#sometimes i feel like this au has a mind of its own

[slasherflicks999]

4am slasher doodle to recover from the fact i spent 2 days hand sewing a shirt that i don’t even like the fit of HELP

you can NOT tell but his necklace is made of teeth hehehe

whoever it was that reblogged the last drawing i did of him saying they thought he was cool and u dug through posts to find him……. you gave me a crazy case of the smiles lemme tell ya /vpos

oh how i would love to lore dump about him…. if he had any solid lore to dump about

[fulloflambing]

࣪ . ִֶָ๋ CAPITANO: husband headcanons ♡

pairing: capitano x afab!reader/you warnings: reader is addressed as 'wife', canon and modern!au cho's note: the kinich one did rlly good, so now lets try it with our big boi hehe. happy reads everyone! lmk if u guys want an nsfw ver. of either/both characters ;3

this man is the definition of YEARNING.

he wasnt comfortable with the label of him being your boyfriend. with all his eternal affection and love for you? to just be a mere boyfriend? absolutely not. he just HAD to be your husband. proposed the moment he realized he loved you.

definitely proposed with a big stone :p

wears his ring 24/7 and kisses it whenever your not around and he misses you dearly.

he abuses the power of his mask and never misses the chance to stare and just admire your beauty. underneath his mask his eyes are full of love and admiration for you.

discreetly clingy. if your going out somewhere he wants to go with you 'to keep you safe' or he 'needed to pass by that area later anyway'.

hates taking off his helmet, but never stops you from sliding it off of his head to shower him with praise.

his nicknames for you are my love, dear, darling, prince/princess

his love language for you is physical touch, and words of affirmation

his favorite spots to kiss you on is your forehead, lips, the palm of your hands and your knuckles.

engraved your initials into his sword, and because of that he makes sure he takes good care of it always.

his kisses are always slow and intimate.

he is a quick-kisses or pecks HATER. he has to kiss you for atleast 10 seconds. he doesn't care if hes late, if theres someone right infront of you— he kisses you like its the last time, everytime.

more of a listener than a speaker

he likes to go on dates or do activities with you where you both have to talk to eachother a lot. like fine dining dates, late night walks or driving!

very touchy in private. he likes to snake his arm around your waist, pull your hair to the side and kiss the back of your neck.. hes just addicted to praising and carressing your body.

ever since he married you, he absolutely despises overtime. he gets bossier and meaner to his subordinates when he realizes he might have to stay a little later to supervise them. sometimes he even leaves his job or his expeditions early just to get home to you.

frequently brings you gifts. a bouquet of rare flowers, a jewelry set with special ore customized just for you, lavish wine.. you name it.

never wants to argue with you. the second you tell him he's wrong, he just immediately agrees with you, spewing "yes ma'am." "your absolutely right. i didn't think of it properly.. apologies my love."

ever since he married you, he likes to subtly flex he has you as his wife.

"Sorry, i must end this conversation early. My wife is waiting on my presence." and you can just HEAR how cocky he is to say that.

writes you longgggg letters when he has to get away from business for awhile.

regarding his letters, he made you scribble/draw a design which he got custom made to become his wax seal for said letters :) a very keen man

got you a coat matching his own!

when your crying, he likes to hug you in silence, just letting you soak him in your tears. when you've calmed down, he tells you hes there to listen if you want to talk about your feelings, and theres no problem of yours hes not willing to help you solve. in his mind, your pain is his own, and he'll always be there to support you through any troubles.

very possessive. he wants people to know your his, and hes yours.

princess treatment on TOP. carries you easily when your tired of walking, idly massages your hands or feet when your both lounging together, regularly brings you flowers

during misunderstandings, he likes to take a minute of silence to compose himself and his thoughts to make sure he doesnt say anything he doesnt mean

likes to properly sit down with you to talk out problems between the both of you, and keeps an open mind. he doesnt rush you or cut you off when your talking about your feelings, and lets you know hes present and he cares about how you feel

takes extra time and effort after an argument to remind you he loves you.

overall, capitano is a very romantic lover despite his cold resolve, and honors your wishes with his life.

[neospade]

LUCKY

pairing- MODERN AU! Portgas D. Ace x fem! Reader word count- 4.5k genre- Pure fluff. synopsis- You meet up with your long distance boyfriend Ace during your winter break, little did you know that your date would turn out into a family meeting. note- THERE GOT TO BE AT LEAST ONE UNIVERSE WHERE ACE HAS A HAPPY FAMILY AND THIS IS GOING TO BE IT. Been thinking of this the whole week. Hope y'all like it. It is a little short but yeah :(

The night is hushed, blanketed in a thick layer of snow that glows faintly under the soft silver light of the moon. Snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, catching the glow of distant streetlights, twinkling like tiny stars before settling onto the untouched ground. The air is crisp, carrying a quiet stillness, broken only by the muffled crunch of footsteps pressing into the fresh snow.

Ace walks beside you, his gloved fingers laced through yours, radiating warmth even through the layers. Every now and then, he squeezes your hand, a silent reassurance, a quiet promise. His dark coat is dusted with specks of white, his hair kissed by the falling snow. He glances at you with a small, knowing smile, one that makes your chest tighten in the best way.

You lean into him, your shoulder brushing his as you walk, your movements slow and unhurried. There’s nowhere to be, no rush to escape the cold. The night belongs to you both—the snow-covered streets, the frost-laced trees, the soft crunch of your footsteps in the stillness. It’s peaceful, almost dreamlike, and with Ace beside you, it feels like the kind of moment you wish you could freeze in time.

He tugs you closer, his voice a gentle murmur against the quiet. “You warm enough?” You nod, smiling up at him. “Yeah. You?”

Ace smirks, nudging you playfully. “I’ve got you, don’t I?” giggling you hit him playfully. “Always got something snickering to say, don’t you?” he laughs, his arm now wrapped around your shoulder and keeping you close to himself.

As you walk, your free hand clutches a bouquet of hibiscus flowers, their vibrant petals a striking contrast against the snowy night. The blossoms are slightly chilled from the air, their fragrance faint but lingering—a reminder of the moment Ace had given them to you earlier, when you first saw him again after months apart.

You had spent the last few months oceans away, buried in textbooks and lectures, surrounded by new faces in a city that never quite felt like home. Studying abroad had been a dream—an opportunity you couldn’t pass up—but even in the excitement of it all, there had always been a quiet ache, a longing that settled deep in your chest every time you looked out over unfamiliar streets and realized he wasn’t there.

Late-night study sessions, early morning walks to class, the rush of learning something new—all of it had been fulfilling in its own way. But still, there were moments when you caught yourself staring at your phone, scrolling through old messages, rereading conversations just to hear his voice in your mind. Time zones had been a cruel barrier, turning simple phone calls into carefully planned moments stolen from sleep. Sometimes, you'd wake up to a text from him, something short and teasing, something that made you smile even on the hardest days.

"Don’t forget me while you’re off becoming a genius."

As if you ever could.

Ace notices you glance down at the bouquet, and he smirks, nudging your side. "You still like 'em, right? Or should I have gone with something more dramatic?" You roll your eyes, smiling as you hold the flowers closer. "No, Ace. They're perfect."

His smirk barely visible under the dim glow of the streetlights. “You’re quiet,” he muses, giving your hand a small squeeze. “Not regretting coming back already, are you?”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm playfully. “Not even close.”

Up ahead, a warm glow spills onto the street from a small, tucked-away bar, its golden light flickering through frosted windows. A neon sign hums faintly above the entrance, casting a soft, inviting glow onto the snow-covered sidewalk. The muffled sounds of laughter and music seep through the walls, a stark contrast to the peaceful stillness outside.

As Ace pushes open the heavy wooden door, a wave of warmth washes over you, melting away the cold that had settled into your bones. The scent of aged wood, whiskey, and something faintly sweet fills the air, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. The soft hum of conversation mingles with the low strum of a guitar playing in the corner, the sound rich and soothing against the quiet crackle of a fireplace tucked near the back of the room. The bar is small, intimate, the kind of place that feels like a well-kept secret.

As you and Ace weave through the bar, searching for a table, his fingers tighten around yours, halting you mid-step. You glance up at him, confused, only to see his brows furrowed slightly, his mouth parting as if he’s just seen a ghost.

Then, in a tone that’s caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation, he blurts out, “Mom? Dad? You two here?”

Your head snaps in the direction he’s staring, and sure enough, there they are—Rouge and Roger, comfortably seated at a corner table like they own the place.

Rouge has a delicate glass of wine in hand, looking effortlessly elegant as always, her eyes widening slightly in pleasant surprise. Roger, on the other hand, is mid-sip of his drink—until he hears Ace’s voice. He nearly chokes, coughing into his fist before setting the glass down with a loud thunk. His eyes gleam with unmistakable amusement as he grins.

“Well, if it isn’t my prodigal son!” Roger declares dramatically, throwing his arms out like Ace just walked in on his own surprise party. “Didn’t expect to see you here! What a coincidence.”

Ace squints at him, then at Rouge, then back again at his dad. “Coincidence my ass,” he mutters under his breath. You elbow him lightly in the ribs, shooting him a pointed look. "Don’t be rude!" you whisper, though you’re already fighting the urge to laugh.

Ace sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, but you don’t give him a chance to argue. Instead, you turn to Rouge and Roger with an easy smile. “It’s really nice to see you both again. How have you been?”

Rouge beams at you. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you again. How was your travel? Did Ace pick you up on time, or was he late?”

Ace glares. “I was exactly on time.” Roger raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? By your definition or ours?” You snicker, and Ace groans.

Roger waves him off. “C’mon, join us! Unless you’re too cool to have a drink with your old man Ace?” Ace groans louder but doesn’t move, and you can see the internal war playing out in his head. You nudge him playfully. “What’s the matter, Ace?” you’re looking at him as if you’re warning him for his next move.

His eyes narrow at you, then flick toward his father, whose smirk is way too smug, and then at Rouge, who just looks delighted by the whole situation. He sighs, long and suffering.

“…Fine,” he grumbles, already pulling a chair out for you.

As Ace helps you out of your coat, his hands gently guiding you through the process, you glance around, noticing the cozy warmth of the bar settling in as the fire crackles softly nearby. He drapes your coat over the back of the chair with a soft pat, and you let out a relieved sigh at the warmth inside.

Just as you reach down to place the bouquet of hibiscus flowers on the table, your fingers brush against the smooth wood, and that's when you notice something—a smaller bouquet of hibiscus sitting in a delicate glass vase at the center of the table. It's almost identical to yours, but the flowers are just a bit more compact, the petals a little softer, the arrangement slightly more refined.

You glance from her bouquet to your own, then back to Rouge, your lips curving into a surprised smile. “Wait, is that...?”

Rouge’s eyes widen as she follows your gaze, her fingers gently grazing the petals of her bouquet. “Oh my goodness,” she laughs softly, clearly just realizing it. “We have the same flowers!”

You chuckle, nodding. “It seems so. Hibiscus, right?”

Rouge lets out a lighthearted laugh, her eyes glinting with surprise and amusement. “How funny! I didn’t know we shared the same taste in flowers. I guess we both have good taste.” She glances over at you with a teasing smile.

You look down at the bouquets again, still amused by the coincidence, and before you can say anything more, you notice Ace’s expression—a mix of embarrassment and mild frustration, like he’s hoping the world will swallow him up in that very moment.

“Ace,” you begin, raising an eyebrow, “you didn’t tell me hibiscus was your mom’s favorite too?”

Ace groans, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes flicker to his parents. “I didn’t think it was important.”

Roger can’t help but grin. “Seems like hibiscus are a family favorite, huh? What a coincidence!”

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you look at him, your heart a little lighter than it was a few moments ago. You hadn’t expected to feel so welcomed, so included in a way that feels real, let alone be called part of their family. The warmth in the room intensifies, and you can’t help but feel at home.

As the evening continues, everything seems to fall into place effortlessly. The conversations flow easily, the laughter never quite stops, and the atmosphere around the table feels like something out of a perfect, cozy memory. You chat with Rouge about travel, exchange stories with Roger about Ace's embarrassing childhood moments, and even manage to get in a little playful banter with Ace—who, despite his groaning and eye-rolling, looks far more at ease than he did when the night began.

You glance around the table at Ace, his parents, and then at the flowers still sitting in the center, symbols of the little, unexpected connections that have tied this evening together. The hibiscus, the teasing, the quiet moments of understanding—everything about tonight feels natural and effortless. It’s a rare kind of peace that you didn’t realize you were missing, but now you can't imagine being anywhere else.

As the night unfolds, a soft, melodic tune fills the bar, just loud enough to complement the gentle hum of conversation. Every so often, the music swells into a tender ballad, and the atmosphere shifts slightly—lightly, but noticeably. People begin to rise from their seats, some hand-in-hand, others alone, drawn by the lure of the music. They make their way to the small dance floor at the far side of the bar, moving gracefully under the dimmed lights.

Even Rouge and Roger, after a few minutes of lighthearted conversation, stand up from their seats, exchanging a look between them. Without a word, Roger extends his hand to Rouge with a playful grin, and she takes it with a laugh, standing gracefully as they make their way to the dance floor. Their movements are slow, in perfect rhythm with the music, and there’s something undeniably sweet about the way they hold each other, their laughter mingling with the soft melody.

“They’re pretty good at this,” you comment with a soft chuckle, nodding toward the dance floor.

Ace smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, they’ve been at it for years.”

“You know,” he begins, his voice low but thoughtful, “I think they’ve got something pretty special.” He leans back in his chair, his arms relaxed at his sides. “They’ve been together forever, but they still act like it’s their first dance.”

You glance at him, surprised by the depth of his words. There’s no teasing in his tone, no joking around—just a quiet appreciation. “I didn’t expect you to be so... sentimental about it,” you say, teasing him lightly.

Ace chuckles, but it’s warm, genuine. “I guess I’ve got more of that in me than I let on.” He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve seen how they are together, and I don’t think it’s cheesy at all. They’ve been through everything together, and they still make each other laugh like it’s the first time. That’s... rare.”

You smile, your gaze shifting back to Roger and Rouge, who are lost in each other on the dance floor. “I agree. There’s something really beautiful about it.” You glance back at Ace. “It’s nice to see them still so in love after all these years.”

Ace nods, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he watches his parents move together. “Yeah. They’ve got this connection. It’s not just the dancing—it’s everything. It’s how they care about each other, how they don’t need to say much to understand. It’s real, you know?”

There’s a quiet sincerity in his voice, and you can tell he genuinely admires that bond between them. “I can see why you’d want that for yourself,” you say softly, studying him closely now.

Ace looks at you, a little surprised, and then gives a small, almost shy smile. “I want that too, you know? Someone who gets it. I feel pretty lucky. Lucky that I found someone like you. I never thought I’d find someone who gets me, who makes me feel... like I can picture a future. Someone who makes everything feel a little more real.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel the warmth of his words settle in your chest. You try to hide the soft smile tugging at your lips, not wanting to seem too caught off guard, but his words hit you in a way you weren’t expecting.

“I’m glad I met you too, Ace,” you say softly, your voice filled with sincerity as you meet his gaze. “I never thought I’d be sitting here, feeling like this. But I’m glad we ended up here.”

The smile that spreads across his face is everything you’ve come to love about him—the way he can make everything feel just a little bit lighter, even when things are deep and serious. “Guess we’ve both got our luck, huh?”

And then, just as the thought of a future together feels more real than ever, the music shifts. A familiar melody fills the space between you, the opening chords of “Lucky” by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat playing softly in the background.

You freeze for just a moment, eyes widening as you recognize the song. It’s the one you and Ace had both joked about being “your song” after a long, lazy afternoon spent listening to it together and realizing how the song matches with your ‘long distance’ situation at the moment.

Ace stands slowly, his hand extending toward you, his eyes full of affection and something a little deeper. “Would you dance with me?”

You blink, taken aback for a second by the sincerity in his request. But when you look into his eyes, you see the invitation isn’t just for a dance. It’s a moment, a small gesture that means so much more. You take his hand, standing up with a smile that matches his.

“I’d love to.”

Do you hear me? I'm talking to you

Across the water across the deep blue ocean

Under the open sky, oh my, baby, I'm trying

Ace pulls you close, guiding you toward the small dance floor where a few couples are still swaying to the music. His movements are steady and sure as he wraps his arm around you, his other hand holding yours gently but firmly. You both fall into a natural rhythm, as if the song had always been written for this moment, for the two of you.

Boy, I hear you in my dreams

I feel your whisper across the sea

I keep you with me in my heart

You make it easier when life gets hard

Your body naturally presses closer to his, the warmth between you building with every movement. You let yourself relax into him, your head resting lightly against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and calming, as the music flows around you both. His hand on your waist shifts slightly, guiding you in small circles as the song drifts on, and you find yourself smiling without even realizing it. Everything about the moment feels right—like the music was made for you, and this dance was meant to happen.

Ace’s thumb lightly brushes the back of your hand, and you rest your cheek against his chest again, feeling the warmth of his body. The song lingers in the air, and without thinking, the two of you begin to softly hum the next lyrics together, your voices blending effortlessly, like you’ve both known them by heart for a long time.

“Lucky I’m in love with my best friend…”

The words fall easily from your lips, the familiarity of the lyrics mixing with the quiet comfort of his presence. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek as he hums along, his voice low and gentle.

“Lucky to have been where I have been…”

Ace’s voice flows with yours, the sound soft, but full of sincerity. His hand on your back pulls you just a little closer, the simple gesture making your heart flutter in your chest.

“Lucky to be coming home again…”

Ace shifts slightly, his lips brushing against your temple in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s sweet, warm, and just a little shy, like he’s trying to capture the moment and hold onto it forever. As the music continues to play, the quiet intimacy between you both feels like it’s building—subtle, gentle, but undeniable. You pull back just slightly to meet his eyes, the connection between you both as strong as ever.

There’s a brief silence between you, an understanding that this moment is yours. Ace smiles, his gaze soft and affectionate, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a gentle, fleeting kiss.

It’s a soft peck, almost like a promise—a quiet declaration of everything that’s been shared, everything that’s to come. The kiss is over almost as soon as it begins, but the warmth of it lingers, the feeling of his lips against yours staying with you in the air long after he pulls back.

They don't know how long it takes

Waiting for a love like this

Every time we say goodbye

I wish we had one more kiss

I'll wait for you, I promise you, I will

Just as you’re beginning to lose yourself in the warmth of the dance, a sudden shift in movement jolts you both—nothing harsh, but a light bump, as if the space around you has suddenly tightened.

You glance up just in time to see Ace and you, inadvertently stepping into the path of Roger and Rouge, who are also gliding across the dance floor, the two of them lost in their own rhythm. For a moment, the dance floor becomes a little chaotic—an accidental tangle of feet, a brief shuffle—but then, without missing a beat, both couples laugh lightly.

Ace, ever the quick thinker, grins at his parents. “Looks like we’re all a little too into this, huh?” he says with a chuckle. Before you can react, the smoothness of the moment takes over. Roger, grinning at you, offers a hand, and Ace extends his to Rouge with a teasing but affectionate smile. With an effortless grace, you both exchange partners.

After a few moments, Rouge leans in slightly, her voice low but warm, a soft teasing tone lacing her words. “So, tell me, Ace, how’s Y/N doing? You two seem pretty cozy tonight,” she says, her eyes flicking toward you and Roger as you both share a light moment on the side of the dance floor.

“Mom, really?” he asks with a laugh, but there’s no real hesitation. He knows she means well, and after everything, he’s grown used to her playful nudges.

Rouge smiles even wider, her voice soft but filled with affection as she continues, “Oh, come on. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’ve been looking at her like she’s the only person in the room.”

“She is, Mom,” he admits quietly, his voice full of affection.

Meanwhile as you’re guided across the dance floor by Roger, you can’t help but feel the slight awkwardness of the moment. The music is still flowing smoothly, but there’s something a bit off-kilter as you try to keep in time with his steps. Unlike Ace, who is already taller than you, Roger towers over you, his even much taller frame making it a bit of a challenge to find your rhythm together.

You tilt your head back just to meet his eyes, his smile warm but slightly amused at the awkwardness of the situation. “You good?” he asks, his voice low, clearly sensing the struggle as you try to adjust to the difference in height.

You let out a small, self-conscious laugh, trying to adjust your stance. “It’s just… you’re a lot taller than Ace,” you explain, your feet not quite syncing with his longer stride. Roger chuckles softly. “As long as you don’t break my toes, we’re good.”

As the song nears its end, you glance over at Ace, who’s watching you with a soft smile from across the room. Roger notices and gently guides you to a stop. “I think he’s ready to take you back,” he says with a teasing grin.

You laugh and nod. “Yeah, he’s been waiting.”

With a final thank you to Roger, you make your way back to Ace, and the moment you’re in his arms again, it feels like everything clicks into place. His embrace is warm, familiar, and comforting.

I'm lucky we're in love in every way

Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed

Lucky to be coming home someday

As the song finishes, Ace pulls you back in, then leads you to your table. He pulls out your chair before sitting down beside you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

"Thank you for the dance, my lady" he says with a soft smile.

You smile back, your voice quiet. "Thank you!"

After a while, the four of you decide to leave the cozy warmth of the bar. As you step outside, the crisp air hits you, and the gentle snowfall makes everything feel serene and peaceful. The snowflakes swirl around, creating a soft, glittering blanket on the streets. Ace pulls his jacket tighter around him as he looks at you with a grin.

“Ready to brave the snow?” he asks, his voice full of warmth despite the chill in the air.

You smile, nodding as you both join Rouge and Roger, starting the walk back home. The snow crunches beneath your boots as you make your way down the quiet, snowy streets. There’s a quiet, comfortable energy between all of you, the sound of laughter and light conversation blending with the soft whistling of the wind.

Ace’s hand finds yours in the quiet night, pulling you just a little closer as the four of you walk together, heading home through the calm, snow-covered world.

As you and Rouge chat, walking side by side through the soft snow, the quiet evening feeling peaceful, you feel Ace’s hand slip from yours. You glance over just in time to see him lower himself down, scooping up a handful of snow, his playful grin spreading across his face.

Before you can react, he packs the snow into a perfect snowball and tosses it, hitting you gently on the shoulder.

“Hey!” you exclaim, laughing as you shake the snow off, your heart racing from the surprise. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”

Ace’s grin only widens, and he takes a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “What? I thought you’d like a little snowball fight.”

With a playful smile, you turn to Rouge, holding out the bouquet of hibiscus that Ace had given you earlier. “Here,” you say, handing it to her. “I’ll be right back.”

Rouge takes the flowers, a warm smile on her face. “Go get him.”

Without missing a beat, you scoop up a handful of snow, packing it into a snowball, and take off running toward Ace, who’s still laughing, clearly unprepared for your sudden move. You race toward him, the snow crunching beneath your feet, your heart pounding in excitement.

“You’re not getting away with this!” you call, launching the snowball straight at him.

Ace barely has time to react before the snowball hits him square in the chest. He stumbles back a little, wide-eyed and laughing. “Oh, it’s on now!”

You flash a grin, already ready to dodge his return fire, as the two of you fall back into your playful snowball fight, laughter filling the crisp air around you.

As you run toward Ace, snowball in hand, ready to get your playful revenge, you don't expect him to suddenly open his arms wide. Before you know it, he’s caught you in the middle of your sprint, pulling you toward him with a swift motion.

“Gotcha!” he laughs, his arms wrapping around you as he yanks you both backward, falling into a thick layer of snow on the ground.

The soft snow cushions your fall, and you both land with a light thud, snow surrounding you. For a moment, you’re both caught in a burst of laughter, the cold air mixing with the warmth of the fun. Ace's arms are still wrapped tightly around you, both of you half-buried in the snow, but neither of you mind.

Both of you are rolling around in the snow, laughing uncontrollably as Ace tries to tickle you, and you scramble to push him off, though you're both too caught up in the moment to care about the cold. Snowflakes fall around you as you two tumble, your laughter filling the air, soft and carefree. Ace is sitting up, wiping snow from his jacket, when you notice the look in his eyes—mischief mixed with something more tender.

"Maybe in another universe, we're pirates sailing the seas together and never separated from each other" he says out of nowhere.

You pause for a moment, your breath catching in the cold air, and before he can say anything, you lean down toward him, your hands gently pushing away a stray snowflake from his cheek.

"Shut up with your conspirative ideas ,hotshot"

Without another word, you press a soft kiss to his lips, the snow around you almost feeling like a blur as the world narrows down to just the two of you.

From a short distance away, Roger and Rouge watch the scene unfold, a quiet smile on both of their faces. They exchange a look, seeing the happiness and lightheartedness between you two.

Roger chuckles softly. “Eh, young love…” he says, his voice filled with warmth as he watches the young couple enjoying the moment. “Stop talking like a grandpa, and let’s leave” Rouge spats playfully at him, holding his arm and walking away.

all author rights go to @neospade

[klemen-tine]

One of Us (Vampire AU!)

Batfam x Platonic!Male Reader.

Mainly Dick, Jason, and Bruce, but Part 2 will have more interaction.

I have no excuses, and I apologize.

Someone, very long ago, requested a Vampire AU! and I said "Hey! I'm actually working on that now!" A year later and it is up.

TW: Noncon body modification. You get turned into a vampire essentially when you wanted to be human.

Enjoy~

________________________________________________________

His body felt as though it was on fire, his throat dry and teeth aching. He hunched over himself, panting and trying to contain himself as he felt his body was going through hell. His breath coming pants and if he could sweat, he knows he would be. It feels like a fever, but he knows it is not. 

“Y/N.” He could barely hear the voice calling for him, but he can’t pinpoint on who it is. A hand carding through his oily hair and there it was. The sweet scent that made his throat burn and his teeth ache impossibly more. A pitiful whine left his throat and hands gently scratched his scalp, like someone petting a cat, “Shh, its okay.” The rim touched his lips and Y/N was gulping it down, ignoring how some of it spilled from the side or how a hot tongue licked it away. 

They nuzzled into the side of Y/N’s head, whispering sweet words and encouragement. 

“Its almost done, Y/N. You are so close.” A cry left Y/N’s lips, tears now racing down their cheeks. The cold hand cupped their cheek, and another set of arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders. The head nuzzled into the crook of their neck, and they could feel fangs nibble on their clammy skin. 

“Pl…please…” He gasped out, only for more liquid to be shoved down his throat. Tears continued to race down his cheeks and a hand gently brushed his cheek. A finger dipped past his lips and onto a now sensitive tooth. 

Y/N, in instinct he didn’t used to have, bit down and the sweet taste of blood filled his lips. No longer blood from a bag, but now from the source. 

“Good job.” 

“Our little brother is the best. Catching on so quickly.” Y/N sobbed around the digit. Upset with them for doing this, upset at himself for allowing this, and overall in so much pain. Every drop of blood felt like cold water on his burning throat, and with every swallow the fog in his mind cleared a bit more. 

“Good job, Y/N.” 

+++

Y/N is loved. Y/N is revered within the manor, hands always keeping a tight hold on his wrists, forearms, or sometimes a hand is always clamped to the back of his neck. Almost like the Wayne family is scared that someone, not of their own, is going to take a bite. 

He was kept from the public eyes, oftentimes staying behind in the manor with Alfred as the others went out. He is kept in the manor, only allowed outside as long as someone is with him and it has to be in the backyard. Thanks to that, however, the yard is now more beautiful than ever with the flower garden he has been working on with Alfred. 

He is the human amongst a clan of vampires. The dirty little secret. 

Y/N is- “You sure you don’t want to do it tonight?” -Not ready to stop being a human. He stared at Jason, Tim nuzzling into his chest, and Y/N found it hard to look away from the green eyes that he had grown up with. He knows they can hear his heart racing as his anxiety picked up, but Y/N tried to keep a straight face. 

“I’m sure, it doesn’t feel like the right time yet.” It's been the excuse for the past few years, and he knows that it is getting old. However, he also knows that it is a human that he wants to be. Y/N wants to die as a human, and he wants to live as a human. 

Y/N knows, just how a person knows they don’t want to be a parent, that he does not want to be a vampire. Yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to even voice it. How do you tell the people who raised you, expecting you to join them once you are ready, that you no longer want to be a vampire? 

He wasn’t sure what to do. What he did know however was that this family, their family, will  say no. They will not take no for an answer. This is because they are Waynes and they will always get what they want. 

Y/N, whether he likes it or not, is someone they want. It is the price one pays when they are revered and looked after as much as he is. Similar to the gold family watch everyone wants to wear, or the video gaming that everyone must have turns playing with. To be well loved means to be sought after, and to be sought after means there is little freedom. 

++++

Y/N was walking the long and gothic hallways of the manor, staring outside the window and watching how the rain pelted the glass. No lightning or thunder, only rain. Despite the darkness, Y/N wandered the halls with ease, knowing where each staircase was, which hallways led to where, and also which rooms were which. 

Despite this, the manor was creepy. The way the shadows were casted like things chasing you, or how parts of the old structure would creak for no reason other than the fact that it is old. 

It is why when Y/N saw Dick, it wasn’t fear that he felt but peace. Smiling widely at his oldest brother, he welcomed the other’s hug and buried his face into the cold chest. 

“Dickie, welcome home.” The man smiled, “It’s good to be home. What has you walking around so late at night?” Y/N grinned up at him, before looking out the window, “Just up. I couldn’t fall asleep.” The oldest brother hummed, “That’s unfortunate. Are you having nightmares?” A hand cupped his face gently, and Y/N smiled, “No. I can’t sleep. I was hoping that walking around would help.” 

Dick hummed, showing his understanding. He stared out the window alongside his brother, and sharp eyes watched the rain pelt the glass and the occasional lightning strike light up the sky. He can remember a younger Y/N, one who was terrified of everything, crying and running into one of their rooms whenever there was a thunderstorm. They were always awake, and once they found out whose room he had run into, everyone would congregate into that person’s room. It was typically Bruce’s room, and the man would wait with a book in hand a mug of warm hot chocolate. 

Dick looked at Y/N now, and he wondered just where the time had gone. Y/N is now 21, and those years have flown by for all of them. Dick can remember first holding Y/N as a baby, found in a closet at murder victim's apartment. He had been so tiny, and Dick had promised that nothing would ever hurt Y/N. 

Not even age. 

“I wonder… When did you grow out of your fear of thunderstorms?” Y/N smiled, “I think the moment I turned 9, but you guys seemed bummed that I stopped going to your rooms.” 

“Is that why you kept coming in?” Y/N, until he was 13, had continued to seek them out whenever there was thunder. Dick didn’t know it was because they all looked upset when Y/N stopped doing so. 

The human nodded, “Bruce seemed to be the most distraught to be honest.” Dick laughed, already able to picture Bruce’s face the first time Y/N didn’t come in. 

“You guys take such great care of me…” Y/N trailed off, his mind trying to think of a way to bring the conversation up. He could feel Dick’s piercing gaze, and it sent goosebumps down his spine. He scratched his ear, a nervous tic that he has never been able to grow out of. Dick brought him into a hug, and Y/N found himself relaxing as one of Dick’s hands caressed the back of his neck.  

“And what greater ‘thank you’ than joining us?” Y/N snapped his head to Dick’s direction. Long fangs peaked through Dick’s lips, catching the manor light in a menacing manner, and for the first time in his life, Y/N was terrified of his brother. The hand clasped on the back of his neck tightened. 

“Dickie?” His voice wobbled, and Dick just smiled so serenely and prettily. An arm wrapped around Y/N’s waist to pull him closer, and for the first time in his life, Y/N can feel just how cold Dick was. How different their bodies were. 

“We love you so, so much Y/N. So much that it eats at us when you are not within arms reach.” Y/N loves them too. It's just, Y/N also loves being a human. When he was younger, there was nothing he wanted more than to be a vampire with his family. Now that he is older, he can better see the beauty in life because life itself is short. 

Y/N no longer wishes to be a vampire.  

Dick leaned down, and nuzzled the skin that is pulled taut over Y/N’s collarbones. Y/N couldn’t stop the shiver that broke out on his skin or the way that the hairs on his arms now stood on end. He finally found the strength to move and gripped Dicks’s shoulders, trying to push him away. 

“Dickie, please I don’t- don’t want this.” There was a small nibble on his collarbone, and Y/N felt his heart rate spike. From the way Dick smiled, showing all teeth, he knew that his oldest brother could hear it. 

The blood in his ears began to roar and Y/N began to feel his breath pick up. He hated that this feeling was making him scared of his brother. That this feeling was making him see Dick, sweet and kind Dick, in a new and darker light. One that helped him see what others saw just before strong jaws clamped on fragile skin. He was looking at a monster in the shape of his brother. 

“Di-Dick?” 

“Master Richard, what are you doing?” The grip released and Y/N pushed himself off and ran to Alfred. The oldest vampire was staring down at Dick with a raised eyebrow. One that had many of Y/N’s brothers confessing what they were guilty about. All this did however, was make Dick smile with only the smallest traces of being guilty. 

“Sorry Alfie, I was only teasing.” From the look Alfred gave him and the furrowing in Y/N's own brows, the oldest child knows he’s not fooling anyone. Which wasn't the point. Staring down at his sibling, Dick could hear the blood racing underneath the skin, and the way his heartbeat continued to race in his chest. 

The grin increased in size, and his fangs remained elongated. Y/N gripped Alfred’s suit tighter, and the butler sighed at his ward, “Master Richard, if you continue to bully Y/N, I will need to bring in Master Bruce.” Dick’s grin got even wider at the threat, and Y/N knows that that is exactly what Dick wants. 

“It-its okay Alfie… Dick’s joke just went too far.” If Dick is doing this, then that means he has to go ahead from Bruce. It’s terrifying to realize that Bruce is done waiting. 

++++

Y/N knows he’s being watched. He knows that he’s being observed and that this plan was a failure from the start. Which was why when he walked in his room and saw Bruce standing amongst his packed bags, bags he knew he hid, Y/N knew that this game was over. Still, he tried to hold his composure, “I don’t remember saying you can come in.”

Bruce doesn’t even look at him, “When I believe one of my kids is in danger, your permission to enter a room in my manor is the last thing I need.” Y/N huffs, “I’m not in danger.” The old vampire narrowed his gaze, and Y/N wondered if maybe he should jump out the window. 

“I, and many others, highly disagree. Why are your bags packed?” 

“Am I not allowed to go on trips?” 

“Four bags to go on a trip? Must be a long one.” Y/N narrowed his eyes, “Just around Europe. Nothing too long.” Bruce strolled over, and cupped Y/N’s cheek, making E/C eyes meet blue. They were as cold as his skin, and Y/N can’t help but to wonder if they were always like that. 

“You’ve never been a good liar, Y/N.” He bit his lips, “It's because I’ve never had a reason to lie before.” Bruce had some decency to look guilty, “Y/N, I’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while, and it’s my fault for putting it off.”

“Bruce, please,” Y/N whimpered, their fingers gripping into the silk fabric of the casual-wear and they stared into blue eyes. Those same eyes that they can remember being one of their first memories. 

“Please, I… I want to be human.” Bruce’s grip tightened and Y/N flinched. It was the wrong answer, but it was the answer that he needed to say. Tears now streaming down his face and his body shaking. His bags laid strewn across the floor, and Y/N wonders if they had all known from the start. 

“Tell me, Y/N. Did you really think there was a place on this earth where we wouldn’t find you?” Y/N bit the inside of their cheek. Of course not. Y/N knows that wherever he were to go, the Wayne’s would always be in his shadow. 

It was still nice to try. Then again, Y/N didn’t even get to try. The furthest he got was packing his bags. 

“I wasn’t going to hide from you all or anything! I just wanted to take a trip.” “Then why the secrecy?” Y/N scrunched his nose, “Because you guys would have never let me go.” Bruce sighed heavily and Y/N grit his teeth, “I wasn’t running away. I was only wanting to go on a trip.” Blue eyes narrowed on his form, his grip tightening, “You wanted to live there.” 

“Just for a bit! Everyone else got to do it.” 

“Y/N, you have been swaddled in the finest fabrics in the world, had the best food on your plate, and have always had money at your fingertips. Did you really think you would make it?” Y/N flinched, and the hold that Bruce had on him loosened. No longer gripping his shoulders as if Y/N would run, but now in a comforting manner. 

Bruce nuzzled Y/N’s hair, in a mocking sense of comfort, and he took a deep inhale, “I don’t mean to undermine you, Y/N. However, we do worry.

“If you were like us, the worry would lessen.” Y/N tensed, and Bruce pulled back to make eye contact with him again. He smiled down at his child, fangs protruding as he did so, “You could go anywhere, and we would fear little.” 

“But I would still need someone with me.” 

“Of course, you’d be a young vampire. New to the world and its wonders, it would be cruel to just let you go alone into this world.” Which isn’t what Y/N wants. He wants to see the world on his own, as a human. 

At least one trip. 

“The answer is no Y/N.” Bruce sighed heavily, and he gently pecked Y/N’s temple, “We will not be barbaric about it.” Long gone are the days when biting a future vampire was the only way to turn them. Too many deaths happened like that, due to the fangs becoming even longer to ensure the venom gets into the blood and accidentally nicking an artery or vein. 

Injecting venom through the bite to course through the bloodstream was the new way. 

Unfortunately the symptoms are longer and a bit harsher. 

“Please, Bruce.” 

“Goodnight Y/N.” His world faded to black and the last thing he saw were blue eyes now turning red. 

+++

He woke up to his body feeling as though he’s on fire. Rolling off the bed, he cried out as the freezing floor met his burning skin harshly. The coldness overriding the pain only momentarily, and acting as a sweet release, only for it all to come back. Y/N’s mouth opened in a silent scream, and his throat burned with an intensity he has never felt before. 

He reached forward, for what he’s not sure, but through the haze of his mind he could see that the nails on his fingers were longer, and the floor under them had cracked. His vision remained blurred with tinges of red around the edges. Panic rose in his chest, and Y/N wondered if this was all part of the process. Was this pain meant to strip his humanity so when the hunger kicks in, it would be all he is focused on? 

A scream broke free as another wave of pain coursed through him. His body felt even more feverish and sluggish, and his teeth were aching in a way that had him reaching towards his mouth in an attempt to remove the source of pain. 

“Let's not do that.” Another hand grabbed his wrist, and Y/N spasmed under the cool touch. Another hand reached down and gently picked him up, and held him tightly when he began to thrash around. Y/N did not want to be in this person’s hold, and they were taking away the coolness of the floor. 

The grip tightened, and when he was back on the scratchy sheets from earlier, Y/N let out a pitiful whimper. Each strand felt like small pins digging into his skin, and the smell caused his nose to wrinkle and feel like someone was swab as far back as they could. 

“Shh, I know Y/N. It’ll be over soon.” Something was presented in front of him, and the horrid smell from the sheets was replaced by the smell of something pleasant. It could be compared to smelling flowers for the first time, or Alfred’s baked goods. It smelt of something that promised only happiness, and the ache in his mouth only intensified. He had no control over his body as he lunged forward, and teeth punctured a thin film and that warmness burst past his lips and soothed his throat. 

Comparable to cold water on a hot day, relief flooded through his body. The feverish ache was gone, and his vision began clearing once more. There were fingers running through his hair, and they scratched his scalp lovingly. 

“Good job Y/N.” Dick. It’s Dick’s voice. Y/N’s mind cleared, and looking down his nose he could see the red that decorated the white sheets. He knew what was in his mouth, however, he couldn’t bring himself to stop gulping. Tears raced down his cheeks and the feeling of contentment forcefully burrowed itself in his chest. 

“Good job.” 

___________________________________________________________

LOL Now to disappear for like 8 months again and the only way you all know I'm alive is by my reblogs

@Rosecentury 

@Problematicreblogger

@Kurai-hono-blog 

@Lunaluz432

@findingjaxx 

if you want to be added please let me know. And Tumblr I think deleted some comments/messages so if you asked to be tagged and you're not, please let me know. KINDLY

[wonupatootie]

윤정한 // Yoon Jeonghan Fic Recsᡣ𐭩 Part II

Where are you my happiness 내 행복 전부 여기 있네 널 찾아서 너무 좋아~

Main Recs Masterlist

➣Part I // Part II

MINORS DNI!!!!!!!

Please like and reblog the fics to show the creators love and support~

“To Live Again” by @viastro

Gn!reader || time travel au, childhood friends to lovers, slowburn, angst, some fluff, some humour || W.C: 38.8k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･it’s been years since your last milestone birthday; a time when everything still felt right in the world with youth and ambition. now that you’re older and times have changed, would you dare take a chance to save someone else in the past at the cost of your own future?

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Paris” by @amourcheol [absolute legend!!]

Fem!reader || old hollywood au, exes to lovers, angst, fluff, smut || W.C: 50k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･disgraced by hollywood for the last time, you, a once superstar-turned-alcoholic, escape to the city of love to seek sanctuary from the ruthless tabloids. your sanctuary comes in the form of film noir superstar yoon jeonghan, the enigmatic man who taught you the art of acting, lust and love before your fame. when he asks to meet you once, just like old times, you cannot refuse. what is meant to be a simple date turns into a path of passion, pain and everything that comes with fooling around with your ex in the jazz-filled corners of paris. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“LMLY” by @trustmypoison

Fem!reader || wedding au, best friends to strangers to lovers, fluff, angst, smut || W.C: 45k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Choi Y/N hasn’t seen her long lost best friend Yoon Jeonghan in four years and doesn’t even recognize him at first when paramedics roll him into the OR after a motorcycle accident during her shift. She kind of expects to go back to being total strangers as soon as he’s discharged, but Seungcheol has other plans in mind for them when he asks them to be Best Man and Maid of Honor for his wedding. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“I Think We Married in Vegas” by @sungjinhos

Friends to lovers, comedy, angst, smut || W.C: 28.2k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･You and Jeonghan have always been friends, and friends go on a trip together, right? And somehow friends always end up marrying in Las Vegas right? And somehow friends become roommates as well right? That all seems very normal when Yoon Jeonghan has a weird addiction to doing the dumbest things ever just for shock value.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Love Café” by @chocosvt

Fem!reader || romance, angst, fluff, smut || W.C: 17.6k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･while you’ve spent the last few months pretending the love café doesn’t exist, you realize you need its services now more than ever. this brings you face to face with jeonghan, the son of a luxury fashion designer who’s got money to burn. your exchanges are strictly business. until they’re not. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Hate is a Strong Word” by @veethefreeelf

Fem!reader || coworkers au, enemies to fuck buddies, smut || W.C: 15k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･You were living out your dream working in an ideal company with great colleagues and friends, except one. Yoon Jeonghan has been your nemesis from the moment the both of you stepped into this company. Sometimes you wonder if you’re living your dream or stuck in a nightmare.

⤷“Love is a Strong Word” (Part 2 of Hate is a strong word)

Fem!reader || coworkers to lovers, angst, smut || W.C: 15k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･It’s been a year since you moved away to a new branch. If you’re being honest, things haven’t been great. Being away from all you know and all you wanted has made you realize a lot of things and made you wish you had done things differently. Maybe moving back would be better for you. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“How Many Times Does it Take to Get Smarter?” by @veethefreeelf

Fem!reader || Best friends to fwb, smut || Parts: 2 || Total W.C: 20.3k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Jeonghan and you start a fwb relationship after years of being best friends. He only has two rules: no feelings and no kissing. Who’s going to break the rules first?

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Water” by @onlymingyus

Fem!reader || smut, angst, romance, angst, comedy || W.C: 19k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･being friends with benefits with jeonghan has never been what you thought it would but taking a trip to Paris with him and the rest of your friends while expecting to keep it a secret…that’s something completely different.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“To You” by @simpxxstan

Fem!reader || friends to lovers, fluff, slight angst, smut || W.C: 16.2k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･jeonghan loves to play cupid. he's thoroughly successful at it as well. you know it's just his incredible luck, and you can't wait for him to trip and fall. even if you'll be the first one to stop him from falling.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“(Tryna Do) What Lovers Do” by @vitaminkyeom

Fem!reader || college au, fake dating, friends to lovers, humour, fluff || W.C: 15k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･When you had roped Jeonghan into your idea of being a ‘pretend’ couple, you did not expect the lie to grow this big. What was supposed to be a one day thing soon became a rather frequent occurrence. And the gravity of the situation did not really hit you until your parents were requesting an audience with your new ‘boyfriend’. Will the two of you be able to keep your act till then? Or, in which, you keep promising yourself that this would be the last day you pretend to have feelings for Yoon Jeonghan.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Holidate” by @onlymingyus

Afab!reader || fake boyfriend au, smut, angst, fluff || W.C: 13k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･It's only for a week, he's doing you a favor, and he's your fake boyfriend. Why do you have to keep reminding yourself of that?

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Playboy” by @starlightxsvt

Fem!reader || sugar daddy au, strangers to lovers, smut, pwp, angst, some fluff || W.C: 18.8k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･you try to steal from him. things take a turn when he catches you on the act. seemingly for the better at first but then for the worse when you catch feelings for him.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Every Summertime” by @lovelyhan

Afab!reader || 70s au, pining, smut, angst || W.C: 16.1k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･you're not really interested in the record shop downtown. but people aren't oblivious to the way you keep trying to get into the owner's pants—not even the owner himself.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✮

“Bound to You” by @onlymingyus

Fem!reader || supernatural au, soulmate au, smut, angst || W.C: 12.9k

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･There is a little magic in everyone but there is something about you that makes Jeonghan curious about more than just your name.

Please let me know if the links have any problems~

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ (still) thinking of summer slasher!pazzi…

best friends to lovers!pazzi. men & minors dni.

🫀⋆ part one. part two ( you are here.ᐟ ). part three.

cw: medium-level gore (guys, people they know die in this one), sexual tension, heavy sexual content (sorry! i'm ovulating), manipulation, morally ambiguous!p, morally ambiguous!a, the power of lesbians vs murder, unhealthy relationships bc it's a horror au, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

notes : this ended up being 10.8k so i'm splitting it off into a third part which should be shorter. you little freaks want to see p & the killer's showdown in detail so i have to oblige.

as always, feel free to give me all of your thoughts in my inbox. i hope you enjoy. love you.

azzi is the only thing that makes me feel like a real girl.

paige has written this in her blocky handwriting , the letters practically out to kill with how sharp the angles are. she hasn’t touched her journal in three days, her mind swept away by azzi’s easy tide.

her best friend lies next to her, her body heavy with sleep and rising with her slow breath. paige puts her diary to the side, and rolls over so that she can watch the gentle twitch of azzi’s face as she dreams. she smoothes out the wrinkles that splay across the other girl’s brow.

azzi smells sweet, like caramel, and paige can’t help but pull her fingers back and place them in her mouth. they taste only of skin but her eyes roll back as she pretends it’s azzi all over them anyway. she opens them again, dispels the fantasy, and watches azzi shift—the bottom curve of her ass peeking out of her criminally small cotton pajama shorts, her thighs so full.

and yes, it’s her first year in college (and paige’s second) and paige is probably high off of the end to a year without her but god, she just loves azzi so much. the pulse of affection is so sudden, so strong, that it makes paige squeeze her legs together as if to choke it out.

here is where she feels less sick, less hungry for the pain she thinks of inflicting on other people. here lies a real-life angel, stolen straight out of the gates.

sometimes paige pinches herself to ensure she’s awake because being with azzi is so much like heaven she isn’t sure she would be able to tell if she’d died.

that violent voice inside of her is so quiet, is so fond of her best friend that it almost brings her to tears because that means it really is a part of her and not a part of something else—it’s immovable and completely her own.

“p? what are you thinking about?”

paige blinks and watches as azzi’s soft brown eyes flutter open, dark and wet. god, she was born game. paige sneaks closer, smiles with pleasure as azzi hooks an arm around her waist. from azzi’s side of things, paige looks like a saint on fire, the sun rising through the winter behind her and dressing her blonde hair with a dark orange flame.

“nothing. just that i’m taller than you for real”

azzi laughs sleepily and even her breath is sweet. she’s just so thick, body flush with life. her scent radiates off of her: again the caramel, but violet too and a bit of something lactonic.

“in your dreams,” azzi murmurs, and paige can see she’s falling asleep again.

yes, she wants to say, you are in my dreams. you are my dream. my biggest one.

paige thinks of slitting azzi’s belly, soft and quick just to taste a little bit of her blood. the thought is immediately followed by tears. she wishes she wasn’t so sick.

azzi, even asleep, seems to sense her need for comfort. she presses close, sinks into paige’s lilac comforter and her valentino cologne-covered limbs, and tucks into her chest. the sickness shifts, enfolds her. azzi is now safe in its bubble.

paige feels hot at the thought of letting her go. she imagines another person experiencing this. the heat expands. she thinks of a knife in her hands, sinking into someone else.

stopping them, saving her.

𓇼 azzi is not handling this well. she’s barely making it through class; barely making it through anything. every morning she wakes with her head feeling heavier than before. she swallows a pill, tries to kill the part inside of her that keeps reminding her that her best friend is an absolute psychopath with a soft spot for her and that another psychopath has it out for her in a far more evil manner.

𓇼 she’s slipping at practice, sloppy and hesitant instead of making her shots count. geno doesn’t bother yelling at her, only gives her a look filled with leagues of disappointment. it’s only due to her pride that azzi doesn’t cry.

𓇼 she’s careful about how her time is spent, times her moments inside the apartment to align with paige’s outside of it. she fakes countless nights of sleep, slowing her breathing as paige lingers in an effort to catch her in the midst of her pretending. but that gets old and she finds herself still suffocating, still in pain, and swollen with a secret too big to fit inside of her neatly.

𓇼 so she sneaks out. treats her body like a hangar and drapes dresses across it that get shorter with every outing. she drinks until her mind is numb, shakes along to the music until she comes off too manic to be found interesting or pixie-dream-girl and then throws up in the morning in caroline’s bathroom, rubbing her cheeks to calm herself down.

𓇼 “azzi,” caroline says, her voice soft as she rubs her back. “can you tell me what’s going on?” but azzi keeps it quiet, keeps it down, because she thinks of paige and feels her stomach clench and her throat close with the urgent desire to be a good girl.

