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fushitoru · 3 months ago

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a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!”

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

#aashi writes #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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dillydedalus · 7 months ago

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most planty pal thing in the duke's children and possibly the entire palliser series is when he's hosting both his son's former love interest (who he still believes his son is going to propose to soon) and his son's current love interest (who is *shudders* american) at his home, completely misses the drama going on between them and makes both of them separately read his pamphlet on decimal coinage

#mabel grex angsting on how she hesitated too long when silverbridge semi-proposed to her & now she's lost him!#isabel boncassen worrying that english aristocrats will never accept a *shudders* american!#(mannered & reserved but lowkey kinda nasty barbs between them)#the awkwardness of your host believing you're his future daughter-in-law when you're not but would want to be!#the awkwardness of your host believing another girl to be his future daughter-in-law when it's actually you!#planty pal (benevolently clueless): and for the next three months i tried to figure out how many pennies to a shilling...#concept of decimal coinage the true love of planty's life sorry cora #trollope brainrot

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geminiwritten · 3 days ago

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short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.

He lives for it.

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.

Where Bob is.

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.

“Wow,” he chuckles softly.

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”

He blinks fast. “No.”

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”

Your brows shoot up. “That so?”

He nods.

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”

His eyes snap open. “Huh?”

“Want to fuck me?”

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.

Well... almost everyone.

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.

Which means he’s definitely listening.

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”

Your heart stutters.

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.

Bob stills for a beat. Just one.

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”

You swear your knees nearly give.

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”

“Copy,” Jake replies.

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”

You and Jake return to formation without issue.

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”

Unfortunately, later never comes.

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.

“Wow,” he mutters.

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.”

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”

“Trev!”

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”

“What am I?” she asks.

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”

He freezes.

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.

And then you feel it.

Oh.

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”

They all look at you, confused.

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.

You frown. “What?”

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.”

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.

Everyone falls silent.

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”

There’s a pause. An awkward pause.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.

- Bob -

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”

“I know,” Bob huffs.

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.

He barely sleeps that night.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’

An hour passes. Nothing.

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.

It’s worse—because it’s you.

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.

“I—uh, Trevor?”

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”

“What?”

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?

- You -

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”

Trevor gasps—loudly.

“But he said no.”

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”

“Because he has laundry to do.”

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.

“Trevor…”

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.

But deep down, you know the truth.

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.

You give her a tight smile.

“Feeling any better?”

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely.

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.

“Vex—” he tries again.

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.

Your heart lurches.

Terrain. Too close. Too fast.

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.

You’re not going to make it.

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.

Then—freefall.

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.

But you’re too low. Far too low.

You don’t even have time to brace.

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.

White-hot pain detonates through you.

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.

And then… everything goes still.

Muted.

Quiet.

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.

Great. Another win.

Two whole days pass, and still no word.

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.

Even if it kills you.

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.

“What are you doing here?”

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”

His brow creases. “You do?”

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”

He laughs again, broken this time.

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.

“Love?” you whisper.

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”

Your heart lurches into your throat.

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.

He blinks. “What?”

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.

You nod. “Hangman.”

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.

“I know I had no right,” he mutters.

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

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vintagebuckybarnes · 7 months ago

Text

In Vino Veritas

Pairing → Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Lab Assistant! Female! Reader

Total Wordcount → 3.5K

Summary → It all started when you and the Avengers enjoyed drinks during the afterparty back at the Avengers Tower. There, Tony revealed one of your deepest secrets, and even though you wish it had never come to light at first, you’re glad it did when the man you love stands on your doorstep, ready to start the rest of your life together.

Tags & Warnings → Semi-canon compliant, Avenger! Bucky Barnes, Female! Reader, Tony’s Lab Assistant! Reader, Bucky’s past as TWS is mentioned, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, some cursing, and explicit sexual content.

Tags: Smut → Grinding, begging, some dirty talk, praise, teasing Bucky, protected sex, cowgirl position.

Story Rating → Explicit

Author’s Note → This story is beta'd by the wonderful @late-to-the-party-81, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I hope you'll all enjoy my story, which is filled with some angst, lots of fluff, and some smut to top it all off! 💜

Writing Prompts @fandom-free-bingo Bug Edition → “There is no us.” | Riding | In vino veritas | “Touch me.” @fandom-free-bingo Medical Edition → Crush at first sight @julybreakbingo Post-JBB → Being confronted about their feelings for another

Tags List → If you’d like to be tagged in my stories, you can add yourself to my tag list here.

The evening starts fine, good, even. But it all takes an unexpected turn when the man you work for - Tony Stark - reveals your secret. A secret that you’d only recently revealed to him.

Earlier that day, you’d spotted Bucky as he was working out and from that moment on your mind has been with him instead of your usual work and tasks.

“Hello, Y/N? Anyone home in there?” Tony asks as he lays a hand on your shoulder, making you jump. You look up at him with a worried look while he smiles back at you with a kind expression. A soft sigh escapes your lips as the thoughts in your head wander off again, specifically how his back looked underneath the tank top he wore in the gym while doing squats. Not only that, but you also can’t stop thinking about the way his ass looked in the sweatpants he wore. In a word, magnificent.

“Is everything okay with you? You’ve been a bit off your game today.” As Tony sits next to you, you put down the screwdriver you were holding - the one he asked you three times to pass to him - before turning to face him, your gaze focusing somewhere on the wall behind him. For a moment, there’s a silence between you as you gather the courage to tell him what’s been on your mind.

“Well, uhm- There’s something, or someone, that I can’t stop thinking about, and it’s taking over my mind every second of every day. It- It’s Bucky,” you say almost in a whisper. For a few seconds, Tony is completely silent as he lets the thought of you having a crush on one of his fellow Avengers sit in his mind. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reaches out for your hand and takes it between his warm ones.

“You know that I’ll always support you in everything, right? I supported you when you expressed your desire to halt your life as an Avenger and retrain as my lab technician, and I supported you when you moved out of Avengers Tower to have your own home with more peace. This is not going to be any different. All I’m hoping for is that he will make you the happiest and best version of you, as you deserve nothing less.”

Tears brim at your waterline as Tony tells you this, and even though you deeply appreciate him, his words, and everything he has done for you, you can’t help but still feel a bit… odd about the fact you told him you’re having a crush on Bucky. That you have a crush on the man who was once the most feared assassin in the world under the hands of HYDRA.

“Now, can you hand me that screwdriver before your thoughts wander off to him again?” your boss asks in a teasing tone, making you smile as you grab it and hand it to him. Somehow, he always seems to know the right thing to say, and it's exactly why you enjoy spending time by his side while learning everything there is to know about his lab and what's going on in there.

Just as you’re about to get comfortable with another drink in your hand, you meet the gaze of the man you’re crushing on, and you feel heat coursing through your veins. The lines around his deep blue eyes intensify as he smiles at you, his attention making every last thought in your brain disappear. You’re so captivated by how Bucky looks at you that you miss your seat as you sit down. However, before you fall, you’re caught by a pair of solid arms that prevent you from hitting the floor.

“Careful there, Little One,” Thor says in his deep voice, his accent always making the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Even though you’d known Thor since you were young, you couldn’t help but get a little flustered by the nickname, and he smiled at you as you were finally sitting on the chair you intended to use.

“Thank you, Thor,” you whisper before sipping your cocktail. Around you, the conversations are starting to become a little blurry as you focus on Bucky and everything he has to say, his lips forming around the words effortlessly. When you suddenly feel a little shove against your arm, you yelp, making everyone go silent as they look at you.

“What did you do that for?!” you ask Thor in a low voice, but all he does is point to Tony, who obviously has something to say as he’s waving for everyone’s attention. There are moments when you enjoy the fact that alcohol can bring out people’s true feelings or thoughts, also known as in vino veritas, but not now. Oh no, now you wish you could disappear as you listen to the words coming out of Tony’s mouth.

“Guys, you really shouldn’t say this to Bucky or Y/N, but they’re having a massive crush on one another!” Tony says in a loud whispering tone, but what he fails to notice in his inebriated state is that you two are sitting right across from one another, enjoying the afterparty just like everyone else. Or at least, you were enjoying the afterparty until your secret got out.

The glass you were holding falls out of your hand before shattering into pieces on the floor, and your feet carry you as fast as they can away from the party and away from your worst nightmare come true. The music behind you fades away as you turn one corner after another, tears burning in your eyes as the event repeatedly replays in your mind. Your lungs start to burn as you keep running, the stinging feeling in your side increasing as you run out of the Avengers Tower into the night.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s world feels like it has taken a 180-degree turn. Mere minutes ago, he could only fantasize that you could have feelings for him, but now? A wave of disbelief washes over the super soldier, his expression showing pure surprise as he takes the moment in. For him, it was a crush at first sight from the momentyou walked into the training room on your first day. Over the years, his feelings have intensified, although he has only told Steve about his crush - or rather his now deep-rooted love - for you.

And yet, now that the pair of you have been confronted about your feelings for one another, he doesn’t know what to do. He has replayed the moment he’d confess his feelings to you more times than he can count in his mind, and in none of those versions, this is one of the scenarios that had appeared. It’s only when Steve grabs his arm and pulls him away that he seemingly comes back to reality again.

“Bucky, how does Tony know about your crush on Y/N? I mean, I’m, of course, fine with you sharing it, but-”

“I don’t know, Steve, I don’t know, and it kills me,” Bucky says as he runs his fingers through his cropped hair.“Fuck- I was planning on telling her this week but… but now it’s ruined, and I didn’t even get the chance to talk to her, and-” It’s all Bucky can say as he fights the urge to punch the wall with his metal fist, both hands clenched by his side as he tries to regulate his breathing. Without warning, Steve pulls him into a hug, and Bucky’s arms snake around his best friend's waist as his fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Steve whispers, though he’s not entirely sure that’s true because he knows as well as anyone that things don’t always go back to how they were before. Still, Bucky decides to believe him as they stand there for a little while longer, and he soaks in every bit of comfort he can get for now. Lord knows he’s going to need it.

The past few days have been strange, to say the least. You haven’t been to the Avengers Tower since Tony revealed your now not-so-secret crush on the super soldier. You’re afraid of what will happen if you do. This also means you haven’t seen Bucky in a few days, and you miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, and you miss seeing how his mouth turns slightly upward as you hand him one of your baked goods, but most of all, you miss how his arms feel when he pulls you in for a hug.

Just as you’re about to make yourself a cup of tea, you get pulled from your thoughts by a soft but familiar knock on the door; only one thing can make that sound: Bucky’s metal hand knocking against the wood. For a moment, you contemplate your actions, but decide to give him at least a chance to talk, especially as it wasn’t him who laid out your feelings in front of everyone.

“Bucky, hi,” you say softly as you take in his appearance, your heart sinking as you do. It’s evident he hasn’t slept at all the past few days. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he doesn’t look as healthy as usual—more disheveled. The struggles he’s facing are apparent in his entire demeanor, and all you want to do is wrap him up in a warm blanket and cuddle him until the end of time.

“Hi,” he says hoarsely, and you step aside, allowing him to enter your apartment. He’s been here a few times already, and usually there’s a warmth radiating from you and every inch of the little place you call home, but ever since the party, it hasn’t been the same. It isn’t just the apartment, either. You feel different.

“Would you like some tea before we talk?” you ask to break the tension. “I was about to make some.”

He nods at you before wandering further into your apartment, and you head to the kitchen, picking out another mug for Bucky to use. Once he’s caught sight of your couch, he immediately takes a seat, a soft groan audible as he does. There aren’t many places more comfortable than the large couch that’s standing right here in your living room.

When you emerge a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate filled with chocolate chip cookies you baked fresh this morning, Bucky can’t help but smile at you. He gladly takes the tea with one of the cookies, as they’re his favorite, and when you sit down next to him, it feels just like it always has, as if nothing has changed. But you both know it has, and that’s why the super soldier’s now in your living room.

“So…” you start, unsure what to say now that he’s sitting on your couch. Bucky’s eyes are trained on the steaming tea in his hands, his thoughts going a mile a minute as he’s thinking about what he wants to say - other than confessing his love for you.

“So… uhm, we missed seeing you around the Tower,” Bucky starts, though you both know it’s mostly him who has missed seeing you there. You have always been a staple there during his mornings as you make him a cup of coffee, and during movie nights, you were always the one he could sit next to and enjoy the movie, but now that you’re not there, it’s like a piece of soul has left the Tower with you.

“I mean, yeah. It’s been a bit awkward for me to go back after what happened a few days ago,” you tell him, and a shudder of horror runs down your spine at the thought of having to face Tony again. A smile tugs at the corners of Bucky’s lips as he thinks back to what happened that night, a happy memory of your first meeting resurfacing in the back of his mind as he does.

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve made some chocolate chip cookies, if you want some. However, I should warn you, Tony’s been on the prowl since I took them out of the oven, so I’ll advise you to be quick,” you say with a glare towards Tony, who has been eyeing them up since he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. For the first time in a long time, Bucky showed something akin to a smile, and everyone looked at each other to ensure they saw it, too.

“Thank you,” he says lowly, grabbing one of the smaller ones on the plate, followed by a cup of coffee, before swiftly leaving the kitchen to spend more time in his room. Before Bucky even left the kitchen, Tony was on the cookies as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and this time you let him.

“Can I- Is it okay if I tell you something? Because if I don’t say it now, I don’t know if I ever will,” Bucky says softly, and you nod before repositioning yourself so that you’re facing him. His gaze is still trained on his mug as he thinks carefully about his next words, afraid he might accidentally say the wrong thing.

“Tony was right. He is right, actually. When he said, we’re crushing on each other. I’ve been crushing on you since you offered me those chocolate chip cookies when Tony threatened to eat them all before anyone else had a chance to get them. It was like a switch flipped inside me back then, and I haven’t been the same since,” Bucky says, his mouth now in a line as he tells you about his feelings.

“Each time I look at you, it’s like I’m seeing an angel, and every time I hear your voice, it’s like a little piece of my soul is healing, too. I find myself drawn to you in every room and wonder what life has in store for us. But deep down inside, I know there is no ‘us’ yet. But I want there to be us. I want you, Y/N. I want you to be mine, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. If you want to stay friends, that’s okay with me, but if you want more, I’ll happily accept every bit of love you’re willing to offer me.”

Once Bucky’s done, you’re unsure what to say. What to think. What to do. You want to say that the feelings between you are mutual, that you’re in love with him and that you want nothing more than to be his, but something inside you is stopping you. So, instead of saying anything, you place your hand over his flesh limb, and his eyes slip shut at the feeling of your soft fingers against his rough hand.

“Bucky.” His name is a whisper on your lips, but it’s enough to make him look at you, to meet your gaze.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, Bucky carefully put his tea on the coffee table before hauling you onto his lap, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your waist as your lips interlock in a passionate dance. He can’t get enough of your soft mouth slotting together with his and the way his tongue fights for dominance with yours as your fingers dig into his neck. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt a strong connection with someone, and you’re happy to explore it with Bucky.

Your hips grind over his growing length of their own volition,your body looking for any bit of friction it can get. Without warning, one of Bucky’s hands slides lower until he’s cupping your ass, making you gasp into his mouth as a result. Bucky can’t help but smile into the kiss as he pulls you impossibly closer, your legs spreading just a bit further as you sink against his muscular body.

“Hmm, I’ve been wanting this - you - for so long,” he says between the kisses trailing your jaw towards your ear, his teeth nipping on your earlobe as your head lolls to the side. With every passing second, your thoughts are melting away more and more, and all that’s left inside your mind is Bucky. Soon, his other hand joins the first as he helps you grind onto him, a groan falling from his lips as he sets a perfect pace for you both.

“B-Bucky—" his name sounds more like a whine than anything else. “I—I want you.”

“But you already have me, pretty girl, ‘m right here,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice, his hands continuing to help you grind until you’re a complete mess for him. Your shorts are ruined, your arousal soaking through them and onto the bulge in his black jeans, much to Bucky’s joy. He was wondering what it would take to get you to this point, and it turns out it won’t take much.

He smiles against the skin of your neck, where he’s taking his time to mark you with hickeys and small bitemarks, all of which leave you a bit more of a moaning, begging mess on his lap, much to his pride. When one of your hands moves away from his neck and down his torso, he quickly catches on to what you’re doing. “Someone’s a little impatient today, huh?”

“Yes, oh god, yes! I need you to touch me, Bucky. I want to feel you inside me as you make me fall apart on your cock, and I need you to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow!” Your voice sounds more breathy than usual, but every care you thought you had has gone out the window. All you want is Bucky and his cock to ride, until you’re orgasming so hard and long you can’t remember your name.

“Okay, I will. Don’t you worry about anything, okay? Let me take care of you, and I’ll give you everything you need and more,” he reassures you in a shushing voice. You nod before kissing him again, which immediately deepens before he gently helps you get up, allowing you to take off your panties and shorts, and he can take off his pants and boxershorts, too. As soon as you’re both freed from your last pieces of clothing, you hand him a condom you retrieved from the side table drawer while he took the time to undress himself.

“Hmmm, looks so thick,” you tell him as you look at it with wide eyes, wondering how he’s going to fit inside you as you’re positioning yourself on his lap once more, your legs bracketing his thicks thighs as you get comfortable.

“I know, but I’m gonna go slow. Wouldn’t want to hurt you and your perfect, sweet little pussy.” He smiles as he holds his cock in place, your pliant body sinking onto him slowly as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. Your hiss of pleasure is audible and your face contorts at the slight sting of him stretching you, but just like he promised, Bucky is taking it slow to ensure you’ll both have the most amazing first time.

As soon as you’re fully seated on his lap, your body goes limp against him, your face tucked in the crook of his neck as you adjust to his girth, and Bucky places soft kisses on your head while praising you through it all. “You’re doing so well for me, baby. Such a good girl for me, letting me take the lead and giving you exactly what you need.”

A small smile appears on your face as you look up at him with big, doe-like eyes, and he can’t help but smile back as the back of his fingers gently caress your cheek. He may have thought you were beautiful before, but nothing compares to this moment.

“I love you, Y/N, and I promise to take care of you with every fiber of my being,” he whispers, his lips sealing his promise against your cheek. Your eyes fall shut at his words, and his hand moves down your side until it’s on your hip again, ready for you to let him know when you’re good to go. Your bodies work in complete sync with one another with every rise and fall of your chest, and his hands guide you beautifully as you slowly sink and rise on his length.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, and it doesn’t take long for both of you to find your highs for the first time, and they’re serving as a promise of everything else that’s still to come in this lifetime. A few days ago, you and Bucky didn’t even know you felt the same about one another, but now you’re sharing the start of the rest of your lives, and it’s all thanks to Tony. Because without him, you wouldn’t have been able to tell the man of your dreams how much you love him.

Masterlist → Bucky Barnes

GIF: Source → All the other graphics you see are made by @vintagebuckybarnes

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strawberrymochin · 8 months ago

Text

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ☀︎

Rockstar!gojo x art student!femreader

synopsis- satoru gojo fell in love with you when he was 17. He tried everything to gain your attention—joining the student council, participating in every extracurriculars, performing well in academics yet nothing worked. That was until high school. In college, having been forced into a band, he needed to find a new artist for their posters which he requested shoko to take care of. What he didn't expect was shoko to bring you as a volunteer—

warnings- college!au, satoru being heads over heels for you, he’s so damn in LOVE save my boy, friends to lovers, misunderstanding, SEMI PUBLIC SMUT, fingering, oral fem receiving, PUSSY DRUNK GOJO, dirty talk, creampie, BALL OF FLUFF, ANGST, mentions of smoking and alcoholism, super cute ending

w.c- 8.2k (have faith)

a/n's note- i'd poured out my heart in this (especially the smut). i hope you all do like this. your comments and reblogs are highly appreciated as it helps motivating me for writing long ass fics. taglist is open you can ask me to join. love ya' all!!

When satoru met you for the first time, he was 11 years old.

You were the daughter of his mother’s friend whom he heard of so many times. Though the accidental reunion in the mall while grocery shopping was the first time satoru ever had the opportunity to meet you face to face.

It was a totally random encounter, coincidental even, you can say when your mother recognised satoru’s mom and both squealed like teenagers. They'd a lot to catch up with, thus having their kids entertain each other in the play section was convincing enough for them to chit chat in a cafe.

And this is how satoru ended up being stuffed, hand in hand with you, to go enjoy in the play section as his mother patted his back, asking him to be good to you.

“Don't leave her hand, okay toru?! Make sure you both stay together.” His mom said before scooting herself with your mom.

Satoru looked at you, his hand locked in yours as you made eye contact with him before shying away, looking in the other direction. He stood confused before pulling you to the gaming section, without any word.

He scanned amongst the box of video games, before pulling out one which caught his eyes with his unoccupied hand. He gave a side look to you, reluctantly asking “you want to play this?”

You gaze down at the video game he held in his hands, eyes sparkling a bit, if satoru wasn't seeing things, then raise your head to look at him again. “It has vibrant colours.”

Satoru nodded, feeling a little giddy that you liked his preference. “It's called mario kart.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widened as he revealed the name.

“Do you know how to play it?” You shake your head at his question. “Then I can teach you!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, let's go and install it on the playstation.”

By the time satoru’s mother returns with your mum, they find satoru giggling along with you, hands still locked with each other, as he points to various stacked video games.

That day slowly came to an end and satoru didn't get to see you for the next two years till your giggles became a distant echo and your face a blur.

By the time he was 14, he almost forgot you.

Until that one day when he noticed you, sitting alone with your lunch staring at the sky at the campus of his high school.

You were biting on your chopsticks with dreamy eyes as recognition drew in satoru's mind.

Y/n— he thought. His brows frowned, thoughts slowly going in a muddle. How are you here? eating lunch in his high school campus unless— you're a student over here too! Satoru felt foolish, his lips slowly curving in a smile lifting one hand, abandoning the basketball in the other to greet you.

However, before he can get his words voiced out to you, gaining your attention, a brown haired girl comes up to you dragging you along with her in a hurry.

Satoru's hand froze in mid air, awkwardly stretching it above his head before bringing it down and turning towards his friends. He sprinted back to his group resuming the game, yet his mind stayed with you and your dreamy eyes.

He wanted to say ‘hi’ and watch your eyes grow wide before nodding your head just like you did back then. He wanted to show you the basketball he was holding and maybe teach you how to play ball just like he did back then.

“Oi satoru! Why are you missing the catch?!” one of his friends shouted, breaking him free of his daze. “sorry…taking a break!” He said, excusing himself, before going and plopping himself down on a nearby bench.

He recognised the brown haired girl—Yura. She often came to him asking for little favours. Did she know you? A friend? You studied in the same school and yet he only saw you today. Where were you all this time? Satoru was the same age as you. So you were bound to be in the same class, maybe different sections but he knew students from the other sections too. How come he didn't notice you yet?

The recess was over soon and he ran back to his class. Before entering the class, he noticed you again, hurrying to the class next to him.

Class 1-2.

Satoru felt silly as he read the classroom name in his mind.

As the final semester rolled on and a new semester started, satoru found out class 1-2 changed to class 2-2 and this year he was in the same section as yours.

He was excited to finally be able to talk to you without any awkwardness. After all, you were in the same classroom now— which means you will know him when he introduces himself on the first day of class. You will see him, introducing himself aloud and clear and recognition will draw on your face as you remember him.

That's what he initially thought the night before the first class. Until satoru felt the urge to perfect his speech and kept on practicing it, holding the crumpled sheet in his clammy hands, past midnight.

As a result he woke up late and by the time he hurried himself to school, the self introduction was half-over. He mumbled his apologies to his homeroom teacher, before hastily introducing himself and going to his assigned seat.

With that his perfect speech plan of gaining your attention bombed miserably. He raised his head in the direction of your seat—first row second desk, way far than his— fourth row last desk.

That's when he decided with the determination inclining in his heart to get your attention and make you remember that it's him.

The plan was simple. He just have to wait till recess and watch his chances closely. Once you're free and alone he will go make a move saying ‘hello’! Maybe even ask for your number.

Recess hour came by and his plan chose to bite the dust with girls and boys swarming around him to get his number and be friends with him. The group kept him occupied for the entirety of the recess and by the time he was done you were no where to be found in class.

Similar things happened the next day and the next day and the next day, never ceasing to leave him alone.

Satoru eventually came up with another plan— excelling in academics. The more he's good in academics, the more are the chances for you to come up to him wanting his help to understand a problem. And the plan worked exceptionally well with girls frequenting him with a doubt in their lesson— except for you.

This time satoru came up with his active participation in extracurriculars and sports. The more he active he is the more is the chance of you joining the same activity or maybe seek his assistance for the upcoming sports day.

This plan too, was indeed prodigious and did attracted a lot of attention except yours.

His last option was of joining the student council. As the spirited member of the top student council, you might come up to him with a problem you're facing or anything you want to change.

So, without thinking much he did joined the student council, hoping to finally gain your attention. However the following week, concerns and requests for changes decreased promptly. The other council members sighed, few scrutinizing satoru. After all no one in the entire school would want their so very handsome, energetic and popular Satoru Gojo to have a heavy work load after school.

“Since we don't have any work to do now, thanks to gojo-kun, I'd gladly like you all to only maintain the regular class desk arrangement.” the student council president announced before leaving the council room.

Satoru sighed, this isn't what he thought. He just wanted your attention not the entire school’s. Everyone looked at him, when he walked, when he sat, when he ate, people always turned around to take a second look. Yet you never laid your eyes on him. Even being in the same class you never came up to him to chat.

Back slouched, with his tie undone, he slammed the door open of his classroom to pick up his bag.

You flinched.

Hand covering your mouth, a dust wiper on the other, you looked at him as he froze.

One entire year, was how satoru spent to gain your attention, to get you look at him, and when it finally happened the time seemed to halt. The sun rays pooled into the room with slow breezes messing up your bangs and satoru couldn't mutter a word but stare.

Conscious about him gaping, he tore his gaze away from you before shutting the door, this time gently.

The council president asked them to take care of class desk arrangements. However, the desks in his classroom have always been arranged, even before he joined the student council.

“you…um arrange the desks everyday?” He said fixing his tie, slowly walking up to his desk, wiped clean by you. “Yes.”

Satoru accompanies you cleaning and arranging for the rest of the time in complete silence. Soon you take your leave, and so does satoru but this was the time he was happy like really really happy.

He didn't exchange any words of recognition with you, from the day at the mall. He didn't talk. Yet he was beaming radiant, for just being with you, momentarily alone, in peace.

That day soon came to an end and another year passed by. Satoru did nothing but admire you from afar. This was the only way he felt the closest to you. He saw how you wiped and arranged the desks everyday; help people without even letting them notice; lend the only pencil you have without a word; and care for the garden whose garish flowers were disregarded by others.

The more he saw, the more he knew you. And the more he felt his heart slipping away.

You were kind, gentle and soft. You noticed people behind their masks. You regarded the smallest of the things with such care. And your delicate hands, often smeared with paint, held the responsibility of others without complaining.

He often saw yura asking favours from you, shoving her cleaning duties to you, sending you to get her lunch from the 7-eleven nearby and never once you said 'no'. You were so so precious.

He knew he’d to stop; the way you engrossed him, linger on his mind all day to the point that he was unable to think of anything but you was straight up creepy but his eyes never stopped searching for you.

Even in the midst of the crowds on a random road his eyes would unconsciously seek for you.

And by the time he was 17, satoru was hopelessly, absurdly and miserably in love with you.

Another year passed by and he could do nothing but stare. And the fact that you often looked at him too made things even worse.

He was so down bad for you that he couldn't keep on going like this anymore. He was so sure he'd confess to you on the day of graduating the high school, not caring about rejection.

Satoru stayed up an entire night, perfecting his confession. But by the time the graduation ceremony ended and he went to look out for you, you were nowhere to be found.

He asked yura about you, to which she replied that you went back home early and satoru had his heart broken at 18.

He couldn't move on easily but giving you up was the only option left. Unwillingly, satoru made his devastating decision of giving you up. He never thought he would see you again until a few years later in college, shoko brought you right in front of him.

“We need a new artist to cover up for this concert.” said geto suguru, stuffing his phone back in his pockets. “Why? What happened to ren?”

“Got himself into an accident and fractured his right arm.” Geto plops himself back down on the couch beside satoru, before pulling on the fretboard of his bass.

“Should visit him then.”

“Forget it.”

“Why?” frowned satoru, geto suguru—his best friend, the one he went to middle and high school with, was not the type to feign indifference. His behavior indeed had satoru confused.

“Nanami informed he got drunk at the last concert before getting himself into the accident. Drunk driving it is.”

“Did yaga find out about this?”

“Fortunately, he didn't. Nanami covered the case before him finding out,” geto brought his hand, swiping back his string of bangs, “if it reaches yaga, he will ban us from using the campus stadium.”

“lucky I'd say…so what now?” The next concert is in 3 days and the band poster is still incomplete.

Shortly after satoru joined his college, suguru started a band along with two other guys. The band was doing well but due to a disagreement they decided to split up. Suguru then suggested satoru join the band and the following year they gained another member named nanami kento.

They used to hold performances at random pubs but as its popularity increased, the college decided to give them the campus stadium to hold their concerts. Something they did extra was hiring an artist to do their band poster— hand-drawn. It'd become a little tradition— a lucky charm says suguru, and now that their artist had broken his hand right at the eleventh hour before the concert they will have to—

“Find a new one.”

“nana—” geto shuts him before he could finish his sentence. “Nanami is trying his best, so am I. So, you try finding one too.”

“How am I supposed to?”

“Well I'm sure if you go with a face like this to the art department, people would volunteer in a line.”

“Same goes with you, why don't you go and ask. I'm sure if you could wear your shirt a little loose you can surely get your clingy ex find a good one." Gojo says in a mocking tone, grabbing his guitar and looping it around his back before leaving the club.

He was sure annoyed, but he will have to find one, geto wasn't in a mood to joke earlier either. Rather than going by himself, he decided to ask shoko get it done for him; he was sure she'd agree for a few packs of cigarettes.

Walking on his way to the parking lot he texted shoko to meet at their regular cafe.

“Sup!”

Satoru smiled knowing shoko could never fail him, even if she didn't agree right away a little guilt trip will do.

“All good?”

“Yeah, what do you need?”

“Just a little favour.”

“And what that might be?”

“Get an appropriate artist from the art department. Ren broke his arm and suguru's so down about going himself, ya’ know about his ex,” shoko started grabbing her cup of iced coffee to retreat when gojo slammed two packets of cigarettes on the table. “I've two more packs to offer.”

Shoko returns to her seat, a big smile on her face. “Okay! Since I'm your empathetic, gracious and compassionate friend, I will try and see what I can get done.”

“Yes please…”

“I'm not doing it for cigarettes ya’ know.”

“Mhmmm” satoru nods his face dramatically.

“Get the other two packets out.”

“Sure.”

Satoru knew four packets would get the job done as he parted away from shoko, driving his way back home.

And the next day when shoko texted him that she got a volunteer and is bringing her to the club, he didn't expected it to be you.

Shoko looped a hand around your shoulders “so this is the club,” chewing a gum, “and this is satoru gojo.”

“Hi…” you said looking at him, before taking a look at those instruments laying behind.

It’s you. It's really you. He couldn't believe his eyes yet stood unblinking as if you were some mirage and will fade away once he closes his eyelids.

“Gojo?” Shoko waved a hand infront of his face and realizing he didn't respond to you, he bent his torso bowing to you.

“Woah,” shoko’s face scrunched up, cringing at his behavior, “when did you start being all formal?”

You giggled at her comment while satoru hushed her with a series of ‘shut ups’.

“I'm—”

“Y/n.” satoru whispered almost as if reminding himself the way your name sounded in his lips. “Y/n, i know.”

You chuckle at his words, tugging a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You know her?” shoko tilted her head at him, not expecting you to be acquainted with him.

“We went to the same high school.” You say when satoru does nothing but gape at you with dreamy eyes.

His heart did a whole somersault at your sentence. You remembered him; you remembered his name; you remembered he was in the same high school as you. The fact that you regarded him made him so giddy that he was practically ready to throw his hands up in the air or kiss the floor on which you walk.

“Kay’ I'll leave you guys to talk then.” She smirked before raising a cocky eyebrow at satoru, excusing herself from the club.

“So…you're the only one?”

“Huh?”

“In the band— i mean…”

“Oh no” he dragged, “there are two more members along with the back musicians…”

You humm, taking a proper look at the club.

“You like it?”

“It has vibrant colours.”

Your words echoed in his ears, the same which you said to him at the mall. Oh how bad had he wanted to hear those.

“The jazzies,” you read the name of their band aloud, “why jazzies? You only play jazz?”

“No…we play all sorts of music…it's just a name suguru chose for the band.”

“you do originals?”

“Both originals and covers. Anything suguru comes up with.”

Your mouth forms a little ‘o’ as satoru explains to you.

“geto seems to be doing all the stuff, what do you do?”

“You know him?” satoru’s brows furrowed. “Whom?” you ask.

“geto…geto suguru.”

“Ofc, he was in the same class as us.”

“Oh.”

Ofcourse. Both he and geto were in the same class as you. It was no big deal for you to remember both of them. However, accepting that he wasn't any special was bitter.

Satoru’s eyes followed your figure as you went out to reach for his guitar, mindlessly drawing your finger on its printed patterns.

“You didn't answer my question…”

“I guess I found you for our band.”

When none of you says anything, satoru breaks the ice, clearing his throat.

“You know how to play?”

“Err…no.”

“I can teach you.”

He slided his index among the few string instruments before pulling out an acoustic one, bringing it to you.

“Hold the fretboard with your left hand,” satoru pulled the strap over your shoulders, “and bring your right hand over the body, fingers near the sound hole— yep that's right,” he turned your back to him, gently holding the back of your palms.

“Now, pluck the chords for me,” his chest was against your back as he guided you through the strings.

“Like this?” you ask him.

“Yes, you're doing very well.”

The guitar in your hands, played smoothly as satoru guided you through it.

Just like when he taught you how to play mario kart.

Satoru looks down at you smiling in excitement. Oh how cute you looked like that. He could admire you twenty-four seven, never wanting to tear his gaze away, for you're that ineffably eesome in his eyes.

Time almost ceased when you looked up at him, eyes crinkling with a smile that soon died as red creeps up your cheeks.

Satoru’s face was mere inches away from you, his eyes wavering down to your lips.

“SATO—RU— oh,” geto bursted in along with nanami causing you both to flinch.

He quickly leaves your hand.

“Y/n??” Geto dragged out your name, looking at you with his eyebrows knitting and lips forming a silly smile.

“Hi,” you pull the strap over your shoulders abandoning the instrument on the nearby couch. “I'm here to volunteer.”

“You do?”

“Yeah…”

“That's great! I can't believe satoru even managed to talk—” satoru smacked him mid sentence.

Nanami, for some reason, found the ceilings very interesting today, totally ignoring his two seniors.

Geto explained to you about their little tradition of hand drawn posters and showed you the posters they used for the last concerts. You, then, asked them to send them a group picture of the three and their preferences for colours and themes.

“For that I might need your number—”

“I- i can send it to her…” Geto passed a suggestive smile at satoru, which he ignored and awkwardly forwarded his phone to you.

“Yeah that sounds fine. Here's my number, save it and text me later.”

“Kky!”

You pull the sling of your tote bag up to your arm, giving them a little nod, before turning your back to leave.

“Wait!—” satoru held your arms frantically pulling you back. He hurried to the back near the couch you plopped the guitar and shoved it to you. “T-take it.”

“Ah— no I can't do that.”

“Take it. You can learn how to play and I- I can teach you.” he tried not to stutter yet failed miserably.

“No i rea—”

“consider it as a gift— from me.”

You frowned a bit but agreed anyway.

“That's really sweet of you satoru! I will wait for your text! Bye!!”

He waved back to you.

“What was that?” Geto implies in the direction of the exit door through which you just left.

“nothing.”

Later, You sent the photo of the finished banner to satoru. It took you 42 hours to finish it.

Satoru on the other hand was practicing really hard, totally different from his half hearted performances from the previous ones which wasn't unnoticed by the other members.

He has to be the best. After all, this concert will be different from the previous ones. This time you will be there to see him, cheer for him, and notice him.

You soon bring the banner rolled up to the club. “Woah! You really did a great job.”

“This is much better than ren’s.” says nanami before going back to his drum set, giving you a thumbs up.

“Satoru?”

“Y-yes.”

“You liked it?”

“I loved it. It has vibrant colours.” You giggled at his answer, shifting your direction to his gaze. His fingers seemed to flake off any dust on the surface of your work, handling it so gently.

It wasn't his fault he felt so overwhelmed. All these years he'd yearned for one kind word from your lips yet he was left starving.

And now you'd drawn him with such precision, that it was as if you were accustomed to drawing him for the hundredth time.

His heart fluttered at the thought.

“I will be there at your concert,” you say, turning your back to him. “All the best!”

The campus stadium was full with a bunch of students and hippies, it was really hard for satoru to try locating you amongst the sea of crowds.

The music rang loud, brisking fiery cheers from the crowd, full of vim and vigor. The spotlight shone on the three— geto with his vocals and string of bass; satoru with his acoustic guitar; and nanami with his drum set.

The crowd roared in excitement as music coursed through their veins.

Will you be cheering too?

Satoru raised his head from the guitar, plucking chords effortlessly, to his audience.

And as if it was fate that drew both of you together, his eyes found yours. You were there in the vip section, along with shoko and another girl. You were moving with beats, swaying your arms in rhythm to their music.

His eyes locked in yours as you waved a hand at him. Oh how, how pretty you looked. Everything except you was a blur to him.

The crowd goes even more wild, seeing satoru blush, not sensing it was you who caused it.

The concert continued till past midnight as the vibrations thrumming around the air slowed and wrapped up with their ending song: “Where Our Blue Is.”

As the applause slowly start to dissipate, satoru pulled off his instrument, running to the edge of the stage, and hopped down the raised platform.

The college girls shrieked baffled, some even reached out, grabbing on his wrists and clothes. He politely got out of their grip making his way to the vip section, geto and nanami following him.

The still air felt electric as he approached you.

“you liked the show?”

“Ofc it was amazing!!” The girl beside you answers in your stead, whom he now recognised as yura.

“It was really good.” you say swallowing a laugh bubbling up your throat at his huffed out appearance.

“Thanks to your banner, it even attracted more audience.” geto remarked, placing his arm around satoru’s shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“You should thank me for bringing her in.” Shoko reclaims, looping her hand around your arm, “let's go steal some shots.”

“Oh no i can't— i don't drink. And I need to hurry back home it's late.”

“Kyaahh— you've let me down y/nniee. Only two packets of cigarettes can get my mood uplifte—”

“I will bring it tomorrow.” You say shutting up her whines.

“kk bye and text me when you get home the rest are joining me right ?”

“Count me out. I'll be driving her home tonight.” Satoru says sheepishly, ignoring the smirks and exchanged looks of his bandmates, a slight blush creeping up his cheeks.

“No but I was about to go home with her —” yura interrupts.

“Satoru’s fine. You're coming with us.” Shoko dragged her along with geto and nanami, which satoru was glad of.

Finally he'd be alone with you.

He guided you to the parking lot from the back of the stage, before getting his car keys out.

It's metallic jingle echoing softly as he presses the button on his key fob. The car responds with a soft beep unlocking as satoru opens the passenger door, holding it open for you.

“Here,” he gestures with his other hand, “get in.”

“Sure.” You say gulping thickly.

The thick smell of your cologne mingling with the leather scent of the car.

He closes the door before sprinting to the other side, getting himself in. “Don't— ” he stops you when you reach out for your seat belt. “Allow me the honor” his finger brushes against your skin as he reaches out for the seat belt.

Your heart practically jolts at his action.

The click of the seat belt buckle echoes softly in the quiet car, as he straightens back to his former position.

“Where do you live?” He clears his throat, starting the car engine and flicking on the headlights before pulling out the car into the driveway.

“In the downtown.”

“That's quite far from the campus, how bout I drive you everyday back home?” His eyes suggestive, making you chuckle.

“I can't let you do that.”

“Why?”

“Since it's far from the campus and you won't be visiting often.”

“Who knows, I might be visiting your place often.”

You turn your face from the window to look at him.

“What?”

“I will have to— to teach you guitar.”

You crack up at his silliness, finding yourself melting again.

“Okay fine. But that still doesn't counts.”

“Why not!”

Since that day, satoru did visited you often, sometimes barging in with shoko and sometimes alone teaching you how to play guitar, plucking on chords and notes.

And you attended all of his concerts. Their previous artist has recovered now and has resumed his work, so you no longer work with them. However they insist you tag along each time and it's not like you complain.

You liked satoru’s company. He was handsome, charismatic and popular. You'd watched him your entire high school. He was the one of most popular students, good in a millions of things, starting from academics to being athletic. He'd win every sports competition and even participate in all the extracurriculars. You'd admired him for he could do the things which you didn't had the courage for.

You liked how he didn't judge people, helped them in their need, and even took care of those garish flowers nobody seemed to double take.

You'd previously met him before high school, though he never brought that up. You wondered if he even remembers the day at the mall. You wanted to ask him so bad, however—

Your world was only limited to papers and paints.

So you painted.

You painted him so many times that you'd have more than five sketchbooks with paintings full of him.

You wanted to be friends, maybe even more than friends.

But that didn't matter now. He was near you and you would do anything to keep your thumping heart in control and not have satoru cut you out of his life.

But how can you?

How can you control it when satoru so gently, so lovingly, takes your hand in his. When he smiles so sweetly at you. When he teaches you how to pull chords and other instruments. When he drops you home from college almost everyday. When he hugs you and tells you to take care.

How are you supposed to be just friends when he's so overly affectionate to you?

Or maybe it's just your overthinking.

Satoru was always polite and sweet, he'd always been sweet to others and you were no special.

“What are you thinking baby?”

You come out of your daze, rolling your eyes at the nickname.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that…”

“Not my fault you aren't paying attention to me…” he pulls you closer to him, resting his face on your shoulder.

“Have you always been this hungry for attention?” you ask, getting yourself comfortable abandoning the guitar beside you on the couch— of the club.

“I've been starving.”

You cringe at his words. Satoru has another concert today and they just finished practicing an hour ago and now they are taking a break.

Geto and nanami and other back artists wanted to get some fresh air so they left you and satoru alone to entertain each other.

“Are you really skipping on me?” He looked at you with puppy eyes.

“I've a gallery exhibition tomorrow.” You need to scoot back home to get ready for it. It's a big event for you to showcase your arts.

Satoru hummed, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck, “I'll be there. You're going to do great.”

An uncertain lump forms in your throat, hard to swallow, you say nothing. Your heart was in a conflict again, no matter what you can absolutely not—

“I will be going then. All the best for your concert.”

You push satoru away, reaching for your tote bag from the side of a random arm chair. “Wait I will drop—”

“Who's leaving?” shoko barges in with yura and others.

Satoru points at you.

“I just got here. You can't leave already.”

“Yup! Yup! Please stay a little longer, baby. I'll drop you back home, no worries.”

Shoko exchanges suggestive glances with geto and they somehow persuade you to stay a little longer.

They start practicing for another round when shoko pulls your head closer, “what do you think about gojo?”

“Huh?!” You shout over the music, unable to hear her.

She grabbed your hand and pulled you outside, with Yura following closely behind you both.

“What— “

“What do you think of gojo?”

A burning sensation hits you slowly as shoko’s question registers in your mind.

You ears turn red.

“Eh…um h-he’s a nice guy. A nice musician…and—”

“And?” Shoko wiggled her brows at you, a sly smile on her face.

“A-a nice friend.”

“Just a friend?” You nod at her, seemingly more embarrassed at her implications.

Shoko's face literally radiated disappointment. It was as if someone told her that cigarettes are now banned in the country. “I think he's interested in you,” you choked on air at her remark. “No?”

Yura shrugged.

The music slowed down and then paused, bringing your conversation to a momentary halt.

Satoru rushed outside, complaining about why you left in the middle of his practice.

“Bruh, chill, I'm not trying to steal her away from you. We're just talking!” Shoko jokes as you laugh all flustered.

Just when you were about to leave one of his fangirls suddenly appeared from nowhere and threw herself into his arms, wrapping hers tightly around his neck. He stumbled back a step, surprised, before regaining his balance but he didn't put her down rather he spinned her around before setting her back down, with a polite smile on his face.

The other members just saw the scene unfold with amusement. Nanami was surprised at the fan’s boldness and geto simply observed the scene as shoko rolled her eyes, finding it hysterical.

“What do you think of shoko’s remark?” said yura, looping her hand around your arm.

“What?” You say suppressing the slow tinge of jealousy.

“About gojo being interested in you…”

“I-i don't think so.”

You try to laugh it off.

“Yeah, he's just polite. To pretty much everyone.”

Her words felt like a splinter to your heart. You shouldn't feel like this. It'd happened before— not now again.

Yura’s right, satoru is just polite and will do the same for everyone what he does for you— because he's kind. And you're no special.

The entire ride was silent. Satoru kept asking you if anything was wrong but you just guised a smile at him, insisting it was nothing.

The next day at the gallery event, you behaved oddly. You smiled at him but didn't reach your eyes, your answers to his question were of one word, even avoiding his touch.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked warily.

“No.”

Days passed by and you distanced yourself more from him.

Satoru, on the other hand, was almost losing his mind. His world turned upside down. You stopped coming to his concerts, ignored his texts and even refused to let him drop you back home.

It was yesterday you’d allowed him to teach you the guitar yet today you behaved as if you'd long forgotten him. You were cold and distant, leaving him puzzled by his own thoughts upon your sudden change in demeanor.

He couldn't help but wonder whether he'd done something that made you this upset?

You'd said it was nothing.

Then why?

What the fuck did he messed up?

Satoru missed you terribly and violently.

He eyed you from the inside of his car parked a bit far from your department. Today was another day you refused his offer to drive you to class. ‘I'm kinda sick so I won't be going.’ This was what you'd texted him the morning and yet there you were getting off your uber.

You lied to him.

“Come with me to their concert today.” Shoko urged you, her lips pursed in a thin line.

“I'm sorry—”

“No you're not so sorry. Tomorrow’s Saturday, come with me, gojo’s getting mad without you.”

You suck in a breath at the mention of his name.

“What's wrong?” shoko says sipping the last of her drink before plopping it on your tea table.

“Nothing.”

“Then come.”

You agreed eventually. Attending the concert won't be a big deal.

And it wasn't, except for satoru’s piercing gaze burning holes in your back. You accompanied Shoko backstage and casually greeted everyone— including him.

“God, haven't seen you in so long.” geto side hugged you as nanami gave you a nod of acknowledgement before running off to the stage for some last minute preparations. “Satoru missed you like crazy.”

You attempt a weak smile in satoru's direction, darting a hesitant glance his way. His gaze was fixed on you, but his expression was unreadable, almost giving shivers down your spine.

One of the other members suddenly hurried over to Geto, urgently speaking about some issue, he politely excused himself and exited the room, closely followed by Shoko. Now, you were left alone with Satoru, the only two remaining in the room.

“I should go and check what's the proble—” you try sprinting your way out the door, “wait—” when satoru stops you.

His hand on your arm, preventing you to go any further and when you struggle to get out of his grip, he tightens his grip even more slamming you to the wall, pinning you caging your body.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Gojo you're hurting m—”

“Gojo?” His voice cracked, grip losing before letting your arms go, “why? Why must you do this to me?”

“Do what?” You drift your gaze away unable to look at satoru, who's this close tearing up.

“This— why must you do this? Why must you ignore me? Why must you be distant from me? Why must you lie to me so that I won't bother picking you up or dropping you home? Why must you reject my affection?” He sucks in a breath “You know I can't live like that—”

“why?”

“Don't pretend like you don't know…”

“no no don't say it,” you throw your hands up in the air frantically, “don't— I can’t fall again…no— I know you're just being polite and you will do this for anyone, but I can’t help it if I don't—”

“I love you—” he whispers, bringing your hand up, placing the palm flat to his chest.

“No you don't.”

“Yes I do— what do you mean you can't fall again,” he suppresses your struggles of wrenching free your hand from his grip. “You have no idea how crazy I'm for you. I love you and I've loved you since I was 17. I was about to confess to you on our graduation day but you just disappeared leaving me alone. And now that I have you I'm not letting you go— make no mistake baby, if there's anyone I’d ever kneel for— it'd be you.”

Thick silence covered the entire room, except your heavy exhales. Satoru gojo was inches close to you, your hand still laid flat against his heaving chest.

“B-but I wrote you a note confes—”

“What note? I never….” confusion twisted on his face bitterly.

“You threw it in the dustbin— the one I wrote to you the day before graduation.”

His face told the truth, as he shook his head denying it. He never received any note from you— nevertheless having the audacity to throw it in the trash when he'd been hopelessly in love with you all these years.

“Yura told me—” you shut your mouth as the realization hits you. The person whom you considered as a friend backstabbed you long ago.

She lied about him discarding it while it was actually her who had stolen it off his desk before satoru even noticed.

Your head raised in embarrassment, ready to apologize for the misunderstanding when suddenly, Satoru's lips met yours in a tender kiss. The kiss was filled with such affection and tenderness that you felt as if you might melt in his embrace. His arms held you close, firmly yet gently, as he deepened the kiss. Your heart pounded in your chest as you responded to his kiss. All thoughts of the misunderstanding were forgotten in that moment of pure intimacy before satoru pulled away with frowned brows and a dazed smile.

“Tell me, would I kiss anyone the same way I kiss you?” he pulled you again, smacking his lips on yours as he snaked a hand around your waist, the other, still firm, holding your palm.

You could feel his heartbeat going rapid the more he deepens the kiss, sucking on your upper lip.

He pulls away again.

“Tell me, would my heart beat the same way as it beats around yours?” He smacks his lips again, this time pinching your waist making you gasp as he slips his tongue in.

His hand fumbles with the hem of your dress, pulling away again, a string of drool connecting both of your lips. “Would I be breathless the same way as I'm now?”

His hand travels up your inner thigh, till it reaches the wet blotch of drenched silk. You grasp his shoulders, when he starts drawing circles over the fabric, smirking before nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck.

“Satoru, what if someone walks in—” your body jolts, nails digging into his back as he pulls the fabric to the side, plunging a digit in without any warning. “Let them…” he goes back to sucking your skin while rubbing his thumb over your swollen clit.

Your teeth sank on your bottom lips, his finger slowly plunging in and out of you. “Nngh ‘toru, you’re—” small trembles quivered through your body as he plunged with a faster rhythm.

“Shh baby! Let me take you” he inserts another digit as your teeth dug even deeper into your lip, stretching you and filling you so well.

He was stroking you, curling his fingers inside until hitting your most sensitive spot. Sweat beaded your forehead as your trembles gave way to full body shudders, shutting your mouth with your hand not wanting to be loud.

Satoru drew himself back from your neck, satisfied marking and suckling, withdrawing his digits, slick from you as you wince at the loss of his fullness.

He brings them up and sucks your essence off his fingers with a pop. “I want to eat you out.”

Before even you can make out his words he kneels down bunching up the fabric to your hips pulling your panty down properly and latching onto your swollen clit.

“Fuck ‘toru.” he lapped his tongue on your clit, drawing circles, tasting your sweet before drawing himself back, “I am fucking you baby.” He says, licking a fat stripe on your vulva, his rigid tongue swiping back and forth over your clit sending sensations that make your body jolt. “Here and raw” he hummed against your pussy, his breath warm and hot sending vibrations to your core, before vacuuming on your clit.

Your hand grasping his hair, as he worked on your orgasm.

He plunged his digits again, rhythmatic with the little pants escaping your mouth, along with the slick sounds of your hips buckling down his fingers.

He smirked internally at your enthusiasm.

“So fucking nasty for me huh?” He said against your pussy, licking and sucking till you were nothing but withering in mindless pleasure. You were taking it well, suppressing your moans into breathless pants until he sucked, fingers pressing the most sensitive spot inside you.

A shriek fell past your lips, knees buckling, followed by a string of moans and whimpers. “Oh— fuck..” you try closing your thighs which he prevents with his iron grip of one hand, forcing it open till he has better access. “Don't even dare closing on me…”

The wet sounds of his fingers, plunging in and out of your gummy walls, echoed throughout the empty room.

Something coiled hot and fuzzy in the lower pit of your stomach. You clenched hard around his finger, when the bass-heavy beats of the band's concert began, causing you to involuntarily shove satoru’s face deeper into your cunt as you heard voices from the stage outside.

Geto's unmistakable voice rang out, accompanied by the heavy drumming of nanami. They had started performing without satoru.

“Nn’toru they start—” your voice died down into a breathless gasp as you felt your pelvic muscles clench, tension looping around your entire body as fiery sensations erupted. You arch your back against the wall, unable to stop your toes curling at the intensity of his tongue lapping, finger fuckin' you, as your vision gets blurry.

“Yeah…cum for me baby” his velvety murmurs were all it took for you to turn into a mess of sensations, your body erupting as your high came down bursting, dripping and spilling down your thighs, his chin and his neck.

Satoru lapped up the drops carelessly strewn about your skin, his tongue tracing a path along the droplets splattered on your inner thighs as he savored everything with anticipation.

“Tell me, would I kneel infront of anyone and let them cum this hard on my fingers?” He straightened himself up, “and then drink it up like a pussy drunk male whore?” his gaze never left yours, wiping the leftover slick from his chin with the back of his hand before licking it clean.

The music from outside has now gained its intensity, thrumming even louder.

No— you mouthed.

Satoru’s gaze was still fixed at you, when he unzipped his pants, his aching cock sprang out red, already leaking precum.

You gape at his girth.

It was big.

And fucking thick.

Leaning in, Satoru brings his lips close to your ear, his voice clear over the blaring music from outside, “Like what you see—”

You didn't get to answer him before he slammed right in.

A cry of pleasure tore from your throat, as you loop your hands around his neck, nails digging on his back.

He hissed out a breath, restraining himself from moving till you adjusted to his size.

Only then did he slowly pull it out leaving only the tip inside. You grimace at the loss of fullness until he slams back in causing you to clench around him.

He let out a low guttural moan which was almost inaudible to you over the roar of music if you weren't so close to each other, feeling the raw desire of his voice vibrating on your skin.

“Tell me— hahh- would I let anyone clench this hard on me if this weren't you?”

You were at a loss for words.

