like promises.

When you come, it’s with his mouth on your chest, your name falling apart on his tongue. His orgasm follows seconds later, hips jerking up as he spills inside you, breath caught on a groan that curls straight into your spine. Afterwards, he doesn’t speak. He just keeps holding you, face buried in your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the anchor and he’s been lost at sea. You press a kiss to his temple, then another to his collarbone, and feel the thud of his heart matching yours.

The windows are fogged. The world outside hums with what comes next—media, interviews, the shift of an industry—but none of that matters right now. Not when you’re still straddling him, still pressed chest to chest, still filled with everything you both needed to say and didn’t. You stroke his hair until he falls asleep against your skin, your palm steady over the back of his neck. Outside, the car glows beneath the pit lights like a secret. Inside, you close your eyes and breathe him in. This is where the story ends. Not with headlines. Not with a trophy. With a breath. A body. A boy. A promise.

And as you leaned your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut, you whispered the last line of the story neither of you thought would be yours—

“We won.”

tag list — @clownnationrey @ohmysion @euphormiia @jaemjeno

asks, likes, reblogs and comments always welcome <3

[rafeshit]

dad!drew x pregnant!reader

warnings — fluff and stuff :)

summary — drew being overprotective when you leave a hotel to see a swarm of paparazzi and fans at the doorway

—

You stand in front of the hotel room mirror, applying a final coat of mascara as Drew sits behind you, watching with an admiring gaze. You're both getting ready to head out to dinner, and you can't wait to dig into the food.

"Drew, I have been craving seafood all day," you say, setting the mascara wand down on the counter. "I hope they have some options at this restaurant." You groan, all you need right now is seafood, your whole pregnancy you had been craving it like clockwork.

Drew's face lights up with a smile. "You're in luck, because I checked the menu online and they have an entire section dedicated to seafood. You're going to be in heaven baby."

You let out a squeal, happy to hear that, and Drew gets up from his chair, walking over to where you stand. He drops to his knees, his hands on either side of your belly, and presses his lips to your stomach through the tight black dress, sending kisses all over your stomach. "Hey there, buddy," he coos, speaking to your bump. "Mama's been craving some fish, huh? Are you hungry, baby?"

As if on cue, the baby kicks, and you both laugh at that coincidence.

"Looks like someone's excited for dinner," Drew says, chuckling, looking at you.

You run your hand over your belly, feeling the pressure of the baby's kicks. "I think someone's been listening to our conversation," you say smiling.

Drew plants one more kiss on your stomach before standing up, holding out a hand to help you turn around. You take one last glance in the mirror, making sure your makeup is perfect, before grabbing your bag and nodding at Drew.

"Ready to go?" he asks, and you nod. as you head out the door, Drew wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You lean into him, and step out into the hallway. As the elevator doors slide open, you and Drew step inside, pressing the button for the lobby. The ride down is quick and quiet, and your hands are interlocked with Drew’s as he kisses you on the cheek.

As you exit the elevator, you push through the glass doors, and surprisingly you're met with a swarm of paparazzi and screaming fans. You blink, taken aback by the chaos. "How did they even find us?" you wonder out loud, grasping Drew's arm for support. You'd only arrived in town today, and you'd been discreet about your whereabouts.

Drew shields your face from the flashing cameras, as you step outside. "Let's just get through this," he mutters, guiding you through the crowd. Fans reach out, begging for autographs and pictures, but Drew politely declines, mentioning your dinner reservation. You nod in agreement, trying to stay focused on getting through the crowd.

But just as you think you're making progress, a paparazzi grabs your arm, yanking you back. "How's the pregnancy going?" he asks, his camera lens inches from your face, flashing bright white flicks in your face, practically blinding you.

You stumble, almost losing your balance, but Drew quickly reacts, catching you. He shoves the paparazzi away with his shoulder, giving him just enough force to get him to back off. "Watch yourself, dick wad," Drew spat, "You could've hurt her."

The paparazzi sneers, but Drew's warning is clear. "You're going to need to do better than that if you want a shot," Drew adds. You take a deep breath, continuing through the crowd. Drew wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in even closer.

Finally, you see the black sedan waiting for you, and Drew opens the door, helping you inside. You collapse onto the seat, exhaling a sigh as the door closes behind you. "Are you okay?" Drew asks, moving a piece of hair from your face.