𓇼 trust me, paige’s phantom voice says. believe in me, it croons in her head. it never stops. she goes out again.

the bass is a snake beneath her skin, rattling in her ribs, reverberating in the hollow of her chest. it’s not enough.

azzi can tell she’s teetering on the edge of being out of control. caroline had texted her earlier, had offered to do a movie night post practice but azzi had found it frighteningly easy to lie to her for the nth time, typing out a stream of words that she couldn’t even remember clearly but knew were enough to get carol off of her back.

the air inside the club is sweltering—humid with sweat, perfume, the lingering tang of alcohol. bodies move together, fall together, silhouettes blending. the world is a sea of golden limbs and slick skin under shifting neon lights.

azzi is glowing under it.

her body is warm, fever-flushed, coated in a fine layer of brunt orange body glitter that dances on the edge of dark pink and catches the light every time she moves. tonight’s mini dress is navy blue and clings to her, threatening to reveal her down to the bone. the neckline plunges low, the exposed skin shimmering like she’s been dipped in summer. she smells sweet, addictive, and edible—something dangerous in a place like this.

azzi knows how she looks. she just doesn’t care.

she wants to disappear. wants to drown in the music, in the heat, in the slurred conversations and unfamiliar hands that press against her as she moves deeper into the crowd. but she can still feel it. the way her mind won’t let her slip away completely.

so she pushes further.

azzi finds a body—someone taller, faceless in the dim light but blonde enough to be her best friend for the night—and presses against them. she tilts her head back, lets her eyes flutter shut, lets herself sway, slow and deliberately, grinding in time with the music.

and for a second, it works. she almost forgets.

then her gaze lifts, unfocused, scanning lazily across the flashing strobes of purple, red, and blue.

and she sees them. or—no. no, she thinks she sees them.

a mask. the shape of it, half-hidden in the shifting bodies of the club.

her stomach plummets. she goes still.

the song is still playing, then it changes. the bass continues thrumming to a new rhythm, the people around her still swaying, almost twisted in prayer as they dance—but she isn’t. her blood rushes in her ears, louder than the music. she blinks, hard, but the figure is gone.

she jerks slightly as her dance partner tries to get her to come back, her breath hitching, the heat of the room suddenly suffocating. she feels like she’s going to cry, or throw up, or both. then, like a sign from god, a hand wraps around her wrist. the fingers are calloused, covered with cool silver rings.

azzi jerks, eyes snapping up, her entire body going stiff with discomfort. she goes to push them off, demand that they leave her alone, but it’s paige. she’s standing in front of her now, too close, her expression pissed. her fingers press into azzi’s skin, warm and unyielding.

"you gotta be fucking kidding me, az," paige mutters, low and sharp, eyes dragging over azzi’s glittering body before snapping up to her face. “are you fucking crazy?”

azzi opens her mouth, but words escape her. paige’s jaw tightens. her free hand lands on azzi’s waist, steadying her. azzi exhales a soft, tired laugh.

“how’d you find me?” her words slur slightly, not fully gone, but not all there either.

paige lifts a brow. “we share our location with each other, dumbass.”

azzi hums, tilting her head against the wall. “mmm, forgot about that.”

paige glares, jaw clenching. then she steps closer, crowding into azzi’s space.

“what the fuck are you doing?” she demands, voice still low, like she’s forcing herself to keep it together. she sounds like sex, azzi’s brain tells her unhelpfully. “you really thought you could just sneak out and i wouldn’t come find you?”

azzi rolls her eyes, her head tipping forward slightly. “i don’t—” she wavers, stumbling slightly, and paige’s hand is suddenly there, gripping her bicep, steadying her. azzi blinks at the contact, something complicated flickering across her face before it dies out.

"you snuck out,” paige says again, voice flat, but azzi can hear something else in it—knows she’s gotten under her skin. “didn’t tell anyone. didn’t tell me. i had to call caroline who was worried out of her mind by the way.”

azzi swallows hard. she’s still trembling, still caught between panic and the aftermath of it, still seeing flashes of the mask in her mind like her own private film.

paige watches her closely, then exhales sharply. her hand slides up, grips the back of azzi’s neck.

“alright, nah,” she murmurs, voice lowering. “you're fucked up right now. you're done. i'm cutting you off. let’s go.”

azzi exhales another weak laugh. “i don’t wanna go.”

“yeah, well, i don’t care.”

paige tugs at her arm, but azzi resists, still leaning against the wall, still lost in whatever slow-motion, drowning feeling she’s been trying to sink into all night.

“i just needed—needed—“azzi starts, but she doesn’t finish.

paige waits. then her grip on azzi’s arm tightens, just slightly.

“needed what?”

azzi doesn’t answer. she looks up at paige, her lashes fringed with tiny tears as the party fades and reality sinks back in. paige’s jaw flexes, her hands follow suit. then, without another word, she steps even closer, her hands bracketing azzi’s hips, fingers pressing firm through the thin fabric of her dress.

“okay, fine,” paige murmurs, tone shifting—calmer now, almost coaxing. “you wanna stay? you wanna keep drinking and pretending shit didn’t happen?”

paige leans in, her lips ghosting the shell of azzi’s ear. “i’ll tell you what’s gonna happen, az,” she murmurs. “you’re gonna let me walk you out of here, and you’re gonna get in my fucking car. or i carry you out. swear.”

azzi shivers. she opens her mouth, but paige is already stepping back, already pulling her toward the exit. she knows what azzi would choose.

so, azzi lets her.

she lets paige take her hand, lets her lead her through the press of bodies, weaving through the overstimulation of sweat-slick strangers. lets herself be found again.

the song echoes behind her as they exit, a ghostly question on the cool breeze: what about you / when i fuck things up, yeah.

paige will always find her.

azzi sniffles, leans her head against paige’s back as the older girl tries to get the passenger door open.

“‘m sorry,” she sobs. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me. i just wanna feel good.”

paige stills, then turns and tugs her into a tight hug. azzi twitches with her tears, melts into the fortress of paige’s arms.

“i just wanna feel good again,” she says again, and paige continues to hold her.

she doesn’t know how long they stand there, how long paige holds her up.

𓇼

the bathroom floor is cold.

it’s the first thing azzi notices when she wakes, her cheek pressed against the white tile, her body curled around the base of the toilet like it's an altar. they have a beautiful bathroom is the second thing she thinks—and it’s what tells her that she still may be a little drunk. she presses further into the floor, desperate for the beauty to purify her.

her head pounds. everything hurts. not just physically, but bone-deep exhaustion that makes her wonder if this is what dying feels like.

she doesn't remember getting home. doesn't remember much after seeing paige at the club, after being found again. sunlight slices through the small window, hitting the shower curtain and diffusing into something gentle. but it's still too much. azzi closes her eyes, groans, feels her stomach heave.

she’s now at the point where she has no shame. she lies on her stomach, covered only by an oversized navy blue uconn tee and a pair of black cotton panties that do nothing to cover the full bubble of her ass. she thinks of paige changing her and the shame returns.

"mornin', princess."

azzi flinches. the shame deepens. she doesn't need to look to know it's paige, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. always watching.

"go away," azzi mumbles, her voice cracking straight down the middle to reveal her heart.

"nah, i don't think so." paige's voice is controlled, but azzi can hear the tension beneath it. "you look like shit. need to get some food in you."

azzi finally opens her eyes, turns her head slightly to look at paige. the blonde is wearing a loose t-shirt and shorts, her hair pulled back into a loose braid. she's holding a glass of water and two pills in her outstretched hand. even now, so clearly disappointed and irritated, she’s so beautiful.

azzi closes her eyes again, as if to stop paige from getting in. but her desire for her, her need has already infested her. to want paige was a disease and the spores had long spread deep into azzi’s body.

"i said go away."

paige sighs, stepping into the bathroom and crouching beside her. "take the pills, az."

"no."

"bro, stop being difficult. just take them."

"i don't want your help," azzi says, each word deliberate. she sits up slightly, her back against the bathtub, ignoring how the movement makes the room spin. "i can take care of myself."

paige laughs, but there's no humor in it. "yeah? that what you was doing last night? taking care of yourself?"

humiliation stings through azzi, quick and sharp. she remembers flashes—the body glitter, hands on her waist, the pulsing lights. the mask. always the mask.

"leave me alone."

"i'ma get you some toast. you need to eat."

"no."

paige's jaw tightens. "azzi. get the fuck up. you need to eat something."

"i said no!" azzi snaps, louder now, her voice bouncing off the bathroom walls. she knows she’s being childish, knows that this is her begging for attention but, "just—stop. stop pretending like everything's normal. stop acting like you care."

paige goes still. "acting?"

"yes, acting! this whole—" azzi gestures wildly between them, "—this whole thing. it's bullshit."

"bullshit," paige repeats, her voice dangerously soft. she sets the water and pills down on the edge of the sink with controlled precision. "you think i'm acting."

"i think you're a fucking liar," azzi says, and immediately regrets it. not because it isn't true, but because saying it out loud makes her unable to escape it.

paige's eyes flash. "a liar."

"yes! you—" azzi stops, swallows hard. her head is pounding so fiercely she can barely think. "you're not who i thought you were."

"no?" paige shifts closer, her eyes never leaving azzi's face. "who am i then, az? tell me. since you got me all figured out."

azzi closes her eyes, wishes she could disappear. "i don't know. it’s driving me crazy."

silence stretches between them, taut and heavy. then paige speaks, her voice surprisingly gentle.

"i told you, az. i'm just trying to protect you."

and there it is—the thing they don't talk about. the monster under the bed.

"protect me?" azzi laughs, bitter and broken. "from what? from who? the other killer, right? or maybe from yourself?"

paige's expression hardens. "you know better than that. they're out there, and they've got it in for you. you think i'm making that up? you think i enjoy this? watching you fall apart?"

"i don't know what to think anymore!" azzi's voice rises, threatens to crack. "i don't know what's real. i just know that my best friend—" she chokes on the words. "my best friend is a killer. and i'm just supposed to what? trust you? follow you around like some lost puppy?"

"i ain't never hurt you," paige says, fierce and low. "never would."

"but you've hurt others."

paige doesn't deny it. she just watches azzi, her gaze steady.

"i'm just trying to keep you safe," she says finally.

something in azzi snaps.

"for what?!" she shouts, pushing herself up straighter despite the way it makes her stomach churn. "why do you even care? it's not like i'm your girlfriend!"

the words hang between them, electric and dangerous. azzi freezes, realizing what she's just said, what she's just revealed. paige's eyes widen slightly, her lips parting in surprise. "az…" she starts, her voice softer now. "hey…"

"get out," azzi whispers, panic rising in her chest. "get out. get the fuck out!"

she's shaking now, tears threatening to spill over. she didn't mean to say it. didn't mean to expose herself so easily.

paige doesn't move. instead, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against azzi's cheek, gentle in a way that makes azzi want to scream.

"nah," paige says softly, her thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped despite azzi's best efforts. "i don't think that's what you want."

she's right.

paige shifts closer, careful and slow like she's approaching a wounded animal. in one fluid motion, she slides down to sit on the cold tile and pulls azzi into her lap, cradling her against her chest. azzi is too tired, too hungover, too emotionally drained to resist.

"why don't you ever just tell me whatchu want, ma? like straight up?" paige murmurs, her breath warm against azzi's temple. her fingers thread through azzi's hair, nails scratching gently against her scalp in a way that makes azzi want to melt despite herself.

azzi swallows hard, her eyes closed tight against the tears that threaten to spill. "because," she whispers, "one day you'll get tired of me. of this. of whatever this is."

her voice cracks on the last word, and she hates how vulnerable she sounds, how much she's revealing.

"and then what happens to me? what happens when you decide i'm not worth protecting anymore?"

there’s silence and then paige wraps a hand around her chin, forces her to look at her. she takes azzi’s hand in hers, lifts it up to the light and they both watch as she slides their hands together. she brings them down, twists so that azzi’s palm is revealed, and presses it down over her heart.

“you hear that?” paige says, and azzi slows her breathing as she tries to listen. eventually, she hears it. paige’s heart, on one hundred, plump and ripe as it pounds steadily against the meat of her hand. “do you know who’s doing this to me?”

azzi looks up at paige, eyes glistening. paige asks her again, voice steady, eyes steadier. “answer me. who’s doing this to me, az?”

“me,” azzi whispers.

“you,” paige affirms. her eyes are so bright, like ice under sun. “i’ll be tired of you only when i’m dead. and even then, i’ll claw my way up from hell to be with you in heaven, mama. i can promise you that.”

azzi watches her, sees the gleam of bloodlust and nods. she digs her nails into paige’s shoulder, and claws into her. she relaxes when paige claws back.

𓇼 azzi fakes it better. she packs up everything: the secret, the conversation that should’ve happened post her confessing her love for paige, the fear. it all festers. it beats against her brain like swallows against the glass of a window.

𓇼 she switches. the partying stops. the sneaking out slows. she remembers to have fun responsibly, runs herself into the ground at practice. she’s fine. perfect even.

𓇼 but the isolation begins. she needs to know who she’s dealing with, what vendetta she’s running from.

𓇼 paige won’t tell her much, this she knows. she tells her she’s tired to keep her at bay, but paige knows she’s lying. azzi supposes she allows her to get away with it because of the way she had been lying to her before. eventually, her time will be up.

𓇼 everyone is still worried about her though no one will say it.

𓇼 caroline starts sleeping over so much that azzi tells her to go back to her own place, if only to prevent paige from almost weeping with jealousy or something more psychopathic.

𓇼 morgan finds a way to keep touching her, trying to anchor her via the exercises given to her by her therapist. aubrey offers to talk and azzi says no, thank you with a bright smile. nika squeezes her shoulders when they hit the library together to study for a biomechanics exam from hell.

𓇼 the other girls follow suit: jana suddenly always ready for brunch, ice and kk practically living on her and paige’s couch, ashlynn walking with her after class. paige hates that one the most. azzi doesn’t understand it.

𓇼 paige will tense when ashlynn’s hand wraps around hers, their arms glued together as the other girl tries to talk azzi out of her worried thoughts.

𓇼 azzi kind of likes it, likes the fact that paige feels that something as simple as holding her hand should only fall within her jurisdiction. ash thinks it’s funny and azzi says nothing, focused on finding a way to live with the knowledge that she’s being hunted down.

𓇼 still, nothing makes the spiral stop. it only slows.

𓇼 sleep becomes a luxury azzi can't afford. every night after paige drifts off, azzi slips out of bed and hunches over her laptop at the kitchen table, blue light painting shadows across her face as she scrolls through article after article.

𓇼 victims one, two, and three: three volleyball players from the same school, found together. victim four: jasmine williams, duke basketball standout. body discovered behind the equipment shed.

𓇼 victim five: madison park, tennis prodigy from MIT. bled out on the pavement, a neat crescent carved across her neck. victim six: sophia rose, soccer star from uconn. found on the field with multiple stab wounds. no witnesses.

𓇼 azzi creates a map, marks each location with a red dot. she writes out their names, their sports, their accolades. she searches for connections, for patterns, for any reason why these specific people were targeted. for any reason why she might be next.

𓇼 the pattern emerges slowly, then all at once: they were stars. the ones coaches praised in press conferences. all but two were team captains. all were exceptional athletes with promising futures. ones with highlight reels that once went viral, but now stood as a testament to their white lighter lives.

𓇼 ones like paige. ones like her.

𓇼 "fuck," she whispers to the darkness. "what's the fucking point of any of this?"

𓇼 dark circles form under her eyes. she drinks coffee until her hands shake. caroline notices, offers to get her a prescription for something to help her sleep. azzi declines with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. she knows herself, and what she can become. the last thing she needs is to have to be weaned off of the sweet lullaby of a drug.

𓇼 at practice, she's still razor-sharp. fear has a way of focusing the mind, and basketball has always been her sanctuary. on the court, she doesn't have to think about killers or survival or her best friend's bloody (perfect) hands.

𓇼 geno watches her with concerned eyes but says nothing. he knows better than to interfere with whatever parasite eats at inside of her. kk whispers to jana that azzi seems "haunted." jana just nods, squeezes azzi’s hand during an exercise.

𓇼 night after night, azzi builds her theory. tacks photos to a corkboard she hides in her closet when paige is around. connects threads between victims who seemed to have nothing in common except their athletic excellence and the brutal way they died.

𓇼 she's so deep in her research one night that she doesn't hear paige approach until warm hands slide over her shoulders.

"princess, it's 3 am," paige's voice is thick with sleep, her fingers kneading the tension from azzi's neck. "what you still doing up?"

azzi quickly closes her laptop, but not before paige catches a glimpse of the crime scene photos.

"just couldn't sleep," azzi says, leaning back into paige's touch despite herself.

paige sighs, her breath warm against azzi's ear. the heat makes azzi’s body lock up, then break down."you can't keep doing this to yourself, ma. you gotta rest sometime."

"i'm fine."

"nah, you not." paige spins azzi's chair around, forcing her to meet her eyes. "i miss you."

the simple confession catches azzi off guard. paige looks vulnerable in the dim kitchen light, her hair messy from sleep. she’s in one of azzi’s hoodies, the sleeves well-worn.

"i'm right here," azzi says softly.

"you’re not though. you’re here—" paige taps azzi's forehead gently, "—but you’re not here." she places her hand over azzi's heart. "i want you here w’me. i miss my best friend."

the words hit azzi like a physical blow. because despite everything—despite the lies, the blood, the danger—she misses paige too. misses the simplicity of before, when paige was just her overprotective best friend and not a borderline psychopath trying to save her from another.

"come on," paige says, tugging azzi up from the chair. "laptop closed. no more death tonight."

azzi allows herself to be pulled to her feet. "what are you doing?"

paige grins that familiar smile that makes azzi's heart skip despite everything. it’s in moments like this one where azzi can see how paige will age, how she'll morph over time into something so golden and full of life. she watches as paige walks over to the speaker on the counter and connects her phone. a moment later, sza's voice fills the kitchen, low enough not to disturb their neighbors.

"dancing," paige says, extending her hand. "like we used to."

azzi hesitates, just for a moment, before taking her hand. "this is ridiculous."

"prolly."

but paige pulls her close, one hand on her waist, the other still holding azzi's. they sway together in the dim kitchen, bare feet on cool wood, the music wrapping around them like a cocoon. azzi rests her head on paige's shoulder and inhales the familiar scent of her skin. 

for a moment, they're just two college students, dancing in their kitchen at 3 am because they can. maybe even two women married and tried, nothing in between them but love found true. 

"i got a question for you," paige murmurs against her hair.

"hmm?"

"go out with me."

azzi pulls back slightly, eyes searching paige's face. "that’s not a question."

"az. you know what i mean. like, for real. a date. me and you." paige looks almost shy, which is so unlike her that azzi almost laughs. "been wanting to ask for a minute now."

"a date," azzi repeats, tasting the word. "like roses and dinner and—”

"mmhmm. if that's what you want. i just want you. however, you'll have me."

the honesty in paige's voice makes azzi's chest ache. this is what she's wanted for so long, and now that it's here, wrapped in flesh and blood, she doesn't know what to do with it.

"yes," azzi says before she can think better of it. "yes, i'll go out with you."

paige's smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. she spins azzi around suddenly, making her laugh in surprise, before pulling her back in close.

"bet," paige says, pressing her forehead against azzi's. "friday night. i'ma show you the best night of your life, promise."

azzi believes her.

𓇼 the next morning feels different. lighter somehow. azzi catches herself humming as she makes her matcha, stealing glances at paige across the kitchen. paige is unabashedly staring back and it makes azzi laugh so much she flashes her teeth.

𓇼 paige’s phone is connected to the mini speaker sitting on the counter and when ‘power trip’ by j. cole filters through, she sings the chorus to her with her hands out as if pleading azzi to release her from this cycle they're in. azzi flushes, covering her face as paige tells her “we are, we are, we are” in response to miguel’s crooning question of: would you believe me if i said i'm in love?

𓇼 azzi tries to play it cool, tries to tamp down the wave rising in her stomach. she rolls her eyes, pushes paige back as she makes her way to the door. at the last minute, she turns and says “i do want you, though,” in response to paige's horrifically loud and off-key wails about how she wants her to want her. 

𓇼 paige lights up, full body, and rushes to the door. azzi giggles and shuts the door just in time, laughing louder at paige’s dramatic cry of her name behind the wood. 

𓇼 still, she doesn’t lose sight of her goal. the research remains, tucked away in a folder on her laptop, but for the first time in weeks, azzi feels like she can breathe. like maybe there's a way through this darkness after all.

𓇼 paige brings her flowers between classes. it’s beautiful: a coil of baby pink peonies mixed in with lilies so orange they almost glow. azzi blushes when paige hands them to her in front of everyone, her smile pulled out like a ship called to shore.

𓇼 "what's this for?" azzi asks, burying her nose in the petals to hide her smile.

𓇼 "practice, princess," paige says with a wink. "for friday."

𓇼 the rest of the team notices the shift. kk raises an eyebrow when paige's hand lingers on azzi's back during practice. jana smirks knowingly when they arrive to team breakfast together, paige carrying azzi's bag alongside her own.

𓇼 caroline corners azzi in the locker room. "finally happening, huh?" she asks, nodding toward paige across the room. azzi just shrugs, but she can't keep the smile off her face. "maybe."

𓇼 "about time. you two have been dancing around each other forever." this time from ashlynn. the words are sweet, encouraging, but azzi can’t help but feel her tone is slightly cold. however, the irony of that statement—of how literal their dancing had been—makes azzi laugh.

𓇼 even geno seems pleased, his usual gruff demeanor softening when he catches paige stealing a kiss from azzi after a particularly good drill, her lips parting to show her teeth as she grins against azzi’s cheek.

𓇼 for three blissful days, azzi almost forgets. believes they could be normal. convinces herself that the horrors lurking beneath the surface of their lives might remain there. 

𓇼 but nothing good lasts forever.

𓇼 it happens on thursday night. one day before their date. azzi, jana, and morgan are in the library, their concentration on the edge as they cram for their biomechanics exam.

𓇼 "i swear to god, if i never hear the word 'kinetic chain' again, it'll be too soon," morgan groans, closing her book with a thud.

𓇼 "you know your stuff," jana insists, nudging morgan with her elbow. "you'll do fine, babe."

𓇼 "easy for you to say. you're actually good at science."

𓇼 azzi knocks their knees together in camaraderie, about to chime in with her own complaints about the exam, when the lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely.

𓇼 the library plunges into darkness, the only illumination coming from the emergency exit signs casting a deep red glow across the stacks.

"please, don’t panic," calls the library assistant from somewhere near the front desk. "probably just a power surge. the emergency lights should kick in soon."

azzi's phone illuminates, casting harsh shadows across her face. jana and morgan follow suit, three small pools of light in the darkness.

"weird," morgan whispers, glancing around. "i’m kind of freaked out. do you think we should wait it out or—"

the crash of breaking glass cuts through the quiet, followed by screams from the front of the room. then another sound that makes azzi's blood freeze—music drifting through the darkness. a slow, distorted rock ballad playing from somewhere in the stacks.

"we need to go," azzi says, already gathering her books. "now."

before they can move, there's a commotion at the front desk, more screaming. the library assistant's voice rises in panic before cutting off abruptly. 

"back exit," jana whispers, grabbing morgan's arm. "through the archives."

they move quickly through the darkness, phone lights bobbing, hearts pounding. azzi leads, and jana follows, with morgan bringing up the rear. the music grows louder as they navigate between shelves, the slow, grinding guitars creating a surreal backdrop to their flight. they reach the archives section when azzi hears it—the soft scrape of footsteps behind them, too deliberate to be another panicked student.

"hide," she hisses, pulling jana behind a tall shelf. morgan ducks behind a study carrel, her breathing shallow and fast.

from their hiding place, azzi can see a figure moving through the shadows. the mask gleams in the red emergency light; that same nightmare mask she'd glimpsed in the club, in her dreams. 

"there's a window in the rare books room," jana breathes against azzi's ear. "we can break it, get out."

azzi nods, scanning the darkness. the killer seems to be moving away from them, toward the front of the archives. if they're quick, if they're quiet…

"on three," she mouths. "one. two—"

morgan's phone chimes loudly, an incoming text that shatters the silence. the killer whips around, head tilting like a predator sensing prey.

"run!" azzi screams and the sound tears through her throat like razor wire.

they break cover, sprinting toward the rare books room. the killer moves with inhuman speed, cutting between shelves to intercept them. jana reaches the door first, yanking it open, shoving morgan through. azzi feels the air shift behind her, and ducks instinctively as metal slices the space where her head had been. she tumbles forward, scrambling on hands and knees toward the door.

inside the room, jana is already at the window, using a chair to break the glass. the sound of shattering is thunderous in the small space. morgan helps clear the jagged edges from the frame.

"hurry!" morgan cries.

the door bursts open. everything slows down. 

in the light of the exit sign, azzi sees the glint of the knife, sees jana pivot to protect morgan, sees her own hands reaching for anything to use as a weapon. the attack is swift, brutal. jana manages to land a solid kick that sends the killer stumbling back into a shelf. books rain down, an avalanche of hard weight. morgan helps azzi to her feet, both of them backing toward the window.

"almost there," morgan says, her voice incredibly earnest as she gestures at the window frame.

the killer recovers, lunging forward. jana grabs a heavy tome from behind her and swings it with all her strength. it connects with the killer's arm, and as the killer moans in pain, something snaps—a thin silver bracelet that falls to the floor with a musical chime. azzi's eyes lock onto it, the breath freezing in her lungs. she knows that bracelet. 

the realization floods her with ice-cold clarity. it’s short-lived, a moment of consciousness before the killer slickly pivots, knife finding its mark in morgan's abdomen.

the sound morgan makes isn't a scream—it's smaller, more surprised. a soft "oh" as the blade sinks deep. hot blood blooms across her faded beige sweatshirt, appearing black as it stains the stitches of the malibu imprinted upon it. 

jana screams, the sound primal and raw. the tang of blood fills the air and mixes with the salt of the tears tracking down azzi's face, mixes with the snot and spit of terror. she can taste it all. fear has a flavor; it’s metallic and bitter at the back of her throat. 

the killer twists the knife cruelly before yanking it free. morgan stares down at the spread of her own blood, her expression more confused than pained. she’s mumbling, misunderstanding what’s happened to her as her mind tries to shield her one last time. her knees buckle, but the killer grabs her before she can fall with a strength that seems impossible for their frame. in one fluid motion, they drag morgan toward the window, its glass teeth jagged and waiting to tear flesh.

jana recovers first, charging forward with a wail that shreds her vocal cords raw. but the killer is ready. they are always ready. they sidestep at the last moment, and jana's momentum carries her past, sending her crashing into a display case. azzi lunges forward—but it's too late. 

the killer heaves morgan's body through the window, the glass slicing her skin neatly as she tumbles through. her body falls into the darkness, a wet thud following a moment later, sickening and final. azzi’s eyes fill with tears, taking in jana’s distraught hiccuping sobs and her own rough weeping from the floor. morgan is silent, smashed into a memory on the pavement, her face undone into a mess of blood and bone. 

azzi crawls to the window, heaves herself up. she must look insane but she doesn’t care. this can’t be happening. this isn’t happening. morgan needs to wake up. this isn’t funny. 

“morgan. morgan, wake up. mo, please wake up. please. please.”

the world is smearing together. there’s white noise inside of her head. azzi is crying so hard that she’s unable to breathe, her body unleashing a sound that doesn’t belong in a human throat. she fights to not slide to her knees, sobbing as she distantly registers jana weakly crawling to her side, pulling azzi away into her arms. they’re a terrible scene: a girl holding a girl who is calling to a corpse.

“morgan, please. please.”

the world is ending around them. this is her worst fear realized. the killer only watches them, head tilting slightly. even through the mask, azzi feels the cold assessment, the casual cruelty. 

they're not people to this monster—just sacks of meat to be opened, animals to be put down.

azzi's gaze drops to the broken bracelet on the floor, then back to the masked figure. "i know who you are," she whispers, her voice a ragged remnant. "i know, and i swear to god, i will kill you."

the killer's shoulders rise and fall in what might be a silent laugh. then, with one last look at the girls struggling to their feet, they melt back into the darkness, vanishing amidst the soundtrack of their destruction.

𓇼

azzi’s only silent when the police come. she’s incoherent, her mouth and chin covered in vomit. there’s a refusal to process the truth, a refusal to process the dead body splayed underneath the window. and yet, when they lead the girls outside, she finds the strength to run and hold morgan’s shattered body to her stomach when they try to take her away. 

she looks oddly beautiful, jana thinks, gaze distantly focused on what’s left of morgan. her eyes are so pretty. she has big, starry eyes. sad baby eyes. i should’ve told her. jana collapses then, cracks her head on the sidewalk as she goes out cold.

azzi pays her no mind, says something over and over, so quickly that she remains unaware that she’s speaking. when she accesses the police report later she reads that she sat in morgan’s blood, crying out that she loved her again and again for over thirty minutes. the officers had let her have that time, had understood who this girl had been to her. the paramedics had whisked jana away almost immediately after her fall, unable to waste any more time. 

but what sticks in azzi’s head years after the massacre is the way that murderer had looked at them. the way their body had radiated triumph and a tinge of sick desire as they watched her on the floor, as they watched her take in what was left of her teammate and friend.

azzi had been too busy screaming to see how jana had looked up and had silently begged them to kill her. but the killer knew at that moment that it would only hurt them more to remain alone and alive. that it would eat them whole. jana had grasped at them as they moved away from her and toward the door. she had almost touched their boot when they’d kicked her in the side, sending her toppling and cracking into the wall. 

she’d landed hard, face to face with her slack-eyed reflection in the display case. her own eyes stared her down, and then she’d picked herself up, her body aching severely. she had crawled to azzi, unable to get up a second time, and curled around her wailing form.

now, azzi is silent. jana is unconscious. morgan is gone. 

the body bag zips up over a person she knew, a girl she loved so much, that she would’ve done anything for. she lays on her back, her ribs fractured and grief punching through her lungs. she feels blood pool in her mouth. 

a friend is dead, and the other is in critical condition. she thinks of this. she remembers the bracelet. she is filled with the certainty that she knows exactly who's trying to kill her.

as her eyes shut, light floods through her teeth. the sun’s risen.

𓇼 paige doesn't leave her side after that. not for a second. she sleeps curled around azzi like a shield, her body tense even in unconsciousness, ready to spring into action at the slightest sound.

𓇼 "i'm so sorry, mama," paige whispers against azzi's hair, over and over, like a prayer or a promise. "i should've been there.”  she should have.

𓇼 azzi doesn't respond. can't find the words past the knot of grief in her throat. morgan is gone. sweet, funny morgan who always shared her snacks and locked her door and never forgot anyone's birthday.

𓇼 she can’t even imagine the emptiness that’s pooling deep inside of aubrey. she didn’t have a chance to speak to her. upon receiving the news all the light just left her. she shut down, went home. 

𓇼 the campus goes into extreme lockdown. classes are canceled. police swarm every building, every walkway. students are advised not to go anywhere alone, to go home if they’re able.

𓇼 jana stays with them, unable to return to the dorm she shared with morgan and sarah. she sleeps on their couch, when she sleeps at all. mostly she stares at the wall, her eyes hollow.

𓇼 "did you—did you see…" jana starts one night, her voice still hoarse from screaming. "did you see anything? anything that could help identify them?"

𓇼 azzi exchanges a look with paige, whose expression has gone carefully blank. jana’s stay has resulted in paige having to act normal, but more interestingly—it’s yielded kindness toward someone who isn’t azzi. paige is quiet, not because she aims to protect herself, but because she wants to shelter jana.

𓇼 "just the mask," azzi lies, the broken bracelet burning a hole in her pocket where she'd slipped it during the chaos. "nothing useful."

𓇼 but she knows. she saw enough in those brief, violent moments to confirm what she'd thought she’d hallucinated. the bracelet. ashlynn's bracelet. 

𓇼 she had watched her fidget with it during team meetings, a nervous habit. had complimented it once, and ashlynn had smiled coldly, said it was a gift from her mother. ashlynn, who was nondescript and kind and perfectly under the radar. who had thrown morgan out of the goddamn window.

𓇼 that night, jana falls asleep on their couch, the exhaustion of grief finally pulling her under. azzi sits at the kitchen counter, turning the silver bracelet over and over in her hands. the delicate chain catches the dim light, the small charm—a pair of wings—spinning slowly.

𓇼 paige watches her from the doorway, her expression unreadable. "you need to sleep, az."

𓇼 "can't," azzi says, not looking up.

𓇼 paige crosses to her, bare feet silent on the tile floor. she stops behind azzi's chair, close enough that azzi can feel the heat radiating from her body.

𓇼 "come on," paige says, her voice gentle in a way it rarely is with anyone else. "just for a little while."

𓇼 azzi allows herself to be guided to paige's room, the bracelet still clutched in her palm. the door clicks shut behind them, and for a moment, they just stand there in the darkness, breathing each other's air.

𓇼 "it's ashlynn, isn't it?" azzi whispers finally, the words barely audible.

𓇼 the silence stretches, thick and heavy between them. paige's silhouette is motionless against the faint glow from the window.

𓇼 "isn't it?" azzi repeats, her voice cracking on the question. paige's shoulders slump, as if under an invisible weight. "yes."

𓇼 the single word lands like a physical blow. azzi makes a sound—something between a gasp and a sob—and sinks down onto the edge of the bed.

𓇼 “what the fuck?”

𓇼 paige sits beside her, close but not touching. "she's always been... off. even before i knew what i was, i could sense something similar in her. i guess at one point, we were competing." paige's voice is low, careful. "she hates anyone who outshines her. can't stand not being the center of attention. went along for a while because it was fun, gave me a fix. then coach started talking about you being the future of the program...she snapped. i told her you were off limits."

𓇼 "but you—"

𓇼 "she's scared of me," paige says simply. "she knows what i am. what i can do. so she targets you instead."

𓇼 "to hurt you," azzi whispers. everything is finally coming together. "to get you out of the way."

𓇼 paige nods, her profile sharp in the dim light. "two birds, one stone."

𓇼 azzi opens her palm, the bracelet catching the moonlight. "what are we going to do?"

𓇼 "i’m going to get her back," paige says, the words falling like stones between them. "make it even."

𓇼 the certainty in paige's voice should frighten her, azzi thinks. the casual way she speaks of killing. but instead, it sends a different kind of shiver through her body.

azzi is unable to sleep despite her best efforts. 

she rolls over time and time again, even trying to listen to a three-hour video of ocean wave asmr. nothing works. her mind is buzzing with an amalgamation of terror and dark, desperate need. 

she sits up, her scarf and bonnet sliding down her back coolly. she swings her feet over her bed and stumbles through the door and into the hallway. she doesn’t bother taking her phone or using a flashlight. she knows where she’s headed; there was never anywhere else. 

paige opens the door with her eyes squinted with sleep, but it only lasts a minute. she’s so attuned to azzi, so wired into the signal of her body. she steps forward halfway only for azzi to press her back into the room, closing the door behind her. she leans against the door, hands behind her back and on the doorknob before she speaks. 

“i feel so unsafe like someone is watching me,” azzi starts, not sure how to finish the thought. not sure what she needs beyond the immediate presence of paige's skin against hers, beyond the oblivion of touch. “i need you to watch me.”

 “’m not following, az,” paige tells her, brow furrowing in confusion. “watchu mean?”

azzi says nothing, only looking up at her from underneath her dark lashes.  then she moves, skirts around paige, and sits on her bed. she taps the space beside her gently, urging her best friend to come sit down. when paige obliges, azzi shifts back so that she’s further up and near the headboard.

without breaking eye contact, azzi takes her sleep shirt by the hem and lifts it over her head in one fluid motion. it leaves her chest bare, her nipples pebbling immediately in response to the cool air. they’re dark and hard, and make paige’s mouth water. her brain has gone offline. 

azzi continues, lifting her hips to slide down her shorts and reveal the jade-green panties she’s wearing. the lace is deepened to a lush, emerald green at the apex of her thighs—her arousal soaking through. azzi crawls forward, brings her hands to paige’s face, cradling it before pulling her forward. 

the first kiss is gentle—a question, an offering. the second is not.

azzi loses herself in the heat of paige's mouth, in the insistent press of her body. she tastes like mint and something headier, something that makes azzi’s head spin. they fall back onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. paige's mouth finds the sensitive spot where azzi's neck meets her shoulder, and azzi arches up, a soft moan escaping her lips. 

they break apart and paige hovers above her, eyes reflecting starlight from the window. azzi thumbs at her bottom lip, swipes up the saliva there, and pushes it back in. she curves her finger, fucks it in like she would in paige’s cunt, and feels her stomach pulse as paige rocks down, eyes going up momentarily and revealing white.

"unh," she says eloquently, her voice rough with wanting and the syllables slurred around azzi’s fingers.

azzi laughs, then retracts her fingers. she forces paige up and off of her, adjusting so that she sits back on her haunches with her knees bent. she breathes. “i’m going to touch myself, and you’re going to watch me. and when i’m ready, i’ll ask you to touch.”

paige can’t think. she’s working on base instinct, on the primal need to please the girl before her. azzi smells so sweet like she always does. it’s sugar, pear, plum, and at the base—caramel. paige can't help but lean forward and bite down, working into the muscle of her tits. her fingers trace the high peak of the nipple left neglected by her tongue, moaning in tandem with azzi as the other girl spasms with pleasure. paige wonders if she can get her to cum just like this, if she can get her to release wet and hot and sticky all over her face; drip sweet and warm into her mouth. 

azzi shifts beneath her, her ass practically spilling out of her lace panties, her thighs so full, so perfect. paige has to swallow a groan at the sight.

and yes, azzi’s just been through a horrific incident,  and paige is barely holding it together, and probably high off of finally, finally having this moment, but god, she just aches for azzi so much. a spear of desire pierces through her, making her dig her nails into azzi's back to keep it down.

she thinks of before, of that same feeling of feeling less sick, less starved for the blood she thinks of wheedling out of perfect strangers. now, her body sings a cohesive tune. it’s azzi, all the time.

 “paige," azzi whispers, pulling her up for another kiss. "you—fuck—you have to listen. not yet, okay? i promise i’ll let you touch soon, let you do anything you want to me.."

paige obeys. she can’t do anything but. she busies herself with losing her mind silently as she uses every single molecule of strength in her body to pull back. she isn’t good at being good all the time though, so she sneaks one last touch in and revels in the small sounds azzi makes when her fingers find her swollen clit, in the way she bucks when paige's mouth trails down her neck when paige’s nails mark up her inner thighs. 

every touch feels both new and familiar as if they've been doing this for years, as if they were made for exactly this. paige thinks they were. azzi finds she agrees. finally, paige stops touching her and azzi can do what she needs to. she sits fully on her ass now, thighs spread open and a hand dangling lazily in front of the wet fabric of her underwear.

after a while, she drags them down her legs and off. she goes to slip them off the side of the bed, but paige stops her with a quick hand. she takes them, swirls a fingertip in the middle of the fabric where all of azzi’s arousal lies spilled. paige looks up, keeps eye contact as she sucks it off. azzi has to physically restrain herself from lunging for her.

instead, she spreads her legs wider and smiles slowly as paige’s eyes glaze over. azzi looks as confectionary as paige imagined her to be, her cunt perfect and full with brown folds that give way to a pink as bright as turkish delight. it drools unabashedly, precum sliding down and out onto the bed. 

she's so sensitive, crying out weakly as she slides a finger inside. she pushes herself hard from the start, then harder and harder—takes herself further and further. paige is trying so hard to be good; her body practically twitches with it.  she watches intently as azzi’s fingers dip deep inside her gummy walls, curling and pulling until a thin ring of white sits frothy and bright at the base of them. 

azzi surrenders her eye contact with paige, head kicking back as she rolls a thumb over the rosy pearl of her clit. it’s swollen and straining with stimulation. paige makes a sound low in her throat as azzi’s brow scrunches, her hips rolling and swiveling to meet her ministrations. and paige knows she’s supposed to be waiting for permission, knows that she’s only supposed to do what azzi wants her to. but she just—she just—fuck. 

she just wants azzi to feel good, and she’s so clearly struggling—so clearly begging for it. she can tell azzi is getting close, her thighs quivering as the muscles flex beneath the skin. just as azzi falls apart, paige crawls forward and over her, lowering her head to press against azzi’s kiss-swollen lips.

when her best friend falls apart beneath her, it’s electric and paige swallows the sparks, feeling something inside her chest crack open, something tender and frightening blooming in its place. she doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop despite azzi’s high whimpers. instead, paige trails a hand down until she reaches azzi’s pussy, playing with the lips and sinking in and out. her mouth is running a mile a minute, most of it incoherent and filthy.

“shit’s loose as fuck,” she murmurs against azzi’s neck, the words hot against her veins. “perfect and ready f'me, right? so fucking needy for me, aren’t you, baby? she needs me, doesn’t she?”

azzi tries to answer, but every time paige fucks into her she loses all ability to create a sound. so she mouths it, presses an endless stream of ‘yeses’ just beneath paige’s ear. one of her hands comes up and twists into paige’s hair, yanking a mass of blonde as she chases her second high. paige groans gutturally, the pain so familiar and so fucking good.

she feels azzi twist beneath her, feels the signal her body is broadcasting, and she removes her fingers. azzi makes a sound like she’s been shot, and paige kisses her to soothe her. she works quickly, tipping them further back till azzi is completely flat on the comforter. with steady hands, paige pushes one of her legs further out so that there’s enough space for her to fit in between them. 

she shimmies out of her boxers and slides off of her shirt. azzi watches her with undisguised desire, her eyes softening as she takes in paige’s full, pale tits with their perfect rose-pink nipples. her brown eyes darken as her gaze dips and falls on paige’s cunt, the lips slightly large and iced like a cupcake with her cum.

“fuck,” azzi breathes. “fuck, p, you’re so pretty. you’re so beautiful, baby. did you cum from watching me?”

paige nods, head hazy from the praise. “uh-huh.”

azzi goes to say something more, but paige might just die if she doesn’t get to feel her. she surges forward, aligns their cunts, and then drops slowly. the minute their clits touch both girls let out twin moans, high and strained as if in pain. paige rocks forward first, then back. azzi lets her set the pace, her mouth slack and her eyes so low that her lashes touch her cheek. 

nothing in the world will ever feel as good as this. it’s simply a thought that paige knows to be true.

she leans down and places a hand behind azzi’s head, rocking her hips faster and faster. with every pushy and pull she can feel the heat of their cunts, their separate wetness becoming shared. paige thinks of the fact that as they move against one another, their cum is slipping deep inside of their pussies which makes her bounce faster which makes azzi groan like she’s been hit and that makes paige reach out and slide a finger in between her full lips. 

and azzi wants to cum together, she really does, but she’s already so sensitive and paige is tearing her apart in her quest for pleasure. it only takes another grind before azzi screams and squirts, her hand flailing out blindly until she finds paige’s wrist and yanks her fingers from her mouth.

as her orgasm crests, sending her vision white and blind, azzi digs her teeth into paige’s palm to keep herself quiet, bites until the skin splits, and a drop of blood dribbles down her chin.

“oh shit, ma,” paige slurs, her pupils dilating wide. “fuckkk, honey, keep going. look at you, baby. give me that shit. c’mon, there you go. make me cum.”

azzi’s so overstimulated that her body is involuntarily jerking with the feel of paige still going and her orgasm still going and the world just keeps going and—she whites out, going unconscious momentarily as paige bucks faster and faster, hell-bent on cumming right inside of her. 

“so close, mama, swear. fuck, just—just a little more. az, look at me.” paige slaps her cheek a couple of times, grinning maniacally as azzi blinks woozily back into the present. “look at me. yeah, fuck, yeahhh.”

azzi mewls weakly and she sounds so fucking pathetic that it’s what sends paige over the edge. 

“holy shit,” paige squeals, her mouth dropping open. “oh. oh shit, thank you. thank you, baby. you make me feel so good. made me feel so fucking good. so fucking—god.”

as paige cums for the second time, azzi cums for the fourth—dry. nothing comes out, but she still pushes paige off and curls into a ball, slamming her legs shut as she draws into herself.  paige is half-laughing half-sobbing on her side as her orgasm spills like sunlight into her belly, spreading out until she’s on fire. 

they lie like this for a while, until azzi pushes out a whine and reaches for her best friend. paige crawls to her, still delicious with pleasure, and presses against her. her tits are sweat-slick against azzi’s hot back, and she’s so grateful for the fan beside her bed. she reaches up, finds the remote, and turns it on. 

they both sigh as their skin begins cooling in the breeze, legs tangled beneath the sheets. azzi turns and traces patterns on paige's chest, her touch featherlight.

 "i've wanted that for so long," paige admits, the lack of light making her brave. "wanted you. always"

"i know, p. me too," azzi whispers, pressing a kiss to paige's shoulder. "it was perfect. you’re so perfect."

paige tightens her arm around azzi, pulls her closer. "whatever happens, whatever comes next… i need you to know this isn't just—"

"i know, baby," azzi interrupts, raising herself on one elbow to look down at paige. "this isn't just a distraction or a coping mechanism or whatever. this is us. this is real."

the relief on paige's face is palpable, even in the dim light. she reaches up, tucks a curl behind azzi's ear. "real," she echoes, tasting the word.

it’s a covenant.

𓇼 morning comes too soon, streaming through the blinds in gauzy, golden ribbons. azzi wakes slowly, aware of the welcome weight of paige's arm around her waist, the steady rhythm of her breathing against azzi's back.

𓇼 for a moment, she allows herself to simply exist in this bubble of warmth, to pretend that they're just two regular girls waking up together after a night of finally giving in to their deepest desires.

𓇼 "i can hear you thinking," paige mumbles against her neck, voice thick with sleep.

𓇼 azzi laughs softly, turning in paige's arms to face her. "good morning to you too."

𓇼 paige's eyes are soft, still hazy with sleep, her hair a wild halo against the pillow. she looks younger like this, azzi thinks. more vulnerable.

𓇼 "hi," paige says, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

𓇼 "hi," azzi returns, tracing the line of paige's jaw with her finger.  they stay like that for a moment, just looking at each other, relearning features they already know by heart. paige shuffles forward, kisses azzi close-mouthed and chastely. azzi hums, leans into her.

𓇼 the sound of a throat clearing breaks the spell. they both look up to see jana standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

𓇼 "y'all are not as quiet as you think you are," jana says, arching an eyebrow. "just fyi."

𓇼 azzi feels heat rush to her face, burying it in paige's shoulder with a groan. paige, on the other hand, just grins, unrepentant.

𓇼 "my bad," paige says, not sounding sorry at all.

𓇼 jana rolls her eyes, but there's a ghost of a smile on her lips—the first azzi's seen since morgan. "i made coffee. and we need to talk."

𓇼 she leaves them alone, footsteps retreating down the hall. azzi raises her head to meet paige's eyes.

𓇼 "so much for keeping this quiet," she says.

𓇼 paige shrugs, pulling azzi closer. "let 'em talk. i got nothing to hide."

𓇼 "nothing?" azzi asks, but they both know she’s asking something else.

𓇼 paige's expression sobers. "about us? nothing. ’m not ashamed of you, az.”

𓇼 azzi nods, pressing a quick kiss to paige's lips before sitting up. she looks down at her, strokes her thumb along her bottom lip. "no matter what you think, it's the same for me. i love you. all of you, paige.” 

𓇼 paige watches her move around the room, gathering discarded clothes, her eyes hungry in a way that makes azzi's skin heat all over again.

𓇼 "stop looking at me like that," azzi says, pulling on paige's oversized t-shirt.

𓇼 "can't help it," paige replies, folding her arms behind her head, making no move to get up. "you're something else, fudd."

𓇼 azzi throws paige's shorts at her head. "get dressed. we've got work to do."

𓇼 paige catches the shorts with one hand, laughing. "yes, ma'am."

𓇼 as azzi reaches for the door, paige calls out her name. she turns, one hand on the doorknob.

𓇼 "hmm?"

𓇼 paige's expression is serious now, all traces of playfulness gone. "i meant what i said last night. whatever happens, i got you. always."

𓇼 azzi feels something tighten in her chest, a mixture of fear and fierce affection. "i know, baby. i got you too."

𓇼 and she believes it. they have each other. and together, they're going to end this. or die trying. 

© hcneymooners.

[acstation206]

I messed up. /j

Introducing...

THE AMAZING DIGITAL ARCADE PARTY!

Yeah, that's right, I caved in.

Basically the exact same show except its established lore and setting is more largely inspired by archive compilations of popular vintage arcade games of the 80s and 90s such as Pac-Man’s Arcade Party, as well as the different takes within the sci-fi / fantasy genre by the likes of Wreck-It Ralph, Tron: Legacy, and Infinity Train. 

==

= BACKGROUND (in a nutshell) 💿 =

In an attempt to save their dying business, C&A developed and manufactured the first hybrid arcade game of its own kind that combined other popular arcade games and home console games with virtual reality. However, just as the company’s luck was turning around, numerous lawsuits from game companies by the likes of Nintendo and families were filed against the company for their product, from apparently “ripping-off” Super Mario Bros. in its entirety to causing many children to either inexplicably fall unconscious or suffer from amnesia after the cabinet’s headset was put on. Just then, as C&A announced they’ll be temporarily recalling the product to fix its issues, a shocking discovery was already made by investigators that would soon bring the company to its demise: the game’s AI had gone rogue, and once a human mind dies from losing one of the games in any way, they are either permanently reincarnated as a personified cartoon character of themselves or just straight up die in real-life depending on the outcome.

==

= ART N’ STUFF 🎨 =

(might wanna make a separate masterpost for that in the future but oh well)

NES Ragatha

Pomni and Caine redesigns

==

= Q&As and BOUNDARIES (sort of) 🎙️ =

"Are there any plans to make a full webcomic out of this?" - Uhhhh, mayyybe? I'm not entirely sure, honestly. While there may be a few side comics and artwork from my head I want to get out sometime, I don't really have much plans for this AU that'll be worth telling a full story right now since I feel there is plenty of things that I've yet to figure out and develop in a matter of time, particularly the setting and characters (especially considering the OG show itself has only 2 episodes out as of writing and I only have mobile apps like ibisPaint X to make this all possible at the moment).