The kind, polite, sweet satoru you knew was gone. In his place was someone who fucked hard.

When you don't answer he pulls out and slams right back in harsh, eyes gleaming with wicked intent.

Satisfied, satoru guides his one hand to tapping on your thigh suggesting you wrap your legs up around him.

He repositions his dick on your entrance, before supporting your weight with one hand, pinning your body completely to the wall, while the other hand grabs your neck, choking you before giving you a sloppy breathless kiss.

“You like it don't ya’ hmm fuck— so tight—”

Your cries came out choked as he pounded into you, in an insane manner, desperate and primal.

“Tell me—”

Thrust

“do you—”

Thrust

“still think I'm just being polite?”

Thrust.

The roar of geto's voice singing out aloud different notes masked out the filth of your moans.

The sensation was in again, hot and uproar, coiling beneath the core of your consciousness. Satoru sensed you being close to your climax, continued to plow into your pussy, now supporting your weight with both hands against the wall.

Your toes curled again, nails digging down his back almost scratching the fabric, “yes that's it love,” your eyes rolled back as you arch your neck unable to handle the pleasure, “cum for me…”

Your mouth forming a little ‘o’, mind blank as your eyes saw stars. The only consciousness left in your body directed you to the burning of your heat, till it came crashing down.

You came hard letting your head fall on his shoulders too spent for anything.

Satoru too chased his high, thrusting into your swollen pussy, his cock twitching inside you, till you felt him getting sloppy and tense before cumming into you.

The music was still very loud, beats thrumming your flushed veins.

None of you said anything, remaining in the same position. Satoru pulled himself out, his cum dripping out your vagina, before walking over and placing you on a nearby chair.

He cleaned you up gently tugging your clothes back and fixes himself before cleaning the mess near the wall.

“They— they started performing without you…” you huff out, drained still in the very euphoria of your pleasure satoru showed you.

“I told them to do so…” he shouted over the noise.

You remain stunned for a while, letting out a breath. “I'm sorry…I avoided you.”

“Here I thought you were giving me a thousand kisses as an apology.”

You chuckle at him, back to his normal self— your sweet, kind and maybe not so polite satoru…

He came over to you, lifting you effortlessly before plopping himself down on the chair with you on his lap.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“No but I missed you like crazy…” he pouted. “y/n be my girlfriend…please.”

Tears start forming in your eyes, overwhelmed, you never thought the satoru gojo you met at the mall, the satoru gojo you loved your entire high school would someday ask you to be his girlfriend.

To paint his heart with your love.

“I will.”

“no wait— marry me instead!”

You dug your face deeper into his chest, laughing at his playfulness. And satoru just smiled.

Finally he would be yours.

you and Satoru started dating since then and things couldn't have been any better for him. He practically announced to the world that you were his girlfriend, always picking you up and dropping you off from campus, and claiming a kiss as his reward. You’d also cut Yura off, not wanting any more negativity in your life. Satoru was yours, and you were his. And He couldn't be any happier.

Tags: @cccandynecklaces @secretfankoala

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alexiajjk · 29 days ago

Text

jungkook fic recs list (part 3) ౨ৎ

i’m more than a month late i’m sorry :’( but part 3 is finally here!! i hope you enjoy these stories, all of them are sosososo good and well written! the authors are amazing <3 minors dni!

⭑ part 1, part 2

a- angst f- fluff s- smut

series (completed)

candles & flames by @taegularities

enemies to lovers, royal!au (a, f, s)

He wasn’t supposed to be yours. His foolery wasn’t supposed to target you. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

an abundance of luck & a sprinkle of fate by @borathae

ceo!jungkook x sexworker!reader, strangers to lovers!au, bdsm, hurt and comfort (a, f, s)

"When two souls, with different reasons for why life has broken them, find together, it needs a whole lot of a luck and a little bit of fate to make them see that maybe healing together isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

the farmhouse by @solecize

childhood friends to lovers/small town au (a, f)

every summer on your grandpa's farm was real-life magic to your younger self, who left a piece of her heart in amber valley when the years went on and the town became nothing but a faint childhood memory. soon enough, you become rocked by his death and realize the dead end in your bustling city world. this leads to you making an abrupt decision. despite knowing nothing but designer purses and the corporate ladder, you uproot your entire life to take over your grandfather's old farm in the town you were desperately trying to remember - alongside a familiar face from your youth that permanently finds his way into your heart.

sinful lust by @oddinary4bts

bisexual boyfriend!yoongi x female!reader x jungkook, snippets of life!au (a, s, a bit of f)

in an attempt to spice up your bedroom life with your boyfriend Min Yoongi, you suggest bringing another man into the action. Yoongi seems reluctant at first, but when you mention his friend Jeon Jungkook, he can’t deny his attraction. All that’s left to do is to convince Jungkook into participating...

evolution of a lover’s heart by @jeonstudios

college au, fuckboy au, bet au (a, f, s)

the rules are simple: first one to take the virginity wins

blackout by @jjungxkook

best friends to lovers, roommate au, college au (f, s)

Utility bills shooting up like this should be an international crime. Luckily, Jungkook has the perfect idea(s) to save up money and make your night sinfully unforgettable.

how many by @yoon-kooks

jungkook x tattoo artist!reader, bad boy!au (f, s)

To Jeon Jungkook, you're just the cutie who sits across from him in art class. He doesn’t have a clue that you're also the hidden face of his favorite tattoo artist on social media. When the bad boy notices you've taken a surprising interest in his ink, he dares you to explore every inch of his body until all of his tattoos are accounted for. Tempted by his irresistible smile and delicate touch, you might even let him in on your little secret.

series (ongoing)

something about you by @ahundredtimesover

friends au, vacation au, semi slow burn, romcom-ish vibe; ays jk; PE teacher!jk and researcher!oc (f, s?)

You and Jungkook have been friends for a decade. And while he’s the charming and dependable, often reserved boy-next-door, he’s also just been a friend - a constant in your life, a part of a whole, and someone who’s seen all the flawed and probably unattractive sides of you.

A resumption of your friend group’s out-of-town trips has caused you to spend more time with him. And somewhere in between the morning coffee in the forest, running around in the snow, and watching the sunset on a boat, he’s become something more. And you’re not quite sure how to deal with it.

teach me how to love by @kookooluvr

fwb!au, co-workers!au, professor!jungkook, professor!reader, fwb2l, slow burn (a, f, s)

jeon jungkook, a fellow professor at yonsei university, is your friend, co-worker, and secret bed buddy. you have rules set in place to make sure there are no misunderstandings in your little arrangement. the #1 rule is as clear as day; no catching feelings. simple, right? wrong. let's see how un-simple it gets when a certain economics professor falls for an emotionally unavailable political science professor.

bad decisions (ao3) by @alphabetboyluvr

bartender!jungkook x female reader | strangers-friends-lovers, fwb (a, f, s)

it’s simple: write your deepest darkest fears on origami birds and string them up on jungkook’s ceiling. when they fall—which they inevitably will, thanks to his cheap daiso washi tape—you have to face the fear. set it free. the issue? you’ve a fear of intimacy. jungkook, a fear of rejection. and you’ve both got the capacity to make some incredibly bad decisions.

oneshots

petal to the metal by @luxekook

jewelry-maker jungkook x florist reader, idiots to lovers (a, f)

every sunday, the farmers’ market took place in the center of town. vendors from near and far traveled to sell their crafts, their produce, their teas. as the local florist, you figured that running a booth each weekend would boost your business and bring in new clients. at least, those were your reasons in the beginning. but, now? now, you returned just for the handsome jewelry-maker whose booth was next to yours.

the kids aren’t alright by @sketchguk

fwb!jeongguk x pastor’s kid (p.k)!reader, f2l, fwb au (a, f, s)

sneaking around with jeongguk during your christian retreat is complicated when you’re both dedicated to your jobs as co-youth group counselors at your father’s ministry.

paddle with me (two-shot) by @yoongsgguktae

campcounselor!au, e2l, pwp (s)

when your camp leader forces you and jeongguk as partners in a team building activity. with frustrations and anger flaring during your journey down the river, how will all this pent-up emotion get released?

mind in the gutter by @kpopfanfictrash

bowling!au, workplace!au, rom-com (s)

Starting over is never fun. Especially not when you decide to take the phrase fully to heart; new job, new city, new coworkers and new relationships. When you are dragged to a happy hour by your new co-worker, Taehyung, you end up sitting beside a (very) cute, (very) shy IT worker named Jungkook. Several drinks later, he mentions he is in a professional bowling league with his friends and you rather enthusiastically invite yourself along. As time passes and you begin to grow closer, you still find it impossible to read Jungkook. Working in the same company and seeing each other so often, it is only so long before one of you snaps. But who?

sleepover by @personasintro

best friend's brother au (f, s)

Jeongguk is your best friend’s little brother who invites you to have a sleepover at his place. Nothing can happen, right?

#jungkook fic #jungkook fic recs #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook #bts jungkook #bts fics #bts fic recs #jungkook series #jungkook oneshot #jungkook x reader #alexia’s favs

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em1i2a3 · 24 days ago

Note

can you do bob x reader where he sees us interacting with a child and it makes him want to be a father so bad?

It’s You I’m Thinking Of

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/ The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement and because some events are mentioned in passing. Fluff, a hint of Angst and an Established Relationship is at the forefront here.

Author's Note: Surprise, it’s double update day…Because I had this in my drafts and forgot to post it…YIKES. I found this to be so fluffy and cute to write! Thank you so much for the request! I loved writing this a lot!

Word Count: 3,805

Valentina had called it a “Visibility Effort,” which–as far as Bob was concerned–was just a polished way of saying: “I need people to stop thinking you guys are monsters, so go smile for the cameras and pretend you guys didn’t almost destroy New York City a year ago.”

The Thunderbolts had only just begun to scrape their way back into the public’s good graces after the Void. If grace could even be applied to a team that, not long ago, had been seen as volatile assets in containment rather than heroes in recovery. But Valentina didn’t care about semantics–she cared about optics. And what better way to scrub down their image than to host a carefully staged, feel-good community day in a public park–complete with banners, press kits, and security briefings disguised as media rundowns.

The day before, you and the rest of the team had been sweating under the sun, assembling the layout from the ground up. Tent poles groaned in the wind, tarps snapped against knuckles, and the oversized bouncy castle–more akin to a pop-up cathedral–took three hours to stabilize. It loomed over the field like a surreal monument to liability.

By sundown, the park had been transformed.

Face-painting booths stretched along the paved path like an art market in miniature, each tent hung with paper lanterns and garlands of plastic ivy. A ring toss area had been set up beside a small prize table, its wares still barcoded and smelling faintly of plastic and lemon cleaner. Further down, a row of food trucks idled along the lot’s edge, the air thick with fried batter and roasted peanuts, preparing for the next day. A banner, bold and hopeful, rippled above the main walkway: THUNDERBOLTS COMMUNITY GIVEBACK DAY!

The park was bustling before noon the next day.

Children darted between booths with faces half-painted and shoes untied. Parents loitered on benches, plastic cups of lemonade in hand, cautiously optimistic about letting their kids near a group of enhanced individuals who, six months ago, were being referred to as national liabilities. Still, smiles came easier than expected. The air smelled like kettle corn, sun-warmed vinyl, and freshly cut grass.

Valentina had positioned her pawns with precision, each member of the team slotted into a role meant to soften their image–familiar, friendly, safe.

Yelena was stationed at the face-painting table. She didn’t argue when she was assigned to it, though she rolled her eyes hard enough that everyone could basically hear it. Now, seated with a paintbrush balanced between her fingers, she looked…Focused. Delicate even. She painted dragons, daisies, and one incredibly accurate depiction of Bucky’s old Winter Soldier face paint layout. She didn’t say much unless spoken to, but the kids flocked to her. Her bluntness came off as hilarious to them. Her gentleness? Earned in silence.

Walker manned the obstacle course–one of the only areas Valentina trusted him not to overcomplicate. With his sleeves rolled up and clipboard tucked under his arm, he barked out encouragements that sounded suspiciously like bootcamp commands. But he was patient. He let kids redo the course as many times as they wanted. And when one boy tripped near the finish line, Walker helped him up without hesitation and whispered something that made the kid’s chest puff with pride.

Ava floated between stations like an unofficial supervisor. She had no designated role, but her presence was felt and it was heavy. She hovered near the cotton candy vendor long enough to be offered a free sample, then spent ten minutes helping a little girl reattach the wheel to her toy stroller. Ava didn’t smile often, but she kept her sunglasses off today. It mattered more than anyone would admit.

Alexei had placed himself right in the center of the park’s open lawn, surrounded by children wielding foam swords. He was absolutely in his element. Towering, loud, enthusiastic. He let them “ambush” him over and over again, dramatically collapsing onto the grass as they tackled him, crying out in mock defeat with every fall. When one kid asked if he was Santa, Alexei laughed so hard he nearly swallowed a whistle. He’d fashioned a red Thunderbolts cap to resemble something almost festive. No one stopped him.

Bucky was at the photo booth. Not because Valentina assigned it to him–but because he asked. Quietly. Just once. And when she raised a brow, he explained:

“Kids like the arm. Makes them feel like they’re meeting a real superhero.”

No one argued with that.

He stood beside the printed backdrop of a Thunderbolts mural, his vibranium arm resting lightly at his side. At first, only a few families came by. Then word got around. By midday, there was a line curling around the booth. Bucky posed with toddlers who clung to his leg, tweens who wanted to see if he could lift them with his arm alone, and teens who just wanted proof they’d stood next to him. He let them. All of them.

And you–you’d been running the craft tent since the gates opened. Low folding tables filled with paper crowns, pipe cleaners, sticker sheets, and markers with their caps long lost to time. You moved between projects with practiced ease, coaxing confidence out of even the shyest children. One girl in a purple tutu had stuck to your side all morning, proudly referring to you as “Miss Thunderbolt” like it was an official title.

Bob on the other hand…Wasn’t assigned a booth.

Valentina had called it a “strategic decision”–which meant don’t scare the kids. She hadn’t said it outright, of course, but Bob understood the subtext. The others had made peace with their reputations, learned how to bend their edges into something palatable. Bob’s problem wasn’t sharpness. It was scale. People didn’t look at him and see a man. They saw The Void. A storm in a body. The thing that turned Manhattan’s sky black almost a year ago. Or they saw him as Golden Boy Sentry, which he rarely presented himself as now because all of that was dormant since the incident, so he was just Bob, and unfortunately nobody was really interested in just Bob.

Except you of course.

You had grown extremely close to him throughout the time he was recovering from the incident. You would stay back from missions just to keep him company, and within those small moments, the two of you grew a bond and became inseparable.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big declaration, no kiss in the rain, no sweeping hand grab before battle. It was subtle–gentle, even. A shared quiet. The way you waited for him to speak on his own terms. The way you handed him warm drinks without comment and sat beside him on the floor of his room during the worst days, and just held him or smoothed his hair down. The way you always reached for his hand under the table when Valentina debriefed the team about “public image,” like you were grounding yourself in him, not the other way around.

It started with one date. A walk. A drink from the local coffee shop that you used two straws for. A movie you barely paid attention to because Bob had cried halfway through and apologized for it, and you’d told him, “I’d rather watch you feel something than watch the movie anyway.”

Now it had been nearly a year.

A quiet year. A healing one. A year where Bob–somehow–had begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t made just for disaster. Maybe he was allowed to want softness. Warmth. You.

So he stayed near you now, just like he always did. Even in the middle of this pastel-bright circus of a public relations stunt, even with the buzzing press cameras and the thunder of kids’ shoes over packed grass–he stood a few feet behind your tent. Watching quietly like he always did.

You didn’t need him to be part of the event. You didn’t ask him to engage. You just wanted him to be close and hover around you. And every so often, you’d glance over your shoulder and give him a little smile–soft, unhurried, like a tether that reminded him that he was still on your mind.

That’s what he was doing when it happened.

You were helping a child–maybe four, maybe five–cut out the outline of a star from glitter paper. She was sitting in your lap, legs swinging off the edge of the bench, her small fingers clumsy around the safety scissors. You guided her hands with your own, gentle and patient, your chin tucked down as you murmured something too soft for him to hear. The girl giggled. You smiled. And Bob felt something in his chest fracture.

It bloomed sharp and sudden, like a crack in glass that spiderwebbed behind his ribs before he could stop it. A low, aching pressure that pulsed under his skin and settled into his throat. He couldn’t look away from you. From the way the little girl leaned back against your chest, utterly content, while you helped her snip the edges of her glittery star. Your voice was low, your hand steady on hers, and when she got frustrated, you smiled and told her it was perfect just the way it was.

And the little girl–she believed you.

Bob watched her beam like she’d just won a medal, then twist to throw her arms around your neck. You hugged her back instinctively, without missing a beat, without needing to think about it.

And just like that, Bob saw it.

Not as a fantasy. Not as a warm, fuzzy, distant dream.

He saw you. Sitting in a living room. Soft lamplight across your shoulders. A child curled into your lap with a crayon clutched in one hand and a juice box in the other. Your hair a mess from the day, a blanket half-draped over both of you. And him in the doorway. Holding a book in his hand that he’d forgotten to read, too caught up in the simple, breathtaking fact that this was his life. That somehow, impossibly, he’d made it here.

His throat tightened.

The thought came quietly, like breath fogging glass:

He wanted this.

He wanted you. A child. A family. Not someday, not maybe. Just–yes. He wanted tiny shoes in the hallway. A swing set in a yard. A sleepy voice calling him Dad. He wanted your laughter in a kitchen filled with baby wipes and half-assembled toys. He wanted something that was his and yours and no one else’s.

But right on the heels of that beautiful, terrifying longing came something cold and heavy.

Fear.

He swallowed, hard.

His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the dark part of his memory–low, sharp, filled with the kind of disgust that was harder to forget than fists. He could still hear the way the floor creaked before a bad night. The sting of being told he was nothing. How love only showed up with bruises attached.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

What if I turn into him? He thought.

He didn’t think he would. He knew–rationally–that he wasn’t the same. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout. He couldn’t even raise his voice without wincing at the echo. He loved gently. He loved softly. But fear didn’t care about facts. It sunk into his lungs anyway.

What if something in him broke? What if the Void came back and he couldn’t stop it? What if one day he opened his eyes and the sky was black again, and the only thing he’d ever loved was looking up at him, afraid?

He could never live with that.

Never.

And yet–

You turned slightly, and caught Bob’s eyes across the grass. You smiled at him–something so simple, so safe–and in that moment, the fear didn’t disappear, but it softened.

Because you weren’t afraid of him.

You’d never been.

Even on the days he didn’t like himself, you liked him. Even when he flinched at his own reflection, you reached for his hand and rested your chin on his shoulder. You didn’t see The Void. You didn’t see the Sentry. You just saw Bob–the man who carried your snacks in his hoodie pocket just in case you got hungry when you went out, who still got bashful when you looked at him for too long, who curled into you at night like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his life.

Bob’s hand gripped the edge of the canopy pole beside him, just to ground himself.

He wanted to go to you right then and there just to say it. To whisper something clumsy like, “I want to build a life with you. A whole one. With glue-stained paper crowns and messy bedrooms and bedtime songs.”

But he stayed still.

Too scared to break the moment.

Too scared it might not be his to want.

—————————

Later, when the event was winding down, and the sky had shifted to gold and mauve and soft watercolor blues, Bob found you sitting on the grass alone near the now-abandoned craft table, peeling dried glue off your fingers and watching a few leftover kids chase bubbles across the park. He moved towards you slowly, and his looming presence immediately got your attention.

You stopped picking at the glue on your fingers and looked up at him instantly.

”Well, hey stranger.” Bob gave a quiet huff of a laugh at the greeting and smiled down at you, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, “You gonna sit down or are you going to just stand there and stare?” You joked, patting the patch of open grass beside you. He hesitated for a second before lowering himself beside you, knees folding awkwardly in the grass. You watched him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek–light, and lingering, your lips warm against the wind-chilled skin just below his eye.

“I haven’t been able to do that all day,” You said softly, almost teasing, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.

Before Bob could even respond, you leaned in and pressed another kiss to the corner of his jaw, then to his temple, and then one right between his brows where they had scrunched up, each kiss softer and slower than the last.

By the time you pulled back, Bob’s cheeks were as red as a rose, and they had become warm, and his smile had curled wide and helpless across his face, because to him your affections were always welcome.

”Y-You’re gonna make me explode,” He mumbled, voice thick with love as he turned to hide his burning face against the shoulder of his hoodie, “This is h-how I die.” He stumbled, looking over at you with those big blue eyes you couldn’t help but stare into every night.

“Death by affection sounds like a dream to me.” You laughed, slipping your hand up to cup his cheek, to turn his face towards yours so he was looking at you directly.

“Y-You know I’m a fragile m-man.” You snorted at his comment.

”I know Sentry is dormant but you’re technically the strongest person on Earth.” You said, giving him a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re fragile.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh, his pupils blown out from how close you were.

”Y-Yeah, well…D-Don’t flatter me too much…You’ll make me f-fall in love with you or s-something.” You raised your brows at him, seeing his cheeks go an even deeper red, “I-I mean–more. Like…More in love with you.” You smiled, so warmly it made his breath catch in his throat, you could hear it.

”Almost a year in,” You whispered, brushing your nose gently against his, “And you still get all flustered with me…I love it.”

And you kissed him–gently, fully, your mouth warm and sure on his. Bob melted. His whole body slackened like your kiss had pulled all the tension right out of him. He groaned quietly and let himself fall back into the grass with a helpless thump, hoodie riding up slightly at the hem, his eyes fluttering closed like he was physically overwhelmed. You laughed lightly and laid down beside him, turning your head so you were looking at him and all his glory, feeling his hand find yours, lacing his fingers between yours instantly.

The sky above you was dimming into deeper blues now, streaked with soft brushstrokes of pink and violet. The hum of the event had finally died out completely. You could still hear the occasional giggle of a child somewhere off in the distance, but for the most part, it felt like you two were the last ones left in the park. Like the whole day had been waiting to exhale.

Bob stared up at the clouds for a moment, before letting out a small sigh.

”C-Can I ask you something…Kind of b-big?” Your eyes studied him for a moment, tracing the way his brows furrowed gently, like he was already halfway to apologizing for whatever he was about to say. Like he was bracing himself to ruin something just by saying it.

“Of course,” You replied, your voice just above a whisper, slowly growing more and more concerned with each moment that passed in silence.

Bob just kept looking up at the sky like the words were written somewhere in the clouds and he just had to find them. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your knuckles.

”Have you ever thought about…Us?” He swallowed, “I mean–not just us, b-but more like…A family.” You raised your eyebrows slowly, turning onto your side so you could face him fully, still holding his hand, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I–I watched you today,” He whispered. “With that little girl in your lap. And it didn’t feel far away…It didn’t feel like someone else’s life. It felt like something I could…Want.”

Your heart gave a soft, aching pull at that.

“I want it,” He admitted, voice trembling. “I want it so bad it scares me. You, a kid–us. A home. Not perfect. Not polished. Just ours. Something warm. Something safe.”

You reached up and gently tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingertips trailing along his temple. He leaned into the touch like it soothed something he couldn’t name.

“I want that too,” You said. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. But one day. When things are a little quieter, when the world doesn’t need us to carry it. I want that with you, Bob.” He nodded, like he was trying to let the hope settle in–but his eyes were still stormy at the edges.

“But what if…” He swallowed. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I…Mess it up l–like I always do? What if I hurt them? What if something in me snaps and I—”

“Hey,” You cut in gently, reaching up to cradle his cheek. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, his blue eyes wide and full of unshed fear, tears filling up in the corners threatening to spill at any moment.

“You’re not like your father at all Bob, you’re not him.” You said, your voice steady and firm.

”Y-You don’t know that,” He whispered, his eyes glancing away at you, making you chase his gaze a bit so he could look at you.

”I do know that…Because I know you. Because I’ve watched you fall asleep holding my hand. Because you carry two different granola bar options in your hoodie pocket in case I want a choice. Because you always refill the toothpaste without me asking. Because when I’m upset, you don’t try to fix it–you just stay with me. Quietly. Constantly.” Bob blinked, his lip trembling ever so slightly.

“You don’t lash out, Bob. You lean in,” You said. “You don’t shut down. You open up, even when it scares you. You feel everything so deeply, and you never make anyone pay for it.” His brow furrowed and he looked down, overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight of that truth.

You brought his hand up to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then whispered into the space between you:

“You already take care of me in a thousand tiny ways. You love gently. That’s why I trust you with my soul.”

He let out a shaky breath, and the hand that held yours tightened just a little more. He nodded faintly, like he was still catching up to the truth you’d handed him–like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but he was holding it anyway.

You reached up, your thumb brushing delicately at the corners of his eyes, wiping away the tears that had gathered without pressure or embarrassment. Just care.

“You cry so pretty, you know that?” You whispered, a little playful, attempting to lift the mood just a bit.

Bob let out a short, breathy laugh–surprised and soft. “Th-That’s not a real thing.”

“It is when you do it,” You smiled, leaning closer, your voice light but laced with everything you meant. “You’re beautiful when you feel things.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a future and told him it already belonged to him. Like no one had ever said that to him before–and he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from it.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, lips pressed to his like you had time. Like you weren’t afraid to show him just how loved he was.

And when you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed against his, your breath brushing his lips as you whispered:

“You’d be the safest place a little soul could ever grow.”

Bob let out another shaky breath, and this time he smiled–full, unguarded, like something inside him had just settled for the first time.

“Only if it’s with you,” He said quietly.

You nodded, your fingers lacing tighter with his.

“Then we’ll build it,” You whispered. “Slow and messy and ours.”

And beneath a darkening sky painted with stars and leftover laughter, you lay together in the grass, your future unfolding between your palms like something sacred.

Just warm.

Just real.

Just home.

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jeonginsleftcheek · 2 months ago

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Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away)

pairing: chan x afab!reader

genre: angst, smut

wc: 1.9k

synopsis: you call your best friend in the middle of the night, seeking comfort in his presence and it takes an unexpected turn.

warnings: swearing, depression, semi-public, unprotected sex, creampie, mildly proofread

a/n: i love deftones with a burning passion

masterlist

You couldn't take it anymore.

Sitting alone in your apartment as you stared out the window and into the night, watching life pass you by. While you just stood in place. The same old routine over and over again, your body was moving on autopilot at this point. It seemed as if everyone around you was getting everything they wanted. A dream job, a perfect partner, whatever their little heart desired; while you were stuck with nothing.

Your hands were always left empty just like your soul.

And the emptiness kept growing every day until your tears had dried. There was no point in crying anyways, it never brought any solution to your problems, it only gave you headaches and bloodshot eyes. Your hand reached out for your phone hesitantly, shakily.

You knew he was awake because you knew your best friend like the back of your hand. So, you called him up. And he knew just what you needed without you having to explain it. He could read it in the tone of your voice and even though it made his heart clench in pain when he saw you like this, totally and utterly defeated; he still craved to be next to you. At least as a distraction.

That's how you ended up in the passenger seat of his car somewhere around 1:30am, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, your face bare and tired. And still he gave you a dazzling smile as if he was looking at the sun, not the dark cloud filled with rain that you felt like right now.

"You wanna put your playlist on?" Chan asked and you nodded, the familiar comforting tones of Deftones' Sextape flooding through the speakers of his car made you slump into the seat instantly.

Chan didn't ask, he never did, he always waited for you to start talking about it by yourself, he knew you needed some time to collect your thoughts before pouring your soul out to him. So, he just started driving into the dark night.

You stared out the window, everything seemed to pass by so quickly the more he sped up, the lights of the city becoming a river of blurriness as you pressed your forehead against the cold glass, your warm breath creating a little cloud on it.

You hugged yourself and closed your eyes tightly. You were transported to another place, a place where you weren't lonely and disappointed. A place where you weren't a let down. A place where you felt like you actually belonged, so far away from all of it. All the smiles of people who suddenly stopped talking to you just because they found someone better, someone more interesting to share their time with. They all started fading away into the darkness of the night sky.

Chan drove and drove, your playlist was almost finished by then, meaning you had spent an hour just driving around mindlessly together. He parked in a spot you always ended up at, high up above the city where you could see every building, every road and every tree.

Silence replaced the last song of the playlist before both of you got out wordlessly. You took a deep breath of the fresh night air and walked over to the little wall that was built there for safety reasons. Chan followed you after stretching his arms and legs and you let out a deep sigh.

Both of you stared at the stars quietly, your eyes connecting the little shining dots into various shapes before they found Chan's.

He gave you a small smile and you couldn't help but return it even if it didn't quite reach your eyes.

"My intrusive thoughts are telling me to throw my phone over the wall or some shit like that." you said suddenly and Chan let out a short laugh.

"Please don't do that." he shook his head. "I really don't wanna have to go climbing down there to get it."

"I'm not that crazy."

"Debatable." he teased you and you punched his arm, making him laugh.

The two of you went quiet again before you felt the nagging sadness washing over you again.

"I wish I could fucking disappear sometimes. Or just run away from here, somewhere far away." you said as you stared at the city in front of you.

"You'd be running from yourself then. That's kind of impossible."

"Don't go all psychological on me." you rolled your eyes playfully and Chan sighed with a smile on his face. "You know what. I don't wanna talk about it at all. Sometimes I don't even know why I even feel like this. Sometimes I'm just... not me."

"It's okay, Y/n. You don't have to always have a reason for feeling down, sometimes it just is what it is." Chan said, standing closer to you.

"I know." you said quietly, suddenly feeling bad that you made him come here in the middle of the night and you couldn't even give him a proper reason for it.

But, Chan didn't mind. In fact, he loved that he was the first person you'd reach out to when you get like this, it meant he was your comfort. And you had no idea that despite millions of stars shining in the sky, your best friend still found himself drawn to the sparkle of your eyes.

His fingers twitched by his side; how many more nights of this could he take? How many more times will you hurt yourself until you finally learn just how much you're worth?

He had no idea what the hell washed over him but something snapped deep inside his soul when you looked up at him as if you were searching for an answer inside his eyes. He reached out and cupped your face, the last thing he saw before closing the distance between you was your eyes widening and then fluttering shut.

You also had no idea what came over you but as soon as Chan's lips touched yours it was like in those cliche romantic movies, the feeling like everything clicked and fell into place. It wasn't fireworks exploding as they always describe it but it was definitely a fire burning deep inside you. The spark was always there and you just needed one push to finally ignite it.

Your hands clutched onto his shirt as you pulled him closer and his hand splayed on the back of your neck as he tilted your head and pushed his tongue into your awaiting mouth. Everything was spinning around you, and you were enveloped in Chan's warmth and his familiar smell.

Your brain melted and you couldn't think about consequences as he gripped your hair and swirled his tongue around yours. You couldn't form one coherent thought as he backed you up against the car, pressing his body against yours, making you feel wanted, warm, protected. You grabbed at his shoulders as his hands landed on your waist, then slid down to your hips, gripping you as if to ground himself. His lips never left yours not until you needed to breathe desperately.

You gasped for air and Chan opened the back door, a darkness in his eyes that you've never seen before but it made you shiver, tingles running up your spine.

"Get in the back." he said, softly but firmly and you got in, grabbing his hand and pulling him with you. As soon as he sat down and closed the door you were pulled into his lap and you pressed yourself against him. Neither of you said anything, your bodies melted together as your hands roamed on each other, lips dancing together again.

"Chan... please." you said, you had no idea what you were asking for, you only knew that you needed him to completely cover you and to erase everything with his touches and kisses.

Chan was everywhere, his lips and teeth on your neck, hands on your thighs, your hips, your ass, your back. He was mapping you out, making you his, making you feel everything you always craved for.

"Fuck! I can't take it." you don't remember the last time someone touched you like he did, kissed you like he did and you started grinding on him, even through layers of clothing you could feel how hot and hard he was and you were getting desperate.

Desperate to erase all the thoughts plaguing your tired mind.

Clothes were pulled off, albeit clumsily in the small space of the back of his car and Chan didn't even have time to admire you and worship you like he always wanted, you were already grabbing his length and lining yourself up.

"Wait, wait!" he stopped you and you looked at him, your heart beating hard against your chest.

"Are you sure?" he asked. You knew there was no going back or backing out of this right now.

"Yes." you said and sank down on him, whimpering at the stretch. Chan let out a low grunt as his hands gripped your hips, his middle lifting up automatically into you.

"God, you're so tight." he groaned and looked at you and you whimpered, your entire body shivering.

There was a thought in the back of your mind, a realization that you were fucking your best friend and that nothing will be the same after this but you ignored it and started moving on top of him. Chan guided you, holding your waist and helping you fuck yourself on him as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and fell forward into him, your breasts pressing into his chest.

"That's it baby... Fuck, just like that." Chan groaned and couldn't help it as his hips lifted up to meet yours. You clenched around him involuntarily when he spoke like that, his voice soft and familiar in your ear.

Nothing existed in that moment except him, his hands on your skin, his lips on your neck, his low moans in your ear and his length buried deep inside you. The car windows fogged up from the warmth your bodies created and all your worries melted into a puddle somewhere in the back of your mind. It doesn't matter, that was the only phrase bouncing around in your brain as Chan gripped your hips with a bruising hold, fucking up harder into you and bringing you back to the present moment.

You almost didn't realize you were making such loud sounds until you became aware of yourself, your body as it tensed up, close to the edge you so desperately wanted to fall off of.

"Fuck, Y/n!" Chan moaned your name, like a prayer spilling from his lips and you were pushed off the cliff as you exploded around him, your entire body shaking and your ears ringing.

As you clenched around him, Chan lost it, drowning in your warmth, your scent, your hands, your body slick with sweat and he pushed you down on him, burying himself so deep inside as he came, moaning your name over and over again.

You slumped against him, the warmth of his seed filling you up completely erased any thought left in your brain. Chan didn't say anything, afraid to break the fragile moment and have you try to run away from him. He held onto you, his embrace warm and familiar as you clung onto him, your face buried in his neck and your hearts beating together rhythmically.

You didn't want to think about what this meant or what tomorrow could bring.

But Chan's warm hand found yours and you thought that maybe, just maybe, life can be bearable if he was there with you and this time you wouldn't be left empty.

@moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @moon-ttokki-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @hwangjoanna @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them @mariahxrrera @0omillo0 @halfwinterhalfuniverse @cooldeermagazine @delulkpopstan143 @todorokiskitten @compersian @azxulskz @stayp1eceposts @minniesverse @skzdreamer13 @0325ale @j-ji-jia @shannthewriter @mhluvie @my-neurodivergent-world @hyyunjinnn @spookybuttsstuff-blog @pancake-freckle @felixsbrowniesarmystayengene @minhooofr @hyunjincanraptoo @yaorzu-blog @ari-hwanggg @linofthelace @hyunjinlosthisamericano @the2000girlani @hhjlvr @beabidoobee @psychicdreamers

the playlist i love sm:

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esote-rika · 3 months ago

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𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Series masterlist Pairing: Spencer Reid x femBAU!reader Category: smut 18+ MDNI, angst Summary: Attending Rossi's wedding while nursing the betrayal of your boyfriend, you find solace (and revenge) in the arms of Dr. Spencer Reid. Content: 7.7k porn with a plot. Mentions of smoking and drinking, reader wears a dress, heels, and make up, and cheats on her shitty bf, semi-public sex, oral (m and f receiving), softdom!Spencer, fingering, overstimulation, squirting, reader is called naughty girl and good girl, very slight degradation, lots of praise, big dick!Spencer, size kink, unprotected p in v, creampie, rumination and references to sin and Eve and religion in general, probably blasphemous, Jeid mention, unhealthy coping mechanisms, this is kinda toxic but it's sexy I swear (I HOPE; yell at me nicely if i missed anything) A/N: this fic had been MARINATING for more than a month. Probably overwritten and self-indulgent, years of Catholic trauma rlly just spilled onto my docs ya know. Tried very very hard to make the smut worth it because there's so much build up and I'd hate for the smut to be meh. Lost the plot multiple times. Reached the point of i’m sick of this fic pls let it end but ultimately it's a piece that I’m actually proud of. Dedicated to user @notlongtolove for the yap fest and brainstorming, iykyk!!! Pls enjoy while I rejoice; this mammoth is finally over. Special request to leave a comment so I feel accomplished, pretty please tyyyy.

Rossi's wedding had been your opportunity to introduce your new boyfriend to the team. You've taken great pains to keep your relationship private, a feat that makes you proud because the amount of things that gets past Penelope Garcia is next to nothing. But somehow, in the past four months, you've managed. You've passed the threshold, the personal rule of three months of privacy, of keeping things on the down low, and you had been excited to stroll up to Rossi's fourth wedding in the arms of Cameron, your boyfriend of nearly five months.

Unfortunately, you'd caught another woman's underwear in his car nearly a week before the day of the wedding. He still hasn't admitted to his betrayal, no matter how many times you've pleaded and talked to him. You already know, anyway. It's easy enough to tell from his body language. The twitch of his lips he does whenever he's nervous, the way he overuses the phrase come on, every single one of his tells point to his infidelity. You've used every trick in the profiler handbook— interrogation, an attempt to seduce, anger— none has worked.

Your pathetic boyfriend would only repeat that he loves you so much, why are you acting like this?

So you're a depressing cloud on Rossi's big day. You hide it behind a big smile, which would normally be unconvincing, but everyone is too wrapped up in the festivities to look too closely at your hastily erected facade.

And it’s worked, for the most part. You know it’s not because of your acting skills, but more because there’s too much going on to pay attention to you. And disappearing as part of the crowd allows you to observe and stew in your betrayal, fingertips tingling with the desire to get even somehow.

You wish you could say he’d tempted you. Pursued you with gentle brushes of his hands on the exposed skin of your back, bewitched you with his dimpled smile, so inhumanly beautiful you just couldn’t say no. How could you resist temptation when it is being presented to you by someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself?

Because Spencer Reid has always been something akin to divinity, at least to you. As the BAU's newest recruit— appointed and transferred by the infamous Linda Barnes herself—you've had to fight tooth and nail to earn the team's trust.

Now, Linda Barnes is gone, you have a spot on the team, and Spencer Reid remains elusive.

His reputation preceded him, of course, one of the smartest active agents, incarcerated for something he didn't do. He's kind in the moments you've spent with him, with a bumbling earnestness that you've found endearing.

He's also incredibly beautiful.

So who could blame you if you did give in to his advances? People stronger than you have succumbed, after all, and you, in your vulnerable, lovelorn glory, would not have been responsible if you decided to take a bite from the forbidden apple, right? Giving in to temptation is the lesser sin, more forgivable, would absolve you of guilt especially after the betrayal you've gone through.

Except Spencer Reid hadn’t pursued you. The meeting had been accidental, at least that’s what you tell yourself. You’d seen him leave towards the end of the ceremony. Of course you did, you had been watching him all night. Sometime towards the end of the ceremony, while the minister was talking about the importance of second chances, he’d slipped away.

You had been the one to go after him. In your defense, you’ve been itching to get your hands on a cigarette since you got here. Weddings have always made you giddy, excited. It’s a celebration of love, after all, a declaration of two people’s commitment to each other. In sickness and health. But Cameron's infidelity weighs heavily upon your shoulders, and though you've borne more than this—you're a BAU agent, after all, you face horrors on a daily basis—it's still difficult to set aside the burn when you're surrounded by happy couples.

So you’d put your focus on Dr. Reid: handsome in his suit, but something about him seemed distracted. Perhaps he'd been banking upon the wedding as a distraction, just like you had been. Everyone is too busy with the happy couple to pay attention to two lonely souls.

But he's wrong. You've got your eye on him, and you see something in his amber irises that reflect your own.

Loneliness.

Why is Spencer Reid lonely?

It’s the intrigue that ultimately leads you out into the hallways. And when you stumble upon his brooding form, your excuse is truthful, “I'm trying to find the bathroom.”

He kindly escorts you to the correct wing, making small talk. Something about wedding dresses not being white historically. You smile and nod, thanking him graciously as you slip into the ladies room. When you leave the bathroom after basically inhaling a stick of cigarette, he’s still lingering outside. Waiting by the wall, smiling upon your return.

“Oh,” you return his smile, “You’re still here.”

“Figured we could walk back together.” his nose wrinkled a little as you stepped closer, the smell of your cigarette apparently not sufficiently disguised.

You're smile becomes sheepish, shaking your head, “I thought I was being slick by spraying perfume, but apparently not.”

He laughs. It reminds you of the church bells that rang for the wedding. Rich and lilting.

“Not to judge, but why the need for a smoke break?”

“Why should there be a reason?”

“You've told me you only smoke when you're stressed out.” Fuck. “Why are you stressed out?”

“Just having a bad day.”

It's the wrong answer, because his gaze zeroes in on you, oozing with an intense curiosity. “On Rossi's wedding?”

“Not because of it,” You laugh airily, but in the quiet of the hallway, it's much more difficult to pretend that everything is okay. Two can play at this game though. “Why are you out here?”

He averts his gaze to his shoes, brows furrowing in a way that makes you blood spike. He’s hiding something.

“I just needed some fresh air.” he pushes his hands deep into his pockets, lifting his gaze from the floor and dragging it through your form, taking in your appearance in the cocktail dress you’ve donned for the wedding. His voice is strangled when he speaks again,, “You look lovely. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to tell you yet.”

“Thank you. You look very dashing too.” A pause stretches between you. In that quiet moment, it seems like the universe has presented the perfect way of retaliation for you. The nicotine had made you bold, audacious. And if you’d read him correctly, then he’s in need of relief as much as you are, the kind of relief a simple cigarette wouldn’t fix. You step closer, looking straight into his eyes, “Truth be told, I’m not in any hurry to go back.”

You see his jaw clench, the beautiful brain of his going a thousand miles per minute, likely computing every possible meaning of your words. His eyes flicker to your lips, and you decide to help him out, taking another step forward and tilting your head up.

When you kissed him, he didn’t even hesitate to kiss you back. Mouth parting, fingers tightly clenched at your waist, pulling you closer and closer until space felt like a foreign concept altogether. He is an insistent kisser, leaning his whole weight into you as his lips opened and sucked at yours.

The dark corner isn’t ideal, but it was the closest space at your disposal. Neither of you are willing to spend more time looking for somewhere to hide, not when you could spend that time running your hands and lips in places undiscovered. Your lips across the strong angle of his jaw, his stubble tickling your skin. Spencer tonguing the space beneath your ear, fragrant with traces of your perfume. Your hand massaging him into an erection through the fabric of his pants.

He lets out the prettiest moan when you drop to your knees in front of him.

You don’t miss the irony of it as you tugged and undid his belt and zipper, fully conscious of the act you’re about to commit. Kneeling in a chapel, for all the wrong reasons.

“Are you sure?” the words spill from his lips so sweetly, as if he isn't standing before you with his erection only inches from your face. Long and thick and already leaking precum at the tip.

You take him into your mouth as an answer, condemning yourself to your fate. Spencer is beautiful like the devil, and you’re Eve succumbing to the first sin.

Two wrongs do not make a right. You know this. Everyone does. A lesson as old as time itself, written in languages you can’t comprehend. Even mathematics dictates that adding two negative integers does not cancel them out—the negative value merely increases. You should not retaliate on your boyfriend by committing the very sin that hurt you in the first place. By all accounts, nothing good should come from it.

Yet here you are, on your knees for a man as pretty as the devil himself. A man very much not your boyfriend.

Even fucking worse, your coworker.

Tucked in some dark corner—not even given the dignity of a dusty closet. That at least would have given you complete privacy. No, you’re on your knees in some seemingly abandoned hallway, half hidden by a combination of the dim lights, and ostentatious pillars, and him. His lean body shields you from general view as your lips stretched around his throbbing length.

You learn that he is a contradiction. A large hand gathers your perfectly styled curls, holding them at the crown of your head. Gentle, careful. The other rests just beneath your jaw, holding your head still as he slowly pushes his hips forward. Your nails grip his pants as your mouth stretches around his girth. The fabric wrinkles under your clutches as the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, then begins to push beyond it.

Only half of his length in and you're already choking.

Wide, panicked eyes dart up to meet his deceptively honeyed ones. You consider pulling back, just to catch your breath but you can’t; his hands are holding you steady. Oddly enough, the look in his eyes helps you relax. There’s something inherently trustworthy about those ochre irises, despite the fact that his pupils have blown up so much and nearly eclipsed them. Maybe you’re too used to indifference from Cameron, too used to sex being so clinical and borderline perfunctory, that the unbridled lust in his gaze excites you instead of scare you away.

Still, it doesn’t help the little choking issue you’re currently having.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs. You blink back the tears that have gathered at your lashes, still maintaining eye contact with him. Spencer sighs, pulls his cock out. Mercy. It's not something you deserve, but you take advantage of the moment wisely, following his instructions and breathing through your nose.

The stench of sin is musky and stale. You fill your lungs with it all the same, just as he rams his cock back down your throat and fills your mouth. He hisses when you gag around him lightly, but doesn’t stop. You realize that you’d probably chase after him if he does anyway.

His thumb caresses your cheek, “That’s it, good girl. You can take it.”

Well fuck.

It’s a little too much, balancing on your knees like this while he uses your mouth and throat, but you push through because he says you can. You fancied yourself the seductress, but somehow, the tides have turned and you’re little more than putty in his hands.

His cock glides in and out of your mouth with ease, painting chapped red marks from your lipstick along the veined length with every push of his hips. Finding your balance, you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, stroking up what you can't fit into your mouth. After a few clumsy attempts, you manage to match the rhythm of his hips.

What a pretty figure you make, on your knees, looking up at him with fluttering lashes. You moan around his length, sending vibrations up his spine, and are rewarded by his mouth falling open, a wordless expression of pleasure. He continues to fuck your mouth, never breaking eye contact as he eases his cock deeper with each thrust. Tears gather at your lash line every time he goes down your throat.

You’re sure your throat is distending in order to accommodate his girth, and it makes your own pussy clench at the idea. What would it be like to have such a large cock inside your walls, filling you? It makes you moan again, and Spencer’s hand tightens at your hair. His pace quickens, and you hollow your cheeks, urging him to continue.

You hear his undoing before you feel it, strained groans tumbling from trembling lips, before his hips thrust forward and suddenly your nose is pressed to his crotch, and there’s an explosion at the back of your throat. He holds you there, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corners of your ruined mouth as he blows his load deep in your throat.

Yeah, he definitely needed that.

You swallow what you can, but that’s difficult when there’s a huge cock obstructing your throat.

It ends up being a mess, combination of your saliva and his cum dripping out of your mouth and onto the floor. How fitting. In the back of your mind, you’re just happy that only a few drops landed on your dress. Easy enough to clean. Miraculously. Your conscience, however, is an entirely different story.

Still, some part of you can’t even begin to feel bad. Cameron had cheated first, he’d broken the bounds of your relationship first.

Sure, this is still wrong. You have no moral ascendency to stand on, but who cares about any of that when Spencer Reid is kneeling before you with gentle hands and even gentler eyes?

“Are you all right?” he murmurs, his voice slow and sensual like dripping honey.

Somehow, your voice does not betray you, coming out clear and far more confident than you’re actually feeling. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He smiles, thumbs wiping away some of the residue off your lips, “Are you sure? You look a little dazed.”

You laugh, “I mean, yeah, but I just need to catch my breath.”

He takes your hand, helps you stand back up. “I think another trip to the bathroom is in order.” he says as he guides you to the bathroom again.

When you get there, you are a wreck of the highest order, curls dishevelled despite his attempts to be careful, lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your chin is still a little moist from the drool and cum that had dripped down. Tear tracks drag down your cheeks, but thankfully your eye makeup and foundation are only a little smudged. Nothing a little dab of a napkin won’t fix.

You fix what you can—quick spray of perfume, reapplication of lipstick. Hands steady as you work. You aren't sure if this is a sign of guilt, or lack of it. You don't really care. He's gone when you leave the bathroom now, and the soft, treacherous side of your heart fills with disappointment. You remind yourself that it's better this way, less conspicuous, if he returns to the wedding before you.

Still, swallowing his load with an obstructed throat somehow had been easier than swallowing the bitter disappointment that builds in the back of your tongue.

The ceremony is just about to end when you return to the makeshift chapel, people standing and clapping as David and Krystall Rossi share the sweetest kisses. A celebration of love and second chances. After what you've done with Spencer, you know this is out of your cards now. You've fallen far beyond redemption, shot the remnants of your relationship with Cameron after kneeling in service of another man.

You catch sight of Spencer, standing in the midst of other agents. Clapping like everyone else, but his eyes are trained upon something else. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow his gaze, trying to approximate what he's looking at.

Or rather— whom.

If you're correct, then he's looking at someone.

Oh.

Blonde hair, a slim frame in a beautiful red dress that perfectly accentuates the long, muscled lines of her arms and legs. Beside her, a man with salt and pepper hair and kind blue eyes. His arm at her waist. Your coworker and her husband. JJ and Will.

Oh.

Your gaze returns to Spencer, and despite your attempts not to dig deep, not to learn why he's looking so forlorn, it’s easy to put the pieces together. Whether or not this is a full blown affair isn’t important; all you know is he wants her, and she's married to another man.

Is this connected to the previous case? You recall the last case, the hostage situation in LA. He and JJ had been in there for a long time, but neither really shared what exactly happened. Nobody knows except for the two of them, the unsub, and the victims. You aren’t about to pull rank and ask traumatized people about the drama between your coworkers. You’re better than that.

Are you?

Yes. You don’t hold much sacred, but your job is important. It is above you. You aren’t about to jeopardize it over some workplace drama.

But still, the curiosity gnaws at you no matter how much you attempt to tamp it down. Does he have feelings for JJ? Does she, for him? She couldn’t possibly; she has a husband, two beautiful kids. Easy enough to deduce that it’s probably Spencer, then, who is pining after her.

As though he feels your stare, Spencer looks over at you. Hurriedly, you avert your eyes, heart pounding faster than you would like it to.

Was he thinking about JJ while he used your mouth?

The thought knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you banish it to the deepest crevices of your mind. It shouldn't matter.

It doesn't. It doesn't.

You don’t have any room to judge, anyway. You’ve dragged Spencer into your own messy relationship by sucking him off in the middle of the wedding. A relationship he doesn’t even know about. So, with a smile, you clap for the new couple, and follow the crowd to the reception.

Joy and excitement are nearly palpable in the room. A small, intimate crowd of smiling faces surrounded by the tastefully extravagant decor, obviously paid for by the wealthy groom. The air is filled with that soft, electric energy that often occurs when people are happy and sufficiently buzzed with some drinks.

The only thing on your mind is him.

How can it not be, when you can still remember the little tryst you'd had prior. The weight of him in your mouth, the fetid mess of skin and cum and the lingering nicotine.

It passes by in a blur. The food is delicious, you gush to Portia, you look so beautiful; congratulations, to the new couple. None of it is fake, but you are possessed by a single, irrevocable urge to watch Spencer. That glance at JJ has intrigued you more than you should be. What sort of web had you stumbled upon? And instead of trying to get out, you're eager to spin more.

Bringing the champagne flute to your lips, you pretend to sip, allowing the glass to obscure some parts of your face while you continue to watch them. They’ve met up at the bar now, deep in conversation, hands clasped together in a way that’s far too intimate to be just friends. You can't tear your eyes away as JJ leaves, returning to the embrace of her husband, and you watch with an almost sick sense of fascination as Spencer lingers by the bar. Longing, pure and unmistakable, is etched upon every line on his face.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are moving, gliding across the floor until you're beside him. He startles, brows lifting as he gazes at you. Your name slips through his lips with an exhale.

“You don't have to act like I'm a ghost, Spencer.” your lips quirk up in a teasing grin as the bartender refills your glass of champagne.

He looks chagrined, the implications of your words hitting him like a brick. “I’m not, you just seemed like you were having fun with Garcia.” he says, leaning on the counter. His eyes travel down the length of you again.

“You’re right, but you were looking a little lonely,” you take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbly drink fizzle in your mouth and wash away the taste of him. “So, what was that with JJ?”

He sputters, eyes wide as his gaze darts back to your blonde coworker—now currently wrapped up in her husband’s arms.

“Nothing!”

“Holding hands when you’re a known germaphobe doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“I’m not that bad,” he protests, shaking his head, “I’d hold your hand too, but that’s besides the point.”

“It is,” you agree, tilting your head innocently, as your voice lowers, “Just wanted to know who you were imaging in place of me.”

He looks horrified to be reminded of your little quickie from before, “No one. It’s not—I wasn’t using you to—god, it’s not like that.”

“I’m not judging you if it was,” It’s true. It’s exactly what you’re doing with him, using him to forget about Cameron, to get back at him. Poor Spencer just doesn’t know about your secrets. Your amused look only makes him fluster even more.

“It isn’t,” he insists, “I just –”

“Listen, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, fighting the urge to rest a reassuring hand on his forearm. The words are true anyway; you don’t wish to unearth whatever secrets he wants to keep buried. You have your own, anyway; it’s only fair he’s allowed his secrecy. Your reasons for approaching him are entirely different, and perhaps a little self serving. But you’ve already condemned yourself to being the bearer of temptation, you might as well take full advantage of it.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you grin as you lift the recently refilled glass to your lips, “You know I have a room for the night… in case you want to blow off more steam.”

The invitation makes his eyes darken in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar. “You’re—we shouldn’t.”

“Who would know?” you quirk a brow in response, “Besides, it’s pretty much tradition for people to hook up at a wedding. Why shouldn’t it be us?” Please, say yes.

“We’re coworkers.”

“We’re adults.” you deliberately don’t say single adults, “It’s fine. Listen, I booked a room because I didn’t want to deal with the traffic, so if you want, it’s 309B. Completely up to you.” with a smile, you leave him at the bar and Spencer Reid is forced to watch a woman walk away from him for the second time.

That night, there's knocking at your hotel door—three sharp, no nonsense knocks that seem to mean business—echoes in your room minutes before midnight. You don’t bother looking through the peephole to confirm who’s on the other side. The moment you open the door, there’s not a lot of build up.

He’s shed his suit jacket; wearing only the white button down, slightly rumpled from the day’s events. His crown of light brown curls, carefully pushed back earlier, had fallen all over his forehead, messy tendrils tumbling across his face.

He takes one look at you—still in your lavender dress, but devoid of makeup and no more heels to add inches to your height. In the dimness of the room, you are diminutive, stripped of the ethereal mystique you bore from earlier. Human.