You nod, still shaken up. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Drew takes your hand and scans your face. "Anytime, baby. Now, let's get to that seafood, right?” He offers a smile, to which you could reciprocate.

As the car pulls away from the curb, you start to feel dizzy. The encounter with the paparazzi was more than you can handle, and the motion of the car isn't helping. You sway slightly to the side, feeling like you're going to faint.

Drew's eyes snap to yours, "Hey, hey, are you okay?" he asks, quickly releasing his seatbelt and moving closer to you.

You nod, trying to assure him, but the words get stuck in your throat. Your vision starts to blur, and you feel like you're going to pass out. Without hesitation, Drew takes your hand and pulls you into his side. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, holding you close, and begins to speak softly into your ear. "Take slow, deep breaths, baby. You're alright now. I've got you."

You nod, already feeling better as you lean into him. He tenderly strokes your hair, his fingers gentle against your scalp. "That was a close call back there." he says, verbally upset about it.

As the car continues to move, Drew holds you tight. Your dizziness begins to subside and after a few minutes, you feel well enough to sit up straight again. Drew helps you adjust your seatbelt and hands you a bottle of water from the car's mini-fridge.

"Here, drink this," he says, "You must have gotten dehydrated from the shock."

You take a sip, feeling the cool liquid soothe your throat. "Thank you.”

Drew smiles, "Anytime, baby. Now, let's get to that dinner and get you those crab legs."

“Thank God.” You chuckle. Upon arrival at the restaurant everything else went smoothly, you had a nice romantic dinner at one of the best restaurants in the city and you enjoyed your seafood by clearing off the entire plate. When it came time to go back to the hotel drew made sure to step out the car first and make a pathway for you by telling the fans that you were expecting and needing the space. They obeyed, because they were respectful as always.

Finally you reach the hotel room and collapse on the bed, drew following suit. he wraps his arm around your tummy and smiles at you, to which you smile back. He places a kiss on you lips and you both then prepare to get ready for bed.

[catcze]

NSFW!! 18+ ONLY !! — Sylus. fem&afab reader, he fingers u good morning, banter, lovesick Sylus ♡

Thinking thoughts rn about waking up on the first morning of the new year to Sylus’s kisses on your face and his hand on your inner thigh with his fingers trailing higher and higher with each second. The way he hums when he feels you stir awake, the way he grins into your lips when you kiss back against him, still sleepy but so willing to return his affection.

“Let’s start the new year with a bang, shall we?” He asks, crimson eyes sparkling with coyness— and you laugh, because you’re too sleepy to tell if that was a pun, an innuendo, both, or something in between. You just know that goodness, you love him so much.

And Sylus huffs, because he wasn’t expecting you to be laughing at him when you should be gasping his name. His hand slipping under your sleep shorts remedies that, however, and soon your laughter dissolves into a soft gasp of arousal when his broad hand cups your pussy, roughened fingers stroking your folds through the fabric of your cotton panties.

Sylus groans alongside you, feeling the way you respond to him so beautifully— your pussy knows who’s taking care of her, and she’s already growing wet under his simple touch.

“You laugh, but you’re already so wet for me,” he murmurs, hot breath brushing across your lips. “Do you want me to do something about it, baby? Hm?”

A whine is pulled from your throat when he pushes more insistently against your panties, stroking you just a touch rougher now, teasing your little cunt. “Yes,” you mewl, voice still rough from the haze of sleep. “Sylus, don’t fucking tease—”

“Manners,” he scolds, though he grins. His other hand lightly taps your thigh. “Is that any way to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’?”

You scowl up at him, displeased at being treated like a little kitten who’s merely showing her claws, though the haze of pleasure that clouds your eyes dulls the edge of it. “Please fuck me, before I shoot you again. Thank you.”

And the bastard laughs, the sound sending shivers up your spine.

“Yeah, alright. Wouldn’t want to start the year with that kind of bang,” Sylus concedes, because he always concedes when it comes to you. His fingers tug the seat of your panties aside as they finally delve into the soft slickness of your pussy, two fingers dipping into your cunt, and you whine. He grins, seeing how your eyes flutter shut and your body shudders.

“Just relax,” he murmurs to you, over the sound of you whimpering his name as his fingers push deeper, up to his knuckles now, and the way your hand darts to his wrist, pulling him close, begging for more. “Just lay there and look pretty, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

Full on nasty smut soon I swear let me just get motivated enough to finish it lol

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