"Can I make fanfics and OCs for this AU?" - Of course! I've seen a lot of incredible things from the community, especially in regards to alternate universes, so you're absolutely more than welcome to share whatever's on your mind as long as your heart's in the right place. I can't really guarantee I'll see every bit of it since I do have some personal biz of mine to take care of at any moment, but I'll be happy to reblog them whenever I get the chance. Just tag me and we all good. :)

"Are there any canon ships in this AU?" - Yes. Yes, there are. Well, only BunnyDoll (Jax x Ragatha) to be specific. HOWEVER, you are free to ship whoever you want here! Showtime (Caine x Pomni), ButtonBlossom (Pomni x Ragatha), it's all okay. The choice is yours, a romantic buffet! (Plus, depending on the quality of my writing, I'm not even planning to dwell too much into it for now, aside from the side comics that will.)

==

That's all for right now. Enjoy! :)

[cheralith]

APARTMENT 345 — EP TWO : WEDDINGS

feat. karasu, otoya, yukimiya || wc: 9.4k synopsis: moving into a new apartment with three men isn't exactly the most easy feat, but you think there's something quite unusual about your new roommates that makes life seem a little more fun. ↳ episode synopsis: when otoya asks you to be his plus-one for a wedding, you find out that there's more than him that meets the eye. so much so, that it somehow wounds you accidentally locked in a bathroom alone together. contains: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, roommates au, modern au, fluff, slight crack, forced proximity, reader wears a dress and heels, subtle classism, family issues series masterlist ☚ previous next☛

Otoya Eita is a curious case of someone who you suspect isn’t who he seems to be.

Something bugs you about him, something gnawing in a little crevice of your mind. Perhaps it’s that seemingly nonchalant exterior that you think is a little too lax for someone with adult responsibilities like him. Or maybe the way he’s much smarter than you think he was initially. Something of the sort, there’s a lot of peculiarities about him that just don’t seem to add up to what he thinks he’s trying to convey to you.

He says he earns the least out of the four of you—yet he owns a Lexus, multiple expensive colognes, and he’ll show off some new pieces of Chrome Hearts or David Yurman he bought. You figure that one watch of his is at least a third of your salary.

He says he’s not looking for something serious in a relationship—yet you’ve seen him wallow in his misery a few times when some girls wouldn’t call him back. Then he’ll get back up in a matter of two days or less to find someone new to play with.

He says he can't pay the rent this month to you and your other roommates dismay—yet he somehow always pulls through with the money at the last minute to a mysterious degree. Where he gets it from, you think you’re better off not knowing… especially since you’ve eavesdropped on a few of his conversations with someone shady on the phone, asking about a boon of some kind.

Otoya, to you, at least from a few months ago, was the most open roommate out of the other three. Now, you’re not so sure. Unlike Karasu and Yukimiya, who have gotten closer and more amicable as times went on, Otoya seems to have shut himself in with you to your dismay in the past weeks, despite him being the first roommate you were truly comfortable around. He seems to be an enigma to you more than anyone you’ve ever met—you don’t know how to decode him. And to be honest, you’re not sure if you should. Maybe you’re best placed in this pool of ignorance you’ve been trying to get out of to understand your roommate, absorbing it and letting it linger around you.

He has this outer layer to him; a mask of a seemingly chill guy who goes with the flow, someone who lays back and lets life do its work for him. He’ll just simply follow along wherever the wind takes him. 

But something eats at you, that gnawing feeling always just lingering about. A gut feeling whispers in your ear that there’s something deeper, more intrinsic about him. You’ve acknowledged the suspicion, but you’re not too sure if you should try and operate on Otoya to properly pluck out his brain. After all, there might just be nothing there and you’ve been paranoid this entire time. Maybe it’s best just to stay out of his business (though, you sometimes find it hard not to, especially when you sometimes find him talking to someone on the phone with pinched brows when you enter the apartment, only for him to hang up the call when he notices you, his default face placing back onto his visage.).

And you’ve been doing a good job at it. Until now, when an opportunity presents itself for you to prod your nose around the hidden secrets of Otoya Eita. All because of an extended wedding invitation from him.

“I need a plus-one from my cousin’s wedding next Saturday,” he had said to you a week prior, scratching the back of his neck lazily. “I’d ask Tabito or Kenyu, but uh. I don’t want my folks to get the wrong impression, ya know?” 

You had snorted under your breath, laughing, but said yes without thinking of the consequences at the time. It was only yesterday that it hit you that you’d be meeting Otoya’s family despite only knowing him for a few months whilst nothing absolutely nothing about Otoya’s personal life despite what he gave to you, much less what kind of people his family were. 

So you ran to Karasu, who had known him the longest, and in a panic, asked him what sort of people they were. Unfortunately, he wasn’t much help, only giving you a sheepish smile and telling you, “They’re quite the weirdos, ‘s all I’ll say—at least from when I met ‘em. Sorry, sugar.”

When you asked Yukimiya, you ran into the same dead end. The brunette also only gave you a pitiful look. “Just try not to talk to them too much. The less you know, the better.”

Their responses did nothing to calm your nerves. If anything, it amplified the apprehension from twice it was before. You wish you felt it earlier in the week, however, since that at least allowed you more ample time to actually buy a better dress than this dusty rag that you had worn for a friend’s garden party a few years back. 

You think this is the longest you’ve stared at yourself in the mirror that you’re becoming an eyesore to yourself. The baby pink dress with puffed short sleeves and layered tulle feels out of date; it’s weird around your waist and just doesn’t seem very elegant for the type of wedding Otoya had described. Too casual, too childish. 

A knock comes at your door suddenly.

From the door reveals a dressed-up Otoya Eita before you, uncharacteristically sharp in his crisp grey-black suit and pistachio green tie. His hair is parted neatly, his bangs usually grazing his face now pushed to the side to show the entirety of his features. 

A smirk displays itself on your face. “Someone looks rather handsome.”

Otoya hums with satisfaction at your approval, taking a singular finger and dragging it along his jawline. Something called mogging, if you call correctly. “It all comes naturally to me.”

He lets himself in your room, whistling at your messy bedroom littered with disarrayed clothing that you were trying to pluck out and make a nice arrangement with. “A little birdie told me you were having trouble choosing an outfit.”

Your shoulders droop when you spot yourself in your mirror again, your dress looking like it was just plastered on you rather than fitting you. 

“I’m assuming my groans of despair were louder than I thought they were,” you sigh despondently, hands attempting to try and fiddle with the layers of the dress so it seems right at least in the mirror. 

“I know you said to dress nice, but this is all I have…” you turn to Otoya, who curiously pinches one of your business dresses in his fingers. “I’m sorry, I would’ve totally gone shopping sooner had I known it’d be a big deal.”

Otoya gently places down the dress and turns to you with a barely-visible quirk of his lips. “It’s not bad but I might have something else in mind that might help ease your mind.” 

He excuses himself out of the room and returns back not even a moment later with a large white zippered bag hung by a hanger. It’s thick and padded, clearly a bit of weight to it. You’re a little appalled, not expecting Otoya to go out of the way and quite literally get you a dress of his own means. But this also meant that if Otoya was doing more than what he was used to, swaying from his normal route of winging it and actually doing proper preparation for this, it ultimately meant that this was a much bigger event than you anticipated it to be. And you surely had to be ready to size yourself up for such a manner.

Otoya delicately places it on the mountain of clothes on your messy bed, carefully unzipping the bag to reveal a magnificent, floor-length, pear green sequined dress that reflected light so elegantly, it almost created a natural spotlight on itself. Held by thin straps, the chest area was highlighted from all the sequined and carefully-placed cherry blossoms speckling about that brought out a certain uniqueness to the dress. It looked preciously handmade, as you think no machine could delicately craft such petals from fabric and sequins. 

It was magnificent and mature, something that clearly contrasted with your current dress. You couldn’t deny that Otoya had great taste when it came to fashion, both for men and women it seems, only second-best next to Yukimiya, though he came damn close to taking over his position on the podium.

You gasp aloud at it, clearly impressed at its meticulousness. 

Otoya holds it up by its hanger, showing its full glory to you. “I’m really hoping it’s your size, but d’you like it? You wanna try it on?” 

“I—” you falter. The dress was just so elegant that you don’t think someone like you should be adorning it; it was clearly fit for someone more high-class like a socialite or an actress. “Where did you even get this?”

He shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “Bought it on my way home yesterday. Thought you might want to wear it as a backup just in case.”

“I’m really hoping this is a rental,” you worry about, biting at your fingernail. Something seems rather ominous about all those sequins flashing about, like they’re warning you not to touch such preciosity. “How much was this?” 

“Mmh, not telling,” Otoya says and slips the dress off its hanger to your panic. “Just know I’ve got it covered.”

You frown.

“Rent’s coming up soon,” you warn, “so if I find out you chucked some money out the window just for a mere dress, you’ve got a storm coming, bud.”

Otoya chuckles fondly. “Relax. I already gave my stuff early, so don’t stress about it anymore and just try it on.”

Ignoring your protests, he forces the dress in your hands and makes his way out, waving his fingers as he leaves you in the desolation of your room. 

A pull of his neck releases the tension from it, rhythmic cracks from bones echoing in the hallway your room was located from. Otoya sighs, the weight on his shoulders heaving down on him more than ever today that he hopes will expel from himself once this day is over. 

He feels bad, dragging you into this mess. But Otoya thinks that he can’t handle the masses by himself, he needs some sort of stabilizer, someone to help him keep on his feet. Karasu and Yukimiya knew about everything already, so they knew about the trials and tribulations that he faced back then, and clearly didn’t want to go through them again. He couldn’t drag someone from his roster either—he didn’t even know half of their last names. 

It wasn’t his fault you just happened to be right there. With your grace and presence, you were the perfect person to have at his side for those hours he’s going to have to face head-on. All he has to do is just pivot his attention to you, knowing that it’ll be his that you’ll be yearning for as well in a room of strangers. It was an equal exchange. 

Still. Even though you’ll be at his side, it doesn’t shake off the unease that lingers about. 

Otoya settles himself on the couch, feeling tension stiffen his joints again. A warning sign to expect the worst, he assumes. Whatever. It’s just a few hours. He’ll reset and return back to normal in no time. This too shall pass, or whatever bullshit Yukimiya spews.

He cracks his neck again, making Karasu, who sits lazily next to him, cringe. 

“Don’t do that near me,” he mutters, averting his attention to the soccer match on the TV. “Freaks me out.”

“It’s just bones, don’t think your two-hundred six are any different from mine,” Otoya insists, going to crack his knuckles to Karasu’s displeasure. 

In the corner of the couch, Yukimiya throws some popcorn from a bowl in his mouth, grinning when he sees such a dapper Otoya in front of him. “You look good. For once.”

Otoya mopes, a light offense grazing him. “‘For once?’”

Yukimiya shrugs, still stupidly smiling. “Guess you wanted to look good for (Y/N).”

He frowns. 

“This is a wedding. Why wouldn’t I try to look good?” Otoya remarks, clearly unamused. He’s not sure if he’s up for a childish banter right now, not when he’s got too much on his plate. 

Karasu snickers at his appearance. Normally it was him and Yukimiya that looked rather tidy in their outerwear, so it came as comical to see the person who donned himself in the first clean thing he blindly plucked from his closet to be adorned in such fashion. “Took some money outta yer trust fund to get that suit o’yers, huh?” he slyly asks, nudging Otoya with his elbow.

Otoya rolls his eyes. “I’ve always had this, dumbass,” he insists with folded arms. “I just don’t like to wear it unless I have to.”

Yukimiya is next to chortle. “Maybe he used the money to buy (Y/N) that dress. Looked pretty expensive to me.”

Otoya thins his lips. Then looks away, the tip of his ears revealed by his slicked hair dusted with red.

Karasu and Yukimiya clearly take notice of his reaction that clearly can’t guise a lie even if Otoya tried to create one, bursting out into laughter when they make eye contact with one another.

“Aw, lookit this loverboy over here!” Karasu hollers and grabs Otoya by the neck, making him wince at Karasu's strength. “Didn’t know ya liked her that much!” 

“I don’t…” Otoya grits his teeth, “I just… wanted to get her something nice.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Yukimiya cackles and lightly kicks at Otoya whilst he throws some popcorn his way, speckles of yellow-white fireworking over the living room floor. “Get your non-girlfriend plus-one a real fancy dress out of the blue, yeah? How much did it cost Prince Charming?” 

Otoya sighs. “You idiots can’t decipher the fact that this is all for a wedding, can you?” he states with a flat voice. “You both know how my family is… I just don’t want her—”

Heels click softly suddenly, a shy pattering coming from the hallway. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt but…” your voice breaks through the playful atmosphere, making all the men pause and look in your direction. “Er, sorry Otoya. Is this how it’s supposed to fit?”

Three spotlights turn to you from the coach from your roommates at once, suddenly drenching you in shyness at such vapid attention. Otoya is stunned at what he sees, breath hitching slightly when you present yourself before them. 

He has to give himself a pat on the back because not only does the dress fit you right, it fits you so perfectly that it looks like it was made just for you. You’re going to blend in perfectly, he thinks. 

Otoya abruptly stands up from the couch, clearing his throat and sending a soft smile your way—a rare feat considering how stony Otoya’s face could be.

“Fits like a glove on you, babe,” he compliments. 

You warmly smile at him, relieved. Karasu and Yukimiya glance at each other, suppressing some teasing smirks, shoulders shaking.

The clock is ticking, and Otoya figures that you and him have to get to the venue soon before traffic starts. You wrap up some last minute adjustments to your outfit before you and him bid Karasu and Yukimiya goodbye with a wave. 

“Get us some goodies if they’re offerin’ any!” Karasu shouts. 

“Give my warm wishes to the couple!” Yukimiya calls out just as Otoya closes the door. 

His sedan looks sleek as ever in the parking lot and you think this is the first time that Otoya actually looks the part to own such a luxury vehicle. He seems to be the gentleman tonight, seeing as how he opened up your car door for you to let you in, a hand holding yours to help keep you steady from the imbalance your heels might offer.

“Am I getting the princess treatment tonight?” you ask playfully as Otoya settles himself into his car. 

“When do you not?” inquires Otoya as he slings back one of his arms on the back of your headrest, veering his head to help him reverse despite having a back camera with sensors. You roll your eyes jovially at his antics, supposing that his flirting tactics just come a little too naturally to him even when he wasn’t trying to do so. 

The car ride is not too long, the venue being a lot closer than you thought initially. And clearly, a lot more grand, the pictures you saw from Google not doing it justice as you drive by it to its back parking lot. 

It’s a large garden conservatory, filled with lush flora all over both inside and out and glittering the place with natural color and textures. A large window dome ceiling looks overhead the space, all the windows letting the setting sunlight in in a manner so majestic that you think it was haloed by the hand of the Sun itself. Two large ponds sit before the entrance on the grass, koi fish swimming about the many lilypads and lotus flowers that bloom before you.

Weariness grows within you when you stare at the building. You want to ask Otoya if you’re sure this is the right venue when he moves forward in the line of many cars to get a parking ticket, seeing as how you’ve never seen such a lavish venue before, but when you pass by a banister that reads a familiar last name of the groom, your words falter. 

Welcome to the Wedding of Otoya Teruo & Hirai Hiromi, the banister states. 

Up comes the gnawing feeling of suspicion again, like Otoya is hiding something, especially when you see his eyes narrow at the banister. Something is off. His mask is slipping, you think. 

You know you should stay cautious and try to mind your business about him, but you’re just his friend and roommate after all and you’re not as close to him as Karasu or Yukimiya. But you feel pressured by an unknown force to try and squeeze something out of him that can help you gain a sense of the true Otoya. 

Your fingers itch to lift the mask off of him, to truly see him for who he is and not just the nonchalant, flirty roommate. 

“This wedding is pretty extravagant,” you admit after Otoya gains his temporary permit from the parking attendant. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Otoya drums his fingers on the steering wheel of the car, blowing some spare hair out of his way. “Yeah. There is.”

Your eyes go to glance at him, body unmoving. “Well…” you start, fiddling with your fingers when he doesn’t elaborate, “are you gonna say something?” 

“You might not like it,” he says honestly, his own gaze focused on trying to find a space, his car moving at a snail’s pace. “You seem stressed enough as it is.” 

He’s observant, a trait you’ve picked up from him over the course of the months. Almost a little too much so… were your anxieties that obvious that they leaked out without your knowledge? 

Your lips pull a frown. “I can handle it. I’d rather know too much than not know enough. I’m meeting your family, after all.”

The mention of the word “family” irks him a bit, a slight tick from his jaw. A sigh drifts out from him, like he was expecting this from someone who’s mindset was so head-on for most things. “You should be careful about what you wish for.”

“Otoya,” you declare a little more sternly. He purses his lips at your calling of his name, akin to a mother scolding a child. 

“Fine then, you asked for it,” he mutters, swerving his car suddenly into a blank space and jutting his gear stick into park. He leans his elbow on the center console and somehow forces you to look at him without touching or commanding you. You stay still where you are, but you focus on the droning look of Otoya’s green hues that bore into you, warning you almost.

“My family owns a subsidiary business of a large investment management company,” he begins with a tone so robotic, it sounds almost generated. It doesn’t sound a bit like him. 

You were planning to uncover the true essence of Otoya Eita and why he’s been rather shut-in recently from you, but you never expected him to reveal everything about himself all at once because he spits out everything to you in the matter of seconds, leaving barely any for you to stay curious since he seems to ask every question you have in mind immediately. 

“Specifically, we handle index funds. Yes we’re wealthy. Yes, I’m a trust fund baby. I just try to earn money my own way since I don’t want to rely on my parents that often. No, I can’t just give you money flat-out. No, do not ask me if you can dabble in them through me—Karasu already tried. I’ve got barely any knowledge in business and I want it to stay that way.

I have two sisters. Both of them are following my parents’ footsteps, which makes me a black sheep in the family. Stay away from them if you can, same with my parents. I don’t keep in contact with my family a lot for that reason and I only came here because Teruo is the only relative that I’m close with and that gets me.”

An apt pause goes by in the car. 

“Ah…” you mumble, eyes wide as you nod slowly.

You thin your lips, not sure if you should say something at the moment, an exponential flurry of questions constantly rising to thoughts that you think you should hold yourself back from asking in the meantime as clearly this was just too much information to digest at once. 

Otoya snaps you out of your thoughts with an actual snap of his fingers. You blink. 

“This is important, so listen carefully,” he states, atypically serious. There’s almost this pleading look on his face if you look deeper into it. “All you need to do is keep your pretty little head down and let me do the talking, yeah? Don’t try to pretend to be someone you’re not if someone asks you who are—rich snobs can sniff out a phony in seconds. Just don’t give them too much information. Any questions?”

This is very unlike the usual Otoya you saw, and you think this is finally the real version of him that he’s finally allowing you to see; this more vulnerable, more historical side to him that you would’ve never guessed the current Otoya you knew (or thought you knew) well came from. 

“Uh… who else should I avoid other than your sisters and parents?” you ask. 

“Quite literally almost everyone on my side of the family, ‘cept for Teruo and my great aunt Hisako. She’s weird, but chill. Everyone else?” Otoya rolls his eyes. “Chances are if they look like me, then just stay away.”

You affirm with another nod. “What are your sisters’ names? Just so I can be wary.”

“My oldest sister goes by Eimi, my baby sister goes by Eiko,” Otoya describes. “Avoid nee-san the most—she can see through people easily. Eiko’s got a baby-face, but don’t be fooled. She’s a spoiled brat and a bitch if you tick her off.”

You wince at the insults he throws at his sisters, but you have no room to judge. Otoya grew up with them, you did not. 

“Er, how about your parents?” you inquire. 

“You don’t have to worry about them,” his shoulders sag a bit, “‘cause they’ll probably avoid me if anything.”

Otoya suddenly turns to you and you can see this foreign tiredness to his eyes; it’s not the normal lethargicness you see him being casted upon, but rather from exhaustion. 

That’s what happens, you suppose, when you come from such a family of prestige—you can’t even imagine the amount of expectations he probably had to live up to prior to being your roommate. You’ve never seen him in this way before, seeing him almost defenseless before you.

Eyes closing, he breathes slowly, trying to regain his natural lull again as best as possible. Otoya cracks them open again, a familiar glaze over lime green.

“Just stay close to me,” he mutters almost beseechingly. “Okay? For both our sakes.”

Otoya was right. Money really makes people much too vain for your liking. 

Despite looking the part of the family, Otoya himself had an aura that made him stand out in all the wrong ways, drawing side-eyes and whispers from people that knew about him and his reputation as you and him walked about the conservatory, trying to find the groom. You’re a part of it too, his notoriety stretching to you. Every time you try to sneak a glance at one of those dirty looks you think is being thrown your way, just when your vision clears up, they go back to talking in nonsensical manners amongst themselves and laughing much too sweetly. 

An older middle-aged woman in a yukata suddenly begins to approach you and Otoya, a faux smile on her face that he doesn’t return. Her face is placidly smooth, eerily so, but the botox can’t always hide the essence of bitter time, and you think that smile is just as fake as her lips. 

“Eita, what a pleasure to see you here,” she greets. “Teruo will be happy to see you.”

“Auntie Kazuko,” Otoya replies simply. “It’s good to see you.” 

Her smile doesn’t falter and she draws her beady eyes to you, lighting up in mischief. “Hello there. I’ve never seen you before.”

You can feel Otoya stiffen before you, but you squeeze his arm in reassurance that you can temporarily handle yourself. 

“My name is (Y/N) (L/N),” you greet with as much false compassion as you can muster, giving her a slight bow of respect. “I’m his plus-one for tonight. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“(L/N)...” Kazuko draws on her tongue, tasting your last name delicately. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a family. What do you all dabble in?” 

“She’s not one of us, Auntie, she’s just a friend of mine,” Otoya cuts in before Kazuko can make a judgement. His tone is so much sharper than normal, serpentlike, almost equivalent to his aunt’s. 

Kazuko’s smile stretches wider, eyes widening and you swear her pupils constrict themselves like a cat venturing for its prey. You swallow. 

“Ah,” she murmurs, lilting her head to examine you fully. “My apologies. I just thought with your looks and your dress that perhaps I just wasn’t akin to your name. Seems I’ve been mistaken.”

Your dress suddenly feels constricting on your body, too tight. “Oh, I just—” you start, shuffling.

“Oscar de la Renta’s Summer 2023 collection, yes?” she asks you. A shiver runs down your spine when his aunt refuses to move her formidable gaze away from you, almost testing you.

You go rigid. No wonder why you felt so intimidated by the dress; a piece crafted by a distinguished fashion house was given to you by Otoya. And while you’ve dabbled in the world of high fashion before, you’ve never been in a status that allowed you to just casually wear $2,000 pieces like they were nothing. 

Words fall heavy on your tongue, trying to compose yourself so as to not seem small in front of her. “I don’t really—”

Otoya beats you to it first, swooping down to save you before you accidentally embarrass yourself. 

“His Pre-Fall 2025 collection, actually,” he says, face still blank.

Your throat feels dry. Kazuko had a trap set up ready for you and if it weren’t for Otoya’s quick reflexes, you probably would’ve ended up dead meat not even fifteen minutes into this wedding.

Kazuko’s smile falters a bit. Her gaze hardens at you but pivots to Otoya. “I’m sure she has a voice of her own, Eita.”

“Where’s Teruo?” he inquires boredly. “Just wanna give him some support before the big show.”

Kazuko huffs, but silently points to the right corridor of the hallway, her eyes cold and sharp and daggering when they burn into the back of your back as Otoya leads you away from her. 

“I’m assuming she’s one of yours…?” you ask softly, noticing how Otoya’s own gaze softens and body loosens when she’s out of view.

“She’s his mom,” Otoya admits as you trail down a hallway of doors as you approach the large door at the end of the hallway. “It’s crazy considering they act nothing alike. Or look alike. I can’t tell if it’s because of all the botox or if just being a bitch ages you quicker.”

A stifled giggle muffles itself under your hand, a small bit of humor distracting you from the tension in the room. 

True to his word, you meet the rather outlandish and loud Teruo, whose naturally extroverted nature is a breath of fresh air in comparison to everyone else. He shakes your hand warmly, telling you thank you for being here with Otoya, who many thought wouldn’t even show up, with a date nonetheless. You can understand why he and Otoya get along so well—they’re quite the oddities in the family. 

He tells you and Otoya to go get settled soon in the venue with a shining smile, clearly excited to meet his shining bride. A lovesick man is always a treat to witness you think. 

Skittering eyes are on you when you and Otoya settle down in your chairs and he can sense that your unease has amplified. It’s not like the same eyes that scan you aren’t observing his every move as well. Oddly, your out-of-place disposition that just seems to draw more attention than him than he would’ve liked brought him this solace—knowing that he wasn’t alone in not quite fitting in with the rest of the crowd. It was cruel to perhaps place you in a co-dependent position with him for the time being, but he figured he had to be just a bit selfish to keep his sanity. 

You lift your gaze a bit and suddenly make accidental eye contact with a man in front whose head is turned ever so slightly to examine you, only breaking it when you notice him. There’s a few other eyes on you and Otoya, some even going to whisper behind their hands to share gossip.

You swallow dryly again, hands feeling clammy until a warmth slithers its way to one of them, squeezing it lightly. 

You turn to Otoya, who idly gazes at you from the side and gives you a comforting nod. 

“You’re fine. We’re fine,” he mutters softly. “Just ignore them. They won’t remember you tomorrow, anyways.”

The Otoya you’re familiar with somehow creeped back into this persona Otoya has been guising under, that coolness he’s notorious for bringing you comfort in knowing that this feeling won’t last for long. Relief in knowing that part of him isn’t entirely buried for the time being warms your nerves.

The lights dim. 

You breathe steadily. Otoya squeezes your hand again and you return it, a silent agreement that you and him just have to stick it out for a few more hours together.

Despite the evident class and structure of the reception’s venue, the reception itself is rather rowdy. It’s too close and personal with the families, so you and Otoya have stowed away somewhere isolated and quiet, where you watch him play rhythm games on his phone intently. 

“You suck,” you state as he misses a note. 

“You swa—” 

Otoya pauses mid sentence, closing his mouth.

You stare at him intently with a plastic grin, eyes wide and unblinking as he tries his best not to look at you and focuses his gaze on his phone. The douchebag jar was nearing its halfway point, if you could recall correctly.

“Finish that sentence, I dare you.”

“I’m good… thanks,” he mumbles. 

“Good choice,” you cheerily state to his dismay as he begins another level. 

The low hum of the game echoes through the part of the corridor where you and him settle yourselves in, the quietness lulling you both from the apprehension earlier. You can hear the cheers from the reception, but you and Otoya are better off just absorbing it rather than partaking in it. It’s not like they wanted you there anyway.

He’s much more relaxed now, ever since you and him moved away from all the commotion of his family that you witnessed in full light were just as everything Otoya had said they were. Judgemental, proud, and conceited. 

“Hey,” you begin softly, resting your head on his shoulder and watch his thumbs prance about. “How come you didn’t tell me any of this before…?”

Otoya hums questionably, feeling the warmth of you radiating onto him. “What? My family?”

You nod. The fervent taps of his phone and echoes from the party are the only things that ring out into the silence for a bit, but Otoya eventually breaks after choosing his words carefully. 

“Unless I’m forced to, I don’t like telling people about them,” he says, monotone and unfeeling. “For reasons you obviously saw. Also ‘cause I hate associating myself with them.”

That’s understandable, you think to yourself. You don’t think that you would be able to live with yourself if fate forced you to be a part of such a snobbish collective of rich folk without trying to break it off and make a name for yourself. 

“It’s why I refused to go into the financial business field in college and chose music instead,” he continues to your astonishment. Not necessarily a man of many words in regards to himself, Otoya was always more of a secretive person to you, especially in consideration of recent weeks, so to hear him unsheathe truths of himself without you prying came as a small surprise. 

But this is good, you think, to let him be vulnerable around you. To take that mask off.

“Your parents weren’t mad?” you ask.

He snorts loudly, shaking his head. “Oh no, they were pissed. Threatened to cut me off and everything.”

You perk up. “But you said you’re trust fund baby?” 

“I am still,” he confirms with a nod. “Because I told them if they did, I’d reveal to the press all the scandals they covered up. And there’s more than enough to hand out to properly damage their reputation.” Otoya shrugs loosely. “My uncle on my mom’s side especially has quite the stack. Really likes that one gentlemen's club down on Twenty-Eighth.”

Your eyes widen at his quiet ferocity. Only a few hours prior, you would’ve never thought that Otoya you saw on a day-to-day basis would dabble in such matters, only doing his own business as he liked. But seeing this new side of him stirs sparks of interest within you, seeing as how there’s this undertone of determination and ambition he nurtured himself, very much unlike the lethargic, easy-going roommate you saw. 

Otoya, without averting his eyes away from his phone, senses your shock and cracks a grin. 

“Surprised?” he inquiries, a subtle slyness in his voice.

You’re nothing but. You let out a brief laugh in astonishment. 

“A little bit,” you murmur. “Sorry, I just kind of always took you as—”

“—a slob? A sloth? A laggard?” Otoya lists down. “You can say it, I’ve heard it all before. They’re pretty much true anyway.”

“I was going to say ‘laid back’,” you mutter, shoving him a bit to his amusement. “‘Care-free’ even, you dunce.”

He cringes at the familiarity of the nickname. “Gross. You’ve been hanging out with Tabito too much.”

You’re about to hurl an insult back at him but Otoya stands up abruptly when two feminine voices suddenly trail through the hallway. His face remains still, but there’s a seriousness to his eyes that narrow when they grow closer.

“I feel as though Teruo went over his budget,” a familiar voice drawls steadily, two pairs of heels clicking in synchronicity. “All for a commoner girl?”

“Well, Teruo-nii has always been like that,” the other, younger in intonation, replies in what seems to be an attempt at comfort, but comes off as standoffish. Otoya’s brows knit in concern at the second voice, clearly accustomed to it. “Always loud and grand. Explosive, some may say.”

“I hope your brother won’t be doing that with that girl he came along with,” Auntie Kazuko’s voice chides. “Then again, I doubt he’ll ever get married anyway. He doesn’t seem like the type to do so.”

The younger voice laughs in amusement. “It might be better for us anyway. We don’t need more drama from someone who’s stirred up quite a storm already.”

Your eyes soften in pity at the implication of Otoya, who just stares at the two approaching shadowy figures in the hallway. You want to refute their statement, but your words falter when Otoya suddenly grabs your arm and pulls you further from them, your heels rapidly clicking against the floor. 

“Hey!” you exclaim with a slight yelp in pain from his grip. “Where are we—”

“Just away from them,” he grimaces. “I don’t feel like talking to nee-san today.”

His older sister. Eimi, if you could recall, the one who was able to see through people. You’ve never heard of her until today, let alone know what she looks like, but you can already tell from Otoya’s urgency to get away from her that she’s not a force to be reckoned with. 

Otoya leads you down one of the corridors leading to the entrance but hisses out a swear when he sees a cherub-faced woman talking politely with an elder, a head of long snowy white hair with that strike of green mimicking his own. He turns back, only to see the shadowy figures from earlier approach you both closer and closer as the seconds pass. 

He groans out loud. He hates things like this—problems that require too much worrying. It was such a waste of time dabbling on things that were out of his control, such as this scenario before him, and Otoya thought he had gotten away from the hazards of it when he left the family but he supposes that he’s doomed to face such troubles whenever they’re in radius.

His eyes scan his surroundings for a way out, not finding any that won’t lead him to cross paths with people until he spots a certain door. 

“Sorry babe,” he mutters lowly to you and pulls you to the men’s bathroom to your horror. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

You gawk at him when you see the male symbol on the door. 

“Dude!” you shout in protest, but to no avail does it work in changing Otoya’s mind seeing as how he slams the door shut and locks it, pressing himself up against the door as a barricade. 

To your relief, it was a single stall bathroom with no one in it to bother you both, one gold-plated toilet sitting next to the door and a marble sink across from it. Otoya swallows thickly, pressing his ear up against the wall to properly hear outside. He can hear the semi-condescending voices of his sisters murmur through, his name being bounced around once or twice to his displeasure. 

A small velvet stool sits right in front of the door and you let yourself take a break from the stress of your heels, watching closely as Otoya observes the outside within the inner safety of the bathroom with his ear.

“I think we’re all good,” he asserts when turning back to you.

You don’t enjoy seeing him like this—it felt uncharacteristic of him to be so restless around people he was supposed to have fun with. It’s clear that he didn’t want to come from the very beginning.

“Hey,” you start, “I get that Teruo is your cousin and everything, but we can go home if you really want to.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I promised him I’d stay for at least the majority of the reception. Just until the toasts. Said I didn’t have to interact with anyone, but he wants me here. I owe him that much.”

“Well that isn’t worth being uncomfortable for nearly five hours, I’m sorry,” you remark tiredly. “You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I think it’s just best if we leave.”

Otoya turns to you, a slight furrow in his brow. “He’s the only person in this family that I refuse to let down. Everyone else can go fuck themselves, but I’m doing this for him.”

You sigh, rubbing your forehead, a little vexed at this foreign stubbornness considering Otoya would usually go along with most things. 

“You haven’t let yourself breathe even once the entire time we’ve been here,” you point out with concern. “I’m sure he’d understand.

Otoya takes your words in for a moment to consider, but ultimately shakes his head again. “It’s just a few more hours. Let’s just tough it out.”

Frustrated, you get up and dust yourself off, moving towards the door. You’ve had enough for one night; you’re tired, your esteem has been kicked down from all the shady comments sent your way, and all you want to do is just take off this dress and makeup and sleep. Meddling around in rich folks’ business was not your ideal Saturday night. 

“You can stay if you want,” you huff, grasping the handle and whipping your head around to face him. “But I’m gonna grab an Uber. I’ll see you back home. I’ve done my part.”

Otoya shrugs loosely, unfazed as he takes your spot on the stool. “Go right ahead, princess.” 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

You throw him another judgemental look, one that he doesn’t do much with except for give you a questioning raise of his brows as you tug on the doorknob to swing yourself out of the reception’s venue.

Oddly, however… it refuses to budge.

You pause. Then jerk it again. Nothing happens. The door stays where it is.

“What…” you mutter, pulling on the doorknob again, fiddling with the lock multiple times to get the right latch. With every turn of the lock, however, you run into the same problem. “You can’t be serious? It’s stuck?”

“No way bro can’t even open a door right,” Otoya snorts and stands up. His hand goes to grip the doorknob and give it a pull from his own means, but even he can’t seem to get it to open. 

“I’m telling you, it’s stuck,” you insist as he repeats your own methods, all reaching no avail.

Otoya constantly pulls on the doorknob, each yank being harsher than the previous. “It literally just opened a minute ago—hold on…”

“Don’t pull too hard,” you warn when he begins adding more of his strength. “You might—!”

Something clicks, and Otoya figures it’s the latch. He gives it one last harsh tug, only for the actual knob of it to snap off suddenly to your horror, a gasp pulling from your throat.

He steps back a little, examining the chunk of metal in his palm. He gives you a blank look. 

“So… we may be stuck,” he says all too obviously, making you smack your forehead.

“Well duh!” you groan out loud and examine the broken lock that seems completely hopeless to try and solve a way to maneuver it.

Otoya is quick to pull out his phone. “Lemme call Teruo and see if—shit, my phone’s dead.”

He shows you the empty battery icon flickering on his screen, your dread expanding. 

“I didn’t think rhythm games took up that much battery…” he falters, tucking it back into his pocket. “Try yours.” 

Thankfully, you have your phone still at 40% battery when you pull it out, the number keypad at the ready, only for you to whine miserably when you see the No Service text on the corner of your screen. Of course you somehow land in the only place in the venue that is just slightly out of service.

“First rule of thumb whenever you enter a place,” Otoya holds a finger up, one that you have an urge to snap from the irritation that boils within you. “Always ask for their wifi password.”

That’s not how it works… you hiss at him in your mind, trying to avoid escalating this situation. You stare at him darkly, his lax personality not doing much to help your unease in this moment and wonder how many hours it’ll take for you to go insane and strangle him. 

Two, you think. One, if he tested his luck.

Surprisingly, after three and a half hours have passed, Otoya still has a beating heart. He’s been the patient one out of you two, watching you as you pace back and forth to try and conjure a plan to get out while he was just riding on the wave of hoping someone would come by soon to try and use this bathroom. 

You’ve tried going on his shoulders to try and receive a signal, pushing the vent to see if you could spy-movie—only for it to be much too small for a human body to fit, and yelling for help whenever someone passed by, only for your shouts to be drowned out from the music.

The music has died down, but your voice is gone from all the shouting. You’ve given up at this point, just hoping that a custodian will somehow break their way through after hours.

“Has no one attempted to look for you yet?” you question wearily when you slump down next to him on the stool. 

Otoya gives another one of those loose shrugs of his again as he bunches up his suit jacket, plopping it on his lap. “Bold of you to assume that family gives a damn about me.”

The way he says it seems too casual, like he was used to this. Like this was normal for him. It’s unsettling to you, knowing that such a large and prestigious family would think of one of their own so scathingly that his existence barely mattered. 

He sees you giving him a pouted look and sighs. “You don’t have to pity me. I chose to leave that life while knowing the consequences.”

“But even so… it doesn’t bother you?” you question with sympathy laced in your voice. “When they talk about you like that?”

“Hah,” Otoya gives a smileless laugh, rolling his eyes. “I promise you, I could not have given less of a shit about what they think of me. They can say whatever they want; I got what I wanted at the end of the day while they’re stuck slaving away at an office.”

You give him a stony look, silently reminding him that you and his other two roommates worked corporate.

“My fault,” Otoya excuses with guilty haste. 

The rigidity in your face softens once more, your mind trailing back to all of those side-eyes that everyone had thrown in Otoya’s direction from before. 

The Otoya you saw today just seemed so different from the one you were used to at home, so much so that you still can’t decipher him out and if anything, the Otoya that you had witnessed today just even caused more confusion to you. The usual Otoya, the one you suspect is just a mask, is this composed and carefree guy that dawdled around the apartment as he pleased, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it. This Otoya however, was much more uptight, much more weary of his surroundings—you almost think that he’s mimicking his family in some manner.

Maybe that’s why he’s been so closed-off with you recently. Family can bring out the best and worst in people, so the days leading up to this event were the reason why he’s been so strayed from you lately.

“You know,” you start quietly, earning Otoya’s attention. “I wish you didn’t feel the urge to have to hide something like this from me. Unless I made it seem like you had to…?”

Otoya examines you in full, scanning how bleak your face is, how sincere it was. 

He remembers the first day you came into the loft—you, sitting there on the couch with your fidgety self squirming about. Originally, Otoya had not really thought that hard about you during the first few weeks you and him were living together, seeing you as no more than just a girl he wasn’t allowed to cross boundaries with to ensure nothing unnecessary would blossom. Even Yukimiya and Karasu had told him not to try anything funny, though he insists he wasn’t going to anyway.

But times change, as they always have. A crack was made in the wall he put between you and him from a specific day he saw you bring home a certain vinyl, one that he already owned from his own collection. That was his first break with you, your shared love of music—the start of everything. Of you and him. A unique relationship with a girl he’d never had before.

He thought it’d just be nothing more than that, casual chats over new albums and artists and whatnot. Until the small hangouts started to arise, where it’d just be the two of you venturing around places like record stores or flea markets. It was nice, being able to hang out with a girl without any other intentions. Perhaps that’s why Otoya allowed himself to get closer to you—you were a safe option. Someone he was able to breathe around just like Karasu and Yukimiya. 

Someone he saw as an escape from the roots of himself.

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he says. “I just never brought it up because I thought I didn’t have to at first,” He shuffles his feet about, almost ashamed. 

He never even realized he was closing himself in from you when he received the wedding invitation all those weeks ago, a reminder to not forget where he came from, who he was supposed to be. That no matter how many times he attempts to bury it, that lost potential he never wanted to live up to was still a remnant of him. 

“I figured that if I possibly did, you’d view me differently,” he admits, “you’d view me as someone I’m not.”

He had a point; money does a plethora of things—one of them being the way people see each other. Whether one person saw the other as a walking piggy bank, or someone they could depend on financially, or someone they should envy, money was always attached to some sort of ugly feeling that you figured Otoya didn’t want you associating with him. Not from someone he had such a unique connection with.

“I didn’t want that,” he confesses and raises his head to face you in full. You can feel your heart skip a beat when he goes to directly stare into your eyes with those lime green eyes of his that hold nothing but genuinity. “Especially not from you, (Y/N).”

The way he says your name is delicate, like it’s fragile. The lack of endearment and nickname reveals the earnesty of his nature.

It comes to you suddenly, that epiphany you had been searching for.

You had spent all this time wondering about who the true Otoya Eita was that you didn’t even realize you had been face-to-face with him this entire time. That, in reality, the seemingly-fake Otoya was the one you saw plastered on his face when it came to his family matters, people that brought the worst of himself to light. He kept it professional, keeping them at arm’s length as to not let anymore of those feelings only they could conjure to light. He was just trying to bury that part of him on your behalf to keep letting authenticity bounce between you and him. 

But Otoya is a good man. A tad bit annoying, yes, you won’t deny you’ve seen some vices of his unfiltered self, sure, but at the end of the day, despite having that immense access to wealth, he still somehow lived humbly. It was ironic seeing as how he detached himself from his riches to become a happier person, but he’s clearly put in the work, seeing as how he seems to be content where he is. Everyone around him seems to be, as well. 

You give him a gentle smile. 

“I don’t think I would’ve viewed you in a different light even if I tried to,” you murmur. “You’re too much of a good person. I think everyone can see that, Otoya.” 

His eyes widen a bit from your tender response before softening. Your response is tender, an honesty he’s not familiar with, but embraces nonetheless. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

One of his legs shuffles around with yours, linking them together in a loose manner. Otoya turns to you. 

“You can call me Eita, by the way,” he proclaims quietly. “I don’t mind.”

The clicking of metal suddenly startles you awake, your body jolting so harshly, Otoya’s suit jacket falling to the ground from your body. Your head jerks up from Otoya’s shoulder, accidentally waking him up, whose own lied on top of yours for the small catnap you and him took, a groan rumbling out of him. 

“Awhuzz happening…?” he asks blearily, eyes half-closed.

It takes a bit for your vision to adjust, but the inner mechanics of the broken doorknob are suddenly moving on their own, a muffled voice outside muttering about. You tap on his arm rapidly, pointing your finger towards it. “Look, look!” 

Otoya’s drowsiness still stirs within him, but you go up and rap on the door, indicating to the person outside that someone was still here.

“Hello?!” you call out, hearing an exclaim from outside. “Hello! Sorry, but there’s two people trapped in here! Can you let us out please?!”

You watch eagerly as whoever is outside fiddles with the broken lock, the latch suddenly clicking and the door swinging open to your relief.

A custodian with his supplies appears before you, your unknowing knight in shining trousers. He widens his eyes at the both of you. “What on earth are you kids doin’ here? We’ve been closed for three hours already.”

I’m so sorry, the lock broke and we both got trapped inside since around eight or so,” you confess as you hand the custodian the broken knob. You check the time on your phone, the time reading 01:34 AM. “Oh gosh, we were stuck in there for that long?” 

The custodian eyes you both suspiciously, raising a bushy brow. “And exactly why did you both move into the same bathroom when clearly…?” he eyes you up and down, moving his gaze to the male symbol on the door.

It was your turn for your eyes to widen, a heat rising on your cheeks. 

“N-no sir, it wasn’t anything like that…” you stutter, shaking your head. “We just—will you shut up!” you snap at Otoya, who quietly snickers behind you to your disbelief.

The custodian sighs, dismissing it and just wanting his job to be over with.

“Y’all better get movin’,” he warns, checking behind his shoulder. “Security doesn’t take too kindly to who they think may be trespassers.”

When you both finally walk outside for the first time in hours from the bathroom and pass by the reception venue, it’s dark and completely devoid of all the decorations you saw earlier, eerily desolate. Otoya’s car is the only one that remains in the parking lot, with the exception of the night crew, and you couldn’t feel more relieved to be sitting on something other than a velvet stool for once. Who knew cold leather seats could feel so pleasant?

“It would’ve been easier if you just went along with what he was implying,” Otoya points out as he travels down the road, a smirk toying on his lips. “Would’ve been funnier, too.”

Your jaw grits, a familiar reaction whenever he says or does anything preposterous to you. He’s lucky he’s driving and not still stuck in the bathroom with you, because if he wasn’t, you most definitely would’ve strangled him by now. 

“Twenty bucks in the douchebag jar when we get home, Eita,” you hiss.

He stifles a chuckle, a warmth within him blooming when he hears his name falling from your lips. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

☚ previous next☛

a/n: this chapter sucked the absolute life out of me good god im glad it's over... a little bit of a serious one, but dw i'm pinning that clown nose on otoya again soon! also, this was the dress that otoya had reader wear; it's an actual piece from the oscar de la renta's collection otoya stated.

yukki's chapter is next, one that i'm quite excited for! i think that's where all the drama is going to start to happen so i hope you'll stay tuned (spoiler: they dance together aaa)

thank you sincerely if you made it this far, i hope you enjoyed reading! comments and reblogs are the best way to support your writers; they're always appreciated and never unnoticed <3

taglist (link to join): @okkotsuus @solaqes @cz19y @kiritokunuwu @/ilovenijironanase @cyberheartrebel @tecchouss @/inojinieee @beoms-sugar

*those with /, please turn on the ability to tag you in posts!

[shellshocklove]

does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so minors dni!!! canon-typical violence, age gap (reader is mid to late twenties), swearing, dead animals, joel being a sad man, masturbation, no use of y/n

a/n: i soft launched this ao3 last month and it flopped lol so i'm gonna keep my expectations low for this series. anyways this has been a story i've been thinking about since probably october. this is the first part of what i'm hoping will be 3 parts. happy reading i guess

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

The leaves rustled against Joel’s boots with every step he took. The sun had turned traitor cold, and he couldn’t feel its kiss against his cheek no more. The trees shivered above him in the wind – the only sound for miles except his heavy steps.

Did he still exist, with no one around? Joel had never minded being alone; after the breakout he’d found that he sometimes preferred it. People could be… well, when you’ve seen the worst of humanity, maybe it’s best to leave it behind.

And wasn’t he the worst of humanity? The things he’d done. The people he’d killed, and killed for. The people he’d lost.

But he had to keep going. For Tess. He promised.

Every night as he stared into the flames his thoughts would drift to her – the memories flickering in the fire. They should’ve never gone through that museum – it was supposed to have been empty – they should’ve never left Boston in the first place. Now Tess is gone because of him, him and his stupid plan to find his brother.

And for what? How is he ever gonna find Tommy?

Joel didn’t even know where he was. Nebraska? South-Dakota? Maybe he’d made it to Wyoming and just didn’t know it? Abe had told him ‘Cody Tower’, but Joel hadn’t seen anything other than mother nature for weeks.

Everything had started to look the same. Trees and more trees, a mountain in the distance, a grey and heavy sky above him. He’d been walking for forever. Slowly he moved west– or at least he thought he was. On the days where the sun hung high in the sky and wasn’t shielded behind a cloudy partition, he liked to watch it as it dipped below the earth. As the days turned shorter and shorter, the display of color had started to get more vivid. Joel would watch the light blue turn red and bloody, fiery tongues of flames licking over the horizon while the sharp edges of the mountains, and the triangular shapes of the trees faded into an intense black– like the shape of the mountain and the trees had been cut out with scissors. There wasn’t much to stay alive for anymore– but Joel lived for those few moments where nature painted with fire. Humanity might’ve gone to shit, but the cyclical regularity of mother nature gave Joel a small sense of peace.

But he missed the kiss of the sun against his cheek now. He’d moved into a large forest a few days ago. Tall trees hovered over him like giants and cast shadows down at him. It was colder here than out in the open country, but at least he’d been somewhat shaded from the rain pouring from the grey cover above his head the last few days.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound stopped Joel in his tracks. Muscle memory worked on its own, gripping the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He listened for the sound again, to the steady rhythm echoing through the forest.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

With slow calculated steps Joel walked in the direction of the sound with the shotgun held tightly to his chest, his finger hovered over the trigger. The chopping sound got louder as he closed in on a man. He couldn’t tell his age with the man’s back turned – but he was strong – Joel could tell from how hard the man’s axe hit the tree trunk.

Taking another silent step, Joel got in position, “How ‘bout you slowly turn around and place that axe on the ground.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse after no use, but still cold and calculated as he spoke his order. He could see he’d startled the man, probably thinking he was alone, just like Joel had thought mere minutes ago.

The man obeyed, turning around slowly. He was older than Joel, maybe mid-seventies, maybe older if the wrinkles and creases around his eyes and nose were to be believed. His hair was white as snow matching his unkempt beard. Joel caught his eye. Strong and steady, no trace of fear one would think a man would feel while having a gun pointed at them.

Joel’s grip around the gun tightened. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if that’s where this was headed. The man watched him calmly before he bent his knees, throwing the axe haphazardly on the ground.

“Kick it over here,” Joel commanded again, and the man obeyed, kicking the axe clumsily towards Joel.

Slowly Joel crept closer, gun still pointed at the man. He locked the heel of his shoe against the shaft, dragging the axe behind him and out of the way.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

The man’s question puzzled Joel. He said it so calmly, like how you’d ask someone to pass the salt.

“That depends on you.” Joel’s answer pulled at the old man’s lips, a small huff of a laugh escaping them.

“Well, you’re the one with the gun. I think it depends on you.”

Joel tightened his grip on the shotgun again – he didn’t know why –to frighten the man? He didn’t seem very frightened.

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Joel gritted through his teeth, “who you travelin’ with?”

“No one,” the man’s eyes never left Joel, “I live at a farm about a mile away.”

“Take me to it.”

The man walked with a limp Joel noticed. It was barely there, you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t pay attention, but it was there. The man acted tough enough, but his body revealed his weaknesses. It would be easy to kill him, Joel thought, if it came to that.

He followed the man through the trees with his gun pointed at his back. When they reached the end of the forest a clearing revealed itself. They followed a path through a field of, tall but wilted, brown grass until they reached an overgrown gravel road with a fence running along it. Looking out in the distance, Joel could see small spots of white and black wool. The gravel moaned under their feet as they closed in on a small farm. A two-story house sat in the middle of the barnyard where it was surrounded by a barn who’d seen better days, a silo, and a smaller farmhouse – a stable – Joel noticed as they walked closer.