God, he wants you.

Not even as someone to help him forget about JJ. No, he wants you in your entirety, to possess you even for one night.

He kisses you again, but there’s no rush to his movements now. The previous rendezvous had been hasty in every sense of the word, made within minutes in an attempt to alleviate the desperate need all while staying safely hidden and inconspicuous.

Now, you have the entire night. He intends to make full use of it. He kicks the door closed behind him, one hand reaching back to lock it as the other tilts your face up so he can kiss you deeper. Your own arms snake around his neck, hands burying into those messy curls. There’s no more public reception to worry about; you can tug and twist and mess with it as much as you want.

Spencer groans into your mouth, hands tight at your hips, before pulling back slightly, “Jump.” he mumbles against your lips.

Your body reacts as if it’s wired to obey him, launching off the balls of your feet. His hands help to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his hips.

“You smell so good,” He whispers as he noses through your neck, before his teeth close around your earlobe. You giggle, urging him on by craning your neck to the side. His teeth tug on your earlobe playfully as he crosses the room to your bed. He toes off his shoes and lays you down carefully, his body hovering above yours while his kisses travel down your neck. Soft and sloppy and wet, they mark you like a brand.

Long, eager fingers hike your dress up, bunching it up your thighs, past your hips, and you hear him groan when your bare pussy is exposed to his darkened gaze.

“No panties?” he runs a finger up your folds, gathering your slick, “Don’t tell me you’re been going around like this all day?”

“Maybe I have,” you grin, legs parting even more to accommodate him. You haven’t—you’d just been touching yourself to the thought of him as you waited, but you’re not about to tell him that.

“Naughty girl,” he mumbles, one long finger pushing past your entrance and curling into you, “And so wet, too. You get off on being this dirty, or am I just lucky?”

A breathy laugh escapes your lips, “Which one would you prefer?” you ask, because tonight, you’re not yourself. Not really. You’re whoever he needs to be, the same way he’s exactly what you need right now. A body to which you can lose yourself.

“I’d like to think this is all just for me,” he adds another finger, the pace languorous and teasing.

“It is,” you gasp as he curls his fingers, then withdraws. Torturously slow, he fucks you with two lengthy fingers, hitting the spot inside you with ease. Your toes curl into the bed, sinking into the soft mattress, “Faster.”

“So needy,” he murmurs, shaking his head as he takes you in. There’s something addictive in the way you look in this moment, spread out beneath him like something unreal and sublime.

Your hips buck up. Something volatile simmers beneath your skin, desperate for more, “Please.”

Spencer chuckles as he watches you, fingers stilling inside your fluttering walls. Hovering above you with soft brown curls framing his face, he looks every bit an angel come to life. The laughter continues, his lips twisting into a sneer as you push your hips up desperately.

“So, so needy.” he repeats, but he acquiesces to your plea. More than that, he sinks a third finger inside you and speeds up. A cry of surprise and pleasure falls from your lips, head thrown back as he works his fingers inside you, “Oh, you’re taking it so well.”

Shame unfurls in your chest. What are you doing? Begging another man to fuck you with his fingers? Enjoying it? Is this truly what you’ve come to?

It’s not something you can dwell on, as Spencer begins to curl his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit. It circles the nub slowly, adding a layer of stimulation that has your thighs trembling. With a squeal, you writhe, moving to close your legs as the sensations become red-hot, building up closer and closer to a crescendo.

Spencer tuts teasingly, one leg pressing down on your thighs, and his other hand coming to grip your hip and hold you in place. “No, no, darling, I want to see you coming undone on my fingers.” he says, continuing to make come hither motions inside you.

“God—oh, I’m so—ah!” words trip over one another as you approach your climax, the world coming down into one point of focus. “Spencer!”

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmurs, laying his body over you as his fingers help you through your orgasm, “There you go.”

You’re thankful for the weight of him; it is a grounding presence in the midst of all the flurry. You’ve come undone at the hands of another man—literally. Never mind that Cameron had betrayed your trust first; you are no better than him.

But if sin felt as good as Spencer Reid’s kisses, then you have no qualms indulging.

His lips are upon you again, traveling down your collarbone and nipping at the skin there. You whine and wrap your legs around his waist, sensitive but still eager for more. He laughs against your skin with a tenderness that takes you by surprise.

“Are you always this needy?”

“No,” you’ve had a taste of the forbidden fruit earlier. Thrown out of Eden, you’re already past the point of no return. Might as well succumb and have one hell of a time. “Only for you.”

He hums, pushing your dress up again. It gets caught somewhere around your chest and there’s a brief moment of awkward laughter as he tries to tug at it, force it up and off you.

“Zipper,” you gasp when your brain finally works. Lifting yourself up on your elbows allows him to slide his hands to your back, find the dangling piece of metal and ease it down. The dress loosens across your shoulders and chest, and he’s finally able to pull it off altogether.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, descending upon you once again, “So beautiful.”

His words have you preening, and you wonder how something so insignificant as the word beautiful could make you feel so heavy. You used to associate delight with weightlessness, floating and light, but everything about Spencer is lumbering and grounded especially after he came back from prison.

You feel his lips and tongue making their way down, kissing every inch of your body. He tugs your bra down, not even bothering to take it off completely, your breast spilling forth and free for his touch. He takes one nipple and sucks, while his thumb circles and gently tugs the other. Every single act has you gasping, and you wonder when and where the hell did Spencer Reid ever learn how to do this? You shouldn’t question it though.

When his mouth lands upon your hips, you jerk. “Spencer,” you gasp, looking down on him, but there’s no more teasing from him now, no hesitation. Before you can even formulate what to say next—you don’t have to, I’ve already cum, I’m still so sensitive—his mouth is at your core, tongue lapping up what remains of your previous orgasm and all evidence of your arousal.

“Fuck!” you are not responsible for your actions anymore, not responsible for the way your fingers find his russet curls and tug hard, the way your thighs try to clamp shut around his head. He chuckles against you, the sound sending tingling vibrations that travel from your pussy to the tips of your toes and fingers.

“Settle down,” laughter drips from his gentle admonishment, “Or I’ll stop.”

“Please don’t.” you’re past the point of shame and guilt, eager to beg and obey as much as he wants. The positions have turned since the tryst in the hallway. No longer are you on your knees for him, no longer the one servicing him and choking around his length, yet somehow you’re still at his mercy. “Don’t stop, please, so good.”

He laughs, and you feel something sliding past your entrance. You clench around it involuntarily, as if you can tell what it is from the mere feeling, but then his mouth wraps around your clit and you’re reeling into oblivion once again.

“Spencer!” you thrash against the pillows, overwhelmed and sensitive but still eager to take more, “Spencer, oh my god, Spencer!” you lose count of how many times you’ve uttered his name from your lips. It has simultaneously lost every meaning, yet retained all of it. An invocation of fervent desire from a lowly, undeserving sinner. Thankfully, your god is merciful and giving, because Spencer wraps his arms around your thighs to hold you down, sucks at your clit harshly and thrusts into you again—fingers, you now realize, all three spreading you open and curling deep inside you.

With everything going on, your climax comes as no surprise. You and Spencer are both expecting it, you’re so worked up after all. What makes you both pause is the fact that something gushes out of you as you arch off the bed and cry out his name.

His movement stills for a split second, before he continues and helps you through your orgasm, tongue lapping at the mess between your legs as your body is wracked with the aftershocks, trembling beneath him. After a few moments, he stops, resting his head at your hip.

Looking at him feels like a risk. Fear keeps your eyes squeezed shut, afraid of what you’ll find. More teasing? Disgust? Doesn’t seem like it, from the way his fingertips are trailing over your thighs. You lift your lids again, eyes meeting his own hazy ones. They are nearly black, but what pulls your attention are his lips and chin. Glistening with slickness.

Your slick.

“Oh god,” your words are half groan, half laugh when the reality hits you, “Did I really?”

He laughs again, light and tender. “I believe you did.”

“I’m sorry.” you mutter, feeling utterly mortified that you just squirted all over your coworker’s face.

Spencer’s expression is one of mischief, but his eyes gleam with something darker. “What for?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Another laugh, “But I wanna hear it,” he coos, pressing his lips to your hip bone, “Come on, darling, what are you sorry for?”

When you don’t answer, he nips at your skin playfully, slowly moving back to your center. Your pussy throbs both in anticipation and overstimulation.

“Spencer.”

“Mhm?”

“Too sensitive.” you try to squirm out of his grip. It only tightens, presses you deeper into the mattress.

A lick, teasing and light. “Tell me why you’re sorry.”

“Spencer!”

“Come on,” He's grinning, the bastard, “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I squirted in your face.”

He bites your inner thigh with more force than usual, “You shouldn't be.”

“Hm?”

“I loved it,” He murmurs, soothing the bite with a flick of his tongue, “Wanna see you do it again.”

You shudder, though you’re unsure whether it’s from his moistened tongue, or his words. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he drags himself up, kissing along your body as he does so, “Think you can be a good girl and do it again for me?”

“I think that’s entirely dependent on how well you do.”

Soft, dewy lips curl into a smirk at your challenge, and suddenly he’s sin incarnate, a devil about to pounce. Once again, how are you to deny this man of anything? How could you resist temptation when someone who looks like he’s been carved by the hands of God himself is looking at you as though you were the masterpiece? Liquid gold irises take you in, inspecting every inch of your body with unabashed want, and you’re reminded of the fact that he’s fully clothed, cock straining through his pants, and you’re in nothing but your flimsy bra that’s been pulled down your chest it’s not even covering anything anymore.

You fight the urge to squirm under his gaze, but then his hands come up your sides, ghost over your ribs and your back until he finds the hook of your bra.

“Not really fair,” you say as the last strip of your clothing falls away, your chest heaving from the sheer weight of his gaze, “I want to see you too.” with that, you reach for him, deft fingers quickly undoing the buttons of his shirt.

He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t help, only continues to regard you with quiet intensity.

Once his clothes are off, he meets your lips again. His kisses are slower this time, an almost dreamy tangle of tongue and teeth, but his body is hot and slick with sweat even as he holds himself on his elbows above you. His cock rests upon your lower abdomen, its heft reminding you of how much your mouth had to stretch to accommodate him earlier. How the length and girth had all but blocked your airways as he thrusted into your throat.

You clench around nothing at the idea of that same cock filling your pussy.

His kisses move down your jaw, down the column of your throat, being careful not to suck too hard on the skin and leave marks. You never know when you might be called in for a case, and he doesn’t want any trouble.

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance.

You grin and shake your head, “No, I want to see if you can make me squirt again, or if that last one was just beginner’s luck.”

Laughter. You’re beginning to find sex with Spencer enjoyable on more than just the physical aspect. He drags the tip of his cock over your folds, combining his precum and your arousal into a heady, natural lubrication. He’s big, you already know that, but right now, you’re so pleasure drunk that you have no problem opening up to him.

You can tell he’s being careful, pushing his tip in slowly, and your entrance flutters, stretches around him. There’s a slight burn, but it’s accompanied by awe, overtaken by pleasure. You marvel at how his cock sinks into your slick, velvety heat, the way every slight thrust makes your body conform to his own as he carves out a space for himself.

As if he belongs there.

As if you’re his.

Every single memory about your cheating boyfriend is expelled from your mind with every thrust of his hips. You moan and clench around him at the thought.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips stilling. His cock is only halfway through, and you already look so fucked out, “Careful with that, darling, or this is gonna end sooner than we’d like.”

Your lower lip trembles, but you nod, spreading your thighs apart even further. “Sorry.”

He kisses that expression away, “Don’t be sorry,” two large hands hold your thighs in place, keeping you spread for him as he sinks in another inch. And then another. You’re so wet, and he’s done such a great job stretching you out that your walls engulf him easily.

“Oh god!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you. You hear a chuckle, before he retreats, pulls out almost all the way, and once again you’re clenching around his length as though you’re trying to convince him to stay buried inside you.

“Stop clenching.”

“Can’t help it!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” With a soft hiss, he thrusts back inside, still slow and steady. The curse makes you gasp; you’ve never heard him curse before, somehow it’s even more jarring than when he’s murmuring filth into your ears. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you, unblinking and focused, watching your every reaction. “You okay?”

“Fuck yes,” you gasp as his thrusts grow steady. The world seems to disappear around you, the only point of importance is where your bodies are coming together repeatedly. You reach up, hands seeking for something to ground you, and finding purchase at his tangled curls, “Oh god, yes!”

It’s funny, crying out for a god you don’t really believe in. Crying out for a god when you’re in the midst of sin, carnal pleasure and infidelity and who knows what else, you were never religious to begin with. You wonder if this is what religion is, this free fall, the blind surrender. But faith as you know it believes in something unseen, the conviction to the intangible and unexplained.

Spencer is very much here, and you can feel him between your thighs, his very existence present in the stretch of your walls around his cock, the soft curls you’ve woven around your fingers. He keeps his thrusts slow but deep, letting your walls feel every single vein and ridge on his cock.

“Spencer,” you moan, one hand falling to his face, soft palm on the stubble at his jaw, “Feels so good.”

“You too,” he turns his face, pressing his lips to the warmth of your hand. He’s very tender, his movements measured to ensure your comfort, “God, you’re taking me so well.”

Your walls tighten around him in response.

Something seems to ignite in his brain, his hand catching your wrist, pulling it from his face and pinning it to the bed. “You like that, my pretty girl? Like knowing you’re doing a good job for me?”

Fuck. The same rush of heat from when he’d had you on your knees fills your stomach. The heat that compels you to do whatever he wants, take whatever he’ll give in order to hear more of his praise. Like a devoted servant, at the service of a benevolent god.

“Yes,” you gasp, hooking one leg around his hips, while the other is bent at an angle, foot pressed to the mattress in order to allow you some leverage to meet his thrusts. It’s sloppy at first, your body not entirely in your control right now.

“That’s it, my darling, you can do it.” he mutters encouragingly, pausing to allow you to join in this tangled, exhilarating dance. When you’ve gotten steadier, he resumes his thrusts, and you’re finally able to buck your hips up to meet them.

The action sends his entire length buried deep inside you, something he’s been very careful to avoid in fear of hurting you. But instead, you let out a cry of pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Yes!”

“Right there?” he grunts. You’ve never heard him before, voice low and strained as he slams his hips into yours, again and again. The mattress begins to creak from the force of his actions.

“Mhm hmm!” You meet him thrust for thrust, the impact hitting spots deep inside you that you’ve never felt before. Toes curling in on themselves, one hand buried in his hair, the other pinned by his strong grip, “Oh, god, Spencer, yes!”

He loosens his grip on your wrist, intertwines your fingers together, “Good girl. Look at you, so pretty while you take me.”

No words come from your mouth, only his name, repeated over and over that it begins to sound made up, unreal. Perhaps he is divine. Nothing human can make you feel this way, surely.

He shifts, his free arm wrapping around your hips to elevate you slightly, and the new angle has you keening, every single muscle in your body tightly wound and white-hot as he pounds into you. It’s obscene how easily your body accepts every single inch of him, the way your pussy flutters and yields to the throbbing length of his cock.

“My god, you feel like heaven,” he groans, and that’s it, those words have you screaming so loud he starts to laugh and kiss you just to swallow the sound. You’re shuddering beneath him, crying, the pleasure coiling and building until it bursts and snaps, cascading over you with such fervor he has to wrap both his arms around your limp body to help you calm down.

Somehow, your hazy mind registers the wetness between your thighs, the loud, nearly pornographic squelching of his body plunging into yours. He’d done his goal; he’s made you squirt again. You are boneless in his arms as he fucks you through your orgasm, and chases his own. You only regain agency when he tenses, groaning into your ear.

“Gonna cum,” he says, moving his hips to drag his length out. He’s so long you’re able to wrap your legs around his waist before he’s pulled his cock out all the way.

“No, please, do it inside.”

His body stutters, head falling to the crook of your neck as he ruts his hips into you, not even bothering to argue or ask you if you’re sure. He thrusts into your sensitive pussy erratically, mouth open and groaning into your neck, “Oh my god, oh my — ah!”

Spencer holds onto you, breathing heavily into your ear as you both come down from your high. You feel simultaneously weightless and heavy, melting into your mattress with sweet, glassy eyes.

“That was incredible,” you whisper against his hair. He’s already half asleep on top of you, mumbling incoherently against your shoulder. You don’t bother to move, letting his still hard cock stay buried inside your pussy as you both drift off into dreamland.

Morning comes with a delicious ache in your lower belly. Spencer has you tucked to his chest, his arm around your waist. The air is heavy with the lingering smell of sweat and sex, but also oddly light with the knowledge of a new day. You shift in his arms, yawning as you will your body to wake up and shake off the sluggish feeling clinging to your bones.

He wakes slowly, groaning into your hair, “Morning.” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you reply, but before either of you can say any more, your phone rings. Mindlessly, you reach for it, not even bothering to hide the screen from Spencer, who’s nosing at your temple sweetly.

Cameron ❤️

Your heart sinks. Before you can hit the ignore button, Spencer turns his head, still half asleep as he catches sight of your screen. The name, the heart emoji, the multiple missed calls shakes off every single sleepy cell in his body.

“Who’s Cameron?”

more size kink fics in the BUD Chronicles. Forehead smooches to the many people who witnessed the conception of this fic and patiently listened and helped me as I crashed out and went screaming crying throwing up, hey nachos, @mggslover (who also proofread ty) @beenreidingaboutyou @reidingandallthat @burymagdalene and @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat good god there's so many, my need for reassurance is actually extremely bothersome and embarrassing but ily guys.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #big useless dick chronicles #spencer reid big useless dick agenda #erika after midnight

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

Echo

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: Under the bright lights of a fundraising gala, what began as polite smiles and veiled jabs unravels into something far more intimate. Between rooftop confessions, quiet grief, and a night neither party can take back, something buried for years finally comes undone. warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content (semi-public sex, f!reader), blood and trauma in a hospital setting, description of medical procedures and deaths genre/notes: slow burn, frenemies to lovers (much banter), robby cameo + being a father figure, heavy angst + heavy fluff, hurt/comfort, emotionally repressed idiots in love, non-linear timeline, one (1) very touch-starved man, abbot down bad for his s.o. and def has a pain kink, balcony sex + confessions, pwp word count: 9k a/n: love letter to grief, rooftop confessions, and all the things left unsaid (+ shameless, self-indulgent smut), basically i saw this dress on pinterest and i—

The hospital’s annual fundraiser was all overpriced wine and board member schmoozing—the kind of thing Jack Abbot usually avoided. He and Robby had spent the better part of the week arguing with Gloria about why they really didn’t need to be the ones attending.

“But who better to represent the emergency department than its finest?” Gloria had smiled with teeth. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer we reallocate your trauma bay supply order for next fiscal quarter?"

Abbot had muttered something under his breath. Robby had called it extortion. Gloria had walked away victorious.

“If she reassigns our trauma supply budget one more time, I swear to God I’m quitting,” Robby had muttered, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Right there with you, brother,” Jack had said dryly.

Which was how he ended up in a suit, lingering by the bar with his tie already loosened.

The gala was obscene in its extravagance. A live string quartet played near the grand staircase. Crystal chandeliers caught every glint of champagne. Rich donors floated from one hors d'oeuvre table to the next, laughing politely and stuffing their faces with canapés that probably cost more than a full day of supplies for the ER.

It made Jack sick.

Not the donations—he appreciated those. Hell, the hospital needed them. But the tone of it, the way money moved through the room like perfume: thick, cloying, and designed to mask something rotten underneath. The people here didn’t know what a trauma bay smelled like at 3 a.m. They didn’t care. They were here to write a check, slap their name on a wing, and pretend it made them saints.

Jack took a sip of his club soda and stared at the bottom of his glass.

He wanted to gouge his eyes out. He just wasn’t sure which fork to use.

Scanning the room, his eyes landed on Robby across the space, mid-conversation with a bejeweled donor who looked like she’d never set foot inside a hospital ward. Robby’s eyes caught Jack’s for the briefest second and widened—just enough to scream help me. Jack raised his glass and shot him a wink.

Then he saw you. He'd recognize your stride anywhere.

What he definitely hadn’t expected was the red satin dress.

Floor-length, plunging back, slit high at the left thigh, the kind of fabric that caught the light like it was trying to start a fire. When you walked into the room, it was almost as though time stopped. You were across the room, charming some rich donor, laughing politely as he fumbled through a question about pediatric trauma outcomes.

Jack didn’t hear the question. He didn’t hear your answer either.

As you turned away from the donor, your bright smile dropped like a mask torn off. Your jaw clenched. You let out a tight breath through your nose, barely more than a sigh. It was the kind of reaction only someone who’d seen you under a hundred different kinds of stress might catch.

Then you looked up and locked eyes with him. You froze.

Goddamn did Jack Abbot look good in a suit.

Salt-and-pepper curls styled just enough to look deliberate, not overdone. The tux hugged his frame perfectly—sharp at the shoulders, tailored at the waist, cutting the kind of silhouette that belonged on a magazine cover instead of an ER floor. He’d even opted for a close shave, his normally stubbled facial hair absent. And his tie—loosened just a touch too much—left a sliver of his throat visible, collar open like he’d tried to behave and gave up halfway through the evening.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But neither of you looked away.

The first time you met Dr. Jack Abbot, you were fresh off your fourth twelve-hour day shift that week. For the first two years of your residency, you’d been under Robby’s wing—solid, day-shift training, plenty of first-time experiences, and a support system that kept you steady. But when it came time to switch rotations, it was Robby who recommended you move to nights.

"More fast-paced," he’d reasoned. "Higher stakes. They could use your skills. You’re ready."

You’d heard about Jack Abbot by then. Everyone had. Ex-military. Brilliant. Demanding. A damn good trauma attending, and an even tougher mentor. You were equal parts intrigued and warned.

The ED hallway was buzzing, but you didn’t miss the way Jack paused as you approached. He glanced at your badge, then at your posture—upright, composed, betraying none of the exhaustion you carried—and finally at the trauma board.

“Hope you’re fast,” was all he said, voice low and dry, like a test he didn’t expect you to pass.

Turns out, you were more than fast. You were precise. Efficient. Clinical.

When a GSW came in thirty minutes later—a young man with a single penetrating wound to the upper abdomen—you and Abbot stepped in together. He hung back just enough to supervise, giving you space to lead the resuscitation while staying close.

You scanned the vitals: hypotensive, tachycardic, altered mentation. “GSW to the upper abdomen, likely mesenteric involvement. Initial BP was 80/40 with HR in the 130s, GCS at 13 but trending downward. Type and crossmatch. Two units O-neg. Prep for a laparotomy?” you asked, assessing quickly as you reached for gloves. Abbot nodded once, already handing you a sterile gown without a word.

He didn’t stop you, but he didn’t let you coast either.

“What’s your plan if the pressure doesn’t stabilize after the second unit?” he asked as you both finished gowning up.

“Call for a third, reassess fluid responsiveness, consider vasopressors if no improvement,” you replied, already focused.

“And if there’s massive hemoperitoneum?”

“Prioritize source control. Suction, pack, find the bleeder.”

Jack gave a small, approving hum. Then you glanced back at him, sharp, poised. He was holding out the handle of a blade to you—steady, without fanfare.

“I’m not handling it,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blinked once, then reached for the blade. Gloved fingers curled around the handle as the rest of the room faded into peripheral noise. It was your show now—and he was trusting you to lead it.

The team moved quickly. You made the incision, suctioned blood, clamped the bleeder—a mesenteric vessel torn clean. Laparotomy pads soaked in seconds. Abbot kept an eye on the monitor, watching your hands. You found the source and controlled it, methodical and focused, with Jack’s quiet presence steady behind your shoulder.

Jack nodded once, the faintest glimmer of something like approval in his eyes. After the patient was wheeled off to the OR, gloves off and adrenaline still thrumming beneath your skin, he tossed you a saline flush and a towel. The rest of the team was still moving in organized flurries, cleaning up the bay, resetting trays, pulling down blood-streaked drapes. You peeled off your gloves slowly, breath catching up to you now that the adrenaline was fading.

The smell of antiseptic, blood, and sweat clung to everything. Your scrub top was damp with effort. And still, Jack hadn’t said anything else. Just watched you like he was recalibrating something in his head. Taking the measure of you.

“Not bad,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Not bad?”

He smirked. “Guess we’ll keep you. Though I should probably check the return policy with Robby before the trial period ends.”

Then, lower—just for you: “Though going nipples to navel on that first cut? That’s no man’s land. Bit too risky of a procedure for me to do myself.”

You blinked, thrown off your axis, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or sincere—or both. “What?”

But Jack was already walking away, gloves off, like he hadn’t just left you standing there like a deer in headlights.

You weren’t expecting to see him either.

Jack Abbot in a tux. Sharp lapels. Cuffs neat. Hair styled but slightly tousled like he hadn’t quite figured out how to look formal without messing it up on purpose. Heat rose to your face, tinting it the color of the rosé being served tonight.

Turning around, you reached for a flute of champagne to occupy your thoughts. He’d just crossed the room, weaving past a pair of donors discussing their latest golf fundraiser, his eyes never leaving you. The clink of glass and silver faded just enough for you to hear the soft brush of his dress shoes stop beside yours.

“Red,” he said, nodding toward your dress. "Didn’t think it was in your rotation." He caught the soft trace of your perfume just as you inhaled the quiet warmth of his cologne.

You arched a brow. “Tux? Let me guess—last worn at prom?”

He huffed a laugh. The corner of his mouth tilted. "Wouldn't you like to know."

“Not really,” you smirked.

He leaned a little closer, voice low. "How’d Gloria rope you into this mess?"

You took a sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on your tongue before replying, “She said the hospital needed a pretty face for the press photos.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “And you volunteered willingly, I assume?”

“I did. She said she wanted someone who wasn’t going to mention sock puppets in his opening speech.”

Jack tilted his head. "So you pointed her to literally anyone but me and Robby."

You smiled into your glass. “You and Robby are very pretty. Just not ‘donate-millions-of-dollars’ pretty.”

He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

You both leaned back slightly, falling into a rare pocket of easy quiet.

“If I'm being honest,” he said after a breath, “these things make my skin crawl. Donors patting themselves on the back for saving lives they’ve never seen.”

“Agreed,” you murmured. “It’s like they want the moral gold star without the 2 a.m. trauma call. Or the third straight shift without sleep.”

Jack glanced sideways at you. “Or the resident paycheck that barely covers rent.”

You let out a dry laugh. “And definitely not the part where we spend a decade training, rack up six figures of debt, and still have to fight for safe staffing ratios.”

He nodded once, quiet. “But hey, at least they get their name etched onto a plaque of a hallway they'll get lost in.”

"God," you sighed. "I'd love to switch places with them for a day."

Jack snorted. “Five minutes in a trauma bay and they’d be crying into their cufflinks.”

You were about to take another sip when you paused. “You realize you’re wearing cufflinks.”

“Which is why I’m drinking soda instead of champagne. Keeps me grounded.”

A quiet breath escaped you, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Your commitment to moral superiority is truly inspiring.”

He gave you a narrowed look, not quite smiling but close. “Someone’s gotta keep the place honest.”

You smiled to yourself, looking down and shaking your head, before excusing yourself to go charm another cluster of donors. “See you around—Jack.”

You’d only ever said his first name once before.

He noticed.

Jack stood there a second too long, stunned, watching your retreating back like he wasn’t sure what just happened—or why it mattered so much.

The patient was coding. Jack was tied up in Room 3 with a liver lac. You were alone when Trauma 2 rolled in—blunt trauma, hypotensive, bleeding out.

You didn’t wait. “I need two large-bore IVs, rapid sequence intubation kit, and thoracotomy tray—stat,” you barked to the team, already moving. “Start the MTP now.”

You slid the laryngoscope in cleanly, tube placed with practiced precision.

“Vitals are dropping,” a nurse called out.

“I know,” you forced out. “Keep pushing the units.”

The tray snapped open beside you. You didn’t hesitate. Just in case.

Abbot walked in right as you pulled your hands back, already prepped.

His eyes flicked from the open thoracotomy tray to the line placement to your gloved hands, bloody up to the wrists. He froze mid-step.

Then, without missing another beat, he stepped in beside you. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice low and calm. He didn’t raise it. He never did when it really mattered.

His presence was immediate—like someone flipping a switch—and suddenly the entire bay adjusted to him, calibrated around the two of you.

You didn’t look at him. Just adjusted your grip and said, “Vitals holding. Pressure’s up.”

“Balloon’s a little high,” he murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear over the hum of monitors.

You didn’t flinch, but your pulse jumped. “Adjusted,” you said, fingers tightening slightly on the handle as you recalibrated, eyes glued to the screen.

A beat passed. Then another.

The pressure crept upward. Slowly. Steadily.

The patient stabilized.

You exhaled quietly through your nose, trying to ignore the chill of adrenaline threading down your spine. Jack was still watching you—too closely. And you couldn’t tell if he was impressed or pissed or both. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

When you finally looked up, his eyes locked with yours—steady, unreadable, searching like he was still deciding how angry he was allowed to be.

“You never should’ve done that without approval from an attending,” he said quietly, the words measured but firm, laced with something heavier beneath the surface.

You nodded, jaw clenched. “Understood.”

Jack stepped closer. Lowered his voice.

“But that was pretty badass. You just saved a life. Good job.”

Then he turned and left the trauma bay. The moment lingered—his words echoing in your ears louder than they should have.

Every pair of eyes seemed to shift away once he left, the noise of the trauma bay gradually returning to its usual rhythm. Monitors beeped. Carts wheeled past. Gloves peeled off with a quiet snap and hit the bin. Hands—steady during the crisis—now trembled faintly.

Pride lingered. So did fear. And you weren’t sure which feeling was winning.

Outside by the nurses' bay, Jack was leaning against the wall, one foot braced behind him, chart in hand but not moving. His gaze was distant—somewhere far beyond the clipboard. A crooked smirk ghosted across his lips, then faded as quickly as it had come. He was still thinking about what you'd done. How steady your hands had been. How much you'd grown.

He’d been impressed. He’d also been scared.

That kind of procedure… it wasn’t something he’d ever do lightly. And you? You hadn’t hesitated. Not out of recklessness, but because you’d known it was the right call. The only call.

"Ballsy," he muttered under his breath. "Damn near reckless."

But his chest swelled—quietly, privately—with something that felt a lot like pride.

The third time you ran into each other that night, it wasn’t by accident.

You were leaning against a balcony railing, champagne nearly gone. One glass hadn’t been enough to drown out the unbearable jargon and vapid conversations—but you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go overboard tonight. Just enough to appear socially well-versed.

The night had cooled, the breeze brushing goosebumps along your bare arms. Jack found you there, hands in his pockets, jacket unbuttoned, eyes catching on the subtle shiver that moved through your frame.

“You always hide from donors this early?” he asked.

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. You’d heard those footsteps enough times to recognize the rhythm—the soft, sure cadence of someone who never rushed but never wandered. A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it. Subtle. Reflexive. Familiar.

“Only the boring ones.”

He smirked and stepped beside you, pulling his jacket off with one fluid motion.

Before you could say anything, he draped it over your shoulders—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed your bare arm on the way down. The heat of him lingered even through the fabric. And then there was the scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, and grounded by something warmer beneath it. The scent made your chest ache with something unnameable—familiar, steady, a little too easy to lean into. It curled in your lungs, lingered in the back of your throat. Your knees dipped slightly, an involuntary response you buried with practiced ease. You’d never admit that, of course. Not even to yourself.

“You’ll freeze,” he said, voice quiet, almost an afterthought.

You didn’t correct him. Just glanced up. He was already looking at you.

“You look good,” he said finally.

Your brow raised.

“In red,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t say thank you. Just looked at him. Let it sit there for a moment—heavy, a little too charged to touch.

"If you keep being nice to me, people are going to start wondering if the sodas were spiked."

That earned you a low chuckle, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriatingly subtle way he smiled when he actually meant it.

"Guess I'll have to ruin it with a sober insult later," he said.

You gave him a dry stare. "Looking forward to it."

The air between you tightened, warm and brittle. He shifted just slightly closer, like something unspoken pulled him there.

You shot him a sidelong glance, trying to smother the tension with humor. “Don’t you have some attractive widows to go butter up?”

His lips twitched. “Already secured donations from all of them,” he said, only half joking. Then, quieter, with a faint shrug: “None of them were interesting.”

That gave you pause.

“I prefer women with poor work-life balance and sharp comebacks.” He looked at you again, the curve of his mouth bordering on a real smile now. "You?"

"Hm," you hummed to yourself. "I prefer women with competitive streaks and sharp eyeliner. And men with stress-induced insomnia, commitment issues, and the emotional availability of a damp dishrag."

Jack huffed out a quiet laugh. "Bold of you to describe my entire personality like it's a turn-on."

"If the shoe fits," you murmured, toying with your empty glass.

He looked at you then—really looked. Head tilted just enough to feel like he was trying to read something between the lines.

"It’s always the sharp ones," he said. "Cut deepest, don’t they?"

Your lips twitched. "Funny. I was just thinking the same about emotionally repressed men in positions of authority."

"Touché."

But neither of you moved further.

Jack’s voice lowered, something quieter threading through. “You know, for what it’s worth… I notice. How hard you work. How much you give.”

That caught you off guard. The words settled in your chest, raw and warm. You swallowed around them.

“Then I hope you notice how often it gets overlooked,” you said, voice softer now. “By everyone else.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, something unreadable in them. Like he wanted to say something else. Like maybe he would.

“Hey!”

Robby’s voice cut through the air like a 10-blade.

You turned, blinking back to the present. Robby's head was poking out of the curtains, waving a hand. “Sorry to interrupt your… mood lighting, but I need to help charm this silver fox donor who won’t stop talking about his golf handicap and yacht collection. Won’t stop asking for the 'hot doctor with attitude.' So naturally, I assumed he meant you.”

You glanced back at Jack, reluctant.

He gave you a nod, but didn’t say anything. Just watched you go.

Before you turned to leave, you slid the jacket from your shoulders and held it out to him. Jack stepped forward to take it, but his fingers brushed yours—warm, lingering, just a second longer than necessary.

His jaw tightened for half a breath—barely perceptible—before he masked it, reaching to take the jacket with a small nod. His fingers brushed yours again as he pulled it into his arms. The warmth still clung to it—so did your scent. Subtle, familiar, something floral and grounding. It curled in his chest as he inhaled, slow and quiet, like he didn’t mean to. As you walked away, you felt the weight of his gaze follow you—sharp, lingering, impossible to shake. Like he was still holding something back—he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

Once you were gone, he allowed himself to bring the jacket up to his face and breathe in lightly, letting the remaining trace of you settle in his lungs. It lingered—clean, unmistakable, and quietly devastating.

With each year, the line between rivalry and familiarity blurred just a little more.

It wasn’t just that you were the senior-most resident anymore—it was that you were his senior-most resident. The one who matched him pace for pace in trauma bays, who called out orders with the same clipped authority, who rolled your eyes at his sarcastic one-liners only to throw them right back at him.

Jack gave you a hard time. You gave it right back.

It started as cold professionalism. Then it turned sharp. Competitive. Then somehow... comfortable.

“Think you can manage this without slicing through the aorta this time?” Jack murmured once during a late night thoracotomy.

“Only if you don’t pass out from blood loss first, old man,” you replied smoothly.

“Old man,” he repeated under his breath. “Remind me why I let you lead in my trauma bay?”

“Because I’m the best.”

He didn’t respond. Just passed the next instrument with a soft, resigned smirk.

There was a night Shen caught you both bickering over a chart like a married couple.

"The guy had a fever and a murmur—of course I’m thinking endocarditis," you said, exasperated, scribbling into the margins.

"And I’m saying we still need to rule out pulmonary embolism first," Jack shot back, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

"I’m writing the note," you reminded him.

"Are you going to type it up for me too?"

"If you want it to be legible."

Jack scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

That’s when Shen passed by, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Just kiss already."

Neither of you responded. Jack’s pen stilled in his hand. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you.

But later that night, as you leaned against the med station reviewing labs, he passed behind you, fingers grazing your lower back as he brushed by.

Casual. Too casual. And yet, your breath caught anyway.

You didn’t talk about it.

You never talked about it.

But it was there, all the same.

Back inside, the ballroom lights felt too bright. You smiled at a passing donor, glass still in hand, but your mind was still outside—on the breeze, on his jacket, on the way Jack had looked at you like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

You found yourself drifting toward the edge of the room, eyes scanning unconsciously. Jack had disappeared into the crowd.

Or so you thought.

“Looking for me?”

You turned to see him at your side again, now holding two drinks—one club soda, one bubbling glass.

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me trashed on overpriced spirits, Dr. Abbot?”

“I would, if this were alcohol.” He offered the glass to you. “It’s ginger ale.”

You eyed it suspiciously, then took it anyway. “Classy.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching. “You called me Jack earlier.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” The bubbles soothed your stomach, uneasy from all the talking and dizzy heights of empty small talk.

The quiet pressed in, heavy and hesitant, neither of you quite ready to fill it—but neither willing to walk away.

“Well, Dr. L/N,” he said, tone dipping into something light but curious, “how do you plan on spending the rest of your evening?”

You gave him a half-smile. “Getting some sleep. Or trying to.” You looked back out across the ballroom, then added, “I talked to Robby earlier—offered to be on-call for day shift tomorrow. Filling in for Langdon.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Aren't you supposed to be off?”

“Yup. So are you,” you said, glancing at him.

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t deny it. You both knew the pattern by now—same days off, same shifts. Neither of you had ever pointed it out.

“What else would I do on a Friday?” There was something brittle in the joke, something quieter under it. “Work keeps me occupied.”

Jack watched you for a second longer, then said, softer this time, “You shouldn’t have to keep yourself occupied. It's okay to take a breather.”

You let out a dry breath of a laugh, the edge of a smile curling—biting, but small. “That’s rich coming from the only other person who works as many shifts as I do.”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stepped a little closer.

“You could’ve said no to being on-call,” he said. “Could’ve said you had plans.”

“I do,” you retorted. “Sleep for three hours. Chug coffee. Go back.”

Jack tipped his head, like he was trying to read more into your tone than you meant to give away. “Y/N—”

The name stopped you cold. You took a half-step back before you could think better of it, reflexive and immediate, voice clipped and low. “Don’t.”

That caught him off guard.

“I—sorry,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

Jack looked at you then, something close to understanding flickering in his eyes. As though he remembered, too. How could he forget?

The first time he'd said your name.

Blood on your scrubs. Tears in your throat. A patient you couldn't save.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, slowly, and let you go.

Then, just as his mouth parted to say something else—

“Dr. Abbot!” Gloria’s voice rang out from the other end of the ballroom, hand ushering him to come over. “The donor from Penn wants a word before he leaves!”

Jack clenched his jaw. His eyes lingered on yours.

“Rain check,” he said, voice low.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod as he walked away. And for a long moment after, you stayed where you were, ginger ale sweating in your hand.

You didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment you’d remember whenever someone asked when medicine stopped being just medicine.

The trauma call came in: car accident, two parents and a child, maybe 8 or 9. The parents were in rough shape but still awake, still responsive—moaning through cracked ribs and splintered glass. The kid, though—blunt force, GCS 3 on arrival. Completely unresponsive. You felt it in your gut before the vitals even came in.

Jack was across the bay when the doors opened. He looked up once—nodded at you. “You’re lead. I'll stabilize the parents."

You didn’t hesitate. Airway, trauma labs, two large-bore IVs. Portable chest. Fast scan. You called it all before the stretcher stopped moving.

The child’s body was limp. Small. Already pale. The pressure in your chest felt like a dam ready to burst.

You intubated with steady hands, but your voice faltered—just slightly—when you called for epinephrine. Jack appeared beside you somewhere around the second round of compressions, gloves on, silent. Watching. Present.

“Vitals still unstable,” someone called from behind you. “BP 62 over palp. Pulse weak. We’re pushing TXA now.” At least he'd stabilized the parents, you thought. If he could save them, you could save their little girl.

Four bags of blood and 18 minutes of chest compressions. The monitor stayed flat.

Still, you kept going. Pushing meds. Calling for another round. Someone offered to take over for compressions, murmured that you needed a break. You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Then again, more firmly. “I’ve got it.”

No one tried to argue. You were lead. You had it.

Even as your arms began to ache. Even as the blood kept pooling, the compressions rhythmically jarring through your bones. You wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t. The team was moving around you, quiet, reverent.

Then Jack stepped in closer.

“Monitor hasn't picked up a rhythm in 12 minutes,” he said gently. “We can't keep up with the blood loss. There's too much internal damage. You know this.”

You shook your head, barely perceptible, and kept going. Compressing, counting, calling for another round of epi.

Jack’s voice stayed level. “Anyone else would’ve been pronounced dead at the scene.”

You ignored him. Just a few more compressions and transfusions and she'd come back.

Then—

“Y/N.”

That made you freeze.

Your name. His voice.

Your hands were still trembling against the child’s chest.

You looked at the monitor. Heard the continuous tone. Flatline.

No pulse.

“Call it,” Jack pleaded softly.

Your voice was quiet. Hoarse. Cold.

“Time of death, 03:17.”

You stepped back, stripped your gloves off slowly. Fingers stained with blood you couldn’t stop from spilling. Jack said nothing. He didn’t leave.

You swallowed hard, trying to force the tears down. To breathe through the break in your chest.

Jack didn’t touch you this time. He just stood there.

Let you fall apart, silently.

Then you ripped off your gloves and threw them hard into the bin, the sound louder than it had any right to be. You turned and stormed out of the trauma bay without looking back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

That was the first time he said your name.

And it pulled you back. You never forgot it.

Sometimes you wished you had.

Back inside, the music had changed.

You’d barely rejoined the crowd when the lights dimmed and the emcee called out for the first dance of the evening.

Across the ballroom, Jack saw you before you saw him. You were standing near the edge of the crowd, nursing the last of your drink, the weight of something invisible pressing into your posture.

But you weren’t alone. A tall man—one of the younger donors—had his hand on your arm, leaning in to say something. He offered you his hand.

Jack’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move—at first. Just watched as you smiled politely, took the man's hand, let him lead you to the dance floor.

It was brief. Chaste. Just a dance. But Jack hated the way the guy's hand lingered at your waist. Hated how close he stood, how you nodded along to something he said, even if your smile didn’t reach your eyes.

A minute later, you gently swapped out with Robby, excusing yourself from your first partner. Robby took your hand with a flourish and spun you once like a game show host. You smiled for the first time in hours.

"You okay?" he asked gently, settling into a slower sway with you.

You shrugged. "Long week."

Robby gave you a dad-look. "Anything in particular on your mind, or just the usual existential dread?"

A quiet laugh escaped, softer than you meant for it to. "Just the usual, I guess."

For a while, the two of you swayed in silence. Robby’s gaze stayed soft. "You’ve been a little quiet lately. Even more than usual. You sleeping okay? Eating?"

Instead of answering right away, your eyes drifted to his shoulder. "I’m fine."

"You always say that. Doesn’t mean I believe it."

A small, grateful smile curved your lips. Robby always knew how to make space—never too much, never too little. He left the door open without pushing you through it.

"You know I’ve got your back, right kid? You ever need to talk, about anything, even the stuff you think you’re not supposed to say out loud—come find me."

"Thanks, Robby. I mean it."

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. "I know you do."

A voice cut in—low and smooth.

"Mind if I cut in?"

You turned.

Jack stood there, one hand extended. He didn’t look at Robby. He didn’t need to.

Robby chuckled under his breath and stepped aside. "She’s all yours."

Jack’s eyes met yours, steady and unreadable.

“Dance with me?” he asked, softer than you'd expected.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your breath caught, mind still echoing with the last time you’d heard him say your name.

But then you nodded—slow, tentative—and slid your hand into his.

He guided you gently into step, the rhythm of the music slower than your pulse. His hand settled against your waist, warm and sure, like it had always belonged there. The other laced with yours, a silent tether.

You moved together with a surprising ease, like muscle memory forged in proximity, not practice. It wasn’t just a dance—it was a conversation. A quiet exchange, careful and cautious. Every shift of weight, every brush of fingers was a sentence neither of you dared speak aloud.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn't. The proximity was dizzying. It wasn’t the champagne. It was him.

Jack’s voice came, low and even. “You always this good at pretending everything’s fine?”

You finally glanced up, something caught between a smile and a flinch playing on your face. “Only when I’m trying to impress a colleague.”

His mouth twitched, barely. “That why you always pull it together when I’m around?”

You didn’t answer.

Gliding across the floor, you felt like you were floating. And still, the weight of his hand at your waist grounded you.

You weren’t sure which was more dangerous: the silence, or the closeness.

“I used to think if I kept moving, I wouldn’t have to feel any of it,” you said, voice barely above the swell of the music. “But some things catch up to you anyway.”

Jack’s grip shifted slightly, not tighter, just… more present. “Running works—until it doesn’t.”

A beat passed.

“I don’t run,” you said quietly.

He met your eyes. “No. You bury it. Same result, different damage.”

You exhaled through your nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Funny. Thought we were dancing, not diagnosing.”

“We can do both,” he said, dry but not unkind. “I go to therapy. You slow dance at charity galas.”

Your gaze flicked to his lips, then away. “Guess my way is cheaper since I'm not paying for any of the wine or dine.”

Jack’s hand at your waist didn’t budge. If anything, it steadied you more.

“Y/N,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. Like he was handing something over. Like he wanted you to take it.

Your shoulders tensed. Jaw muscles flexed.

He noticed.

You looked up, met his gaze, and said, quieter than before but with unmistakable weight, “Jack, you’re walking on thin ice.”

He didn’t flinch. But something flickered in his expression—something equal parts affection and surrender.

You only used each other’s names when it mattered.

The only difference was: he loved it. You hated it.

The hospital had quieted for the night, but the kind of quiet that screamed underneath.

You assisted on his last case—another loss, but this one had cut deeper than usual. Maybe it was the way Jack had gone cold, all clinical control and efficiency… until the voice crack. Just a flicker. A tremor. He’d kept going, ordering transfusions, calling vitals, his tone even until it wasn’t. You saw it—behind the focused eyes, there was fear.

You were the one standing next to him when he finally called it.

You found him up there—on the roof—where the city lights couldn’t quite wash out the weight in his shoulders. Jack was staring out past the edge, hands in his coat pockets, the wind catching just enough to make his scrubs flutter at the hem.

You didn’t speak right away. Just stood a few paces behind him, letting your presence fill the space before your voice did.

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

Jack didn’t turn. “Shouldn’t you be home?”

“I had to wrap up some charting.”

A beat.

“They were a veteran,” he said. “Had a daughter who just got into college.”

You took a step closer. “That wasn’t your fault.”

He let out a quiet, humorless sound. “I know. Doesn’t help.”

You hesitated, then moved beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder.

“I must have had a reason at one time to keep coming back," he murmured, “but I can't think of it right now."

You didn’t have an answer.

But you said his name.

“Jack.”

It was the first time you’d said it out loud. Not Dr. Abbot. Not anything guarded. Just him.

He turned then, slowly.

“Don’t shut down on me,” you said. “Not tonight.”

The wind carried your words away, but he heard them. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his shoulders dropped just slightly.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to stay alone.”

He glanced at you then—just briefly, like eye contact might split him open.

You searched his face, thinking back to the moment in the trauma bay where he called it. Where his voice cracked but didn’t waver. Where his gloved hands were steady even though his eyes gave him away. You’d never seen him look like that before—so composed, so clinical, and still, so unmistakably human.

The memory stuck to your ribs.

“I know it’s not fair,” you said, voice low. “That we carry the worst of them home. That we never get to know if we were enough.”

Jack didn’t speak. But he didn’t move either. That was something. So you added, a little too soft, “But you are. You are enough.”

A long silence.

Then, to break it—because it felt like too much—you rolled your shoulder and said, “Robby’s gonna kick your ass if you jump off during his shift.”

Jack huffed, the sound barely audible but real.

“Come on,” you added, nodding toward the stairwell. “Let’s get off this roof before someone reports us for loitering.”

You didn't move.

Not yet.

Just stood there in silence, waiting—not because you needed him to follow, but because you weren’t going anywhere without him.

And Jack came. Eventually. Quiet and heavy and slow, the shuffle of his shoes steadying against the roof's concrete.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped beside you, close enough to share warmth but not break space.

Then you walked. Together. Not quite brushing shoulders, but close enough to feel it. Close enough to stay.

The night had grown heavier.

Somehow, you and Jack had found your way back to the balcony—again. It was quieter out here, the city humming beneath you, wind tugging softly at your hair. Your skin still held the memory of his hand at your waist. The music inside was muffled now, like the two of you had stepped out of the narrative entirely.

Jack leaned against the railing, but his gaze never left you. Something about the way he was looking—like he’d been holding back something for far too long.

You crossed your arms, more to anchor yourself than anything. “You’re staring.”

“You said my name,” he replied, voice low.

Your throat tightened. “You started it.”

He pushed off the railing, slow and deliberate. “You know what I mean.”

You didn’t back away. But your voice came sharper this time, more breath than warning. “Don’t. Don’t start something neither of us can come back from.”

That gave him pause. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe everything—but bit it back. Jaw tight. Shoulders tense.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jack said. “But I can't keep pretending this is nothing.”

With a quiet breath, he confessed. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart tripped.

“I try,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I’ve tried. But you show up in every shift. Every damn quiet moment. I hear your voice when I walk through those doors. I look for you at every trauma call. And when you’re not there, it’s worse.”

You didn’t speak.

“I’ve been through hell,” he went on, stepping closer, “seen things I still don’t have names for—but none of it scares me the way you do. Because this?” He gestured between you. “This is real. And if I say it out loud, I don’t get to pretend anymore.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He looked at you, eyes tired and wide open. “Say something. Please.”

Your voice came out thinner than you meant. “You're my attending, we’re not supposed to—”

“I don’t care.”

The silence cracked wide open between you.

You let out a breath—shaky, exasperated.

"Fuck," you said, voice breaking. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you either? That I see your eyes every time I close mine—your smile, rare as it is, stuck in my head like a damn echo? That I come home and swear I can still smell your cologne because it’s the only thing that brings me any sense of comfort?"

Your hands were trembling now. You didn’t stop—couldn't.

"Pretending this means nothing is easier than risking what happens if it actually matters. Because if it does—Jack—"

Jack caught you before you could even get the words out. His mouth was on yours, rough and unyielding, and you didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. You kissed him like you meant it, because fucking hell, did you mean it.

When your back hit the wall beside the balcony doors with a quiet thud, he pressed closer, hands framing your jaw like you were something to be memorized.

There was nothing polite in the way you touched each other now. Just years of tension, unspoken things, and the desperate need to feel something real.

You didn’t let go.

Neither did he.

His lips trailed lower, brushing the hinge of your jaw before nipping gently at your neck. The sound you made—half breath, half shock—only seemed to spur him on.

“Then don’t pretend,” Jack whispered against your skin, voice rough and reverent. “Let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Your hands cradled the sides of his face, fingers brushing across his cheekbones. All these years spent by his side and you hadn’t taken the time to admire his freckles.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his—slower now, deeper. One of his hands slid down your back, splaying across the small of it as if anchoring you in place. The other tangled into your hair, careful but needing.

You gasped when his hips met yours again, your breath catching between kisses. He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

"I need you," you finally said.

And that was all he needed.

He rushed to close the curtains on the inside and lock the balcony doors before returning to you.

Your world narrowed to the way his mouth reclaimed yours, the press of his body, the heat building like a fuse lit too close to the end. Somewhere in the distance, the city kept moving. But here, in the quiet shelter of the balcony, there was only this.

Jack dropped to his knees, the motion fluid. You sucked in a breath as his hands slid up the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg upward until your heel hooked over his shoulder. Your foot pressed gently against the curve of his back.

He tugged at the hem of your dress. You were already holding the hem of your dress, bunching it at your hips with practiced ease. The lace of your underwear was delicate, barely in the way—he hooked a finger around the side, sliding it with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath hitch.

You were already soaked, and the way his eyes flicked up confirmed he knew it. He looked up at you once, eyes dark and unwavering, before leaning in.

His mouth was slow at first—exploring, learning you. The way your breath stuttered when his tongue found a sensitive spot, the way your fingers clenched in his hair. “You taste just as incredible as I imagined,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. When he inserted a finger and curled towards himself, you nearly buckled.

You didn’t mean to cry out, but it slipped past your lips, helpless and raw. Your hand flew up to cover your mouth, which made him smirk. He caught your elbow with his free hand, gently but insistently, pulling your hand away and intertwining your fingers into his hair. You gave his curls a tug and were met with a moan. It was impossible to hide the smug grin that painted your face.

“I want to hear you,” he murmured, voice thick with heat. His voice dipped lower, rougher.

You felt the press of the marble wall cool behind you as your back arched. One hand flew to the wall, the other gripping his shoulder as he kept going—steadfast, focused, like you were the only thing that existed. Like this was something he'd been starving for.

And maybe you had been too. Because every sound, every gasp that left you was honest.

You hiked your knee higher, anchoring your heel along the dip of his back. The dress had long since stopped mattering.

Jack’s grip tightened, one hand digging into the curve of your ass as he anchored you against the wall. His other hand slipped between your thighs, fingers sliding inside you with precision, curling until your legs nearly gave out.

"Jack, I'm—" You moaned into your clenched teeth, the sound too loud, too needy—but he wanted it, taking it in like oxygen.

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as your breath came in shallow, stuttering waves. He didn’t let up. The rhythm was relentless, mouth and hand working in tandem, dragging you closer to the edge with every sweep, every flick, drinking you like water from a desert oasis. He stopped only when you tapped his cheek twice, silently begging for mercy.

Your skin glistened, painted with heat. Before he pulled away, Jack leaned in again, his tongue tracing the trails of your release up your inner thigh with slow, savoring strokes. Each pass of his mouth made you twitch, gasp, overstimulated but unwilling to stop. He kissed the soft skin in their wake.

When he finally looked up, his face was just as wrecked, jaw set and glistening with you. And the look in his eyes when he glanced up—hungry, worshipful—was enough to ruin you.

His lips were parted just slightly, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts. “God, you’re perfect.” His eyes lifted to meet yours with something close to divine awe.

It came out quiet—like a confession he'd finally allowed himself to say out loud.

You leaned down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He let out a low, contented sound against your mouth, one hand tightening around your thigh, the other still steadying your hip. You could feel the tension in him—tender, aching—as if the moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold it close.