The man trudged up the front stairs of the main farmhouse, a hand on the handrail keeping him steady.

“Put that gun away would you, son? I don’t want you frightening my wife.” The man broke the silence between them, speaking for the first time since they left the woods.

Joel’s grip on his shotgun didn’t loosen. How could he be sure that this man’s ‘wife’ wasn’t some gang of raiders hiding behind the front door? A question he asked the man through gritted teeth when he turned around to look at Joel.

“There’s nothing of the sort around here,” the man said, “we don’t even see any infected.”

When Joel didn’t say anything, and didn’t lower the gun, the man spoke again, “Who are you?”

“Just someone passin’ through,” Joel answered, making the man chuckle.

“You’re something else, passer-througher,” the old man smiled before he turned around again and stepped inside, leaving Joel on the porch alone.

Abandoned outside he lowered his gun slightly. Inside he could hear muffled voices, a deeper one, definitely the old man, and a brighter one, a woman’s voice. He listened, trying to make out their words with no prevail. The man seemed to have spoken the truth up until now. He most definitely lived on this farm – a seemingly normal farm. This man was just someone making an honest living – even after the apocalypse.

Lowering the gun completely, Joel put the safety on before he slung it over his shoulder. Taking a hollowed step towards the front door, movement in the window to the right of him caught his eye. It was there and then it was gone – just a ruffle of blonde curtains. Then, the door opened revealing an elderly woman.

The man’s wife.

“Welcome, traveler,” she greeted, stepping aside to let Joel in.

He passed through the doorway with a “Thank you, ma’am,” never forgetting his manners even after pointing a gun at her husband.

Inside it looked like a picture taken straight out of a Homes & Gardens magazine. The house was cozy, but it was small. He’d been welcomed into what probably used to be a parlor, but now served its purpose as their living room. It was hard to get a read on the house. Not like those open-floor plan houses he’d built too many of back before the outbreak – this was old, maybe hundreds of years old. The floorboard creaked under his shoes as he walked deeper into the living room, the rest of the house locked away like a secret behind three closed doors. The man was seated in a lounge chair by the fireplace, watching Joel with an expression Joel found it hard to decipher.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, “It’s peppermint from our garden.”

Joel turned his head to the woman. She must be around the same age as the old man, Joel thought. He cleared his throat before he answered with a nod, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She pointed to the sofa, urging him to sit down with a smile before she disappeared through one of the doors to what Joel thought must be the kitchen. He felt the old man watching him as he slid his backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the creaky wooden floor behind the sofa. Joel hesitated for just a second when placing the shotgun up against the back, but decided he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Joel almost groaned as he sat down. He’d been walking for so long, slept on the hard ground for months, he’d almost forgotten what a comfortable chair was. It almost felt surreal, being invited in for tea, like the outbreak had never happened. Here, it was like the time had stood still.

“So,” the man started, “where are you heading to if you’re just ‘passin’ through’?”

Joel cleared his throat again, “I’m lookin’ for my brother,” he answered truthfully, “last I heard he was somewhere in Wyoming.”

“If you’re going to Wyoming, then what you’re doing all the way up here?” The man queried with a chuckle.

Annoyed, Joel grinded his teeth, “Not many signs in the fuckin’ woods are there?” He huffed.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged, “but you’ve made a heck of a detour… where did you come from? Texas? You sound it.”

“Boston.”

“Boston?” the man didn’t hide his surprise, breathing out chuckles in disbelief, “I’ll give it to you, that’s one long trip.”

Joel only huffed in agreement, turning his head from the man to the window overlooking the barnyard.

“Well,” the man broke the growing silence between the two men, “you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and for the night– you look like you could need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joel’s instinct was to say no, but before he could the front door opened, revealing a young woman. You.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you laid your eyes on Joel, “Oh!”.

The door slammed behind you. Under your arm you were carrying a metal bucket filled with apples. You were beautiful, young, but still beautiful – Joel couldn’t deny it.

“This is…” The man paused.

“Joel.” He cleared his throat, introducing himself, “Joel Miller.”

“Mr. Miller is just passing through– he’s looking for his brother,” the old man explained to you.

You nodded at the information, sat the bucket down before you reached out a hand for Joel to take, introducing yourself. Your hand in his was warm and soft while his own dwarfed yours, rough and calloused. He couldn’t help but think about what his hands had done, the people they’d killed. He shouldn’t be tainting yours, painting them red. Joel quickly drew his hand back, balling it into a fist at his side.

Joel looked over at the old man, “Your daughter?” he asked with a tilt of his head in your direction.

“Oh, no,” the man answered with a playful smile, “You’re not the first person ‘passin’ through’ who’s shown up on our doorstep.”

The door to the kitchen opened to reveal the old woman with a teapot in her hand, and a stacked tower of teacups in the other.

“Let me help you Alma,” you said, taking the teacups from the old woman’s hand before placing them on the table; one in front of Joel, a second in front of the old man, “Here you go Arthur,” and a third next to Joel.

“Did you also want some tea, sweetie?” Alma asked you as she placed the steaming teapot on the table.

“Yes, please, but I can grab a cup myself– sit down,” you smiled and padded the old woman’s shoulder, then you grabbed the bucket of apples and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alma started pouring the tea as a silence fell over the room. A small, “Thank you, ma’am,” left Joel’s lips as she moved on to pouring tea for her husband.

“So,” the man started before taking a sip of his tea, “what do you say Mr. Miller? You staying for the night?”

That night as he laid in a real bed for the first time in months, Joel had trouble falling asleep. He wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t been used to it for a while. His belly full, soft fabric against his skin, feeling warm, and clean. The old couple had offered him one of the two bedrooms on the first floor, the two mystery doors in the living room now revealed. Laying in his new bed he tried not to think about who he was sharing a wall with.

You.

You were something else, helpful and kind. Everything Joel hadn’t seen since the outbreak. At the dinner table you’d asked him questions and listened intently – even when his answers were short and brisk. There was a glimmer in your eye, and it touched something inside him he hadn’t felt in a long time. But you were young, mid to late twenties he reckoned, maybe a little older– anyways, he shouldn’t be harboring anything for you, it wouldn’t be right. Especially now, now that he’d agreed to stay.

After the dinner plates had been cleared, Arthur had folded a big map out on the table. “Here are we now,” he’d pointed a finger at the map. Montana. Southern Montana to be precise. “I’ll give it to you Mr. Miller, if you’ve made it this far on your own you probably won’t have any trouble making your way down south to Wyoming.”

“But?” Joel watched the grimace pulling at the old man’s face.

“But,” Arthur had said, “Winter is just around the corner and… well, going back out there in the wilderness alone during our winters is a dead trap, I’ll tell you that much.”

Joel had let the man go on about the far below freezing temperatures, the heavy snow, and the tough wind, but Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew the winters up here were harsh. It wasn’t even winter yet, but every day he’d felt the temperature drop lower and lower, and the last few of nights he’d even had to get a fire going, against his better judgement.

So– the deal was: Joel would stay over the winter. Just for the winter, he’d been adamant on not staying longer. He’d get a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, and food in his belly on one condition – he’d help out on the farm.

The fire crackled loudly, red tongues licking up the chimney as Joel fed it another log. He watched as the fire caught in the new log, devouring it quickly and with no mercy. It was really starting to heat up now. A small flicker of pride sparked in Joel chest. He’d always been good at building a fire. It was one of those things, Joel had come to learn, where you needed to pay attention, to have patience.

When he was younger, he’d take Tommy out camping sometimes, just the two of them. Mostly they’d go during the summer; Tommy wasn’t a fan of sleeping outside in the cold, though cold had meant something different back then in Texas. But Joel remembered one time he’d managed to convince him to go with him. It was right after he’d gotten his driver’s license, and his parents had given him a beat-up truck for his birthday – for sharing – they’d told him, “You need to give your little brother a ride when he needs it!” Joel wasn’t exactly thrilled about his future as Tommy’s private driver, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his brother.

A few weeks into October he’d managed to convince Tommy to go camping. They’d packed the truck with their tents, sleeping bags, and fishing equipment, before they’d gotten on the road, driving to a lake where they knew there were fish to catch. Finding a place to camp was always difficult with Tommy. They’d parked Joel’s truck at the edge of the forest before they’d followed a hiking trail. Joel was convinced they’d walked at least three quarters of the way around the lake before they found a spot good enough for Tommy.

It had to be flat, but also shielded. There couldn’t be too many rocks, but there also had to be enough rocks to build a hearth. Tommy wanted it to be private, but he also wanted it to be open enough that he could see if someone would stumble upon their camp. Joel knew not to argue with him when he got like that, opting instead for a defeated, “Whatever.”

Setting up camp went relatively easy. They’d worked together building the tents, collecting rocks for their fireplace, and even managed to find a fallen tree to use as a bench. When the night slowly started to cover them in darkness, Tommy decided to get the fire going. Joel watched him work the logs into a pile as he started on filleting the fish they’d just caught.

“You’re doin’ it wrong,” he’d told his brother, “You’re suffocatin’ it.” He’d washed his hands in the lake, ridding himself of the slimy smell of fish, before crouching down next to Tommy.

The fire was one big bowl of smoke, and Joel caught himself wondering what messages Tommy must’ve been sending to the heavens. He removed some of the heavier logs, and the fire could breathe.

“See?” he’d looked at Tommy, “It just needed air.” Joel had shifted the smaller pieces of wood around and not long after the fire was alive.

That Joel, that green boy who liked to take his little brother camping, that Joel didn’t know how much those skills would come in handy in a few years when the world would get turned upside down.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

Your question pulled Joel from his memories. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze from where you were huddled up in the corner of the couch. You looked cozy, but he knew you weren’t. The house was cold this morning, outside a thin layer of frost had stuck to the grass during the night. It was early too, the sun not having climbed high enough yet to peek over the mountains. You looked tired where you sat, clad in a wool sweater with a blanket pulled over your knees. Under the blanket Joel remembered you were still wearing your pajama pants, and in your hand you held a steaming cup of tea, peppermint, Joel knew, his own cup abandoned on the coffee table.

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?” you repeated softly, like the way people tended to speak in the mornings, like they were afraid they’d wake up the world.

His calves were starting to burn from the strain of being crouched in front of the fireplace for a moment too long, and he tried his best to hide his groan, biting his teeth together as he stood to his feet, knees cracking loudly.

“Um, no,” he said, confused about your question.

“I’ll knit you a pair then,” you smiled before putting your cup down next to his.

“That’s… that ain’t necessary,” Joel hurried, but you waved him off.

“Sure it is,” you smiled again, much to Joel’s annoyance. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you gave it away like it cost nothing. “If you’re gonna be helping Arthur out in the woods this winter, you need some mittens.”

Joel watched as you got up from your home on the couch and vanished into your bedroom. A moment later you appeared in the doorway with a basket under your arm.

“Also…” you gave him another smile as you sat back down again, placing the basket in your lap. It was close to overflowing with yarn, balls of black and white in varying sizes peeking over the top, the homespun ends fraying against the rough edges of the basket. “I’ll have something to do during the evenings,” you winked before you rummaged through the basket and fished out a measuring tape.

Joel shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you. Mittens? Joel can’t remember if he’s ever owned a pair of mittens. Gloves, sure, but mittens?

You patted the cushion next to you, urging him to sit down, kind smile hanging off your lips like always. Sitting down, he folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t sat next to you before; he’d been here a few weeks now, and he was starting to know you, but for some reason, this felt different. Maybe it was the early morning, the quiet house, or the fact that Alma and Arthur were still sleeping upstairs, but it felt like it was just the two of you, alone, and Joel didn’t know how to feel about it.

You shifted towards him, the blanket slipping slightly off the couch with your movement, in your hands you held the measuring tape while you looked at him expectantly.

When Joel didn’t move, a smile quirked at the corner of your mouth before you grabbed one of his hands resting in his lap. You uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, making Joel hold his breath.

“I need to see how big I need to make them,” you whispered, holding his hand very gently.

Joel’s heart hammered in his chest. Your hand was warm and soft, like the last time he’d touched you as you’d introduced yourself to him. Joel didn’t dare look at your face, or he’d say something stupid, so he didn’t. He looked at your joined hands, his brain trying to remember the last time someone had held his hand as gently as you did, your thumb running over the back of it soothingly.

He can’t remember. His hands are always empty.

With your other hand, a finger curled around the measuring tape, you slipped it around his wrist before leaning closer to look at the numbers.

“Is this too tight you think, or do you want them to be looser?” You asked through your lashes, eyes sparkling in the low morning light.

Joel cleared his throat, “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” you nodded, slipping the measuring tape from his wrist to write down the measurement. He hadn’t noticed your notebook until now. It was a little rough around the edges from use, the spined cracked and the paper a little yellow. Placing the pen in the seam, you grabbed the measuring tape again.

Loosening your grip on his hand you placed it over the thick of your thigh. Joel drew a quick breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, under his hand he could feel the warmth of you through the soft flannel.

You continued taking your measurements. You didn’t say anything, so neither did Joel, but you looked up at him through your lashes sometimes, and Joel thought that maybe the most useful thing one can do with empty hands, is hold on.

The creak of the stair made Joel jump, and like he’d been burned his hand retracted on reflex, as Arthur’s heavy steps got closer.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted as he ducked his head through the door to the living room.

“Mornin’,” Joel mumbled, head lowered as he gathered his hands in his lap.

“Good morning!” you smiled, always with that kind smile, “Did you sleep well, Arthur?” you got up from your seat before grabbing your teacup to follow Arthur into the kitchen, leaving the yarn and Joel.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pinched the top of his nose. He needed to get it together. You were just being your regular kind self; your soft touch was nothing more than that. Standing to his feet, Joel grabbed his own cup, trudging into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Arthur sat in his usual spot at the dining table, the chair closest to the window. “I need to get on with this barn soon,” Joel heard him say as he sat down opposite him. “It’s gonna fall apart come spring if we get as much snow as we did last year.”

Joel tried his best not to look at you as he heard you hum. You were stood at the kitchen counter slicing the bread Alma had baked yesterday, readying breakfast. Instead, Joel opted to gaze down into his teacup, where the peppermint leaves had all gathered at the bottom.

“Um,” Joel cleared his throat, “what needs fixin’?”

“What doesn’t need fixing in that barn?” Arthur sighed, peeling his eyes from out the window to Joel.

“I can uh,” Joel eyes shifted quickly to you before he cleared his throat again, “I can take a look at it, if ya want?”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a furrow as he looked at Joel.

“I used to be a contractor,” Joel explained with a shrug, before taking a last cold sip of his tea.

“So, you know a thing or two about buildings I reckon?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, well I used to,” Joel leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that would be very helpful Joel– I’d appreciated it!” Arthur smiled before leaning back in his chair making room for you as you started setting the table. Joel gave him a short nod in return, trying to fight the urge to look at you as you placed the food on the table.

Arthur had downplayed the state of the barn – it was a mess – it was dangerous, and had Joel told him as much. But it was nothing Joel couldn’t fix, as long as he had the right supplies, fortunately for him the forest would provide them with what they needed.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The axe dug a deep wound into the bark with every swing. Joel’s breath was heavy, and his arms ached, but it was a welcomed form of tiredness. A month into it, he was starting to get used to the work. There was something so satisfying about manual labor, of using his hands, of making something – he’d almost forgotten.

The routine of the work felt good. Waking up at dawn, then breakfast, he could use his body for something useful for the first time in twenty years and end the day with a warm meal for supper. This new temporary life was simple, but it was strangely normal.

Originally, Joel was only helping Arthur out in the woods for firewood through the winter– but now with the barn, they’d changed course. The last few days they’d started to become more selective with the trees; looking for the tallest and straightest ones that would fall safely.

A frozen sky hovered over the men as they worked. This morning when Joel had woken up, the thinnest layer of snow had fallen like powdered sugar during the night, turning the world bright with winter. Earlier in the week the frost had perched on the farm, and Joel had known winter was closing in. He’d lost count of the days and months passing while on his own, but Arthur had told him it was late October.

“It will start snowing properly soon,” Arthur said, breaking the silence between them.

Joel hummed before taking a bite of his packed lunch. They’d worked all morning – Joel felling the trees and Arthur cleaning them up and removing the branches. Now they were sat on a fresh tree stump each, their first break of the day.

“I have an old logging sled in the barn– used to be my father’s,” Arthur explained, “I think we should leave the trees here until the snow gets deep enough for the sled and have the horses pull them back to the farm.”

“Fine by me,” Joel took another bite of his lunch.

“The logs will have to dry out over the winter,” Arthur mused, “Then come spring we can start the repairs on the barn.”

Spring. If everything goes according to plan, Joel won’t be here come spring. He needed to find Tommy– he couldn’t, and he wasn’t gonna stay on the farm for any longer than necessary. He’d already decided– when the snow finally started to melt, Joel was gone.

Joel hummed, a non-committed answer. It was easier that way, to not get Arthur’s hopes up. He liked Arthur, he was a good man, a hard worker even in his old age, and silent when Joel wanted him to be. Joel liked Alma too, but her age shined through more easily than Arthur’s. Joel couldn’t help but notice her repeating herself more often and forgetting where she put things. It made life harder for you, Joel could see it. Your responsibilities were already a lot to handle as you took care of the animals mostly by yourself, but as Joel had discovered Alma starting to struggle with the housework, he’d noticed you starting to help her more often. In Joel’s mind it was unfair to you, but it wasn’t like he could blame Alma for growing older, in this world it was a feat.

Still, he’d try his best to help you when he could, like doing the dishes after dinner as you dried them off and put them away. The first few times you were both quiet, it was strangely intimate, only the sound of splashing water filling the space between you. One night he'd gotten brave, breaking the comfortable silence and asked you ‘What you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?’ You’d looked at him with big eyes, searching his own for something, but before he could figure out what it was, you’d answered him with a shrug. It was unlike you, unlike you to be this silent, but Joel didn’t push. The next night the silence persisted, and he’d thought adding ‘Sweetheart’ had been too much, but then the next night you’d sighed quietly and whispered, “I’m worried about Alma.”

Looking down at the mittens in his lap, the guilt gnawed at him. The look of worry in your eyes, Arthur’s hopeful wishes, and Alma’s aging. Joel couldn’t have anything tying him to this place. He was supposed to find his brother.

Suddenly, a black and orange butterfly landed on Joel’s knee. Joel stopped breathing, body going rigid as he tried not to move. How the hell was this butterfly still alive? It sat quiet on his knee, wings slowly retracting and widening behind it. Memories pushed its way to the forefront of Joel’s mind then.

Sarah. Another year had gone by, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“That’s quite a sight at this time of year,” he heard Arthur say, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Y-yeah,” Joel stammered out an answer, afraid his voice would scare it away.

The longer Joel watched the butterfly he found his guilt started to slowly melt away. It’s okay, dad. It was like the rustling of the trees carried her voice with them. You’re on the right path.

“I can do that f’you want, sweetheart.”

Joel’s boots creaked under him as he walked across the barnyard. You looked up at the sound of his voice, smile blossoming across your face as you tightened your grip on the shovel.

“It’s alright,” you said with a grunt as you picked up more snow, adding it to the growing pile, “Good for me to get some physical work in.”

Joel nodded as you straightened up, hand going to your hip while the other leaned on the shovel, your heavy breath curled in small plumes out of your mouth. You took him in for a second, eyes flickering over his form before they fell on the rabbits hanging over Joel’s shoulder.

“Where’d you get those?” you asked, and Joel shrugged.

“Shot ‘em,” he said simply, “they walked right by me as I was choppin’– seemed too good to pass up.”

“Not for the rabbits,” you muttered, and Joel had to fight the urge to smile.

“You a vegetarian or somethin’?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow, and you waved him off.

“No,” you said pointedly, but a teasing lilt lingered, “Just stating a fact... we don’t eat a lot of rabbit around here, is all.”

Joel nodded slightly; it made sense. He knew there was a gun in the house, but it was a revolver– too small to do any real hunting, and Joel didn’t even know if there were bullets for it. So, Joel didn't ask further. Lucky for him, you did.

“So, you just shot those?” you asked, a frown pulling at your eyebrows, “Aren’t they fast?”

Joel made a nonchalant sort of face. “Ain’t that hard when you can aim straight.”

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

You let out a small laugh, one that pulled at Joel’s lips. “And how did you go about learning that?”

Joel felt his smile drop, the leather strap of his shotgun weighing heavy on his shoulder, “Practice.”

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor as you dug the shovel into the snow, so it stood by itself like a watchman. “Can you teach me?” you asked, the snow creaking under your shoes as you took a few steps closer.

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

Your eyes widened with disappointment, eyebrows pulling together in a frown as you asked, “Why?”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from it,” Joel shrugged.

“Okay,” you huffed a laugh, “that’s sinister.” Then you narrowed your eyes at him, gearing up for an argument no doubt with the way you rested your hand on your hip. “What if I also wanted to go hunting?” you posed, and Joel shook his head.

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but now you’ve brought us rabbits– and what if I end up really liking rabbit?” you bit down on your bottom lip, unconsciously showing off you own rabbit teeth.

Cute.

“Then I’ll shoot as many rabbits as you want,” Joel countered with a teasing smile before tightening his hold on the rope slung over his other shoulder (the one he’d tied the rabbits to), and walked towards the kitchen door at the back of the farmhouse.

He heard you huff in defeat behind him, your creaky steps following him up the stairs and inside. Walking into the kitchen Joel placed the rabbits on the table before he pulled at his mittens, stripped off his jacket, and hung it neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs. Grabbing one of the rabbits he brought it to the kitchen counter to start dressing it, fighting the urge to turn his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Come on, Joel,” you whined, “Why won’t you teach me?”

“Told you already,” Joel replied, “Nothin’ good comes from learnin’ to shoot things.”

Shifting the rabbit around on the counter he reached for the butcher knife in the knife block.

“You know, that’s a really stupid way of saying you don’t want to spend the time,” you told him, your voice closer now as you leaned against the kitchen counter.  

“When exactly did ya hear me sayin’ I don't wanna spend time with you?” Joel asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You won’t teach me to shoot,” you teased, and Joel could hear the smile in your voice.

Joel huffed out a laugh, “Damn right I won’t.”  

He heard you let out a whiney huff, before you turned on your heel, muttering out a curse under your breath when you accidently bumped your hip into the counter and Joel couldn’t help the smile teasing at his lips. You sat down with an overdramatic sigh, and Joel still didn’t look at you – he knew he’d cave eventually if he did, say yes against his better judgement – so he kept his eyes on the knife in his hand.

“How’s Arthur?” Joel asked as he worked.

“I don��t know,” you sighed, “The same I think– Alma was up there looking after him last time I checked.”

This time Joel allowed himself to look at you. You sat sideways on the wooden chair, legs crossed and tucked under your chair with your head hanging, eyes glued to your lap. Gone were the teasing, and gone were the smiles.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel said, his eyes back on the rabbit, “it’s just a cold.”

“Yeah… but he’s been getting sick a lot more often,” your voice was low, like you didn’t want them to hear you upstairs, “you can’t help but think the worst you know?”

Joel put the knife down and moved over to the sink. He quickly washed his hands before grabbing a towel to dry off, twisting it in his hands as he approached you. Placing the towel on the counter, he hesitated for a moment as he watched you, watched the way you twisted your hands in your lap with no sense of purpose or intent. It was like the worry dripped down your body. Pushing off the counter Joel knelt in front of you, a grunt escaped him as his knees clicked loudly, his balance slightly off on his haunches.

“Shit,” Joel huffed out a laugh, and you followed. Your palms landed on his knees to keep him steady, warmth spreading like jolting electricity.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what–” he stopped himself when you looked at him through your lashes, trying to ignore the way your eyes focused on his mouth as he spoke. “’s just a cold, he’ll be up ‘n walkin’ tomorrow– man’s got gumption.”

“Yeah?” your eyes flickered upwards, meeting his.

Suddenly, under your gaze Joel felt brave. His hand moved on its own accord, cupping your cheek in his hand. He let his thumb ghost over your skin, still cold under his fingertips from being outside, but warming under his touch.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, you only watched him with glimmering eyes, like you were under a spell. Maybe he was too.

“Still,” you sighed, “Would be better if I could pick up more of the slack around here... Arthur does a lot, and I wish I could do more to support them.”

“Like what? You take care of the animals all by yourself– that’s more than enough.”

“Well, I could learn to shoot rabbits,” you told him, before the corners of your mouth pulled into a pleased smirk as he rolled his eyes at you.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, making a move to stand when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“I’m kidding, Joel,” you smiled, before a more serious look washed over your features. “I mean it’s… It’s gonna be empty here without you,” you said, “I’m starting to really like having you here, Joel.”

Joel turned his hand to rest the back of it on your thigh, your hand fitting in his.

“I uh,” his eyes fixated on your joined hands, then he cleared his throat, “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not leavin’ you alone, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lit up at his words, smile growing large across your face. Joel’s heart drummed in his chest as your eyes flickered down to his mouth again.

“Thank you,” you said in a low voice, and then you did something Joel thought was gonna make his heart stop beating. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. It bloomed against his skin, and made wings flutter against the walls of his stomach.

“You’re a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered before you pulled away, looking at him with kindness in your eyes.

If only you knew, Joel thought, if only you knew the blood on his hands.

He couldn’t look at you when you looked at him like that. Like you believed your own words. So, he cleared his throat awkwardly and stood to his feet, his knees clicking as your hand slipped from his movement. He walked back to the counter, fingers grabbing the towel with no other purpose than to calm himself down.

After placing the towel back where it usually hung, he grabbed the knife again, turning his attention back to the rabbit, allowing himself to steal a few glances at you where you sat looking out the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh,” Joel broke the growing silence after a few minutes, “how ‘bout rabbit stew for lunch?”

Your head snapped to look at him as he spoke, a smile ghosting over your lips as you said, “I’ll go get some vegetables from the cellar.”

Joel wouldn’t necessarily call himself a good cook – he wouldn’t even call himself a cook in the first place. Back before the outbreak he’d been forced to learn the basics as a fresh single dad, but he’d never been able to provide Sarah with gourmet meals very often, and when Sarah had gotten older, he’d been embarrassed to say that her food was always better than his – eggshells and all. One summer he’d bought himself a nice grill– one of those way too expensive gas grills with too many fancy accessories for Joel to regularly use. He’d had a job that ended up paying well, some rich guy’s mansion that needed renovating, and decided to treat himself for once. That summer all their meals had come from that grill, well mostly, and afterwards Joel looked at himself as a pretty good griller, if nothing else.

You on the other hand, you knew what you were doing, it was clear in the effortlessly way you moved beside him as you got the vegetables ready for the stew. Joel seared the meat to the best of his abilities, making sure it was properly browned on both sides before setting it aside. After that, it was clear that you were in charge, and Joel let you boss him around and tell him what to do. It made his heart warm around the edges, watching how you put so much love and care into everything you did.

An hour later you finally sat down to eat; two hearty bowls of stew each as light snowflakes covered the world outside. You’d let the pot simmer on low over the heat as you’d wanted to bring up a bowl for Arthur and Alma later.

“So…” you started, watching as Joel dug into his bowl, “How’s the stew?”

“’s good!” Joel nodded through a mouthful, and he wasn’t lying. It was good, really good in fact.

“Yeah?” you bubbled through a smile, before you dug into your own bowl to see if he’d spoken the truth. He watched as you face brightened as you chewed, nodding your head to confirm his verdict.

“I think I really like rabbit, Joel,” you said through a teasing smile, and Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle from spilling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, teasing smile not going anywhere, “So… when are you teaching me to shoot?”

“Shut up.”

The living room was quiet, safe for the cracking of the fire. It had almost died out when Joel had stepped out of his room. He’d been twisting and turning again, counting sheep, but nothing had been able to pull him under the blanket of sleep. He was plumb tired too, that was the worst part. The embers hummed with a low light, and with a small stick Joel had spread them out before placing a small piece of wood on top. No less than a minute later the fire fed on the log.

Taking a seat and leaning back in the lounge chair, Joel looked out the window with tired eyes. The moon looked down on him, big and bright, it shone its white light over the barnyard like a spotlight. His thoughts were clouded over as he gazed up. A billion little lights turning into bright spheres in the sky.

On nights like this, Joel felt like he was barely breathing at all.

His thoughts didn’t stray for long before they found you again. Lately, you were always on his mind. He thought about how you’d looked mere hours ago, when he’d sat in this same exact chair, only this time it was facing towards the sofa and not the window.

You’d been sat curled up in the corner, blanket thrown over your lap with a book in hand. You’d told him you’d read all the books in the house already, but it didn’t stop you from coming back to your favorites. Joel had been reading his own book, an old western he’d found in the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway a few days ago. It was entertaining, but not enough to hold his attention. He found his eyes had a mind of their own, slipping over the top to steal a peek at you as you read, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the barely there furrow of concentration between your eyebrows.

“Joel.”

Joel perked up at the whisper of his name, the memories fading like ripples in still water. He looked around the room –nothing. He sat quietly in his chair for a moment, listening, as his heartbeat quickened in his chest. It had been your voice, hadn’t it? Or was he starting to lose it? His eyes fell to the door of your bedroom. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he could see it was slightly ajar.

“Joel.”

The voice was louder this time, almost strained, but it was yours. A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes then at your tone. Was there someone in your room? Were you in danger? Seconds later Joel crossed the room, a mix of fear and protectiveness overcoming him.

Leaning up against your door he listened for the intruder as he readied himself. The soft crinkling of your sheets combined with your strained whimpers was all it took for him to push the door open, fearing the worst.

And…

It was empty, your room, you were alone. Joel immediately felt stupid– the only intruder here was him.

He was about to step out, embarrassed at his actions, when he heard it again, his name falling from your lips. It was all Joel needed to finally take in your body, squirming under your sheets, still asleep. The realization of what he’d just walked in on made Joel’s eyes widen.

Laying on your back, the duvet had slipped down your torso from your movements to reveal the thin t-shirt you wore to bed. Like this he could see your perked nipples through the fabric, as your chest quickly rose and fell, making Joel’s imagination start to run wild.

“Joel.”

In his pajama pants, Joel could feel his cock come alive from the soft whimper that left your lips along with his name. He couldn’t move, like some farm elf had glued his feet to the floor while he wasn’t looking. He watched as you scrunched your face together in pleasure, another whimper falling from your lips, and all the blood in Joel’s body rushed down south.

As if the soundwaves from your voice had broken against him, he took a step backwards, and then another, and another until he crossed the threshold of your door. He tried his best to be quiet, to not wake you and have you catch him in your room in the middle of the night.

The image of you squirming under your sheets, dreaming of him, didn’t leave him as he closed the door to his own room. With a sigh his head fell against the door, a strong hand gliding down his front to hover over his aching cock.

Joel Miller was no saint, but what he was doing– what he was about to do, was bad.

“Shit,” he quietly hissed, running his hand up his clothed cock. He hadn’t touched himself properly in a long time, not since he left Boston.

His cock reacted to his touch, growing harder and harder until he couldn’t take it anymore. He hooked his finger around the hem of his pajama pants, pulling them down to the thick of his thigh, freeing himself. He hissed at the cold air hitting his length, as it bopped with the movement of being freed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Joel spat, before he wrapped his spit-soaked hand around himself.

His mind found you again as he started stroking himself, slowly at first, pumping himself with a practiced hand, squeezing himself at the base before bringing his hand up to thumb at the tip. Joel couldn’t get the way you sounded out of his mind. Couldn’t forget how you were squirming in your bed, dreaming of him. Couldn’t shake the thought of pulling those moans and whimpers from you with his hands, and his mouth, and with his cock.

“Fuck.”

Joel tried to be quiet, but he couldn’t fight the moan from slipping from his lips. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted his hands all over you. Closing his eyes his mouth dropped open as he imagined what he was dying to do to you.

How much he’d wanted to help you out of your t-shirt, run his hands over your breasts and tease your nipples. Take his time to pull those moans and whimpers from your soft lips as he teased you with kisses down your body, down the valley of your breasts, your tummy, down to you to your–

Another low moan fell from Joel’s lips. He squeezed himself tighter as he jerked himself off, precum pearling at the tip, and slipping down his length, mixing with his spit.

The sound of the slick rhythm of his hand filled his bedroom as he increased the pace of his strokes. He had to bite down on his lip to strangle a groan when thoughts of getting between your legs, spreading them open and getting his mouth on you filled his head. He fantasized about how you’d taste falling apart on his tongue–Fuck, how you’d sound falling apart around his cock.

His eyes fell shut as he fisted himself faster. Joel could feel his orgasm quickly building, coiling tight in his tummy. With his free hand he cupped his balls, and then he couldn’t help but imagine it was you, a picture of you on your knees before him flashed behind his eyelids, your tongue lapping at his balls while your hand pumped his cock.

“Shit.”

With a strained groan, thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles and down his length, coating him in his release. His breath came out ragged, as he continued his strokes, milking himself of the rest of his release.

Fuck.

His cock softened in his hand as he calmed down from his high. With a quiet groan he pushed himself off the door, looking around his room for something to clean himself up with.

The guilt of what he’d done washed over him quickly, settling in his chest like a heavy weight. You were so young, and beautiful, and Joel just an old man. He shouldn’t want you like this, shouldn’t want you this much.

Climbing under the covers, Joel couldn’t shake his thoughts of you, of you dreaming about him in your bed, about your smiles, and your touch. A supercut of you rolling like a tape in his minds eye. A supercut of you bundled up under a blanket on the sofa, knitting him his mittens. Of you, your own knitted hat pulled tightly down over your ears as you stepped out into the snow to check on the animals. Of the way you’d looked at him for the first time, with the bucket of apples under your arm, and the sweet taste of them as you’d offered him one later, after dinner.

Finally, Joel could breathe.

next part -> here! i hope someone liked this? if you did a comment, reply or an ask is always welcome and they make me super happy <3 other than that thank you for reading!!

© shellshocklove, 2024 i do not give any permission to repost, translate, feed to AI or redistribute any of my writing, with or without credit!

[igwb]

A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (I.)

"there's just something about you, baby, maybe i'll just be crazy."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

summary: you knew life wouldn’t be easy as a woman in a world built by men. you had grown up knowing that it was only a matter of time before you, too, would face that same brutal reality. even as you dreamed of something else—something as simple as independence—you understood how utopian that idea was for a woman in times like these. but who could have known that, sometimes, freedom could come from a man himself? a lost soul, like you, caught in the same struggle, trapped in his own way. a soul that, despite everything, might just understand your pain.

word count: 35K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarchal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, blood, & violence, jk is the only good man here♡, mentions of; sexual contents (no actual smut!), womens struggles & having to fight for a place in a patriarchal society

playlist: crush, fade into you, single

author's note: this story mostly came to me because crush by ethel cain has been stuck in my mind and i knew i had to do something with it… and ofc this jk was immediately part of the equation!

part I. part II. part III.

There’s something liberating about summer. The way the wind moves through the air, cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the heat that lingers long after the sun begins to set. It feels almost alive, slipping through your fingers, tangling in your hair—never quite staying, never quite gone.

Everything seems to slow down, as if the world itself is taking a breath, suspended in the thick, hazy air. Time stretches, moments linger, and even people seem different—softer, freer, as if summer loosens something inside them. Maybe it’s the heat, or the endless nights, or the way the season blurs reality just enough to make anything feel possible.

It has always been your favorite time of the year—the only time when you feel like you can finally breathe.

You could lock yourself away, disappear for days if you wanted to, and no one would ask why. No one would wonder if something was wrong because they were too busy with their own lives, wrapped up in their own escapes. And that, more than anything, was what made summer feel like a breath of air after drowning for months.

The simple relief of knowing no one was waiting for anything from you.

Summer and your Walkman have always been the most precious things to you. A constant, a quiet escape. The weight of it in your jacket pocket, the earphones snug in your ears—it was as familiar as your own heartbeat. A shield between you and the rest of the world.

Your parents always told you that you could talk to them more. That you should. But they never understood. Never realized that when their voices turned sharp, when words became weapons and things started to break against the walls, your Walkman was the only thing that could drown out the noise.

Music was predictable. Safe. It never raised its voice, never turned on you, never made you feel like you were standing in the middle of a storm with nowhere to run. It was the only thing that made sense when everything else felt too big, too chaotic, too much.

So you kept it with you. Always.

And as you close your eyes, the wind rushing in through the open window, earphones snug in your ears, you let the music drown out the world. Your father grips the wheel of his pristine, dark Hyundai Sonata, his newest prized possession. He’s proud—too proud—driving slow enough through the neighborhood to make sure everyone sees. He’s waiting for the comments, for the admiration, for the little nods of approval that will make him feel like he’s won something.

Your mother sits in the passenger seat, her smile just as rehearsed as his. She basks in the attention, in the way gazes turn toward the car, toward them. It’s a performance, and they are shining in their starring roles.

But you? You couldn’t care less.

It doesn’t matter what new car they have, what image they carefully construct for the world to see. It never has. You know better than to get caught up in their illusions, in the things they think make them better.

So you press your head against the window, let the wind brush against your skin, and turn the volume up just a little louder.

You feel the car slow to a stop, but you don’t open your eyes just yet. It’s your favorite part of the song—the one that always makes your chest feel lighter, like for a moment, nothing else matters. So you wait. Just a little longer. Just long enough to feel it.

But the moment is ripped away.

The door swings open too fast, and before you can react, your head tilts forward with the sudden force. Your earphones are yanked from your ears, and then—a sickening crack.

Your Walkman hits the pavement.

The sound of plastic shattering against concrete makes your stomach drop. A sharp, ugly noise that tells you everything you need to know before you even look.

“I already told you to stop with that thing,” your mother spits, her voice sharp with irritation, not even sparing a glance at the wreckage on the ground.

She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care that the one thing you had—the one thing that made everything bearable—is broken at her feet. That it wasn’t just a thing to you.

You stare at the broken Walkman, something burning behind your ribs. A tight, aching weight that you know you’ll have to swallow down. Just like always.

You crouch near the broken Walkman, fingers trembling as you pick up the pieces, turning them over in your hands, trying to figure out if—how—you can fix it.

There weren’t many models like this. You knew that. You were lucky to have it in the first place, one of the few kids around here who did. And you also knew you wouldn’t be getting another one anytime soon.

You had to fix it.

“You broke it,” you whisper, voice barely there, your head bowed. You don’t look up at her face—just at her legs, at the neat hem of her pale blue skirt brushing against her knees.

She scoffs, then crouches down, mimicking the way she used to when you were a little kid, back when she pretended to care. “It’s nothing,” she says, voice light, dismissive. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. “You can have a new one.” She even smiles, like that could erase it, like a new thing could replace what was lost.

“I liked this one.”

You don’t look at her when you say it. Just keep your hands busy, gathering the broken pieces, tucking them into your pocket like something sacred.

Your mother sighs, already bored of this conversation. She straightens up, placing her hands on her hips, her eyes darting around the street. She’s hoping no one’s watching. Hoping no one will see her like this.

She loves the attention when she’s gliding through the neighborhood in a brand-new car, when people admire her clothes, her jewelry, the life she’s built. But never when she has to act like a mother.

She’s too proud for that. Too proud of the fact that, unlike most women her age in this neighborhood, she isn’t stuck at home, raising a house full of kids, drowning in diapers and dinner plans and loveless husbands. She wants them to envy her, to wish for her life. Her freedom.

Having you was never part of her dream.

You were just what was expected. A requirement. Something she gave in to because her own mother wanted to be a grandmother, because her husband wanted a wife who could give him a child.

And you?

You were just the consequence of a decision that was never really hers.

“Don’t fucking start,” she spits, voice sharp, cutting through the thick summer air. “Your dad just got a new car. He’s happy, and you should be too.”

And just like that, she turns on her heel, leaving you crouched on the burning concrete, the heat pressing down on you from above and rising up from below. The broken Walkman feels heavy in your pocket, pieces rattling softly as you clench your fists around them.

Your dad doesn’t notice you’re still outside. Doesn’t notice anything beyond the gleaming metal of his new car. He’s too caught up in it—running his hands over the hood, admiring the way the light bounces off the paint, waiting for someone to walk by and acknowledge his latest prize.

You could be anywhere right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

Because as long as the car is perfect, as long as he is happy, nothing else matters.

Dinner was silent.

Your father sat at the head of the table, focused on finishing his plate, barely acknowledging anyone else’s presence. Your mother, on the other hand, had her eyes locked on you, displeasure written all over her face. She didn’t like the way you pushed your food around with your chopsticks, barely taking a bite. She couldn’t stand the way you looked at your bowl like it was something you’d rather starve than eat.

With an irritated sigh, she snatched the bowl from in front of you just as you were about to take a bite.

“Don’t make that face,” she snapped, dumping the untouched food straight into the bin. “The one where you’d rather eat anything else than what I’ve made for you.”

She never liked cooking. Never liked anything that made her feel like a housewife. Even if, in reality, that was exactly what she was. It was a role she resented, one she never wanted but was forced into because, in her world, women needed men to survive. She had learned to tolerate it, to live with it—but she hated every second of it.

And maybe, in some way, you understood. Maybe you couldn’t blame her for despising the life she felt trapped in.

But that didn’t change the fact that you were still her daughter.

“You’re so ungrateful,” she huffed, running her manicured fingers through her freshly cut hair, ruining the careful brushing she had done earlier. “Here I am, trying to make something good, and you act like you’re eating your own shit.”

At that, your father finally raised his head. He set his chopsticks down with deliberate slowness, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was calm—too calm.

“Sit down.”

It was the same tone he had used to scold you as a child. Not like your mother’s anger, which burned hot and fast. His was different. His was cold, sinking into your skin like ice, making your spine stiffen.

But your mother wasn’t finished.

“Your daughter is ungrateful, Minhyeok!” she spat, jabbing a sharp finger in his direction as if you weren’t even there. “She didn’t even acknowledge the new car. She doesn’t even realize how lucky she is to be born into the right family.”

You wanted to defend yourself. To tell her that you did know how lucky you were, but not in the way she meant. That you knew the kind of life you could have had. That you knew how much worse it could be. But you also knew better than to say anything at all.

You had learned a long time ago that these were the moments where it was best to stay silent. Where your mother’s anger wasn’t really about you at all—but you were the easiest target for it.

Your father turned to you then, offering a small, tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Go upstairs. Listen to your Walkman, will you?”

You almost told him that it was broken. That there was nothing left to listen to.

But instead, you just nodded, gave a small bow, and left the table without another word.

You close your door softly, careful not to make a sound.

Sinking down onto the floor, you wrap your arms around your knees, but there’s no comfort in it. Your Walkman isn’t in your hand. Your earphones aren’t there to drown everything out.

The first sound you hear is the sharp crack of a slap.

Then your mother’s voice, high and furious, slicing through the walls. Then your father’s, lower, rougher, crashing over hers like a wave. Another slap. A thud. More shouting.

You can’t even make out the words. They slur together, tangled in rage, too loud, too sharp, too much. Your mother’s voice rises again, but your father’s strength is what wins.

You clutch the broken pieces of your Walkman tighter in your palm, the jagged edges biting into your skin, grounding you in the sting. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against your knees, willing yourself to block it out.

You try to hum a song, a quiet, trembling whisper of sound—something, anything to cover the noise.

But no melody is strong enough to drown out the war raging downstairs.

The sky outside your window is almost too beautiful.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but it hangs low, casting the world in golden hues—orange melting into pink, into purple, into something unreal. It’s the kind of sky that makes everything seem softer, quieter, like for a moment, the world isn’t such a cruel place.

But inside this house, nothing is soft. Nothing is quiet.

You push open your window, the warm air brushing against your skin as you glance down at the bushes below. They look sturdy enough to break your fall. It wouldn’t hurt that much, you think.

And then—silence.

The shouting stops. Your mother’s voice, sharp and unrelenting just moments ago, is gone. But the slap still lingers in the air, ringing in your ears long after it’s done.

She’s given up.

You don’t have to see it to know—she’s finally let herself sink into the role she was born into. A woman who fought for too long, only to realize that fighting doesn’t matter when the world has already decided where you belong.

You hate it.

You hate that you would rather hear her scream, would rather hear her fight back, than be forced to sit in this silence—this heavy, suffocating proof that she’s lost. That she always loses.

You hate your father more.

Even though he’s never laid a hand on you, even though he’s never been cruel the way she has, you hate him more.

Because men like him never have to question their power. They never have to wonder if they deserve it. It’s given to them the moment they’re born, woven into their bones, pressed into their hands. He grew up knowing—just as your mother did—that he would always have the upper hand. That he could do whatever he wanted to the woman who bore his child, and the world would still call him a good man.

And you?

You were doomed to the same fate as your mother.

That thought is enough.

You don’t hesitate as you swing your right leg over the windowsill, then your left.

And then—you jump.

The bushes catch you, scratching against your skin, leaves tangling in your hair. You wince as you hit the ground, but the pain is dull. Nothing compared to what’s happening inside.

You push yourself up, brushing dirt from your palms, the fabric of your top already sticking to your skin from the heat.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking.

It’s not like you’ll never come back.

You’ll be back eventually. There’s nowhere else to go, and you’re not brave enough to leave it all behind—not yet. Not when everything you know is here, wrapped up in the walls of this small, suffocating neighborhood. The same faces, the same streets, the same houses that have stood the test of time.

You could never truly escape it.

You’ve lived here your whole life, and the place is etched into your bones. You know every cracked sidewalk, every corner, every tree lining the streets. You’ve seen the small changes, the subtle shifts that come with the passage of time—the new cars parked in driveways, the old ones sold off. The faces that come and go. The families that grow, and the ones that break apart.

There’s comfort in that familiarity. In the predictability of it all.

Even though, sometimes, you wish you could escape. You dream of a place where things aren’t so small, so predictable. But you also know that if you left, you’d feel lost. Scared. It’s easier to stay.

Because no matter how much you hate it, there’s something reassuring about knowing where you are. Knowing that, for better or worse, everything is still here.

Just as you’re about to turn left, heading toward a familiar place—one that offers a small sense of comfort—a motorcycle rushes past. The dust and sand whirl up around you, stinging your skin and eyes, and you cough as the old engine roars, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust that clings to the air long after it’s gone. The smell is sharp, acrid, and unpleasant, lingering in your nostrils like a bad memory.

You watch the bike slow down, its wheels screeching slightly as it stops in front of the dilapidated motel. The place always had an eerie, run-down feel, but you were used to it. You’ve passed it a thousand times, seeing the same worn-out sign, the faded paint, the flickering lights that never seemed to work. Still, tonight it feels different. The motorcycle feels out of place here, an odd contrast to the shabby motel and the usual quiet.

You stand there for a moment, heart thudding, uncertain if you want to stay or move along. You turn your head, glancing at the motel again, wondering who it could be. But you don’t dare stare too long. Not here. Not in a place where stories go untold and faces remain hidden.

You watch as the man—no, the guy?—removes his cap, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it down as though he’s trying to make himself presentable. He’s trying too hard to appear like he’s entering somewhere grand, somewhere important, when in reality he’s about to walk into a dilapidated motel that’s seen its fair share of secrets and sins.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen people go into that place. You’ve seen it all before—the men in suits, the ones who seem out of place, who look like they’ve come from well-kept homes with their wives and children waiting for them. The ones who, for some reason, end up here, where the air is thick with shame and quiet desperation. But this time, it’s different.

This time, it’s a stranger.

He’s not the usual kind of person who stumbles into this place. He’s young. His face is soft, almost delicate, not the weathered look of older, tired men. And when his eyes catch yours, something shifts. There’s a brief moment where the world seems to stop, where the space between you two feels charged with something unspoken.

His eyes are wide, almost innocent, doe-like—chocolate brown, round, and bright. You see it in his gaze, the uncertainty, the hesitation. He looks around quickly, as if hoping no one has noticed him, as if he’s ashamed of what he’s doing here.

But then your gazes lock, and for that split second, everything feels different. He’s not like the others who come here—those who walk in like they own the world and are only too happy to hide in the shadows. No, there’s something about him. Something vulnerable, something… human. Something that makes you want to look away but also can’t tear your eyes from him.

He doesn’t look like he belongs in a place like this.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here. Or anywhere, really. His movements are uncertain as he walks toward the motel, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete with each step. His gaze never lingers, not even a second, as if he’s afraid to look back. And then, just like that, he disappears into the grimy motel, the door swinging closed behind him with a dull click.

The place feels different now, suddenly. That same street, those same worn-out walls, those familiar faces that you’ve passed by a hundred times—all of it feels strangely foreign. As if something about the whole scene has shifted, broken the mold you’ve always known. The air is thicker, heavier now, not from the dust or the heat, but from the feeling of unfamiliarity settling into the space around you.

And it’s almost a relief.

For a brief moment, you don’t feel trapped in this neighborhood. You don’t feel like you’re stuck in the same old cycle, walking the same paths, seeing the same people, watching the same mistakes repeat over and over. No, for a second, it’s like the world around you has cracked open just a little, and you’re left with the quiet possibility that things might change, even if just for a moment.

The shift feels small, but it’s there. Like the first breath of fresh air after suffocating for too long.

When you get home that night, you find your mother sitting on the porch, the thin, burned-out cigarette dangling between her fingers. She’s not pretending anymore, not now that it’s late and everyone else is probably asleep. Her hair is messy, no longer the smooth, well-kept style she usually flaunts. Her face is swollen—bruises splotching her cheeks, her eyes puffy and tired from crying.

“Where were you?” she asks, her gaze still fixed on the house in front of yours. She doesn’t bother looking at you, not to check if you’re okay. Her attention is elsewhere, distant, as if she doesn’t expect any answer that would matter.

“Walking around,” you admit, eyes focused on your feet, the weight of her cold gaze too much to bear.

She scoffs. The cigarette, now crushed under her foot, is unceremoniously snuffed out, and you can see the way she doesn’t even flinch from the pain. It’s a habit, a daily routine.

“You’re lucky for now,” she says, voice softer than before, rough from the crying, the scream of her throat still raw. “But soon, you’ll be in my shoes.”

She stands up, her small frame carrying a quiet defiance despite the way she looks—worn, bruised, and broken. But there’s confidence in the way she holds herself, like she’s been carrying it all for years. “I never wanted to have a child,” she spits out, her words sharp yet tired. “Especially not a girl. I hate being a woman, and I hate that you have to be one.”

Her voice isn’t as angry as usual. It’s bitter, almost resigned. She steps closer, her hands coming up to grab your chin with a force that feels like it’s meant to command attention. She forces you to look at her, her fingers digging into your skin.

She points to each bruise, one by one, her index finger tracing the marks as if they were a map of her life. She doesn’t care that she’s showing you the evidence of everything she’s endured—she’s too used to it, too numb to the shame of it.

“This is the reality of being a woman,” she mutters, almost to herself, before shoving your face away with an almost violent jerk. “So, please, for the love of God, don’t act like you’re stupid.”

Her words hang in the air, heavier than any slap, before she turns and walks back into the house, leaving you standing there, unsure of whether you should follow or just stay outside where it’s quieter. The front door closes with a soft thud, and for a moment, all you can hear is the distant hum of the neighborhood at night.

It was the first time your mother had shown any sign of care, though it wasn’t the kind of love you expected. It wasn’t tender or warm, but something raw, something almost desperate. Maybe it was because she hated her own life so much, and in that bitterness, she saw you—her daughter—trapped in the same fate she had lived. A fate passed down from her mother, and her mother before her, a cycle that seemed impossible to break.

She hated that she couldn’t escape it, and more than anything, she hated the thought that you might walk the same path. That you might fall into the same patterns, the same resignation, the same endless hurt.

And yet, she couldn’t help but see herself in you. She couldn’t bear to watch you go through the same things, to let you slip into that cycle without a fight. That’s why her words were so harsh, so bitter—because she wanted to shake you awake, to make sure you understood. She wasn’t doing it because she didn’t care. She was doing it because, in her own twisted way, she did.

She knew she couldn’t change her fate, but maybe, just maybe, she could help you change yours. Maybe if she told you the truth, no matter how ugly, you could see it for what it was and find a way to escape.

In that moment, she wasn’t just your mother. She was a woman who had lived through a life she couldn’t control, a life she hated. And for the first time, she was trying to make sure you wouldn’t be doomed to live it too.

The next morning, everything falls back into place, as if nothing ever happened. Your mother’s hair is perfectly styled again, dark and silky, cascading down her shoulders like nothing could’ve ever disturbed it. She’s wearing the same light baby pink dress, the one she always wore when she wanted to appear delicate and soft, the one that made her look so much like the image she desperately wanted to maintain.

Her bruises, the ones from last night, are now hidden beneath layers of makeup, and the wounds are no longer visible. She’s smiling, the kind of smile she perfected when she wanted to convince the world that everything was fine, that she was content. She stands beside him on the porch, acting as if nothing ever happened. She laughs as she speaks to your father, the sound sweet, almost too sweet, a performance of love and happiness, as if she wasn’t the same woman who had been crushing a cigarette under her bare foot the night before, staring into the distance in quiet pain.

Your father, too, wears that perfect grin of his, proud and unbothered. He acts as if he is the perfect husband, as if he hasn’t raised a hand against the woman standing beside him, as if he’s somehow different from the other men in the neighborhood. But you see through it all. You see that it’s just an act, one he’s practiced for years to keep the appearance of a happy family.

And then, your eyes meet your mother’s. The smile on her face falters, just for a moment, and her eyes give you a glimpse of the woman you saw last night—worn, bruised, and raw. She lets you see her true feelings for the first time in years. For a split second, it’s like she’s dropping the mask, her true emotions finally shining through, but only for a fleeting moment.

She doesn’t ask you where you’re going or why you’re leaving so early with your backpack slung over your shoulder. She doesn’t question you at all. But you can feel it—the quiet understanding between you, the unspoken recognition of what lies beneath the surface.

And you don’t explain yourself. You don’t need to. Because, in that moment, you both know exactly what’s happening. The role you’re both playing, the life you’re both trapped in, and the quiet truths you’ve learned to keep hidden.

The silence between you says everything.

As you walked through the neighborhood, your gaze naturally drifted to the motel, and there it was—the same motorcycle parked in front of it, just as you had seen the night before. Up close, the bike looked even older, with a rusted engine that seemed to be barely hanging on. The smell of gasoline and the loud sputtering noise it made as it idled still lingered in the air. It was far from a smooth ride, but there was something undeniably cool about it. Something raw and untamed that spoke of freedom.

You couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to ride a machine like that. The wind wouldn’t feel the same as it did in a car, you imagined. On a motorcycle, it would hit you directly, against your face and body, with a freedom that felt entirely different. It was the kind of freedom you hadn’t experienced yet.

For a moment, you let your mind wander. Maybe one day, you would have one of your own. A motorcycle. You’d ride it wherever you wanted, with no one telling you where to go or how to live. It seemed like something you could use, something to escape from everything else.

And even though you’d never seen a woman on a motorcycle around here, you thought, maybe I could. Maybe it would be the one thing that was truly yours. Something bold, something that didn’t fit into the mold of the life expected of you. You wondered, too, if it was one of your mother’s secret desires—something rebellious, something that stood apart from everything she was supposed to be. Maybe she dreamed of it, too. But if she did, it was something she buried, a quiet longing hidden beneath her role as the perfect housewife, a dream she would never dare to chase.

But you could. You didn’t need permission. You could chase it for both of you.

You clench the straps of your backpack tighter, walking with determination toward the little secondhand shop, hoping to find someone who could fix your broken Walkman.

The shop had always felt like a refuge. It was far from perfect, its dusty, wooden floors creaking with every step you took. But there was something comforting about it. Raw. Real. It wasn’t the kind of polished, shiny place people raved about, but it was home to you in a way that no other place had been. The old man who ran it was a quiet figure, always there, rearranging the shelves, wiping the dust from vinyls, his slow movements almost hypnotic. The kind of place that felt like it had been frozen in time, a refuge for those who wanted to forget the world for a while.

The shop was never busy, and you didn’t mind the stillness. You loved how it felt like a haven, a place that didn’t need to pretend.

You waited by the counter, your fingers tapping lightly against the wood. The old man always recognized you, even though you wondered how he could still see clearly enough to know your face. His speech was slow, each word measured, like he was thinking before saying it. But he was kind. Never rushed, never impatient. He had stories about his late wife, and sometimes, when the shop was quiet enough, he’d tell you about her.

“You remind me of her, you know,” he’d often say. “She used to wander in here like you. Quiet, but always looking for something.”

You would smile and nod, never quite sure how to respond to that. You imagined a love like his. Real. Uncomplicated. The kind where you don’t need to try, it just is. A love that didn’t feel forced, where the other person wasn’t a burden but a part of you. Not the kind of love you saw in your parents’ eyes. Their relationship felt like a contract—something they had to fulfill rather than something they chose.

You hoped one day you could have that. A place like this. A life that you built for yourself. Not with someone else’s expectations. Not because you had to. But because you wanted to.

You tap the bell on the counter again, the sharp ringing echoing in the dusty shop, but this time it seems to stretch out into an uncomfortable silence. Impatience gnaws at you as you glance around the shop, but there’s still no sign of the old man. You’ve been coming here for years, and he’s always been here, slow and steady, always with a kind word or a story. Something feels wrong now.

Then, a loud crash echoes from the storage room, followed by a muttered curse that’s far too quick, too sharp to belong to the old man. Your heart skips a beat, an unease creeping up your spine. The sound—almost frantic—grates against the usual calm of this place. The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

A moment later, a man steps out from the storage room. He’s younger than the old man, much younger. His hair is dark and untamed, falling messily over his forehead, parted in the middle. Unlike the old man’s greying locks, his hair looks fresh, unruly, and full of life. His eyes, a warm brown, catch yours immediately, and you recognize them—the same doe-like eyes from the previous night. The same guy you saw by the motel. Your stomach does a little flip at the sight of him, though you can’t tell if it’s curiosity or something else stirring inside you.

He takes a step toward you, his movements slow but deliberate. There’s a silver piercing gleaming in his eyebrow, the light from the dusty windows catching on it just right. It’s the first time you’ve seen something like that in person, and for a moment, you can’t help but stare. The piercing isn’t the only one either—his lower lip holds another one, and you feel your eyes dart there before you can stop yourself.

His voice cuts through your thoughts. It’s low, with an edge of impatience, as if he’s not in the mood for this interaction, but he still bothers to ask, “Need help?” His tone suggests he hopes it won’t take long.

You blink, taking in the whole scene now. The way he stands—like he’s been here before, or maybe like he owns the place. His demeanor is different from the old man’s. There’s a confidence to him, but something in his posture says he’s also waiting for something, not sure if he wants to be here either.

“Can I help you?” he repeats, tapping his fingers against the counter in a steady rhythm, as if he’s not used to people lingering. He’s not the warm, inviting figure you’re used to seeing around here, and it throws you off. The shop feels suddenly different, less welcoming in his presence, and you can’t put your finger on why.

You can’t help it—your mind goes back to the old man. “Where is the old man?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You turn, peering over his shoulder as if you might find the old man still standing there, but the storage room remains silent. Your heart pounds in your chest at the thought of something happening to him. You’ve always felt safe in this little shop, but now… it doesn’t feel quite the same.

The guy seems to notice your unease, and his eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no answer. Instead, he stands a little straighter, and you catch a flicker of something in his expression—indifference, or maybe something else, but it’s hard to tell.

He lets out a soft sigh, a faint roll of his eyes as he leans against the counter. His arms cross over his chest, and you can’t help but notice how his presence seems to fill the small, cluttered space more than it should. Every movement he makes feels deliberate, and you realize he’s entirely aware of how he occupies the room. His boots scrape loudly against the wooden floor as he shifts his weight, and you can almost feel the way the air tightens with the tension he brings.

“The old man is my uncle,” he says, his tone cool but with a slight edge of amusement. A small, knowing grin appears on his lips as he watches you, his gaze flicking over your face when your mouth falls open in surprise. “He’s taking a break. I’m doing him a favor. That’s it.” The words are casual, but there’s a quiet finality to them—like he’s done talking about it, like it’s not up for discussion.

You blink, trying to steady yourself. It’s harder than you expected to meet his eyes without feeling a little exposed, a little off-balance. You had assumed the old man was always here, the steady, familiar presence that greeted you every time you came in. But now, faced with this stranger—this person you’ve only ever seen from a distance—the air feels different.

“I was just asking for a repair,” you say, your voice faltering more than you meant it to. The usual certainty in your tone wavers as you shift on your feet. You glance back toward the storage room once more, but there’s no movement, no sound to assure you that the old man is still here. “It’s for my—my Walkman.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by the idea. His gaze moves lazily from the counter back to you, a flicker of interest passing behind his eyes before he whistles quietly. “A Walkman, huh?” he repeats, almost as if he’s surprised someone in this neighborhood had one. He lets the words hang in the air for a second, then continues, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. “And you’re telling me that this place—this place, of all places—is going to fix it? Aren’t you rich enough to just buy a new one?”

The way his eyes move over you makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. You can feel his gaze sizing you up, measuring you in a way that feels both intrusive and sharp. He looks at your clothes—your neat, clean appearance—and his lips curl into a slow, dismissive scoff. It’s not lost on you that his eyes linger for just a moment longer, as if judging something he’s already decided about you.

A sudden pang of self-consciousness hits you. Your heart sinks slightly, regret flickering through your chest as his judgment gnaws at you. You hate the way his scrutiny makes you feel, like you don’t quite fit in here. Like you don’t belong.

You force yourself to take a deep breath and shake it off, trying to reassert yourself. “It’s important to me,” you say, your voice steadying. “Can you fix it or not?” The question is simple, but there’s a trace of desperation creeping in, despite your best efforts to remain composed. You need him to understand—this isn’t just about the Walkman. It’s about something deeper, something he’ll never understand unless he takes the time to look past the surface.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes lingering on you as if weighing your words. You can almost feel the shift in the air, a flicker of something beneath the surface—curiosity, perhaps, or something else—but it’s gone before you can fully place it. His gaze softens, just barely, but then he lets out a sharp exhale, pushing himself off the counter and stepping forward with the weight of his boots echoing against the wooden floor, the sound strangely loud in the stillness of the room.

“You’re serious, huh?” he asks, his voice softer now but still carrying that sharp edge, like he’s not quite used to being asked for something. He glances back at the storage room again, his eyes lingering there for a second, almost like he’s reconsidering something. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he turns toward the cluttered shelves behind him, picking up a few items and inspecting them absentmindedly before setting them back down, like he’s not fully engaged in the situation, but also not ready to back out just yet.

“Alright,” he finally says, the word slipping from his lips with a trace of reluctant agreement. He shrugs again, as if it’s no big deal, though you can tell there’s a part of him that’s still sizing you up, still trying to figure out what it is you’re really after. “I can take a look at it. Doesn’t mean it’ll be easy to fix, though. This place doesn’t exactly scream ‘high-end electronics repair,’” he adds, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips as his gaze drifts toward the dusty shelves stacked with vinyl records and faded cassette tapes. The place feels more like a forgotten corner of time than a shop for repairs.

You let his words settle, watching him carefully as he moves. His attitude seems casual, but there’s something about the way he approaches things—so effortlessly, so confident—that makes you wonder if he’s more than he lets on. His hands work quickly, pulling a few items from the shelves, inspecting them before moving to the counter. He rummages through drawers full of tools, the sound of metal clinking against metal mixing with the soft hum of the room.

“I don’t care where you do it,” you say, your voice firmer now, like you’ve made up your mind. “I just want it fixed.”

He raises an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping him. His eyes flicker over you again, lingering a moment longer than usual, and for the briefest second, you think you catch a glimpse of something softer in them, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. He’s unreadable, as usual.

“Fine, fine. We’ll see what we can do,” he mutters, leaning down to dig through the drawer again, his hands moving with a practiced ease that you can’t help but admire. Despite his earlier sarcasm, he doesn’t seem bothered by the task at all. His fingers brush against the old tools, each movement deliberate, like he’s been doing this for years. He pulls out a few items—some soldering wire, a small screwdriver, a flashlight—almost like he’s done this hundreds of times before.

“So, what’s with the Walkman?” he asks casually, his eyes now focused on the device in his hands. The question is simple enough, but there’s a certain detachment in his voice, like he’s trying to keep the conversation light, even if there’s something more beneath it.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to share anything personal. But something about the way he works, the rhythm of his hands, the quiet focus he’s putting into the task—it makes you feel like you can let your guard down, just a little. So, you answer him, your voice softer than you intended.

“It’s… sentimental,” you say, your eyes dropping to the counter as you cross your arms, trying to hide the vulnerability that creeps into your voice. “It’s the only thing that feels like mine. It’s always been with me.”

His hands still for a moment, and you almost don’t notice it at first. But then, he picks up the Walkman with more care, his fingers brushing over it like he’s seeing it in a new light. “Sentimental,” he repeats, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I get that.”

The silence stretches between you two as he works, the quiet hum of the room settling around you. The atmosphere feels different now, less awkward, almost… familiar.

You watch him as he works, the quiet precision in his movements catching you off guard. His fingers, surprisingly gentle despite the rugged look, move with an almost protective care, like he’s handling something fragile, something valuable. There’s a soft furrow in his brow, a small crease forming as he concentrates, and you can hear the occasional curse slip from his lips when something doesn’t go as planned. It’s an oddly captivating thing to watch, how someone could be so absorbed in something as small as fixing a Walkman.

His tongue pokes into the side of his cheek when he’s frustrated, a subtle gesture that almost feels like it’s his way of keeping calm, of focusing deeper. You hadn’t realized how much you were paying attention to the details—his every movement, the slight tension in his posture—as if the small actions were painting him in a new light, one you hadn’t expected.

“It’s the first time I’m holding one,” he mutters softly, more to himself than to you, but the words still carry through the quiet room. His voice is low, almost distant, like he’s unsure whether he even wants you to hear. “Too expensive.”

You nod quietly, feeling an unfamiliar pang in your stomach. It’s an odd feeling, almost like a tinge of guilt or something deeper that you don’t quite understand. Maybe he’s right—maybe this Walkman wasn’t something someone like him would ever have, and certainly, it wasn’t something someone like you would have, either, if not for the circumstances.

It had been a gift, one that your parents had gotten for you when it first hit the market, all shiny and new. They’d said it was a revolution, a piece of history. Everyone would envy you, they’d promised, and for a while, you’d believed them. It was the kind of thing that made you feel special, like you had something others didn’t. But now, in this moment, it didn’t feel as significant as it used to. If you’d never had it—if it had never been in your hands at all—you wonder if it would have mattered.

You glance at him, his hands steady and sure, and then look back down at the Walkman in his grip. It feels like something distant now, just an object, one that’s tied to a past you’re not sure you even care about anymore.

Your eyes are drawn to his piercings once again, the gleam of the silver reflecting the light as you try to think of something to say. You want to know more about him, to learn what brought him here, what his life is like, what makes him tick—something more than just his uncle’s store. You wonder if there’s a story behind those piercings, a story behind him, beyond the sarcasm and the aloofness.

Finally, you break the silence. “I love your piercings,” you say, leaning forward a little, your arms resting on the counter as you get a closer look at the glinting metal.

He halts his movements, his hands pausing mid-task, and pulls back slightly. A scoff escapes him, and for the first time, you catch the slightest shift in his expression. It’s a mix of amusement and something else, maybe frustration. He looks you over, his eyes flicking from your outfit to the pristine state of your appearance, and there’s a subtle judgment in the way his gaze lingers.

“I doubt your parents would love that,” he mutters, his voice dry, as if the thought alone is enough to make him cringe. He gestures toward you—your clean, polished look, the kind that screams privilege, the kind of look that wouldn’t align with someone choosing to wear piercings like his. His tone suggests he’s seen enough of that world to know exactly what it thinks of someone like him.

You feel a flicker of discomfort at his words, but you push it down. Instead, you glance around the store, letting your eyes wander over the worn vinyl records and the neglected shelves. There’s no music playing like it used to when the old man was around, and it makes the space feel emptier, quieter somehow. It’s a small detail, but one that strikes you.

“No,” you say, your voice softer now, a touch defensive, but with a small smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t think my parents would be too thrilled about it either.” You pause, feeling the weight of your words for a moment. “But I love it,” you add, your gaze drifting back to the piercings, the way they shine under the dim light.

The words hang between you two, and there’s a strange tension in the air. You feel a little more vulnerable than you’d expected, but there’s also a sense of freedom in the truth. It’s the first time you’ve really said something that’s your choice, something that isn’t dictated by the expectations placed on you.

“Then get one,” he throws out, a mischievous grin still tugging at his lips as he carefully inspects the Walkman. He holds it up between his hands, offering it to you once more. You don’t take it immediately, unsure of why, or maybe unsure of what to do next.

“Keep it,” you finally mutter, your words feeling heavier than you intended. You can feel the weight of the device in your hand, the memory of it too tied to you, to your past. “I don’t need it anymore.”

His eyes flash with a hint of annoyance. He scoffs, tapping his cheek in frustration, before poking the Walkman back into your hands with a little more force than necessary. “You just wasted my time,” he says, his voice dripping with mild irritation.

For a moment, you feel a pang of guilt, but you quickly shove it aside. You slide the Walkman back toward him, the cool metal against your palm. “I’m not,” you say, almost laughing at how absurd the whole situation is. “You met me.”

You offer a soft, quiet laugh, unsure of how he’ll respond, but the tension breaks when you hear his unexpected chuckle. He turns his head toward the dusty window, staring outside as the sunlight catches his eyes, the gleam of his piercings almost blinding for a split second.

“If I keep it, you won’t have it back,” he says, his tone light but with an edge of finality, still gazing out the window, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smirk, feeling a little lighter. “I’m not planning to.”

He finally turns back to you, his expression shifting as he holds the Walkman with a reverence you hadn’t expected. For a moment, he looks at it like it’s something precious, almost as if he’s seeing it for the first time. You can tell he’s never held something quite like this before, despite the old motorcycle you’ve seen him ride, which probably cost far less than this device. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if the Walkman had been worth more than his bike.

His fingers trace the edges, like he’s savoring the feel of something foreign to him—something valuable. It’s strange to watch him like this, his cool and detached demeanor replaced with something a little more… curious. The room feels quieter as he focuses, and for just a moment, everything about the store—the dusty shelves, the absence of music—fades away. It’s just you, him, and the Walkman in his hands.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his voice unusually soft, and you catch a brief hesitation before he clears his throat, speaking louder. “I will take care of it.” His words are firm now, as he slips the Walkman into the back pocket of his denim jeans with a certain carefulness that makes you wonder if he’s fully aware of what it means to him, what it means to you.

The smile that follows is unexpected. It’s wide and genuine, a kind of purity behind it that almost makes you forget the tough exterior he wears. His front teeth peek out, and for a brief second, he looks… soft, almost cute, despite the sharpness of his features and the piercings that define him. There’s a warmth in that smile, a connection that, for whatever reason, feels more important than it probably should.

You feel a wave of something inside you—something light, something content. You can’t help but smile back as you close your backpack, adjusting the straps, and turning to leave. As you walk toward the door, you glance over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, his hand resting on the counter, a quiet presence in the small shop.

You tell him your name before leaving, your voice quiet but steady. He doesn’t respond with his own name, and in that moment, you realize that you don’t need it. There’s no need for something as trivial as a name when you’ve shared this small, unspoken moment—an exchange that doesn’t require any formalities.

It’s enough, you think, that he accepted the Walkman, that he treated it with care, that it found its place in his hands. That’s more than enough. You walk out of the store, feeling lighter, leaving behind the weight of the past with every step.

It was ridiculous, really, how your eyes always wandered to the motel whenever you passed by, searching for that one familiar sight. The motorcycle, parked in the same spot, untouched. It had become a strange sort of reassurance, a quiet confirmation that he was still there, lingering just at the edge of your world.

You hadn’t seen him since that last time, hadn’t heard his voice or caught a glimpse of those piercing eyes, but knowing he was still around was enough—for now. You liked to imagine him with your Walkman, headphones snug over his ears, listening to something that made his day just a little bit lighter, a little less heavy. The thought made you feel strangely content, though you weren’t sure why.

When you stepped into the shop that day, a flicker of anticipation sparked in your chest, only to fade as quickly as it came. The old man was there, the same as always, greeting you with a familiar smile as he shuffled toward you. You forced yourself not to look too disappointed, not to let it show that you had been hoping for someone else instead.

“It’s been a while since you’ve come by,” he remarked, dragging a cloth across a shelf in a half-hearted attempt to clean, only managing to stir the dust into the air.

You raised an eyebrow. “I was here last week,” you reminded him, letting your fingers skim over the vinyl records, pretending to browse when really, your attention was elsewhere. “Your nephew was here.”

The moment the words left your lips, his expression shifted, his brows lifting in amusement. “My nephew?” he echoed, as if the idea itself was absurd.

You laughed, tilting your head. “Yeah. Piercings, kinda looks like a bunny,” you added, hoping the description would jog his memory.

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, and for some reason, it made your shoulders relax. You hadn’t imagined him. You hadn’t made him up in your head just to fill some empty space in your life.

“Jungkook,” the old man mused, tossing the cloth onto the counter. “That boy. He’s not my nephew—I don’t have any.”

You froze, your hand stilling over the record you had been pretending to consider.

Jungkook.

His name felt unfamiliar, rare even, like something that didn’t quite fit in the world you knew. And yet, now that you had it, you wanted to hold onto it.

“If he’s not your nephew,” you said, forcing a chuckle, trying to keep it light despite the curiosity gnawing at you, “then who is he? Some kind of impostor I should be worried about?”

The old man smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, nothing like that. He’s a good kid, far as I can tell.” He leaned against the counter, rubbing his chin as he thought. “His mother was a friend of my wife,” he finally said, as if that alone explained everything.

But it didn’t.

If anything, it only left you with more questions.

You stare at the old man, waiting for more—more details, more answers, anything that would give you a clearer picture of Jungkook, this boy who had somehow settled into your thoughts without permission. But the old man just shrugs, as if that small explanation is all you need to know.

His mother was a friend of his wife. That’s it?

There’s something about the way he says it, though—like there’s more to the story, something he’s choosing not to say. You can tell from the way his gaze flickers for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say more or leave it at that.

“And?” you press, crossing your arms, trying to sound casual despite the way your stomach twists.

The old man chuckles, shaking his head as he leans against the counter. “And nothing, kid. He showed up a while ago, needed a place to stay, so I helped him out. That’s all.”

That’s all.

You want to ask why. Why he needed a place to stay. Where he came from. What led him here. But you know better than to pry—at least, not in front of the old man, who clearly isn’t interested in giving you a life story.

Instead, you hum in acknowledgment, returning your gaze to the rows of vinyl records, but you’re not really looking at them anymore. Your mind is still stuck on Jungkook.

The motorcycle at the motel.

The way he looked at the Walkman like it was the most valuable thing in the world.

The way he didn’t give you his name.

He’s a nice kid, the old man had said. But there was something unsaid beneath that.

You shake your head, exhaling softly. Maybe you were overthinking it.

Maybe you just wanted to understand him too badly.

“Well,” you say finally, picking up a random record just to keep your hands busy, “if you see him, tell him I said hi.”

The old man gives you a look, one that makes you think he knows exactly why you’re asking, but he just grins, nodding. “Sure thing, kid.”

You nod back, placing the record down before making your way to the door.

The old man didn’t try to stop you when you left as quickly as you had arrived. He didn’t call after you or ask why you suddenly seemed so eager to be somewhere else. Instead, he just scoffed to himself, shaking his head at the way your enthusiasm had dimmed the moment you realized Jungkook wasn’t there.

You thought he didn’t notice—thought he was just some oblivious shopkeeper too lost in his own world to catch the subtle shifts in people’s expressions. But he wasn’t naïve. He had lived a lifetime before you, had seen this kind of thing more times than he could count.

It had happened to him too many times before—coming home to an empty space, hoping for someone who was no longer there.

He knew the feeling well, that quiet ache of expectation followed by the heavy weight of absence. It settled in the bones, in the spaces left untouched, in the silence that stretched too long.

So when he saw that look in your eyes—the flicker of hope when you walked in, the way it dimmed when you realized Jungkook wasn’t there—he understood. More than you probably thought.

But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask questions. Some things were better left unspoken.

The walk home felt heavier than before, each step dragging under the weight of questions you couldn’t silence. Without your Walkman, the usual comfort of music was gone, leaving you alone with the pounding in your chest and the restless thoughts clawing at your mind. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your footsteps, the dull scuff of your shoes against the pavement, but even that failed to ground you.

Then you saw it.

A flash of light blue. A pair of unmistakable orange headphones.

Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze locked onto the Walkman—your Walkman—gripped carelessly in the hands of a stranger.

It was like the world tilted off its axis for a second. No one else in the neighborhood had one. You knew it as well as you knew your own name. And yet, here it was, being held by someone who shouldn’t have it.

“Hey!” The word left your mouth before you could think. You surged forward, weaving through the sparse evening crowd, heart hammering. The man didn’t even glance up, just shoved the headphones back over his ears like your voice didn’t exist.

Rage flared in your chest. Now you knew exactly why your mother had always hated that device.

“You sucker,” you spat, reaching out and gripping the man’s shoulder, spinning him around with more force than you realized you had.

He reacted immediately, shoving you back with enough strength that you nearly stumbled. “The fuck’s your problem?” he snapped, eyes narrowing as he adjusted his stance.

But you barely heard him. Your gaze was fixed on the Walkman, still clutched in his fingers.

“Where did you get that?” you demanded, pointing at it with a shaking hand. “It’s mine. You stole it.”

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes like you were some entitled brat throwing a tantrum. He tried to turn away, but you weren’t letting this go.

“I bought it,” he said sharply, enunciating each word like he wanted to shove them down your throat. His jaw tensed, muscles twitching under the flickering streetlights.

Your stomach twisted. “From who?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the audacity of the situation. “Some kid was selling it,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the device. “I paid. Fair deal.”

A sharp breath pushed through your lungs. You swallowed the lump in your throat, the sinking feeling in your stomach threatening to drag you under.

“Who—” you started, but he cut you off, shoving you again, hard enough that your back hit the rough concrete.

“I don’t owe you shit,” he snapped, his voice carrying enough venom to make the people around you pause in their steps, their eyes flickering between the two of you.

You barely registered them.

Your fingers clenched into fists, but you forced yourself to unclench them, to steady your voice. “Was he wearing piercings?” you asked, swallowing thickly. “Black boots? About this tall?” You raised your hand to about Jungkook’s height, the image of him burned into your memory.

The man clicked his tongue, impatient, but nodded. “Yeah. Probably.”

Your breath shuddered.

“Where?”

He barely got the words out before you were already running.

Your heart was pounding against your ribs, each step slamming against the pavement as you sprinted through the streets. You barely registered the murmurs of the people you passed or the way your breath came out in short, uneven gasps.

Jungkook had sold it.

The thought lodged itself into your chest like a blade, sharp and twisting with every heartbeat. You didn’t understand—why would he? You had given it to him. Not as something to throw away, not as something to trade for a few bills, but because you wanted him to have it.

Your throat tightened as you pushed forward, eyes locking onto the flickering neon sign of the bar ahead. It was the kind of place that stank of beer and regret, where the jukebox played the same old tunes on a loop, and where no one asked too many questions.

You barely hesitated before shoving the door open, the scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke hitting you immediately. The dim lights cast long shadows over the people hunched over their drinks, their conversations slurring together in the haze of the room. Your eyes darted around, scanning every face, every figure, until—

There.

He was slouched against the bar, his black denim jacket wrinkled, his dark hair falling over his face and a cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the ember glowing faintly as the ash at the tip grew precariously long, moments away from crumbling. He didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in counting the worn bills in his hand. His fingers moved deftly, flicking through them with practiced ease, his focus unshaken by the dim light of the bar or the low murmur of voices around him.

He looked different. Not the sharp-tongued, slightly amused boy you’d met in the record shop, but tired. Hollow.

You didn’t wait. You stormed toward him, not caring about the eyes that followed your every move. When you reached him, you didn’t even give him a chance to react before your hands slammed onto the bar beside him.

“Why?”

Jungkook blinked, slow and sluggish, his movements heavy with the weight of whatever haze he was in. His dark eyes, clouded yet sharp beneath it all, lifted to meet yours. There was a flicker of recognition—brief, almost reluctant.

Silently, he took the cigarette from his lips, his fingers lazy as he tapped the long ash into the tray before him. His other hand, still holding the bills, curled slightly as if preparing for whatever was coming next.

“What?” His voice was rough, low, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. There was no immediate defensiveness, no excuse tumbling from his lips. Just that one word, sitting between you like a challenge, or maybe an invitation.

“The Walkman,” you hissed, your fingers curling into fists. “You sold it.”

A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—passed through his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. He exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the bar stool. “Yeah,” he said simply. No excuses. No explanations. Just that.

Your stomach twisted. “Why?” you demanded again, voice breaking slightly despite yourself.

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head as he studied you. “Why do you care?” he finally asked, his tone unreadable.

“Because I gave it to you,” you snapped. “Because it meant something. And I thought—I thought maybe it would mean something to you too.”

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” He reached for his drink, took a slow sip before setting it back down. “That kind of thing—it’s not for people like me. It never was.”

You stared at him, your heart hammering. “That’s bullshit.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is it?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar carried on around you, but it felt like a distant hum, meaningless compared to the storm between you.

Jungkook was the first to look away, his fingers tapping idly against his glass. “You should go home,” he muttered.

But you didn’t move. Because you weren’t done.

Your eyes fell on the stack of bills scattered across the counter, and before you even realized it, your hand shot out, fingers curling around them in a tight grip. “Is this what you got for my Walkman?” you spat, your voice low but sharp, each word cutting through the thick air of the bar.

Jungkook barely reacted. His expression remained impassive, a bored detachment settling over his features like you were the one making a scene over nothing. The men around you—mostly older, their faces worn from years of the same dull routine—turned slightly, curious but uninterested enough to intervene. Women weren’t here. They were home, putting kids to bed, cleaning up after dinner. And yet, here you were, standing in the middle of it all, feeling like an intruder in a place you didn’t belong.

And Jungkook was here too.

That was what made you the angriest.

He sighed, slow and deliberate, before placing his hand over yours. His nails dug into your skin just enough to make you aware of his strength, his control over the situation. “It’s mine,” he said, voice firm, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that left no room for amusement or guilt.

You scoffed. “Is it really?” Your grip didn’t loosen, even as the heat of his palm pressed into yours. “I gave it to you because it meant something to me.”

“Never asked you to.”

You clenched your jaw. “You said you’d take care of it.”

“And I did,” he countered instantly, unwavering.

You let out a dry laugh, filled with disbelief and something close to hurt. “You sold it to some fucker just to make a few bucks.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek like he was holding something back. Then, with a sudden, jerking motion, he shoved your hand off the counter and held the bills up between you. “These bills might mean nothing to you,” he said, voice calm but laced with something heavier. “But because of this, I get to eat properly tonight.”

Your breath caught.

For the first time since you stormed in, you really looked at him. His sharp eyes, his slightly hollowed cheeks, the way he was holding himself together with nothing but sheer will. The space between you shrank, his face closer now, and for the first time, you didn’t have anything to say.

You opened your mouth, trying to form an apology—anything that might bring back the boy with the doe eyes and the bunny smile, the one who had looked at your Walkman like it was something precious. But before you could say a word, he was already moving.

Jungkook pushed himself off the barstool, slipping the crumpled bills behind his belt with practiced ease. “I’m sorry, I—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off without a second thought. The gesture was so dismissive, so absolute, that it sent a sharp sting through your chest. You hated how familiar it felt—how much it reminded you of your father silencing your mother. And just like then, you obeyed.

“Spare me your pity,” he muttered before turning toward the door.

Your body reacted before your mind could process it. You followed him without thinking, the weight of the men’s gazes pressing into your back like heavy stones. They were watching you the way a predator watches its prey, their interest laced with something unsettling. It didn’t matter that you were young enough to be their daughter, that they had girls your age waiting for them at home. Right now, you were just another thing to look at, to whisper about.

Panic tightened in your throat, and you grabbed Jungkook’s arm before he could step outside.

He turned, eyes flickering over your face, reading the unease you were too proud to voice. And then, without hesitation, he took your hand and pulled you in front of him, shielding you from their stares as he led you out the door.

You barely had time to step outside before Jungkook wrenched his hand from yours, pulling away as if your touch burned him. The sharp motion left you standing there, vulnerable and uncertain. He spun around, already reaching for another cigarette, his body language closed off. But before he could turn and walk away, your voice cut through the tension.

“Jungkook,” you called, your tone firm but hesitant, and he stopped in his tracks. His brows arched, clearly surprised you were still speaking.

“Your uncle told me your name,” you explained quickly, hoping to ease the awkwardness. You didn’t want him to think you were some sort of obsessive stranger. “He also told me he wasn’t your uncle,” you added, the words feeling heavier now, but you knew it was time to confront the truth.

He let out a small sigh, rolling his eyes as he shook his head. “The old man always talks too much,” he muttered, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around his face like an invisible barrier. “So what? You wanna know why I lied?”

You shook your head quickly, brushing off the question like it didn’t matter. “No, I don’t care,” you said, your voice softening. “You have your reasons.”

For a moment, there was a heavy silence between you two, thick with unspoken understanding. Jungkook didn’t meet your eyes, and you didn’t push him. You both stood there, the noise of the bar fading into the background as the quiet between you grew. It felt strange, as if something had shifted, but neither of you knew exactly what.

“I’m sorry for the Walkman,” he said finally, and the words caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected an apology. His voice was softer than before, almost hesitant, like he didn’t quite know how to say it.

“I was really grateful that you gave it to me,” he continued, sinking down onto the concrete as if the weight of the moment was settling in on him. You sat down beside him, your knees pulled close to your chest, watching him as he dragged a long, deep puff from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around his face.

“But someone saw me with it, proposed me a fair amount of money and I couldn’t…” he trailed off, the words hanging between you two. His shoulders slumped, his gaze distant as he exhaled slowly, a look of disappointment passing over his features. “I couldn’t say no,” he finished quietly, clearly regretting the decision. It seemed like he was disappointed in himself, like he’d thrown away something important for a quick fix.

You sat still for a moment, letting the silence fill the air between you. It was a raw, vulnerable moment, and you didn’t know what to say at first. But as you looked at him—really looked at him—you felt the anger from before start to slip away, replaced by something more understanding.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice softer than you’d expected. You hugged your knees tighter to your chest and lowered your head slightly, allowing your eyes to meet his. “I was angry, but I understand.”

He didn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge the sincerity in your words. There was a tension in the air, but for the first time, it felt lighter, as though you’d both reached a quiet understanding without needing to fill the space with more words.

“How can you understand?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’ve clearly never had to sell something sentimental just to get by.” His voice was edged with frustration, but beneath it, something else lingered—something heavier. Regret. It sat in his chest like a weight, growing heavier the longer he looked at you, so he averted his gaze, focusing on the cigarette between his fingers instead.

“No, you’re right,” you admitted, nodding slightly as your eyes followed the slow burn of his cigarette. The ember glowed softly in the dim light, a small flicker against the night. “But I know what it feels like to make concessions.”

The words left your lips quietly, almost as if you were admitting it to yourself for the first time. You thought back to all the moments when you had wanted something—really wanted something—but had been told no. Not because it was impossible, but because it didn’t fit the image, because it wasn’t right for someone like you. A dream crushed before it could even take shape. A desire silenced before it could turn into action.

It wasn’t the same as what Jungkook had been through—you knew that. You had never needed to fight for money, never had to make choices between eating or keeping something precious. But you had fought, in your own way. Fought against expectations, against the invisible cage that had been built around you since childhood.

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the air before finally looking at you again. This time, his gaze lingered. Not as sharp, not as defensive. Just… observing. Like he was trying to see what was underneath your words, beneath the surface of what you were willing to admit.

“How can I make it up to you?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with something close to sincerity.

You blinked at him, surprised by the question. The anger you’d felt earlier, the frustration of seeing your Walkman in a stranger’s hands, had dulled. In its place was something else—curiosity, maybe. A desire to understand him better. Because despite the sharp edges he showed in the bar, you knew that wasn’t all there was to him.

Jungkook wasn’t a bad guy. You knew it.

The same boy from before was still there—the one with wide, curious eyes and a smile too soft for someone trying so hard to seem untouchable. The boy who had hesitated before taking the Walkman, who had whispered a quiet “thank you” like it had meant the world to him.

And so, instead of asking for the money back, instead of demanding an apology, you tilted your head, a small smile forming on your lips.

“Your motorcycle,” you said.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed in disbelief, his head tilting slightly as he studied you. “My motorcycle?” he repeated, his voice slow like he was making sure he’d heard correctly.

You nodded, biting back a smile.

His lips parted, a breath of laughter escaping before he shook his head. “How the fuck do you even know I have a bike?” He turned his body toward you now, his full attention on you, curiosity flickering behind his dark eyes.

You hesitated for a second, feeling the heat creep up your neck, but then you sighed, rubbing your cheek like that would somehow cool your blush. “I saw you some nights ago. In front of the motel,” you admitted.

Jungkook’s expression shifted, the teasing light in his gaze dimming slightly. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot as he exhaled through his nose. “So you know I sleep there.”

It wasn’t a question.

You saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Like the reality of his situation was settling between you both, unwelcome and heavy.

There was a moment of silence before he scoffed, shaking his head. “Well, if you’re hoping I’ll just hand my bike over, keep dreaming,” he muttered, pointing a finger at you.

You laughed, pushing his hand away without thinking. “I don’t want your bike, idiot,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on.

His posture eased a little, some of the stiffness melting away as he stared at you.

You hadn’t expected him to be this pretty up close. You’d noticed before, of course—the sharp contrast between his rough exterior and his soft, doe-like eyes—but now, with the golden sunlight catching in the dark strands of his hair, the glow of it bouncing off the silver chain around his neck over his black shirt, it was almost distracting. His eyebrow piercing was partially hidden beneath his bangs, but the one on his lip glinted, drawing your eyes there for a second too long.

“I just want to try it,” you finally admitted, quickly looking away before he could catch whatever was on your face.

Jungkook blinked, caught between amusement and suspicion. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You want to try it?” His voice was skeptical, but there was something else there too—a hint of curiosity.

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the excitement was bubbling up in your chest. “Yeah. Just once.”

He let out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair before resting his arm on his knee. “You ever even been on a motorcycle before?” You hesitated, and that was answer enough. His lips quirked up into a smirk. “Figured.”

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms. “Well, maybe I never had the chance.”

Jungkook hummed, watching you closely before leaning in just slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “And what makes you think I’d let you ride mine?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. His presence was overwhelming when he focused on you like that, like he was peeling back the layers you kept so carefully in place.

“Because you feel bad,” you said simply, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “And because you’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as he looked away, but he couldn’t hide the way the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“You really think that, huh?”

“I know that.”

He exhaled through his nose, a mix of amusement and exasperation. Then, without another word, he stood up, dusting off his jeans before stretching his arms over his head.

“Fine,” he said, cracking his neck. “But if you crash it, I will kill you.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

He chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You asked, didn’t you?”

You stared at him for a moment before a grin spread across your face. You hadn’t expected him to actually agree.

Jungkook sighed dramatically. “Come on then, sugar. Let’s see if you can handle it.”

Your chest tightened at the pet name, the unexpected warmth of it catching you off guard. It had slipped from his lips so effortlessly, like it belonged there, like he’d said it a thousand times before.

You wanted to say something about it, tease him maybe, just to see if he’d say it again. But you hesitated, afraid that if you pointed it out, he’d take it back. That he’d smirk and shrug it off, pretend it had meant nothing.

So instead, you follow him down the street, heart pounding at the thought of what you were about to do.

Jungkook chuckled, shaking his head as he watched you struggle to keep your balance on the motorcycle. “How do you even plan to ride this thing when you can’t stay steady for two seconds?” His voice was full of amusement, eyes glinting as he leaned against the bike, arms crossed.

You had really thought it would be easier, that you’d just swing your leg over and instantly look as effortlessly cool as he did. But the second you lifted your foot off the pavement, your body wobbled, and a small yelp escaped your lips.

Jungkook laughed louder this time, the sound unrestrained, almost boyish. You weren’t even embarrassed—in fact, you exaggerated your reaction just to hear it again.

“Come on, help me!” You stomped your foot on the ground, determined but still completely stuck.

With an amused sigh, Jungkook finally stepped forward, his hands finding your waist without hesitation. The warmth of his palms against your sides sent a shiver up your spine, but he was focused, his grip firm as he steadied you. “Alright, go on. Lift your foot.”

You obeyed immediately, and with his support, you managed to keep the bike steady beneath you.

“Jungkook, fuck,” you breathed out, heart racing—not because you were moving, but because just sitting on the bike felt exhilarating. Because his hands were still on you, and you knew that if he let go, you’d probably take the motorcycle down with you.

His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, and when you turned your head, his face was closer than you expected. His lips twitched, like he was holding back another laugh. “You good there, sugar?”

You swallowed, gripping the handlebars a little tighter. “Yeah,” you lied.

He smirked. He didn’t believe you for a second.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, skeptical but amused. “Please tell me you at least know how to ride a bicycle?”

You nodded immediately, trying to look as confident as possible. He chuckled at your determination, shaking his head slightly. “Alright, then it’s not that different. Press this to accelerate when I let go of you, and this to slow down, okay?” He pointed at the throttle and the brake, his fingers precise and steady, but your brain struggled to absorb the information. Not because it was difficult—no, it was because he was so close, his voice low and serious, his scent a mix of cigarette smoke and something warm that made your stomach flip.

“Got it?” He tilted his head, waiting for a sign of understanding.

You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. “Yeah, totally.”

Jungkook didn’t seem convinced, his grip on your waist still firm. He searched your face for any sign of hesitation, his expression shifting into something almost… protective. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m so ready,” you assured him, voice steady even if your hands weren’t.

Still, he hesitated. His fingers lingered on your waist a second longer than necessary. You could feel the warmth of them even through the fabric of your shirt, grounding you in a way that made your pulse quicken.

Then, with a deep breath, he let go.

You were shaky at first, hesitating as you twisted the throttle just enough to keep your balance but not enough to lose control. The last thing you wanted was to crash his bike—you didn’t care if you fell and scraped your knees, but damaging his motorcycle? That was unthinkable.

“Jungkook! Look!” you laughed, your voice bright with exhilaration as you started to get the hang of it. The vibrations of the old engine rumbled through your hands, the sheer power of it making your heart race.

Jungkook was right behind you, jogging to keep up, his arms twitching forward every time you wobbled, like he could somehow catch you before you hit the ground. “Focus!” he barked, his voice sharp with concern. “Turn right! If you don’t, you’ll crash into the bushes!”

You turned the handlebars, a little too slowly, and the bike leaned sharply to the side. “Shit—!” you screamed, gripping the throttle instinctively.

“Accelerate! You’ll fall if you don’t!” Jungkook was practically yelling now, probably waking up half the neighborhood with his frantic instructions.

“Stop shouting!” you shot back, your own voice just as loud. “You’re stressing the f—AH!”

The bike jerked forward, and for a split second, you were convinced you were about to either crash or launch yourself straight into Jungkook’s arms.

The bike tipped to the side, and just as you braced for impact, strong hands caught you, steadying you before you could hit the ground. Jungkook held you firmly, his grip unyielding, while the motorcycle clattered onto its side with a dull thud. Without hesitation, he let go of you just long enough to kill the engine, ensuring no further damage was done.

“I told you to accelerate, you idiot,” he scolded, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you upright.

“You were shouting at me,” you shot back, breathless—whether from the near-crash or the feeling of his chest pressed so close to yours, you weren’t sure.

“I was preventing.”

“You were stressing me.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, then mimicked your tone in a high-pitched mockery, which earned him a glare from you. A smirk tugged at his lips before he turned away, crouching down to inspect the bike. You watched as he ran his fingers over the body, checking for scratches, his expression softening once he saw it was fine.

Without looking up, he muttered, “You’re the one who wanted to try it.”

And yet, despite the teasing, there was no real frustration in his voice—only something dangerously close to amusement.

“It was so cool,” you said with a genuine smile, unable to hide your excitement despite the failed attempt at riding.

“You literally did nothing,” Jungkook shot back, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned casually against the bike, looking like he was born to ride.

“Still, stop acting like a dickhead. Were you already this good the first time you learned to ride?” You raised an eyebrow, noticing the smug grin on his face. When he didn’t respond, you rolled your eyes. “Okay, of course you were.”

Jungkook chuckled, the sound low and playful, and grabbed your arms, pulling you closer to him and the bike. “I’m glad it met your expectations,” he teased, his voice smooth but with an edge of mischief. “Why the sudden interest in bikes? Not exactly a ‘woman’ thing.”

You scoffed, pushing his hands away from your arms as you looked at him incredulously. “Seriously, Jungkook? I was hoping for better from you than this sexist bullshit.”

He laughed, shaking his head in amusement, before lowering his gaze. “Alright, alright. Get on,” he said, patting the seat behind him. “You’ll see, it’ll be even better when you’re not struggling.”

You crossed your arms, not quite ready to give in to his suggestion. “Because you’re the one driving it? What a man,” you said sarcastically, trying to play it cool but secretly wanting to give it another go.

Jungkook grinned, clearly enjoying your resistance. “You’re welcome to try, but you’ll need me to show you how it’s done.”

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze flickering between him and the motorcycle, the temptation building despite yourself. “Fine, but don’t think this means I’m impressed,” you muttered, moving closer to the bike.

Jungkook gently helped you settle onto the bike, his hands guiding your legs with precision, ensuring you were positioned just right, both for comfort and to avoid disturbing him while he drove. You could feel the warmth of his touch as his hands moved over your legs, the simple act sending a strange jolt through you. It wasn’t lost on you how close you were to him now, how intimate the whole thing felt.

When he turned around to face you, the smile on his lips was teasing, but there was something softer there, too, like a hint of affection mixed in with his usual cocky bravado. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, and it made him grin even wider. “Try not to shit on my seat, please,” he said, his voice light with amusement.

You shot him a quick, sharp look. “Why? It’s not girly enough for you?” you retorted, trying to keep the awkwardness at bay with a little sarcasm.

But Jungkook wasn’t backing down. With a quick, almost casual motion, he took one of your hands and placed it around his waist. The gesture was so natural, and it immediately made you go quiet, your hand brushing against his stomach, the feel of it far too intimate for your liking. You swallowed, trying not to overthink it.

“Hold tight, okay?” His voice was lower now, a hint of seriousness in it. His gaze flickered over his shoulder, searching for any sign of hesitation. Without thinking, you shyly slid your other hand around his waist, your fingers touching the firm muscles of his abs.

The cool cotton of his black t-shirt against your fingertips contrasted with the heat radiating from his body, and you were acutely aware of just how close you were to him now. You couldn’t even find the words to respond when he asked if you were ready; instead, you just nodded, your breath caught in your throat as your heart seemed to beat faster.

You focused on trying to steady yourself, not wanting to look like a nervous mess, but all your focus seemed to be on the way his back pressed against your chest and how his abs felt under your hands. Your nerves were completely mixed up with the warmth that settled in your chest, and you wondered if he could feel your hands trembling just slightly against his body.

As the bike roared to life, the world around you started to blur in a way that felt different from being in a car. The wind rushed past, brushing your hair and skin, but it was lighter, freer, like you were floating through the city instead of being confined to the streets you knew so well. The hum of the engine beneath you became a comforting rhythm, and with each mile, your chest seemed to relax even more.

Jungkook navigated the streets with ease, the bike moving smoothly through every turn. He didn’t seem like a stranger in this city—he rode with the confidence of someone who knew every curve and crack in the road. It made you wonder how much of him you didn’t know. A week ago, he was an unfamiliar face, and now here you were, holding onto him with nothing but the sound of the bike and the wind to fill the silence between you. The thought crossed your mind just how little you actually knew about him and how much you were starting to want to.

You let your head rest lightly against his back, watching the familiar neighborhood you’d always known slowly fade away. The sight of the mountains on the horizon made your breath catch. It was like everything had suddenly shifted; being on a bike made the world feel so vast, so expansive—like you could reach out and touch everything. There was a freedom that came with it, a feeling you’d never experienced from the safety of a car.