Your fingers slipped into your dress, pulling free a small foil square tucked just inside the cup of your bra. Jack blinked down at it, then back up at you, clearly caught off guard.

He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

You shrugged, breathless. "Was holding it for a friend."

Jack smirked, eyes dragging down your body. "Sure you were."

You made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it and pushing his pants down just enough.

“He talks too much,” you muttered, smirking.

You looked down.

And stopped.

He was perfect. Cut, trimmed, thick, just the right length. The kind of sight that made your breath hitch. Your hand slid along his length with a few firm pumps—just enough to make him hiss between his teeth.

You couldn't resist. Lowered to your knees, gave him a few languid licks, savoring the taste. He whimpered, his hand gently gripping your hair—but not pulling, not yet.

After a few more pumps, Jack pulled you up by the chin with a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasp.

“I’m not coming anywhere but inside you,” he growled against your lips.

You smiled, teasing. “Maybe next time, then.” Your fingers trailed down the front of his dress shirt, feeling the heat of his body even through the fabric—muscles taut and firm beneath your touch.

Then you turned, facing the wall—cheeks hot, breath short. One hand braced flat against the cool marble, the other gathering the bunched fabric of your dress. You looked over your shoulder, eyes dark with want.

Jack swore under his breath. He moved behind you in a blur, hands rough on your hips as he lined himself up. The heat of him pressed against you, teasing, maddening.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice lower than gravel.

You pushed back, just enough for him to sink in, slow and deliberate. He filled you up inch by inch, warm and hot and perfect, making you gasp as your forehead pressed to the wall.

His hands wrapped around your hips as he bottomed out, his mouth dragging along your neck, teeth grazing your skin until he whispered a sharp, broken "fuck"—more to himself than to you. Like he was trying not to explode.

You tried to move, just a little forward, a little back—restless with need—but his hands tightened.

“Don’t,” he breathed. “Just—just give me a second. You feel fucking incredible.”

“Jack,” you whimpered.

If he clenched his teeth any harder, he might've popped his jaw. "Fuck, I love when you call me by my name."

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Please.”

That undid him.

He gripped your hips tighter, fingertips digging into your supple flesh—just shy of bruising. The pain was delicious, grounding you to every thrust, every second of connection, hips rocking forward, slowly at first—deep, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch of you from the inside out. Each thrust sent a spark up your spine, your moans echoing softly. His mouth returned to your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark, his breath hot against your skin.

"You feel too good," he muttered, almost like it hurt. "Too good."

You tried to respond, but the words got lost somewhere in your throat as his pace picked up—harder, deeper, everything building.

Your hands flattened against the wall, bracing yourself as your body rocked with his rhythm. It was dizzying—overwhelming—in all the best ways. Every drag of his hips made your knees tremble, every grunt and growl in your ear pushed you closer to unraveling.

Without warning, he turned you around to face him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated, chest heaving. He lifted your left leg with his right hand, supporting your thigh against his side as he surged forward again.

The angle had you seeing stars—vision spinning as he hit that spot inside you with maddening precision. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as your head dropped forward against his.

Your hands clasped behind his neck, holding tight, desperate to keep him there. You raked your fingers through his curls, tugging hard enough to make him moan—and dragged your nails lightly down the back of his neck, leaving a faint trail of heat in their wake. His mouth found yours again—tongue hot, hungry—kissing you like he needed it to breathe. His left hand anchored you by the hip, grinding you against him as his rhythm deepened, pulling another cry from your throat.

There was nothing left but heat, hands, breath. And the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever wanted—needed.

"I'm yours," he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice ragged. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a truth. Raw and full and real.

Your lips brushed his, trembling. “And I’m yours.”

The moment cracked open between you. You kissed him—desperate, hungry, chasing the high you were both barely holding onto.

You felt yourself teetering, the peak just within reach. Jack looked like he was holding back, focusing on keeping every muscle drawn tight with restraint—putting your pleasure before his. But you needed him there with you, completely.

You leaned into his ear, breath hot. “I need you to cum for me, Jack.” His fingers dug deeper into your hip. "I need you to fill me up." Your knee wrapped tighter around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as you held him to you, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. You bit the curve of his neck, sharp and claiming.

That was all it took.

He let out a guttural sound, hips stuttering as he came undone, pulling you with him into a release that felt like freefall—earth-shattering and unrelenting.

Your release crashed through you moments after his, drawn out and all-consuming. Every nerve lit up, your body shaking with the intensity of it. It wasn’t like anything else—no drug, no high. Just him. You. This.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. Your breath came in broken gasps, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling in the aftermath. Sweaty. Beautiful. And quiet.

Jack’s hand smoothed up your spine, grounding you. His lips brushed your temple, and the world finally began to settle back into place.

He gently brushed strands of damp hair from your face, fingers tender where they swept against your skin. The breeze caught a few pieces, but they clung to the sheen on your cheeks. When you finally let your leg down, your knees buckled slightly. Jack caught you without hesitation—arms strong, sure, keeping you steady as your weight shifted. You clung to him without thinking, hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. When you finally loosened your grip, he didn’t let go right away—his arms still braced around you like muscle memory, like instinct.

Pulling back, you realized what a disheveled mess the two of you were.

You reached up and smoothed down the front of his shirt, fixing the lapels of his suit, tugging the hem of his jacket into place. Thankfully whatever hair gel he used was bulletproof, only a curl or two out of place. He brushed his fingers along your hairline, gently tucking back strands that had come loose, then adjusted the strap of your dress where it had slipped off your shoulder.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, but heavy.

Clearing your throat, you tried to gather your thoughts. “I, uh…”

Jack’s eyes remained a little dazed, as if he was still anchoring himself to the moment.

A breath escaped you—half-laugh, half-exhale. “Tea. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine for tea.”

He blinked once, then his lips quirked.

“Tea?”

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “Or, like… whatever. Just to wind down. You don’t have to.”

Jack shook his head once, slow. “Only if you’re not just holding it for a friend.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re welcome anytime, Jack. You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

You nodded once, awkward and earnest. “Cool. Good. Great.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You always this smooth after balcony sex?”

You shot him a glare filled with playful menace. "Depends. You always this cocky after someone invites you over for tea?”

He smiled—one of those rare ones, small and sideways. “Only when it’s not just for the tea.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “But I’m yours, remember?”

You tilted your head, smirking. “Return policy on that is… nonexistent, right?”

His smile widened just a touch. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Careful, Jack. That almost sounded romantic.”

He chuckled, then sobered just enough to meet your eyes. “Maybe it was.”

The breeze danced around you both again, brushing cool air against warm skin. Still, the embers between you remained.

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his hand. “Let’s go before someone realizes we’ve been out here defiling the sacred balcony.”

He followed without hesitation. Fingers laced with yours.

This time, neither of you looked back.

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot smut #jack abbot #jack abbot imagine #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot smut #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you

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dollyyun · 5 months ago

Text

DEVIL'S NIGHT [PART 1] ✧ DEVIL'S KNIGHTS' PREY (EN-)

PAIRING ✧ enha hyung line x fem!reader GENRE ✧ 18+(mdni), reverse harem, eventual poly, romance, morally grey characters, semi-college au, eventual adulthood, dark themes, strangers/friends to lovers, obsessive male leads (borderline psychos but we love them) WARNING ✧ religious themes, good girl!fem reader, tensions, angsts, toxicity, explicit themes, alcohol and substance consumptions, assault, profanities, corruption, perversion, coercion, usage of weapons, violence, blood, graphic descriptions, traumas, dramas, miscommunication, gore-ish content, mentions of deaths, poor execution in general WORD COUNT✧ 39.9K

SYNOPSIS ✧ As you are in your last year of university, you feel inclined to make a change for once in your life, and so you decide to take a big leap in part of your development by attending the renowned Halloween party that happens every year, which is hosted by the corrupted fraternity of Devil's Knights. Having no real knowledge about what sort of activities would happen behind closed doors, you remain blissfully ignorant of the danger that awaits you once the witching hour commences that may turn out to cause a major change in the trajectory of your life.

NEXT (PART 2) ✘ SERIES MASTERLIST ✘

-smut warnings under cut-

smut warnings: unprotected sex (no!), dom!enha, brief voyeurism, name calling, making out, degradation, manhandling, fingering, spitting, dry humping, clit play, choking, spanking, creampies, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, gangbang, dubcon-ish, uses knife on skin.

The tranquillity that once cascaded in every part of the campus building is tainted by an unpleasant, riotous commotion from the collective group of delinquents that are otherwise known as Devil’s Knights, and yet none of the professors or even the head of faculty steps forward to make any form of reproach towards their delinquency, closing both eyes and moving about their day normally, because they know better than to disrupt the momentous pre-celebratory of an upcoming festivity, even more so when they lack the power to possess such authority when it comes to any devil’s knights, most especially their leaders.

He is the living proof in the present time of being highly privileged to be entirely free from their clutches as he struts along the buzzing campus corridor with a cigarette stick caged between his teeth. No one dares to glance in his way wrongly, not when his dark, steely eyes that look as sharp as his jawline are enough to make them recoil while the sight of his full-arm tattoo evokes both admiration and intimidation from the crowd.

His ears perk up at the not-so-subtle mention of his name, shifting his attention to a group of seniors huddling a few meters away from him. The moment they accidentally land their gaze on him, they direct their focus elsewhere and change the topic promptly. A smirk touches his lips, revelling in the power he holds over others, even with his mere silence. He continues to make his way to the intended destination, blocking out the commotion from his focus.

“You didn’t bother to invite me to join you? That’s a first from you, Park Jongseong.” His best friend’s voice, which carries a familiar sarcasm, has him sighing out lowly as he reluctantly comes to a stop before turning his head to meet a pair of icily cold eyes that are capable of daunting anyone except a few people. The taller male is leaning against a massive pillar, and his composure looks unusually relaxed with both hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. “And here I thought we were smoking buddies, Jay. How disappointing.” His sentiment doesn’t match in the way he casts him an amused smirk.

Jay doesn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes at his best friend’s theatrics, but nevertheless he gravitates towards him as he frees the cigarette stick from the cage of his teeth, now being held in between his fingers. “Spare me your sarcasm, Park Sunghoon.” He grumbles under his breath, but with a head tilt of an invitation, Sunghoon moves off the pillar and proceeds to walk side by side with Jay as they head straight for the campus plaza. “I’m surprised Jake isn’t with you as usual.”

“I haven't seen him all day, not that it bothers me.” Sunghoon says with an unmistakable air of nonchalance while taking a cigarette stick that is generously offered by Jay, but even the latter can see through him how Jake’s sudden detachment for a day has been affecting him. “He’s probably having the time of the month, you know, the usual?”

Jay chuckles dryly as he immediately understands the implication in his statement, knowing all too well that the last time it happened was a year ago, resulting in a nasty confrontation. “Let’s just hope he’s fucking around some girl. I don’t want the same shit to happen again. Fucking Sim Jaeyun—"

“I knew my ears were burning for a reason— you were talking shit about me!” The two Parks release exasperated sighs, not bothering to face the mischievous male when he inserts himself in between them, following them to their spot. They take a quick glance at Jake, raising their eyebrow at the familiar flyer in his grasp. “Look at this. It looks like total shit! I didn’t even approve this design!” Jake exclaims, his face twisting into a scowl as he examines the overall design on the flyer, his eyes drilling holes into it. “Not only can I not trust my best friends to not talk shit about me, but I can’t even trust the design team?”

“What are you talking about? It looks perfect the way it is.” Sunghoon retorts as he snatches the flyer from Jake’s grasp to examine briefly, seeing no flaws in it. He meets Jake’s disbelieving eyes and smirks at him. “Besides, it was approved by me and Jay.”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not the design is flawed. People are already buzzing about it; that’s what matters.” Jay adds before Jake can counter, separating himself from them to move under the shade of a tree with Sunghoon doing the same as he offers Jay a lighter to light up their cigarette stick. “We can expect a full house in three days' time. The more people to hunt, the better.”

Jake grimaces, eyeing his best friends disapprovingly as they proceed to inhale the tobacco before blowing out grey smokes that nearly hit his face, and yet he remains rooted to the ground, standing in their view. “Fine, but I still prefer last year’s design.” He says as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I hope we can also expect something new this year. I mean, you guys have to admit that the past three years have been quite a bore.”

“Agreed.” A familiar voice startles them, drawing their attention to the stealthy male emerging from behind the tree. Jay automatically offers him an opened box that is filled with cigarette sticks, but the latter silently declines it with his hand gesture. “I know what you meant, Jake. Maybe we will finally find our first and official prey this year.”

“You scared the shit out of us, Heeseung. Where the hell did you come from?” Sunghoon asks in disbelief, raising his eyebrow as he watches the aforementioned male lean his back against the tree trunk leisurely with both hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie.

Heeseung doesn’t respond to his question and instead directs his attention ahead of him; his dark eyes hold masses of mystery that not even his best friends can decipher, while his silence speaks volumes that evoke uncertainty, prompting them to exchange looks.

“You okay?” Jay asks gruffly, taking the initiative to find out what is on his complex mind, and this is not to say that the three of them fear Heeseung and his unpredictability, but out of the four of them, Heeseung bears the most complex qualities.

“Just waiting.” Heeseung simply says, his tone sounding neutral and matching in the way his demeanour appears relaxed, but as they study him for another time, they have a strong inkling as to what his short statement pertains.

“Waiting for who?” Sunghoon tries to sound as disinterested as he can, wanting to know what or who has managed to pique the most reserved and mysterious Lee Heeseung.

The corner of Heeseung’s lips curves into a smirk while his focus ahead never goes astray, and this amplifies their curiosity. “Someone.”

Despite being dissatisfied with his answer, they choose to drop the topic, both Parks proceeding to take drags of the intoxicating substance while Jake continues on where he left off to express his distaste of the flyer’s design to them, even yapping off to Heeseung in spite of his silence, whereas Jay and Sunghoon roll their eyes from time to time.

Eventually, their conversation goes from one topic to another, but their attention is collectively focused on the view in their line of sight, where their respective devil’s house members have now invaded the campus main plaza, either giving out the flyers to the students strolling out and about or throwing the flyers in a haphazard manner that is essentially littering the plaza while also causing a ruckus, but neither of the knights bothers to correct the error of their ways.

Heeseung’s demeanour, which once displayed such impassiveness, shifts into something rather delightful as a soft smirk touches his lips while the burning intensity in his eyes as though something has highly piqued his interest, grabbing Jake’s attention, whereas the conversation between Sunghoon and Jay carries on.

When Jake finally directs his focus at what, or rather who, has completely entranced Heeseung, that is when he sees a familiar figure with a darling face that gives him the weird fluttery sensation in him all over again. Similar to Heeseung, Jake finds himself captivated by the mere sight of the familiar girl in a rather modest yet cute attire as well, standing out for the very specific reason of her being the only girl on campus famously known for her purity.

Heeseung remains eerily silent without their knowledge, his eyes studying you with a glinting dark fascination that overshadows the obsession, watching your every movement. In spite of your tote bag that is laden with your laptop and other materials, it doesn’t deter you in the way you seem to be rushing to somewhere else, trying your best to avoid bumping into other students, specifically the devil’s knights that are wearing the same designed masks for this occasion.

Jake frowns the instant one of the devil's knights practically chucks a handful of flyers at your face while chortling alongside another knight. “What the fuck?” He curses under his breath, drawing Jay’s attention to him, whereas Sunghoon has been noticing Jake’s unusual silence since the moment you captured his attention.

Jake feels a simmering anger within him, wanting nothing more than to defend you by teaching and instilling some manners in those knights who disrespected you. Just as he is prepared to march over to them to drag them away from you, Sunghoon prevents him from moving out of the shade as he uses his frame to block his way.

“Don’t do anything dumb, Jake.” Sunghoon advises, well, to Jake, it sounds more like a warning, while Jay quickly grasps and understands the situation that involves you, but he simply does not give a fuck as he looks away from you, resuming to inhale the last of his burning cigarette stick.

“I can’t just stand by and let them disrespect her like that!” Jake argues back, his jaw clenching the same way he clenches his fist as he attempts to subdue his anger. He tries to move past Sunghoon, but the latter is swift enough to block his way again, eliciting another curse from him. “If you don’t get out of the way in five seconds—”

“Are you really going to fight me on this? Over Y/N Kang? Really, Jake?” Sunghoon remains collected, but there is no mistaking his icy-cold demeanour that is parallel to Jake’s blazing fury. “What does it matter to you if her feelings get hurt? Don’t tell me you’ve developed some soft spot for her.” Disgust is written all over Sunghoon’s face.

Heeseung blocks out the ongoing dispute between Sunghoon and Jake, being hyper-fixated on you as he watches you shooting glares at the two brash knights walking away from you before you direct your attention to the one of the flyers that you managed to grasp in your possession. The smirk on his lips widens, finding you adorable in the way your lips form into a small pout with visible confusion contorting in your pretty face as you seem to scan the content in the flyer with confused eyes.

Meanwhile, you are completely oblivious to your surroundings as the flyer in your hand eventually manages to pique your curiosity, but upon grasping the content, your lips downturn into a frown, especially as soon as you recognise their infamous symbol on the top margin. Right, in three days time, the long-awaited yet annual festivity will arrive and spread terror, but you have no knowledge of what the terror exactly entails, not that you were the slightest bit interested to know.

But this time, however, you feel something shift within you, almost as if some part of you is nudging at you to embrace a new change and that it’s about time to venture out of your comfort zone. Too deep in your rumination, you fail to hear your name being called until an arm is thrown around your shoulder, startling you and drawing your attention to your roommate, who also happens to be your best friend.

“What goes on in your pretty head to the point you’re standing impressively still?” Karina asks with a teasing grin plastered on her pink lips, her familiar sweet perfume hitting you in the nostril.

“Babe, is that Devil’s Night flyer you’re holding?” Another familiar voice pulls your attention away from Karina as you look to your left, only to notice two of your roommates, slash, your best friends as well. Yunjin and Wonyoung.

The Devil’s Night flyer that you are still holding elicits different reactions from them — Karina and Yunjin seem to share the same sentiment, whereas Wonyoung lacks the control over her features, clearly expressing her disapproval at your potential attendance at the event, albeit you have yet to say anything about it.

“Relax, girls. I never said anything about going. I was just reading the flyer.” You tell them with a light chuckle, but you notice the sigh of relief that leaves Wonyoung's lips, evoking something unpleasantly sour in your chest, because why is your best friend against you attending a mere Halloween festivity?

“That’s disappointing to hear. We thought that you were finally deciding to move out of your comfort zone and, you know, not be boring for once.” Karina expresses with a pout on her lips, oblivious to the fact that her last few words bring a frown to your face. You know that Karina has no ill intent towards you, and there are some truths in it, but it never fails to sting you in the chest.

“We’re all planning to go, by the way,” Yunjin speaks up after noticing how briefly disheartened you look. You meet her kind eyes as she gives you an encouraging smile. “You can join us if you want. I promise it’ll be fun.”

“Yes! You should come with us!” Karina remains enthusiastic, encouraging you the same, and just like that her previous remark is forgotten from your mind, finding yourself being infected by her excitement, practically buzzing. “Trust it’ll be way fun, especially since it’s your first time, and—”

“I hate to ruin the moment, but I don’t really think it’s a good idea for our girl to come along.” Wonyoung cuts her off sharply, her tone indicating no room for argument. “I know you want our girl to step out of her comfort zone, but I wouldn’t want to risk anything happening to her.”

“Come on, Wony! I didn’t expect you to be the one to suck out the fun!” Karina complains, even pleading with the taller girl with puppy eyes, the most adorable she can muster, but it has no effect on the latter.

“It’s our last year in uni as seniors, Wonyoung. Surely, you wouldn’t want our girl to miss out on all of the fun.” Yunjin, always being the one who does the reasoning all the time, tries her utmost to persuade Wonyoung. “Nothing will happen to her. We’re all going to be there to look out for her too, yeah? The more eyes, the better.”

Seeing how Wonyoung’s resolution wavers, Karina beams with a smile as she draws her attention. “Since we’re on our way to shop for the remaining of our costumes, we should shop for Y/N’s as well! Besides, it’ll be her first ever Halloween, so we need to make her look drop-dead gorgeous.”

In all honesty, you hate how they are talking about you in front of you, albeit they mean well, but this happens almost all the time. It is as though they are treating you as if you are incapable of making a decision of your own at your grown age. But you decide to shrug it off, knowing that even if you voice it, they won’t be deterred.

As they continue to converse among themselves, you feel a sudden chill throughout your body, causing the back of your hair to rise, and that is when you feel as though you are being watched, prompting you to find the source until your eyes immediately lock with a pair of dark eyes. Instantly, you feel familiarly daunted as you freeze while your best friends remain oblivious to you.

Even though his highly attractive best friends are under the same shade of tree as him, you can only focus on him, your heart pumping wildly as you see the devilish curl on his lips, which the bottom lip is adorned by a silver ring. Yet, for some reason, you feel entirely drawn to him, completely enthralled by the unknown and danger he emits, even from afar.

His dark eyes penetrate into yours heatedly, making you feel like he is reading your every thought, before he briefly looks down at the flyer in your grasp, and somehow, the moment he returns his gaze to yours with a suggestive yet oh-so-inviting smirk on his lips, you have a strong inkling that Lee Heeseung wants you to come to the Devil’s Night Halloween festivity.

As you stand in front of the full-length mirror, your own reflection stares at you with an abundant clarity of irresolution, mirroring the inner turmoil within you. Your eyes begin to scan your appearance from head to toe with sheer incredulity. Never in your twenty-one years of life have you ever dressed as provocatively as you are now. Heck, you don’t even recognise yourself.

The white cami bodycon corset dress adorning your body feels uncomfortably tight, but it accentuates your curves impeccably and has a designated contrast lace bustier that levitates your breasts and displays your cleavage, while a portion of your torso is conspicuously visible through the translucent material. The length of the dress reaches so far above your thighs that when you attempt to bend down ninety degrees, your white lace underwear peeks under. To you, though, the main highlight of your outfit is the white thigh-high stockings that complement your white-booted heels.

You're not the type to critique people for how they choose to dress, and you have nothing against people who wear revealing clothes, but you wonder how other women wear them without feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable just as you are now. You hate to say it, but you practically look like a slut.

Your nose automatically scrunches up at the licentious thought before silently berating yourself for the stereotype. This is definitely not what you had in mind when your best friends decided to drag you with them and buy you a ‘costume’ that fit the theme that they had chosen for you — an angel. It is definitely ironic how the theme they chose for you supposedly requires you to dress decently.

When your gaze finally settles on the silver cross pendant that rests delicately on your chest, guilt coils in your stomach, and your moment of prior incertitude manages to render you completely disheartened while your eyes turn crestfallen.

What were you thinking? You’re supposed to live up to the code as expected of you, including avoiding dressing indecently and acting with grace. But here you are, all dolled up with excessive skin revealing, and yet you still refuse to recognise that the person staring back at you is indeed you.

If your parents were here to see you now, they would have chastised and disowned you, especially for dressing the way you are now. You shudder lightly at the thought.

Your parents, particularly your mother, are quite religious and strictly abide by the rules and codes of your religion. However, your parents’ love and devotion to the religion were something you truly adored. Growing up, your parents often brought you to the church along with them, and you recall getting so excited just at the mere sight of the familiar divine building situated in your neighbouring area that you even rushed to greet the pastor eagerly. Every member of the church recognised you, and they would always warmly welcome you and your family, especially since your parents were regulars.

You were loved by them, by everyone. As a matter of fact, you’ve been called ‘little angel’ by them because of your kind and sweet disposition, how helpful you were whenever someone asked you for assistance, how obedient you were whenever you were told to do something, how demure in the way you acted, and how you resonated with people by being naturally sympathetic you were.

Everyone used to tell your parents how truly blessed they were to have you as their daughter. Your parents agreed and often thanked the Lord for blessing them with a daughter like you. Not only did you follow your parents’ example in your religion, but you had also been bestowed with the gift of being naturally smart since you were young until now.

However, as you take in your appearance once more, your coiling guilt becomes tenfold while disappointment creeps up on you. How dare you have the audacity to wear the cross necklace your father bought for you when you are dressed like this?

You shake your head, taking a step back from the full-length mirror. This is not you, but you know that it’s too late to back out now. Plus, you were the one who voluntarily agreed and made a definitive decision to join your best friends for the Halloween festivity that will happen tonight. Initially, your intention was to finally move out of your comfort zone, but who were you kidding? A part of you has always wanted to prove your friends’ collective view of you wrong and that you could be fun when you want to.

But then again, you can’t recall the last time you ever had fun, or maybe you hadn’t, and that probably says a lot about you in the eyes of your friends. Well, at least you aren’t completely clueless about what a college party entails, considering you have seen firsthand what happened to your roommates right after they came back from parties or even clubs, and it certainly wasn’t anything pleasant. Nevertheless, you offered to help them by assisting in holding up their hair while they retched in the toilet bowl and getting them to bed, despite the grimace on your face.

Knocks on the door pull you out of your rumination, sharpening your focus in the mirror before your eyes trail to a familiar face from behind, who is leaning against the doorframe sideways with her arms crossed. Your eyes beam in appreciation at her beauty. The way she does her make-up accentuates her features, and she looks absolutely striking with her overall fit, which she chose to dress up as a cowgirl.

“Hey, Jen.” You greet her, trying your best to sound as enthusiastic as the way you beam at her, but the smile on your lips eventually wavers, giving away your irresolution.

Yunjin, who is rarely ever enthusiastic, offers you a wide smile that displays her pearly teeth. “Hey, gorgeous. Are you ready to go?” She asks, her eyes scanning your face, noticing how delicate your countenance appears.

Usually, you would reciprocate her energy, but this time, with the doubts lingering in your head, you cave into your withdrawals. “Honestly? No. I don’t know if it’s right for me to go.” You murmur, your eyes lowering, and Yunjin’s smile falters as soon as you reveal your true mask. You fiddle with your fingers. “I mean, I really am looking forward to the event,” You wince internally, unable to say the word ‘Devil’s’ verbally. “Never mind, I’m just overthinking things as usual.”

You don’t lift your head up, even as you hear her footsteps approaching from behind. You feel her warm hands on your bare shoulders, turning you around and tilting your chin up with her fingers. Your eyes reluctantly meet her hazel-hued ones that are blazing with firm resolution.

“I know that deep inside of you, you actually feel doubtful about this, but trust me when I say that just because you’re attending a party and dressing up like this, gorgeously at that, it does not make you unworthy or any lesser in the eyes of our religion.” Her voice comes out strong yet tinged with gentleness, which you can’t help but acquiesce to. Your heart swells with a familiar sentiment. Your best friend really knows you better than yourself sometimes.

Hun Yunjin, otherwise known as Jennifer, has been your childhood best friend, albeit not enrolled in the same elementary and high schools, and she is currently majoring in international business. You met her when you first started to attend Sunday services at your neighbouring church. You recall sitting next to her and randomly engaging in a conversation with her, despite the fact that you two were not supposed to drift off to your own mini-world. You thought you would never see her again, but the next Sunday service proved you wrong. From there, you and Yunjin formed a newfound friendship, and you declared that she was your church buddy. That remained constant until the two of you hit fifteen, and you didn’t see her as regularly as before.

Just like that, you lost contact with her. Subsequently, you began to wonder what went wrong and questioned your friendship with her, which you cherished dearly. Not many years later, when you first stepped foot in this university, you met Yunjin again, and miraculously, she turned out to be one of your assigned roommates. You assumed that she would not recognise you or even brush you off coldly given her aloof demeanour, but you were overjoyed when she recognised you and immediately welcomed you with a bear-hug while telling you how much she had missed you. The thought of asking her what truly happened years ago did cross your mind, but for some reason, you were afraid and apprehensive of the outcome, noticing how she would tense up whenever you brought up any topic regarding family, and most importantly, you didn’t want to lose her again. So you chose to play it safe. But what matters most is that you have reunited with her.

In return, you muster a faint smile on your glossed lips. “You always have a way with words, Yunjun.” You compliment her before releasing a soft sigh and holding your head up high. “Fine, I’m ready.”

Yunjin’s firm exterior cracks, and her matted-red lips curl into a grin. “That’s my girl.”

“Girls! Are we ready to go─” A gasp pulls you away from Yunjin’s eyes, and when you look at the familiar figure standing by the doorway to your room, you become in awe of how seductively alluring she looks with her theme, dressed up as a catwoman.

“You look amazing, Rina.” You compliment her earnestly. Genuinely, she knocks the breath out of you, and despite being roommates for three and a half years, her striking beauty often makes you question yourself about whether or not she is indeed real.

Truth be told, you didn’t get along with Yu Jimin, otherwise known as Karina, in the first few semesters of your freshman year. As she’s a fashion design major, it was inevitable that such a heap of mess was expected from her, and you hoped that she would be considerate, but you didn’t expect for her mess to scatter into the shared living room. Out of the four of you, you’re particular about cleanliness, so you disapproved of your roommate being blatantly inconsiderate, especially when you and your other roommates have had to clean up her mess every so often. You recall when Karina overheard you delivering complaints to your other two roommates, and she confronted you on the spot. From then on, she began nitpicking you, resulting in many petty disputes with her. You felt more annoyed than upset whenever she pointed out the fact that you were plain and boring. You swore you thought that you would never get along with her until two years ago, in your sophomore year, you found her alone in the living room at three in the morning as she was drinking two bottles of soju to her heart’s content with tears streaming down her cheeks and her eyes were puffy.

You wanted to mind your own business as usual, but it didn’t sit right with you to leave your roommate alone to reel in despair, so you cautiously approached her, as if you were afraid that she would lash out at you, but surprisingly, she confided in you. That was when you got to know that she had been cheated on by her boyfriend. You listened attentively to her, and even offered comforting words to her, to which she thanked you by giving you a hug before falling asleep on you. Of course, you had tucked her in to sleep on the couch with a pillow for her head to rest on and a blanket to give her body some warmth. You thought that Karina would return to her usual self when the next day arrived, but she took you by surprise once more when she started to become amiable towards you. From then on, you two developed a sense of camaraderie before it blossomed into a newfound friendship.

“Says you! You look drop-dead gorgeous!” Karina exclaims, her red lips outstretched into a wide smile while you detect sincerity in her tone. Her sharp eyes scan you for another time before the corner of her red lips curves upward with pride. “See? I knew that this dress would look gorgeous on you! Plus, your body is to die for!”

“I agree.” Yunjin chimes, casting you a smirk while your cheeks warm from their fond gazes on you. “It looks like our girl will be receiving many head turns tonight. I would have hit you up long ago if I swung for the same team.”

Before you can say anything, another voice joins in the conversation. “Okay, look, I know I agreed for Y/N to join us after much persuasion, but after some thought about it again, I’m taking my words back. There’s no way I’m letting her go with us.”

Your eyes shift from Karina to the tall, raven-haired beauty next to her. Once again, you are captivated by her mesmerising beauty and how truly stunning her overall fit is, in which her theme is a mermaid, and you are not exaggerating when you say that she looks like a literal mermaid goddess.

Yunjin heaves a sigh, her hazel eyes flashing annoyance. “We’ve talked about this, Vick. Nothing is going to happen to our girl. Don’t ruin this for her.” You hold your breath, feeling the tension mounted between the two glaring girls. You know that Yunjin means serious business whenever she calls Wonyoung by her English name.

Jang Wonyoung, otherwise known as Vicky Jang, is one of the university’s it girls with your best friends being in the same league, and she is also the girl whom you can call your soul sister. You recall the first time you met her when she opened the door to your shared dorm, and you were instantly captivated by her doll-like beauty and were so stunned that you even stammered your words when you reciprocated her warm greeting. Wonyoung is in the same major as you, journalism, and perhaps it also has to do with the fact that you got along well with her in just a few days prior to your first meeting in your freshman year. Despite how peculiar you managed to form a bond with her, you were grateful to have found a friend like her.

Although you are close with Yunjin and Karina, you feel more comfortable and at ease with Wonyoung, even when you are wrapped in silence. The two of you understand each other, even without words. You feel as though the both of you are kindred spirits; whenever you feel down, it affects her just the same, and you two often share your victories together without harbouring any hidden jealousy or ill feelings. There is this special connection you have to Wonyoung that is indescribable. Even your other friends often joke that the two of you are long-lost twin sisters.

Wonyoung’s eyes flicker to yours fleetingly, but it is enough for her to reaffirm her prior intuition before she returns her gaze to Karina and Yunjin, specifically to the cowgirl. “I just have a bad feeling about Y/N going, okay? You guys do know that my intuition has never failed me.” She tells them firmly. “I’m just being a good friend to Y/N and trying to look out for her.”

Yunjin scoffs loudly, her tongue hitting the roof of her mouth with a click of annoyance. “Are you also implying that we’re being bad friends to Y/N just because we want her to join us and have fun? You’re unbelievable, Vick!”

Wonyoung remains calmly collected, but there is no mistaking the irritation in the twitch of her eye. “I never said that, and I don’t want to argue with you, Jen. Just think rationally; attending Devil’s Night is not something we should take lightly. You and I both know that a person’s life will never be the same after the experience, if they even manage to survive the night.”

“Survive the night? What does that mean?” You butt in, both curiosity and incredulity evident in the cadence of your voice, but they simply ignore you, or maybe they are too busy communicating by still continuing the glaring contest, neither of them backing down.

“We’re wasting time here, girls.” Karina speaks up quietly, her eyes darting between them cautiously before settling on Wonyoung. “As much as I love that you’re being the overprotective mom of our group, just please don’t ruin this for us, especially since it’s Y/N’s first Devil’s Night, so we would want her to have a memorable experience, right? We promised that we won’t let anything happen to her, so have faith in us.”

“Yeah, have faith in us, Wony.” Yunjin emphasises with vehemence of mockery lacing her tone. “Besides, how long are you going to shelter Y/N as if she’s some helpless damsel and not a grown woman like us?”

You clench your fist, hating how your best friends are arguing because of you once more, but this time, you manage to find your voice to speak up. “I’m not in the slightest bit scared about attending Devil’s Night,” You pause briefly, internally wincing after having to say the word. “And I’ve always wanted to attend a party with you girls, so can we please not argue anymore and end with a groupie hug?” You state unsurely, seeing as Yunjin and Wonyoung never relent from the glaring contest.

Eventually, the two relax their tense postures, but neither of them utters an apology to the other. Nevertheless, Karina initiates the group hug, forcing Wonyoung and Yunjin to nestle closely while they grumble, but their features soften when you wrap your arms around them.

“Friends, again, right?” Karina asks nervously but covers up with an optimistic grin as she looks at them while you anticipate the same.

Wonyoung’s face remains impassive as she leans slightly forward to Yunjin. “If anything happens to Y/N, the blame is on you.” Her voice is low, carrying an undercurrent of warning.

Yunjin rolls her eyes, not intimidated in the slightest. “You’ll be thanking me instead for when Y/N has the time of her life at Devil's Night.” Just like that, the tension between them subsides, though they still harbour some pettiness over the action and words of the other behind the reconciliation.

“Let’s go, then. At this rate, we’ll be the last ones to arrive and miss out on most of the fun.” Karina says, prompting Yunjin to walk past Wonyoung before Karina follows after her.

You busily proceed to stuff whatever necessity into your white mini leg bag before wrapping the strap around your thigh, securing it fittingly. You look in the mirror to do a final examination of your appearance before turning around to depart from your room. Your eyebrows jump in surprise when you see Wonyoung waiting for you just outside, and her face remains disconcertingly as serious as ever.

“Are you sure about this?” She asks you as soon as you step closer to her, and her voice has a touch of gentleness to it, which makes your eyes soften as you recognise her concern for you. “I just don’t want you to feel pressured by them, which is why you’re going.”

“Yes.” Although you sound decisively certain, you can’t say the same for your churning stomach, but you ignore it since you are genuinely looking forward to the fun. Giving her a smile of final assurance, you begin to loop your arm around hers. “I love you, Wony, but Yunjin’s right, you know? I can’t be sheltered like I used to, and I want to graduate without any regrets.”

Wonyoung seems to believe in the conviction in the way you carry yourself, oblivious to the mask of bravado you put up, but you have to convince your best friend that she can trust you with your own safety without having her hover over you constantly. “Well, if you say so.” She softens with a smile.

Being the only one in your friend group who passed her driving license, Karina offered to drive the three of you to the venue with her polished purple Porsche, but in your mischief, you were quick enough to occupy the passenger seat, earning an approved grin from Karina, whereas Yunjin and Wonyoung did not look pleased to be seated in the back together.

Though it hasn’t been long since the four of you departed from the dormitory, silence encompasses the car with only an euphonic tune of the latest hit emanating from the dashboard radio, which feels unusual even to you since you value silence most of the time and your best friends would always be loud. It most likely has to do with the remnants of bitterness that Yunjin and Wonyoung still harbour towards each other, judging by the way they seem to be avoiding each other’s eyes. Karina meets your eyes, grimacing before deciding to increase the volume of the radio to override the awkwardness amidst the tension.

You hope that their usual dynamic would return to normal by the time you arrive at the venue. You press your lips thinly together before deciding to shift your focus to the window, where the view of multifarious buildings greets you, albeit most of the buildings appear to be oddly barren. Even the streetlights look eerily dim. It looks like Karina is driving through a town that you are unfamiliar with, and you would actually consider it a ghost town if it weren’t for the other vehicles driving on the same road as you, possibly the other guests.

You focus on the road ahead of you in an attempt to distract yourself from the unease that is creeping up on you, but soon confusion fills your head as Karina continues to drive past the last of the structured villas before entering into a massive road where a boulevard of trees towers on both sides of the road, because naturally, you expected the location of the festivity to be at a typical frat member’s backyard of their villa or even mansion, but from the looks of the road that continues to lead you to the unknown, you hope that it won’t be at a literal haunted building.

Soon, amidst the darkness that ostensibly obscures the road around you, an unmistakable illumination emerges ahead as you squint your eyes. With the velocity that Karina picks up, it isn’t long until the massive surprise awaits you, quite literally. You even have to blink your eyes repeatedly a couple of times, uncertain whether or not you are seeing the exact same thing as your best friends.

Karina decelerates the speed of her car as soon as she spots the vehicles lining up ahead of her that leads to a driveway before coming to a complete stop right behind a BMW. She taps her fingers on the leathered steering wheel that matches the beat of the music, letting the time pass while multitasking to slowly drive forward as the queue ahead shortens. From her peripheral vision, she notices the way your lips go parted and your widened eyes, bringing a small grin to her lips. “Are you liking the view?” Karina asks coyly, even drawing Yunjin and Wonyoung’s attention to you.

“Yeah, I just─” You become distracted when your eyes land on the creepy scarecrows situated in the land of greenery right outside, prompting you to turn your head to meet Karina’s eyes. “I didn’t expect that the festivity would be held at such a massive manor.” For a moment, you had no idea whether or not to utter the word palace, because it perfectly describes the sight that you are viewing.

A knock draws your attention, noticing Karina pushing down a button at the side that allows the driver’s window to roll down, revealing a manly figure with his identity obscured by a mask that is identical to the one you saw yesterday on campus. You observe him with curiosity as he holds the beaming flashlight at the interior of the car, squinting when the light skims your face. For a moment, you become hyperaware of this indescribable tension as he continues his examination of the car before he walks over to the back of the car. As though it is a routine, Karina instantly presses a button that allows him to examine the trunk. Upon hearing two knocks, Karina steps on the gas pedal, allowing the car to move forward, and it’s also when you notice the imposing black gates open, granting access to the territory.

The first thing that greets your sight up close is the grandeur of water fountains situated across the broad front yard, particularly the massive one that stands out in the center. As Karina continues to drive forward, you take the opportunity to marvel at the divine modernisation manor that looks more monumental than any building you have ever seen. It almost looks like a whole palace, making you wonder if the interior structure of the manor also looks similar to a royal palace. Above all, you wonder who is the owner.

“We’ve finally arrived, girls.” Karina announces, as soon as she pulls over on the massive asphalt where different ranges of vehicles are arrayed, before switching off the ignition of the engine, whilst you proceed to unbuckle your seatbelt and exit the vehicle.

The collective movement of the other guests captures your attention, and your eyes sparkle with amazement at the diversity in their costume designs and makeup, but ultimately, you grimace at the unpleasant sight of those who intentionally dressed up horrifically as part of their devotion to tone with the Halloween theme. But you applaud their commitment.

Being driven by the excitement buzzing in you, your feet gravitate you to the main entrance while your eyes continue to scan the manor’s facade. It doesn’t appear as eerie as you expected, devoid of spooky ornaments, but you know better than to judge early. Though you don’t and have never celebrated Halloween, you know that it does also entail unexpectancy, and so you mentally prepare yourself for any potential fright that this manor has to offer on this devilish night.

A poster that has a similar depiction of the flyer from yesterday catches your eyes, prompting you to move over to the grand pillar that has the poster attached to it just outside the main entrance. Though the depiction alone emanates something so sinister that it should have perturbed you, you find yourself being highly intrigued by what makes this festivity notoriously unique that never fails to compel almost everyone to attend.

Your eyes land on the familiar symbol that even you recognise — a human skull with a pair of discordant horns on its head with a long dagger impaled directly into the skull from above, reminding you of the holy cross with the way its t-handle is upside down. The Devil’s Knights’ symbol. Something familiarly unpleasant begins to churn in your stomach.

When you first heard about Devil's Night, you had a strong inkling that the event, let alone the name itself, would bring bad tidings to anyone involved. It is a popular annual Halloween festivity that is hosted by the notorious fraternity of Devil’s Knights, and according to your best friends, the overall in-charge of the event are the four leaders, who technically also dominate the university. But you see them all the same — just a bunch of delinquents who love to flaunt and assert corruption and dominance over Redcrest University everywhere they go. You find it ridiculous how even the board of the university simply overlooks their delinquency, but based on your current knowledge, it has something to do with the fact that the university benefits greatly from the eminent yet influential figures, whose long family line had enrolled into the university for many generations and earned many achievements, thus elevating the status of the university name that eventually earns a notable standing in the high society over the years across SoKor.

You hear your name being called with footsteps rushing from behind before you feel a hand on your shoulder to draw your attention to your best friend, whose countenance is unable to conceal the concern in her eyes. “You forgot your mask.” She tells you as she holds up a white masquerade mask.

You thank Wonyoung with a sheepish smile, but before you can retrieve it from her, she assists you in wearing your mask, securing the lacey material around your head and tying it into a perfect ribbon. You have forgotten that there is a special theme for this year’s Devil’s Night, which is masquerade macabre, wherein all guests are highly encouraged to attend with their own masquerade masks, though you have no idea why, but it’s probably a mere decoration on the guests’ part.

Plus, it is no wonder that you have been getting unpleasant stares from the people in your vicinity because they recognise the only renowned good girl who is practically the emblem of purity on campus, aka you, not that you are proud of it, considering that many view you with such abhorrence despite the fact that you have never disrupted the peace of others, just minding your own business and living quietly while trying your best to avoid drawing any attention to yourself.

With Karina’s arm locking around yours, the four of you stride forwards towards the main entrance, moving past the two imposing knights that probably pose as the bouncers as they seem to scan the guests for any potential trouble. As soon as you manage to cross past the final border to make it into the manor, you are immediately greeted by the terrifying ornaments in every interior part. You gulp nervously at the sight of the bloodstains that serve as part of the decoration, having no idea whether or not those are indeed blood imitations. Nevertheless, even those fail to overshadow the beauty of the manor, not even the dim lighting that exudes a haunting setting.

Despite your newfound admiration for the manor, there is an agitating turmoil within you that mirrors the way your heart pounds harder in your chest, having zero knowledge of what horror the night will possibly entail. Your fingernails dig crescents in your palm, repressing the cowardly side of you. You hate how you will always be the one with the faintest heart out of them all.

Just when you intend to ease up, your discomposure returns as you and your best friends release blood-curdling screams when four hideous scare actors bring terror upon the bunch of you as soon as you enter the main foyer. Chuckles and murmurs emit from the other guests loitering in the same area as they look at the commotion, but you are too preoccupied with regulating your emotions and breathing as you clutch onto Wonyoung’s arm instinctively.

Is it too early to say that you’re already regretting popping your Halloween virgin cherry?

“Oh, fuck off!” Karina snarls at them, imitating a cat-like hiss that brings a faint smile to your lips at how amusing it is. “That was uncool!” She expresses her displeasure to one of the scare actors with a scowl on her face while Yunjin shoots an icy glare at them as they chortle in unison behind their hideous yet terrifying masks.

“Lighten up, darling~ It’s Halloween!” The scare actor counters jeeringly before high-fiving his fellow associates with derisive laughter emitting from them even as they walk away to find other targets to bestow the same terror.

“Devil’s knights. How typical,” Yunjin scoffs out as she crosses her arms over her chest, but her eyes wander to you with concerned intent, considering your scream was the loudest out of the three of them. You release a shaky sigh, relaxing a tensed muscle in your shoulder. Of course, those scare actors were the devil's knights.

“You guys finally made it!” A high-pitched squeal diverts your attention to the familiar blonde, who is dressed up as Annabelle from the famous Conjuring film, but she manages to pull off the look rather adorably instead of ghastly. Her eyes instantly meet yours, greatly surprised yet delighted to see you. “Y/N?! Are my eyes deceiving me right now? You came!”

You don’t have time to process when she crashes into you, her arms latching around your figure and steadying you while breathy chuckles elicit from you as you reciprocate her eager hug. “You’ve just seen me yesterday, Minjeong.”

Minjeong, who also majors in journalism, is a part of the circle and a trusted friend to you. She is like a bolt of lightning. Despite her ebullient disposition, she can be fierce and intimidating when needed.

“We knew those screams sounded familiar.” This time, another voice grabs your attention with its familiar mirth, and at once, the rest of your familiar group of circle has gathered around you, greeting you with heartfelt hugs and gushing over your look that makes you feel rather bashful at their generous compliments.

In your line of sight are Kazuha, Chaewon, Liz, Rei, Yujin, Giselle, and Ningning. Whereas Kazuha, Chaewon, and Yujin are majoring in arts and entertainment management, Liz, Rei, and Ningning are majoring in economics. Giselle, on the other hand, is in the same major as you, Wonyoung, and Winter. Despite the fact that all of them are highly regarded as the it girls of the university that falls in the same league as your roommates, not once have they ever left you out and made you feel an outcast, especially considering that most of the student body dislikes you for reasons you deem irrational.

So what if they hate you just because you did not hail from an esteemed, affluent family? You managed to pass an entrance exam with a perfect score, and you even earned yourself scholarships over the years of your education here. Frankly speaking, you are not bothered by the fact that there are students who dislike you for your status ranking, because at the end of the day, your GPA remains a perfect 4.0, and you are on the director’s list of exceptional students. Plus, your future is all set. You just need to maintain your GPA and graduate and get the hell out of university without involving yourself in any trouble for the next few months.

You mentally detach yourself from the ongoing chatter from your group of friends, your eyes scanning every part of the crowd, searching for a certain leader who had his eyes on you yesterday. The memory feels fresh as it is embedded in your mind. But he is not anywhere in your line of sight.

Yunjin, who notices how you seem to be distracted in searching for someone, nudges you with her elbow, which has you meeting her curious eyes. “Anyone in particular you’re looking for?” She asks, her voice low, as she knows that you’d hate for the other girls to pester or even tease you if they heard her question.

“No one. I was just admiring the place. It looks similar to a grand palace, don’t you think?” You hide your disappointment behind a smile, without knowing that it does little to convince Yunjin, but she decides to drop it.

“Okay, girls, gather around." Karina announces, and the group of you huddle in a circle, with giggles and banter emanating from your friends. “While we’re here to have fun, we must never forget to keep Y/N in our sight at all times, especially since this is her first time attending Devil’s Night. Plus, it would really ease Momma Wony, who has been awfully worried for our girl.”

“Hey, I’m not a kid! I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself!” You assert strongly, but your demur goes unheard by them as they continue to quickly run through what to look out for, or rather who to look out for — the Devil’s Knights’ leaders.

“It’s for your own good, Y/N.” Wonyoung tells you softly after noticing the sour expression on your face as soon as they begin to disperse while you remain by her side, dragging you with her. Your best friends seem to know their way around the manor, pushing their way through the bustling crowd as they venture deeper.

“You girls really don’t have to worry about me.” You remain adamant while reluctantly allowing yourself to be dragged by Wonyoung. Your eyebrows furrow, and your lips downturn into a frown. “I know how and when to steer clear of trouble.”

Despite being the same age as them, your best friends and the others who are in the same circle of friends as you often coddle you, including protecting you from anyone who has ill intent towards you, especially from some of the frat members who have tried to approach you in the past. Of course, you feel much gratitude for your friends, and you are blessed to be surrounded by feminine love and support, but there are moments when you do feel overwhelmed by them and frustrated as they seem to think that you are incapable even when you prove yourself to them, but according to them, your innocence is highlighted as crucial and needs to be protected. Sometimes, it feels as though they feel obliged to shelter you from the cruel reality and want you to remain the way you are. Pure, and a literal saint, but you hate it.

“I know, but you have to understand that this Halloween is different.” Wonyoung asserts firmly, to which you can’t help but resign. “Trouble is everywhere here, and no one is immune to attracting trouble. Not even you.”

“What is so different about a mere Halloween party?” Still, you mutter with a sass of attitude, but audible enough for Karina and Yunjin to hear that has them raising their eyebrows at this attitude of yours.

“It’s different because each Halloween hosted by the devil’s knights differs from the previous Halloween.” Karina answers as though she has recited this before, and when you look into her eyes, you see uncertainty shine through them. “Really, we can never predict what they have up their sleeves. But one thing that remains constant is the fact that Devil’s Night is not meant for anyone faint of heart.”

“Ironic, because here we are, dragging Y/N with us.” There is a familiar bite in Wonyoung’s tone, but you frown at her as she impliedly agreed that you are one of those with a faint of heart.

“Nothing is going to happen to Y/N as long as we stick by her side.” Yunjin reassures Wonyoung firmly once more, annoyance filtering her voice, but your attention drifts to the new scenery before you.

It appears that you haven’t been paying attention to your surroundings earlier, as you now find yourself entering what looks like a club. Incredulity buzzes through you the way the blasting music does. You definitely did not expect that there would be a club inside the regal manor. The club looks lavish with a B-stage right at the very front and a bustling crowd enjoying and dancing to the music that has obscene lyrics, which brings a grimace to your face, but you know that you have to get familiar with being in this environment if you want to step out of your comfort zone.

You follow Wonyoung closely while marvelling at your surroundings. You have no idea how enormous the venue is, but you can’t deny the fact that you find it impressive, and there are even two separate bars on each side of the venue. Yunjin grabs you by your forearm and drags you with her and Karina to head over to the bar while Wonyoung trails behind you. Thankfully, there are not many people by the bar, but even so, you become conscious of the way you look as more eyes latch onto your form, making you feel as though you are naked.

“Do you want a non-alcoholic drink?” Yunjin asks you as soon as the four of you settle on the high stools where you are facing the bartenders in their element, serving other guests that are seated by the booth as well.

“I actually would like to try some alcoholic cocktails, maybe a margarita?” Your statement elicits genuine surprise from them. You bite the inner cheek, holding back a smile that displays your pride. Of course, they did not expect you to know the name of a single alcoholic beverage, but you did. You had done some research last night, skimming through the internet and memorising the alcoholic beverages. Plus, you didn’t want to look like a complete amateur at your grown age, wanting to impress your best friends.

“How did you know?” Yunjin asks, speaking for the other two who have the same question in mind, and yet Yunjin seems proud with the way her eyes sparkle.

You give her a sheepish smile. “Just because I don’t go places like this often doesn’t mean I’m an amateur. i know things too, you know?” You tell her coyly, eliciting amused chuckles from them.

“A margarita for the angel right here.” Yunjin chirps to the bartender while pointing her finger at you, and being a natural flirt, she winks at the bartender, who, in return, blushes but quickly proceeds to make your order.

“Are you sure about drinking?” As always, Wonyoung’s worry for you is evident when the glass of margarita is served to you. “You might get tipsy after a few sips since you have never drunk one before.”

“Don’t discourage her, Wony.” Karina says with a disapproving frown on her lips. “If Y/N says she wants one, she will have one.” Wonyoung rolls her eyes at her, but acquiesces.

The three of them watch you in anticipation as your fingers wrap around the delicate stem of the glass before raising it to your lips and taking tentative sips. As soon as the cocktail hits your tongue, you decide to drink it wholly in one go, surprising your best friends once more at how natural you are at it.

“How is your first-ever drink?” Karina gives you a grin, her eyes glittering with approval, entirely impressed by this new side of you.

The cocktail that you drank surprisingly isn’t too strong, but you feel oddly energised. You lick at the seam of your bottom lip before a grin spreads across your lips. “I’d like to try other drinks. Any recommendations?” You ask the girls, specifically Karina and Yunjin, as they enthusiastically introduce you to the drinks on the menu board.

Yunjin proceeds to inform all of your orders to the blushing bartender once more, including Karina and Wonyoung’s. As the three of your best friends are engaged in a conversation, you decide to look over your shoulder with your body tilting to watch the ongoing performance from a live band, and the music seems to be getting to you, influencing your body to sway to the rhythm. Your eyes skim over the sea of partygoers dancing among themselves and with each other, tempting you to join in the dancing yet intoxicating crowd.

Your lips curve into a small smile, finding yourself relaxed, totally at ease for once, probably thanks to the alcohol that has now invaded your system. You take sips of your drink again, relishing in the addicting flavour before placing down the half-empty glass on the table. Deciding to keep yourself occupied and entertained whilst your best friends are still having a conversation about a topic you know nothing of, your eyes wander around as you are lost in your thoughts until they land on a particular figure that stands out to you in a place full of partygoers.

Though he is seated on a velvety couch across the side of the club from where you are at, his visual is so outstanding that you simply cannot look away. Still in a trance, your eyes roam around the entirety of him before locking eyes with him, and just like that, you are struck by the dreadful realisation that you are staring into the eyes of the man who you used to have a crush on. From the way he raises his eyebrow attractively at you and how the amusement curls on his plump lips, you know that he has been staring at you.