Jungkook glanced back at you, his grin softening when he saw your expression. He let his gaze linger on you for just a moment longer than necessary. He couldn’t help but let his lower lip fall between his teeth, a flicker of something more than just amusement flashing across his face. His tongue ran over the piercing on his lip, and he didn’t realize how deeply he was thinking until the grin faded into something more reflective.

It felt good, having someone behind him, trusting him enough to hold on as they rode together. He’d been used to riding alone, always moving, always leaving, never staying long enough to form any real connections. But now, with you behind him, the weight on his chest felt lighter. There was something comforting about it—about having you cling to him, even if it was just for this brief moment.

“Are you enjoying yourself, sugar?” Jungkook shouted over the roar of the engine, his voice playful, but with a deeper edge to it, as his hand slid down to your leg to steady you when it shifted too much. He let his fingers linger there, feeling the warmth of your skin under his touch. It was just too easy, too natural, to hold onto the moment. He didn’t want to let it go, not yet. His fingers pressed just a little longer than he should’ve, but something about the feel of your bare skin beneath his hand kept him there.

You were too focused on holding onto him, on the rush of the wind in your hair, to notice how much longer his touch lingered, how he didn’t seem to want to pull away. When you finally noticed, you quickly shouted back, your voice teasing, mocking the way he’d shouted at you earlier. “Focus!” you yelled, your laughter lost in the wind.

Jungkook chuckled, his voice rich and low, and he gave your leg a playful slap in response. You immediately wanted to swat his hand away, but something kept you from moving your arms, something kept you holding tightly onto his waist. The fear of letting go, even just for a second, kept you anchored to him, even though the sensation of being this close to him, of having your body pressed against his, sent a flutter through you.

You couldn’t tell if it was the speed or the closeness, but you didn’t want the moment to end. Not yet.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the wind rush against your face, the sensation like a calming breath that deepens as you let go of the world you’ve been running from. For the first time in a long while, you aren’t hiding behind the comfort of your Walkman, not shielding yourself from the world with music. Instead, you’re absorbing it all—the hum of the engine beneath you, the steady rhythm of the tires against the road, the occasional whoosh of passing cars, and Jungkook’s light chatter cutting through the noise, his voice soft but steady.

In that moment, you realize how much you’ve been missing by constantly drowning out the world. Everything around you seems richer, fuller. The world isn’t as loud or as overwhelming when you just let it be, when you stop trying to escape.

The engine’s vibrations slow to a gentle stop, and without thinking, your eyes snap open. You can feel the shift in the air, the quiet settling around you. You look up to see Jungkook slowing the bike, pulling to a stop. Before you can say anything, he turns his head to you, his gaze catching yours with a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Come take a look at the view for a bit,” he says, his voice easy, like it’s something he’s done a hundred times, and yet you sense the slight invitation in his tone, the offer of something more than just the scenery.

He reaches down, putting the kickstand in place with a quick motion and then standing up, offering his hand to you. His fingers curl slightly, a silent request for you to join him. You blink, surprised by the sudden intimacy of the gesture, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels simple and natural, like a step you should take. Without thinking too much, you slide your hand into his, letting him help you off the bike.

The ground feels solid beneath your feet, but the adrenaline of the ride lingers in your chest. You glance at Jungkook, who’s already a step ahead of you, waiting for you to catch up. You follow him, your eyes still a little dizzy from the motion, but the excitement of the ride hasn’t quite faded. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but the sudden shift in pace feels right. He leads you to a spot where the view opens up before you, an expansive stretch of land framed by mountains in the distance.

Jungkook stands beside you, his hand still in yours for a moment before he lets go, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a step back. You both fall silent, the sounds of the city muffled in the distance, leaving just the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint buzz of insects in the air.

The view is breathtaking, and for a moment, you simply stand there, taking it all in. It’s vast, a world outside of the concrete and noise you’ve known, and it hits you in a way you didn’t expect. It feels freeing, like something you’ve been craving without realizing it.

“It’s beautiful,” you admit, nodding toward the view that stretches endlessly in front of you. The sight of the open land, the mountains in the distance, and the quiet hum of the world around you makes you feel like you’re seeing something for the first time. “I’m missing out so much in this city,” you confess, feeling a weight lift off your chest just by saying it aloud.

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sits down on the ground, his jeans hitting the dirt with a soft thud. He doesn’t mind the grime, clearly used to it, and he chuckles softly when he sees you following suit, sitting down beside him without hesitation.

“You do,” he says, his voice light but with an edge of truth.

You reach for the wildflowers growing at your feet, the soft petals brushing against your fingers as you pluck them gently, gathering as many as you can between your thumb and forefinger. There’s something soothing about the action, the simple connection to the earth beneath you.

“Where are you from, Jungkook?” you ask, your voice soft but curious, finally daring to ask a question you’d been wanting to know the answer to since the moment you first saw him.

He looks at the flowers you’re collecting, then glances at you before his eyes shift to the horizon. “From here, actually. Born here,” he says slowly, his voice almost distant as he gathers a handful of flowers himself. He doesn’t seem to mind the dirt under his nails, focusing instead on the simple task of picking flowers faster than you.

“I grew up here, and I’ve never seen your face,” you remark, the curiosity growing in your chest. You don’t know why you’re surprised—after all, you both grew up in the same city, but in completely different worlds.

“We didn’t grow up the same,” he says with a soft chuckle, a trace of bitterness slipping into his tone. He gestures toward the area of the city behind him, and his finger points firmly at a part of the landscape that feels foreign to you. “You were in those big-ass houses,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “while I was…” He pauses and then uses his free hand to grab yours, guiding your index finger toward the rougher, more dilapidated area of the city. “There.”

You blink, your eyes following the direction he’s pointing, and your chest tightens. You recognize the area—it’s the part of town your parents would always avoid. The kind of place they would drive through with their windows up, not wanting to see, not wanting to touch. It was the part of town they’d mention in hushed tones, warning you about the people who lived there. Your mother would tell you to stay away, always warning you about the “bad men” who lived in those parts, the ones who would do terrible things to you.

But even in your part of the city, there were men who would do terrible things.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice the way your gaze lingers, but his next words make it clear he knows what you’re thinking.

“It’s not surprising you don’t remember me,” he continues, his voice becoming quieter, almost as if he’s speaking to himself more than to you. He keeps picking flowers, his hands moving faster now, almost like he’s avoiding the weight of his own words. “My mom and I left when I was eleven years old.”

You sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between the two of you. Your fingers still hold the wildflowers, but the meaning behind them now feels heavier, their delicate petals in stark contrast to the intensity of the moment.

You open your mouth, but you aren’t sure how to ask what you want to know. You don’t want to push too far, not after hearing how raw Jungkook’s words sound. But the curiosity still lingers, pulling at you. You finally decide to speak again, your voice gentle.

“The old man said your mother was friends with his wife,” you say, your eyes tracing the flowers in your hands as you try to find the right words to navigate the delicate subject. You were proud of the flowers you’d gathered, yet in comparison to the conversation, they seemed almost trivial.

Jungkook hums softly, nodding in agreement. His posture relaxes slightly, but there’s still a tension in his jaw that betrays his emotions. “It’s true,” he says, his voice quieter now. He glances at you, seeing the curiosity in your eyes, and his smile is small but knowing.

His expression shifts, and before you can ask another question, he adds, “His name is Sukchul, by the way,” his tone almost teasing, like he’s giving you the answer before you can even ask. The softness of his smile makes you feel guilty, a knot tightening in your chest. You realize, in that moment, that you had been so wrapped up in your own world, so focused on your own concerns, that you never even thought to ask the man’s name when you were around. It feels like an oversight, one you hadn’t even been aware of.

“He may not be my real uncle, but I consider him just the same,” Jungkook continues, his gaze dropping to the flowers in his hands as he speaks. There’s a tenderness in his voice, but a certain heaviness too, as though the memories of Sukchul and his wife are still fresh for him. “His wife… she was really close to my mom and me before she died from cancer.”

His words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. You can tell that talking about it isn’t easy for him, that there’s a part of him trying to hold it all together. His eyes darken for a moment, and you watch him bite his lower lip, his gaze shifting away from you, clearly struggling to contain the emotions that threaten to spill over.

He stops picking flowers, his fingers moving absently as he stares down at them, the weight of the memories settling heavily in his chest. “They were good people. They loved each other so much. But luck wasn’t on their side.”

You let the silence stretch between you both, your fingers delicately touching the petals of the flower as you watch Jungkook out of the corner of your eye. The weight of his words about Sukchul’s loss hangs heavily in the air, and you find yourself thinking of the countless times Sukchul had spoken of his late wife. He would smile wistfully, eyes filled with something that resembled both love and sorrow, as he recounted memories of her. It was a kind of grief you couldn’t fully comprehend, but you feared it was one you might never escape if you experienced it firsthand.

You shift slightly, your mind still on the question you had yet to voice, but you couldn’t help it anymore. The curiosity mixed with concern gnawed at you. You had never lost someone you loved like that—never had to grapple with the kind of ache that Sukchul carried in his heart.

“Have you lost someone?” you ask softly, the words coming out quieter than you’d intended, like you were unsure if you even had the right to ask something so personal.

As you glance at Jungkook, your gaze lingers on his face, searching for a clue, some hidden sign that might tell you more than he was willing to speak. You study him, taking in the little things you hadn’t noticed before—like the small mole under his bottom lip, or the subtle scars on his cheekbone that hinted at a past he didn’t often talk about. His nose, slightly buttoned but perfectly fitting for his face, caught your attention for a moment, but it was his eyes—those deep, bambi-like eyes—that really held you.

There was something in his eyes, something unspoken, that felt like it could give away everything he hadn’t said yet. Those rich, chocolate-colored eyes always seemed to reflect what he couldn’t voice, and you could see it now—something soft, almost pained, hiding behind his gaze. The way his eyes watered slightly made you feel like you were treading on the edge of something too fragile to touch, but you couldn’t look away.

“Luck wasn’t on my side too,” Jungkook says, his voice quieter than before, his words thick with a kind of resigned sadness that cuts through the stillness. His tone is so simple, but it holds so much, and you realize that this is a grief he’s carried for a while now. It hits you in a way you didn’t expect.

You immediately feel guilty for asking, but you try to brush it off, unsure of how to comfort him with your words. Instead, you lower your head and let it rest gently against his shoulder. You hope it doesn’t seem awkward, but you’re not good with words—sometimes touch felt like the better option. It felt like all you could do, offering him comfort in the quietest way you knew how.

After a few moments of just being there together, you grab the flower you had picked earlier and offer it to him, holding it out between your fingers, the stem lightly brushing against your palm. You can’t see his face from this angle, but you imagine that his smile—one of those soft, bunny-like grins he often wore—was making an appearance. It felt like a small, simple offering, something to brighten the quiet between you two, even if just for a second.

“Here,” you whisper softly, your cheek still pressed against his solid shoulder. You hand him the small bouquet of flowers you’d been holding, your voice teasing as you add, “And don’t even think about selling them. They’re not worth anything anyway.” You let out a small chuckle, recalling how you’d gotten here in the first place, how things started with the small exchange of the Walkman and the unexpected connection that followed.

Jungkook laughs, his low chuckle vibrating against your shoulder. “You really know how to hold a grudge, huh?” he teases, but there’s a warmth in his voice that makes you wonder if he doesn’t mind it as much as he lets on.

You roll your eyes, pulling your head away from his shoulder and sitting up straight, giving him a playful shove. “I can’t believe you sold it, though. Of all things,” you mutter, still shaking your head, though you can’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips.

He grins back at you, clearly unfazed, his gaze softening as he watches you. “I already told you, it was a mistake,” he says, voice sincere but with that familiar edge of mischief. “And I did let you ride my bike, didn’t I? That’s a pretty big deal.”

He leans forward, bringing his hand up like he’s about to carefully place the flowers in your hair. You quickly reach up and grab his wrist, stopping him mid-action. “Just accept the gift, you idiot,” you grumble, tugging his hand away.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “What kind of guy gets flowers?” he asks, looking utterly amused at the idea of it.

You give him a smirk, reaching up to smack his shoulder lightly. “The idiot ones who sell a gift they got, clearly,” you say, shaking your head as you try to keep your grin under control.

Jungkook lifts his shirt just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his skin before tucking the flowers behind his belt, where the crumpled bills are still stuck. It’s a casual move, but it feels like it’s carrying more weight than it should, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you watch the small, intimate gesture. For a moment, you wish you could disappear from the awkwardness of it all, especially for something as trivial as flowers.

“Here,” he says, tucking his shirt back into place, his eyes gleaming mischievously. He glances at you, noticing your red face, but doesn’t comment, his smirk widening. He stands up abruptly, brushing off the moment, and with a small tilt of his head, adds, “Let’s get you home.”

You stay where you are, sinking into the grass, not ready to face the real world again just yet. “I don’t want to go back,” you mumble under your breath.

He doesn’t miss a beat, walking over to his bike and starting the engine. “Come on, don’t throw a tantrum now. I could just leave you here,” he teases, the rumble of the engine underlining his challenge.

You narrow your eyes at him, keeping your stance. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin only grows wider. Without another word, he revs the engine, and in an instant, the bike lurches forward. The sudden acceleration catches you off guard, and you find yourself scrambling to keep up. You jump to your feet, running after him, your feet barely keeping pace as you shout, “Fucking Jungkook!”

You see him grin from over his shoulder, speeding up even more, clearly enjoying the chase. “I can’t hear you!” he calls back through the engine’s roar. His speed taunts you, but you push yourself harder, struggling to close the gap.

“I swear, if you don’t stop and let me on, I’ll kill you!” You’re out of breath by now, your words coming out in a wheeze as you sprint to keep up.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he slows the bike down just enough for you to catch up. You lunge at him, grabbing his shirt with one hand, still trying to steady your breathing.

With a finger pointing at his chest, you threaten, “If I could just—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Jungkook spins around and pulls you toward him. In one swift movement, he presses his lips to yours, cutting off your words with a heated, urgent kiss. The rush of it catches you off guard, and your mind scrambles to process what just happened. The world around you falls away, the only thing that matters in that moment being the overwhelming feeling of his lips against yours.

His fingers gently threaded through the loops of your shorts, pulling you against him until your knees brushed the side of the bike. The proximity was electric, the heat of his body against yours sending a wave of warmth through you. You couldn’t help but place your hands on his neck, your fingers instinctively curling around him as if you belonged there.

It was hard to describe the connection you felt. You had never experienced anything like this—so physical, so emotional, so overwhelming in its intensity. It was as if, in that moment, you knew him in a way that surpassed words, surpassed time. The familiarity between you, despite only knowing his name for mere hours and having it not even come from his own lips, felt almost unnatural.

Your mind flickered to the harsh reality—the consequences. Your parents would never approve. They would never understand this, this wild connection you felt with someone so different from the world you were used to. Jungkook wasn’t part of the polished, perfectly controlled life they had envisioned for you. He was unpredictable, untamed in the best way. You knew they’d never accept it, and the thought of what would happen if they found out made your chest tighten.

But even with that knowledge, it felt so right. The way he held you, the way everything around you seemed to fall away as you stood there, far from the safe confines of your familiar town. The night wrapped around you like a blanket, and in that moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing outside of this moment mattered. Only him. Only the connection between you two, wild and free and untethered.

You knew it couldn’t last forever. You knew you would have to face the consequences sooner or later. But for now, it was just you and him, the world outside distant and irrelevant, and the only thing that mattered was how perfectly right this felt.

The moment his lips pressed to your neck, a shiver ran down your spine. His mouth, warm and insistent, left a trail of soft, lingering kisses that sent a jolt of electricity through you. His breath was hot against your skin, the sensation of his tongue brushing against your neck making your heart race even faster. You could feel every inch of him, every movement, every shift, and it felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

Your fingers instinctively found their way to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as you pulled him closer, desperate for more. The way he moved against you was fluid, instinctual, like you both had always known how to be this close.

It was just you and him, tangled in a world of your own making. The rest of the world could wait.

You felt a strange tension fill the air as he stopped, wiping his wet lips nonchalantly with the back of his hand, like nothing had just happened between you. The shift in energy was so abrupt it left you confused and almost breathless. His usual cocky demeanor was back in full force as he patted the seat behind him, giving you a simple command.

“Get your ass on it.”

His tone was casual, almost too casual, and you couldn’t tell if it was a mask or if he had really just dismissed everything in that moment. You, still processing the heat of what had just occurred, did as you were told without question. Climbing onto the bike, you placed your hands carefully on his waist, trying to steady yourself but keeping your distance, as though you were afraid to get too close. It felt different now, almost like a wall had been built between the two of you in an instant.

The ride back home was unnervingly quiet, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the rush of the wind around you. Unlike before, where you felt the closeness of his back against yours, now you kept your distance, holding onto him but keeping your grip light, careful not to linger or let your thoughts stray too much to what had just transpired. There was a quiet tension that you both ignored, but it hung between you like an unspoken understanding that neither of you was willing to acknowledge.

You barely spoke, only giving Jungkook the occasional direction toward your house, your voice quieter than before. You hoped—prayed—that your parents would already be asleep, that you could slip inside unnoticed.

When Jungkook finally pulled up in front of your home, he let out a low whistle, tilting his head as he took in the sight before him. The house stood tall and pristine, its perfectly manicured lawn and warm porch lights exuding wealth and quiet superiority. It was the kind of home people worked their whole lives to afford. The kind of home Jungkook had never stepped foot in.

You swung your leg over the bike and hopped off, landing lightly on your feet. You hesitated, waiting for him to say something, maybe a teasing remark or a simple “see you around.” But he remained silent, simply watching you with that same unreadable expression.

Just as you opened your mouth to break the silence, a sudden flood of light spilled onto the front yard. The porch light flickered to life, its harsh glow cutting through the night like a spotlight. You froze.

Your name rang out through the still air, sharp and unmistakable.

A shiver ran down your spine at the sound of your mother’s voice, cold and laced with suspicion. She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the wooden steps as she descended, her gaze flickering between you and Jungkook.

“Who is that?” she asked, her voice crisp, calculated.

You felt Jungkook shift beside you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Your mother’s gaze trailed over you, narrowing slightly as she took in the disheveled state of your clothes, the wild mess of your hair, and—oh God—the faint marks on your neck, remnants of Jungkook’s mouth on your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t even realized they were visible.

The weight of her stare pinned you down, demanding an answer. But you couldn’t find the words. What was Jungkook to you? A friend? A stranger? Something else entirely? You had no idea what to say.

The silence stretched.

Jungkook, ever perceptive, seemed to pick up on your hesitation. With a casual shrug, he crossed his arms over his chest, the metal of his rings glinting under the porch light. His lips curved into a lazy smile, completely unfazed by the tension in the air.

“A friend,” he answered for you, his voice dripping with amusement.

Your mother didn’t look convinced. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tilted her head, eyes lingering on Jungkook a beat too long.

“Of course,” she said, voice devoid of warmth. “A friend.”

She turned on her heels without another word, retreating back up the steps before settling onto the porch, watching the two of you from her perch like a queen observing an unworthy subject.

Jungkook let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained by the whole exchange. He swung a leg over his bike, gripping the handlebars as he cast one last glance at you.

“Well, goodnight, sugar,” he said, his voice teasing yet strangely soft.

And with that, he revved the engine and sped off into the night, leaving you standing there, caught between the warmth of his presence and the cold scrutiny of your mother’s gaze.

You climb the stairs slowly, keeping your head down, hoping to escape your mother’s gaze. But just as you reach the last step, her fingers wrap around your wrist, halting you in place.

“You know what I think of this guy, right?” she says, her voice cold and unwavering.

You nod automatically, still avoiding her eyes.

“Where do you even find them now?” she scoffs, shaking her head like she can’t comprehend how her daughter—born into comfort, surrounded by privilege—could possibly end up tangled with someone like that.

She doesn’t need to say it outright. You already know what she sees when she looks at Jungkook: an old bike, worn-out clothes, the easy smirk of someone who doesn’t care what people like her think.

You brace yourself, expecting her usual criticisms, the ones she always has lined up when it comes to people who don’t fit into her world. But instead, she tugs at your wrist, turning you to face her.

“I know it doesn’t always mean something about the type of man he is,” she says, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “But please…” Her eyes search yours, filled with something unfamiliar—regret, maybe, or a warning she never dared to voice before.

“Don’t be as stupid as me and make decisions you’ll regret later.”

By decisions, she probably means settling for a man who saw her as nothing more than the woman of the house—someone to stand beside him, not as an equal, but as a necessity. A man who dictated more than he listened. And maybe, just maybe, she also meant having you too in the process, tying herself to a life she never truly chose.

She straightens up and follows you inside, her footsteps light against the polished floor. “By the way, your dad won’t approve of him,” she says, her tone neutral, like she’s stating an obvious fact.

But then, just as she reaches the stairs, her voice drops—so low you almost don’t catch it.

“So maybe it’s a good thing.”

She doesn’t wait for your reaction, just starts climbing the stairs, disappearing into the dim hallway before you can even process what she just said.

You wonder what had finally made your mother rebel against your father. Maybe it was the last straw—the slap too many, the weight of a marriage that had long since stopped feeling like a partnership. Maybe it was the realization that if she didn’t raise your awareness now, you might walk straight into the same mistakes she did.

She would never say it outright. Admitting it would mean fully accepting her own life for what it was—something she might not be ready to do. But you know she loves you, and that love is stronger than her silence.

She doesn’t want you to end up as just another woman waiting at home, playing the perfect wife while a man dictates your life. She doesn’t want you to confuse financial security with true independence. Because she knows how hard it is to stand on your own, how the world still wasn’t built for a woman to thrive alone.

Especially in that time, in the ’80s, being independent as a woman was an uphill battle. But some managed it. Some carved out their own lives despite the odds.

And she could only dream that you’d be one of them.

She knows that with a boy like Jungkook—someone who seems to have nothing—you could be something. Maybe even someone. With him, you wouldn’t just be the girl waiting at home, the one dependent on a man’s whims. You could take the lead, hold the reins, become the one who provides. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough for him to respect you. Enough that he’d never dare raise a finger against you.

Jungkook wasn’t the prince charming she had once dreamed you’d end up with. He wasn’t the polished, well-mannered suitor with a stable job and a future already mapped out.

But he was exactly what you needed to become the woman she never got the chance to be.

After dinner, spent mostly in silence with only the occasional murmured thanks when passing the salt or water, you were quick to put on your shoes and sling your backpack over your shoulder. Your mother didn’t ask any questions—she didn’t have to. She knew exactly why you were so damn eager to leave. Instead, she just shot you a familiar glare before turning back to the sink, her hands already scrubbing at the plates with a force that told you everything.

Your father, meanwhile, sat on the sofa, swirling the last of his wine in his glass as he stared at the small TV screen. He was completely oblivious—or maybe he just didn’t care. You hated the sight of it. Hated the way your mother was stuck in a routine she clearly despised, scrubbing dishes so hard they nearly slipped from her hands. Hated the way your father smirked at the television, unbothered, as if her frustration wasn’t loud enough to be heard.

And when he finally did acknowledge her, it was only to shout through the living room, telling her to stop making so much noise.

Your stomach twisted. You knew exactly where this would lead, the sharp tension that always seemed to crack just when you were about to fall asleep. The muffled arguments, the slamming doors, the silence that stretched into the next morning like nothing had ever happened.

You couldn’t stand it.

So you did the only thing you could.

You left.

You walked the familiar path, hands shoved into your pockets, your gaze drifting toward the houses lining the street. Through the warm glow of the windows, you caught glimpses of the same routine playing out over and over again—women standing in kitchens, their heads bowed over sinks or stovetops, while their husbands were nowhere to be seen.

You kicked at a loose stone on the pavement, your mother’s voice echoing in your mind.

You didn’t want that life.

It was clear that her rebellious streak ran through your veins, burning just as fiercely. But unlike her—trapped in a time when independence was a privilege, not a right—you had a choice. The world had changed. Progress had been made. You could break the cycle if you wanted to.

And you did.

As your eyes flickered toward the old motel at the end of the street, its neon sign buzzing weakly, some of its letters darkened, your chest tightened. The familiar motorcycle usually parked outside was missing.

Jungkook wasn’t here tonight.

It had been two days since that night in the mountains—since he kissed you, since his hands pulled you closer like you belonged there.

And now, he was gone.

It couldn’t be that quick, could it? He wouldn’t just leave without saying anything. Would he?

Then again, what did you really know about him?

Nothing.

His name, the way he smirked when he teased you, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking—that was all. And yet, you let him kiss you like your life depended on it.

Your grandmother would be so disappointed. She always warned you about boys like him, the kind that carried trouble in their pockets like loose change. The kind that didn’t stick around.

But you didn’t care.

If anything, the uncertainty only made your heart burn harder for him.

So you sat down on the worn steps of the motel, arms wrapped around your knees, and you waited.

No matter how long it took, you knew he would come back.

At first, you distracted yourself with the small stones scattered at your feet, stacking them carefully, one by one, until they formed a tiny, fragile tower. But each time you added another, your fingers shaky with impatience, it would collapse, crumbling back into a mess of scattered pieces.

So you moved on, picking at your nails, peeling at the skin near your fingertips until there was nothing left to pull. A nervous habit—one you hadn’t done in years.

And then, when there was nothing else to do, you simply rested your head against your knees, staring blankly at the cracked pavement beneath you.

It had been hours. The warm hues of the sky had melted into darkness, the motel’s flickering neon sign now the only source of light around you.

And still, he wasn’t here.

You snap your eyes open at the loud, familiar rumble of his old bike cutting through the quiet night. The sound is almost deafening, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, but you don’t care. The moment you see him pull into his usual spot, the knot of worry coiled tight in your chest finally loosens.

Relief washes over you like a wave, but you force yourself to keep it cool. No running—running would make it too obvious how much you’d been waiting for him. Instead, you push yourself up, ignoring the dull ache in your legs from sitting for too long, and walk toward him. Fast, but not too fast.

“Jungkook!” you call out, voice cutting through the night air.

He barely glances up from his bike, still focused on whatever he was fiddling with. Then, hearing your voice again, he freezes.

“The fuck?” he mutters, eyes squinting at you through the dim light. He brings two fingers to his temple, rubbing it like he’s trying to process what he’s seeing, before finally standing up straight.

His gaze flickers over you, taking you in—the slight pout on your lips, the crease between your brows, the way your arms are crossed like you’ve got something to scold him for. And yet, there’s something else in your eyes too. Something softer.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You been waiting here all night or what?”

Jungkook exhales another sigh, shaking his head like he still can’t believe you. But there’s something different in the way he looks at you now.

No one waited for Jungkook. That was the life he built for himself—one where he could pick up and leave whenever he wanted, no attachments, no one to ask when he’d be back. Motels were easy, cheap, temporary. Renting a house? That meant staying. That meant stability, and stability was a luxury he didn’t have.

Yet here you were, waiting for him like he was someone worth waiting for.

His usual long-sleeved black T-shirt was gone, replaced by a heavy, oversized hoodie draped over his shoulders—still dark, still blending into the night. His denim jeans had been swapped for dark cargo pants, but his boots? Those remained the same, scuffed and worn from all the miles he had put on them.

The motel lights flickered above him, catching on the metal of his eyebrow piercing, making it glisten even in the dark. You couldn’t see his face fully, but you could imagine the way his brows were probably furrowed, his lips pressed together in something between amusement and disbelief.

“I did,” you finally admit, voice softer now.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning your face, as if trying to figure you out. Then, after a beat, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head again.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” His voice is laced with something unreadable, but you catch the way the corner of his lips twitch like he’s fighting off a smirk.

“Maybe,” you shrug, shifting on your feet. “But you still came back, didn’t you?”

That gets him. His jaw clenches slightly, but this time, he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Jungkook stops in his tracks when he feels your presence lingering just behind him, his hand resting on the doorknob. He doesn’t turn fully, just glances at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in question.

“You’re not actually planning to follow me in there, are you?” he asks, his voice laced with both amusement and something else—something unreadable.

You cross your arms, tilting your head defiantly. “I waited three hours for you. You really think I’m just gonna leave now?”

Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose, something between a chuckle and a sigh, before shaking his head. “You really are crazy.”

Still, he doesn’t stop you when you step past him, pushing the door open yourself.

The motel room is exactly what you expected—dimly lit, small, and carrying the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. The bedsheets are wrinkled, the walls thin enough that you can hear the faint sound of a TV playing in the room next door. It’s the kind of place that makes your skin crawl, not because it’s dirty but because of what you know happens behind closed doors like these. You’ve seen too many men—married, well-dressed, with gold bands still on their fingers—walk into motels just like this, their mistresses trailing behind them.

Jungkook tosses his keys onto the nightstand with a careless clatter, then reaches for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The fabric lifts, revealing the black short-sleeved T-shirt he wears underneath—but that’s not what steals the air from your lungs.

Your eyes widen, your breath catching as you take in the intricate ink covering his right arm. A full sleeve of tattoos, stretching from his shoulder down to his wrist, each design weaving into the next like a story written on his skin. You weren’t expecting it. Hadn’t even considered it. And now, faced with the sight of it, you feel heat creeping up your neck.

You quickly avert your gaze, turning your head to the side as if that will somehow erase the image already burned into your mind. But even without looking, you can still picture it. The stark contrast of black ink against his skin, the way the motel’s dim light casts shadows over the designs.

Jungkook, however, moves around the room like nothing is out of the ordinary. Like you aren’t standing there, flustered and frozen. He grabs the hem of his T-shirt next, peeling it off without a second thought, baring his broad back to you as he rummages through his bag for another shirt. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause.

It’s as if your presence doesn’t faze him at all.

And maybe that should annoy you. Maybe it should make you roll your eyes and scoff at how effortlessly unbothered he seems.

But instead, all you can do is stare at the wall, willing your heartbeat to slow down as he pulls a new shirt over his head, unfazed and unaware of the chaos he’s just stirred within you.

“You can sit, you know,” he mutters, glancing at you through his lashes as he runs a hand through his hair.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him. The air in the small motel room feels heavier now, thick with something unspoken, but you push it aside and take a few hesitant steps further inside.

The dim lighting doesn’t do much to hide the room’s worn-down state. The walls are dull, the furniture outdated, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke clings to the air, no matter how many times the sheets have probably been washed. You try not to think about the things this room has seen. The things people come here to do.

Your stomach twists at the thought, but not because of Jungkook.

Because of men like your father.

You don’t know if he’s ever been to a place like this. You don’t want to know. But you’re not naive enough to pretend it’s impossible. He’s a man, after all. And men like him—they take what they want, consequences be damned.

You shake your head, physically trying to rid yourself of the thought. It won’t do you any good to go down that path right now. Instead, you focus on the present—on the boy standing just a few feet away, now dressed in a fresh T-shirt, moving through the room as if he belongs here.

Maybe he does.

Maybe this place, with its creaky floors and flickering lights, is more of a home to him than anywhere else.

“I hate this place,” you finally admit, slipping your backpack off your shoulders and setting it down on the floor, as if even that small contact with the room might taint it somehow.

Jungkook scoffs, amused by your sudden display of innocence. He leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you shift uncomfortably, your gaze flickering between the stained carpet and the bed like you’re debating whether sitting down would be some kind of moral defeat.

It’s funny to him. The way you wrinkle your nose, like the very air is contaminated.

Because he doesn’t care.

He’s slept in places worse than this. Places with mold creeping up the walls, places where the sheets smelled like sweat and cheap perfume, places where the locks barely worked. This motel, with its flickering neon sign and occasional sounds of life bleeding through the thin walls, is nothing. Just another stop, just another bed to rest in until he moves on.

What men do here, what sins are whispered against these walls, isn’t his concern.

But watching you, so out of place yet still standing there, refusing to leave—maybe that is.

Jungkook snorts, kicking off his boots before collapsing onto the bed. “Yeah, well. It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Instead, you take a step forward, then another, until you’re standing beside the bed, looking down at him. He’s lying on his back now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His eyes flicker to yours, his gaze unreadable.

“Why are you really here?” he finally asks, voice quieter now.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come immediately. Because the truth is, you don’t really know. You just know that ever since that night on the mountain, something inside you has been unsettled. Something about him lingers in your mind like a half-remembered dream, like a song you can’t stop humming.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I wanted to see you.”

Jungkook watches you for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, running a hand over his face.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

You grin, finally letting yourself relax just a little. “Yeah. But you don’t seem to mind.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Get comfortable, then. If you’re staying, might as well make yourself at home.”

You watch as his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, his posture slackening just slightly, exhaustion settling into his features like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. Now that you’re really looking at him, you realize just how tired he looks. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders seem heavier than before.

And suddenly, guilt creeps in.

Maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe barging into his space, into his life, was selfish.

But then again, if he truly didn’t want you here, he would’ve made it clear. Jungkook isn’t the kind of guy to tolerate things he doesn’t want. So you take a quiet breath and finally let yourself sit on the bed, though you stay perched on the very edge, as if stepping any further into his world would be crossing an invisible line.

Your fingers toy with the fabric of your jeans before you speak again, voice softer this time.

“Is this even a home to you?”

The words slip out naturally, latching onto what he said earlier. Calling this place “home” when it felt so… hollow. So tainted.

Maybe this was the closest thing to a home he had.

And that thought makes your chest tighten.

You were lucky. Born into the right side of society, never having to wonder where you’d sleep next, never having to make a motel room feel like something permanent. And yet, as you sit there, watching him, you can’t stop thinking about people like Jungkook.

People who move through life with nowhere to land.

Jungkook lets out a dry scoff, his lashes fluttering open as he shifts onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. The movement makes his bicep flex, the ink on his arm stretching with it, and your gaze lingers there for a second too long before flickering back to his face.

“There’s a bed, a shower, and even a fucking TV,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sounds like a home to me.”

But his eyes don’t match the grin on his face.

You’ve noticed that about him. How he smiles so easily, so carelessly, yet his eyes always seem weighed down by something else. Something heavier.

He watches you for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to react, and then his smirk twitches just slightly before he speaks again.

“If your home is so great,” he murmurs, voice softer but edged with something unreadable, “then what the fuck are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

The words hit deeper than they should.

Because he’s right.

If your house was really a home, why were you sitting here on a cheap, uncomfortable mattress instead of lying in your own bed, under silk sheets and a roof that never leaked? Why did the walls of your own house feel so much smaller, so much colder, than this rundown motel room?

Your throat tightens as you drop your gaze to your hands, fingers pressing into the mattress, searching for something solid. You don’t have an answer. Not one you’re ready to say out loud.

Jungkook hums knowingly, like he’s already figured it out, and he leans back against the pillows, one arm folding behind his head.

“Yeah,” he exhales, eyes slipping shut again. “That’s what I thought.”

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of Jungkook’s slow, steady breathing. You shifted on the edge of the mattress, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, before finally breaking the quiet.

“Your tattoos are cool,” you murmured, eyes cast downward, your cheeks already betraying you with their warmth.

Jungkook let out a soft chuckle, the kind that barely made a sound but you could see it in the way his lips curled. He didn’t even open his eyes.

“You say that a lot.”

You turned to face him fully now, relieved that he didn’t seem bothered by the comment. If anything, he seemed amused. You hesitated for a second before scooting further onto the bed, finally lifting your legs so your feet no longer dangled off the side.

“I love tattoos,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think twice. “I want some.”

Jungkook finally cracked one eye open, glancing at you with a lazy kind of curiosity. His arm was still draped over his head, the ink on his bicep stretching slightly as he flexed his fingers.

“So what’s stopping you?”

You hesitated, swallowing against the knot in your throat.

Because it’s not pretty on a girl’s skin.

Because it’s not the kind of thing someone like you is supposed to do.

But instead of saying any of that, you simply shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. “I dunno. It’s just… not possible.”

Jungkook hummed at that, finally letting his arm drop to his side. He turned his head toward you now, fully looking at you in a way that made your stomach tighten. His gaze flickered down to his own tattoos, the intricate designs standing out against his skin.

“They hurt,” he admitted, flexing his fingers. “But not as much as people say. It’s… kind of nice, actually.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Nice?”

His lips quirked up, a slow grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Feels real.”

Something about the way he said it made your breath hitch, but you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way his voice softened at the end, like the words meant more than he was willing to say. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like he was trying to figure something out.

At the sound of his name, Jungkook sighed, already sensing where this was going. He knew that tone—the quiet, serious one you used when you were about to pry, when your curiosity got the better of you.

Before he could throw out some excuse—tell you to go home, say he was tired, anything to avoid answering—you spoke again, cutting off his escape.

“Why aren’t you home?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “Your mother? Your father?”

You had fully settled onto the bed now, sitting cross-legged like you weren’t just a visitor in this dimly lit motel room but someone who belonged here. Or at least, someone who was determined to stay.

Jungkook clicked his tongue, leaning back against the wall, his gaze flickering toward the ceiling. He should’ve expected the question. It was bound to come up eventually, with the way you kept showing up, trying to understand him.

“There is no home,” he muttered finally, voice flat.

You frowned at that, shifting slightly. “But—”

He cut you off with a dry laugh, shaking his head. “There was one, I guess. A long time ago. But I don’t have parents like you do.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist.

He wasn’t saying that his parents had passed away. He was saying that, whether alive or not, they weren’t parents to him at all.

You swallowed, unsure if you should press further, but he must have caught the look in your eyes because he let out another scoff.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me.” He shot you a pointed glance. “You shouldn’t.”

You bit your lip, fingers playing with the fabric of your pants. “I don’t.”

You did. Of course you did.

But you also knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Do you miss it sometimes?” you ask, your voice softer now.

You weren’t sure why you asked. Maybe because you needed to know if it was normal to feel this way—to look at your own house, your own family, and not feel the kind of attachment you were supposed to.

Because you knew one day you’d leave. It was inevitable. And you should feel sad about that, shouldn’t you? Shouldn’t the thought of leaving your parents hurt?

But it didn’t.

And you wondered if Jungkook, with all his distance and defiance, had ever felt the same.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared at some spot on the wall, like he was sifting through old memories he didn’t really want to look at.

Then, finally, his voice came—low, quiet.

“I’d rather be here than in that house.”

You exhaled, not realizing until now that you had been holding your breath.

It was relief, you realized. Relief that you weren’t the only one who felt like this. That maybe, just maybe, not every house was a home—and not every family was something you had to hold onto.

“At least you can start something new,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. But he hears it. Of course, he hears it.

Jungkook shifts beside you, sitting up properly now, getting just a little closer. Close enough that you can feel his warmth despite the space still between you.

“You have more ressources to start something new than me,” he murmurs, searching for your eyes beneath the strands of your hair.

You scoff, shaking your head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“My mother was forced to marry my father because she was a woman,” you explain, voice bitter. “And that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

You didn’t mean to say that much. To let it slip so easily. But now that it’s out there, it feels oddly freeing.

Because no one talks about it—not openly. Everyone knows. Every woman sees it, feels it, suffers through it. And yet, they stay quiet. They swallow their anger and go on like it’s normal.

But you don’t want to stay quiet. Not anymore.

“We can’t do everything you can,” you add, and this time, there’s no hesitation in your voice. Just the simple, frustrating truth.

Jungkook falls silent, his mind churning with the truth of what you said. He knew it deep down, the undeniable privilege he had just because he was a man. That simple distinction gave him an advantage, one that most women never had. It made life easier in some ways, and yet, it didn’t mean everything was perfect. It didn’t mean he didn’t have his own struggles. It didn’t mean he didn’t feel the weight of things. But that’s just how life was—how it always had been. Men had power. Women had to fight for theirs. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes feel thankful for being a man, especially in a world like this.

Still, the pain in his chest, the heaviness in his heart, didn’t just go away because of his gender. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface, reminding him of the brokenness he’d witnessed. The way his mother had suffered. The way he had been forced to see her shrivel in a life she never chose. And you. Your eyes, that defiant spark, the eagerness in your every movement, reminded him of everything he had lost—and he hated it. He hated seeing that spark because it was so pure, so untainted, and he didn’t want you to lose it, like he feared you would.

He glanced over at you, sitting there on the bed, twisting the bedsheet around your fingers, lost in thought, and for a second, it hit him just how young you were. How much potential you had, how much of life still lay ahead for you. He didn’t want you to end up like his mother—sacrificing your own self for the sake of a man who saw you as nothing more than an object to be controlled.

The silence between you two stretched on until it felt like it could suffocate you. Then, he finally spoke again, his voice low, almost reluctant but firm.

“My father,” Jungkook started, his gaze shifting toward the wall in front of him, eyes distant as if seeing a memory that was always there, never fading. “My father was a douchebag. Like every goddamn man in this country, he thought his wife was something he could own.” His tone was cold, edged with resentment as the words spilled out.

Jungkook’s voice cracks as the words spill from his lips, and you can see the pain on his face—the rawness of memories he’s never truly shared before. He doesn’t try to wipe the tear that slips down his cheek, as if allowing it to fall is somehow a release.

“When I was eleven, she decided it was enough and she left the house, taking me with her.” He pauses for a moment, letting the weight of that memory settle. “Of course, he wasn’t happy. How could his property just leave him like that?” He scoffs bitterly, the words full of disgust and helplessness.

You’re surprised at how much he’s opening up, letting pieces of his life spill out that you had never imagined. The more he says, the clearer it becomes how much he’s been carrying all these years.

“His anger was out of control, he went all over the country looking for us.” Jungkook’s gaze drifts, as if he’s staring at something far away, his mind retracing those painful steps.

You’re speechless, your heart aching for him as you watch his fists clench at his sides, his shoulders tight, like he’s holding back everything he has left. Your instinct is to reach out, to offer something, anything to help him carry this burden. Without thinking, you move closer, placing a gentle hand on his thigh, hoping to give him even the slightest comfort.

He doesn’t pull away, but you can feel the intensity in his body, the way his muscles seem to tighten even more at your touch. Still, he doesn’t look at you, but the words that follow shake you to your core.

“He took my mother’s life,” he says quietly, his voice trembling, the pain still fresh. “Deciding for her that if she wanted to leave him, then that would be the only way.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it carries with it the weight of everything he’s lost.

The room feels smaller now, the air thicker, as the reality of what he’s saying sinks in. You don’t know what to say. How could you say anything? What could you say in the face of something so cruel, so unjust? Your hand remains on his thigh, your touch now a small anchor between the two of you. You don’t know what to do with the tears that have welled up in your own eyes. The overwhelming sorrow you feel for him, for the pain he’s been carrying all these years, presses on your chest like a heavy weight.

All you can do is sit there, silently offering him your presence.

You watch as Jungkook’s hand gently envelops yours, his grip firm but surprisingly tender. It’s almost like he’s grounding himself, letting your touch be a reminder that he isn’t alone in this moment. There’s something deeply comforting about the way his rough hand holds yours, like he’s trying to protect you from the pain that he’s been holding inside for so long.

“I ran away,” he says, his voice quieter now, as if the weight of those words is still something he’s processing. He shrugs, but the movement feels dismissive, as though he’s trying to downplay the depth of what he’s been through. “Still running.” His eyes flicker to the floor, almost as if he’s talking more to himself than to you. “He didn’t care about me. I’m a man, he knows he can’t own me.”

You can’t help but feel a sense of admiration for him in that moment, though you also feel the sorrow creeping in. He had to fight for his independence, to break free from the suffocating hold of someone who should have cared for him.

It’s strange to think how different his life must have been from yours. You, sheltered in a home where you’re supposed to be loved, and him—fighting for his freedom, running from his past, and trying to find a place where he can just exist. The contrast hits you hard, and the more you think about it, the more you realize just how little you truly understand about his world.

You squeeze his hand lightly, the action small but meaningful. You want him to know that you’re there, that you won’t judge him for his past, and that despite everything, he doesn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.

“Do you ever want to stop running?” you ask softly, your voice filled with genuine curiosity. “Do you ever think about… just stopping?”

Jungkook looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, as if the question caught him off guard. Then, slowly, he shifts, pulling his hand away from yours, but not in a way that feels like rejection. He leans back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer that’s buried deep within him.

“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause. “Maybe one day. But for now, running’s all I know.”

It’s a strange kind of sadness that fills the room now, the kind that feels heavy but comforting at the same time. You both know the pain of having to keep moving forward, of never truly finding a place to call home.

You settle beside him, the bed creaking slightly under your weight as you ease yourself into the space beside him. You’re surprised by how natural it feels, as if you’ve always been meant to be this close, to have your head rest gently on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat becomes a soothing soundtrack, grounding you in this moment, easing the tension you didn’t even know you were carrying.

It’s strange how comfortable you feel, considering how guarded you’ve always been with others, especially men. You’d been taught to keep your distance, to protect yourself from the kind of people who could hurt you, but with Jungkook, it feels different. There’s no need to put up walls, no need to hide behind the layers of defensiveness you’d built over the years. With him, it feels like everything softens.

Maybe it’s how he carries himself—his exterior that screams tough, with his tattoos, piercings, and guarded demeanor—but when you look into his eyes, it’s almost like you see through the armor. His eyes are round, soft, and full of emotion, always telling you what words can’t. There’s a vulnerability there that you hadn’t expected, and that pulls you in even more.

You’d always known rough men growing up—men who used their fists to communicate, who hurt the people they were supposed to love. Your father had been one of them, a man whose temper was like a storm, always unpredictable and destructive. It had made you wary of men, of their intentions, of their words. But with Jungkook, there was no violence, no anger, just a quiet understanding. He was different. Soft, in a way you didn’t know men could be.

He whispers your name, his voice soft and warm, brushing against your hair as his fingers, which you hadn’t even noticed moving, come to a stop on your shoulder. You hum in response, the sound almost instinctive, waiting for whatever it is he’s about to say next.

“Please,” he starts, his voice a little quieter now, laden with a weight you can feel even in his gentleness. “I hope that no matter what you decide, you won’t ever accept something like that.” He lets the words hang between you two, heavy with meaning.

You lift your head slightly, glancing at him, your heart tightening in your chest. His eyes are closed, but there’s a quiet intensity in his expression that you can’t ignore. You can feel the sincerity in his words, the concern for you that he’s trying to shield behind his tough exterior.

“Don’t accept things like what?” you ask gently, your voice low. You’re not sure if he’s talking about relationships, about life, or something else, but you can feel the weight of the question.

Jungkook opens his eyes then, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that makes you hold your breath. “Don’t accept the kind of treatment you saw growing up,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t let anyone treat you like you’re less than you are, like you owe them something, like you’re not enough on your own.”

You can feel his hand resting on your shoulder again, gentle but firm, as if he’s grounding you in this moment, making sure you understand him.

His words hang in the air, and for a long second, the room feels silent, as if everything else has paused. You nod slowly, taking in his request. It’s not just a warning. It’s a wish, a hope that you won’t fall into the same traps that so many others do, that you won’t repeat the patterns of the past.

“I won’t,” you whisper back, more to yourself than to him, but you know he hears it. “I won’t.”

And somehow, you believe it.

Your mother had warned you about the dangers, told you about the life you shouldn’t accept, but hearing it from a man himself made it feel different. It made it feel real in a way that her words hadn’t quite been able to reach before. It was as if there was still hope, a shred of humanity left, even in someone who had known the harshness of life—someone who had lived through their own darkness and yet still had the clarity to see that there was something more.

His words were like a reminder, a wake-up call that maybe you didn’t have to settle for what the world sometimes told you to accept. Maybe there could be more, a life beyond the suffocating cycles you had been raised to believe in. And to hear him say it, not out of pity, but as a plea, made it all the more powerful.

You didn’t remember when or how you fell asleep—everything blurred into a quiet, peaceful haze. All you could remember was the comforting weight of Jungkook’s hand in your hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips. It felt so right, so safe, like a moment suspended in time that you didn’t want to end.

But then, suddenly, the loud knock on the door shattered the stillness, pulling you from your half-sleep. Jungkook moved swiftly, standing up from the bed without a care that your head immediately fell to the mattress with a soft thud. You blinked, groggy and disoriented, ready to scold him for not being more careful, but when you tried to focus, you saw that he wasn’t even looking at you.

He just walked toward the door, not sparing you a second glance. The door creaked open, and you could feel the tension in the air even before you heard the voice outside. Something wasn’t right, and your stomach twisted with uncertainty.

You couldn’t see who was at the door because of the stupid wall blocking your view, but the voices told you enough. Two men. Neither of them were Jungkook’s. They spoke quietly, as if trying not to let you hear, but their words still sliced through the silence in the room, creating an unsettling tension that made your skin prickle.

The conversation was hard to follow, muffled by the low volume and the distance between you, but you caught just enough to know something wasn’t right. Then, all of a sudden, the voices stopped. The door creaked shut with a soft thud, and the quiet that followed seemed almost oppressive.

Your heart began to race, the knot in your stomach tightening. You quickly stood up, feeling the weight of the situation, and moved toward the door. As soon as you stepped into the small space, you realized he was gone. Jungkook was nowhere in sight.

Your mind raced, your instincts kicking in. You rushed to the window, just in time to hear the familiar roar of his motorcycle’s engine starting up. You watched through the cracked blinds, your breath catching in your throat as you saw his silhouette fade into the daylight.

Where was he going? Why had he left without a word? And why did you feel this tight, gnawing sense of dread in your chest, like something wasn’t right?

You didn’t know the answers, but one thing was clear: you weren’t going to just sit around and let this mystery unfold without you.

You grab your backpack in a hurry, the straps digging into your shoulders as you rush out the door. Your heart beats faster with every step, adrenaline surging through your veins. The cool air hits your face as you step outside, trying to catch any trace of Jungkook or the men who had just left.

Jungkook’s motorcycle, though, was gone, the road eerily silent without its usual rumble.

Without thinking, you start walking down the street, backpack slung over your shoulder, hoping for some sort of sign that would explain it all. You had a feeling that Jungkook was in trouble, and you had no idea where he’d gone.

The city felt smaller now, each street and alleyway seeming to taunt you as you searched desperately for Jungkook. The familiar hum of the engine, the one you’d grown to associate with him, only filled you with frustration now. It should have been comforting, but the silence that followed the absence of his bike felt deafening.

You darted through every corner of the city you knew, hoping that somehow you’d see him, even if it was just a glimpse of his messy dark hair in a crowd. But nothing. The streets were empty, almost too quiet for a place that was supposed to have life pulsing through it at night.

You found yourself in front of the bar where you had saw him the some days ago. You pushed the door open, heart racing in your chest, your breath caught in your throat as you stepped inside. The atmosphere inside was thick with smoke, the air sticky with the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.

You walked through the crowd, your eyes scanning every face, but it only made your stomach twist tighter as you realized, once again, he wasn’t there. It felt like a ghost town, even though there were people everywhere.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere.

You swallowed hard, pushing through the crowd to get back out on the street, the sense of unease growing in your chest with each passing second.

You kick the stone harder this time, frustration bubbling up, your breath sharp as you watch it roll down the street. Idiot, you mutter again, the word feeling heavier each time it leaves your lips.

It was stupid to chase after him like this. It was stupid to let yourself care so much about someone you barely knew. Yet, here you were, standing alone in the streets, feeling like you were losing grip on something you hadn’t even fully understood.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, and you exhale sharply through your nose. “What the hell are you doing?” you ask yourself, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

The rain starts slow, just one drop at first, but it quickly turns into a downpour. Within seconds, your clothes are soaked through, the cold water clinging to your skin, making the fabric feel heavy and uncomfortable. The sensation against your bare arms and legs is unbearable, like the world itself is washing away any sense of warmth or comfort you had left.

You don’t care, though. You keep walking, the sound of the rain drowning out your thoughts, the water pooling around your feet as you move forward. Every step feels like it drags you deeper into confusion and frustration, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Not until you find him.

You pull your damp hair back from your face, trying to see through the downpour, but everything��s just a blur of gray. The rain is coming so hard, it’s as if the world is trying to push you back, telling you to go home, to forget it.

The moment you hear the unmistakable roar of the engine, your heart skips. You know it like the back of your hand—familiar, loud, and wild. Without a second thought, you spin around, eager to find him, but instead, your eyes lock on to another man riding the motorcycle.

You turn the corner, following the sound, until you finally see him. There he is, slumped against the cold concrete, his head buried in his hands. The sight makes your chest tighten. Relief floods you, but it’s short-lived. There’s something about the way he’s sitting, the way his fingers are pulling at his hair, that stops you cold.

In his left hand, he’s holding a crumpled bill, soaked through from the relentless rain, barely visible in the downpour. It’s clear that the rain isn’t the only thing weighing him down.

When he lifts his head, his eyes catching the sight of your sneakers on the ground in front of him, your breath catches in your throat. His face is a mess—blood smeared across his cheek, dripping from his lip, and the expression in his eyes makes your stomach churn.

You crouch down, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach for his face, gently cupping it in your hands, trying to inspect his bruises. But before you can even get a good look, he jerks his head away violently, the sudden motion causing you to lose your balance and fall harshly onto the cold, unforgiving concrete.

“Seriously, why are you following me?” he spits, his voice dripping with frustration. In one swift motion, he grabs a stone and hurls it in your direction. The rock isn’t large enough to hurt, but the anger behind the throw is undeniable.

His eyes are different now. The vulnerability from last night is gone, replaced with something darker, colder. It’s a look you have seen before—the Jungkook you confronted about your Walkman, the one in front of you, is someone whose rage has consumed him.

You reach for a stone yourself, the action impulsive, and throw it back at him. It lands softly on his chest before bouncing onto the wet pavement, but as soon as it hits, you feel a pang of guilt. You never wanted to make him feel this way. You never wanted to push him further into whatever this dark place was he found himself in.

“Don’t throw shit at me like a child,” you scold him, your voice softer now, but the hurt in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He doesn’t respond, his head dropping lower in silence, and you can’t stand it. The quiet is suffocating.

Without hesitation, you crawl over to him again. This time, he doesn’t push you away. He lets you reach for him, raising his head gently so you can see the extent of his injuries. His right eye is swollen shut, bruises already forming around the tender skin. Blood drips slowly down his cheek, staining his skin, a stark contrast against the rain-soaked pavement.

You fight the urge to cry at the sight, feeling both helpless and desperate. He looks so broken, so far away from the person he was last night.

You press your palm against his chest, gentle yet firm enough to stop him from looking away, to make sure he meets your gaze. You weren’t going to let him hide or turn away, not this time. Not when he’s clearly breaking.

“What happened, and what the hell was that guy doing on your bike?” The words are sharp, demanding, your patience starting to run thin as you wait for an answer, your brows furrowed in frustration.

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, swatting your hand away with more force than necessary. He stands abruptly, his movements harsh as he tucks the crumpled bills into his waistband, the rough edges of his shirt pulling up. As he does, you catch sight of bruises on his stomach, old but still dark and angry, a mark of something that had been there for longer than you cared to imagine.

“When did that happen?” you ask, your voice softer but laced with worry. You reach for the hem of his shirt again, lifting it slightly to get a better look at the ugly bruises, trying to piece together what kind of life he’s been living.

He jerks away, slapping your hand from his shirt and grabbing your wrist in a tight grip. “The fuck?” he spits, eyes narrowing, his brow furrowing in anger. You’ve overstepped, and he’s making sure you know it.

You meet his eyes, and for a brief moment, you see the walls come back up—tall, solid, like they always were. But you refuse to let them intimidate you. You don’t care if he’s angry, if he pulls away, you won’t let him shut you out.

“You told me last night that I shouldn’t shut down in front of a man,” you say, your voice steady as you follow him down the alleyway. “That’s what I’m doing right now, you should be glad.”

Jungkook scoffs, his irritation palpable as he sticks his tongue in his cheek. He’s clearly annoyed by your response but there’s a hint of something else, something resembling pride, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it. Deep down, he knows he’s just made himself a hypocrite—telling you to do something he couldn’t bring himself to do.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he mutters, turning to face you. “Maybe you should shut your mouth and just follow what—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you smack your palm against his chest, poking your finger harshly into his stomach where the bruises lie. Your eyes blaze with frustration, determination written in the way you stand tall, unwavering in front of him. You wouldn’t allow yourself to be treated like your mother was, and you sure as hell wouldn’t stand by while he tried to shut you down again, no matter how hard he tried to play the tough guy.

“Don’t act like a fucking idiot,” you warn, pointing a sharp finger at him. “I don’t follow the bullshit masochist rules.”

Jungkook stands there, the words he just uttered hanging between you like smoke, too foul for either of you to ignore. His entire demeanor shifts, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s gone too far. The hardness in his expression falters, and for a second, he looks guilty. He knows he fucked up, knows that his words weren’t a reflection of who he was. He wasn’t like that—never would be. But in that moment, he’d let something slip. And the way you stood up to him, the way you made sure he knew better, it left him stunned.

He shuts down, swallowing hard. He wouldn’t dare disrespect you further, not after that. The silence between you two is heavy, but for the first time in a long while, he’s glad for it. The guilt lingers in his chest, and he knows that you were right to call him out. He should’ve known better. You deserved more than what he’d just tried to throw your way.

He wasn’t like his father. He wasn’t like your father. He wouldn’t treat a woman like that. He’d learned from the worst, and he wasn’t about to become part of the cycle. Not with you.

The rain poured relentlessly, soaking everything in its path, but neither of you cared. The cold droplets slid off your skin, but the tension between you both kept you rooted in place. The small alleyway, with its damp walls and echoing sounds, became your battleground. Neither of you spoke, simply locking eyes in a silent challenge—waiting to see who would cave first.

It felt like hours, but in reality, it had only been moments when Jungkook, to your surprise, finally broke the silence. He leaned against the cold, brick wall, his head dropped slightly in defeat as he rubbed his temple, the weight of whatever had happened clearly pressing down on him.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice low and reluctant. “I owe these guys money.”

You blinked in surprise, though you didn’t allow it to show too much. He was speaking now, and that was enough for you to keep listening.

“They came from Ulsan,” he continued, his tone rough as he shifted his weight against the wall, visibly uncomfortable. “And they made me pay.”

There was an edge in his voice that made it clear this wasn’t a simple transaction. You could hear the bitterness, the anger at his own situation, but also the shame. He wasn’t the type to just give up, not when it came to his pride, and you could see that this wasn’t easy for him to admit.

You took a small step closer, your eyes softening slightly. Despite the tension, despite everything, you could see he was trying—trying to be honest with you in his own way.

“How much?” you ask, your voice softer now, no longer just angry. There was concern, maybe even a trace of worry. You weren’t sure if it was for him or for yourself, but you knew you couldn’t just walk away from this.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, glancing away, ashamed. “They know where to find me. And now, you too.”

He’s not looking at you, but you can tell that he’s worried. His pride may still be in the way, but the fact that he’s standing here, telling you this, means something. At least, you like to think it does.

“They fucking took my bike as a way to get to me,” Jungkook explains, his voice laced with frustration and disbelief. He scoffs, running a hand through his wet hair. The thought of losing his only means of escape, his bike, is clearly eating at him. His tone darkens. “Now I don’t even have anything to run on. Just stuck here.”

Your eyes narrow, not entirely surprised but still unsure of how to feel. “Why do you owe them money, Jungkook?” you ask, stepping closer, trying to get more out of him.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze shifting to the ground, but you see the way his jaw tightens. When he doesn’t immediately respond, you point a finger at his bruised stomach, making your irritation clear. “Seriously, fuck?” he grumbles, lifting his palm to protect his side. “Stop threatening me. I told you to stand up for yourself, not to act like a heartless bitch—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you gently poke at the bruise again, soft enough to hurt just a little but not enough to be violent. Your eyes meet his, demanding the explanation you know he’s been avoiding.

Jungkook exhales, frustrated, but he takes your finger in his hand, squeezing it gently to stop you from poking him again. He lets his head fall back against the wall, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of everything just got heavier. “You know,” he starts, voice quieter now, “when you have to run away, keep moving, keep changing places like I do… sometimes you have to do stuff you’re not proud of.”

You stare at him, waiting for more, and he lets out a slow sigh before continuing, his eyes avoiding yours for a moment. “I stole from them,” he admits, looking almost ashamed, but not quite. “It was… it was just one of those things. They were gonna hurt me either way. I thought it would be the only way out.”

“So you stole from them?” you repeat, your voice casual, almost as if it’s not a big deal. But inside, you feel the weight of it. His vulnerability is raw, and you’re not sure whether to pity him or to be angry.

Jungkook nods, a faint shame in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Then I deserved this.”

“Then you deserved it,” you say bluntly, the words leaving your mouth before you can filter them, and you see the brief flicker of hurt in his eyes.

“Damn,” he says, almost laughing at himself. His lips curl into a crooked grin, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was hoping for some empathy,” he adds, tugging you closer by the finger he’d still held in his grip.

You’re caught off guard by the way he pulls you in, not roughly, but with a sense of urgency as though he needs you closer, even if he doesn’t admit it. Despite the tension between you, his touch isn’t forceful, and you find yourself wondering if you should feel annoyed or if maybe he’s just tired of hiding behind his bravado.

But you don’t say anything. You just let the silence fill the space between you, feeling the rain fall harder now, soaking both of you further.

You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of his words sink in. His arm wraps around your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer as if you both needed the comfort, despite the circumstances.

“So what are you going to do now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, but it carries the worry that’s been tightening in your chest.

Jungkook taps gently against your side, thinking over the situation for a moment, his expression still hard, but the tension in his shoulders betraying his uncertainty. “Well, I have to find money before Friday or they’ll kill me,” he admits, his voice flat but edged with the truth of his desperation.

The words hit you harder than expected, your heart tightening at the thought. You know exactly what men like that are capable of—what they’ll do for power, for control, and it makes your stomach churn thinking about Jungkook in that kind of danger.

“I’ll help you,” you say without an ounce of hesitation, the words spilling out before you can fully process them.

His grip on you tightens and, before you can even register it, he pulls you away, his hands on your shoulders, forcing you to meet his eyes. There’s an intensity there—almost too much. “I don’t want your money,” he spits out, the words clipped and sharp. “I’m not a charity case.”

You feel the bite of his words, but you stand your ground, not backing down. “I spent almost my whole life going through it alone, and it won’t change.” His words hang in the air, a raw honesty that echoes in the quiet storm between you two.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “You don’t have to keep being alone,” you remind him, the sincerity in your voice something he can’t ignore. “How are you planning on getting the money, then?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away, his jaw clenched. You watch him for a moment, waiting, but frustration starts to bubble up in your chest, and you can’t help but scoff. “Are you even planning on paying your debt?”

He shakes his head, his voice low and distant. “I was just planning on leaving, going into another city, and waiting for them to find me.” He says it as if it’s the only option, as if he’s already accepted what’s to come. “I’ll just disappear.”

But it doesn’t sit right with you, the thought of him running, hiding, leaving again. You reach for him again, instinctively pulling him closer, unwilling to let him slip away.

Jungkook’s breath hitches for a split second as you cling to him. He doesn’t know what it is—maybe it’s the way you hold onto him, or the way you keep showing up, or maybe it’s the way you remind him of something, someone, he’s failed to save in his own life. His mother.

With you, there’s a small flicker of hope he’s afraid to acknowledge, afraid to allow himself to feel. You’re a light in the darkness he’s been carrying, and for the first time, he’s not sure he can just walk away from you.

He leans his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. “I was ready to leave,” he admits quietly, almost ashamed. “But with you here…” He trails off, the words too difficult to say, and yet you understand them in the silence that follows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper softly, feeling the heat of his skin against yours, the rain continuing to pour around you both, but it doesn’t matter now. Whatever storm rages around you, you’re not leaving him behind, not when he’s shown you a side of him that’s so broken and raw.

Jungkook swallows, a faint trace of vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he closes the gap between you, letting his lips brush against your forehead in a silent promise.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. He knows. You’re here now, and that means something more than any plan to run away.

“I want to work,” you say, your voice cutting through the clatter of dinner for the first time in what feels like ages. It’s strange, but you don’t even feel nervous about it. You’ve made up your mind, and you want to make it known, even if it means challenging the routine that’s been suffocating you for years.

Your father’s chewing slows, and your mother’s gaze shifts toward you, her expression unreadable. Your father sets his chopsticks down, not bothering to wipe the rice crumbs from his mouth, before turning to poke your mother, his laugh ringing out too loudly in the stillness. “You hear that, darling? She wants to work,” he says with a grating chuckle, his voice full of amusement. But when he turns back to you, his demeanor shifts—mocking, condescending.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, his voice dripping with false affection as he leans closer to you, his hands stretched out toward you like he’s talking to a child. “You’re a girl,” he says, pinching your cheek in that familiar, patronizing way that always made your stomach churn.

“So what?” you retort firmly, your chin raised, defiant. “I want to work.”

Your father’s face hardens, and the laughter dies in his throat. He straightens up, furrowing his eyebrows as if you’ve just spoken in a language he doesn’t understand. His eyes narrow, a flash of something between frustration and confusion crossing his face. “Women don’t work,” he declares, as if it’s some immutable rule, an unspoken truth that’s as old as time itself.

You look him in the eye, unmoved, refusing to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you back down. “I know what women are supposed to do,” you say, voice steady, even as you feel the heat rise in your chest. “But I’m not like that. I want to work. I want to do something for myself.”

The silence hangs heavy between you all, your mother’s faint smile barely noticeable, her gaze flickering between the two of you. She doesn’t speak.

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear enough,” he mutters, his voice dripping with condescension. You can hear the sharp inhale he takes before fully turning around to face you, as if he’s preparing to correct your perceived ignorance. Without another word, he grabs your chopsticks from your hands, pulling them away from the rice in your bowl, forcing you to stop eating. His fingers linger just a moment too long as he takes them, and you feel a tightness building in your chest, like the air has gone suddenly stale.

“You know what work for a woman means, right?” he asks, his tone dismissive, as if he’s speaking to a child who still needs everything explained.

Before you can even respond, he continues, his voice growing colder. “It means being a prostitute. It’s the only work a woman can do right now.” He spits out the last word like it’s poison.

You can’t help it. A flash of anger burns through you, and your response is instinctive. “That’s false. Things change, some—”

But before you can finish your thought, his fist slams into the table with a resounding crack. The force of the impact makes the dishes rattle, and you freeze, the words dying in your throat. Your mother flinches visibly at the violent gesture, her eyes flicking nervously to the side.

“You want to work, huh?” Your father’s voice is sharp now, like the bite of a whip. “For what, exactly? I’m providing you everything you need,” he gestures toward your mother and you. “I’m giving you both everything. What more could you possibly want?”

Your throat tightens, but you find your voice again. “I don’t care. I want my own money,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. You want to believe that the simple act of voicing your desires is enough to make a change.

But he doesn’t give you a chance. He cuts you off, this time with his hand. A slap. A resounding sting that snaps your head to the side, leaving you in a daze. Your cheek burns, the shock of it reverberating through your body.

Your father never hit you before. Not like this. It was always your mother who bore the brunt of his anger, and you never once imagined that you would be the target of his rage. It’s like the world has flipped on its axis, and your reality is suddenly a twisted mirror of what you thought it was.

“You want your own money?” he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain. “That’s what you think you need?” He stands abruptly, his movement so swift it almost makes you dizzy. He grabs your arms with a force that makes you stumble to your feet, his fingers digging into your skin as he yanks you up. The action is jarring, but it doesn’t stop there. He shoves you roughly to your knees in front of him, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath you.

“Aren’t you grateful for everything you have?” he demands, his voice rising, the control in it suffocating. “You have everything you want because of me.”

He forces you to bow your head down, his grip unyielding as he manipulates you into position. “You should excuse yourself,” he says, the words leaving his mouth with a cold, mocking finality.

Your mother’s eyes never meet yours. She doesn’t speak. Her silence is louder than any words she could offer. She’s watched this play out before, and she knows that in this house, speaking out has never been a winning option.

You didn’t say a word. The silence only seemed to fuel his rage further, like the absence of your voice was the final straw. He shoved you with his foot, sending you crashing to the floor with a thud, your palms scraping against the rough wood as you tried to catch yourself.

“Fine,” he spat, his voice shaking with fury. “You want to work? You’ll see how it is for a woman.”

He stormed into the living room, his footsteps heavy, and you could hear the harsh sound of him throwing something. A second later, your sneakers landed at your feet with a thud. You looked down at them, the weight of his words sinking in, and before you could react, he was back, standing over you.

“Go be a slut, then,” he sneered, his voice low and venomous. “But don’t you dare call yourself my daughter again.”

His words hit harder than any slap, and you felt a lump form in your throat. This wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper, something cold that wrapped around you like a vice. You tried to stand, but before you could, he grabbed you, pushing you roughly toward the door. The doorframe loomed ahead, but your footing was unsteady, slick from the rain that had soaked the wooden porch earlier.

Your feet slipped beneath you, sending you tumbling backward. The pain shot through your back, the impact jarring and making you wince. But before you could gather yourself, he was standing above you, his face twisted in contempt.

“This home is not your home anymore. It’s mine,” he declared, his voice final and cold. Without another glance, he slammed the door in your face.

The sound of the door’s heavy thud reverberated through you, and for a moment, you just lay there on the wet porch, staring at the place you’d always called home. It felt like everything had been stripped away in an instant, and there was nothing left but the cold, damp air and the bitter taste of his rejection.

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The storm wasn’t just outside. It was inside you too.

You felt like a fool, standing there in the rain, shivering, feeling every ounce of foolishness and regret pierce through you. Stupid for standing up when you knew it wasn’t your place, stupid for thinking that things could change, that you could somehow escape this cycle. Now you understood why your mother stayed for so long—because where could a girl like you go? What was left when all the doors were closed in your face?

Your eyes drifted up to the dark sky, but the rain didn’t give you any answers. It only fell harder, as if mocking your helplessness. The cold seeped into your bones, your shirt clinging to you, heavy with the rain. The summer heat had long since abandoned you, leaving you freezing, exposed, and alone.

You didn’t know how long you sat there on the porch, drenched and motionless. You heard the soft murmur of the house behind you, the light slowly dimming as your parents went to bed. Like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t been left outside in the cold, abandoned by the very people who should’ve protected you.

Just as you were about to get up, to leave and find some place, anywhere, to escape the suffocating reality, the door creaked open. Your heart leapt, and despite the anger, the pain, and everything you were feeling, you found yourself running back to that door, falling to your knees. Your hands pressed into the ground, your forehead resting against the cold floor, your body shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, the words spilling out without thought. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeated over and over again, as if apologizing could somehow fix everything. But no answer came. Only the sound of your own sobs and the heavy beat of your heart, echoing through the silence.

Then, your mother’s voice broke through the noise. You raised your head, blinking in disbelief, to see her standing there, her face softer than you had ever seen it. She was holding your backpack, packed and ready, a look of determination on her face.

“Is it him, right?” she asked, her fingers moving through your damp hair, almost in a way that felt like she was seeing you for the first time. The gesture was gentle, unfamiliar, but comforting. You nodded, too tired and heartbroken to answer with anything more.

“You’re brave,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “I admire you right now,” she added, her gaze fixed on your face, her eyes glistening with something you couldn’t quite place.

You scoffed, unable to stop yourself. For the first time in years, you laughed, but it was more like a reflex, a desperate attempt to hold onto something familiar. Then, surprisingly, she laughed too.

“I know I wasn’t a great mother,” she whispered, her hands tracing every contour of your face like she was learning it all over again. “But I’m so proud to have made a strong daughter.”

Her words hit you harder than anything before. You couldn’t speak for a moment, couldn’t believe what you were hearing. It was as if the weight of everything that had been unsaid for years was finally being let out, and you could feel it in the way her hands trembled against your skin.

“I wish I was strong like you,” she added softly, her gaze falling.

“Mom…” You reached up, holding her hands in yours, finally noticing the fragility in her touch. Your heart ached as you saw her, truly saw her for the first time. “It is you…”

She grinned faintly, but the smile faltered as tears finally fell from her eyes, and she pulled you into her arms. The gesture was unfamiliar, yet somehow comforting, as though this was the first time you’d ever really been held in the way you needed. Her arms. Your mother’s arms.

“I was so scared to become a mother,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke in a rush. “So scared to have a little girl because I know what it meant, and…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, but you understood. You understood everything she was trying to say, everything she had been holding back for so long.

“I know,” you murmured, your own tears mingling with hers as you pulled her head to your chest. For the first time, it felt like you were the one comforting her. Like you were the protector. The mother.

“I never hated you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I just hate that patriarchal world so much.”

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. They were raw, vulnerable, and so full of truth. You cried harder, finally feeling the weight of all the things she had carried alone, the unspoken fears she had lived with for so long.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just a mother and daughter finally finding peace with each other, no longer locked in a battle of silence and resentment. It was two women, standing side by side, united in their pain, but more importantly, in their strength. Together, they no longer had to fight back-to-back in isolation, trying to carry the weight of the world alone. Instead, they were ready to fight together, to scream together, to finally raise their voices in a world that had so often silenced them before they even had the chance to speak.

The weight of their shared struggle wasn’t just the pain of the past—it was the recognition that they had endured for too long, that their voices had been muffled under the suffocating grip of a society that demanded they remain quiet, stay small, and obey. But no longer. They were no longer afraid to stand up, to demand respect, to claim their right to be heard, to exist without fear.

Your feet moved almost on their own, carrying you through the familiar streets without a second thought. You didn’t even need to ask for directions or question your decision; it felt like fate had led you here. You had always despised this place, the cold, unwelcoming walls, the thoughts of things you never wanted to remember, but right now, it was the only place that felt right.

It wasn’t the comforts he had mentioned—the bed, the shower, the TV—that drew you in. No, it was him. He was the only thing that felt like home in this moment. And home, for once, didn’t need to be filled with furniture or the scent of home-cooked meals. It didn’t need walls that knew your name or a roof that kept out the rain. Home could be something much simpler—comfort. The kind of comfort that was only found in someone who cared, someone who saw you, someone whose presence made everything else fade into the background.

It was in those doe-eyed glances, the unspoken understanding, the warmth that radiated even in silence. In his gaze, you could see a softness, a promise of something safe, something real. And that was enough. Home wasn’t a place; it was a feeling, a person, and right now, that person was him.

He didn’t ask any questions when he opened the door to his room, his expression softening with relief when he saw it was only you. Without a word, he stepped aside, opening the door wider, not caring about the water dripping from your soaked clothes onto the floor. It didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that you were here, and he wasn’t going to let you stand in the cold any longer.

He didn’t ask why your backpack was so packed, didn’t inquire about the weight of your sorrow. Instead, he took it from your shoulders and dropped it carelessly by the bed, his hands gentle but efficient. His gaze flickered toward you for a moment, as if confirming that you were really here, that you were really safe with him.

When he opened your backpack, he didn’t seem surprised by the clothes your mother had packed for you, but he handled them with a quiet tenderness. He held up a pair of warm clothes, his eyes meeting yours with a silent question. The question wasn’t about permission—it was about care, about wanting to make you comfortable. And without hesitation, you gave him a nod, allowing him to proceed.

He began undressing you with a calm confidence, moving like he had done this for years, even though you both knew that nothing about this was normal. Nothing about your situation was ordinary. But when his hands touched your skin, there was no hesitation, no discomfort. Just an unspoken trust that he would treat you gently, with respect. He wasn’t looking at you like others might—like you were a body to be admired—but as someone fragile, someone needing care, someone deserving of warmth.

As he dressed you in warm clothes, his eyes only ever met yours, looking for your approval before moving. He was careful, so mindful of your vulnerability, and it struck you how different he was. How different his presence was. It wasn’t about desire; it was about respect. He didn’t glance at your bare skin, and when he did look at you, it wasn’t with any intent other than ensuring you were okay. There was no rush, no expectation—just patience, just care.

You lay there in the soft comfort of his bed, feeling the weight of his arm draped over you, his breath warm against your neck. For the first time in what felt like forever, you could actually relax. The bed was far from perfect, and you knew you’d probably wake up with a sore back, but it was more comforting than anything you had at home. It was as though, in this small moment, you were finally allowed to rest without the constant weight of fear or worry pressing on your chest.

“So, this is how it feels,” you muttered, a small smile tugging at your lips as you sank deeper into the warmth, realizing just how much you missed the simple pleasure of rest.

Jungkook’s left arm was wrapped loosely around you, pulling you a little closer as he nuzzled his head into your neck, his breath tickling your skin. “I told you,” he whispered, voice low and soothing, sending a shiver down your spine. “Those motels aren’t shit compared to the stuff we’ve been through.”

You chuckled softly, your fingers instinctively reaching up to run through his hair, now a bit longer than when you first met him nearly three weeks ago. You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until this very moment, but it was clear to you now. Jungkook wasn’t a stranger anymore. He was someone you knew, someone you cared about.

“That’s how they must feel too,” you muttered, eyes drifting to the wall in front of you. You were referring to the men who came to the motels, to the ones who sought comfort or release from their own demons.

Jungkook chuckled, the sound warm and amused as he raised his body, pushing himself up slightly, then shaking his head. “No, them,” he gestured towards the other room with a quick nod, “they’re suckers. If I had a wife, I wouldn’t do shit like that.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip, trying to suppress the scoff that threatened to escape. You glanced at him, feeling the warmth of his self-assuredness, the conviction in his voice, and wondered how he could be so… well, cute? So kind and yet so confident, despite the rough exterior. It was strange how he could be all of those things and still manage to surprise you with how genuine he was.

How could he be a man, so strong, yet so tender, so caring, and still leave you feeling like there was so much more to him than what met the eye?

“Is that something you’d want?” you ask, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your question. “A wife?”

He chuckles, the sound so light and carefree, almost childlike, as he falls back onto his back, his tattooed arm casually going behind his head like he’s suddenly lost in thought. His gaze turns distant for a moment as if weighing the question more seriously than you’d expected.

“Would I even make a great husband?” he muses, his voice low and thoughtful. “I don’t have a house, no money, no stable job, and I have piercings.” He scrunches up his face in mock disgust, as if imagining himself in some ridiculous sitcom version of a husband. “Not exactly the husband material,” he finishes with a dramatic sigh, making you laugh despite yourself.

You lean up on your elbows, matching his smirk. “You would make a terrible husband for them,” you say, referring to the shallow, entitled men he so clearly despises. “But a perfect one for your wife.”

His eyes shift slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and something about the way you said it—so sincere, so assured—stirs something in him. He turns his head to look at you, taking in your words as if you’ve just said something that makes everything click into place for him.

And in that moment, you realize it, too. There’s a connection between you that’s more than just the circumstances you’ve found yourself in. Jungkook, despite all the things the world had thrown at him, despite the expectations of what a man “should” be, never fit those criteria. He was different, like you. He had his own struggles, his own fight for worth, his own fight against a world that didn’t seem to understand him.

And just like you, he had been forced to create his own identity, to carve his own path in the face of adversity. He was fighting, just like you, to be seen for who he really was, not who others expected him to be.

He lets out a quiet sigh, his expression softening. “Guess I never really thought about it that way,” he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper. “But you’re right. I could be… a good husband. For the right person.”

His eyes shifted to you at your words, and without hesitation, you let out a soft laugh, dropping your forehead gently onto his chest. “You look so ridiculous right now,” you teased, your voice muffled against his shirt. He shifted, sitting up straighter in bed, pretending to be wounded by your remark.

“You with your stupid swollen eye, saying all these sappy things,” you chuckled again, watching him act all hurt. As you lifted your head to meet his gaze, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his grin — his rare bunny smile, the one that always seemed to make him look a little more vulnerable, a little more real. It was a smile you were growing fond of, a smile that made you feel like he was no longer just the man you met by chance.

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a teasing look as he reached for your hand, drawing it away from his chest. He brought your fingers to his lips, kissing them gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “Come on,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but still filled with that playful edge. “You don’t like it when I act all tough, and you don’t seem to like it when I’m all romantic either. So, what exactly do you like about me?”

Your chest tightened at the simplicity of his question. You wanted to answer him, to tell him how much you loved everything about him. Every little thing that made him who he was — the way he looked at the world with both cynicism and hope, the way his rough exterior hid a deep kindness, the way he never pretended to be something he wasn’t.

But words didn’t seem to do justice. Instead of answering with the things you wanted to say, you leaned in, closing the space between you, and kissed him. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but one filled with meaning, one that spoke of everything you couldn’t quite put into words. The pressure of your lips against his was enough, and you hoped that in this moment, he would understand what you couldn’t express aloud.

The moment his lips captured yours again, it was different—more urgent, more hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands moved swiftly, pulling you closer, encouraging you to crawl over him. The heat between you both intensified as you let your fingers trace over his skin, feeling the pulse of his body under your touch, each movement pulling you deeper into him.

Your hands found their way to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair. The warmth of his skin against yours was intoxicating, the slight moisture from the humid air adding to the tension in the room. Every inch of him seemed to ignite a spark within you, and you found yourself leaning into him more, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you.

He gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly so you were positioned right over his bulge, your bodies aligned, hearts pounding against each other. The proximity only made the intensity of the moment sharper, each breath you both took mixing together as you sat there, caught in the quiet storm of emotions you hadn’t yet learned to name.

His hands wandered, but they were gentle, patient, as if he was savoring each second of this closeness. His lips trailed from yours, finding the soft curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he pulled you even further into his embrace. It wasn’t just about the kiss anymore, it was about the connection, the need to be close, to not let go of the fragile moment you’d both found.

He looks deeply into your eyes once more, his fingertips gently grazing the edge of your shirt, silently seeking your consent again.

"Are you okay with this?" he whispers softly, his voice barely audible. You respond with a subtle nod, leaning in to kiss his lips again, your actions speaking louder than any words could.

With a tenderness that makes your heart flutter, he slowly lifts your t-shirt over your head, his movements deliberate and careful, as if ensuring that you feel comfortable and safe every step of the way. You've never felt more cherished or protected than you do in this moment.

You've often wondered what it would be like to experience this intimacy, but it was always shrouded in mystery, a topic rarely discussed openly. Now, as Jungkook takes his time exploring your body, every touch, every kiss, every whispered compliment feels like a revelation. Your worries and doubts fade away, replaced by a profound sense of connection and trust.

Both of you were fully aware that this moment was fleeting, a temporary escape from the harshness that loomed outside. It was like being trapped in a bubble, where time stood still, and for a brief moment, everything felt right. But deep down, you both knew that once the bubble burst, reality would rush back in, sharp and unforgiving. The weight of your actions—the intimacy, the vulnerability, the closeness—would eventually settle heavily on your shoulders. It was inevitable. You couldn’t run from it, no matter how hard you tried.

Jungkook’s mind wasn’t quiet, even in the heat of the moment. He couldn’t help but think about the ticking clock, the reality of his situation. With only a week left until Friday, the pressure to find the money was suffocating. He knew what would happen if he couldn’t come through—everything would be at risk, and the temporary solace he found in this shared intimacy would be gone in an instant. But for now, he pushed those thoughts down, focusing only on you, on the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the soft breath between your shared kisses, and the way your body felt against his.

In that moment, the countdown was distant, far from his mind. It was just you and him, suspended in time. But even as his body moved with yours, the nagging thought at the back of his mind wouldn’t disappear. It was there, lurking, and it made the moments of peace feel even more fragile. He couldn’t help but wonder how long this could last before everything came crashing down again.

[venus-maneater]

a loyal dog’s reward ii. | yan! criston cole

yandere / obsessed ! au

fem! targaryen princess! reader

part i

synopsis. suffering an injury from a tournament, criston has to deal with seeing you alongside his temporary replacement. fortunately, you weren’t interested in teasing too much this time, trying to distract yourself from your sister beginning her labors, and you were happy to cheer your poor mutt up.

note; I’ve decided to make this a series with no real plot lol 😭 if being attracted to criston cole is a crime then lock me up !! this chapter took a mind of its own bc this was not the original plot and it’s twice as long as part i

WARNING(s): obsessive / possessive behavior, manipulation, violence, thoughts of violence, implied murder, blood, injury, JEALOUSY, nosebleeds, talk of bastards and having bastard children, Rhaenyra gives birth, allusions to sex but no actual smut, cole def has a breeding kink y’all

Ser Criston Cole, your ever-so-loyal shield, always said yes when you asked him to enter tourneys. He knew how much you enjoyed them, and relished in your attention as he succeeded in competition. There were only two real downsides to tournaments for him: the hours he had to spend apart from you, and the injuries. Criston had always excelled at anything physical, but he was only mortal. He was just a man who could be maimed or murdered just like any other. It served to remind him of the status gap between you: he was a man while you were born from dragons.

He kept his eyes on your form in the nobles’ box until it was his turn. This was typical behavior from him, he was nothing but devoted to you. Since you’d discovered his true feelings, you gave him more attention than before. You entertained his tendencies, teasing him sometimes but always reassuring him at the end of the day. You wanted no one but him.

“Oh, don’t fret, my Criston.” You’d tut, “I could never replace you. You’re the only guard dog for me.”

You played with his feelings occasionally, trying to get a rise out of him, but he quickly found that he didn’t mind. His reward at the end made all his anger worth it. He never blamed you either, it was never your fault that men didn’t know how to leave you alone.

He wondered now if this was one of your attempts at making him jealous.

The large man who stood obediently behind you was the one taking over Criston’s position as he competed in the tournament. Usually, another Kingsguard member would take over, but this particular Knight had something to prove. He was highborn, from some house in the Vale, with wide shoulders and a somewhat handsome face. The two men looked nothing alike; the Knight next to you was pale, hazel-eyed, and thin-haired.

He doubted it.

You didn’t like men other than Criston Cole guarding you, you’d expressed so before. They’re boring and untrustworthy, you insisted. Your words made his chest puff out with pride. He liked that he was the only one you truly trusted with your life; you knew he would protect you. You chose him to protect you.

To be honest, you didn’t even seem interested in the Knight from the Vale; you looked stiff and bored, which concerned your sworn shield. You loved tournaments, you loved when he won things in your honor. Why don’t you look excited?

Soon enough, it was his turn again. With your flowery red favor around his wrist, he got into position.

You perked up a bit when you saw that it was Criston’s turn once more. You’d been rather stiff most of the event, and you partially blamed it on your boring temporary guard. The man was flat; no personality to work with at all. It bummed you out honestly, he was from the Vale but behaved like a Northman. He was presumably around Ser Criston’s age, but had not even half of his spirit. It wouldn’t have bothered you so much if you couldn’t feel his stare burning into the back of your head. You could give him some credit; at least he’s taking his job of supervising you seriously.

But no, the primary reason for your irritation and lack of focus was your father. He had demanded you to attend this tourney to celebrate Rhaenyra’s labors, not allowing you to be by her side. You and your sister were close, very close, and quite similar as well. To not be by her side when she was in pain had you tense. You didn’t want to be here, not even to see Criston compete.

Criston Cole was facing a member of House Bolton, a rather fierce young man who didn’t scare easy. Most Northerners were like that, but Criston should know best as he just beat another one last round. The tournament today was celebrating Princess Rhaenyra beginning her labors, so competitors have traveled from far and wide. The event had been planned for a month, so it was good news that the Princess was finally giving birth.

“Jessil,” you called to your guard with a smirk, “You should watch closely this round, my shield is competing.”

The man nodded curtly without a word, causing you to roll your eyes. His under-reactions irked you, but you were starting to blame Criston Cole for that fact. He always reacted wonderfully to anything you did, perhaps you were too used to it.

Speaking of your shield, you could see his anger growing the longer you were with another man. It was the only thing keeping you here at this point; waiting to see if he’ll get violent. Criston was the most amusing man you’d ever met, you just knew something was going to happen. There were only two more rounds until the event ended, and he’d been stiff ever since Ser Jessil bent down closer in order to hear your comments about two hours ago.

The two knights settled into their positions across the courtyard from each other, on opposite sides of the tilt. Then, a horn sounded, triggering their horses into a sprint. With their lances aimed, the men collided, wooden splinters flying but neither of them falling. New lances were readily tossed to them and the process repeated. Criston spared you a glance, noticing that Jessil had gotten a few inches closer.

Again, they charged forward. Only this time, when they clashed, Criston was thrown from his horse at the force of the hit. The Bolton fared a bit better, remaining on his horse, but he was hit in the face by Criston’s lance, causing the front of his helmet to cave in just enough to cut him.

What you saw made you shoot to your feet, your hands gripping the railing in concern. Never in your years of knowing Criston Cole had you ever seen him knocked from his horse in a tournament. He was easily one of the best fighters you knew of, it seemed impossible that this could happen. Had you pushed too far with your teasing? You’d never tried anything during a tournament before, perhaps Ser Jessil’s presence threw him off.

The round didn’t end there. Criston was quick to stand despite his obvious injuries, and his morningstar was swiftly given to him. His helmet had flew from his head when he fell, so his bleeding mouth was for all to see. He was holding his right arm close to his body, making it appear broken or incapable of proper use. Although he was right-handed, he gripped his weapon in his left hand and prepared for a fight. The Bolton Knight was also without a helmet at this point, ditching the damaged armor when he jumped to the ground to grab his sword. His nose was bleeding and looked to be broken from the hit.

“Is his arm broken?” You asked aloud, leaning over the railing a bit in an attempt to see better, “he favors his right.”

Jessil ignored your words, but inched closer so you wouldn’t go over the railing, “Princess, you could fall.”

Criston let the other Knight come to him, not willing to waste any energy. He used his time to look your way, not liking the way your guard was holding your shoulder.

The fight began, but didn’t last long. The Bolton may have made a skilled jouster, but not a fighter. He was no match for the angry Kingsguard, even when he had every advantage. Handicapped from his injuries, Criston swung his Morningstar with his left hand, swiftly hitting his opponent in the head while avoiding any oncoming attacks from the sword. The impact knocked the younger Knight out, but visibly broke his brow bone. Due to the force from the spikes, his face was bleeding badly and the area around his eye was caved in, perfectly mirroring the damage to his helmet.

Half the crowd was silent in shock (including yourself), but the other half was cheering loudly at the violence. You were desensitized to such things at this point in your life, but that didn’t mean you welcomed them. You didn’t like that Criston came so close to losing, or that you have to watch some poor Bolton boy bleed out on the ground for no reason, your shield was too injured to continue to the next round anyways. And due to your being a princess, it would be inappropriate to leave early to check on the Kingsguard member. Because your father wouldn’t allow to be with your sister, you’d made Criston your fixation of the day.

The two of you made eye contact as a few servants rushed over to him, helping him limp off to see a maester. It was soon announced that although neither competitor was continuing to the next round, Criston Cole was technically the winner.

“Well that was certainly a show” You cleared your throat, shaking Ser Jessil’s hand off your shoulder and finally taking your seat once again, “I knew something was going to happen.”

“So you did, Princess.” The Knight nodded curtly, recalling your words earlier, telling him to watch closely.

With Criston gone, your mind shifted back to a pregnant Rhaenyra, who was currently giving birth without your comfort. You stiffen up, nails digging into the railing before exhaling deeply and taking your seat. The two of you return to your proper positions and continued to observe the event for the next few hours, clapping dutifully when an insignificant Lannister won.

x

You made it back to the Red Keep in record time, it seemed. Even Jessil had trouble keeping up with you on your horse as you rushed home. You’d refused the carriage ride, eager to see your sister.

You were sprinting up the nearly infinite steps to her chambers, Jessil following close and maids jumping out of the way. A couple of people tried to stop your entrance, but you only shoved them aside and pushed your way towards your sister.

“Rhaenyra!” You gasped softly, a grin finding its way to your face when you saw her cradling her new baby in bed. After the death of your mother, childbirth was a sensitive subject for you and your sister, you hated being apart during this time. She dismissed the women in the room, leaving just the two of you and her first child.

“I’ve decided on Jacaerys.” She smiled at you as you crawled into the bed beside her.

She’d discussed baby name ideas with you before, with Laenor as well, who suggested Joffrey. Rhaenyra was adamantly against it, and you remembered the distaste you felt hearing it, knowing the implications that would come along if they decided on that name. You’d always liked Joffrey actually, unhappy with his death, but almost all of court heard the rumors of he and Laenor. You’d suggested Jacaerys, a Velaryon sounding name. Rhaenyra didn’t seem overly interested, so you didn’t expect her to choose it.

“Oh, Jacaerys.” You cooed, stroking his little head, full of dark locks. That wasn’t good, not really. Hopefully he took after Rhaenyra in his other features, or else questions of his parentage could arise. Rhaenys was half Baratheon, so that could be used as an excuse. But then the baby boy opened his eyes, revealing big brown orbs that mirrored Harwin Strong’s. You liked Harwin quite a bit, not minding. But the court would mind. You and Rhaenyra would just have to protect him.

“Have you slept yet?” You asked your sister, who hasn’t stopped grinning since you first saw her.

“Not yet, dear sister, I cannot stop looking at his sweet face.”

“Has… his father seen him yet?” You both knew who you meant.

“No. But he will soon enough, when I’m well enough to leave the room.” She gave you a knowing smile, which you returned.

Upon leaving Rhaenyra to rest, you were able to successfully escape Ser Jessil’s supervision with the help of Ser Harwin Strong, and went straight to Criston Cole’s chambers. You found out through your favorite handmaiden that he’d been released from the infirmary, and you took the first opportunity that presented itself to you. You didn’t knock before slipping into his room, but you were sure he wouldn’t mind.

Stepping in, your eyes were drawn to his place on the bed immediately. He was lying down above the blankets, with his arm wrapped and splinted in a sling resting above his bare midsection. His ribs were bruised, but it was apparently nothing bad enough that would need wrapping. Both legs were extended out, with his left pant leg pulled up to the knee to reveal his bruised ankle. He didn’t notice you enter, his eyes were shut and he was likely half-asleep. His face was fine, handsome as always, besides a cut on his nose-bridge that was beginning to darken into a bruise.

“Look at you, my poor sweet thing.” You cooed quietly at him suddenly, waking him from his relaxed state. His eyes shot open, head snapping over to the door.

“My princess.” He gasped. His chambers were much smaller and less impressive than yours, he didn’t want you in such an environment.

“Are you well?” You asked, closing the door as quietly as possible, “The maester says you’ve broken bones.”

“I’m well, I swear it to you. It’s a small break in the arm, everything should heal rather quickly.” He tried to reassure you as you approached, struggling his way into a sitting position, his back against the head board.

You hummed at his clumsy movements, stopping to stand at his bedside. Cute. Criston wasn’t an inherently violent man, at least not with you, so it was easy to forget how strong and dangerous he truly was. It was unnerving to see him injured; weak.

“How quickly would you say?” You asked.

“The maester says a month.” He answered quietly, not willing to admit the extent of his injuries. His primary goal was to get back to you.

You knew the Maester had actually said two months.

“Hm. Who will protect me for a whole month in your absence?” You held back a smirk.

You watched as Criston’s body language immediately changed. Clenching and unclenching his jaw, his leg twitched in frustration.

“I am still fully capable.”

Has he always been this attractive or does jealousy just look good on him?

“My father thinks you should take time to heal.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, “I don’t care what he thinks, you saw what I did to my opponent despite my injuries.”

“You ‘don’t care what he thinks’? He is King.” You said in a mock-scolding tone, lifting your knee to rest in against the bed, close to his lap.

“Yours is the only word to mean anything to me. I listen to no King.” Still seated, he leans forward to get closer.

“Though you listen to me? Only me?” You ask with a smile, batting your lashes at him and leaning in. He doesn’t move to kiss you first, he rarely does. He lets you do as you please, feeling the puffs of air from your giggle on his lips.

“Yes. Only you.” He whispers, his eyes begging you to just kiss him already. But nothing is ever that simple with you, and he knows it well.

You grin at him, leaning in until your lips are just grazing his own, before laughing and pulling away entirely. His face followed yours until you were out of reach, leaving him to huff and fall back against the head board once again. He let out a quiet groan, closing his eyes and tossing his head back so he could catch his breath.

“You’re so easy, Ser Criston.” You snickered. His lips quirked up at your joyous tone, but he resisted the urge to open his eyes. After a few moments of stumbling around the room in amusement, you bit your lip to keep quiet.

Criston went stiff when you fell silent, excited fingers beginning to twitch as the urge to touch you increased. But he was a seasoned warrior at this point in life, and could hear every movement you made. He heard you tiptoe back over to the bed before pausing. The mattress dipped as you climbed onto the bed and landed in his lap, straddling his thighs and avoiding his bruised ribs. It was only when you were on top of him that his eyelids fluttered open to watch you. You gave him a satisfied look. He was happy to let you believe you caught him off-guard.

“Criston?”

“Yes, my Heart?”

“There’s something I have to tell you…” You placed your hands gently on his chest and leaned in, your mouth next to his ear, “and you will not like it.”

“You think me incapable of handling such news?” He asked, a bit breathless.

You smiled, “Of course not. You’re my protector, my strong and most loyal servant. You can handle anything I give you, yes?”

He nodded, unable to speak properly with your lips on his ear.

“My father says that Ser Jessil will be your stand-in as my protector.”

Criston’s good hand immediately moved to your waist, gripping it tightly, “You don’t need anyone else to protect you. Only me.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” You kissed his jaw gently, “but you should heal and rest.”

“I will kill him. Do not doubt me.”

“He would just be replaced.”

“I don’t care, I should kill the next as well.”

“You go against my word?” You pulled back, sitting up fully. He hesitated in his response, so you continued, “Ser Jessil will be your temporary replacement, my King father has said this and I have agreed.”

It was a lie, technically; you didn’t exactly agree to anything. But you weren’t about to let Criston believe he had the power here. He’d started to get a bit too bold.

Your faces were close together now, the two of you holding heavy eye contact. Criston said nothing, though his body language revealed his true feelings easily. He didn’t like that you were taking your father’s side over his own.

“I love you.” He blurted out, brows furrowed in emotion.

Your hands moved up to hold his face, “I know that. I just want you well. You must rest and heal so you can be at your best. Don’t you understand?”

Criston nodded slowly, a satisfied shiver running through him at the thought of you caring so much. His health is truly that important to you?

“Good.” You say with a grin, pecking the corner of his lips and reaching up to pat his messy hair down. His long locks grew wild already, but the style worsened from hours of wearing a helmet.

Giving into you, per usual, the Knight sighed and wrapped his good arm fully around your waist, pulling you close so he could tuck his face into your neck. You cooed at him, returning his embrace and giggling in between your praises.

“I know that this upsets you quite a bit,” You began, gasping in surprise when you felt a warm tongue trail over your throat, “but I don’t mind making you feel better.”

“Feel better you say?” He questioned absentmindedly, more focused on the taste of your skin.

You hummed in confirmation, “I can take care of you in places you may need help with. You know….. here?”

Eyes closed, you placed a delicate touch to the bulge in his pants, smiling when you felt him stiffen beneath you.

Criston Cole was always half-hard around you, your presence alone able to rile him up. He often found himself having to control his thoughts when around other people, not wanting them to notice his… state. As much as he wanted to touch you all over— taste you and love you and worship you— he held a higher respect for you than himself. You were not just a Lady, you were a Princess. He would not dishonor you in such a way, at least not until the two of you were married.

“Princess—” he grunted, mouth dropping open in pleasure briefly before pursing his lips. He pulled his upper body away from you slightly, giving you a bit more space to do what you wanted.

“Oh, it’s fine, Ser Criston. I want to.” You reassured, shrugging because you knew he would end up letting you anyways, “You just look so good bruised up like this, all jealous over some loser, nobody Knight.”

You whispered the last sentence harshly, and Criston loved it. He loved when you degraded other men in comparison to him. He was who you wanted, not that loser, nobody Knight. It didn’t matter that he was low-born or sick in the head, you wanted him anyway.

“You prefer me?” He asked looking up at you, “to him? Tell me...”

“I prefer you to him, Ser Criston Cole. I prefer you to all other men.”

Pulling him by his hair, your lips captured his. Whimpering into your mouth, he now does nothing to stop you from reaching your goal. You smile into the kiss at his surrender.

“… but perhaps you’re right.” You pull away from his lips, but stay close enough to tease, “it would be so dishonorable and you’re injured as well. Hm.”

Criston, his mind in shambles, doesn’t say a word, just sucks his teeth and releases a shaky breath. He doesn’t like to argue with you, he won’t. He’s overwhelmed, you’re so close.

“Can’t think.” He muttered so quietly you almost missed it.

A breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it, “No? And why is that, Ser? Do I possess you so?”

“Possess? Princess, you are torturing me with your affections. I cannot think of anything else, I cannot focus, I cannot stop shaking.” His voice cracked at the last word and he wasn’t lying, his body trembled.

“Do I dominate your dreams as well?”