His gaze is sharp as he continues to hold your gaze, seated leisurely on the couch with his legs spreading invitingly as though to tempt you to come over to him, rendering you flustered, and yet you find it hard to look away from him, wanting to feast your eyes on him for as long as you can. His lips tip up in a smirk as he takes sips of his drink, scanning you from head to toe for another time before the handsome view of him is blocked by an incessant group of partygoers.

But you have a feeling that you’ll be seeing him again, especially after recognising the patent desire burning in his eyes that parallels the desire pooling within you sinfully.

Humour manages to slither its way to your dazed mind that is tainted by the intoxication from the number of drinks you had, eliciting drunkard chuckles from you, and yet you don’t feel fully inebriated, just the slightest bit tipsy. A scoff follows after the chuckles that leave your lips before you tip your head to the back as you drink the last of your cocktail. You take a glance at the empty seats next to you that were previously occupied by your best friends. It is definitely ironic how your best friends, particularly Wonyoung, were insistent on keeping their eyes on you to prevent something from happening to you, but they are nowhere to be found now. Even so, you know yourself that you didn’t need any form of babysitting at a party despite this being your first time.

Maybe this is the alcohol that is intensifying the feelings you buried deep, but frankly speaking, you have had enough of your best friends treating you like you’re a helpless, incapable damsel who is in need of supervision at all times. No, this time, you will prove to them that you can have fun without any restriction or anything happening to you. You will prove to them that you are far more capable than they think.

You decide to abandon your seat, nearly losing balance as dizziness strikes you in the head, but you swiftly regain composure, now standing on both feet steadily. Your eyes feel magnetically drawn across from the side of the club, expecting to see him, only to feel sheer disappointment to see no sight of him at where he was just seen earlier. Just when you feel confident to approach him, that is driven by the impulse of intoxication.

Nevertheless, you refuse to allow his absence to deter you from experiencing the fun by the dance floor with other partygoers, and so you gravitate towards the bustling crowd with red and purple LEDs in motion illuminating every part of the club that exudes such sensuality. You venture deeper, and instead of panicking and getting overwhelmed by the crowd around you, you feel oddly liberated with your body moving to the infectious rhythm instinctively, in which the DJ is currently playing Waka Flocka’s ‘No Hands’ as it reverberates throughout these walls.

You know that it has to do with the alcohol buzzing in your system that has completely relieved any rationale and any saintly quality from within you, rendering you unrecognisable as you go all out without any restriction, giggling and dancing fluidly as though you are a natural at it, but not a single regret comes to mind.

Unbeknownst to you, he has his eyes fixated on you from the moment you venture onto the dance floor, completely mesmerised at the sight of you revelling in the abysmal toxicity. With the people in his vicinity recognising his unmasked face, they immediately give way to him, allowing him to make his way to you with ease. He bites down on his plump lip, enjoying the way you are flaunting your moves that accentuate your curves a little too much.

You got him in a complete trance, enticing him to roam his hands all over you. Your giggles sound melodious yet seductive to his ears as soon as he nearly reaches you from behind. His eyes darken with each passing second as your body sways with fluidity, and your back is arched with your head tilted up, immersing yourself in the music while a sultry smile smears across your lips. He can feel his cock hardening beneath the slacks.

Fuck, he has no idea there is a side to you that he gets incredibly turned on by, and it has been so long since anyone has managed to make him as enragingly turned on as he is now. Flashes of images of you being fucked relentlessly by him appear in his mind as he fantasises, and how he can already imagine your taste that probably won’t satisfy him, utterly insatiable.

Without thinking twice, he places both hands on your waist from behind, his fingers tingling at the sensation of your body as he allows his hands to roam around your curves with perverse intent. Your body feels so undeniably right in his hands, as though you were always meant to be held by him. Instead of feeling alarmed, you remain relaxed and loose, swaying along to the music with the supposed stranger behind you.

You allow him to pull you closer until your butt cheek hits his hardness, causing your breath to hitch in your throat at the solid sensation, and yet you can’t seem to stop dancing. You unintentionally grind yourself back against him, eliciting a sound between a low groan and growl from the back of his throat that shocks you to the core. Your heart pumps rapidly with anticipation as his hot breath fans the shell of your earlobe while his strong arms snake around your waist, locking you in his possession.

In your delirium, you tilt your head up and lean on his shoulder lazily, allowing him to guide your movements instead. His strong cologne is intoxicating as it infiltrates your senses. You hear his low, ragged breaths next to your ear, as though he is struggling to control the bestial side of him before you feel him dipping his head in the curve of your neck, his nose burying in your skin as he inhales your sweet scent that has automatically been engraved in his mind.

A startled gasp leaves your lips when you feel his warm lips touch your skin before he proceeds to kiss your neck sensually. You should be pushing this stranger away, but instead, you allow yourself to fall weak and succumb to the allure of his kisses on your neck. Soft moans leave your lips unabashedly as his lips assault the sensitive spot on your neck, causing his arms to tighten around you at your sweet noises. “You sound just as exquisite as the way you taste.” You hear him murmur those words, or you assume he murmurs those words, since the music is overpowering, but you swear you recognise his voice.

In a blink of an eye, he spins you around, his hands remaining on your waist. Though the lighting in the club is dim, the LEDs allow you to catch a glimpse of his face. Recognition glimmers in your eyes that is soon followed by mortification at the realisation that you were being brazenly intimate in the middle of the dance floor, as though most people around you weren’t grinding and making out lewdly in the open from earlier.

“Jake.” You utter his name, feeling both confused and aroused while your breath sounds shaky, but the view up close of his fine glory has you foaming at the mouth as your eyes roam around the entirety of him. He looks sinfully attractive in all denims with his chain necklace hooked around his neck, and his long raven hair has been styled impeccably with a few strands hovering over his chiselled forehead. Your eyes catch a sight of a unique inked tattoo of a snake on his collarbone area peeking due to his loose white tee that hangs a little low on his frame.

“The one and only, sweetheart.” You meet his eyes, nearly melting into a puddle when his kissable lips arch into a smirk. You don’t make any protests as you remain numb in his possession. Everything feels surreal, making you doubtful if the man you once had a crush on finally notices you in the way you wanted, but you continue to dance with him, taking him by surprise when you throw your arms around his neck.

You feel your arousal pooling in your womanhood as you see him licking his lips sensually before leaning down and assaulting your now-arched neck with his addicting lips. “I’m glad you came. The party was getting boring without you here.” He says in between kisses while the wet, smacking sound of his lips arouses you greatly. He groans huskily in your ear before nipping your earlobe with his teeth gently. “You look so fucking gorgeous, sweetheart. I can’t get enough of you.”

Your legs nearly go jelly, prompting you to lean dependently into his body, and for a moment, just when you succumb to his dark allure, the truth hits you hard, which propels you to push him away, but he holds you firmly, depriving you of any escape. “You can’t be calling me ‘sweetheart’.” You protest weakly, wanting nothing more than to submit yourself to him completely. He seems to ignore your protest as he leans in to press a sensual kiss on your cheek. “And you definitely can’t be kissing me.”

Jake shrugs his shoulders indifferently. “Why can’t I?” He asks, feigning curiosity in his tone, but the devilish curl at the corner of his lips betrays his mask.

“Well, you should only be kissing someone you like.” You murmur, your eyes crestfallen as you feel familiarly crushed by the hard truth that he probably doesn’t recognise your voice as it’s been years since you last interacted with him, not that you expect him to. Plus, your masquerade mask obscures half of your identity, so there is absolutely no way he even bothered to remember you. “You probably don’t even recognise me, let alone know my name─”

“Y/N,” Jake tilts your chin up with his fingers, forcing you to meet his firm eyes, his gaze holding genuine integrity and recognition. Upon seeing your eyes widening in surprise, his features soften as he caresses your cheek tenderly. “How could I not recognise you?”

You immediately recover by relaxing your muscles and allowing him to pull you closer until his prominent bulge presses into you. Your heart races at his dark gaze that smoulders with an unmistakable desire before he looks down at your lips. “We really shouldn’t be like this, and you can’t kiss me again.” You try to reason with him, but you lack tenacity, as evident in the way you bask in his warmth.

For a fleeting moment, you wonder what goes on in his mind as you notice hesitation in his eye before the familiar mischief that you recognise returns to his countenance. With one arm locked around your waist, he uses the other to cup your cheek. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re at a party, so there are no restrictions. It’s completely normal for us to be kissing, especially on the dance floor.”

You fall into the deceit he covertly orchestrates, his voice a mellow in your ears that renders you nearly bare your soul to him. “Really?” Your tone holds such pure innocence; it is a calling to his corruption, bringing a smirk to his lips, loving how gullible and adorably naive you are as you stare at him with sparkling eyes.

“Of course it is. If you didn’t know it yet, this is my domain, so we can do whatever the fuck we want, and no one would dare to question what you do.” Jake says with an attractive drawl in his voice before leaning in to whisper in your ear, his husky voice intensifying the need pooling in you incessantly. “Besides, I do like you.”

“You do?” Your eyes widen while butterflies awaken in your tummy. “Why?” You can’t help but feel doubtful of his declaration, fearing that he is being a total Casanova, as he always has been throughout the years you have known him.

“You’re a nice and sweet girl, so, so perfect for me. How could I not like you?” Jake gives you a charming smile, and just like that, you fall for his irresistible charm. He presses his body into you, feeling you up while the distance between your lips slowly decreases. “My sweet girl.”

If you could verbally purr right now, you would, but instead, you lean closer to him, your head resting on his shoulder, basking in the newfound comfort and safety in his arms. You feel him pressing his lips on the side of your head, causing your lips to twitch into a content smile, oblivious to the devilry he has been keeping at bay.

“Someone as pure as you shouldn’t have come here,” Jake whispers softly, almost inaudible due to the overpowering music, but there is no mistaking the darkness lacing his once-mellow tone. “Now that you’re here, there is no way I’d ever let you go after this.”

Instead of being fearful of the discernible obsession in the way he speaks, you snuggle into him, loving the idea of being his forever. “Don’t let me go, Jake.” You plead softly, but even you know that you are not entirely in your right mind. In this moment, you simply don’t care, only wanting his attention and affection.

Jake smirks at you, his eyes glinting with devilry and satisfaction, successfully having you, the renowned Y/N kang and the emblem of purity, right in his possession. “Be careful what you wish for, my lovely dearest.”

Your face twists into a grimace as you feel your head throbbing, but your steps never falter as you continue your search for any restroom in this broad club, wanting to cleanse your hands as well as to recuperate yourself after spending all of your energy on the dance floor. You recall how disappointed you were when your moment with Jake was cut short as he had to leave in a hurry for some reason, not before giving you a kiss on the cheek. Maybe what happened between you and your first crush was purely in the heat of a moment, and just maybe the words that left the casanova’s mouth weren’t genuine, but you have never felt as contented as you were earlier.

You release a sigh of relief upon seeing the washroom signage after ten minutes of walking around in confusion, and it looks like this is the only washroom in this club. You hope that there is no one inside, but just as you push open the door, you are greeted by a strong yet odious smell with smoke wafting in the air in an enclosed space, causing your nose to automatically crinkle in disgust.

The moment your eyes land on four figures occupying the corner part of the washroom, you freeze, because not only do they have their attention fixated on you, but also because you recognise the masks that obscure their identity. They appear to have finished smoking some sort of substance, but whether or not it’s illegal, you can’t bring yourself to care about it, because the only thing you are very much hyperaware of is the danger that emits from them, and the red LED that surrounds the place only seems to make them appear more villainous than they already are.

You try to find your voice, to utter an apology or anything that can excuse your unintentional intrusion, because as much as you despise the Devil’s Knights, you know better than to be on your high horse in their territory, but you tremble with fear as they begin to approach you, similar to predators toying with their prey, no doubt having ill intent towards you. Your mind is screaming at you to flee, but your entire body feels paralysed to even move back an inch.

Before you can even silently utter a prayer, the door behind you is pushed open in a manner that suggests that whoever it is, they seem to be barging into the washroom urgently. Just as you are about to turn around and see who it is, his voice startles you greatly. “You guys just love to piss me off. How many times do I have to tell you bastards that no smoking is allowed in the washroom?” His voice is devoid of any warmth, sending a familiar yet unpleasant chill down your spine. “If I see you pulling this shit again, you’ll have Heeseung as well to deal with. Get out, now.”

Without a word, the four knights waste no time in departing the washroom, sparing you no glance as though your presence is merely non-existent. Despite the disconcerting chill you feel in being in the same vicinity as him, you find it a tad humorous how he seems to have saved you from his own underlings, even though you doubt that it was his intention. Yet, you can’t help but be in awe at his commanding presence alone, managing to overpower theirs all together.

Their final departure now leaves you entirely alone with the guy you never want to be anywhere near his vicinity. Painful awkwardness envelops you amidst the disconcerting silence, but you force yourself to take steps forward, albeit unsteadily, as the alcohol in your system returns to delay your reaction time and the fact that you feel his gaze burning into your figure. Somehow, you manage to find your voice. “Just so you’re expecting a thank you from me, I didn’t need your help, Sunghoon.”

You ignore his degrading chuckles that sound like painful shards of mirrors cutting through you. “Sure, you didn’t. You looked perfectly capable of defending yourself even when you were practically trembling.” His sarcasm causes your eyes to twitch in annoyance, but you try your best to ignore him as you proceed to wash your hands in the washbasin.

Though you are somewhat still under the influence of alcohol, you feel conscious enough to avoid any further unnecessary confrontation with him. Plus, there is absolutely no way Sunghoon knows who you are because of your masquerade mask and the fact that you haven’t formally interacted with him in your uni years until now. But when you accidentally meet his eyes in the mirror, you want nothing more than to bury yourself deep 6 feet under at the cruel recognition in his eyes.

You don’t dare to move an inch as he stalks you from behind. “You know, you made a big mistake by coming here.” He says in a sinfully attractive drawl. “It’s funny because I never would have thought that you would dare to step foot in a place that is not suited for someone like you. Guess you proved me wrong, princess.”

Maybe you were wrong, because from the implication in his remarks, you have a strong inkling that he knows who you are, or maybe you are just reading it all wrongly. Still, you turn around to face him, masking a bravado that you hope will convince him that you are someone else. “You think you know me?” Your tone holds an unrecognisable confidence in your ears. “I couldn’t even be bothered to prove you wrong, out of all people.”

“Careful with how you speak to me.” Sunghoon nearly growls out, unconcealing his true feelings towards you that feel rather on a personal level for reasons beyond your comprehension. He is unrelenting in each step of torment towards you, prompting you to back up until your lower back hits the sink behind you, preventing you from any escape as he is closing in on you. “You think you can act all mighty and arrogant just because you’re wearing that mask? Are you seriously taking me for a fool?”

His strong cologne hits you like an intoxicating wave, sending mixed signals to your brain as you feel both fear and attraction towards him, eliciting an inaudible whimper from you. You hate how he looks sinfully attractive up close with the red LED that enhances his impeccable visual that complements the menacing ambience he exudes.

Your heart pumps harder as his lips curve into a devilish smirk while his eyes look more callous than they did before. “Let me tell you something, princess. I don’t give a fuck whether or not you decide to prove anything to me. Even the way you dress up like a slut has no effect on me.” His voice is laced with venom, holding an unmistakable hatred for you that you can’t help but feel a stab of hurt in your chest.

Before you can muster any possible comeback, voices approaching the restroom from the outside render you alarmed. Sunghoon looks indifferent, but he takes you by complete surprise when he grabs you firmly by the arm before practically shoving you inside the only cubicle this restroom has. For a moment, you feel thankful to him when you manage to hide away at the perfect timing when they enter the restroom.

But any gratitude to him is short-lived when Sunghoon pushes you up against the side wall with his palm covering your mouth while his dark eyes are glaring into yours heatedly, silently commanding you to shut the fuck up, and you do. The close proximity between the heat of your bodies barely manages to register in your head when familiar voices echo in the restroom, causing your eyes to widen in panic.

“Did you see the bitch getting all handsy over her as soon as she noticed me? It makes me feel whole lot better knowing that my ex-girlfriend obviously could never find anyone better than me.” There is no doubt that’s Kim Minjeong, aka Winter, her voice burning with resentment and arrogance.

Sunghoon feels your lips trembling in his palm before even noticing the entirety of you trembling with visible fear and anxiety in your eyes, and it is much worse when the girls outside clearly need to use the cubicle, as evident by their remarks in between the conversations. He knows that he’s supposed to take great pleasure in your fear of being discovered by your friends, but instead, there is this maddening sense of pity for you and the disbelieving fact that deep down, he feels inclined to help you with this inescapable situation, especially since one of them is already knocking on the door of the cubicle.

“Hello? Care to hurry up and help out a girl in need to use the toilet here?” Sunghoon rolls his eyes at the familiar sass that belongs to Giselle’s voice. “Seriously, are you taking a huge dump or something?”

Before you can panic further, your heart only pumps harder when Sunghoon leans in next to your ear, his breath caressing your earlobe. “You gotta trust me on this, princess. Just follow my lead and play along unless you want to get caught.” He whispers softly, but his tone holds an undertone of warning while his demand makes you feel instinctively submissive towards him.

Since you obviously have no choice but to comply, you give him a head nod, only to be rendered flabbergasted when he swiftly hoists you up against the wall with his hands, carrying you by the thighs with ease before he begins to grind into you, allowing you to feel something vulgar that is relentlessly in contact with your womanhood. Little do you know that in order for both of you to fully convince the girls outside, he needs to be really into you, and he finds it insatiable yet surprising by the fact that his cock manages to get hard because of you sooner than he thought.

Well, to be fair, Sunghoon knows that he cannot deny the irresistible beauty in his arms, all dolled up gorgeously that no doubt have many heads turn to you in one night. The skimpy white dress that accentuates your curves does nothing to help abate the salacious fantasy that has been playing in the back of his mind ever since he saw you from afar earlier. His ego flares when he notices you biting down on your lips, knowing that he is making you feel good in the pleasure contorting your angelic features.

You feel good, sinfully good, as his now-bulging erection hits you distinctly in the clit, your eyelids fluttering between closing and keeping them open to focus on him. You lean the back of your head on the wall, presenting your bare neck to his dark eyes, and your chest heaves heavily from the intensity of this newfound pleasure. This should be considered blasphemous to you, and yet you can’t resist stopping as you put in effort, rubbing your clit harder against him while he feels entirely smug to witness how pathetically desperate you are.

An accidental moan leaves your lips when you feel your clit being stimulated at a new height, making you highly sensitive as both of you continue to hump dry against each other like desperate lovers. The last of consciousness slips, and eventually you can’t be bothered to hide the sounds you have been keeping at bay.

“What the fuck?” Giselle utters loudly in disbelief while the other girls make noises and remarks that express their disgust, especially as they assume that there is indeed a couple doing the deed with the way there is a continuous thudding sound against the wall. “I don’t know about you girls, but I definitely do not want to use a cubicle that’s been used by couples who fucked, like seriously, out of all places?”

You barely notice the girls’ departure from the restroom, only focusing on his extremely hard cock that continues to press and grind into your clit deliciously while moans continue to spill from your lips. He smirks down at you, his fang-like teeth peeking from his lips, feeling both aroused and amused at how pathetic yet adorable you are being highly sensitive and loud just by getting your clit stimulated. Oh, he is definitely going to have so much fun toying around with you.

“Sunghoon, we can stop now. I think they’re gone.” You manage to utter breathlessly in between moans after gaining consciousness, hearing nothing but only the sound of your moans that echo off these walls. Your cheeks flush in embarrassment, having no idea that you could get awfully loud.

Instead of agreeing with you, Sunghoon doesn’t seem like he has any intention to stop as he continues to grind his cock against your throbbing clit, intensifying the pleasure that courses through your body. You try to push him away by the chest, but you lack the conviction as you fall weak, succumbing to this twisted pleasure as you grind back on him. Your hips begin to stutter while your stomach tightens at the sensation of something delicious yet inevitable, feeling your bundle of nerves threaten to implode.

“Sunghoon.” His name sounds heavenly coming out from your moaning mouth, and the control he has over the remnants of his restraint finally snaps the same way any ill feelings he has towards you dissipate, being replaced by a driven need to ruin you.

Just as you nearly reach your climax, Sunghoon halts his movement, eliciting a needy whine from you, but you know that he is not done with you when he manhandles you into a position where you find yourself being bent over with your palms on the wall supporting your body, presenting half of your vulnerability for him to manipulate with perverse intent.

You gasp at the intrusion of his fingers sliding underneath your white lace underwear from behind, feeling them travelling further down until they make real contact with your aching womanhood while your clit throbs. “Damn, princess. You got this wet for me?” He asks smugly as his fingers continue to play around your sticky slicks sensually, causing your senses to heighten by the fact that you are evidently wet. “If I knew you were a pathetic, needy whore, I would’ve had my fun with you before anyone could.”

If anything, his degradation and dominance over you only turn you on painfully as your pussy is aching to be relieved. “Sunghoon, please.” You find yourself pleading with him, hoping that he would either cease this torment or give you further pleasure.

“My needy, slutty princess.” His voice drips with cruel mockery, and before you know it, his fingers plunge into your tight hole, eliciting a gasp from you at the painful intrusion. He hisses lowly, marvelling at how tight you are as your walls clench around him. “Don’t tense up. You’d only be hurting yourself if you don’t relax.”

For a guy who clearly despises you, he is actually capable of giving you advice as you follow, slowly yet unsteadily unclenching your walls around his fingers, but you still feel tight. Nevertheless, he resumes his assault, his strong, unyielding fingers delving rhythmically into your wet cunt while moans tumble past your lips. You have never felt anything like this — sickeningly and intimately invasive, and yet you never want this pleasure to end as you fuck back into his fingers.

It is mesmerising in the way you move, fuelling his fantasy with you that awakens the beast within him. Sunghoon scoffs as you express your desperation with your body before he deprives you of reaching the heights of your pleasure. You barely have time to register anything when he grabs you by the neck, his fingers circling around your throat and pulling you up roughly until your back hits his chest.

“S-Sunghoon—” You let out a sound between a gasp and a moan when his sticky fingers that are coated with your slick come in contact with your clit from the front, making your eyes roll to the back while you fall weak in his unyielding hold, your back arching off his front.

“I’m not stopping until you make a mess on my fingers, princess.” Sunghoon chuckles darkly in your ear, his fingers rubbing your clit in a maddening precision that has your thighs trembling from the onslaught of pleasure. “It’s cute how you could cum just by getting your clit played. You’re so fucking sensitive, and it’s pathetic. Imagine if people see you now? They’d be seeing how much of a needy slut the renowned good girl is for me.”

Sunghoon continues his insult and degradation while expertly multitasking in hurtling you to the edge of ecstasy, making you feel as though you have found a different type of heaven. You don’t miss the way his lips would graze against your jawline while his fingers around your neck tighten, sending you an odd fluttery sensation to your heart amidst this heady cocktail of lust and intoxication that surrounds you.

You can feel the knot forming in your stomach while your clit is aching tremendously for it to implode, and with the last of your moans echoing in the enclosed space, you finally come undone violently with a shuddering release, your lips parting at the delicious onslaught of pleasure while your body convulses in his hold. You begin to feel overstimulated when he continues to rub and press the padding of his fingers into your clit, eliciting a whimper from you, before he travels further below where your slick cum is prevalent, prompting him to deliberately coat his fingers with your wetness.

Still reeling in the aftermath from your high, you feel dazed, allowing him to manhandle you again as he turns you around to face him, only for him to shove his fingers covered in your cum into your mouth. You snap out of it when a certain yet foreign taste hits your tongue, feeling utterly revolted, but his dark eyes penetrate into yours, warning you that there would be consequences if you refuse to comply.

“Suck on them, princess.” Sunghoon commands, his voice sounding huskier with a patent lust. You obey despite the unpleasant sensation of the slick’s thickness, your tongue swirling around his fingers sloppily yet sensually while you maintain eye contact with him. He groans internally while he feels his cock hardening even more upon seeing how innocent you look with your pretty eyes staring up at him as you continue to suck his fingers messily, and yet there is an air of seduction emitting from you, your eyelashes fluttering and your head bobbing back and forth.

Eventually, Sunghoon pulls his fingers away from your mouth with the string of your saliva connected to them, and yet he doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by it as he inserts those same fingers into his mouth, tasting the remnants of your cum. You look at him with your cheeks flushed warmly, completely flabbergasted at the fact that he is tasting the mixture of your saliva and cum. You expect him to utter another insult or vulgar remark to you again, but instead, he casts you a smirk, his eyes glinting with danger and lust before he makes his departure from the cubicle, leaving you entirely breathless and wondering what the fuck just happened.

You stagger a step back before leaning your back against the wall, trying to wrap your head around the fact that it was far more intimate than what you had with Jake earlier. The realisation of the heated moment that escalated between you and him hits you like a brick, and the worst part is the fact that you don’t even feel any regret or remorse over the loss of your innocence, albeit it wasn’t the actual genital part. If anything, you want him to give you another mind-blowing session of being fucked purely by his fingers alone.

You immediately snap out of your sinful fantasy and force yourself to pull together. You can’t allow something like that to happen again, because you know that deep down, you would fully succumb to it with no way out. You shake your head and release a sigh before making your way to the washbasin to wash your hands, and if only it would be possible for you to cleanse your entire body. Your eyes examine your tousled appearance in the mirror, only to be taken aback by the smudge of your lipstick.

Thankfully, you bring the lipstick with you, and you reach out for your mini leg bag that is attached at the side of your thigh. You reapply the lipstick on your lips after wiping any possible wet excess on your face and fix your appearance to make yourself look as decent as possible, because frankly speaking, you looked like a woman who just had mind-blowing sex with a hot stranger.

You proceed to make your way back to the bar, but you feel uncomfortable as you can feel the remnants of your wet slick smeared on your panties. Nevertheless, you put on a facade just as your best friends turn to you, finally returning to the bar that they left first earlier.

“We were looking for you, babe.” Yunjin tells you, carefully observing you as you take a seat at your original stool. “Where did you go?”

“To the restroom.” You simply reply, your tone betraying none of the whirlpool of emotions within you. “Felt a little overwhelmed. You know me; I’m not a fan of big places, but I’m trying.” Thankfully, they seem to have bought your excuse.

“So we were planning to have a shots challenge.” Karina tells you with a grin, a mischievous one that has you arching your eyebrows at. “I’ll explain later, but are you up for it? It’ll be fun!”

“Of course.” You say without any hesitation, causing Wonyoung to look at you with doubt in her eyes, but you ignore her. If this challenge could help you to forget whatever happened in the restroom, then you are more than willing to participate. Not minutes later, the challenge begins to take its place as you stare at the small shot glasses in front of you. Just before you can take your first shot, another realisation strikes you hard, because you remember the look in his eyes and how he speaks to you as well as the words he spoke — he knew who you actually were.

The cacophony of revellers and resounding music gradually ebbs in the background as he ambles along the sombre corridor, where the lights illuminating in every corner seeming ominously dim, heading towards the main meeting room where it is situated in the prohibited part of the manor, his shadow following closely like a spectre of menace. Jake, who was previously in denims, has changed into practical attire in preparation for the upcoming launch of the main event. He busily zips up his black bomber jacket while his face is devoid of the usual mirth, but his mind occasionally drifts off to you as though the memory of him holding you close is taunting him.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. Jake had no intention of leaving you high and dry, but he was needed in order to stabilise the final foundation that will affect everything in the town where they will soon wreak havoc and spread terror, leaving no hope to shine through. It took every strength to fight off his temptation to snatch you away from the place and bring you to one of the rooms with the intention of giving you the best fuck of your life as well as leaving you with his marks on your skin. He forces himself to block you from invading his mind, not wanting to get a painful boner again as it’ll only be a bother since he is already running late for the briefing.

Jake’s ears pick up footsteps approaching from behind him, and yet he doesn’t bother to look, knowing that it is his best friend in the way he doesn’t feel the slightest bit threatened. “You’d usually arrive in the meeting room earlier than any of us. Been busy partying like the rest too, Hoon?”

Silence is the only response from his best friend, not that he was expecting any from a guy who often zones out. Unbeknownst to Jake, Sunghoon’s mind is occupied by you and you alone. The only difference is that he has no intention to recall his encounter with you, but his mind is taunting him with the sinful memory of your sweet, seductive sounds while you voluntarily fucked yourself back on his fingers, and above all, the sweet taste of your cum that remains tingling on his tongue. He knows that he should not allow something like that to happen again, but even he has to admit that one taste of you is never enough.

Sunghoon pulls himself together before getting further into his salacious crave for you as they are nearly arriving at the official territory where it breeds corruption and toxication, not limited to the secrets hidden behind walls after walls.

They halt their steps, standing in front of the door that is made out of steel. Sunghoon gives Jake a head nod, prompting the latter to punch in the correct code on the digital padlock before the door chimes as it automatically opens for them. They are greeted by the familiar sight of a fairly lengthy corridor with separate entrances arrayed on each side of the walls as they step inside. Hearing the door behind them closing with an ominous thud, they begin to make their way to the main meeting room, where soon multitudes of voices are teeming in the cold atmosphere.

Without announcing their arrival, they stride into the main meeting room with an air of confidence and arrogance, drawing everyone’s attention to them as they recognise the familiar dominance they exude, rendering those beneath them to be prudently heedful to the power they wield with the same hands that had done an unthinkable amount of vicious damage.

A small smirk touches Jake’s lips as he takes delight in receiving the attention, practically thriving off it, whereas Sunghoon appears coldly indifferent with his hands tucked in his pockets, but they merely ignore the underlings from all four houses as they are settled and organised in their respective houses while their chatter and hilarity persist in a blending discordant.

“I expected Jake to lack the decency in arriving at the meeting on time like always, but I didn’t expect you to be following Jake’s footsteps so soon, Sunghoon.” Of course, the only person in this room that loves to get on Sunghoon’s nerves is none other than Jay. “Don’t tell me you’re already hopping back on the fuckboy agenda? I thought you’d long since retired, buddy.” Jay casts a smirk at Sunghoon, casually lounging on a leather swivel chair with both legs settled on the table, and no doubt his signature smirk would make anyone swoon, but to the latter, it is simply infuriating that he is seconds away from delivering a punch to his face.

“Don’t piss us off, Jongseong.” Jake clicks his tongue in annoyance before throwing himself onto an empty swivel chair and making himself comfortable. “Better late than never.”

Jay’s smirk falls, only to shoot Jake a scowl. “Stop calling me that. You know how much I hate being called that.”

Jake, completely undeterred by the potential wrath he might face from his short-tempered best friend, retorts with a taunting smirk. “Then stop being an annoying dick. And you wonder why you can’t get into relationships with how fucking mouthy you are.”

Jay clenches his jaw, taunting with tension. “Says the guy who fucks girls on a daily basis. Probably a walking STI by now.” Sunghoon finds himself amused by their quarrel, but he replace his chuckles with a cough as soon as Jake shoots him a glare.

“The last time I checked, I was clean and safe, so fuck you—”

“Enough.” A firm voice is resonating enough to conquer the tumult of disarray in the massive room, instantaneously silencing everyone and shifting their attention to the only person in the room who has not uttered a single word since he stepped foot here, including drawing attention from the three leaders gathered by the conference table.

Heeseung’s figure remains eerily still as he is seated by the window sill, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other sporadically toys around with his prized melee, and something appears to have captured his high interest in the way his gaze is fixated on the opened window with a cryptic darkness shadows his princely features, but it disappears when he shifts his gaze to the entire fraternity, his gaze alone that is enough to assert dominance over them, especially since he is the oldest out of the four leaders by a year. “It doesn’t matter whether or not you're on time for the meeting. Devil’s Night is far from over, and it’ll only be over until I say so.”

“Classic Heeseung. Playing favourites when it comes to—" Jay grunts at the impact of being elbowed by Sunghoon, who has taken a seat next to him, but he remains disgruntled, casting a glare at the latter.

Heeseung disregards Jay’s remarks as he saunters towards the conference table, where there are ranges of knives displayed for any of their choosing. “Now that everyone is present, let’s begin the briefing. I want to start off by letting you know that the Devil’s Night you thought would be similar to the past years will be different tonight.” As expected, most of the knights erupt into murmurs, a blend of confusion and excitement. “For this year’s Devil’s Night, we're following the tradition of preying whoever you choose to prey on. They’re yours for taking, no matter the duration you want them to be in your possession. They’re yours and yours alone. No exchanging of prey is allowed, and no stealing of prey.”

The knights express their contentment and anticipation, evidently prepared to kickstart in reigning terror on the oblivious crowd in a jovial element currently. But they lower their volume when Sunghoon raises his hand to speak up. “Let’s not forget that we have another goal in mind: Kim Namgil and his crewmates.” Sunghoon looks over to the knights of each house, specifically his. “Do not forget to alert us if there are any movements from them, and remember that they’re ours to deal with.”

“Remember that your main goal is to wreak havoc and terror like you always do on Devil’s Night. Regarding the prey thing that I mentioned earlier, take it like it’s your reward for successfully becoming one of us.” Heeseung says with a smirk. “For those of you who are new recruits and this is your first ever Devil’s Night, the law enforcement should be the least of your worries, so don’t panic if you see a police car in town. They’re only here with the sole purpose of establishing the roadblocks to prevent our guests from escaping until Devil’s Night is over.”

“In short, you can do whatever the fuck you want for the next twelve hours.” Jake grins deviously with his hands clasped together. “In other words, unleash your inner devils like you always wanted.”

At once, an uproar emanates from the fraternity before Jay begins to dismiss them. “Don’t forget your masks and weapons!” He reminds them as they proceed to make their way out of the meeting room disorderly, eventually leaving the four leaders alone in the room — the very same leaders who have been successfully leading their respective houses with pride.

The notorious Devil’s Knights fraternity consists of four houses — North, South, East, and West — chosen names that were established way before their time. Each house has its own respective leader to oversee the houses, as there are more knights than two classes combined in each house. However, their goals are aligned. This has always been the system, as each year there are numerous new recruits, and they do have to dominate their respective territories on campus and even in town. Almost everyone is knowledgeable about and conscious of the notorious Devil's Knights.

Redcrest University favours the Devil's Knights fervently, especially considering the fraternity was founded many years ago by four individuals whose blood now flows in the current leaders and the previous leaders before them, who are now affluent figures in high society today. Redcrest greatly benefits from Devil’s Knights for many years, including earning fame as it is ranked two in the Best Global University. Many speculated that Devil’s Knights may be a literal cult with an uncountable amount of graduated knights in all those years that are now scattered across the globe, some making their names in various industries, some working for the most powerful people on earth, some even earning seats in diplomacy, but one thing that remains indisputable is that with the depraved principles that had been instilled in them and how deviously smart they are academically, they could easily infiltrate their corruption into the system and reign over every corner of the globe. Or maybe they already have for a long time.

Aside from the deeper, darker part of their world, Devil’s Night is an annual tradition that has been going on since their founders’ times and happens on every Halloween. This tradition is also supported and endorsed by the mayor of Seoul and other influential figures that are highly regarded in the eyes of the government. Hence, there is no denying that by permitting Devil’s Night to be lawful on every Halloween, it proves that the government and its system have long since been corrupted.

All knights would gather in this specific meeting room for briefings and other important matters pertaining to the annual Devil’s Night content and planning, et cetera. However, there are some rooms that are restricted to any knights, be they lower or higher ranks, unless they are the leaders themselves. Furthermore, this very manor is officially owned by the four leaders, considering that it was those from the same bloodline as them whose blood runs deep in this very soil, the ones who invested and established the foundation of this manor, and many years later, the manor, including authority, has been bequeathed to the current leaders.

North: Sunghoon

South: Heeseung

East: Jake

West: Jay

These four powerful delinquents have proven their worth in many aspects of being the ideal Devil’s Knights and have successfully led their respective houses for the past years with their skills, and they were impressively the youngest leaders to have been appointed when they were just freshmen. Though they have different personalities, they get along well, considering that their fathers are best friends as well. But very few people know that they grew up together, and no one knows the burdens they each carry.

“So, I have something to share that might interest you, well, at least one of you.” Jake breaks the silence once the last few knights exit the room. His lips curl into a boyish grin. “Y/N is here; she’s actually here on Devil’s Night. I know, I couldn’t believe it either at first.”

Sunghoon raises his eyebrow inquisitively, feeling something so foreign burning in his chest that he immediately brushes it off. “You saw her?” He asks with disinterest while wearing a mask of indifference.

“I danced with her at the club.” Jake tells him smugly, his grin never faltering. “Even held her and felt so right in my arms. I couldn’t resist her after seeing how she looked like an absolute doll. A gorgeous angel in need of some company. Her friends probably ditched her.”

Sunghoon holds back a smirk from forming on his lips. For a moment, he thought that he might lose to Jake, but in actuality, the real winner is him, as he managed to taste you first and probably the only person to ever taste you.

For some reason, Jay’s body language shows interest in the description of you from the casanova’s mouth. “Let me have some fun with her first before the main event starts. I need to see her with my own eyes. No way am I missing out on a beauty like Y/N Kang, and it’s the Y/N Kang on Devil’s Night.”

Before Heeseung can say anything, one of the windows swings open, followed by an eerie howl, allowing the gust of wind to enter. The four leaders watch, completely unfazed by their dramatic entrance in a supposedly clandestine way, as a familiar figure wholly in familiar dark, practical clothing emerges as he climbs into the meeting room, followed by two figures that donned the same.

The three figures who have yet to make their identity known stand tall in their line of sight, and one of them even manages to tower over the four leaders. Simultaneously they proceed to remove their designated masks, now revealing their faces. Jake is the first person to greet them with a lopsided grin. They are known as the Devil’s Knights’ honorary members, above any lower and higher rank Knights, and they are only in their second year in Redcrest, skilful and perceptive sophomores more than any of their peers. Every Knight knows that these three are appointed to be leaders next year once the four current leaders step down and graduate from the university. Kim Sunoo, Yang Jungwon, and Nishimura Riki.

“We’ve already covered all the perimeters as you ordered. The roadblocks have been established too, and our team did their part to warn the people in town that are not part of the Devil’s Night’s guests to stay indoors.” Jungwon informs them, speaking like a true leader, as the ambience he exudes makes the current leaders feel a sense of pride.

“Spit it out.” Sunghoon says as he eyes Sunoo knowingly, causing the latter to roll his eyes at him. “Roll your eyes at me again and they’ll fall out. I can’t even count how many times I let you get away with this attitude of yours.”

“I was about to say it, but then you just made me not want to say it anymore.” Sunoo scoffs, albeit he is merely being playful, but his remark is not appreciated by the four leaders, who deadpan at him, causing him to sigh. “Alright, fine. Kim Namgil managed to sneak into our grounds with the rest of his crewmates, but we can easily overpower them. Oh, and Riki managed to place a tracking device on their vehicle, so it’s easier to track wherever they go.” Sunoo pats Riki on the shoulder with a proud smile while the latter grunts from the impact, his face a cold mask of nonchalance.

“I don’t even want to ask what Namgil did to piss you off to a certain degree until you want to hunt him down.” Jungwon mutters, pausing briefly before continuing with a not-so-discreet guile. “So what did he do, anyway?”

“Simply put, he broke one of our rules.” Jay’s answer is short and comprehensible, yet the three musketeers are sharp enough to notice that there is actually more than what they let on, but they choose the safer ground instead, knowing that as much as the current leaders adore them in their own way, even they know that there are lines not to be crossed.

“So is Namgil the main hunt for this year’s Devil’s Night?” Sunoo asks with genuine curiosity. “Just asking since you guys were hell-bent on finding him for 2 years after he got transferred to another uni. It makes sense that he’s the main hunt.”

“No.” Heeseung’s voice is firm with conviction, drawing their attention to him with collective confusion. A smirk touches his lips while his eyes darken with primal danger. “Our main hunt is Y/N Kang.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw her, and she looks like an absolute darling—Wait, what?!” Sunoo looks puzzled and borderline horrified. “Out of all people? I’m begging you, just this once, please don’t kill her. She’s too pretty to be killed. I haven’t even gotten her to be my friend yet!”

“Sunoo.” Jungwon rolls his eyes at his best friend’s theatrics, whereas Riki gives him a side eye.

“No, Sunoo, we’re not killing her, and we have no intention to.” Heeseung heaves a sigh, tempted to rub his temple at the younger’s theatrics. “But we’ve decided that she’s our prey for the night.”

“You mean you decided.” Jake corrects him, his lips downturned into a frown because as much as he likes the idea of hunting you, he feels the same confusion as the other two. “Why Y/N, specifically?”

Heeseung doesn’t answer; instead, his smirk widens while the familiar cryptic danger shadows his features once more as he looks at the three leaders. “I trust that there are no objections from you, so you can do whatever you want with our prey, but do not in any way harm her that might put her life at risk.” He shifts his eyes to the three sophomores. “You may scare our prey and offer us any aid, but you are not allowed to make her your prey.”

“Roger that, bossman.” Jungwon salutes to Heeseung before signalling Riki and Sunoo to leave. The leaders do not expect anything less when the three proceed to jump over the window instead of using the door to leave like any normal human would.

“Don’t forget to inform your respective house members to steer clear of Y/N. But remember this, she may be your prey and yours to claim—" There is an undercurrent of warning and predatory claim in his voice as he nearly growls out his words to them while his eyes darken. “But at the end of the night, she’s mine.” The three exchange looks of understanding because somehow, they perfectly understand what he meant.

You hate to admit it, but you are falling deep into the abysmal depths of toxicity faster than you planned. What was once the intention to taste a minuscule fragment of Halloween fun turns into something that has consumed you completely, rendering you addicted to whatever sorcery they put in their beverages and music.

As you are free from those little voices in your head that often judge anyone that isn’t suited to your moral compass, you can definitely understand the rationale of those who had been to Devil’s Night and the ones who were vocally hyped for Devil’s Night. The content and activities being hosted here are so diverse that no one can simply miss out on anything. Well, you did miss out on the famous cliché game of truth or dare, not that it bothered you.

Presently, you and your group of friends, including Winter, Giselle, and the others, are making your way back to the backyard once more after getting some refreshments earlier, needing some respite after going nearly all out for the first rave. With the drinks you ingested that recharged you and your friends, all of you decided to participate in the second rave, and according to them, it is the last rave of the night. But you have no idea what happens after, and your friends don’t either. Nevertheless, you are looking forward to having more fun with your friends, marking this the most memorable night you ever had.

The B-stage in the backyard is bigger than the one inside the manor at the supposedly club room, where you and Jake happened, and the crowd is now tenfold compared to the previous rave, which enlivened the night at its peak while the ambience is vibrantly teeming with the pink and purple LEDs flashing across the sea of crowds and into the starless sky. The bass-boosted music of Rihanna’s ‘S & M’ reverberates throughout the expanse of the manor and possibly even further, and you wonder if the residents in the same town do complain about the noise.

“Look at Y/N go!” Giselle’s remarks draw attention from your other friends to you, watching you in a vivacious element as you flaunt your moves alongside Chaewon, having long since let go of your inhibitions. Your face is now devoid of the white masquerade mask, not remembering where you threw it haphazardly. You’re not even sure if you are dancing with your cunty bob friend or grinding against some stranger, lacking spatial awareness.

“Okay! I need a break!” Chaewon laughs out, halting her movements, but you pout your lips at her, to which she giggles and pecks your cheek. “Sorry, babe, but you’re on your own now. Anyone want to head back to get some refreshments with me?”

A few of your friends do, and they proceed to depart from the bustling crowd as they follow Chaewon while the rest are either too drunk to notice that they are apart from each other or getting immersed in the upbeat music. Eventually, you blend into the crowd, making it impossible for your best friends to find you in this sea of people.

The thought of other warm, sweaty bodies coming into contact with yours doesn’t bother you in the slightest. There is a wild look in your eyes as you dance with a random couple, giggling and succumbing to the exhilaration brimming in your veins like white-hot fire; your body moves with fluidity to the pulsating beat of the music.

Being completely absorbed in the music, you fail to heed the incoming predator, who has his eyes fixated on you as soon as he manages to find the beauty that was described in detail once more from his best friend. Besides, it’s nearly impossible to look away from you even just for a second, because damn, you got him in some sort of spellbind. Just as he expects, you accidentally bump into him from behind, but just as you are about to turn around, his firm hands grip your waist as he pulls you back to him, allowing your back to hit his solid chest.

For a moment, your lips curl into a smile, a familiar giddiness bubbling in your chest while a sense of déjà vu hits you. “He’s right. You look so fucking gorgeous, like a doll, my doll for the night and many more to come.” His hot breath fans the shell of your earlobe while everything in the moment reminds you of Jake earlier, but this time, his touch has a hint of roughness, whereas there was gentleness in Jake’s, causing you to falter. “Now, why did you stop, babydoll? It’s just me. Don’t tell me you don’t recognise me.” He hums seductively while you can feel the vibration from his chest.

“Jay.” You breathe out as you finally recognise his voice in the haze of your mind. His hands remain on your waist, sending you goosebumps with the sensation of his warmth and danger as your primal instincts manage to get a hold of you to evade him, but it just feels so right to be close to him.

“Hey, baby.” Jay greets you affectionately, causing you to nearly melt against him, but the undertone of deceit in his way of affection is not lost on you, and yet you feel tempted to bare your soul to him with your head resting on his dependent shoulder. You tilt your head to an angle where his sharp jawline and handsome side profile greet you. Your eyes flicker to his pink lips, finding the silver ring hooked around his lower lip in the corner an attractive look on him. Your heart flutters when he gazes at you, his head angling in a way that his nose brushes against yours as he leans down.

Just when you are prepared for his lips to meet yours, he grabs your hand before raising it to give a sensual kiss on the back of your hand. “Don’t get all weak on me now, babydoll. You still have to show me your moves.” The signature smirk on his handsome face is all it takes for you to comply with his command, and you know better than to refuse him.

So you pull away from his warm embrace as soon as you feel his arms loosening around you. Like a natural, you immediately grasp onto the upbeat rhythm that pulsates through your body, allowing it to influence the alluring sway of your body, intentionally enticing the very man you were supposed to evade as his dark eyes roam around you with an explicit desire, almost ravenous, almost as if he wants you — one of the Devil’s Knights’ leaders wants you.

The realisation that this man, who wields the corruptive kind of power, is in fact a Devil’s Knights’ leader nearly has you faltering, but he deprives you of the chance to rethink your choices when he pulls you by the waist with a hint of roughness before taking you by complete surprise as he slams his lips into yours, kissing you with a sense of urgency. You moan airily into his mouth as he practically devours your lips with raw passion; your hands go winding in his hair while his hands are all over you, insatiable.

Jay groans lowly into your mouth as your fingers give a pleasurable tug on his strands. He knows that he should not be kissing you first, not when Heeseung hasn’t even yet, but time is running out, and he couldn’t just leave for his post without having a taste of your luscious lips. He smirks against your lips, feeling you arching your body into him and attempting to grind against him not-so-discreetly. He fucking loves it when you are being cutely desperate for relief.

Eventually, Jay breaks the liplock, allowing you a brief moment of respite, only for him to turn you around until your back hits his chest again, swaying to the music with you audaciously grinding your ass against his really prominent bulge, eliciting an attractive low groan from him at the sensation while you continue to tease him. A giggle leaves your lips upon feeling his breath tickling your skin when he buries his head into the curve of your neck. Instinctively, your hand ascends to brush your fingers through his soft strands, getting intoxicatingly immersed in the heat of the moment.

“Fuck, babydoll. I should’ve brought you home with me sooner. We could've had so much fun," Jay murmurs near your ear before he places a sensual kiss on your pulse, and just like with Jake, you feel the need to purr at his relentless affection over you. “The things I want to do to you right now.” He whispers in your ear huskily, igniting a pool of desire in your lower tummy. “But duty calls. I’ll see you later, baby.”

You frown at the loss of his touch and warmth. “Jay, don’t leave─” But as you turn around, Jay disappears as though he never existed, leaving you high and dry just like Jake did. Birds of a feather flock together indeed. You scoff in disbelief with the need pooling in your abate.

“Y/N, for the love of God, do not ever disappear like that again! You got me so worried!” Wonyoung’s exclamation can easily be heard over the commotion as soon as you spot her just a few meters away from you.

Your face twists into a grimace at how visible the annoyance and frustration written on her face is, but you feel unease at the way her eyes hold a blend of apprehension and panic. Soon, you spot Karina and Yunjin gravitating towards you with the same apprehension on their faces. Just like that, you become conscious of your primal instincts, warning you that something big is about to happen and it is inevitable. You take a step forward to your best friends, but the music instantly dies out while the LEDs that were previously in motion go still in the air, eliciting confusion and anger from the crowd.

“What’s happening?” “Hey, DJ! We weren’t finished raving!” You hear commotions around you, making your already pounding head spin lightly. But what happens next throws you completely off guard, and subsequently, you become fully sober miraculously.

The deafening sound of a siren rings through your ears, which is akin to the purge, shattering the night of riotous jollity instantaneously. Despite the perpetual blaring siren, you can discern a dissatisfactory chorus of groans and clamours amongst the crowd. The LEDs begin to dim before it changes into crimson, but you manage to catch glimpses of your friends' contortions with confusion and collective percipience.

Before you can open your mouth to speak with the intention to enquire, a stentorian voice that belongs to a female startles you, as it is resounding enough for you to absorb her emphatic words into your mind despite the ongoing siren in the background.

"Announcing the commencement of the annual devil's night sanctioned by the mayor of Seoul. Weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorised for use during Devil's Night. All other weapons are restricted. Commencing at the siren, any and all crimes, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Blessed be the four leaders of Devil's Knights."

At once, the tumultuous crowd begins to disperse in a haphazard manner, and some can be seen running as though they are being hunted down by unknown sources. Despite the fear in their contortion, you can't help but notice the glimpses of excitement and an eccentric ambience of thrill that pervade the haunting atmosphere that you find perplexingly odd.

Apprehension courses through your veins while your heart is palpitating wildly. You swear you can hear your pulse drumming loudly in your ears. In the midst of the ambiguity, your intuition is sending you a message that what may escalate next is not something you expected on a purported Halloween night routine, or rather, assumed.

"Ouch! Hey!" Annoyance bubbles within you upon having been shoved roughly by some people, resulting in you nearly plummeting to the ground if it weren’t for Yunjin, who swiftly and steadily supports you as she holds you against her.

"What is going on?" You ask in a demand, pure confusion reflecting in your eyes. You notice how Yunjin looks oddly collected, but as soon as her gaze runs over you, her eyebrows pull together before a low cuss is elicited from her. “Yunjin, nothing bad is going to happen, right? You promised.” You accuse weakly, your voice trembling as fear has you in a tight grip.

"I told you that it was a bad idea for her to come along!" Wonyoung startles you greatly with how she sounds genuinely irate, but when you take a glance at your gorgeous mermaid goddess, your stomach sinks even deeper at the apparent distress written across her delicate features. "We need to get her out of here before any of the knight members get to her, or any of us, for that matter! We survived Devil’s Night last year and the year before that, so there is no way we’re not surviving this year either!"

Yunjin clenches her jaw, her hazel eyes flashing brief annoyance. “Not now, Vick! You can be mad at me once we find someplace safe.”

“What we actually need is to get out of here!” Wonyoung retorts with vehemence before grabbing your wrist in a tight grip, causing you to wince. “Oh, and Jen? You’re to be blamed if anything happens to Y/N.” The irate mermaid reminds the disbelieving cowboy.

"Let’s argue a little less and find our way out of here?!” Karina raises her voice over the cacophony of chaos, her face displaying sheer annoyance for the two glaring women. “We have approximately five minutes to get the hell out of here!"

"It's no use even if we try to escape. By now, the whole town is scattered with their devil’s lackeys." Yunjin sighs in frustration, running her fingers through her red-dyed hair. "They're not letting us out until it's over. You know that."

"I don't care." Wonyoung snaps at Yunjin, making you grumble moodily as she begins to pull you with her with force. "We will find a way to get out of here, even if it means that I have to use violence to fight off the knight members myself."

"I don't freaking get it!" You exclaim, finally voicing out the tumult of chaos in your head, your eyes darting between your best friends in a frantic motion. “I just don’t get why we’re supposed to be running for our lives as if danger really is heading towards us like you can’t possibly be serious.” Denial shines through in the sarcasm of your chuckles.

“What part of it don’t you understand? The announcer just stated that any and all crimes, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours! And it’s not just anyone committing those crimes, but it’s the whole of Devil’s Knights!” Karina exclaims, displaying her exasperation. “So unless you want to get attacked by them, you better get your ass moving—”

The blasting sound of a shotgun pierces through the air, shocking you to a higher degree that has your entire body paralysed, but with a forceful tug on your arm, you find yourself being dragged by Wonyoung, with Yunjin and Karina following closely in haste. Your eyes widen at the sight of raw brutality that you manage to witness, weapons being utilised and blood spilling as a result, uncertain whether dead or alive but with the screams of terror and agony, you fear the worst.

In the pursuit of your only possible ride of escape, Karina’s car, some of the notorious knights reign terror on your best friends, even attempting to attack them with the weapons they wield, and thankfully, the girls manage to evade them. But you notice how those same knights seem to be avoiding you, as though you are invisible in their eyes. Still, they bring out the screams of fright from you with tears prickling in your eyes.

By the time you have arrived at the parking lot, your eyes widen in horror at the gruesome sight of two knights displaying violence upon a student who, you presume, attends the same university as you, soaked in his own blood as he makes a pitying effort to crawl away from them, his face looking slightly distorted. In the way they are jeering and taking cruel delight in diminishing his life, you wonder if the devil’s knights kill for fun or do they have personal vendettas against the ones that they’re after.

"Come on!" Karina shouts, making you snap out of it. You head straight for the passenger door and throw yourself onto the seat before closing the door and locking it. You try to focus on what matters first now, but when you do, you struggle to buckle up safely with your trembling hands.

“Seatbelts.” Wonyoung reminds sternly from the backseat with Yunjin, totally not helping you as you feel the weight of pressure from everything pressing you down, causing you to panic while your chest feels painfully tight. “Y/N! Seatbelt, now!”

“I’m trying, damn it! Stop being such a mom!" You cry out angrily, gritting your teeth in frustration at your uncooperative limbs. From the corner of your eye, an imminent danger heads for the car, eliciting a shriek from you before you look at Karina frantically, who has just started the ignition of the vehicle. “Drive!”

As soon as you yell, there is a loud knock on the window next to you, prompting you and the girls to see a Devil’s Knight holding a golf stick. You automatically duck as you protect your head with your hands just when he raises his golf stick and swings to the same window, causing it to finally shatter. The girls and you scream as he intends to repeat his action to completely shatter the entire window, but Karina immediately slams her foot on the pedal gas, prompting the vehicle to accelerate forward. No doubt if Karina hadn’t done that sooner, that knight could’ve easily reached out for you.

You never once doubt Karina’s driving, but as she is driving at an alarming speed while expertly avoiding other vehicles and people on the road ahead, you fear that you might get into a car accident instead of being a victim to any Devil’s Knight.

Your heart remains pounding hard in your chest that feels tight from the prior hysteria. You don’t bother to buckle up safely, only depending on your fingers to hold on tight to the handle above the glassless window. When you scan the road ahead, you squint your eyes to get a better look before noticing stouts of red barriers arrayed by the exit of the road alongside three policemen leisuring on the other side of it.

“Shit! Not the fucking roadblock!” Karina exclaims annoyedly as she steps on the pedal brake hard, putting the vehicle into an abrupt stop that has all of you nearly lurching forward. Their heads snap to you as you open the door. “Y/N! What are you—"

But you are too focused on the new hope that ignites in your chest as you rush towards the policemen. “Excuse me, Sirs?!” They stop whatever they’re doing, turning to you with an unsettling calmness at your frantic display. “We really need to get out of here. They’re committing atrocious crimes and—” You cease your pleading as soon as a smirk forms on one of their faces.

“Sorry, honey. We can’t let you go out until Devil’s Night is over.” The policeman says, his nonchalance and words diminishing all hope in you.

“Please! You can’t do this!” You plead again, ignoring your friends’ calling to you. “You’re supposed to be protecting us! You people pledged to protect us from harm!” But your plea falls deaf to their ear as they exchange words with chuckles that sound mocking to you.

Your once pleading countenance now displays a glaring resentment at the corruption that influences even the law enforcement. You turn on your heels, prepared to head back into the car, but you falter just slightly when four bikers emerge from around the corner, speeding towards where you are with their exhausts blaring loudly as they reverberate throughout the desolate street.

For a moment, you think that they are the guests just like you and your friends, but your primal instinct is on high alert, prompting you to rush back into the car while your friends stare at you with confusion. “Go!” You scream at Karina as soon as you slam the door shut, and the latter complies with your hysterical command.

Karina drives around the other way, steering the wheel expertly before she increases the acceleration upon noticing four mysterious bikers tailing them not far behind. “Who the hell are they?!” She exclaims, but her focus on the road as well as multitasking in operating the vehicle is immaculate, nearly convincing you that she might be an undercover street racer.

“They’re the leaders!” Yunjin answers as she still looks over her shoulder. “No idea why they’re after us— did any of you girls piss them off?!”

“How were you able to recognise them while we don’t?” Wonyoung shoots her a bizarre stare, but the latter doesn’t meet her eyes.

“My cousin’s motorbike.” Yunjin simply says, eliciting gasps from Karina and Wonyoung. “He likes to announce his dramatic arrival right outside of the main family’s villa whenever our families decide to host a get-together barbecue party.” She adds, rolling her eyes at the recollection.

“This whole time, you had a cousin?! And he’s one of the leaders?!” Karina blanches, getting distracted from the road that she nearly drives onto the pavement instead before regaining firm control of the steering wheel. “And you didn’t even think to let us know?!”

“We don’t like people to know that we’re related.” You hear Yunjin say unapologetically while you are occupied by other things, your eyes staring in the side-view mirror, watching two bikers getting alarmingly closer to the car, and yet you feel inclined to admire how criminally hot the bikers actually are in spite of their obscure identity.

“Can you, I don’t know, maybe tell your cousin to stop chasing us?!” Wonyoung’s sarcasm goes unappreciated as it earns her a glare from Yunjin.

“What makes you think that he’d listen to me?! The asshole hates my guts!”

Your head begins to throb at their incessant screaming and petty disagreements, and you divert your glare to them. “None of this is helping us to outrun them!”

“Buckle up, then, ladies.” Karina instantly proves you wrong as she picks up velocity, and before you know it, your body nearly lurches forward at the precipitated speed while adrenaline rushes in your veins. “Ha! So long, devil suckers!” She lets out a chortle after having successfully put a significant distance away from them before eventually leaving them in the dust.

But the victory is short-lived when the vehicle loses its velocity, slowing down unsteadily before Karina decides to step on the pedal brake, putting her unstable car to a final stop. At once, a series of profanities emit from your best friends. With the ignition still active, Karina presses her foot on the gas pedal, making an attempt, but her car remains stagnant.

“Something’s wrong with the tyres.” Karina comments as she unbuckles her seatbelt before exiting the vehicle, with the rest of you following suit wordlessly. “What the hell? The tyres got punctured!” The apparent anger in her voice prompts you to move over to the other side of the car before catching sight of Karina crouching down as she examines the punctured tyre with the flashlight on the back of her phone. “How the fuck did this happen?!”

“I think we have our answer to that, girls. Look.” Wonyoung’s remark draws all of your attention, her finger pointing out the road behind before you look over to see galvanised nails being scattered all over the road. “This is obviously part of their sick plan.”

“So what’s our plan, then?” Karina asks with unconcealing annoyance, exasperated by the current situation. “Either way, we’re probably gonna get fucked over if we don’t at least get out of this part of town.” As soon as she says that, the familiar exhausts blaring faintly alarms you.

“We find a place to hide until we’re sure enough that they’re completely gone. If they manage to find us, we separate and run like hell.” Yunjin suggests, her tone indicating finality that nudges you and the others to advance, silence settling over your group as you walk side by side.

The view in front of you is an eerie tableau of a desolate district with only the source of light deriving from the moon above, barren of any life form despite the array of building structures on each side, not even a single vehicle in sight. Your eyes glance over at an apartment-like building, observing how all the curtains in every unit have been drawn close. It is almost as if every resident in the building is laying low, choosing not to be seen on this wicked night and hiding in the safe confines of their home. You’re almost jealous of them.

“Hey, I think we should—” Wonyoung is cut off by the distinct blaring exhausts that sound as if they are near the district where you are at while you look around you to spot any of the four bikers. “We need to find a place to hide, now!”

“Over there!” Yunjin points her acrylic finger to the three-story villa that looks evidently abandoned with its skeletal structure. Without waiting for your responses, she makes a run for it first, and the three of you follow suit with your heels producing different clacking noises on the pavement.

Your heart pumps harder as the sound of their exhausts sounds as if they are near, propelling you to put more energy into your speed before you finally make it past the gate, but you don’t falter as you head towards the opened door where Wonyoung is waiting and beckoning you to hurry. Once you enter, Wonyoung pushes the door firmly closed.

“Seriously, Jen? You thought that hiding in a creepy abandoned villa with no lights was the better option?” Karina whines to the cowgirl while you slowly make your way over to them, your calves muscles burning from the running.

Yunjin brings out her phone to use it as a flashlight. “It’s either a creepy abandoned villa or surrendering yourself to them. Besides, they sounded close. Now stop your whining, or they’ll hear us.” She hisses lowly at the pouty Catwoman.

You don’t bother taking out your phone to use it as a flashlight since Wonyoung has already done the same as Yunjin, finding yourself gravitating closer to her. Soon, your eyes manage to adapt to the darkness, with the moon hanging outside aiding in its light to stream into the stained, broken windows. As your group slowly advances, you take your time to observe every inch, and the condition of this villa looks beyond saving, which is a pity to you because you are certain that this villa was once beautiful.

“Did you girls hear that?” Wonyoung asks in a hushed tone, stopping dead in her tracks, her face showing no traces of frivolity, but the concern in her eye is perceptible.

“Stop trying to scare us, Vicky Jang!” Karina nearly snaps, but the fear is palpable in the tremor of her voice.

“No, seriously. Listen.” Wonyoung instructs with a strong emphasis, leaving you and the other two no choice but to listen, and you listen carefully until you finally hear voices sounding frantic in pleas. “It’s coming from upstairs!”

Wonyoung bolts for the massive flight of stairs before the three of you follow after her, expressing none of the complaints and protests; even Karina remains lip-tight because those voices sounded like they were calling for help.

You ignore the burning sensation returning to your calves as you push yourself to make it to the final flight of stairs before finally reaching the second floor, and this time, your group is able to hear the screams of help clearer. You jog after Wonyoung and Yunjin as they guide you and Karina towards the source.

“Oh my God! Liz?! Rei?!” Wonyoung exclaims in horror, causing your eyes to widen at the mention of your friends before you finally enter what looks like a desolate library. Your eyes immediately land on ten girls, two of whom are part of your circle of friends, seated in a circle with their backs facing each other, but what shocks you is the tear-stricken look on their countenances with some bruises that look fresh.

Sobs and hiccups can be heard from the ten ladies. Some are stuffed with cloth in their mouths, but all of them have their hands and feet tied by cable ties that seem to mar their skin. Clearly, they have been held hostage, but why? And who?

“It’s a good thing that I brought pocket knives.” Karina takes out three pocket knives from her mini leg bag before passing two each to Wonyoung and Yunjin while you offer your assistance to those with cloth stuffed in their mouths.

“We didn’t do anything at all.” Liz sobs out to Wonyoung while the latter steadily yet quickly cuts the cable ties that bound the blonde’s limbs. “We were trying to escape and find someplace to hide, but we encountered these guys, and the masks they wore were different from devil’s knights.”

“They attacked us and brought us here, told us that we were hostages until their target got alerted, which made no sense!” Rei continues to rant in a rage despite the tears staining her cheeks.

“We should hurry to leave! They left not too long ago, but they’re coming back!” One of the girls, who has a nasty gash on her arm, urges, her voice carrying a sense of urgency and fear. “They said they’re going to kill us if the leaders didn’t rescue us by the time they came back!”

“What makes you think that the leaders would rescue you? The same heartless leaders who destroy everything in their path, especially on Devil’s Night?” Karina asks as she raises her eyebrow at the fearful girl, her tone holding a bit of humour. “And who is this ‘they’?”

“He said his name was Namgil.” Another girl answers, her voice timid. “And there were more of them compared to us combined.”

“Let’s get going, then.” Yunjin announces firmly; her confidence seems to allay the girls. “Grab any item that you can use as a weapon to protect yourself before we head out of here.” The girls waste no time in scurrying as they search for potential weapons around them, including you.

“Y/N!” A girl, who you recognise is in the same major as you, calls out for you just aisles away from where you are, her back facing the ominous shadow of shelves. She holds up a sharp wood while the other is occupied with the same type of wood. “Do you need—”

Before she can finish her sentence, a sickening sound of flesh being stabbed can be heard while a scream instantly tears from your throat, watching as she splutters crimson, having been stabbed with the pointed blade protruding from her stomach. She looks at you with glassy eyes while you watch tearfully in horror as the life in those eyes slowly diminishes before her body is being thrust forward, as though she is being pushed by someone, falling to the ground with a loud thud, completely lifeless.

At once, screams and cries emit from the rest of the girls upon having to watch the murder happen in real time, but they are easily overpowered by an unrecognisable voice that belongs to a man, deep and mocking. “And here I thought the infamous bastards had been the ones to rescue the girls.”

The girls collectively make an attempt to run, but masked men mysteriously emerge from the shadows around you, wielding different kinds of weapons. You shriek and duck your head as soon as one of them swings a metal bat at you. Your worry grows as you hear your best friends fighting off and throwing curses at their aggressors, but you are too busy saving yourself to even help them. But your lacking skills in combat lead you to be captured by one, your arms being twisted behind you as he holds you deadly tight against him while his blade comes in contact with your neck.

“Kim Namgil? What the fuck? I thought you were gone for good!” Yunjin snarls coldly as soon as the previous man who spoke removes his mask. She has had enough of her aggressor before doing an effective roundhouse kick to him in the head, successfully knocking him out cold.

“To simply put, I’m here for revenge, aside from honouring someone else’s revenge, but you don’t need to know.” You watch as Namgil toys with his butcher knife, a smirk forming on his lips while his eyes remain fixated on Yunjin. “Tell me, is your dear cousin doing well?”

Yunjin looks more furious than she was previously. “How the fuck did you know he’s my cousin?!”

“Heard from a pretty little birdie, but she’s dead now, thanks to your cousin and his bastard line of friends.” Namgil’s smirk drops and is replaced by a nasty snarl. “I’ll kill him; I’ll kill them all, and you won’t even be there to deliver your goodbyes to him because you won’t be alive by then.”

You become both intrigued and shocked at the sheer protectiveness in your best friend’s countenance while you momentarily forget about being held at a knifepoint. “I’ll kill you before you even get the chance to lay a finger on him!” She yells at him, but she instantly gets knocked down by another attacker while you scream her name worriedly.

“Boss.” Your attacker calls out, drawing Namgil’s attention, who instantly has his eyes fixated on your figure. “Those bastards won’t be coming. We should still take one of these girls as a hostage.”

“You’re right. We do only need one.” Namgil says with a sickening delight in his tone while he roams his eyes all over you, recognition glinting in his dark eyes. You struggle in your attacker’s arm, wanting to get away as Namgil gets closer, but you can only feel the prickling pain of the blade in your skin. “We haven’t met, but I know you. The renowned church girl, Y/N. You’re close with Jake, right?”

“What?” Confusion written across your features despite the fear that is pressing you down when he uses the tip of his butcher knife to trace down your sternum tantalisingly. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’m not, and I was never close with Jake.”

The smile on his lips disappears just the way his personality takes a turn, and in a blink of an eye, he has you in his bruising grip, glaring into your eyes as he holds you close. “Don’t fucking lie to me! I remember that I saw you and him before!”

You don’t bother to hide your disgust as his breath hits you in the face. “That was probably back in freshman year, which was years ago. Are you sure you’re living in the correct timeline now?” You accidentally blurt out a sarcastic remark, being driven by the simmering adrenaline in evading your new aggressor.

Namgil smacks you in the face, sending your head flying sideways from the impact. You barely make a run past him when he grabs you by the arm again, which you are sure is bruised, before dragging you with him. “Kill and dispose of the rest. We’re taking this one as our hostage instead.” He announces loudly to his men, some of whom are still attacking the girls.

Namgil rids you of the opportunity to call and look over to check on your girls when he hastily drags you out of the library, rendering you worried and helpless before you decide to pray silently for your girls to be safe and win against their oppressors. “This is great! Now that I have you instead, they’re going to come and rescue you.”

“You’re wrong.” You manage to utter in between light pants, having to keep up with his pace as you have finally reached the first floor. You spot two of his men waiting for him. “They’re not going to save me. You’re making a big mistake.”

“Then I’ll just have to kill you, right after I use your body for my pleasure.” Namgil whispers in your ear, rendering you completely revolted at the idea of him doing a despicable act to you. “Or better yet, I fuck you now and let my boys have their turn before we kill you slowly and painfully in front of those bastards.”

Without thinking twice, you step on his foot hard with the heel of your boot, hearing a crack before you find yourself getting pushed by him, resulting in you falling to the ground while his screams of agony sound like a delight to you. You attempt to get up, but Namgil is quick to get you on your back with his fingers curled around your neck in a deadly manner, depriving you of oxygen. “You fucking bitch! I’m going to kill—"

“I thought you knew better than to mess with someone else’s prey, let alone our prey.” A very familiar voice speaks up, but his voice sounds deeper than you had heard him. “But your mistake is the moment you entered our zone where you were not welcomed anymore.”

You expect more talking, but instead, you hear a commotion involving a series of screams of agony and cusses. You inhale loudly as soon as someone has pulled him off you, coughing out from getting your windpipe nearly crushed before you attempt to raise your body vertically, but you falter when a tall figure looms over you, prompting you to look up for your eyes to meet a pair of black sockets as his identity is obscured by a white mask with a horizontal red stripe. He is adorned in all black with a vest and a hoodie covering his head.

Without a word, the mysterious man, who you call 'White’ in your head, helps you to get back on your feet, feeling how gentle he is with you despite the firm grip to steady you. Your eyes never stray from him as he caresses your neck gently with his gloved fingers. “You’re hurt.” His voice, his very familiar voice, causes your eyes to widen. “Are you feeling fine, my beloved?”

“I-I’m okay.” You stammer, flustered by the endearment when you should be fearful of him as he wields a knife in his other hand. Though his demeanour is gentle and his voice holds a familiar mellow that allays your nerves, you heed your primal instinct to evade him. “I need to go—”

His arm wraps around your waist faster than you can comprehend, locking you in his possession while you can feel his body heat. “There’s no rush in going anywhere, love. Besides, wouldn’t you like to watch the bastard be beaten to death?” You can imagine him smirking while there is a sickening glee in his tone.

You find yourself going speechless when his fingers grip your chin firmly and tilt your head up, the gesture sending flutters to your heart, before he turns your head to the side, only for you to be stricken by horror at the spectacle of savagery. “I don’t like this.” You tell him shakily, feeling sick in the stomach upon seeing one of Namgil’s men, whose head is nearly mangled from his lifeless body with blood pooling around him.

But White remains undeterred by your protest as he continues to force you to watch as the other three leaders are now circling an injured Namgil, like predators toying with their prey before devouring it. “Shhh, it’s alright, love.” He whispers in your ear rather affectionately. “Don’t feel bad for him. He deserves it.”

It isn’t that you feel bad for the death that undoubtedly awaits Namgil, but you just simply lack the tolerance to watch such gruesome gore that is happening in real life. Your whole body trembles while tears fill your waterline as one of the leaders in a red mask swings the metal baseball bat to Namgil’s head, eliciting a loud, sickening crack.

“You fucking dared to touch her?!” Red growls out as he grasps the metal baseball bat that is tainted with Namgil’s blood, allowing the one in a grey mask, who is holding Namgil’s butcher knife, his turn to wreak violence on him. “You deserve to die a slow, painful death, Namgil, not just for touching what’s ours, but for what happened three years ago.”

You hear Namgil attempting to speak, but he can only produce gurgling sounds. A horrifying gasp leaves your lips when Grey brings down the butcher knife to slice Namgil’s arm clean, tearing screams of agony from him while blood spluttered everywhere. You are finally able to look away, closing your eyes shut, but it feels useless when you can still hear his screams when Grey does the same action to his other arm, severing it.

“Alright, love, you’re trembling so much.” White heaves a sigh before looking down at you, his hand goes cupping your cheek while you flutter your glossy eyes open. “I can’t go anywhere until I’m done with him, so I need you to wait for us by the stairs, alright? I’m trusting you not to run away, beloved.” He says sternly that has you nodding your head quickly before he slowly releases you.

Your legs tremble beneath you as you walk towards the familiar massive flight of stairs, still feeling his eyes on you, but you are no fool to obey a killer’s order, and so you gather any remaining strength within you, including the willpower, before bolting off in another direction, your legs carrying you as fast as they can. You know that you’re in big trouble, but you’d rather risk your life running than surrender to any of them.

“Leave her be. We still haven’t finished our business here yet.” Black says to White upon hearing the latter sighing as he watches your figure getting smaller, but to be fair, he already expected you to grasp the opportunity to run.

You manage to climb over a window before resuming your pursuit of escaping your not-so-new predators, now running on the desolate road, hoping to at least find another place to hide. After what feels like forever, you cave into exhaustion as your lungs burn while your legs ache, and you swear you can feel blisters forming in your feet. You look over your shoulder, only to feel disheartened to see the distance between the villa and where you are at.

You refocus ahead, mentally prepared to run again, but your eyes immediately land on a car parked by the pavement curb. You briskly move forward, ignoring the pain your body is sending signals to your brain. You notice a figure seated in the driver’s seat, igniting hope in your chest.

“Excuse me, but could you—” You don’t get to finish your words when a scream escapes you, your eyes widening in horror at the sight of the now-dead girl with blood oozing from the nasty slit on her throat before you notice another dead body outside of the car on the other side, most likely her friend.

You force yourself to recover before using your might to get the dead body out of the car while goosebumps remain constant on your skin as you drag her over to the pavement where her dead friend is sprawled. You mutter a quick apology when you let her arm fall with a thud before you head over to the driver’s seat, only to get startled when an explosion erupts from afar, eliciting a gasp from you as the villa is being engulfed by ferocious, massive flames.

Your ears pick up on the faint blaring exhausts, and your eyes are drawn to the four bikers emerging out of nowhere from afar, prompting you to get into the driver’s seat. You ignore the knife that is stained with blood resting on the passenger seat. Your hand instinctively switches on the ignition, heeding your muscle memory, but your brain goes short-circuited as the blaring exhausts get louder from behind.

“It’s okay, Y/N. Remember what Dad taught you.” You tell yourself in an attempt to calm your nerves and focus deeply, your hands gripping the steering wheel firmly. Though your father taught you how to drive many years ago, the memory remains fresh in your mind.

With a newfound confidence, you step on the correct pedal gas, propelling the vehicle to finally move off the curb before you increase your speed in the nick of time when the four bikers are nearing you. You continue to drive at an alarming speed, trying to outrun them, but you remain tailgated by them relentlessly. You nearly go unfocused, overwhelmed by the whirlwind of emotions within you, but you are quick to gain the momentum.

You change the direction of the steering wheel, now entering a new territory where there is what looks like a massive park ahead of you, and you pick up the velocity. Just as you nearly reach the park, you fail to realise an incoming vehicle heading towards you from the right. Your reaction delays when you are being pushed by another car that’s been wrecked before realising that it is being pushed by a black van, completely unrelenting.

But the macabre soon comes to a stop, giving you time to recover from the impact that thankfully did not give you any major injury. You unbuckle your seatbelt with trembling hands and grab the knife on instinct before kicking the door open and exiting the vehicle. Your legs nearly give out, your body aching all over, and you hold onto the car to steady yourself when your head throbs.

Despite knowing that you still need to escape, anger boils in your veins, wanting to give whoever drove that black van a piece of your mind, but the thought is immediately replaced by apprehension when footsteps approach you. You lift your head, only to be intimidated by the one adorning a black mask as he trudges towards you while his comrades are behind him, busily dismounting from their bikes.

You back away from him as he gets unrelenting, prepared to use the knife to protect yourself from him, only for him to expertly snatch the knife from you in a blink of an eye before he throws it away. You let out a yelp when he turns you around and pins you against the car, holding your hands in one strong grip before he bounds your hands together with a handcuff.

“Naughty, baby.” Black whispers huskily in your ear as he presses his body into yours, eliciting a gasp from you at his body warmth and familiar voice. “You made us chase you down twice. Do you like playing a chasing game with us?” He groans deeply, igniting a familiar desire in you before you feel his prominent bulge against your bum. “Because it’s turning me on more than anything, babydoll.”

“We’re sorry! We didn’t know it was her in the car!” You hear another familiar voice that compels you to look over to Jungwon, speaking to the other three leaders.

“In a way, at least we helped you in finally capturing her.” Sunoo adds, and that is when you also notice another brooding presence next to him, Riki. The three sophomores you know are a part of the fraternity.

“We got her. So let’s go, and stop rubbing your dick on her.” Grey snaps at Black, causing the latter to growl under his breath that has your womanhood responding instinctively to the attractive sound before he pulls you with him to head towards the park.

Your face flushes warmly when you are needed to walk past the other three leaders, because instead of feeling fearful, you feel a sense of diffidence as you can feel their eyes on your figure, making you self-conscious of how you look now, probably a mess.

Black guides you deeper and deeper into the park while the others follow from behind. A confused frown touches your lips upon seeing an entrance gate before noticing a large number of people gathered inside for some reason, including the knight members. You shudder as you see different types of weapons in their grasp.

All the while, you have been trying your utmost to ignore the exertion in your legs and how your body still aches from the previous impact, springing tears in your eyes, but you suck it up, knowing that crying changes nothing.

The sound of gates rattling open welcomes you before Black gently pushes you forward for you to start walking. Your eyes scan for familiar faces in the crowd, and miraculously, Wonyoung spots you instantly. “Y/N!”

“Wonyoung!” You reciprocate, feeling relief to see your best friend in one piece in spite of a few minor wounds on her skin. Just as you attempt to make a run towards her, Black tightens his grip on you. “Let go of me!”

The once-relieved expression is replaced by sheer anger on Wonyoung’s countenance before she marches forward. “You let her go this instant! Bastards!” But two knights immediately prevent her from going to you, eliciting curses from the enraged mermaid.

“You’re with us till the end, babydoll.” Black tells you with a lull as you remain looking at Wonyoung tearfully and helplessly before he guides you to where the other leaders are, facing the anxious crowd.

You manage to scan your surroundings briefly, noticing that they have brought you to a massive labyrinth garden, which appears to have a multitude of mazes that also seem endless. You also spot the divine palace in the background, but it looks further away from you than it looks. As soon as you arrive by the leaders’ side, you lower your gaze, hearing whispers among the crowd that pertains to you.

“Just so everyone is clear, you see this beautiful angel here?” White speaks up loudly as he grabs your arm and pulls you closer to his side while your cheeks continue to burn. “She’s our prey and ours alone to deal with. This is a warning to you if you dare to mess with what belongs to us.”

You so badly want to scream at him that you belong to no one, let alone to a man, but you remain silent with your head hanging low.

“Congratulations for making it to this stage.” Black speaks into the microphone this time, garnering everyone’s attention while you muster the courage to look up and stare at him. “However, Devil’s Night is far from over, and unfortunately, whether you’ll survive this stage or not depends on you.”

Black passes the microphone to Grey. “Yes, we’re aware that this segment is new for those of you who have been to the previous annual Devil’s Nights.” Grey explains. “For this stage, all of you will be given seven minutes to run and find the exit of the labyrinth garden.”

“Seven minutes?!” A guy from your cohort barks out his discontent. “Seven minutes is impossible for us to make our escape! Look at this maze! It’s fucking massive!”

“Too fucking bad.” You hear a smirk in Grey's tone. “So you better be running for your life once we hit the countdown.”

“And what happens if we don’t make it to the exit in time?” A girl asks loudly, and when you look at her, you frown at the discernible excitement in her eyes. Why is she excited when she should be apprehensive just as you are now?

It’s not just her, but the palpable tension of excitement emanating from some of the victims is hard for you to not notice. It is as if they have been expecting this adventurous thrill that may or may not cost their lives. Your face twists into a slight grimace, finding them odd and mental.

Red snatches the microphone from Grey. “For those of you who successfully manage to find the exit on time, congratulations in advance. You are free to leave and enjoy the rest of Devil’s Night with what we have to offer.” Red pauses before he lets out chuckles, a hint of darkness in his tone. “But for those who fail, you’re ours to kill, ours to toy with, ours to torture, and ours to fuck once we find you. We’ll do whatever we want to you. So when we tell you to run, you run and don’t ever fucking stop.”

You see White beckoning for the microphone, which Red passes to him. “As for our fellow knights, don’t forget to stake your claims if you haven’t. Remember to hunt down only what is yours.” As he says this, you can feel his gaze behind his mask fixed intently on your face. “The last part of the hunt starts now.”

On his command, everyone, with the exception of the knight members, erupts into squeals and tumultuous commotion as they make their way to the multitude of mazes haphazardly. You manage to catch Wonyoung looking at you ruefully before she heads in the same direction as some. You hold back your tears, watching as your best friends leave you behind with those in power.

“What are you going to do to me?” You manage to find your voice, albeit there is a palpable tremor of fear in your voice as you look at the four leaders with glossy eyes, and fuck, you look so pretty in tears as they marvel at your beauty. “Don’t kill me, please.” You beg softly, slowly backing away from White as he approaches you.

In one long stride, White grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. You look up at him pleadingly, shivers running down your spine as he caresses your cheek lovingly. “We have no intention of killing you, my beloved.” He utters softly, a deception you become familiar with. “What’s the fun in killing you when we have better plans for you?”

You remain seated on the ground with the cloth beneath you, a barrier preventing your bums from being poked uncomfortably by the turf’s texture, courtesy of Grey, who wordlessly gave you the cloth after seeing the look on your face as you stood on aching legs, responding with a grunt after you had given him a timid utterance of your gratitude.

You wait, and you have no idea what you are waiting for, waiting anxiously as you observe the four leaders ambulating every so often, but not once did one of them ever reveal even a glimpse of their faces, though you already have the idea of who is who since you recognise their voices.

You feel the perpetual cold settling in your bones, and you instinctively attempt to hug your slightly shivering figure, but your handcuffed hands are a hindrance that you have forgotten. You flinch when you hear the shrill screams that pierce into the cold, foreboding atmosphere once more, leaving you to wonder what sort of brutality those Devil’s Knights choose to strike them with. But you worry most about your friends, hoping that they’ll make it out alive.

You try your best to avoid squirming when a pair of eyes burn straight into you, and from your peripheral vision, White is leaning against the concrete wall with his arms crossed, watching you with disconcerting ease. You don’t want to admit it, but since your encounter with White, you feel this magnetic attraction towards him that feels inevitable, and it’s ridiculous, but there is an enigmatic connection between you and him that is simply indescribable. You know that he is a far more dangerous individual, and yet a part of you feels an instinctual need to seek comfort in him.

“What—” You begin to speak, faltering when the four of them react instantaneously to your voice. You put on a mask of bravado, but the tremor in your voice is palpable. “What do you want from me?” Your firm demeanour lies in exasperation because it is killing you how they obviously have ulterior motives.

You watch them with scrutiny as they seem to communicate telepathically, looking at each other in total silence before White gives a head nod. You tense up as Black approaches you, stopping in front of you before he pulls you up from the ground and holds your wrist. You eye him with visible confusion when he uncuffs you, but nonetheless you feel relieved because the metal handcuffs were making your wrist sore.

“We’re giving you two options, sweet thing.” Red says, his voice carrying a familiar allure. “You can either leave this place and go back home safely or stay and experience the thrill we have to offer.” You can imagine his charming grin on his plump lips. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. No judgement if you choose either.”

This is insanity; it is pure madness because this prolonged, twisted dance of devilry should have pushed you to choose the first option, but you feel entirely compelled as the second option resonates with you. Deep down, you know that you are every bit as twisted as them, desiring to uncover what sorts of diabolical schemes they might execute while a part of you keens in being the vulnerable prey in their predatory eyes.

You glance over at the gates where you first entered to get here, having no desire to leave even when they are being lenient in offering the easy road to freedom, and so you remain rooted to the ground, your decision being as clear as the starless sky above you.

“Last chance to change your mind, princess.” Grey tuts, his demeanour seems to be taunting you. “Because if this is really your answer, it also means that you are giving consent to us.”

You have no idea if your trembling hands denote apprehension or twisted excitement. You bite your bottom lip, attempting to wet it with your tongue, but your mere action seems to elicit a not-so-inaudible growl from White. “I’m not that much of a coward as you think I am.”

“I didn’t say anything, princess.” Grey chuckles coldly, and yet those sounds from him bring an unexpected flutter to your heart. “Although, I can’t help but think that either you’re putting on a brave act or just being a dumb princess.” You hold back your tongue from retaliating.

“You better start running, love,” White says softly, his words rousing the excitement to send you into an adrenaline rush. “Because once we catch you, we’ll do whatever we want to you, and we’re not going to stop until we say so.”

You don’t spare any seconds as you take off in the direction of the maze where most of the guests were previously running into. The prior exertion begins to burn in your legs; your calf muscles are imploring for respite, but you push on, determined to get further away from your predators, albeit you have no intention to find the exit anytime soon.

Once you are certain that you have managed to drift far from them, you succumb to the exhaustion that you have been repressing, slowing down before you come to a momentary stop to take a breath. Subsequently, your perception of your surroundings heightens as you come down from the high, allowing you to pick on different ranges of sounds that send the same chills to your spine — shrilling screams that are either agony or thrill, roarings from the Devil’s Knights, and et cetera.

You force yourself to master equanimity before moving forward. You distract yourself by scanning your surroundings, surprised to see how tall the hedge walls are that it is impossible for anyone to look over to the other side of the wall. You feel the dread creeping up on you as you look ahead at how narrow yet hollow the route is.

Eventually, you reach the end of the route, only to be daunted by the sight of a labyrinth containing infinite pathways to the unknown. You stagger a step back upon witnessing a guy limping with his injured leg to one pathway from the other, obviously running away from a Devil’s Knight as the masked man follows him with a long dagger that is dripping with blood.

You enter the pathway that resonates best with you, walking as stealthily as you can to avoid drawing anyone’s attention. Just then, you are suddenly reminded of your phone, prompting you to whip it out from your mini leg bag and go through your contacts, but confusion hits you when you see the ‘no signal’ on the top left of your phone, which is weird because just way earlier before the whole thing went down, your internet connection was working perfectly fine.

You grumble under your breath as you shove your phone back in your bag. You have no doubt that it is part of their doing, considering they wield the power of unpredictability. After what feels like an hour, you turn into a left corner, only to feel a huge relief upon seeing Wonyoung ahead of you.

“Wonyoung!” You call for her as you rush forward, forgetting the fact that you are supposed to go about discreetly.

“Y/N!” Just as Wonyoung turns around, a figure decked out in black attire and a grey mask that obscures his identity emerges from the shadows of the entrance next to Wonyoung, swiftly grabbing her with his arm around her waist while the other covering her screaming mouth as she thrashes against his hold.

“Wonyoung!” You cry out for your soul sister as you step forward with the intention of getting her back despite lacking the right skills to protect her, afraid of what might happen to her. But the moment you attempt to reach out for her, the masked man turns to look at you and shakes his head.

“Don’t, Y/N. Unless you want to end up on the wrong side of my knife.” The wicked intent in his voice is resounding, rendering you frozen in your spot as you recognise his voice. Jungwon. “Luckily for you, you’re not mine to kill.” He says before dragging your helpless friend until they disappear from your sight, leaving you alone and hopeless.

Tears are welling in the rims of your eyes, while the trepidation that courses through your veins is starting to feel overwhelming. You sniffle as you quickly wipe away the fallen teardrop on your cheek before you force yourself to advance forward, mustering whatever courage and determination are left within you. The regret over your decision is there for you to grasp it, but you refuse to admit it.

You continue to venture into the unknown until you hear a familiar voice that kindles hope in your chest. “Yunjin?” You call for her, moving forward while your eyes dart everywhere as you walk past different entrances. You become startled when you spot one of the knights holding a chainsaw chasing after two girls who are screaming in terror before you quickly mind your own business and resume searching for your childhood best friend.

“Yunjin─” You immediately halt your steps as soon as you hear faint moans emitting from your very own childhood best friend. Your face contorts into a mortified confusion as you listen to how she is moaning pleasurably while there is a faint sound of skins slapping.

A part of you knows better than to indulge your curiosity, but you find yourself advancing forward once more. As soon as you turn your head, the vulgar sight greets you, rendering you completely shocked to the point where your body feels paralysed, unable to move.

There is your childhood best friend on top of a masked man as he is seated on a wooden bench, and their lower regions are completely stripped off of any layer of garments. Her back is facing you as she bounces continuously on him with her hands draped over his shoulders lazily.

As your gaze falls down, that is when you finally notice that Yunjin is indeed fucking down on the masked man, causing your cheeks to flare. You can see how lewd they are, fucking into each other with a series of moans and groans emitting from them. You should feel disgusted, and you should be looking away from this obscene spectacle, but you become enthralled by the sight of his cock disappearing into her pussy each time she bounces.

Oddly, your heart is racing at a pace that feels foreign, and your throat becomes dry the longer you watch them get immersed in the debauchery. You stagger a step back, panting lightly while feeling a familiar sensation pooling in your core. The warmth all over your body feels odd, bothering you greatly.

“Fuck, just like that.” The masked man throws his head to the back, holding Yunjin by her ass cheeks to assist her. “You’re doing so well, baby. Keep fucking on me like the desperate whore you are.” He says with a grunt before carrying your best friend over to the hedge wall where he pins her against the bushes behind them, depriving you of the vivid image of their fucking.

You squeeze your thighs together to suppress the sensation that becomes oddly unbearable in your core, getting undoubtedly turned on by the degradation, albeit it is not directed at you. Just as you stagger a step back, your back hits a solid chest, causing your heart to sink in the pits of your stomach.

Before you can run away, an arm slithers around your waist, locking you in place. A disapproving tut leaves his lips. “Was searching for you, baby, and imagine my surprise to see you watching your best friend getting fucked.” He hums, enjoying the way you squirm. “Naughty girl. Do you like watching people fuck? Or do you imagine yourself being in her shoes?”

“N-No.” You protest weakly, tearing your gaze away from the sight, but he uses his gloved hand to grip your jaw and turn your head, forcing you to keep your eyes trained on your best friend with sheer pleasure written on her countenance.

“Don’t lie to me, baby.” Black speaks next to your ear while your breaths get heavier and your mind is tainted with forbidden thoughts. “I know you love it. You’re probably wishing that was you, but no one gets to fuck you except me.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he gropes the flesh of your breast with earnestness, while his other hand trails downward on your stomach before his fingers go underneath the material of your dress. You gasp inaudibly at the sensation of his fingers teasingly grazing across your clothed pussy, and you swear you can feel some form of essence leaking between your folds.

“N-No.” Your weak protest does nothing to stop Black from his assault on you while you watch with hooded eyelids as your best friend continues to fuck the masked man vigorously while the sounds emanating from them become pornographic.

“Fuck, you’re nearly soaked, angel.” Black nearly growls as his chest vibrates against your back, sending you shivers down your spine.

Light pants leave your lips as your mind is relentlessly infused with impure thoughts, and your hips buck, as though in an attempt to entice Black, but he continues to tease you by stroking the outer part of your womanhood, occasionally bumping your clit.

The sound of a feminine scream pulls you out of the lustrous trance as you blink your eyes. Mortification hits you like whiplash while guilt shrouds you. Gritting your teeth, you muster willpower before slamming your elbow into his stomach hard, resulting in him releasing you while a painful groan emits from him.

“Y/N!” You hear Black roaring from behind; the sheer anger is palpable in his tone while you run as if your life depends on it, despite the blisters in your feet sending you signals that it needs medical attention as soon as possible.

Your hair flail behind you, soaring in the wind as you run while a few strands stick to your face as you perspire. Your heart is pounding harder against your chest, and your chest begins to tighten with anxiety at the worst possible outcome after angering one of the leaders, whose temperament is known to be the worst out of them.

A scream leaves your lips as soon as two lower-ranking knight members emerge from the bushes with different weapons in their grasp, bringing fright upon you. You run to the opposite side, and when you do, other knight members wreak terror upon you with their weapons, but they don’t do anything to you. It is also as though they are forcing you to go in the intended direction by scaring you relentlessly.

You choke back a sob, tears stinging in your eyes. You wish that this was all just a mere nightmare, but the exertion, the aches, and the pain all over your body say otherwise. You find yourself yearning to return to your beloved parents and the cosy ambience of your home, where you feel safe and loved.

A genuine scream of terror rips from your throat when Grey emerges from a shadow, holding an axe that is dripping with blood. “Where do you think you’re going, princess?” He asks mockingly, stalking towards you.

You nearly trip over before you pivot on your heels, running in the other direction. You keep going, even when your lungs are burning and tears blurring your vision, resulting in you tripping over a hard log that has you falling to the ground with a thud. You wince painfully as you feel your kneecap burn. You look back at what exactly caused you to trip, only to scream as you see a dead girl staring at you lifelessly.

That is when you finally gain awareness of your new surroundings, tearing out a sob from you as you are greeted by dead bodies scattered around you. You force yourself to get up on shaky legs, your teary eyes taking in the blood and even severed limbs in your line of sight.

You turn around and run again, wanting to erase the gruesome tableau from your tainted mind. You crash into a figure that is strong enough to stabilise himself from the impact while you blindly seek comfort and protection in whoever this is, sobbing out.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweet thing. You’re safe with me now.” Red speaks above you while he strokes the back of your head tenderly, making you recoil from him instantly and allowing him to have a look at your beautiful face being tainted by tears streaming down your cheeks. “Come here, lovely.”

You shake your head, refusing to go anywhere with him as you grapple with your emotions that are in disarray. You run again, and it seems to be the only thing in the face of peril you are good at. You force the tears to stop, including the sobbing, as you are set to find a good place to hide. Your sharp eyes catch a sight of a relatively smaller pathway, and you head in without hesitation. You ignore the hedges of leaves grazing against your skin as you venture further into the dark.

As soon as you step outside, you are greeted by a whole new scenery that looks akin to an actual park, but the air thickens with a palpable dread, as though it is a telltale sign that an imminent danger will terrorise your temporary sanctuary. You don’t doubt the inevitable that the leaders will find out where you are.

Nevertheless, you explore further before a shadowy yet fairly big structure captures your interest, where it is situated above in the massive tree. You tilt your head up, squinting your eyes to get a better look before finally making out what looks like a whole treehouse, and it feels odd as you can immediately discern the undertone of adolescence emanating from the haunting-looking treehouse.

Your attention drifts to the tree trunk, where there are initials carved directly at your eye level, and you have a strong inkling that the two-letter initials belonged to the first letter of two people’s names. ‘H’ and another letter that matches the first letter in your name. You ignore the familiar throb in that specific part of your head again, grimace slightly before you turn around, only to let out a startled shriek at White’s looming figure over yours.

You immediately back away from him, establishing a safe distance, but your back hits the tree trunk, and yet you can’t seem to move around the tree and make a run again, noticing how White remains rooted to the ground in his spot.

“The boys and I used to build this treehouse on our own.” White speaks up, his mellow tone lacing with nostalgia that captivates your interest. “But it wasn’t for us that we were building it for.” He takes a slow step forward, causing you to tense up. “We built it for her, the girl who managed to capture our hearts without her knowing, but we lost her. I lost her.”

Something burns in your chest, and you have no idea if it’s jealousy or admiration, because in the way he speaks about her with pure reverence, this mysterious girl must’ve been his first love. You gulp nervously, your stance remaining in a fight-or-flight mode. “I’m sorry for your loss.” You say softly, uncertain if what you said would anger him.

You can feel it, the air shifting around you into something melancholic. “That’s okay because I’ve finally found her.” He says rather ruefully as he continues to close the gap between you until he stops in front of you. Your heart thumps loudly when he caresses your cheek tenderly. “But she couldn’t remember me, or any of us. I don’t blame her, though. It isn’t her fault for not being able to remember anything about us anymore.”

You stare into those hollow socket eyes of his mask while your heart remains in a thumping mess, because why does it feel like he is making it seem that his words are directed at you in a personal way? Even the way he is standing close to you with one hand on your waist feels intimate.

You open your mouth to speak, but as soon as Red emerges from the same entry you came from, your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, prompting you to shove yourself past White, making a run for the other entry that is near the huge gazebo meters away.

You think that White is letting you go freely, but in a blink of an eye, you feel his hand grabbing you by the arm and pulling you roughly to him. Before you know it, he deftly carries you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes while you are left kicking your feet in the air and throwing weak punches at his toned back that have no effect on him as he continues to advance towards the gazebo.

“I was going to be nice, but you decided to hurt my feelings.” White snarls, shocking you at how evidently pissed he is after having ever heard him speak with a distinct softness throughout the years you know him. “I’m going to mark my claim on you, and you’re going to take everything I give to you like the good fucking girl you are.”

Your head goes dizzying from the way White manhandles you as he has you settled on what feels like an inflatable mattress before you find yourself lying on your back, your eyes blinking at the dark ceiling of the gazebo in a dazed state. You attempt to get up, only for White to push you back down before he goes straight for under your dress, his fingers moving at your waistband and pulling it down.

“I meant what I said earlier.” White says as he expertly removes your underwear in one go before hovering above you while you are locked by the sensation of being paralysed underneath him, lacking resolve to fight against him because deep down, you know that you have been looking forward to this. You hear him unzipping his pants, which arouses your bundle of nerves. “I’m going to fuck you first, my dearest.”

Something so twisted preens inside of you when White spreads your legs open before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head despite your lack of protest. You barely feel the wave of embarrassment by the fact that the other three leaders are under the same gazebo as you, watching the obscene spectacle with a disconcerting nonchalance.

You gasp at the sensation of something solid and heavy sliding up and down on your cunt before you lift your head just slightly and crane your neck to get a better view of his assault. You nearly foam at the mouth upon seeing his cock with its bulbous head swollen. A whine escapes you as he aims the head and taps it on your clit repeatedly, causing you to arch your back with your hips bucking wildly at the delicious sensation of your aching clit being highly stimulated while this action of yours only turns on the other leaders at how alluring you look.

“I know, love, I know. You need my cock, yeah?” White utters softly, and yet he sounds sinisterly smug as he enjoys how desperate you are. He finally and slowly penetrates his length into your pussy, causing your walls to stretch painfully, but the pain is surprisingly tolerable. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He growls under his breath, unable to fight off the temptation before he begins thrusting his cock into your already sopping cunt, bringing a smirk to his lips at how easily wet you are.

You moan out at the sensation of your walls being relentlessly stretched by his cock with each thrust, your face contorting into ecstasy as the pleasure is building up in your lower abdomen. Your hands are clawing at his vest, desperate to cling onto him before he grabs both hands and pins them above your head with one hand again. He uses the other to reach down your swollen clit that has been aching for attention, his thumb rubbing your sensitive button with maddening precision.

Your head is filled with nothing but him and his cock; the desire to be reduced into nothing by the time he’s done with you has you producing more moans and whines of plea that sound pornographic in the ears of the other leaders as they wait with practiced patience while getting boners.

“No one will ever get to see you like this, all fucked out. You’re fucking mine.” White snarls possessively, delivering thrust after thrust with unbridled yet ruthless passion that has your eyes rolling to the back; the pleasure from getting bullied by his cock and your bundle of nerves being relentlessly rubbed by his thumb is absolutely delirious, and you swear you feel your tummy bulging with each thrust of his cock.

“H-Heeseung-” You finally moan out his name as you force your eyes to gaze deeply into the hollow sockets of his mask, your eyes glistening with such desperation and yearning. He nearly falters, utterly hypnotised by your mesmerising beauty, staring into his soul, and he wants nothing more than to engrave this moment on his mind.

His eyes fall to your luscious lips with the sweet sounds escaping. He takes his fellow leaders by surprise when he removes his mask, finally revealing his handsome face to you while his fallen hoodie reveals his disheveled hair that makes you want to run your fingers through. Your eyes meet his dark, possessive ones, and before you can marvel at his haunting beauty, he slams his lips into yours while the pace of his thrust changes into slow and hard, as though he is taking his time to savour every inch of you.

You whine needily into the kiss as his lips move against yours sensually, kissing you as though you are something so precious while you feel the cold metal of his lip ring caressing your lips. You feel his hand gripping your wrists loosening before he grabs one of your hands and lowers it next to your head, only for his fingers to interlace with yours affectionately. He slips his tongue into your parted lips, licking and memorising every inch of your hot cavern tenderly. You feel butterflies in your stomach at the overflowing affection from him.

“Hee, I-I feel—” You moan as you gasp into his mouth, feeling the pleasure in you that reaches its peak, your bucking hips nearly stuttering as he rubs your clit skilfully fast while his thrusts feel like a telltale sign of his own peaking pleasure.

Heeseung pants hotly into your moaning mouth, his tongue meeting yours in a swirl before kissing you again. “Me too, my love. Let go for me anytime now.” On his command, you tumble over the edge of ecstasy as you come hard on his cock, your body trembling with the intoxicating waves of pleasure rolling over you.

Heeseung grunts against your lips, delivering one last thrust that nearly has you seeing stars before slamming his hips into yours and pressing you down while you feel a copious amount of his release deep inside of your womb, your back arching at the pleasurable sensation of his cock burying to the hilt in you as it twitches. He is quick enough to recover that prompts him to withdraw from you, eliciting a whimper at the way his cock slides from your sensitive cunt and disappointment as he slowly backs away from you.

You meet Heeseung’s eyes again, noticing the way they darken at the sight of his cum leaking from your exposed cunt before they meet your eyes with a soft smirk unfurling his lips. “I’m not the only one claiming you tonight, love.” Just as he says this, Red strides past him, drawing your attention and causing your pussy to clench in anticipation when he unzips his pants, allowing you to see a visible bulge straining against his brief.

“Don’t worry, sweet thing. I’m gonna make you feel good.” Red says huskily as he hovers above you with one hand supporting his weight while the other frees his erection from the confines. You don’t look down, stunned by the heaviness of his cock as he taps just the head to your clit that instantly renewed with vigour. “This might hurt a little. Just focus on my voice, yeah?”

You dismiss the smugness in his tone, too distracted by his huskily attractive voice that awakens the butterflies in you before a gasp leaves you when he slowly inserts his cock into you, inch by inch, allowing you to feel the painful stretch at the sheer thickness of his girth. Upon hearing your quiet whimper, he lowers his hand to your clit and rubs it with his thumb in calculated yet tender strokes, alleviating the pain.

“I got you, sweetheart.” His voice sounds strained, relishing the way your velvety walls snugly grip his cock like a lover. He nearly wants to press a kiss to your mewling lips, forgetting that he isn’t allowed to remove his mask under Heeseung’s order. He continues to deliver sweet nothings to your ear while you clench around his cock every so often at his attractive voice, eliciting a deep groan from him.

The entirety of his cock is now buried in you, but he doesn’t move just yet, his thumb remains stimulating your clit, which enables you to feel nothing but pure pleasure despite the stretch from his girth. Your hips buck up lightly, bringing a grin to his lips before he begins to pull back his cock that is glistening with your arousal and plunges deep into your cunt, repeating the action.

“It’s so—” You gasp as your body shakes from the impact of his thrust, prompting you to latch your hand on his forearm as he has his hand planted next to your head. “It’s so big!” You moan out, your hips moving to meet his in a perfect tandem that allows you to feel his cock at deeper heights.

“Oh, yeah? I’m big for you, sweetheart?” Red smirks down at you, his eyes tracing your every nuance as you are evidently in a state of bliss. “You’re taking me like a champ, like I know you would. Fuck, I’ve always wanted to be buried in your sweet pussy like this.” He groans when you clench hard around him, causing his cock to throb. “Keep clenching around me like that. You’re doing so well for me.”

His praise ignites something in you as you preen; his affection and how tender he is in the way he fucks you turn you on further. He continues to utter sweet things to you without losing his momentum, and you can’t help but compare how different he is to Heeseung despite them fucking you similarly.

“You like your clit being played with, sweetheart?” Red utters softly, enjoying how sensitive you are as he continues to rub your clit in addicting strokes, making you roll your eyes to the back with your hips chasing for both his cock and thumb. “You’re so fucking cute and so, so perfect for me. It’s like your pussy is made for me.”

You moan softly at his words, your hand gripping his forearm tight. The consistency in his thrusts immediately falters when he lets out a sound between a groan and a growl, sending waves of pleasure through you, and before you know it, he slams his cock into you with unbridled fervour, instantly bringing you to newer heights of ecstasy.

Tears prick in your eyes at the roughness he sets in his pace, a stark contrast to the previous loving stroke. Being conscious of how loudly you moan, you turn your head to the side and bury your mouth into his arm, snuggling your face into his warmth, rather adorably, that enhances his possessiveness, his cock lodging deeper to the point you are seeing stars.

“I’m getting close, sweet thing.” He rasps, his thumb rubbing your clit at a maddening stroke that drives you to the edge of delirium while the intensity of his thrusts is slowly reducing you to nothing. “Come with me now, sweetheart.”

You don’t need to be told twice, because with one last thrust, Red matches the crescendo of your release, his own washing over him in a torrent of ecstasy with his sticky essence spilling in you, mixing with your cum. You whine and squirm under him as he delivers slow yet brief thrusts for his cock to relish the last of your sweet pussy that is pulsating around him.

Red slowly pulls away his cock that is glistening with your union of release and backs away from you, only for his figure to be overshadowed by Black, the latter closing in on you faster than your brain can comprehend.

“You got me having a painful boner, babydoll.” Black says, his voice thickening with a palpable desire as he looms over your weak figure, his hands moving to unzip his pants. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be ruined, and your pussy will yearn for my cock constantly.” Your pussy clenches with both excitement and fear at his words.

Black groans, holding back the beast within him from devouring you wholly as you lie beneath him with your pretty eyes sparkling with the familiar innocence and how he gets turned on by the translucent stockings wrapped around your legs. His hand rubs on the side of your leg, feeling you up before taking you by surprise when he hoists your leg over his shoulder.

You marvel at the flexibility you had no idea existed, how it bends to his will while he adjusts in aiming his cock at your awaiting hole. “You’d make the perfect cheerleader, baby.” He comments with a groan before pushing his cock into you in one go, giving you no time to adjust to his girth when he thrusts with an unyielding force.

Your face contorts into both pleasure and pain as you throw your head back, baring your dainty neck to him, which entices him to wrap his fingers around it, and he does, eliciting a gasp from you when he squeezes your throat. Despite knowing that he could easily snap your neck, your arousal seems to intensify at the idea of being choked while he obliterates your pussy, causing you to arch into him.

“Guess babydoll has a kink.” The smirk in his tone is evident, taking great pleasure at the gasps and stuttered moans from you as he squeezes your neck occasionally. “You like this? Like getting choked while I—"He pauses, withdrawing his cock, only to ram into you harder than the previous, bruising your hips. “—while I ruin your sweet pussy?”

Your eyes go white as you surrender to the painful pleasure that brings you to another state of pure bliss, moans spilling from your lips, completely incoherent, but he squeezes your neck again in warning, forcing you to focus in the hollow sockets of his mask while you hear his ragged breathing. “Answer me.” He commands in a growl.

“I like it!” You manage to utter, your breathing getting irregular from the overwhelming sensation of getting fucked with reckless abandon.

“Tell me that you love being my cockslut.” Black demands with cruel delight at the same time he shows leniency in the way he slowly removes his fingers from your throat. “Tell me that you love getting ruined by us.”

“I love being your cockslut!” You moan as he hoists your other leg over his shoulder, finding yourself in a mating press that allows you to feel his cock deeper to the hilt. “I love getting ruined by you!” Your admission has the other guys undeniably hard, how desperate and needy you sound.

“Look at you.” Black growls, his voice huskier than earlier, as he pounds into you relentlessly while the squelching sound of your sexes in union reaches your ears. “You were made for this, to take my cock.” The sensation of his brutal cock lodging deeper is overwhelming, heightening your sensitivity as you feel your pleasure reaching a crescendo, the familiar inevitable about to rain on you.

Without announcing your arrival, you come hard on his cock, your body trembling with overwhelming pleasure, but he doesn’t stop just yet, pounding harder and harder while you whimper and whine from the overstimulation, completely helpless under him.

“This pussy is mine now.” Black grunts, delivering one last hard thrust before going completely still, lodging his cock deep in you while you feel his release filling you to the brim. He teases you with a few thrusts while your cunt pulsates around him.

Black lowers your aching legs before pulling away from your cunt that is leaking with the union of your cums, eliciting a whimper from you as you feel oversensitive. “Last one, baby. Don’t disappoint my best friend now.”

Upon his words, Grey steps forward, and there is something menacing about him with his hollow sockets staring at you that makes you want to cower away. You make a pathetic attempt to close your legs and drag your body despite the weight of exertion pressing you down, but he is quick enough to catch you, manhandling you in a way that has your head dizzying before finding yourself in a different position.

Ironically, you feel more vulnerable with your back facing them, especially when Grey forces your legs to spread, exposing your slick-smeared cunt to them. A gasp leaves your lips at the stinging pain on your right bum before a moan tears from your throat at the abrupt intrusion of his cold, slender fingers shoving into your hole.

“You’re pathetic and disgusting, princess.” Grey’s hatred is apparent despite his voice thickening with desire while he continues to thrust his fingers into your sensitive pussy. “I knew that you were a slut behind that good girl act.”

You know that in any other circumstances, you would feel hurt by his words, but right now, you feel a sense of pleasure as he continues to spit demeaning words to you while you fuck back into his fingers with your head lolling to the back. The way you move sensually with your heavenly round bum look has him groaning deeply before he unsheathes his fingers from you, eliciting a whine of disappointment from you.

“Patience, slut.” You squeak when he brings his palm down and smacks your right bum again. You hear him unzipping his pants, and you feel inclined to wiggle your ass at him, as though to taunt him. “Look at you, princess. Getting excited for my cock.”

Without any warning, Grey shoves his cock into your awaiting hole, and somehow, you feel tighter even after taking three cocks. You gasp at the sensation of his sheer girth that feels long and thick, making you feel full instantly. “Still so fucking tight after getting ruined by more than one cock. Fucking slut.” He scoffs, giving your bum a resounding smack that brings tears to your eyes.

Grey proceeds to fuck you, slamming his hips into yours unforgivingly as his cock stretches your velvety walls deliciously. You begin to get handsy with your hands, needing to ground yourself as the way he bullies his cock into you nearly brings you to the wrong side of heaven. He makes a disapproving noise under his breath before grabbing your arms and locking them behind you expertly with one hand while the other delivers another smack to your burning bum.

“I don’t care if you’d be breaking by the time I’m through with you. Just fucking take it.” Grey says harshly through ragged breathing, each thrust is punctuated by the apparent hatred he harbours for you, and yet you feel more turned on than ever, loving this pain he’s bestowing on you.

“H-Harder.” You utter feebly, and a broken moan leaves your lips when he fucks you harder, causing your whole body to shake from the impact. His consistency remains, his cock battering your insides relentlessly while you moan out from the pleasure wantonly that only seems to spur him further.

“Taking cock is all you’re good at.” Grey growls under his breath as he presses his body into you, allowing you to hear his husky voice clearly as he speaks in your ear, all the while without faltering his brutal thrusts. “Your greedy pussy will always need more than one cock, because that’s what you are, a hungry cockslut.”

You moan at his words, and upon watching the pure, fucked-out bliss on your angelic face, he can’t resist the temptation and shoves his now-ungloved fingers into your mouth. “Suck on them like how you would suck my cock, princess.”

You do as he tells you, your tongue licking his fingers sensually and sucking on them. You choke on his fingers as he lodges them deeper into your mouth, hitting your throat that vibrates with your moans as his cock hits the delicious spot relentlessly. You gasp out as soon as he removes his fingers from your mouth, your spit covering his fingers wholly.

Your eyes roll to the back in pleasure when he rubs your clit with the same fingers he choked you with, your mouth gaping with pornographic moans as he rubs your bundle of nerves harder and faster while his cock remains constant in hitting the spot in your sopping cunt. You hear him groaning deeply at how submissive and needy you are as you attempt to spread your legs further at the same time you move your hips to match the way he’s assaulting you with his cock and fingers.

“Look at you being so needy for me, princess.” Grey murmurs, his voice carrying an undertone of affection, eliciting a mewl from you as you feel the instinctual need to bask in his warmth. “You’ll be the perfect cockslut for us, for me.”

Even without words of your imminent arrivals, your bodies seem to be in tune with each other, because with one last earth-shattering thrust and a hard flick to your clit, his orgasm crashes down on him at the same time your orgasmic release rolls through you like tidal waves, his cum mixing with yours, marking the finality of the leaders’ claims on you.

Your heart flutters when you feel the lip shape on his mask pressing into your bare shoulder, as though he’s giving you a kiss before disappointment dawns on you as he slowly pulls away, allowing you to feel his girth dragging along your battered walls. But the disappointment is slowly replaced by sheer exhaustion of the aftermath, leaving you to remain exposed in their eyes that you can’t seem to feel any humiliation.

You hear muffled sounds from behind, as though a conversation is happening between them, and just when sleep is taking over your consciousness, your eyes snap wide open on high alert at the sensation of something sharp grazing down on your skin before the dreadful realisation hits you that someone is wielding a knife with its cold blade tantalisingly caressing your right bum.

“This is gonna hurt, love, but you’re strong. You can take it.” White, no, Heeseung tells you with a soothing lull that is ineffective in influencing sleep over your terrified figure.

You open your mouth to speak, but instead, a scream tears from your throat at the searing pain of the blade digging into your tender skin. You attempt to move, wanting to get away from him, but he easily overpowers you with one hand, locking your arms together in a bind behind you while he continues to torment you with his knife.

You can only afford to cry out at the painful sensation that is unlike anything else. After what feels like forever, your cries abate as you heave soft sobs once the blade leaves you, feeling warm liquid dripping down your skin while you have no notion what he did to your skin that remains burning from the cruel aftermath.

As the series of events that unfold in one night flashes on your mind, your body feels the inevitable trauma that renders you paralysed before going into a profound state of shock. Eventually, you succumb to the oblivion that beckons you to its cold arms, leaving you at your most vulnerable state in the eyes of your surrounding predators.

A profound silence settles in the room, being courteous enough to look away from your half-nudity when their best friend begins to treat your wound at where Heeseung carved their mark on you just moments ago while you remain unconscious from all the exertion, fallen in a deep slumber. They would never leave you to deal with treating any wounds on your own, and besides, you’re theirs to take care of now.

After you passed out, Sunghoon offered to carry you to his room and would be the one treating all of your wounds since out of the four of them, he is far more capable and has the proper aiding tools. He has been treating you with extra care, leaving no wounds or blisters unattended or done with improper care. Plus, in his words, he didn’t trust his best friends enough as he was sure that if any of them had been the one instead, your wounds may develop infection.

Thankfully, his best friends have their backs facing him as he focuses on cleaning the last of your wound with an antiseptic before patching it up with a bandage. All the while, his thoughts are filled with how utterly ridiculous he was for being oddly generous by letting the girl he hates sleep on his bed and the fact that he has never invited any girl into his room or even bed, as he is very particular about cleanliness. Yet, here you are. Never again, he thinks.

As soon as Sunghoon is done, the other three return their gaze to you while he proceeds to wash his hands, now tucked under the covers while your hair is sprawled out in tendrils. With the moonlight streaming in, casting a gentle glow on your serenity, you look like an angelic mess, and due to the aftermath, you look so frail that it makes them fiercely devoted to protecting you, a natural instinct they have towards you now.

Now, the four leaders are scattered around in Sunghoon’s room, but their eyes never stray from your serene form, because something about you feels oddly comforting, like a home they’ve been searching for a long time deep down. However, only three of them exchange knowing looks as the same curiosity remains lingering in their heads.

“What are you planning, Heeseung?” Jay asks quietly, drawing Heeseung’s attention from you. Despite knowing each other since diapers, he could never read the latter most of the time.

“You know that this changes quite literally everything, at least until we graduate.” Sunghoon adds on, being careful with the volume of his voice as he does not want to wake you up.

“Listen, I like Y/N, but—” Though Jake is directing his opening statement to Heeseeung, Sunghoon cuts him off with a ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ look while Jake merely shrugs his shoulders. “Well, yeah, she’s a nice girl, a pretty sweet one at that. Who wouldn’t like her?” He says before focusing back on Heeseung. “Anyway, as I was saying, we haven’t had anyone to prey on for years since the moment we took up the position as devil’s knights’ leaders, and the mark was created by the founders of Devil’s Knights, which not only represents us but is also a mark meant for the leaders’ prey.”

“And you do realise that she now bears the mark.” Jay points out the obvious as he folds his arms over his chest, standing at a neutral point, but he doesn’t wish for Heeseung to regret his actions. “Y/N, out of all people. I don’t know if you thought this through—"

“Remember the conversation we had last week?” Heeseung cuts him off; his tone and demeanour remain disconcertingly calm. The three leaders slowly nod their heads as they recall a certain memory. “We vowed that we would do anything to destroy our fathers and possibly their empire too. This is it. This is just the beginning.”

“And how does that have anything to do with Y/N?” Sunghoon asks, displaying genuine confusion as the rest do, and yet a part of them feels wickedly intrigued.

“She’s the key.” Heeseung simply says as he moves towards you before stopping right next to the bed, his eyes softening as he reaches out to stroke your cold cheek gently. “At least not directly. It’s just too bad that she has no idea she is caught up in the mess too.” Though Heeseung’s answer doesn’t satisfy their curiosity, they know that he will elaborate more as time passes.

“Y/N now officially bears the mark as our prey, and no matter how much you hate that she has been chosen, I expect you to follow the tradition that has always run this fraternity.” Heeseung smirks, his eyes never leaving your angelic face as he continues to stroke your cheek affectionately. “Corrupt, destroy, and bend her to your will.”

“I’m not even complaining.” Jake says with a devious grin, chuckling at the blatant reaction of Sunghoon, who clearly despises the idea, while Jay seems neutral, but his face has a tinge of distaste. Jake could never blame them, though, because neither of them expected Heeseung to carve the mark on her.

“It’s going to be tough since she has a protective circle of friends, if you hadn’t noticed.” Jay grumbles, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the thought of your annoying friends.

“About that, I called Winter to inform Y/N’s roommates to come over and get her home,” Jake informs them, rubbing his nape sheepishly when two Parks glare at him in disbelief. “They’re already on their way here.”

Sunghoon scowls at him. “Oh great! Watch them disapproving and protesting. You already know how much they despise us.”

A smirk touches Heeseung’s lips, a familiar devilry shadowing his features. “I’m not too worried because they know better than to mess with a devil’s knight’s prey.”

Your consciousness keeps fading in and out, as though it is reluctant to face the reality that awaits you, but it eventually enables you to feel the terrible aches all over your body and a stinging pain in your lower body part as it is being pressed down into the surface of something familiar, albeit a fleecy-like padding. Though the exhaustion settling in your body feels like it's on a different level, you slept well, suspiciously too well, as though your soul was on the other side of the universe, and with how fatigued you feel, you are tempted to return to a deep slumber.

But you are roused fully awake as an incessant pounding pummels into your skull, causing your face to contort into a grimace, and as you make an attempt to move your body, a wince leaves your lips at the familiar stinging sensation that you feel so distinctly somewhere around your backside. Your mind drifts from the pain you are feeling, only focusing on collecting the fragments of the events that transpired last night, which eventually coalesce into one account, prompting you to snap your eyes wide open in horror.

“Oh, no, no, no, no! It can’t be—" You continue to prattle, having no clue whether or not the words tumbling past your lips are intelligible, but the memory of the number of events that happened in one night is unmistakably fresh in your mind. You force yourself to calm your erratic nerves as you inhale and exhale deeply.

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Maybe some of those were just your imagination.” You reassure yourself before abruptly raising your body vertically, only for it to be a mistake when the ache intensifies in your lower abdomen, but your attention shifts to the bandages on each side of your forearms, wondering when you got minor injuries.

Your feet feel particularly sore before you pull away the duvet that’s been covering your legs, your baby pink shorts allowing the full view of a few bandages decorating your skin while your feet are nearly covered with rolled bandages. No, it is definitely not just your imagination. You remember clearly how your feet were swelling and bearing blisters after having to run away from the relentless danger.

A shaky breath leaves your lips before the sense of disgust comes to you. Not only do you feel like absolute shit, but you feel so disgusting that it makes you want to shred every inch of your skin. Caught in a whirlwind of chaotic emotions, you fail to realise that your body has yet to recover from the exhaustion, resulting in you falling over your bed and your body making contact with the cold hard ground with a loud thud.

“Ouch!” You moan loudly at the brutal impact, tears welling in your eyes from the pain that adds to your misery, or maybe you’re just overwhelmed by everything. You hold back your tears as you attempt to push yourself up.

The impact could probably be heard from outside of your room, because in just a few seconds, thundering footsteps approach your room before the door swings open with your best friends barging in, appalled by your current situation. “Y/N!”

Instead of turning and asking them for help like you would usually do, you simply ignore them, your jaw locking with tension as you are determined enough to help yourself, but Wonyoung and Yunjin are quicker than you as they swiftly offer their aid by grabbing you on each side and carefully assisting you to stand.

“I didn’t need any of your help! I had it handled!” You lash out at them, choking back on a sob as you yank your aching arms from them, prompting Wonyoung and Yunjin to exchange looks, but you are too occupied in the sense of betrayal from your friends, because they should’ve told you everything and what to expect in the first place, especially since they have always been Devil’s Night’s regulars.

Karina observes your odd temperament, noticing the tears in your waterline. “Y/N, you didn’t have to lash out at them. They were helping you because you were clearly struggling.” Her tone is missing the usual mirth, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Yunjin shakes her head at Wonyoung, but the latter cautiously approaches you as if you’re a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. “We understand that you had a rough night—”

“You don’t understand anything, let alone what I feel.” Your voice holds a palpable tremor, struggling to control the anger that’s been boiling within. You glare at them, taking them by surprise with a brief hurt flashing in their eyes. “I feel shitty, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Is there anything you need, Y/N?” Yunjin asks gently, focusing on you instead of her feelings that were hurt by your words and actions.

“What I need is to be alone and take a damn shower. I feel so icky.” You grumble under your breath as you force yourself to head to the shower in spite of the constant difficulty of the aches in your legs. You nearly falter in your steps as you recall how you were voluntarily willing to be theirs last night, willing for them to take you as they please.

You clench a fist before continuing your destination, oblivious to the wary looks being exchanged between your best friends. “Uh, Y/N—”

You ignore them again as you turn on the faucet, allowing the water to run before you cup a handful of water with your palms and splash it to your face, but as you bend down further to wash your face in the sink for another time, you wince at the painful stretch of what it feels like a wound on your backside so distinctly.

“What the hell?” You whisper, your face contorting into confusion before turning your body to an angle where you can see the right side of your body in the mirror. You pull down your waistband, not even bothered that your best friends are still watching you, and you swear you feel your heart sinking in the pit of your stomach. “Oh my God—”

You are not even shocked, just completely mortified by the grotesque image of what it looks like someone had used the tip of a knife to skilfully carve an upside-down cross on your skin, and with how the condition of the wound is looking, you fear that it will leave a permanent scar on your skin. And it’s not just someone, because you clearly remember Heeseung being the responsible one.

“We were trying to tell you about it.” Karina says quietly as the atmosphere feels unsettling. “You bear the mark of the Devil’s Knights’ leaders now.”

“W-What?” You stammer, your voice trembling with both fear and disbelief while your head is in a disarray of chaos. “I don’t understand. Their mark? So what does this mean for me?” You dare to ask, tears blurring your vision with each blink.

Your best friends exchange looks again, but this time, the shadow of secrecy passes by in their countenance, giving you a strong sense that there is more than they seem to let on, and you hate how insecurity begins to creep up on you.

“It means they own you now.”

The ordeal remains a haunting playback in your mind, as though you are experiencing it all over again. You feel horrified by the things that happened on one night, immoral behaviours that were deemed lawful by the government you thought would make the world a better place, but above all, you feel completely revolted at yourself, as you know that you have no one to blame but yourself.

You feel horrible, needing the urge to vomit, but nothing comes out, and it feels like you are on the brink of insanity. You didn’t sleep a wink last night, and you didn’t even step a foot outside, refusing to deal with any of your best friends. There is no doubt that your eccentric behaviour alarms them gravely, as evident in the way their worry for you remains constant and they take turns knocking on your door to get you to come out and eat something, but you remain nonverbal, eventually forcing them to resign.

It is not that you hate your best friends, and you don’t think you could ever hate them, but you can’t look at their faces yet, seeing how they seemed to accept the horrifying fact that you now bear a mark that indicates you are the leaders’ property and how their normalcy truly confounds you as if whatever happened on Devil’s Night is barely a memory. You can’t help but feel resentful towards them, knowing that they have been attending Devil's Night since freshmen, because how do they still not find any issues in the annual festivity that entails such heinous pursuits?

You love your best friends; you really do, but right now, as you have been reflecting deeply, you wonder if you truly know them, or anyone around you for that matter. Or maybe they’re just the same as the Devil’s Knights, except the masks they wear are not tangible, but the thought of it unnerves you the same.

You examine yourself in the mirror once more, wearing an outfit that highlights modesty, a stark contrast to the dress you wore two nights ago, and you never knew a dress could hold a weight of memories. You can feel your hand trembling as you wait patiently for your mother to answer your call, pressing your phone to your ear.

“Hi, Mom.” You greet your mother on the line steadily, but you can feel yourself getting weaker in your resolve.

“Hey, sweetie. You’re up early on a Sunday.” Your mother’s kind and gentle voice is soothing to hear, and yet it brings tears to your eyes. You yearn to be in her warm, comforting arms, where you feel undoubtedly safe. You wish to be the innocent little girl in your mama’s arms.

“I’m planning to head over to the church near campus since I was always so busy with school.” You tell her, mustering a smile in your tone as you quickly wipe a fallen teardrop from the corner of your eye. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s sleeping. He just got back from a tiring night shift.” Your mother informs you, but you sense a certain tone of knowingness in her tone as she continues to speak. “Tell me, what happened?”

“Nothing. What makes you think that?” You try your best to be indifferent, now making your way to grab your sling purse from the hanging rack. “I’m fine, Mom, really.”

“I know my daughter, Y/N. It isn’t like you to call me at this hour. Did something happen to my sweetie?”

Alas, the tears brimming in your eyes cascade down your cheeks, and thankfully you choose to go for a barefaced look. “Um, am I still good, Mom?” Your voice cracks in between, allowing your true emotion to surface.

“Of course you are. You are always good, and goodness is always inside of you.” Your mother remains constant in the way she speaks to you in a soft lull, being patient with you as you try to find the right words but careful enough not to expose yourself.

“But what if I did something bad?” You ask sullenly. “What if I sinned?” You already did — giving away your virginity voluntarily to the four men you couldn’t help but be attracted to.

There is a brief silence on the line, and you can’t discern whether your mother is mad at you or not. “Sweetie, there is no denying that you are God’s blessed child, and purity has always been a big part of you, but you are a human just like the rest. You’re bound to make mistakes. So if you have sinned, you should already know what to do next.”

“Are you mad at me?” You ask meekly, swallowing a lump in your throat. You hate disappointing your mother. You are sure enough that she would disown you without hesitation if she ever found out about what happened.

“No, I’m not.” Your mother reassures you. “Have a safe journey on your way to the church, alright? I love you, always. Remember that, sweetie.”

“I love you too, Mom.” You reciprocate as your voice comes out shaky before you end the call. You quickly stuff your necessities in your sling purse before exiting your room cautiously as you slowly and quietly close the door behind you. You know that your roommates are still asleep at this time, but you want to be extra cautious.

After successfully exiting your dormitory building, you decide to hail a cab outside, lacking the energy to take a bus ride. As the driver drives you to the destination, you take the moment to close your eyes and put your mind at ease, but only negativity manages to invade your short-lived peace. The devilry whispers, telling you how you should just give up and succumb to what your heart desires most.

Thankfully, you have arrived at your destination before you can dwell further. You exit the cab after paying the fare, your eyes magnetically drawn to the divine building ahead of you. Your stomach churns with relentless guilt while your heart throbs, but you force yourself to advance. A gust of wind hits your skin, sending you shivers and prompting you to hug your white coat around your figure. It has also been quite some time since you visited the church that is situated on the same street as the campus due to the heavy workload given by your professors for the past months that you didn’t even have the time to visit.

Before you can even step foot onto the holy ground, you feel a familiar chill running down your body with the back of your hair rising, prompting you to daringly look over your shoulder, your eyes scanning your surroundings, completely paranoid. You swear that you feel eyes burning straight into your figure, and even as you finally enter the building, you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you from afar.

But as you amble further in, you feel at ease, tension dissipating in every part of your body and mind as the familiar tranquillity in the ambience feels like a gentle hug, assuring you that despite the sins sitting on your shoulders and the guilt weighing on your conscience, you will be pardoned in the end.

Fortunately, the place is not as crowded as you expected since it is still too early for the service to begin. You offer a polite smile to the sisters walking past you as they welcome you warmly with smiles.

The pastor, who appears to be speaking to one of the members of the church, directs his focus to you, missing the way his eyes glimmer with an inexplicable emotion. Once his eyes meet yours, a warm smile touches his lips. “It has been a while, my child.”

You reciprocate his smile with politeness despite your nerves returning to eat you up on the inside. “It has. School has been keeping me occupied.”

“I admire your optimism, but it’s still early to start the service.” He tells you with genuine confusion.

You release a shaky breath, mustering bravery while regret shines in your eyes and the guilt pierces into your heart like a deadly thorn. “I have a confession to make.”

His smile falters just slightly. He tips his head in the direction where the familiar booth of the sacrament of penance is, beckoning you to follow him. “Come, child.”

It isn’t long until you have finally reached it, now seated on the chair with your heart pounding against your chest. Your hands tremble as they rest on your thighs, but you clench them into fists.

“Whenever you are ready.” He says to you from the other side of the wall.

The events that transpired two nights ago are like a film in your mind as you recall them. A tumultuous mixture of emotions is palpable within you while you attempt to remain collected.

With a shaky breath, you begin your confession, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned……”

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sweetiechenle · 4 months ago

Text

sleepyhead ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁.ᐟ mark

pairing: non-idol!collegestudent!mark x afab!collegestudent!reader

summary: your friend and classmate mark helps you out in class after accidentally sleeping in, but the hint of a scribble in the notes he lends you threatens to rewrite your relationship.

w.c: 7.2k

warnings: mdni 18+, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, it's all fluff with a dash of light angst, reader is oblivious to marks advances, but he's kinda dumb too, idiots in love, mutual pining, kissing, confessions, soft smut, love making literally, oral (f receiving), porn with plot, unprotected sex (dont do this), praising, pet names, soft!dom!top!mark (god i need him), crack/humor, lots of time skips im so sorry, if i forgot anything oh well lmk, i used this idea for a different fandom YEARS AGO, i am too embarrassed to admit what fandom but if you find it and think i'm stealing i am not. promise. reblogs and feedback appreciated ♡ fiction ≠ reality

you yawned big and loud, trying not to give yourself away too much, you kept your limbs from reaching outward. mark, your seatmate, and kind of friend?, gave you an inquisitive look. as if to ask if you were okay. truth be told, it was all rock bottom. papers upon papers, presentations, reading, and a lab took up all of your time this semester. you met Mark at the beginning of the year in your ‘major writings of the european tradition I’. you sat near the front because of your bad vision and the brown haired boy came next to you saying the famous ‘is this seat taken?’ line to which you said no. this left him to plop down in the said seat he pointed at. you studied him hard, clad in a semi-tight shirt and worn jeans, his white tube socks poking out once he sat down. it was hard not to notice the dirty and distressed black converse, probably wearing them every day since he could fit in them. he had a boyish grin when he turned to you and asked about how your day was going, you blushed noticing how handsome he actually is. his bright eyes shown under the fluorescent light as he now asked you about the book you were reading. ‘the picture of dorian gray’ sat atop all of your other books from various classes. it was apparently his favorite book too. his lips curled into the brightest smile, excitingly talking about his other favorite books and authors. it was endearingly cute.

you both shared socials in order to stay in touch in case either of you had questions about the class. you two would talk occasionally, keeping a calm distance. sharing literary memes on instagram, sending book recommendations on tiktok, or texting each other late at night when one couldn’t sleep. you would periodically meet up with him to study, or whenever you were too tired to read whatever was assigned in class, mark would read it for you out loud in the comfort of his apartment. it was easy to consider him a friend. at the end of the semester you told him you signed up for major writings of the european tradition II. he pumped his fist in the air earning small giggles from you due to his overreaction. telling you how happy he was that you’d be in the same class again. that’s where you are now, with mark still sitting next to you, listening to the same boring more advanced lecture. you loved literature and being an english major, but sometimes you don't know how many more reading and analysis’ you can take of the odyssey.

glancing at the clock you sighed, an hour left of class. pain was all you knew at this moment, you underslept last night, working on an essay for a speech writing class, trying to get it all down perfectly in order to impress your professor. you didn’t realize it was well past three in the morning when you finally had finished, all you wanted to do right now was go back to your apartment and nap until your next class in four hours. you drowned out the professor and whatever was being said about odysseus and what he got himself into this time. placing your chin on your closed fist, your vision drifting in and out of blurriness, and before you knew it you fell asleep. you gasped when mark nudged you awaken eyes going wide in surprise making him laugh a little bit.

‘dude, you fell asleep, class is over y/n’ mark said once you looked over at him, still in his seat next to you, almost everyone had already left.

you sighed running your fingers through your already messy hair, ‘ugh, i’m sorry, i didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.’

mark laughed, ‘oh, i can tell’

you scowled at him, earning another laugh from the taller man as you both stood up. at least it was friday, and you’d have the whole weekend to catch up on homework, and sleep. ‘want to go get coffee since you’re such a sleepyhead? need to keep you awake somehow’ mark asked, scratching the back of his neck, nervously rocking back and forth. you smiled at how red his ears were, waiting for your response. when you first met, he would occasionally get nervous around you, to which you never knew why, never thinking of yourself as anything special. but you noticed he got anxious around almost everyone after first meeting people. much like yourself, after a while mark started to get more comfortable with you, becoming more confident, and increasingly charming, however he could never hide the facade he tried to put on when asking to hang out outside of class. he would suddenly become a meek and shy, not the confident, outspoken boy you saw almost every day.

‘yes, that would be perfect’ you answered, ‘caffeine is much needed right now’ mark smiled and led you to the open door of the classroom, motioning you to go through first. it was pretty pathetic when butterflies erupted in your stomach, standards weren’t high for you, obviously, the smallest gesture from mark made you turn to putty. you didn’t have a lot of relationship experience, most of the time boys would lead you on, only to tell you they were never ready for anything. only a few longer relationships would end up in flames, men too toxic for you to continue on any longer. every time, earning a vow from you that you would never talk to another boy ever again. you could tell mark was different from anyone you had ever met, he was genuinely sweet and always helped whenever he could, profusely apologizing when he was too busy to come and help you study. you’ve always liked mark more than you should, it was really hard not to, anytime you ever talked about mark to anyone else, only nice things were discussed. you would never admit to harbored feelings for him, he was lovely to everyone, how could you be any different?

after a while, he started walking in front of you to the coffee shop on campus, stealing glancing at you just to make sure you were still following him, making your heart ache so hard the caffeine you were about to consume would probably kill you. entering the coffee shop turned your tired state into total bliss, a welcome and much needed break. ‘oh! there’s johnny, let’s go sit with him’ mark exclaimed, grabbing your hand and pulling you near the table in the back. before you knew it, a tall man with raven black hair was standing up and greeting you and mark. he was older than you and mark, a senior that your friend had met during his freshman year of college. you had met johnny before, a handful of times, and for brief moments. mark would always talk about his other friends with you. he’d tell you that ‘you just have to meet them’, but whenever the time would come it would be short meetings, a hi and bye.

mark brought out your chair and gestured for you to sit down, saying that he would go order you both coffees, leaving you with johnny. he turned to you and smiled, to which you returned, trying to register what mark had just done for you. god you really need to get higher standards, hard albeit mark being your standard. johnny asked you about school and how you are doing with all of it, you asked him similar questions, watching mark disappear in the line for coffee. you didn’t notice johnny calling your name over and over, only when he had gotten up close and personal in order to get your attention. you jumped slightly after the fifth ‘y/n!’

you quickly looked over at him, calming him down, ‘jesus y/n, where did you go? staring at mark? i know he’s pretty but-’

you cut him off, ‘would you keep your voice down!? i wasn’t staring at mark, i was just thinking…’ it was hard to keep the blush from creeping up and having it wash over you like a tsunami.

johnny gave you a knowing look, ‘... thinking about mark’

you glared at him, ‘can we stop talking about mark, please’ desperate to leave this conversation behind, but speak of the devil and he shall appear.

‘why are we talking about mark?’ you and johnny whipped your heads up in surprise, mark standing there with a grin on his handsome, stupid face. holding two coffee cups in each hand, asking in the third person as to why you were both discussing him while he was away.

‘n-nothing, we were just talking about our english class’ you explained quickly trying to save yourself from embarrassment.

johnny just nodded while mark, handed you your coffee and sat down, joining you both at the table in extreme awkward silence. mark broke the ice, ‘y/n fell asleep in class today’ he smirked and looked your way, catching your reaction of groaning and hiding behind your small coffee cup as you took little sips.

johnny laughed along with mark, wishing that the ground would open you up and swallow you whole, ‘it was so funny, the professor didn’t even notice!’ the older boy laughed along with his friend at your plight to fall asleep so easily in class. ‘you even snored a little bit, oh my god, it was so cute!’ he squealed. CUTE!? your eyes went wide, ignoring the embarrassing part about snoring in class. mark called you cute. johnny turned to give you that knowing look again, this caffeine was definitely going to give you a heart attack. this was going to be a long weekend.

monday morning rolled around, the weekend was spent writing papers, reading epic poetry, and sleeping. and also the occasional mental breakdown when you recall that mark called you cute. sunshine hit your face, and that’s when you figured you couldn’t stay in bed any longer. you rubbed your eyes hard and stretched your body out in bed, dreading the fact that you’ll have to get yourself up and ready to learn about some new epic now that the lesson over the odyssey was over. you grabbed your phone from the nightstand, your bones practically jumping out of your body when you realized you had only an hour left of class. you had overslept and missed the first hour of class, fuck. you hurried to get ready, not giving any mind to your appearance, jeans, and a hoodie would do. you texted mark ‘i overslept ( ｡ •̀ ᴖ •́ ｡), just woke up, i’ll be there soon. my chair still open?’ closing the door to your apartment, you marched out into the warm weather, mentally preparing yourself for the embarrassment you were about to face once you walked into class late. eyes peeled to your phone, the delivered immediately turned into read, mark texted back ‘always, sleepyhead’ you rolled your eyes, too much in a rush to get flustered by the nickname this time, shoving the phone in your pocket you continued walking to the humanities building.

you slipped in through the door in the back, making sure it wouldn’t slam shut, praying to any god who would listen to not get called out. thankfully, your prayers were answered, no one said a thing for the rest of class, only mark who gave you a smile once you sat down. you were lost the entire rest of class, the professor going into depth about the cantos and then switching very rapidly to beowulf then to dante’s inferno. maybe you should’ve stayed home. once class ended, mark started putting everything in his backpack, grabbing his wrist to stop him, he turned towards you with his eyebrows up in question and surprise.

‘can i borrow your notes mark? please? i literally had no idea what was going on since i was late’ you were practically begging at this point, but before you could grow any more desperate, mark chuckled and handed you his notebook for this class that continued to lay on the table.

‘i guess you beat me to it, why do you think i left my notebook out?’ mark smiled and handed you the red, worn out notebook. you let out a thankful sigh, some weight lifting off your shoulders, your standards were fucked by now.

‘thank you so much mark, i really owe you one, i’ll have it back to you by tomorrow.’ you reassured, giving him a genuine, thankful smile.

later that evening, back at your apartment, you took mark’s notebook out from your backpack. you had finished all the work for the classes you did attend today and now it was time to move on to the bane of your existence. opening up his notebook to find the most recent entry, your eyes finally landed on notes about dante’s inferno and whatever gibberish the professor was spewing when you showed up. reading about the layers of hell and how it has to do with the other epic’s was further explained by mark in his notes. flipping the page, your eyes caught something in the corner. taking a closer look, you sat up from the couch and moved towards the light. you gasped upon seeing what was written, erased, and written and erased again over the left side of the page. poorly drawn hearts with the words ‘sleepyhead’ written inside littered the far left corner of mark’s notes. this surely wasn’t about you… could it? you singled out the piece of paper, moving it into the light in order to see through it, double-checking your suspicions. and sure enough, there they were clear as day. it looked as though mark drew them on the paper and had tried his hardest to erase them, yet still somewhat visible, you didn’t have four eyes for nothing after all. ‘fuck’ you cursed out, staring at the faded drawing and words. this was your own personal inferno.

the next day was like no other, barely any sleep and when you woke on time you contemplated not going at all. however, you promised you’d bring mark his cursed notebook back. the very notebook that had been plaguing your mind since you discovered its hidden contents last night. that's what kept you up so late, you couldn’t simply forget about it and let it go. you debated asking him about it, but if it had nothing to do with you, then you’d probably have to change your name, face, and leave the country all together. but after all how many people did he call ‘sleepyhead’… probably 5, max. you had to investigate, test the waters and see what this was truly all about. you had to come up with a plan.

you got up and started walking around your room, getting ready, you put a lot more effort into your outfit, jean shorts and a cute baby t-shirt you think would catch any person’s attention. walking to class, it was brisk, the wind nipping at your arms and legs. you shuddered, bringing your hands up and down in order to try to redistribute your warmth. you finally got to class and the nervousness had taken over your system, totally forgetting about the cold and now terrified to face your friend. your body shook, shuffling to your seat, seeing mark on his phone waiting for class to start. you let out a tense breath, trying to settle your uneasy heart and stomach. you pulled out the chair, startling the boy next to you, his soft hair jumping slightly and moving away from his face, his eyes shining up at you. his mouth curls into a smile, going from ear to ear, it was infectious, you gave him a small smile back despite your stomach churning in the worst way possible.

‘you finally decided to come to class on time’ he joked, poking your shoulder lightly.

you playfully rolled your eyes at him, getting everything out for class ‘i barely even slept last night, i closed my eyes, and then boom my alarm was going off…’

mark’s smile faltered and eventually dropped upon hearing your confession of getting little sleep. ‘by the way,’ you grabbed the wretched notebook from your bag, handing it to mark, ‘here’s your notebook back, the notes really helped, thank you’

mark took it from your hand, ‘it’s no problem, if you need any more you can always ask’

you smiled, and turned towards the front of the class as soon as the professor walked in. putting any thoughts of mark in the back of your mind and bringing forth your plan. every once in a while you could arrive late, it's not like you’d be penalized for missing class, your professor never took notice. it would just be on you if you never showed up and somehow failed the semester. but with marks help, there was no way you could fall that far behind.

over the next couple of days, you and mark would hang out sporadically, studying together or watching movies. after a couple of days, you finally decided it would be time to try and be late to class again. to be fair, you had an essay to start that was due in two days, so staying up and working on it and accidentally sleeping in would be the perfect excuse. silently hoping this wasn’t going to come back and bite you in the ass.

flash forward to the next day: it did. you woke up with only 30 minutes left of class, less than what you originally wanted. thankfully, you did finish the cursed essay at four in the morning, you woke up to your alarm blaring, not even realizing how many times you snoozed it. grabbing your phone from the night stand you stretched and got up, getting changed for class and heading out.

opening up your messages you internally groaned, seeing about five messages from mark reading:

‘dude, where are you??’

‘no way you overslept again( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;)⁭’

‘don’t worry sleepyhead, i’m taking notes for you’

‘also, the professor mentioned a project and let us pick partners’

‘i told her you were my partner .. if that’s okay •⩊•’

you squealed into your hoodie sleeve, trying to keep a hold on yourself, but this was too much, the cute aggression getting to you so bad you punched the air. after getting some weird looks you hurried to class, slipping through the big double doors you immediately spotted the brown haired boy, silently cheering that no one was sitting with him you moved towards him and your seat. once you made yourself known to his presence, he gave you a small smile that made your heart crescendo, brought on by the growing feeling of love coming to a climax.

‘hey’ he whispered beside you, keeping his eyes on the professor who continued to lecture.

‘hey’ you answered back.

‘late again?’ he tsked, shaking his head slightly, ‘what am i gonna do with you?’

your hand covered your mouth, trying to hold back a giggle, ‘i stayed up later than i should’ve last night, i had an essay to finish’

‘oh, of course,’ he slide his notebook to you, ‘i got some notes for you about today’s lecture and about the project. we should plan on when to meet up to work on it… the professor has been ranting about plato for the last hour, so you haven’t missed much’

you nodded and grabbed his notebook and slid it into your backpack, trying not to show much nervousness over such a simple gesture. once class ended mark turned to you.

‘i have to meet with johnny, so i’ll catch you later’ you nodded and he smiled, his lopsided lips curling up complimented his boyish charm, making your insides twist and turn. ‘i’ll text you later about the project’

he moved to grab his backpack from the floor, without thinking you grabbed his shoulder softly, he whipped his head around, eyes now wide from the sudden touch, backpack forgotten. ‘uh-h, ha-ave a good day mark’ you said, giving him an innocent smile. his features immediately softened, that tender smile coming back on his lips.

you let go, watching him stand up from his seat, now staring up at his gorgeous face, ‘you too, pillow poet’

the new nickname felt like whiplash, like a 20 car pile up in your heart, every emotion crashing into each other, hard to make it out alive. glued to your seat, you stared at nothing now, the ghost of where mark once stood. you didn’t move until your professor knocked on your desk, promptly telling you to get the hell out.

later that night you had to build up the courage to actually open up mark’s notebook this time, his texts blowing up your phone going left unanswered. your roommate, yeri, had came back from class and asked why the hell you were staring at a closed notebook on the coffee table in the shared living room.

you sighed, ‘its complicated’

she dropped her bag and deadpanned, lips formed into a straight line as she rolled her eyes, ‘its a notebook’

you dropped your head into your hands, admitting defeat, ‘it’s not about the notebook,’ you sighed dramatically, pouting, ‘it’s about what’s inside…’

yeri gave you another eye roll and moved towards you, grabbing the notebook from the coffee table, she opened it and started flipping through the different pages, you looked up after hearing the rustling of pages, ‘it’s just notes!’ she cried.

you groaned and stood up, now facing her. you grabbed the notebook out of her hands, you found the most recent section of notes and scanned the pages, chest beating profusely. you stopped once you finally found what your heart was searching for, half erased hearts with various words inside, you took the page closer to the light on the ceiling.

‘sleepyhead’ ‘cutie’ ‘bedbug’ okay, not that cute, but the sentiment was still present.

yeri, now questioning if you really had lost it or not, grew concerned. ‘what is it?’ she moved closer to you, trying to decipher what it was you were so intently looking at. you grabbed her by the arm and brought her closer to you, nodding up to where you were holding the paper in the light, ‘look’.

‘y/n, what the hell am i looking at? stop being weird, it’s freaking me out’ she pouted and took a closer look.

‘mark…’ you trailed off, ‘i found them last week, i asked to borrow his notes because i was late to class, and he drew all these things and looked like he tried to erase them… i don’t know, oh my god, i sound crazy’ you handed the notebook to her and went to sit on the couch again and grovel.

yeri stood near the light, doing the same thing you were and tried to find what you were talking about, ‘oh’ she said, lowering the notebook and moving over to you, ‘do you think these are about you?’

‘i don’t know, if they were don’t you think he would be trying to hide it better? but how many people does he know that are late to class and oversleep!?’ you cried.

yeri’s eyebrows crease in deep thought, then it hits her, ‘maybe… he wanted you to find them’

‘why couldn’t he just tell me all of this himself?’ you questioned, second-guessing everything.

‘i’ve only met mark a handful of times and let me tell you,’ she placed her hand on your shoulder, ‘he is the most awkward person, ever, this could just be his way of flirting’

you didn’t say anything and continued to stare at your roommate, still standing with mark’s notebook. ‘you should talk to him about it’ she said, you stood up abruptly, eyes going wide.

‘no way dude, i can’t’ you tried justifying yourself but yeri cut you off.

‘ugh’ she groaned, ‘i forgot you are almost as awkward as he is, you like him though, don’t you?’ you gave her a little nod, embarrassed by the sudden interrogation. ‘next time you see him, just ask him about it, the worst thing he can do is say no and you both move on with your life, just a little misunderstanding’

you sighed and nodded again, agreeing to ask him about it so yeri would get off your back. you grabbed your phone, knowing mark had texted you earlier you finally decided to bite the bullet and answer him. four messages from mark went unread:

‘y/n, will you be free tomorrow to work on the project?’

‘y/nnn where did you go, i know you are awake’

‘or are you? smh, damn sleepyhead’ your mind screamed ‘AGAIN WITH THE NICKNAMES’

‘u better not be late tomorrow, i can only take so much european writing without you ( •̀ - •́ )’

you wrote and deleted your message to him about ten times before settling on a basic:

‘sorry mark! i (surprisingly) did not fall asleep, just talking with my roommate, i should be free tomorrow to start the project („• ֊ •„)’

three text bubbles popped up and he immediately texted back

‘gr8, c u tomorrow, get some rest’

the next day was an off day from classes, you and mark had discussed meeting somewhere in the library. but that would hinder you from asking him about his little drawings so you told him to come to your apartment, perfect knowing yeri would not be there. yet, it was as imperfect as perfect could get, the setting would be right, but your thoughts were all over the place. not planning out how this could go, most, if not all of your ‘plans’ were half-assed. you’d just have to wing it this one time.

mark showed up when he said he would, which was exactly a mark thing to do, you were just unprepared. stressing out as the minutes counted down, you opened the door and let him inside, he smiled and walked towards the couch, placing his things on the coffee table. ‘shall we get started?’ mark said, motioning for you to sit down next to him.

‘so, the project is over any story of our choosing, did you have one in mind?’ he asked, turning towards you on the couch. fuck, he was so close, you could feel his hot breath on your cheek, it smelled like mint and coffee.

‘oh yeah, i thought we could do icarus’ you answered, hoping he would agree, the story just hitting a little too close to home right now. in a sense, mark was your sun, and you were icarus, flying a bit too close every time you were near him. getting burned with reaching to conclusions that he actually liked you, getting your hopes up that he felt the same way, hoping to not fall to your death and lose him as a friend if this all was just a misunderstanding.

‘that's a great idea! i think we should be able to get through this project quickly with all the information we can get on the story’ he beamed, and you smiled back, slightly faltering from the nervousness running through your body.

‘are you okay? you seem out of it…’ he asked, more so concerned with you than the project.

you sighed, terrible at keeping your emotions from coming out, mark took notice to your anxious behavior. it was now or never. ‘mark’ you said his name like you both were already in a relationship and about to give him the ‘we need to break up talk’, you could tell he felt the exact same when he started fidgeting beside you. ‘can i ask you about something?’

‘of course, anything’ he answered, voice wavering in concern. you knew he was staring but you couldn’t even bring yourself to look anywhere in his direction, fearing that if you did, you would chicken out. you mentally screamed at yourself to stop and not do anything to jeopardize your friendship with mark. you had to remind yourself ‘the worst he could do is say no’.

‘oh, by the way, i forgot to ask, do you have my notebook?’ you could tell mark was trying to ease the tension, but because of the mention of that damn notebook, it only made it worse.

‘yeah about that…’ you started, having no idea how to ask about this, ‘i uh, wanted to ask you about something i saw in your notebook…’

mark, tilted his head to the side in confusion, ‘like some of the notes i left? i tried to be as thorough as i could…’

you picked at the skin on your fingers, ripping away the flesh in order to try and calm yourself down, ‘erm, no, something else i saw… some, um, drawings…’ you wished for nothing but this couch to swallow you whole and never spit you back out. you couldn’t tell what mark’s reaction was since you refused to look at him, but the silence gave you more answers than what you initially asked.

you peeked to the side, mark now had his head in his hands, rubbing his temple, cheeks dusted pink, you knew you caught him in something. ‘dude… this is so embarrassing’ he laughed. you didn’t say anything in response, just wanting him to continue explaining himself. ‘i thought i erased those, oh my god. how much did you see?’ he asked.

‘i think almost all of them…’ you rubbed the back of your neck, picking at the hair back there.

‘oh’ he said, his mouth turning into a perfect o. ‘that was not the way i wanted to tell you’ mark stated, still acting shy next to you. if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack, it would’ve been endearing.

‘tell me what?’ you whispered, turning away from him so he wouldn’t notice the pink dusting over your cheeks.

mark stared at you, now sitting up and his shoulders straight, ‘that um, that i like you’ he said, ‘i don’t know i got bored in class and doodled in my notes, after i realized how stupid and cheesy it felt i erased them and tried to forget… guess i didn’t erase them hard enough’ he smiled at the memories of it all. ‘i wanted to tell you, but i didn’t know how to go about it, i’m not good at things like this, i don’t know, confessing i guess… i wasn’t sure if you felt the same, so that’s why every time i tried to tell you i liked you, my plans always fell through’

mark grabbed your shoulders and lightly forced you to face him, taken back by surprise your ears grew hot, now staring into his eyes he smiled, ‘but you’re here now and asking about my lovesick doodles, and i want to tell you… that i like you… i like you so much y/n, studying with you and being with you in class and outside of class, you are cute, funny, caring, and you work so hard for your classes i wish i had the will to stay up at ungodly hours to finish any of my essays, we like the same books and we talk about the nerdiest stuff no one else would… i think you’re perfect’. he stopped, his eyes looking into yours trying to search for any reaction, he looked desperate. ‘sorry, i, uh, got a little carried away there’ he cheeks bloomed into a deep red.

‘mark’ you felt wetness pool at the base of your eyes and roll down your cheeks, not even realizing you were crying mark reached out and whipped the tears away with his thumb. ‘i really like you too… that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me i-’ he cut you off, throwing himself onto you in a huge bear hug, making your back crash into the couch due to the weight now on you.

he got up, now hovering over you, he stared deeply into your eyes, ‘y/n… i want us to be a couple or something? whatever you are comfortable with, i want to be able to read you any stupid 100 year old story any time you’ll let me’

your eyes softened, gazing into his it was like a thousand stars shining in the night sky, you could see and feel every emotion he was talking about. pure love. there was no doubt, no sun to scorch your waxed wings, withstanding fear and questioning. with him you could now fly as far as he would take you.

‘oh mark’ you said breathlessly, throwing your arms around his neck, yanking him down so his lips could meet yours. it took a second for him to realize what was happening, but soon enough he was moving his lips in synch with yours. his hand still placed next to your head, holding himself up, as his other one moved to your face to lightly caress your cheek. after a minute or two, you could barely breathe, so you broke the kiss in order to regulate your breathing. you look up at mark, who continued to stare at your lips, ‘mark, you’re the one who is perfect’

this time he initiated the kiss, putting his body weight more on you, his hand now moving to explore your body further, you could tell mark was excited as you could feel his bulge on your thigh. his tongue licked over your lips, silently asking for access, which you granted immediately, letting your tongue slip into his mouth, tasting the mint and coffee that he had previously consumed.

‘mark’ you whispered, lust overclouding your senses, ‘i want you’

mark audibly groaned, your words obviously having a certain effect on him as he pushed his hips into yours making you moan in response. he kissed your lips again, moving onto your neck, sucking brusies into the sensitive skin there. mark got off of you and sat up, removing his shirt to which you followed, throwing the clothing somewhere on the floor. going back into position, mark kissed your chest, grazing your breast that was still covered by your bra. he didn’t mind, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible, that was until you decided to take it off anyways, throwing it somewhere over your shoulder. mark went back to work, sucking on one nipple, while twirling and pinching the other between his fingers, earning moans from you.

mark suddenly stopped, lifting his head to look at you, ‘do you want to go further?’ he asked sincerely.

‘yes, mark, please’ you breathed, curling your fingers around his broad shoulders, lightly bringing him back towards your chest. he chuckled at your eagerness, peppering kisses down your stomach, finally reaching your buttoned up jeans. ‘can i take these off?’ you nodded, he unbuttoned your jeans and yanked them down and off, leaving them on the floor with the rest of the clothes. he could see the wet patch that formed in your underwear, earning a moan from the boy on top of you. mark ghosted over the spot with his finger, making you twitch in response due to the light, yet scandalous action.

he slid your underwear off, leaving them somewhere on the couch. you watched him silently as he stared at your core, looking like a man who had been without water for at least a century. he dove in, licking a strip up your pussy, making you moan out in response. mark continued to lightly suck, adding a finger into the mix. he slowly pushed it inside your opening, wetness gathering at the base of his finger, ‘you taste… it’s perfect… you’re perfect’ he whispered, gazing up into your glossy eyes, overtaken by craving him. he added a second finger, stretching you out. ‘mark…’ you groaned, feeling him hit the sweet spot inside of you made your head spin and insides twist. ‘i’m gonna come…’

‘not yet’ he whispered, he exited your core, earning a whimper from you due to the sudden loss, ‘don’t worry, i’ll take care of you’ he kissed your cheek, standing up from the couch in order to take his own pants off. you could see his member throbbing inside his briefs, you swore you almost started drooling. mark came back down to lay on top of you, kissing you again, more sensibly, softly, slowly. savoring the moment with you, the delicate and gentle touches almost making you cry again from just how sweet he was, how much he showed that he cared about you.

he broke the kiss, you stared into his eyes, caressing his cheek gently, mark melted into your touch, closing his eyes and burying his face closer to your grasp. ‘you are so beautiful’ you stated to him. his skin kissed by the sun, the features adorning his face; making up gorgeous art on a blank canvas that someone like da vinci would be furious not to know of such beauty.

‘do you want to keep going? we don’t have to if you don’t want to, i want to take my time with you, with us…’ he explained.

you cut him off with a peck to his lips, making his smile grow wider, ‘yes, i want to if you do… i feel the same way’ he kissed you, much like you did with him, confirming his feelings yet again.

he slid off his briefs, leaving you both fully naked in each other's presence, since the sun had started to set when mark came over the only light provided was the soft glow of the lamp behind you on the side table, making the sweat that graced his chest shine. ‘if you get uncomfortable please let me know and i’ll stop’ he whispered, you nodded in response, heartbeat picking up due to his kindness. he sighed and carefully lined his member up with your entrance, the shakiness of his hands having him try a couple of times to get it in, you could tell he was nervous.

he slowly pushed inside, giving you ample time to adjust, ‘that’s it’ he breathed in your ear once fully inside, ‘fuck you’re so tight… so perfect’ you moaned at his words, digging so far deep into you and leaving many traces in your mind, words you’d never forget. he readjusts your legs, giving him deep access into your womb, now in a missionary position. mark started moving, slowly thrusting into you at first, you wrapped your legs around his back, trying to keep him as close as possible, which he didn’t seem to mind. his lips moved to yours, the simple kisses shared spoke volumes-no hesitation, the pastel feeling of everything you both never said to each other, lost on fleeting glances in class, heart doodles on paper, and the way he would read to you without argument, buying you coffee, smiling whenever you’d enter the room. the soft kisses subdued any fear you held over this relationship. you loved him.

mark occasionally groaned into your mouth, and in return you moaned, sharing sounds and soft touches over each other's body. ‘you’re taking me so well like you were made for me. fuuck’ he keened at the way you held him inside. he started moving faster, but still acting as careful as ever with you. his hips snapped down on yours, earning strained grunts from you, head spinning as he continued to hit your sweet spot in all the right ways. ‘y/n’ mark moaned, ‘i-i love you’. you cried, the barrier breaking open the flood waters, you silently shed tears into his shoulder, the hot tears running down his arm and chest. ‘i always have, e-ever since i met you’ his trusts started growing erratic, faster, snapping his hips into yours with a force that had you seeing stars. you could barely comprehend any type of language at this point. you were about to reach your breaking point, feeling the heat collect at the bottom of your abdomen, the rope you were holding onto ready to snap.

mark seemed to take notice due to your internal struggle of letting go, mumbling in your ear about a bunch of different phrases. ‘it’s okay baby, you can let go’ and ‘come for me’, it was at the point where he whispered ‘i got you love, i got you’ you felt yourself starting to slip from the rope, letting go and the rope snapped, letting it all out and moaning out marks name, locking your eyes on his. your toes curled, body threatening to collapse in on itself like a black hole with mark at the event horizon, wanting to suck him in.

as you tightened around him, his thrust grew more sporadic, out of rhythm, trying to catch his own release now. with one last thrust, he stilled and emptied into your womb, you could feel how deep he was and the hotness of his come filling you up so perfectly. mark panted, overcoming the mountain of exhaustion after reaching his peak. his forehead fell onto yours as you also tried catching your breath. mark smiled down at you, love filling his eyes, adoration shining in yours. ‘you’ he started, regulating his words to come out more clearly, ‘you are part of my existence, part of myself. you have been in every line i have ever read’

you playfully rolled your eyes, the audacity of this english major, ‘you did not just quote charles dickens while balls deep inside of me’

he laughed, as if that was a queue to pull out, mark left his place inside of you and went to the bathroom, returning with a damp wash cloth in order to clean you up. gently whipping you down, after he threw the towel into the laundry room. mark picked you up and walked you to your room, slowly slipping you into some fresh new clothes, while he put on clothes that yeri kept at the apartment for her boyfriend. surely she wouldn’t mind.

you both climbed into bed, eyelids growing heavy he held you in his arms, head resting against his chest in the quiet darkness, ‘mark’ you said, voice small, he hummed, ‘i love you too’

‘sleep in tomorrow, i’ll still be here’ he answered.

eyes crusted over and limbs numb, that was probably the best sleep of your life. you reached over to marks side of the bed, but it was empty, and you frowned. he said he would be here. you stretched and got up, slowly making your way towards the door, you opened it to an empty living room. you heard a sudden, but low crash of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. you walked slowly, not really knowing what to expect. but alas, speak of the muse, and he shall appear in the lines, your (now) boyfriend, mark, stood in front of the oven with a spatula in hand, flipping a pancake.

in the stillness of the afternoon, you didn’t make your presence yet known, and watched as he worked. the glow of the sun and the kitchen light reflected off of his hair ever so slightly, making it shine, it was as if only you two existed. he turned and smiled like he always did, ‘good morning sleepyhead’

1K notes · View notes

joemama-2 · 2 months ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 12.3k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

YEAR: FEBRUARY, 2017

You don’t think you’ve ever felt more scared than you do at this current moment. No screams from your mother, preparation for a big exam, nothing. None of it compares to the way your hands tremble, your heart racing faster by the second, followed by a sinking feeling in your stomach. You gulp, sweat falling down and stinging your eye, but you don’t wipe it. All you’re focused on is the tiny, white stick in your hand. The even tinier two lines stare back up at you, laughing in a taunting way that almost makes you hurdle it across your room.

Pregnant.

You’re fucking pregnant.

“God…oh…oh my god, no…no, this can’t be—”

“Y/N! Did you not clean the rice like I asked?!”

Your mother’s angry voice snaps you semi-back into reality. You gasp with a jolt, head swiveling around. “Shit, shit, shit,” you mutter to yourself in a dazed panic, hearing the approaching steps of hers coming to the bathroom door. Without any other solution, you lodge the pregnancy test into the pocket of your sweats, flattening out your oversized sweater and praying to whatever gods that are watching that it doesn’t slip. You open the door just as she’s about to yank it open. “Sorry, I…I forgot.”

She eyes you with suspicion, her sharp gaze flickering over your face. "Forgot?" she repeats, arms crossing over her chest. "What could possibly be more important than doing what I asked you to do?"

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes despite the suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. "I just—I'm not feeling well," you lie, trying to keep your voice steady. "I was gonna do it in a minute."

Her frown deepens. "Not feeling well?" She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "You're always holed up in here, wasting time. Get out of the bathroom and go wash the rice before my date gets here."

You nod quickly, brushing past her, heart hammering so hard you're sure she can hear it. The test in your pocket feels like a burning secret, each step making it press heavier against your thigh. You rush to the kitchen, hands clammy as you reach for the bag of rice.

Pregnant.

The word echoes in your mind, taunting, terrifying. You grip the edge of the sink, squeezing your eyes shut. This isn't happening. It can't be. You don't realize your breathing has turned shallow until you hear the faintest of footsteps behind you. "Y/N," your mother's voice is sharper now. "Why are you just standing there?"

Your eyes snap open. You force your fingers to move, pouring the rice into the bowl, submerging it in water. The grains slip between your fingers as you swirl them around, but your mind is far, far away. “Sorry, Mom.”

She scoffs and walks over to plop onto the couch.

What are you going to do? And the better question is, how in the fuck are you going to tell Satoru?

You remember going over to his that night, considering his parents were once again out of the country for business. Even driving there, you felt the need to pull over because your wobbly hands were inhibiting you. Somehow, you persevered and made it to his estate. Quickly hopping out of the busted-down 2001 Toyota pick-up truck, striding over to the front door. He must’ve seen you through the window, opening it before you could knock, with his usual smile. “Hey, baby, I mis—”

You push past him to go inside, scrubbing a hand over your face.

Satoru pauses mid-sentence, blinking as he watches you storm inside. His usual playful demeanor falters when he catches sight of your expression—wide, panicked eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. “Uh… okay?” he mutters, shutting the door behind you. He turns, arms crossing as he watches you pace back and forth in the grand foyer, your hands running through your hair like you’re trying to hold yourself together. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start guessing?”

You stop abruptly, looking at him. Your throat tightens, and your nails dig into your palm. Just say it. Get it over with.

But the words refuse to come out.

Satoru’s brows furrow. His teasing lilt is gone now, replaced with something softer—concerned. He steps toward you slowly, hands reaching out but stopping just short of touching you. “Y/N… what happened?”

You take a deep breath, fingers curling around the pregnancy test still hidden in your pocket. Your heart pounds so loudly that you swear it echoes off the expensive marble floors. Your eyes water, but you force yourself not to shed any tears. Not now, at least. “I…there’s something I have to t-tell you, Satoru.”

He tilts his head slightly, white lashes fluttering as he studies you. The concern in his expression deepens, but there’s something else—anxiety, maybe. You’re not sure, and you don’t have time to analyze it. Your fingers tighten around the test like a lifeline, the plastic digging into your palm. Your entire body is tense, stiff like a tightly coiled wire that could snap at any moment. The air between you is thick—too thick—like the walls of the estate are pressing in on you, suffocating you beneath their weight.

Satoru notices. He always notices.

His hands fall to your shoulders, firm yet gentle, his thumbs grazing over the fabric of your sweater in slow, soothing motions. “Y/N,” he says your name again, softer this time. “You’re scaring me.”

You swallow hard, willing yourself to look up at him. His gaze is piercing, searching for something in yours, and it only makes this harder. He looks so young, so unburdened, like he hasn’t even considered the possibility of the life-altering news you’re about to drop on him. And that makes you feel even more terrible. Your breath hitches as you pull the test from your pocket, your hand trembling as you hold it out between you. The two little pink lines stare up at him, just as they had at you hours before.

Silence.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He just stares, like his brain is struggling to process what’s right in front of him. His lips part slightly, then close again. The usual easy confidence, the endless supply of teasing remarks—it all vanishes in an instant. His hands slip from your shoulders, falling uselessly to his sides. “...Is…is this real?” he finally breathes out, voice uncharacteristically quiet.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

His eyes dart back to the test, then back to you, something unrecognizable flickering across his face. For the first time since you met him, Satoru looks… lost. The strongest man you’ve ever known, the boy who never seems to falter, suddenly looks like a scared kid. That terrifies you even more.

“Shit,” he murmurs in thinly veiled panic, grabbing the test from your hands and looking closer. As if doing that will magically make the two lines revert to just one.

You almost want to scoff at his initial reaction. Shit. The word you say when you do something wrong or when you make a mistake. Though, you’re not surprised. How could you be? Why would he be happy right now? Why would he want a child at just twenty-one with someone like you, of all people? But the reality starts to sink in even more as you gauge his reaction. The furrow of his brows, the way his lip pulls downwards, the agitated hand he runs through his messy hair, then the shaky exhale he lets out when he looks at you. Nothing is said, not that it needs to be. Your eyes blur with tears, and your heart twists at the fact that he looks this close to telling you to get rid of—

“What do you want to do, Y/N?”

His voice cracks slightly, low and steady, but the tension in it is unmistakable. The words hang in the air between you, heavy, unspoken fears weighing on both of you. It’s not a question of blame—there’s no accusation in his tone. But there’s a raw vulnerability in it, as though he’s searching for an answer he doesn’t know himself. You swallow hard, struggling to find your voice again. You almost don’t want to answer. You don’t want to say the words out loud because hearing them could make this all feel too real. Too permanent. Your eyes drop to the test in his hand, the two lines mocking you like they were always meant to be there, unyielding, undeniable.

You don't know what to do. You don’t know what the right choice is, and that's the part that terrifies you the most.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice cracking on the words. It’s the truth. You don’t know what you want. What you can want when the ground beneath you feels like it’s shifting, crumbling. But you should know, right? You know, having a kid right now is the last thing you should ever think of, especially with a boy you’ve only been dating two years. So then, why are you still hesitating?

The silence stretches long, and all you can hear is the rapid pounding of your heart, the heavy rhythm of his breath matching yours. You watch him closely, his gaze flickering between the test and your face, eyes searching, unsure. His lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening with the weight of something neither of you wants to confront but both of you can’t avoid. For a second, he doesn’t speak, just looks at you. He seems to be considering something, maybe weighing every possible outcome, every potential consequence. Then, as if making up his mind, he shifts closer to you, his presence overwhelming, his warmth enveloping you. You didn’t expect it, but the way he steps into your space feels grounding—like he’s silently promising to bear this weight with you.

“I’ll be here,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “Whatever you decide... I’m here. We’ll figure this out.”

His words feel like both a relief and a burden, and you can’t help the hot tears that sting your eyes as you look up at him. You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him. But there's a part of you that feels like this is the moment where everything could fall apart. The moment where reality finally crushes everything that was once easy between you two. “I don’t know if I can do this, Satoru,” you confess, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I don't even know if I want to." The weight of your words crashes down on you both. You never expected this. You never thought you’d be here, standing in front of him like this, unsure of everything.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he gently squeezes you tighter, his grip steady and warm. It’s all he has to offer for now. And, somehow, it’s enough. For the first time, you realize he’s not trying to force an answer out of you. He’s just... here. And for the moment, that might just be the thing you need the most.

The air feels charged, thick with unspoken promises.

Satoru takes a step closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” he says, but his voice cracks at the end, and it feels like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to comfort you.

But you feel it in your chest—the fear, the doubt, the uncertainty of everything. “I just… I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, your breath hitching with the weight of it all. "I never thought this would happen. I never thought—god, we’re so stupid, so…so fucking stupid. If my mom finds out—"

“She’s not going to find out,” he cuts off your rambling, his hands cupping your face. A mix of uncertainty and determination is written on his face. “She…she won’t okay? You, um—you stay here until we figure things out. The guest house in the back, it’s yours for now. I’ll make up some shitty excuse to my parents, and you do the same for your mom. O-okay?”

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of his words as they rush past you. His hands on your face are warm and grounding, but you can feel the tremble in his fingertips. His words, though filled with urgency and a bit of fear, somehow settle inside you like a strange, fleeting comfort. He’s offering you a solution, a way out of this terrifying uncertainty, and yet the weight of it still feels like it could break you at any second.

"I don’t... I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing, Satoru," you whisper, your voice cracking at the end. "This isn't... this isn’t how I imagined it. I can’t even look at my mom, I—" Your voice trails off, caught in the overwhelming mess of emotions swirling inside of you. The fear of disappointing her, the panic over the future, the terror of doing something you might not be able to undo.

He shakes his head, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears still trailing down your cheeks. His touch is steady and soothing in its own way. “I know, baby. I know,” he says, his voice low, as if the words themselves are meant to protect you. He presses a soft kiss to your lips. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out, okay? Together.”

But even as he says it, you can see the doubt in his eyes, the fear that lingers beneath the surface of his reassuring words. You don't know what’s worse—the fact that you two got yourselves in this predicament or the way Satoru looks at you like he’s already bracing for the worst. You want to believe him, you want to believe that this—all of this—can somehow work out, but you're not sure how to convince yourself. Satoru’s hands move from your face to your shoulders, pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you together. "I won’t let you face this alone," he mutters against your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "We’ll figure this out. I don’t care how hard it gets...we’ll get through it. You and me."

For a long beat of silence, all you can do is hold onto him, the only thing you know you can rely on right now. The tears continue to fall, but this time, you don’t feel as alone. You don’t feel as scared. But the reality still sits heavy in your chest, and you can't push away the nagging feeling that nothing will be the same after tonight.

PRESENT TIME:

Satoru wakes with a small groan, the morning sunshine rays doing their duty of rousing him from a very deep sleep. The first thing he feels is an annoying crick in his neck. The second thing he feels is the reason for that crick. You lay on top of him, a cover hiding both of your bodies from the rest of the world. Your hair tickles at his nostrils, causing him to wiggle his nose a bit. Legs tangled with one another, his arms rested securely around you, one hand on the small of your back and the other on top of your ass. The way your sleeping face is positioned has made him sleep most of the night with his head turned to the left. Usually, he would’ve been annoyed. But all he feels now is a deep sense of reverie—happiness.

He lets out a wistful sigh, shifting carefully so he can get a tiny look at your face. It’s relaxed. Though there’s a small crease in between your eyebrows, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about. He spends a few more minutes just looking. In any other situation, this would’ve probably been creepy.

Technically, it still is.

But can you blame him for wanting to admire your beauty?

His thumb hovers, reaching out to soothe the skin between your eyebrows before a tiny, stifled giggle catches his attention. He looks to his left. There stands Koji, still clad in his matching pj’s. Holding his two hands to his mouth, but he can still make out the way his lips upturn at the edge, the hint of his dimple peeking out, and how his eyes crinkle with delight. His hair is messy; he must’ve just woken up.

He looks like you when you used to deny having witnessed him do something so utterly embarrassing like missing a step when walking up the stairs.

God, I’m in heaven.

“And what are you doing, huh?” Satoru asks, keeping his voice low so as to not wake you. His tone is still tinged with a raspy sleepiness, however, he still laces it with a faux annoyance at his son. “Spying on us?”

“Noooo,” Koji replies, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m watching.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You and Mama are sleeping together.”

“We are.”

“Why?”

“Because it was too late to go home yesterday, so Mama let me stay.”

“But Mama usually sleeps in her room.”

He sighs. Damn curiosity. “She does, but things can change too sometimes.”

Koji makes an “oh” sound, nodding. He pads his tiny feet closer, craning his neck to get a look at you. His hand reaches out in an effort to touch your face, but Satoru stops him short.

“Careful, buddy. Mama’s sleeping. Will you be gentle?”

“I’ll be gentle,” Koji pouts, wiggling his hand in his father’s grasp.

“And quiet?”

Koji pauses for a moment, his tiny white brows knitting as he considers the request. “Like a ninja?” he whispers, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of his new plan.

Satoru lets out a quiet chuckle, his hand loosening just enough to allow Koji to slip his small fingers free. “Exactly like a ninja,” he says with a grin.

The little boy nods vigorously, his excitement evident in the way his body practically vibrates with energy. He tiptoes closer to the couch, his steps exaggeratedly careful as he approaches you. Satoru watches him, both proud and amused, as his son carefully reaches out, his fingertips brushing lightly against your cheek. You stir slightly at the touch, your face softening in the way it always does when Koji’s close. Koji freezes, holding his breath for a second before smiling at the success of his mission.

Satoru watches the scene unfold with warmth in his chest, his mind replaying everything that’s led to this moment—how, after everything, this is what he has now. It’s not perfect, far from it, but it feels right. He looks down at you, his heart full. He could get used to this. "Good job, ninja," Satoru whispers, his voice full of pride.

Koji beams, looking back at his father. "I didn’t wake her up."

"You didn’t," Satoru confirms, his eyes flicking back to you, your peaceful face still nestled in sleep. "Now, let’s keep it that way, okay?"

"Okay, Papa!" Koji whispers enthusiastically.

Koji climbs onto the couch, settling down on Satoru’s free side. His father sighs, playfully rolling his eyes and wrapping an arm around Koji to stabilize him. Koji watches you sleep, and they’re each lost in their own thoughts. Satoru rests his chin on top of Koji’s head, the weight of his emotions settling in quietly. Life is a bit of a mess, but moments like this? That is everything. He’s already dreading the time you wake up, plus the inevitable conversation you two will have about last night, but he’ll greedily enjoy this while it lasts.

You woke up to the sound of pots clanking together and bacon sizzling on the stove. Normally, you’d question why Satoru was up, let alone cooking for you, but after last night, it felt more like a silent offering—maybe a ‘thank you’ or an attempt at normalcy. Whatever the reason, you had more pressing matters to focus on.

Stepping outside, you lean against the cool railing of your apartment floor, phone pressed to your ear. In your free hand, you toy with the sleek black business card, running your thumb over the gold-embossed lettering. Evelyn Carlisle. The name alone carries weight. Your stomach tightens as the dial tone rings, your finger tapping anxiously against the back of your phone in sync with the robotic sound.

For a moment, you think the call won’t go through—until a woman’s voice answers, curt and businesslike.

“Who am I speaking to?”

You clear your throat, straightening up instinctively. “Uh… Y/N L/N.”

There’s typing on the other end, quick and efficient. You hear the faint sound of gum popping. “And your business for today?”

“I’m trying to reach Ms. Carlisle. She gave me this number about a job opportunity.”

A pause. More typing. You grip the railing a little tighter.

“Uh-huh,” the woman drawls, followed by the unmistakable crack of her gum. There’s another beat of silence, long enough for doubt to creep in. Did you dial the wrong number? You glance at the card again just as the woman speaks up.

“Ms. Carlisle has a meeting in thirty minutes. I’ll be redirecting you, but use your time wisely.”

You barely have time to process her words before the line clicks and the dial tone starts again—only for a familiar voice to answer almost immediately.

“Evelyn speaking.”

Your breath hitches.

“Oh, hi,” you start, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “This is Y/N. I’m not sure if you remember me, but you gave me your business card not too long ago…”

Evelyn doesn’t respond right away. For a split second, you think she might not remember you, but then she hums in acknowledgment. “Y/N,” she repeats your name as if testing how it sounds on her tongue. “Yes, of course. I remember you. The woman from the café.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I wasn’t expecting your call so soon,” Evelyn continues, her voice smooth and professional. “But I’m pleased you reached out. Are you still currently employed?”

“Yes,” you answer quickly. “But… I’m looking for a change, better opportunities.”

“Good,” she says, as if that’s exactly what she wanted to hear. “Well, yes, as I mentioned briefly before, we’re currently hiring for a personal secretary position. Given the nature of our clients, discretion and adaptability are crucial. With experience in service, that tells me you may be able to handle fast-paced environments, but I’d like to know—how comfortable are you with high-profile clientele?”

High-profile. Meaning rich. Possibly powerful. Maybe even dangerous.

You grip the railing tighter, thinking about your answer. “I’m comfortable,” you say, steadying your voice. “I’ve worked with all kinds of people for many years now.”

“That’s what I gathered.” There’s the faint sound of papers shuffling on her end. “I won’t waste time with formalities. If you’re interested, I’d like you to come in for an interview. How does tomorrow sound?”

Tomorrow? So soon?

You swallow. This is happening fast—faster than you expected. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You’ll hopefully be moved in completely within the next couple of weeks, and if you can secure this job now, that’s even better. “That works,” you say, keeping your voice even.

“Good. I’ll have my assistant send you the details. Be prepared, Y/N. This is more than just a desk job. I’ll explain everything when we meet.”

And with that, the call ends, leaving you staring at your phone. More than just a desk job? Everything seems so vague, and that doesn’t do very well to reassure you. You’ve never exactly been a secretary before, especially for a company as luxurious as this one.

Your fingers tighten around the phone as you glance down at the business card again. The elegant gold lettering seems to mock you, reminding you that this isn’t just some ordinary job opportunity. You’ve worked in fast-paced environments before, dealt with demanding customers, and handled your fair share of stress—but this feels different. More exclusive. More… intense.

What exactly does she mean by more than just a desk job?

A part of you wonders if you should be cautious, if maybe this isn’t the right move. But then you think about your dwindling savings, the past bills stacking up, the debt collectors calling nonstop, and Koji’s future. Stability is a luxury you can’t afford to second-guess.

With a deep breath, you tuck the card away and turn back toward your apartment. Whatever this job entails, you’ll find out soon enough. But for now, you have a morning to get through.

You step back into the apartment, closing the door behind you. Koji is in the living room, playing with his action figurines and little playhouse. Glancing to the left, Satoru is washing your dishes. He must’ve cleaned up in the short time you’ve been outside. The sight is domestic—cute, even. You did always have a thing for men doing household chores.

With a determined nod, you walk over, standing beside him, ensuring your voice is not too loud for the nosy child to hear. “Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to.”

Satoru glances up at you with a soft smile, a dish towel draped over his shoulder. His movements are fluid, like he’s done this countless times before, even though he’s far from being a regular guest in your home. “No problem,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a light, teasing edge. “Figured I’d help out after crashing your place all night.”

You nod, your arms folding across your chest. “I didn’t ask you to. But…” You hesitate for a moment before continuing, your gaze drifting back to Koji, who’s deeply engrossed in his playtime. “It was… nice.”

He looks over at Koji, too, before focusing back on you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, that familiar smirk of his appears. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to try so hard to be charming, you know. It’s a little much.”

He chuckles, the sound light but genuine. “I’ll tone it down for his sake.” His eyes flicker toward Koji again before meeting yours. “But seriously, if you ever need help, just ask. I can’t exactly be around all the time, but I can make myself useful when I am.”

A small part of you wants to brush it off, to remind him of the boundaries between you, but the other part of you—the part that’s constantly stressed about everything and everyone—feels comforted by the offer. Not to mention, you two have already crossed said boundaries in just the span of a night. You nod once more, slower. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He gives you a quick, half-hearted salute, returning to the dishes with a hum. The atmosphere between you two is light and easy, but there’s something heavier hanging in the air. The space between your words says a lot more than either of you care to admit.

Satoru clears his throat, breaking the silence that was settled too thick. “So… what’s next for you today?” he asks, clearly trying to keep things casual.

You consider the question for a moment, still distracted by the thoughts swirling in your head about the job opportunity and everything that comes with it. “Nothing much. I guess just prepare for a meeting I have tomorrow,” you finally reply, your voice steady but the unease barely hidden. “With someone who could… offer me a job.”

Satoru glances at you over his shoulder. “A job, huh?” His tone is light but curious, and you can’t tell if it’s genuine or just his usual flippant nature.

“Yeah,” you reply, your gaze flicking back to Koji. “It’s nothing permanent, yet. Just something to help out.”

Satoru doesn’t respond immediately. You can feel his eyes on you, but when you look back, he’s already back to the dishes, like he’s trying to give you space without making things awkward. Still, there’s a noticeable tension in his shoulders—something he’s not letting show.

Which reminds you…

“Hey, so…” you start off, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have a little question for you.”

“Mhm?” He hums, turning the sink off and drying his hands, body facing you now as he gives you his full attention.

You tilt your head, a little unsure of how to bring this topic up. “The company it’s for, it’s called Carlisle & Harlow. Have you heard of it?” Play dumb, play dumb.

He blinks, then nods. “Yeah, I have. Why?”

“Well, I was looking through their website and saw they’ve been in partnership with the Gojo Group for a good few years now.”

“They have been.”

You bite your lip. His nonchalance is annoying you a little bit, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s feeding you just the right amount of information on purpose. Maybe he knows something you don’t? “Well, she—Evelyn—approached me during my shift a while back and gave me her business card. That’s how I got this opportunity in the first place.”

His hands reside in his pockets, eyebrows raising with a small hum. “Wow, that sounds like a lucky offer.” His tone is light, like he’s trying to make a small joke. You make a noncommittal chuckle, eyeing his reactions.

But he’s giving you nothing.

Maybe you really were just being superstitious about this all.

“It’s just…it seemed a little too good to be true, you know? Almost like someone put in a good word for me.”

You force a small laugh, hoping the remark can ease him into revealing a possible clue. However, you start thinking to yourself: Would it be better to know that Satoru played a part in getting you a job with his business partner? Would that make you feel more inadequate of your own abilities? Would it just lead to another argument about him doing something without considering your feelings first? Or would you rather be left in the dark?

Satoru’s eyes meet yours again, but this time, there’s a flicker of something you can’t quite place. He leans back against the counter, his posture relaxed, though there’s a quiet tension in the way he watches you. For a second, it feels like he’s weighing something in his mind. “You’re a hard worker,” he says, his voice still light but with a hint of something deeper, like he’s carefully choosing his words. “I don’t think you need someone to put in a good word for you. If you’re getting an offer like that, it’s because you’re capable. Simple as that.”

You nod, your eyes lingering on him, not quite convinced by the simplicity of his answer. But he’s always been the type to brush things off with a smile, to make everything seem like it’s no big deal. Still, there’s that nagging feeling at the back of your mind, the thought that he knows more than he’s letting on. Maybe he didn’t have a hand in it. Or maybe he did, and he’s just not ready to tell you because he knows you better than anyone else.

You’ll take things at a surface level—for now.

“I guess,” you mutter, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But it still feels… a little too perfect, you know? I mean, why me? Of all people?”

Satoru’s smile softens a little, and there’s a quiet intensity in the way he looks at you now. He steps closer, closing the distance just enough that you can feel the heat of his presence. For just a split second, your heart skips a beat, but you quickly brush it off. “Maybe it’s just your time,” he says softly, his voice low, like he’s trying to soothe you. “Sometimes, things just fall into place when they’re supposed to.”

You nod again, though it doesn’t really make you feel any better. It’s just too easy, too convenient, like someone’s pulling strings behind the scenes. But you can’t quite figure out who. Or why.

Silence follows, and you practically force yourself to tear your eyes away from him because you can already feel the magnetic pull they have on you. You clear your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Well,” you say, forcing a lightness into your tone, “guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

Satoru hums, but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s watching you again, that unreadable look back in his eyes, and you hate how easily it makes your stomach twist. You should be used to this by now—the way he always seems to see right through you, the way his presence alone makes you feel like you’re standing too close to a flame.

And, of course, there’s still the silent, lingering question of when you two will discuss what happened last night. However, even saying that question out loud makes you nervous—guilty even. Like you’re coming to terms with the fact that you did something you know wasn’t the best thing. It complicates things even more, and you distinctly remember him saying something along those lines to you a while back—back when you tried kissing him.

You’re feeling the embarrassment all over again. But the embarrassment starts turning to fascination when your eyes rove over the way his shirt fits so perfectly around his waist—his biceps. He opted for just putting on one of the old shirts you still had of his from years ago, waving off your protests of how it hasn’t been washed.

Black does look sexy on him.

And if you look closer, you can even make out the slight perkiness of his—

“We should head out soon.” Satoru’s voice snaps you back into reality. “Got to drop off the donation stuff in the car and head to my place to grab some of Koji’s things.”

“Right, right,” you respond, a little breathlessly, shaking your head free of lewd thoughts. “I’ll go get ready.” You turn on your heel, eager to put some distance between yourself and the weight of his gaze. It’s frustrating—the way he manages to make you feel so self-conscious without even trying. It's almost like he’s waiting for you to bring it up first, like he knows you won’t.

The moment you step into your bedroom, you let out a slow exhale, pressing your palms against the dresser. Get it together. Last night happened. You can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t change it. But you can control how you handle it moving forward. You two are grown adults who can hash out their shit maturely and respectfully. You rummage through your drawers, pulling out something casual but presentable. Something that makes you feel like yourself—whoever that is these days. As you slip on your shoes, you hear the faint sound of Koji’s laughter from the other room, followed by Satoru’s easygoing voice, and it tugs at something in your chest.

This fragile balance you’ve built—it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Because every time he fits so seamlessly into your life, it becomes harder to remember why he shouldn’t.

That thought stays with you longer than you’d like. It lingers as you pull your coat on, as you grab your bag, as you catch your reflection in the mirror before heading out. There’s something unsettling about the way things feel almost… natural with him again. Like muscle memory, like something you once knew by heart but tried to forget.

Now, if that isn’t the truth.

You step back into the living room, and Satoru is crouched beside Koji, helping him tie his tiny sneakers. His voice is light, patient, as he guides him through the motions, and Koji is beaming up at him like he’s the whole world, nodding along to his father’s explanation of the great process of tying your own shoelaces.

It makes your throat tighten.

Satoru looks up just then, like he can feel your eyes on him, and for a second, neither of you speaks. There’s an understanding there, something unspoken but felt. Then, he straightens up, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “You ready?” he asks, voice even.

You step closer. “Yeah.”

Koji cheers, raising his arms as Satoru effortlessly lifts him, settling him against his hip. It’s so natural, so easy, and you hate that your heart aches at the sight. How you start imagining how it would’ve been coming home to Satoru holding an infant version of Koji.

It is dangerous.

And yet, you still follow them out the door.

Your smile doesn’t feel forced as it slowly creeps its way onto your face. You don’t flinch away from the hovering of his hand on the small of your back as he guides you to his parked car. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s a nice, sunny day out. Or, the more optimistic side of you, believes that it’s a possibility that maybe things don’t have to be as complicated as you make them out to be. That for once, you can just exist in this moment without thinking too hard about what it means.

The drive to Satoru’s place offers you enough time to sit back on your current decisions and more so, trying to decipher whether or not he was just lying to your face. Because no matter how smoothly he played it off earlier, there was something about his reaction that didn’t sit right with you. The way he barely blinked at the mention of Carlisle & Harlow. The way he didn’t seem surprised at all. Almost like he already knew. You glance at him from the passenger seat. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. Sunglasses perched on his nose, shielding his eyes, making it impossible to read him. Maybe it’s best not to dwell on things and just enjoy the opportunities that have been cast your way.

Before you know it, he’s parked and carrying Koji out his car seat, plopping him down onto the ground and holding his hand while he leads you two up the way to his penthouse, a route that’s becoming vaguely familiar to you now.

You’ve already dropped off boxes of donations to your local thrift store in order to make enough space to fit whatever was left at his place into his car. Inside the elevator, Koji chatters excitedly about something—you’re not entirely paying attention—his small hand still wrapped securely in Satoru’s. The sight of them together, so natural and effortless, is something you’re still working toward getting used to. Your mind wanders to six months ago, fascinated just over how much things have changed. For the better, yes. But there are also some things or people you wish hadn’t entered your life. You keep your eyes trained on the ascending floor numbers, trying not to let your mind spiral. It’s too easy to overthink, to read into every little thing, to get caught up in what-ifs and maybes. But as you steal another glance at Satoru—still effortlessly cool, still impossible to read—you can’t help but wonder if you’re the only one doing that.

When the elevator chimes, doors sliding open, Koji tugs on Satoru’s hand eagerly, practically bouncing on his feet. “Can I see the big TV again?”

Satoru chuckles, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, buddy. I’ll put on whatever you want.”

You exhale softly, following them down the hall and inside his place. It still looks the same, you haven’t been here since you slept over.

The familiarity of it all unnerves you. The faint scent of his cologne still lingers in the air, mixing with something warm—probably the remnants of whatever coffee he drinks. The living room is neat, save for a few stray items Koji must’ve left behind during his last visit. A toy car sits near the edge of the coffee table, a small sweater draped over the back of the couch. It’s the kind of lived-in mess that makes the space feel less like a showroom and more like… a home.

You hesitate in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, watching as Koji makes himself comfortable, already climbing onto the couch, eyes lighting up as Satoru turns on the massive flat-screen TV.

“Want anything to drink?” Satoru asks, his voice casual, as if you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You shake your head. “I’m good.

He nods, but his eyes linger on you for a second longer than necessary, like he’s waiting for you to say something more. Maybe you should. Maybe you should bring up what happened the last time you were here. Rip the bandage off before it festers into something worse. But instead, you cross your arms, glancing toward the hallway.

“I’ll, um, start packing up Koji’s things,” you say, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

Satoru doesn’t argue, just hums in agreement before following you toward the spare bedroom, where most of Koji’s stuff is still tucked away. “There’s a couple things in my room too, I’ll come help after I’ve put his show on.”

“Got it.” You shrug off your jacket and turn around, walking down the long hallway and into the room where your son’s toys reside.

The room is neatly organized but still carrying traces of Koji’s presence. His small clothes are folded in the drawers, and one of his favorite stuffed animals is sitting on the bed like it’s waiting for him to return. You let out a quiet sigh as you step inside, running a hand over the soft fabric of his tiny hoodie.

This shouldn’t feel so strange. You should be used to this by now—the quiet moments, the back and forth between two spaces. But standing here, gathering your son’s things from a place that feels more and more like a second home, there’s a weight in your chest that you can’t quite shake.

You hear Satoru’s footsteps before you see him. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You alright?” he asks after a beat.

You force a small smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

He hums, pushing off the doorframe and stepping further into the room. “Thinking about?”

You hesitate. Because how do you explain this feeling—the unease of being in limbo, of not knowing where you stand with him, of feeling like you’re caught in a current you can’t control?

Instead, you opt for something easier. “Just how much stuff he has,” you say, motioning to the half-packed bag on the bed. “I swear it multiplies when I’m not looking.”

Satoru chuckles, crouching down to help you pack. “Yeah, well, that’s kids for you.”

You work in silence for a while, folding clothes, stuffing small toys into the bag. It’s easy—too easy, the way you move together in sync, like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

And maybe that’s what scares you the most.

“He doesn’t even stay here that much, and he has so many things. Maybe I should donate some of these toys, he doesn’t use them anymore,” you comment, picking up a figurine from one of his favorite TV shows he hasn’t watched recently.

Satoru glances at the toy in your hand before shrugging. “You could, but you know how kids are. The second you give it away, he’ll suddenly remember it’s his favorite.”

You huff a small laugh, rolling the figurine between your fingers before setting it aside. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

He zips up one of the bags, sitting back on his heels. “If it makes you feel better, it’s not that bad. Koji having a bunch of stuff here just means he’s comfortable, yeah?”

You pause at that, fingers lingering over the next item you’re about to pack. It’s such a simple statement, but something about it makes your chest tighten. Koji is comfortable here. He has space here. Enough for his clothes, his toys, his laughter to fill the rooms. And maybe, a quiet part of you wonders, that’s why it’s starting to feel like you do, too. You shake the thought away, focusing on finishing up the packing. “I guess that’s true. But I still think I need to cut down on the clutter. When we get to the new place, I really want to emphasize cleaning with him.”

Satoru smirks. “Good luck. Just don’t expect me to help if he throws a tantrum about his missing toys.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm playfully. “Some protector you are.”

He grins, the easy warmth of the moment settling between you. But underneath it, there’s still that lingering feeling—that nagging question you’re not ready to ask. And finally, after more minutes of pure silence and bags rustling, you decide to bite the bullet. Your lips pursed with a big sigh escaping you, turning to face him wordlessly. He feels your gaze and simultaneously looks over.

Just do it, before you pussy out.

“Look, I—” you scratch your neck. “I really don’t…like all this weird tension between us. And it seemed we came to a good agreement yesterday. But I…I just want to know if—if what happened between us…changed anything.”

Satoru's expression flickers—just for a second. So quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. But you don’t. You see the way his fingers pause in their movements, the slight shift in his posture, like he’s bracing himself. Then, just as quickly, he exhales, a slow, measured sound as he leans back on his hands, tilting his head slightly. “Changed anything, huh?” he repeats, almost like he’s testing the words on his tongue.

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. And then, “Did you want it to?”

Your stomach twists. Because he’s throwing the question back at you, forcing you to answer first. Classic Satoru. Never giving anything away unless he absolutely has to. But the way that question has heat pooling in your stomach, like he’s testing the waters, just barely revealing his true thoughts, it makes you wonder if it has changed things for him.

You shift awkwardly, arms crossing over your chest. “I—I don’t know.” It’s the truth, as frustrating as it is. “I just… I don’t want things to get complicated.”

Satoru lets out a small, humorless chuckle. “Too late for that, don’t you think?”

Your chest tightens, but you hold his gaze. “I just need to know where we stand, Satoru.”

Something in his expression changes then. Softens, just a little. He exhales through his nose, sitting up straighter. “We’re still us,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before. “Whatever that means.”

“I need a better answer than that,” you admit. “We’re supposed to be doing this for Koji, not our own selfish desires. I want to be on an equal playing field with you, but we can’t have that if we’re….ya know.”

Satoru watches you carefully, his gaze sharp beneath the shadow of his lashes. You’re asking for clarity, a definitive line in the sand, and yet… you don’t even know what you want the answer to be. His lips press into a thin line, tongue running over his teeth as he considers his response. “So what, you think we’re being selfish?” His voice is even, but there’s something unreadable lurking beneath it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I think this—whatever it is—could make things messy. And Koji is the most important thing in all of this.”

Satoru hums, rubbing his palm over his chin in thought. “And what if I said I don’t think it changes anything?”

You frown. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” he says simply. “You and I? We’ve been complicated from the start. One night doesn’t change the fact that we’re still trying to figure things out. It doesn’t change that I want to be in Koji’s life—or yours, for that matter.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you hate the way your pulse flutters at his words. “Satoru…”

He leans forward then, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know what you want me to say. That it meant nothing? That I regret it? I won’t, because that’d be a lie. But I also know we can’t afford to lose sight of what really matters.”

You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt. It’s not a declaration of love, not some grand confession, but it’s honest. And that almost feels a tad bit worse.

He sighs, raking a hand through his snowy hair. “Look, if you want to draw a line, I’ll respect it. If you want to figure this out, I’ll meet you halfway. But I won’t pretend like nothing happened, and I sure as hell won’t act like I don’t care.”

His words sit heavy between you, the weight of them pressing into your chest. The choice, as much as you hate it, is yours. That should be a good thing, right? He should be letting you take control, steering your “relationship” into wherever the hell you want it. But the pressure of it all feels more drowning by the second. “What about Himari? What happens when she finds out?”

Satoru's jaw tightens just slightly, the only visible crack in his composure. He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the wall, as if trying to gather his thoughts before speaking. “What about her?” he finally says, voice low.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by his casual response, confused. “What do you mean, what about her? She’s your girlfriend, Satoru.”

His fingers tap idly against his knee, a slow rhythm, measured. “She and I… it’s complicated.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Sounds like your favorite word.”

Satoru huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.” He turns his head to look at you then, eyes sharp. “You think I don’t know how messy this is? That I don’t realize what this means? But you keep asking me where we stand, and I’m trying to tell you—we’ve never been simple, and I don’t think we ever will be.”

“But what if I just want to be simple for once?”

“Then we can try.”

We. Your throat feels tight. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Satoru watches you for a moment before sighing, dragging a hand down his face. “When—if—Himari finds out, I’ll handle it.”

There’s a finality in his tone that makes your stomach churn. Your eyebrows furrow, pushing for more. “Handle it how?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flickering away for a second before landing back on you. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

That should bring you some relief, but instead, it just unsettles you further. Because deep down, you know Himari will find out eventually. And when she does, the consequences won’t be something either of you can just walk away from. You run your hands through your hair, shaking your head as you stand to your feet. “I’ll go get the rest of the stuff from your room.”

Satoru doesn’t stop you as you step around him, making your way down the hall toward his bedroom. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching your retreating figure, like he wants to say something but chooses not to. The air in his room is cool, the faint scent of his cologne still lingering in the space. Koji’s things are tucked neatly in the corner: some folded clothes, a few toys, his favorite blanket. You bend down, gathering them into your arms, but your mind is still racing.

What happens when Himari finds out?

Satoru’s words replay in your head. You don’t need to worry about her.

But you do worry. How can you not? Satoru might not think much of it now, but Himari isn’t just going to sit back and accept this. She’s from his world—a world that doesn’t take kindly to secrets or betrayal. And whether you like it or not, you’ve just stepped right back into it.

You hear the sound of glass crunching under your shoe, which momentarily halts your running mind. Peering down slowly, you remove your shoe from the shards. The sight you’re met with makes your mouth dry instantly, stomach dropping. A picture stares up at you. But not just any picture. The one of you and your son on one Christmas back then, the same picture you specifically remember framing before wrapping it into a small gift for him.

Then why is it on the floor?

Why is the glass of the frame broken?

Why is the picture itself dirtied, the mark of a footprint staining right on top of your face, the side with your son crumpled?

You look up, a disbelieving scoff sounding from you. You’re then met with the sight of his king-sized bed. But the sheets are all rumpled, the pillows thrown about. And if you focus hard enough, there are a few noticeable stains that could really only mean one thing.

You look between the bed, the picture on the ground, the bed, the picture, the bed, the picture, and before you know it, you’re calling him in. “Satoru.”

No response.

“Satoru!”

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall before he appears at the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “What?” he says, though there’s something in his voice—something hesitant, wary.

You bend down, picking up the shattered frame, holding it up for him to see. “Care to explain this?” Your voice is tight, barely holding back the storm brewing inside you.

His eyes widen, brows furrowing as he steps forward, blue eyes flickering between the picture in your hands and the mess of his bed. Then, something shifts in his face—realization, maybe, or something darker. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

“T-That’s all you have to say?” You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “This was a gift. A gift, Satoru.” Your fingers tighten around the cracked edges of the frame. “And it’s stomped on. Crumpled. What the fuck happened?”

He exhales sharply, shoulders tensing. “I don’t know. I didn’t—” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “I didn’t do that.”

“You didn’t do it?” you repeat back, incredulousness in your voice. “That’s the excuse you’re coming up with?”

He stays quiet, a look of confusion and anger present on his face. But for some reason, it’s only making you even more pissed. You scoff and push past him, but he grabs your arm. “Y/N, I’m serious. I didn’t do this.”

“Then who did?” You attempt to yank your arm back, glaring up at him with eyes of fury. “I–I gave you this as a gift. I did this for you, I—and you just treat it like it’s nothing? How could you?”

Satoru’s grip tightens on your arm as you try to pull away, his eyes not meeting yours as he steps closer. His expression shifts again, like he's processing something, but it’s not a calm reaction—it’s frustration, maybe guilt, and it's doing nothing to calm the storm inside you. “Y/N,” he says, his voice lower now, like he's trying to de-escalate the situation. "I didn’t stomp on it. I didn’t break the frame. You think I would do that?” He doesn’t let go of you, but the way his thumb rubs over your wrist is almost soothing—almost, but it doesn't make the anger fade.

“You didn’t do it. Then who the hell did?” you snap, tugging your arm again, but his grip holds firm.

He exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with the effort to keep himself calm. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it again, his hand falling from your wrist as if he’s choosing his words carefully, but you’re not in the mood for careful right now. The room is thick with tension, and you can barely stand to be near him, especially when his presence is only making everything feel more complicated.

“Maybe you didn’t do it,” you say, your voice shaking with suppressed rage, "but something about this—this situation—it doesn’t…."

He looks at you for a long moment, then seems to give in, running a hand over his face as if tired. “I don’t know what’s going on, Y/N. I swear, I didn’t touch the damn picture. Please just listen to what I’m telling you, I didn’t—.”

“Then who did?!” You swiftly cut him off.

He exhales deeply, trying to tone down the situation. “...I don’t know for sure. But I think I do.”

You bite your lip, your fingers still wrapped tightly around the broken frame, your heart pounding. “You think, you think?” You shake your head, momentarily looking up. “You’re the one who keeps making things more complicated,” you reply softly, glaring at the crumpled picture again, the smile you once wore in it now tainted with every bit of the hurt you feel.

Satoru’s face softens, but the regret doesn’t make you feel any better. If anything, it only makes everything more confusing. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters, though it doesn’t exactly reach your heart.

You set the frame down carefully on the dresser, not trusting yourself to hold it any longer. “Then why does it feel like you’re always doing it, even when you’re not trying to?”

Satoru stays quiet for a long moment, looking between the bed and the shattered picture, the distance between you growing as the weight of everything hung heavy in the air. His lips twitch, as if he’s about to say something else—but you don’t need more words right now. You need actions.

“Just fix it,” you finally whisper, your voice raw. "I can't do this anymore, Satoru."

You turn to exit the room, feeling hot tears sting behind your eyes. You barely make it two steps before he’s once again hauling you back to him, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and delivering a sweet, but firm kiss to your lips. He swallows your surprised squeak. However, it’s short-lived, and you didn’t even have the chance to reciprocate. He pulls back, looking down at your widened eyes with his own set of determination. Leaning down to rest his forehead against yours and you almost hate the way you tilt your head up, a sad attempt to chase after his lips.

“I'll fix things. For us.”

The lights above cast a soft glow, but nothing about the setting seems to calm the sharp edges of her demeanor. Himari is flanked by assistants, one adjusting the hem of a sleek, modern black dress while another fusses with her hair, tugging at the strands to give them more volume. But Himari’s patience is thin, and her mouth, a thin line of frustration, shows no sign of softening. She pulls at the fabric around her waist, glaring at the assistant. "This doesn’t look right. It’s too tight here,” she snaps, voice laced with annoyance.

The assistant hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with her tone, but follows her orders. "We can adjust it, Ms. Nakamura, just a few more minutes."

“No," she cuts in sharply. "I told you last time. I don't like anything that pinches or restricts me.” She lifts her hand, a clear signal that she’s done with the discussion. “Start over. I’m not going out like this.”

The assistant stammers out an apology and steps back, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes to fetch another dress from the rack. Himari’s eyes shift to the mirror before her, taking in the sharp lines of her reflection—perfect, poised, and controlled. It’s the version of herself she’s always put forward, a product of her family’s brand, her father's influence, and the high standards that come with it.

Her gaze flickers briefly to the phone on the nearby counter, buzzing with an incoming message. Her eyes narrow slightly as she sees the name. Gojo. A smirk plays at the edge of her lips, but it's cold and calculating. She’s been holding her ground, making sure that he knows she’s still here, still the one in control. Yet, a small, insidious part of her can't help but feel a twinge of unease, something she won’t admit even to herself.

“I should be the one to get everything right, not them,” she mutters under her breath, frustrated, as she adjusts herself in front of the mirror. The moment passes, but the irritation lingers in her sharp expression.

She has half a mind to just throw a fit in the middle of the studio, no matter what other pompous bitch is here for the same reason she is. Everyone here should know by now that when Himari visits, there’s no time for screw-ups. She whips out her red lipstick, reapplying some in the mirror just as the assistant and stylist come back. Himari’s eyes flicker over the mirror as she reapplies her lipstick with deliberate, steady strokes, her fingers so controlled it’s almost an art form. She’s not looking at herself, not truly. She’s too busy calculating—how she can assert her dominance here, how she can make everyone bend to her will.

The assistant and stylist stand quietly in the corner, their movements hesitant, trying not to disturb the storm brewing in Himari’s gaze. The silence between them stretches, thick with tension, before Himari finally breaks it.

"You should have known better," she snaps, voice sharp as a blade. "I’m not here to babysit, I’m here to be seen, and seen perfectly. Do you get that?" Her tone makes it clear there’s no room for mistakes. The weight of her presence, her reputation, presses down on the studio like a vice.

The assistant tries to salvage the situation, taking a few cautious steps forward. "I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Nakamura, we just—"

"No excuses," Himari interrupts, eyes flicking to the stylist, who’s now stepping forward with a different outfit. "This had better be right. If you can't get it together, I’ll find someone who knows how to make me look good."

The stylist immediately holds up the new dress, his fingers trembling slightly. "This one is different, I made sure the adjustments were perfect this time."

Himari doesn’t even look at him, just taps her finger on the counter impatiently. "Put it on me, then. I don’t have all day to waste here."

The assistant exchanges a quick glance with the stylist before moving to remove the current dress from Himari. The whole room feels like it’s walking on eggshells now, every movement a little too slow, too careful, as if they’re afraid to provoke her. Himari watches it all unfold, satisfaction curling in the corner of her lips. She relishes in this—being the center of attention, holding the power. But under all the poise and control, there’s that small, gnawing voice. The one that wonders if her grasp on Gojo’s attention is starting to slip, even if only slightly. She pushes it down quickly, focusing on the next move. The game isn’t over. Not yet.

“Shit!” she gasps, pushing away the stylist. “You just pricked me, you idiot!”

The stylist stumbles back, his face paling as he fumbles with the needle in his hand. "I-I’m so sorry, Ms. Nakamura," he stammers, eyes wide with fear. "It was an accident, I—"

“An accident?” Himari hisses, her voice sharp with venom. She reaches up to press a finger to the small puncture mark on her arm, staring at him like he’s the source of all her frustration. "You people can’t even do the simplest things right." Her voice oozes contempt as she glares at the poor man, who is frozen in place.

The assistant, clearly distressed, starts to panic. "Please, just let me get you something to stop the bleeding—"

“I don’t need your help!” Himari snaps, her eyes narrowing. She turns away from them both, walking toward the mirror. "Just fix the damn dress, and keep your hands away from me. If you mess up again, I’ll have your job. Do you understand me?"

The stylist, his hands shaking now, nods vigorously. "Yes, of course. I’ll be more careful."

She sneers at his response before looking at herself in the mirror, rubbing her arm as if the sting of the prick is the least of her concerns. But deep down, there’s a simmering unease, a feeling of being off that she can’t quite shake. Everything has to be perfect, especially today. She’s had enough of feeling like things are slipping through her fingers.

She fixes her gaze back on the assistant and stylist. "I’m not leaving here until I look flawless. Fix it. Now."

The assistant and stylist exchange nervous glances before scrambling to comply, working as quickly as possible to avoid the wrath of the woman who could ruin their careers with a single word. Himari watches them with a predatory calmness.

“Such a shame my father pays you,” she scoffs, eyebrow raising as the stylist kneels by her side to focus on the hem.

The stylist’s hands tremble as he adjusts the fabric of her dress, trying to avoid eye contact. "I'm just doing my job, Ms. Nakamura," he murmurs, not daring to look up from his task.

Himari rolls her eyes dramatically, letting out a sharp sigh. "Your job is to make sure I look perfect, not to give me excuses." She takes a step back, examining herself in the mirror again, as if she can already sense the imperfection of the dress lingering in the air. "But I suppose that’s what happens when you hire amateurs desperate for dimes and nickels."

The assistant, sensing her frustration, hurries over, offering a forced smile. "We’re doing our best, Himari. The fit will be flawless in no time."

Himari doesn’t even glance at them. She crosses her arms, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. "Best? Best doesn’t even come close. Don’t make me regret bringing my business here."

The assistant’s face flushes, but he keeps his voice steady. "Of course, Ms. Nakamura. We’ll make sure it’s exactly what you want."

Her gaze shifts from her reflection back to the stylist, who looks like he might crumble under the pressure. "You should be thankful my father is paying for this. He could have gone elsewhere, but he chose you. Don’t waste his generosity." Her voice drips with sarcasm as she smirks, watching the man scramble to finish his work. The tension in the room thickens, and for a moment, it feels like the entire studio is holding its breath, waiting for her next move.

“Mr. Gojo! It’s nice to see you again.”

The name snaps her out of her stupor in the blink of an eye, and she whirls around. Oh, he looks so sexy today. Satoru doesn’t even bother greeting the worker who called out, his steely gaze focused solely on her. Usually, she would’ve been flattered, joyous even that she’s being spared the accurate amount of attention she so desperately needs. But today feels different.

He feels different, looks different.

“Satoru,” Himari puts on a charming smile, nonchalantly pushing the stylist to the side, holding her arms out. “You’re here, you didn’t tell me you were comi—”

“What the fuck did you do?” his cold voice startles her, his hands pushing her inviting embrace away with not much of a care.

Himari blinks, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear. She gulps and shakes her head. “I…what are you talking about, Satoru?”

“Don’t play dumb right now, because I have zero patience for you,” he cooly grits back out.

The studio quiets, the stylist and tailor awkwardly going silent at the public display of an argument between their client and her boyfriend. The two look away, though that’s not saying much. Himari’s lip trembles, biting down on it. “Satoru, I really don’t know—”

“You come into my place, you trash my bed, and then you leave the evidence all over the floor.” Satoru steps closer, invading her personal space. She’s forced to take a small step back, wide eyes staring back up at the man who’s looking at her like she’s worth nothing more than gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. That thought angers her more than she’d like to admit. “I let you get away with a lot of things, Himari. A lot. More than I should. So why shouldn’t I have you arrested for breaking and entering?”

Himari gasps, eyebrows shooting up. “W-what?! You’d never.”

“Keep trying me, and I will.”

Her face pales, her throat tightening as a mix of guilt and frustration rises within her. “You can’t—no, you’re being ridiculous. That frame… it’s just a thing! A stupid, insignificant thing of you and that—that leech!” She forces a laugh, though it sounds hollow and brittle. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s not like I—”

“Not like you what?” Gojo steps forward again, closing the space between them. His towering figure looms over her, eyes locked with hers, piercing through her, tilting his head. “Not like you’re jealous? Because from where I stand…” he leans his neck down, voice lowering, “it looks like you’re trying to erase the one thing you’ll never be."

Himari’s breath catches in her throat, her eyes flashing with anger, but her lips remain tight. The words he’s throwing at her feel like daggers, each one sharper than the last. She doesn’t want to admit it—doesn’t even want to acknowledge it—but the sting of his words is undeniable.

She forces herself to stand tall, pushing down the fluttering in her chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spits, a slight tremor in her voice betraying her. “You think I’m jealous of her?” The words come out in a cruel laugh, but it’s weak. A façade. “Please. She’s nothing. You should’ve let her rot in impoverished obscurity. I never wanted anything to do with her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, his posture unwavering. “But you still do, don’t you? You can’t stand that she’s still a part of my life. That she’s always going to be a part of it.”

The silence that follows is thick with tension, suffocating in its intensity. Himari’s chest rises and falls with quickened breaths, her fingers flexing at her sides. The reality of the situation is dawning on her—this isn’t about a broken picture frame. It never was. This is about something deeper, something she refuses to confront. The jealousy she’s spent so long hiding. The truth she’s tried so hard to bury. She forces a smile, trying to mask her vulnerability with arrogance. “You think I’m scared of her, Satoru? You think she matters to me? She’s just some pathetic little woman you got caught up with. A mistake you’re too proud to admit. But I will be the one who gets everything you’ve worked for. I’ll be the one standing beside you. I’m the one you chose, remember?”

Her words feel empty, hollow. She doesn’t believe them anymore. And Satoru knows it.

He steps back, his expression unchanged, cold and calculating. “If you’re so sure of that, Himari, then why don’t you start acting like it? Because right now, you look like a jealous little girl throwing a tantrum. And I’m done with it.”

Her breath catches again, and for a moment, she feels small. Smaller than she ever wanted to feel. Her fingers twitch with the need to lash out, but the weight of his words keeps her still. He’s right. Her limbs shake.

“You’ll never be her,” Satoru adds, his voice low, almost pitying. “And that’s something you’ll have to live with.”

Himari’s eyes flash with something unreadable, and for a second, the mask she’s worn for so long falters. But she quickly regains control, lifting her chin with a defiant snarl. “I’ll make you regret this, Gojo. I’ll make you regret ever even meeting me with the shit I’ll send your way if you do this to me.”

Satoru doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react. He simply turns on his heel, walking toward the door. “You already are,” he says over his shoulder, the words hanging in the air between them like a final nail in the coffin.

Her breath hitches, fingers curling into her palms. “C-Come back here….you’re—you’re not doing this! You’re not breaking up with me, Satoru! You’re not! I won’t allow it!”

But he says nothing, continuing to walk, and then, he’s gone.

Himari stands there, rooted to the spot, the silence around her deafening. The anger, the humiliation, the fear—they all swirl inside her, a storm she can’t control. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something she won’t dare admit.

She’s lost him.

A gut-wrenching scream sounds out through the floor, with employees flinching. The stylist and assistant cover their ears, grimacing and not even daring to look her way.

But the reaction of a white haired woman, holding back a laugh, differs from all. Looking at herself in the floor-length mirror, the elegant, silk purple dress was not nearly as satisfying as the dramatic scene she had just witnessed. She’s glad she decided to indulge this very fine afternoon.

Things are getting good, she thinks to herself, pressing the button on her phone to stop the voice recording.

Very good.

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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