“Yes.”

You hum, curious. You knew of his fantasies; his plans to run away, marry, and have many children with you. But you never question the details, allowing them to stay fuzzy so he wouldn’t get too ahead with his scheming. Dreams, however, you could create your own world. “Won’t you share them with me?”

“We ah-” he pauses to take a deep breath, likely attempting to control himself, “You call me by name a lot.”

You tilt your head, a bit confused.

“Not Ser, not dog, not thing— just Criston. The sound of my name from your lips is like music to me. It makes me— I never want you to say another’s name ever again. And uh- a daughter. We have a daughter. She looks like you- so much.”

You begin to shift at his words. A daughter? No Westerosi man wishes for a daughter, at least not before a son, “Daughter you say? Why?”

“She will be you, reborn, carrying my blood. I dream of a baby girl that smiles like you. I will call her my little princess as you are my Princess. A child that is ours.”

“A daughter.” You repeated once more. It was… nice to hear a man express desire for a daughter rather than a son. You and Rhaenyra had suffered due to that mindset, spending most of your lives watching your father desperately try for a son, even at the cost of your mother’s life. He no longer felt that way, but it was too late, the damage had been done. He now had Aegon and Aemond, who he didn’t even pay much attention to. Your mother’s life felt wasted.

“Princess—?”

“A sweet thing it is.” You cut him off, “your dreams are endearing. But I must go now, Jessil has no doubt noticed my absence.”

Criston tensed, “Ab—sence” He croaked, jealousy building.

“Mmhm.” I nodded, “I’ve avoided him thus far, impressively. He may report this to my father if I’m gone any longer.”

Just a few minutes more, his mind screams. But he’s good for you, so he only nods. His jaw is clenched and there’s a noticeable twitch in his expression. His fingertips dig into your sides.

“I don’t want to part with you for so long.”

“Perhaps I’ll visit if you behave.”

x

“He’s clearly a bastard.” Criston spoke quietly, but plainly.

You’d snuck him into your chambers after a long day of cooing over Rhaenyra’s baby boy, Jacaerys. It’d been a couple weeks since his birth and she finally brought him to court for all to see.

“It is treason to suggest such a thing, Ser Cole.” You bitterly defended your sister as you brushed your fair, before rolling your eyes, “And even if it were true, what does it matter who the boy’s father is? He is Rhaenyra’s true son and her heir. The boy is a Targaryen.”

At the risk of upsetting you further, he held his tongue. Being rather low born, Criston grew up having to prove himself through his ability rather than his status. But when he was young, at the end of the day, he was still a rank above bastard children. He had that, at least. He knew that it wasn’t exactly fair, you can’t control who your parents are, but it was a mindset he was raised with and couldn’t shake so easily.

“What if my father marries me off to some Lord I do not love? Are you saying you wouldn’t fuck little bastard babies into me? Babes that look just like you?” You ask him, standing up from your vanity to approach his spot on your bed, feigning innocence.

Face twitching in annoyance, Criston grabbed your wrist and roughly pulled you to his level. With your faces were inches apart, he reached up and gripped your chin. The action made you bite your lip to hide a grin.

“I will be fucking little trueborn babies into you. I’ll make you my wife before giving you children.” He took slight offense to your words. How could you suggest that? You should know he would not let you be married off.

“Oh, of course, My White Knight. You plan to steal me away.”

“Hardly stealing.” He muttered, lovesick eyes staring into yours.

You don’t voice your disagreements, you only laugh. You did not belong to Criston Cole, you belong only to yourself. His words make you think that this game had gone a little too far; he’s getting too confident in his possessiveness. His hesitancy was one of his initial charms for you, and it’s leaving him. Perhaps it’s best to stop entertaining his ideas of a future with you, no matter how cute and pleasant you believe them to be.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t like it, even just a little?” You tilted your head, his hand still holding your chin softly.

“No.” That’s a lie, maybe just a small amount. Everyone knowing you belong to him, having his kids, despite your status. But the negatives massively outweigh the positives. Not only would it put so much dishonor on you, but Criston isn’t good at controlling his jealousy. He wouldn’t be able to handle you being married to another or his children not having his name.

You smiled knowingly, teasing, “I don’t believe you.”

He released his grasp on your chin, letting you fall closer into him, “I could never be fond of an idea where you are not mine.”

“Well I would be, only secretly.” You pointed out.

“I want you to be mine openly, in every way. By name.”

You knew that wasn’t possible, not even across the sea. But you didn’t want to burst the bubble he’d been constructing for the last year. You let it go. A short silence takes over, not an uncomfortable one, but not the kind you particularly liked. The two of you had extremely different thinking processes, and it was something only amplified when you discussed your ideas for the future. Luckily, your partner was delusional enough that he didn’t notice your discontent with running away.

“Criston?” You ask, letting yourself fall to lie flat beside him. He lets go of your wrist and his eyes follow your moments, as usual. He lies back on the bed as well.

“Yes, my Princess?”

“Why do you desire me the way you do?”

He looked slightly surprised at the question, like he’d never expected you would ask. The truth is, he hadn’t. It wasn’t like you to care why. You were quick to accept things for what they were.

“You’re special to me.” He eventually whispered, “I was made to love you.”

“Made?”

“The gods constructed me only for the purpose of worshipping you. You have bewitched me with no effort. I do not know whether to kiss the ground you walk on or fall to my knees and beg for your continued attention.”

You stare into his big, dark eyes silently. He’s loyal, like a dog. And he’s hopeless like one too. “You’re not exactly a poet, but I suppose that will do.”

He grins, and you can practically feel his heart racing, “Not a poet, no.”

You tear your eyes away from him to glare at the ceiling. “Do not call my nephew a bastard again.”

He tensed at your words, entirely disliking that he’d upset you, and nodded immediately. He was embarrassed, “Yes, my love, I’m sorry.”

You sighed and looked back at him, sitting up once more. “I think you’ll find him charming. Rhaenyra says he reminds her of me already.”

“Well I’m sure to be charmed in that case, aren’t I?”

“Oh, yes, since you’re more than quite charmed by me.”

“Charmed,” He smiled, pupils expanding as he began to fantasize, “I hope to be charmed by our own children one day.”

“Our own?” You entertained, “How many? Including this daughter of ours of course.”

“Five perhaps. More if you’d like.” He took a piece of your hair between his fingers to play with.

“Is that what our lives would look like if you had it your way?”

“If I had it my way,” His eyes shifted back to your own, darkening, “by now you’d be chasing around our first two children as your stomach swelled with our third. You’d be called Lady Cole.”

“Ah, yes. Lady Cole with her many Cole babes.”

Criston had to take a deep breath at that, practically vibrating at the mere thought of you carrying his children and living as his wife.

You giggle at his visible reaction, leaning down to claim his lips. He sighed into the kiss, hesitant hands reaching for your hair. He tugs, trying to urge you closer, onto his lap, “My princess, please.”

“He begs, ‘Please please please’. You are the wantingest man I’ve ever met.” You grin into the kiss, allowing him to take you into his lap.

“I will never have shame in begging you. My life belongs to you, I am yours.” His words are beginning to slur slightly, “It’s only natural for me to be greedy when you are the one who claims my heart.”

“Always trying to impress me with your words,” You playfully roll your eyes, “you’re nearly healed, you know. Ready to return to my side?” It was a lie, he had good a bit left of healing to do.

“I never should have left.” He squirmed, trying not to show his anger. He never left, not willingly. He was removed.

“Of course, of course.” You tugged on the dark hair at the back of his neck, “The man who’s been with me is utterly serious. Neither I nor Rhaenyra like him.”

Criston listened to your complain about your temporary shield with a sense of pride and giddiness. He was relieved you disliked his replacement. But the mention of your sister disliking him as well did nothing for him, as the princess Rhaenyra didn’t like most men surrounding you, Criston himself included. She never vocalized it much, but he noticed when she tensed and sneered when he got too close to you. He wondered if she knew about your relationship.

“I’m more your taste, Princess?”

A grin found its way to your face and you nodded, “That’s right, I can do whatever I please to you and you only bask in my attention.”

He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, argue with that. While he had his own boundaries of sorts, they were completely disregarded in your presence and he didn’t even mind it.

To prove your point, you began to kiss his jaw, sweet and gentle kisses. Criston hummed, closing his eyes and tilting his head back only slightly. You nipped at the delicate skin, comfortable with leaving just a few marks because he was still out of action; not many people would be seeing him anyways.

“G-gods-” he choked out.

“The gods cannot save you, I’m afraid.” You giggle.

“I beg them not to.”

You giggle at his dazed voice and expression, blowing cool air on his neck and enjoying his shiver. His hands keep twitching. Just to tease, you kept your face tucked into him, kitten licking at the skin until you felt something wet hit your cheek. Pulling away slightly, you quickly identified the source of the warm liquid; blood was dripping from Criston’s nose, falling over his lips down to his chin.

“S-sorry, your grace. I’m overwhelmed is all.” He muttered, hand immediately going up to face to stop the dripping. But you only pull his hand away with a smirk.

“You know,” you begin, thumbing some of the blood and smearing it over his lips, “in the way of Old Valyria, we share blood when we marry.”

“Please, please,” he croaks, big dark eyes boring desperately into your own. They’re shiny and lack any coherent thoughts, “Don’t say such things to me now— can’t control myself.”

“We use dragon glass to cut one another’s lip,” you take your bloodied thumb and swipe red onto your bottom lip, “then we kiss to show we are of the same blood now.”

His leg begins to bounce and he has to look away from your face. His nose continues to drip blood, but neither of you move to stop it this time.

“You like that idea~ i can tell because you’re shaking.” You giggle into his ear.

“M’not shaking-” he replies, but even his voice trembles.

“Well you’re bleeding, is that not a sign?” You tilt your head, “perhaps you’re unwell, should I stop?”

Before he can beg you not to stop, his sharp ears catch the sound of clicking armor in the hall. He tenses, almost forgetting he was in the Princess’ chambers; he doesn’t know how when yours was easily three-times the size of his own. There was no need to panic and hide, people were not permitted to just walk in.

Three hard knocks sounded throughout the room, causing Criston to freeze. Your expression didn’t change, as you’d heard the footsteps.

“Who is it? Do not enter please.” You answered, your eyes not leaving your knight’s. As nervous as he was, Criston maintained eye contact and didn’t move a muscle. With a small grin, your hand traveled back up to his chin, which was now smeared with blood. As your fingers traced his features, you leaned in close to his ear to place a few gentle kisses there.

“Princess, it’s Ser Jessil. Your sister, the Princess Rhaenyra, has sent for you. She is… perhaps you should open the door to let me explain. It concerns your safety.”

Your reactions vary; Criston’s posture is still stiff and he’s growing annoyed at the knight’s presence. It’s almost offensive how this pathetic creature is trying to protect you when that’s his job. But you’re worried, though you won’t show it. Rhaenyra? Is something wrong? But something about it didn’t make sense; if your safety was threatened, then why did Rhaenyra know first and why did Jessil bother knocking at all?

“I’d prefer you explain from where you are.”

You could hear his sigh through the door, an impressive feat, “She is suspicious that a knight of the king is sneaking into your chambers.”

Probably because it was true, you thought, glancing at a stiff and unhappy Criston.

“Let me ready myself and I will speak with her at once.” As you began to shift off of your shield, but he only pouted and desperately hung on. He had the mind to keep quiet, but his heart wouldn’t allow you to leave him.

“… Yes, Princess.”

You turned to him sternly, “Let go, Criston. Don’t be foolish, just hide for now and be gone when we leave.” You quietly scolded and his grip loosened.

He clenches his jaw, the most common hint to his annoyance, and said nothing. He allowed you to pull him up by the hand and drag him over to your wardrobe, shutting him in with a last apologetic kiss.

“Be good.” You uttered, and his gaze softened for a moment before the door shut in his face.

He could hear you shuffle around, dressing quickly to see your sister. He sucked his teeth angry. Did he deserve mistreatment? To an extent, yes, he could admit that. But this wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t you just— stay? Tell him to kill that bothersome knight and be done with him entirely. His fists clenched. He’d kill him— and soon. Right now even. Then he’d take you away and give you a nice little home with sweet little silver-haired babies. Criston was growing sick of waiting, it was eating him up inside. You affected him so severely, it was showing itself physically. He brought a hand up to the crimson liquid that had finally stopped leaking from his nose.

You were gone now— he knew this because he could feel when you were near. But someone was in your chambers, someone closer to his size. He could hear the metal clanking of heavy armor. The person was looking for something, an intruder most likely. But Criston was not the intruder here. The idea of someone who wasn’t him being in your space made him burn with anger. That was fine, he decided, he’d handle it. With balled up fists, he stepped out from the wardrobe.

x

“Has Ser Jessil been good to you, little sister?”

You shrugged at Rhaenyra, your chin resting in your hand as you leaned on the table. It wasn’t polite, but you were comfortable in her presence, “He’s fine, I suppose.”

“But you prefer that dog of yours.” Your sister teased. You could tell she didn’t like that— didn’t like Criston. You understood.

“He’s good, listens well.”

“Not for long— I can see it well. He’s a sick thing, sister.”

“I can handle him, he does as I ask.”

“He’s greedy, an oath breaker.”

You hummed in agreement, “He has pretty eyes.”

Rhaenyra scoffed with a grin at your reply, “He will try to steal you away. Not just that, but he’s also obvious. Painfully so. If I know, someone else does too. He needs to be put out. Be rid of him.”

“I… understand that he’s got troublesome feelings. But he’s become something of a pet to me now.” You pouted and your sister sighed, not fond of upsetting you.

“When I ascend the throne, he will be gone. I worry he’ll be your downfall.” She wasn’t being dramatic, she’d disliked the man for years and saw every bit of concerning behavior he displayed. She saw clearly his desperation to leave with you. When it comes time for you to marry, he’ll go mad.

You knew whatever you had with Criston wasn’t permanent, but to hear your elder sister give away her intentions of getting rid of him really struck you. “He’s brainless, Rhaenyra. Just a dog, truly. He can hardly read. He’s only a threat physically, and he would never hurt me.”

Rhaenyra sighed, wrinkling her nose in distaste for the man. She used to be like you, still was sometimes, but she would protect you from her mistakes. She would not allow any whispers at court of you being a whore and your children being bastards, not like her. Since the birth of Jacaerys, she’d grown just a bit more serious, and much more protective.

“You needn’t be literate to kill a man.” She replied after a brief silence.

You held back a huff. The truth was that Criston could read fine these days, though not nearly at the level you could. You’d only said that to give the illusion of harmlessness. Unfortunately, Rhaenyra would never buy it; she had seen the knights he’d bloodied during tournaments.

“I’ll be harder on him then, perhaps add a bit of distance. But, sister, he is important. As a member of the Kingsguard, his support and loyalty will aid your claim. One more soldier on our side— a good one.”

“I will not sacrifice you for my cause.”

“I’ve told you, he will not harm me—”

“It’s more complex than that—!”

It felt like you were 13 and 14 again, bickering over something that was caused by your sisters protectiveness.

No, you will not be coming with me. You will sleep in your bed and I will wake you myself come morning!

If that stable boy looks at you that way again, I will have father or Uncle Daemon take his eyes— probably Daemon.

No, sister. You are mad if you think I’m letting you anywhere near a wild dragon—!

You sometimes think that Criston and Rhaenyra hate one another because they are a bit similar.

“Nyra,” you groaned, head in hands, “I will fix it, you’re right, he has become a bit… extreme lately. But you must admit he’d be beneficial to our cause.”

Although Rhaenyra was legally the heir to the throne, there were already whispers of putting Alicent’s son, Aegon, on the throne in her place. Criston wasn’t very powerful politically, but he was a brilliant fighter and his words as a Kingsguard held just a bit of sway.

She furrowed her brows, “You’re too fond of him.”

You shrugged, standing up, “Perhaps. But I’m no fool; you come first. I will never flee with him.”

“And when he realizes that?”

You didn’t have an answer. You passed Harwin Strong on your way out, and bit your tongue to stop myself from calling out the hypocrisy.

What was the difference between her and Harwin vs you and Criston?

x

Well for starters, Harwin didn’t murder any man who entered Rhaenyra’s vicinity. Criston on the other hand…

By the time you returned to your chambers, the entire stone floor was red, the liquid seeping into your intricate carpet you’d had since you were a child. There was no body, suggesting that Criston had already gotten rid of it or the victim managed to escape. (But that was unlikely, Criston was a beast in a fight, and his temper was unmatched.)

“Princess.” Criston croaked from behind you, in the open doorway. He’d just arrived, and it took only one glance at him to know what he’d done. Blood covered his hands, arms, and chest. It was splattered from his face all the way down to his knees. He was in his civilian clothes still, rather than any armor due to being put on leave. His eyes were shiny, some sense of desperation in them, and he was fiddling with his red hands. Nervous. Why were you back so early? The sling for his arm was gone, though he surely still needed it.

“Is—” You cleared your throat. “Is he alive?”

But judging by the brain matter on the ground, you knew the answer was—

“No.” Direct and honest. He took a few steps forward, shutting the door behind him. You weren’t scared of him necessarily— you knew well enough at this point that he’d never hurt you. But he didn’t look quite human at the moment, so you took a step back.

Your simple shuffle backwards was enough to send him into a panic.

He dropped to his knees, blood soaking into his breeches as he inched closer, “My love— he was threat! He would’ve found me in here—” He babbled on about protecting you, begging for you not to be afraid. You let him talk, focused on the blood.

“Clean this up.” You finally muttered, patting him quickly on the head to avoid soaking yourself with the crimson liquid.

As much as a part of you wanted to coo at him ‘good dog’, you couldn’t. This was messy— emotional and obvious. Risky. He was a bad dog, a stupid one even. He wasn’t like Harwin— manageable. He was something else entirely. You liked him how he was, violently loyal and protective, but you couldn’t have it.

He quickly agreed to clean it and began to calm down, which led him to notice your own unease. He flinched when he saw how much blood seeped into your shoes and skirt, pulling you into his arms and placing you on your favorite stool.

He was cooing at you, “Sweet Princess, don’t worry about this, yes? I’ll rid you completely of this man, I swear it. I allowed his blood to soil your clothes, I’m sorry.”

Criston kissed at your collar bones down your arms to your palms.

“Criston,” his eyes shot up to meet yours. Big brown heart eyes. “No more of this, not in this castle.”

His hands tightened slightly around your wrists, “But you like it.” He muttered.

“It isn’t about that—!” You held your tongue, deciding to take a smarter approach, “My sweet Criston, the people in the Keep will soon notice a pattern, I cannot let that happen. My sister needs nothing in her way of that crown.”

He nearly scoffed, “Is it always about your sister and her crown? I have protected you again! From-from these perverts who wish to—”

“You’re the pervert-!”

“You love me! You love it! How you affect me— how you can physically see every thought that goes through my head about you! You love how perverted I am for only you! I see you— I love every part of you, even the part that gets off on a Kingsguard soiling his cloak for you!” Criston was shaking, “I am sick, and you cannot get enough! Just as I will never tire of you— I need you!”

There was silence, besides his heavy breathing. You didn’t expect such self-awareness, and you didn’t like it. You liked him better dumb, but it appeared he never was fully clueless. His brown eyes were wide and a shade darker than usual.

“Sit.” You commanded and he did, “Just clean this up.”

x

[taglist] @3abydolll @pearlstiare @caramelcandescence @eilishchaos @watercolorskyy

The Rhaenyra/Criston beef is gonna go crazy in the prequel

im hoping you guys noticed, but this chapter was meant to emphasize the lack of control the reader truly has on criston. like yeah, he worships you and is willing to do almost anything you say, but his urges control him more than anything else ever will. this is going to be a common theme in the future. i also wanted this chapter to show more daily life and readers relationship with rhaenyra compared to part i.

[ticifics]

Paint Me Yours

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: You would be the death of Dave, and honestly, he’d die happy. It was a little embarrassing how often he caught himself thinking about you—the way you smiled, brighter than the fucking Sun itself, or how you always smelled like a field of flowers. He knew he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on you.

Warnings: fluffy, language, veteran!reader/freshman!Dave(two years difference), suggestive, college au, first kiss, no use of y/n

A/N: I know that each uni has its own hazing, but here is what happened at mine - a paint bath to celebrate approval

My dear love @gingerteafairy, thank you very much for giving me this idea, I hope you like it <333

You would be the death of Dave, and honestly, he’d die happy. It was a little embarrassing how often he caught himself thinking about you—the way you smiled, brighter than the fucking Sun itself, or how you always smelled like a field of flowers. He knew he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on you.

It was the first day of university, and he was a little lost—okay, very lost, actually. The campus was huge, and there were so many people that the place looked like an anthill. That’s when you appeared, dazzling, and asked if he was one of the freshmen. Dave needed a second or two before he stammered out a yes, watching your smile widen before you started guiding him.

During the welcome party organized by the upperclassmen, Dave could barely take his eyes off you—off your pretty mouth. The way you smiled while answering other freshmen’s questions. At some point, your gaze landed on him—maybe you’d felt his eyes boring into you—and your lips curved into a smile. Dave looked around, unsure if that smile was actually meant for him, but then you laughed, saying goodbye to the people around you before walking toward him.

“Hi,” you greeted, that smile still wrapped around your lips. “Dave, right?”

He nodded, feeling his heart stumble, not trusting his own voice to respond. He barely noticed he’d been holding his breath when you bit your lip, and God, what wouldn’t he give to be the one to do that? They looked so soft and plump—he suspected they were sweet, too.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

Dave blinked, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of your words. “Uh… yeah, sure. Everything looks great.” He wanted to slap himself. Damn it, fighting criminals was fine, but talking to a pretty girl? Impossible.

You didn’t seem to mind his lack of tact, though. In fact, you looked amused. “I’m glad,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

Was it too soon to reveal that he wouldn’t shut up when it came to something he liked? Probably, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “Depends. I can be exhausting sometimes.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips, and he knew he could start rambling if it meant hearing that laugh again. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

Dave stared at you, lips parted in surprise. No, that definitely wasn’t flirting. Absolutely not. Or was it?

Before he could respond, you quickly changed the subject. “You should grab one of the donuts before they’re gone, you know? You’ve barely moved from that corner since you got here.”

“You, uh… noticed me?”

You paused for a moment, as if only now realizing what you’d said. But the surprise on your face was quickly replaced with a relaxed expression.

“I kind of have to. It’s part of my job as an upperclassman, you know—guiding freshmen and all that. So, have you tried one yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we need to fix that right now. Come on,” you said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the table where the donuts were. You handed him one with pink frosting and colorful sprinkles, your eyes shining with anticipation. “Try it.”

He raised his hand, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the donut. Maybe he blushed under the intensity of your gaze—just maybe. When he took a bite, he closed his eyes, letting out a hum of approval. The dough was soft, and the frosting was perfect.

Your smile widened, if that was even possible. “So?”

Dave opened his eyes, finding you leaning closer to him. He drank in your image—the way the light illuminated your eyes, the soft curve of your mouth, how painfully beautiful you were. He wondered if you could hear his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

“I think it’s pretty girl—” His eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. “Good! Pretty good. I think it’s pretty good.”

He didn’t dare look up. What the hell was wrong with him? Christ, why couldn’t he act like a normal person?

Hearing the soft sound of your laughter, he exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze hesitantly, only to find a playful smile dancing on your pretty mouth. The weight on his shoulders lifted slightly at your reaction. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t ruined everything just yet.

“Dave,” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to stifle your laughter, “you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Almost reflexively, a sheepish smile curved his lips. “Sometimes.”

From that first encounter, Dave Lizewski knew he was screwed.

The weeks that followed were a blur. He kept himself busy trying to adapt to his new reality, but every time he crossed paths with you on campus, it was like being struck by lightning.

You always smiled at him, asking one question or another, which Dave took forever to answer because he was too distracted admiring you. He became especially distracted when you wore those spaghetti-strap tops that highlighted your bust. Marty once jokingly told him to wipe the drool off his face while he watched you from across the hallway.

Today had been surprisingly light. There were still a few hours until sunset, and classes had ended a few minutes ago. Dave was walking among the other students in his class, heading out of the building, when he noticed the murmurs around him. He pulled out one of his earbuds, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he tried to catch snippets of the conversation.

"Did you hear? There's a stash of paint in the lockers," someone said, and it didn’t take long for the other person to reply with a smirk, “I think today’s the day. I mean, it’s been almost a month since classes started.”

But it wasn’t until Dave reached the entrance of the building that he realized what was about to happen. The upperclassmen were gathered, and there was a dizzying amount of tempera paint in sight.

However, that wasn’t what caught his attention. You were there, radiant as always, but today you looked like you were ready to give him a heart attack. The only things covering your body were shorts and a thin top. He swallowed hard as his eyes lingered on your legs, on how soft they looked. It wasn’t hard to imagine how it would feel to settle between them. The image popped into his mind as clear as the waters of a pristine lake. You riding him, your face clouded with pleasure, the sounds you would make. The intensity of the thought made him blush, and he quickly buried his indecent ideas before they caused trouble in his pants.

You, oblivious to his thoughts, continued organizing some of the paint. The memory of your own hazing was still fresh in your mind. It had been epic—there was no other word for it. You didn’t have to think twice before agreeing to do the same for the freshmen.

Hearing the commotion, your eyes lifted just in time to catch sight of Dave. A small smile curved your lips without your permission. That was the effect he had on you, one you were definitely fighting against. He was a freshman, probably two years younger than you, and you had never been with a younger guy before.

The very thought brought a feeling of unease.

But it would be a lie to say he hadn’t been occupying your thoughts more frequently. It was hard—impossible—not to be drawn to those eyes, as bright as sapphires, and those dark curls that constantly fell over his forehead. They were adorable. How many times had your fingers itched with the urge to push them back from his handsome face?

And it wasn’t as though you didn’t know you had some effect on him. It wasn’t arrogance—Dave just wasn’t very discreet. He always blushed and seemed to struggle to find the right words. It was genuinely cute.

Without thinking, you headed toward him.

Dave didn’t notice you approaching right away. He was too busy trying to act casual, which only made him look even more awkward, staring at the ground, his earbuds now hanging around his neck. But when he finally sensed your presence, his whole body tensed, as if the air around him had turned into static electricity.

“Hi, Dave.” Your voice was soft but carried something he couldn’t quite place—a warmth that made his stomach flip with nerves—and something else he didn’t want to name.

He looked up, and seeing you so close rendered him momentarily speechless. The late afternoon sun lit up your face, highlighting every detail—the curve of your lashes, the soft shape of your lips, the delicate line of your jaw. It was impossible not to be captivated.

“Hi,” he finally managed to mumble, his voice rougher than he would’ve liked.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes locked on his with a playful glint. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He tried to smile but ended up with something awkward instead. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine. I mean, you just showed up out of nowhere.”

“Did I?” You laughed, and the sound seemed to echo inside him. “Or maybe you were just distracted.” Your voice lowered slightly on the last word, almost as if you were teasing him. And it worked. Dave felt his face heat up instantly.

Without hurry, you took a step closer, invading his personal space. “Are you staying for the hazing?”

He blinked, surprised, his eyebrows rising. “Hazing? Uh… I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on it.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning into something that looked like a challenge. “Oh, come on, are you really going to tell me you’re not joining? It’s nothing scary, I promise.” Your voice was persuasive, carrying something that made him want to say “yes” to anything you asked.

He hesitated for a moment, but something in the way you looked at him—like you were challenging him, but with a sweetness that made him want to impress you—made him nod. “Alright. What do I have to do?”

“First,” you started, pointing to the small group of freshmen gathered a little ahead, “leave your backpack over there with the others. You won’t need it right now.”

Dave followed your gaze and saw the other freshmen dropping their bags near a makeshift bench, some already with their arms and faces painted in bright colors. They were laughing, exchanging jokes, their energy light and full of the excitement of new beginnings. Dave sighed, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before finally moving to do the same. He placed his backpack down carefully, as if the act itself carried more significance than it seemed—a small gesture of belonging.

When he came back to you, he seemed more relaxed, but you couldn’t ignore his posture. It was hard not to notice—the way his shoulders stayed square, his arms defined even without him trying to show them off. He was fit, very fit, and you found the words a little harder to get out as you tried not to make it too obvious. Still, the idea of touching him, even under the innocent pretense of the prank, made your heart beat a little faster.

“You’re going to need to take off your jacket,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even as your heart pounded in your chest.

Dave hesitated for a moment but eventually nodded, unzipping it slowly, the sound of the metal seeming louder than necessary in the silence between you. He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders with a natural ease that felt almost rehearsed, folding it carefully before setting it on a nearby bench. The white shirt underneath seemed simple at first glance, but now, with him more exposed, you noticed how perfectly it fit him—highlighting his chest and arms in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“Do I need to roll up the sleeves too?” he asked, already pulling one sleeve up to his elbow before you could respond.

You only managed to nod, pretending to be deeply focused on grabbing the paint. But it was impossible not to notice his movements—the firm way his fingers gripped the fabric, the casual way he folded each side, leaving his forearms exposed. And oh, those forearms. The muscles flexed slightly with each fold. Heat rose to your face, and you quickly lowered your eyes, forcing yourself to focus, clearing your throat.

“Green,” you blurted out suddenly, as if the words slipped out without thinking. He stopped, looking at you with a curious expression.

“What?”

“Green suits you,” you explained, gesturing toward the row of paints. Your voice came out firmer than you expected, but the truth was that having him so close was starting to mess with your ability to form complete sentences.

Dave raised an eyebrow, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “Does it? Why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “It just does. I’d guess you belong in Slytherin.”

He frowned, feigning indignation. “Slytherin? Are you serious?”

You laughed, enjoying the playful tone in his voice. “Yes.”

“I’m definitely a Gryffindor, for your information,” he replied, crossing his arms, though the amused curve of his lips remained. “Lions are better than snakes.”

“Oh, I see.” You laughed again, grabbing the pot of green paint and carefully opening it. “But today, you’re going to be a Slytherin, sweetheart.”

He smiled, but you could see the faint flush creeping up his ears, something that made him look even more endearing. Would he mind if his cheeks were bitten? You blinked, forcing that thought away.

“Now stay still,” you said, dipping your fingers into the cool paint. “I’ll start with your arms.”

Dave obeyed, keeping still, but you could feel his full attention on you. Your fingers touched his skin, sliding carefully as you began drawing soft lines and delicate strokes along his forearm. The warm texture of his skin contrasted with the fresh paint, and you lost yourself for a moment in the simple act of tracing each curve.

He was quiet, but you could feel his breathing change—slightly heavier, as if he was aware of every touch. When you glanced up to check if he was okay, you realized he was looking too. Not at his arm, but at you.

His gaze was intense, his blue eyes fixed on your face for a few seconds before dropping, almost accidentally, to the neckline of your shirt. The movement was so quick that he blinked, shifting his focus back to his arm, but the blush rising to his cheeks was impossible to miss.

“I... uh, you’re pretty detail-oriented, huh?” he tried, his voice slightly lower than before.

You smiled, feeling the heat rise to your face too. “I like to do things properly. Now your forehead.”

He blinked, surprised. “My forehead?”

“It’s a prank, Dave,” you replied, laughing. “The arms are just the beginning. Come here.”

He tilted his head hesitantly, letting you get closer. Your fingers were covered in paint, and as you began to glide the tip along the contours of his forehead, you realized just how close you were—so close you could catch the subtle scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy.

The silence between you grew heavy, charged with something that felt electric. Each breath seemed synchronized, every move you made met with his gaze. When you finished the drawing, your fingers lingered, still lightly brushing against his skin. It was Dave who broke the silence, laughing softly.

“Now that you're officially painted, I think you're ready to be a proper freshman,” you joked, trying to ease the tension hanging between you.

You stepped back, tilting your head to evaluate your work. He already had some green marks scattered across his arms and forehead, but somehow, he still looked surprisingly... neat. That wouldn’t last long, of course.

“Time for a picture,” you said, raising your phone. “We need to capture this ‘tidy’ phase,” you explained, stifling a laugh. “Because soon, my friend, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

He chuckled, a bit shyly, and nodded. “Alright.”

You winked, adjusting the angle of your phone. He stood there with a small, reserved smile, proudly displaying the name of his course and the university's initials, but with an ease so natural that you didn’t need to ask for anything else. “Look here,” you directed, snapping the photo. “This one’s good. Now, give me a serious face or something.”

He attempted a more serious pose, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow, but the effect was ruined when he started laughing—soft and full of life.

“You’re terrible at this, you know that?” you teased, laughing along. “Alright, last one. Just smile this time.”

He complied, and this time his smile was brighter, more carefree—something so genuine you already knew it would be your favorite. “Done. Immortalized.”

“Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” he said, still smiling.

Before you could respond, one of the upperclassmen clapped loudly to grab everyone’s attention. “Alright, freshmen! Everyone, listen up!”

Dave turned toward the voice, and you used the moment to pocket your phone, staying close as the upperclassman explained what would happen next.

“Now that you’ve all been properly christened, it’s time for the fun part of initiation. Everyone is going to form a line, holding hands, and we’re going to walk from here to the main engineering building over there,” he pointed to a building about a 15-minute walk away, “leaving a trail of paint behind us. Along the way, we’re going to throw paint at you. A lot of paint. And just so you know: if any of you freshmen try to fight back, you’ll get an extra soaking. Got it?”

The freshmen murmured their agreement, some chuckling nervously. Beside you, Dave seemed amused, his easy smile firmly in place. That was when you realized your role was about to begin: as an upperclassman, your job wasn’t just to watch—it was to dive into the colorful chaos and make sure no one got out unscathed.

You turned to him, a playful glint in your eye. “You know, Dave, I think you should take your glasses off.”

He blinked, surprised. “Take my glasses off? Why?”

“Trust me,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “The paint will get everywhere, and you don’t want to ruin the lenses.”

He hesitated, clearly unconvinced. Then, with a sigh, he slowly removed his glasses and handed them to you. “Fine. But if I trip over someone, it’s your fault.”

You laughed, holding the glasses carefully. “I’ll guide you, don’t worry. Can you still see anything?” Your voice came out softer than you intended, almost with genuine concern.

Dave tilted his head, that small smile appearing again. “I think I can... enough to know you’re still there.”

Your laugh was a bit nervous, but you covered it by glancing away. “Well, that’s enough.”

He laughed too, that light sound contagious. And before you could respond, the upperclassmen started moving, organizing the freshmen into a line. “Take good care of those,” he said, pointing to his glasses. “I’m trusting you.”

“You can trust me,” you replied, waving the glasses before stepping away.

Dave joined the line of freshmen, falling into place among them. You watched as he took the hands of two other students, looking both relaxed and a little eager. The upperclassmen began circling the group, armed with bottles and squirt guns filled with colorful paint.

“Alright, everyone!” one of the upperclassmen yelled, a mischievous grin on his face. “No mercy!”

You grabbed your improvised weapon—a bottle filled with vibrant blue paint—and walked alongside the freshmen, your eyes inevitably searching for him in the crowd. It wasn’t hard to find him; it was as if your eyes were drawn to him naturally. His smile was still there, as if he was genuinely enjoying the impending chaos.

Music started playing—something upbeat and lively from a portable speaker someone had brought. It was the perfect soundtrack for the moment, and you couldn’t help but laugh as the energetic rhythm set the tone.

As the group began to move, the upperclassmen launched their attack. Paint flew in every direction, splattering onto laughing freshmen who tried—and failed—to dodge the colorful assault. You aimed for Dave, squeezing your bottle and hitting him square on the shoulder. He stopped, pretending to look offended as he laughed.

“You did that on purpose!” he accused, pointing at you, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Of course I did!” you shot back, unable to stop laughing. “What, you thought I’d spare you?”

He shook his head, still grinning, and kept walking. But you weren’t done yet. At every opportunity, you squirted more paint at him, streaking blue and green across his arms and back. Other upperclassmen joined in, but you got the sense that he was far more aware of your attacks than anyone else’s.

The soundtrack kept playing as the group moved forward slowly, everyone fully immersed in the fun. Dave, now almost unrecognizable with the amount of paint covering his hair and clothes, still seemed to be having more fun than anyone else. But amidst the chaos of colors and laughter, something glimmered in his eyes—a kind of challenge. Before you could prepare yourself, he took two quick steps toward you, his paint-covered hand reaching straight for your arm.

"Dave!" you exclaimed, trying to step back, but it was already too late.

His fingers left a streak of green paint across the light fabric of your shirt, staining it mercilessly. You froze, staring at the mark with a skeptical expression, then at him, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide his mischievous grin.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," you said, disbelief dripping from your voice. "I loved this shirt."

"Oops," he replied, with the most insincere tone of regret you’d ever heard, raising his hands in a gesture that didn’t convince anyone. "But hey, I think green suits you, too."

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms as you glared at him. "Are you serious, Dave?"

Before he could answer, a nearby upperclassman noticed what had happened and raised their voice, laughing. "Hey, everyone! Looks like we’ve got a bold one here!"

That was enough to grab the attention of all the other upperclassmen around. In seconds, it seemed like everyone had stopped what they were doing to look at Dave, who now seemed a little less confident—but surprisingly, no less amused.

"Retaliation, huh?" someone shouted, already starting to fill a bucket with a deadly mix of paints. "This won’t go unpunished!"

You took a step back, watching the scene unfold. Dave opened his mouth to protest but didn’t have time. The first splash of paint came from the left, hitting him square on the shoulder. Then, it was as if the heavens had opened, but instead of rain, there were buckets, bottles, and tubes of paint being thrown at him from every direction. Red, blue, yellow, pink, green, purple—a whirlwind of colors determined to turn him into a walking masterpiece.

You stood there with your arms crossed, watching as the upperclassmen laughed and shouted, the background music amplifying the chaos. Dave, however, seemed… completely unfazed. He raised his hands in surrender, but the grin was still there—a wide, bright smile as if he was having way too much fun.

When an entire bucket of blue paint was dumped straight over his head, he shook his hair, sending splatters everywhere—including onto you. "Seriously, Dave?!" you complained, but the laughter in your voice betrayed the fact that you weren’t really upset.

He wiped the excess paint dripping down his forehead and looked at you through the chaos. His smile was different now, a little softer but just as captivating as before. "Worth it," he said simply, as if the storm of paint had been a small price to pay.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that slipped through. "You’re impossible."

He shrugged, finally extending his hands to the sides, as if accepting defeat with dignity. "Maybe. But at least I’m not the only one covered in paint now."

The group, a walking rainbow, finally reached the other building, still laughing and making comments about their utterly destroyed—but hilarious—appearances. Clothes that had once been normal were now completely unrecognizable, and many people’s hair dripped paint like oversized brushes. You couldn’t help but laugh as you noticed how Dave seemed to lead the pack of the most wrecked ones, completely covered from head to toe.

"I look like an exploded paint can," someone commented, eliciting even more laughter from the group.

The upperclassmen began organizing everyone for a group photo. "Come on, everyone! I want to see everyone squeezed in here!" one of them shouted, waving a red paint tube like a microphone.

Dave laughed beside you, leaning in to whisper, "I think there’s still time to escape."

"You’re the last person who can say that," you shot back, glancing sideways at him. He was drenched in paint, but his eyes sparkled brighter than ever, and something about the way he smiled made your stomach flip in that uncomfortable—but addicting—way.

The freshmen started lining up, bumping into each other and trying to find space in the tight group. You ended up being pushed to the front, practically pressed against Dave as he positioned himself behind you. "Looks like this is going to be pretty snug," he remarked.

"That’s the spirit of teamwork," you replied, trying to maintain your composure, though you were very aware of how close he was.

"Teamwork, huh?" he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice without even looking.

Just as the photographer positioned themselves, you felt movement right behind you, and before you could process it, Dave’s arm slid around your waist. It was a gentle touch, almost casual, but the way he did it—firm yet hesitant, as if waiting for your reaction—made your heart race.

You looked at him, surprised. “Dave…” you began, but your voice got lost amidst the chaos around you. He looked back at you, the smile still on his face, but now there was something different—an intensity in his eyes, a glimmer that seemed to say more than any words could.

“Just to make room for everyone,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. You weren’t sure if it was because of the noise or the way he seemed to look directly at you, ignoring the rest of the world entirely.

You tried to think of anything relevant to say, but your mind was a complete blur, the words tangling together as he stayed so close. The touch of his arm around your waist was a constant reminder, a warm pressure that sent shivers through your skin, even under the layer of paint covering you both.

Someone shouted, “Smile!” and you forced a grin for the camera, even though your thoughts were far from where they should be. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Dave lean slightly forward, and his closeness was overwhelming. He smelled faintly of paint mixed with something uniquely him, and it was ridiculous that you were noticing that at such a moment.

When the photo was finally taken, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Dave, still with his arm around your waist, looked at you with a satisfied smile. “I think this will be a photo to remember,” he said, his voice low, and the way he looked at you almost made your knees buckle.

“I hope you’re right,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the weakness in your voice gave everything away.

As the photo group began to break apart, the laughter faded. A few freshmen tried unsuccessfully to scrub the paint out of their hair and clothes, while others seemed resigned to heading home in their messy state. You watched the scene unfold, the sound of footsteps and chatter echoing through the space. The energetic buzz of the event still lingered, but exhaustion was beginning to creep in.

Dave stood near you, a mix of tiredness and contentment on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, now stiff from the paint, and let out a soft laugh. “I think it’s going to take me two weeks in the shower to get all of this off.”

You laughed, reaching for your bag and unzipping it. “I think you’ll need more than that. But luckily, I came prepared.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as you pulled out a small packet of wet wipes. “It’s not going to fix this entire disaster,” you said, holding it up for him, “but it’ll help with the basics. Here.”

He looked at you, his smile widening. “Are you always this prepared, or is this just for me?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re full of jokes today, huh?”

He chuckled but didn’t take the wipes from your hand. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if challenging you. “So, are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there holding that?”

You hesitated for a moment, your heart racing at the way he was looking at you—direct, playful, but with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Fine, but stay still and cooperate.”

He took a small step closer, closing the already narrow gap between you. Dave lowered his head slightly, making it easier for you to reach his face. Your hands were steady as you pulled out a wipe, but the same couldn’t be said for your heartbeat, which pounded wildly as you leaned in.

The first touch was light, almost hesitant, but soon you were carefully wiping away the streaks of paint from his forehead. His skin was warm under the wipe, and you could feel every tiny movement as he stayed still, his eyes fixed on you.

“Does this hurt?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

“No,” he replied, his tone rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “If anything, it’s the opposite.”

You tried to ignore the weight of his words, but it was impossible. Each second seemed to stretch the space between you. Your fingers, holding the wipe, brushed lightly against the side of his face, and he took a deep breath, as if steadying himself.

His eyes never left yours, and there was something about the vibrant blue that made you feel lost, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. “You’re all cleaned up now,” you murmured, but you didn’t step away.

“Am I?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he knew more than he was letting on. “Because I think there’s a spot here…” He pointed to his cheek, though it felt more like an excuse to keep you close.

You laughed softly but obliged, wiping the spot he indicated. “There. Happy?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when you finally found the courage to look at him again, the smile had disappeared, replaced by something deeper. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with everything that wasn’t being said.

His hand rose for a moment, almost as if it were going to touch yours, but then stopped halfway, falling back to his side. “I am. Quite a bit.”

You felt the weight of his words, the raw honesty hanging in the air like a thick, tangible cloud. That I am seemed to hold more than he was willing to say out loud. His breath was heavy, not from the physical effort of the day, but from the tension that seemed to pulse between you like a rope about to snap.

Without thinking much, as if your fingers had a life of their own, you brought a hand to his face again. His hair was messy and still wet with paint, some strands stuck to his forehead, others falling to the side, blocking your view of his eyes. “Stay still,” you murmured, almost apologetically, as you brushed the wet strands back carefully.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the simple touch of your fingers was enough to disarm him. When he opened his eyes again, there was something different in them, something more intense, more vulnerable.

You took a deep breath, and before you could hesitate, you began to clean the paint still staining his jawline, your fingers gliding along the strong line of his jaw. The texture of his skin under the wet wipe, warm and slightly rough, made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t control.

“Do you have any idea how much you got dirty today?” you tried to say, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

“Maybe,” he replied, and the hoarseness in his voice made you feel the impact in your chest, like a muffled thunder. “But you seemed to be having fun.”

You chuckled softly, trying to relieve the growing tension, but it was a useless effort. Your fingers slid from his jaw to near his lips, and you hesitated for a fraction of a second before gently passing the wipe over the corner of his lips.

His eyes followed every movement of yours, and when you looked back, his gaze seemed to beg for something he didn’t have the courage to ask for. His mouth was slightly open, and his breath brushed against your fingers so tangibly that you almost felt the heat on your own skin.

“All done,” you said, but your voice sounded different now, as if it carried everything you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmured, and the smile that played on his lips was as soft as it was dangerous.

“I am,” you replied, but your hand didn’t move. It was still there, dangerously close to his mouth, as if it were impossible to pull away.

“Are you sure?” he teased, his tone barely audible, and you knew he wasn’t talking about the paint anymore.

The silence that followed was deafening. The proximity between you was almost painful now, each inch filled with electricity that had your whole body on high alert. His eyes dropped for a moment to your mouth, and when they returned to yours, there was something there that made your heart beat so fast you thought he could hear it.

Your hand, still near his mouth, wavered for a second, and it was all he needed to take a step forward, closing the distance between you even more. His breath mixed with yours, and you knew, you knew you were on the edge of completely losing yourselves.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed, his voice a little firmer now, but still low enough for only you to hear. “And I’m tired of pretending I can.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with raw honesty that seemed to steal all the air around you. Your throat went dry, and you could feel the conflict building inside you, fighting against what already seemed inevitable.

He was younger. A freshman. And you knew you should have some sense here, some logic screaming for you to pull back, to remember the differences, the line that separated you two. But your hands were still on him, your fingers still brushing the paint-stained skin of his warm face, and you just couldn’t let go.

“Dave…” Your voice came out in a trembling whisper, carrying all that you were trying to hold back — the hesitation, the disbelief, and above all, the desire you had been trying to bury since the moment he looked at you that way, completely enchanted, for the first time.

He leaned in imperceptibly closer, his eyebrows furrowed, the intensity in his blue gaze fixed on you. “Tell me what’s holding you back,” he asked, almost pleading, but his tone was still soft, patient, as if he was trying to find his way to you.

You opened your mouth, but the words seemed to dissolve before you could even form a sentence. He waited, his proximity a temptation, and you felt as if you were being pulled toward him, against all the logic you thought you had.

“You’re…” you started, but hesitated, then took a deep breath. “You’re younger. A freshman. That…”

He laughed, low and hoarse, and shook his head slightly. "You think that matters to me?" He tilted his head, his eyes darkening with the intensity of his gaze. "I don’t care if you're older. Do you think when I look at you, that’s what I see? Because I don’t. I only see you. You, with that habit of looking at me like you’re trying to push me away, but you can’t."

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. He looked so vulnerable and so certain at the same time, and that made something inside you tremble.

"I don’t know if I can do this..." you murmured, the hesitation weighing heavily in each word.

"I know you can," he shot back, his voice firmer now, but still low, almost reverent. "Because if you didn’t want to, you would have already walked away. And you’re still here."

His words hit you like a punch, because he was right. You were still here. Your hands were still on him, and the closeness between you was so small that any movement could close it.

His fingers slowly moved until they lightly brushed your wrist. It was such a subtle touch, but it electrified everything around you, as if the world had stopped to observe that moment.

"Tell me you don’t want this," he said, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would be dangerous. "Tell me you don’t feel this too, and I’ll stop now."

But you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t pull your hands away, couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you, as if you were something he didn’t know he needed until the moment he saw you.

"You don’t know what you’re asking, Dave," you murmured, but your voice came out weak, with no conviction.

"I know exactly what I’m asking," he retorted, his eyes fixed on yours, as if each word was a promise. "I’m asking for you. And I know you’re trying to find a reason for this not to happen, but there isn’t one."

And in that moment, you knew he was right. That it didn’t matter the logic, or the differences, or the doubts you were trying to hold on to. He was here, and you wanted him. God, how you wanted him.

Your gaze fell to his lips, then rose back to his eyes. He was so close that you could feel his breath, and there was something so vulnerable in his expression, so open, so surrendered, that you simply couldn’t hold back.

Without thinking any further, you closed the distance between you, your hands moving to his face as your lips met his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you as if he’d been waiting for this since the moment he saw you. And maybe he had. Maybe you had too.

His lips were warm against yours, firm yet hesitant, as if he feared that it could all disappear in the blink of an eye. You felt his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his body pressed to yours in a way that made the whole world disappear.

His touch was both reverent and desperate, as if he didn’t know if it was real, but was determined to imprint every detail in his memory. His hands slid over the curve of your back, stopping at the base of your waist, before moving up again, his fingers brushing the exposed skin that the light fabric of your blouse didn’t protect. It was electrifying, each touch, each movement, and you felt your heart beating so hard it seemed to echo in every cell of your body.

He pulled away just enough to catch his breath, his eyes meeting yours as if searching for some kind of certainty. "Is this... real?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, cut off. He seemed lost, his blue eyes shining amidst the remnants of lilac and green paint on his face, as if you were the only thing he could see.

You laughed softly, breathless, but didn’t pull away an inch. "Yes," you answered, your voice soft but full of something you couldn’t hide anymore. "It’s real, Dave."

He let out a shaky laugh, a mixture of relief and disbelief, and then his lips were on yours again, this time more certain, hungrier. His hands moved up to your shoulders, then slowly slid down your arms, his fingers tracing the path as if he wanted to memorize every detail, every curve, every inch of skin.

"You have no idea..." he murmured against your lips, his breath hot on your face. He stopped, just enough to find your eyes again. "How much I’ve dreamed of this. Of you."

You felt the weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze, and something inside you broke and rebuilt itself all at once. "Dave..." you started, but he shook his head, interrupting.

“No,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I need you to know. From the first day. From the moment you spoke to me, from the moment you smiled at me… I knew. I knew it was you.”

Your breath faltered, and you felt his hands rise again, this time stopping at the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw until they brushed the corner of your lips. He seemed so sure, so lost in you, and at the same time so fragile, as if this moment could be taken from him at any second.

“Dave…” you repeated, his name coming out as a whisper, almost a secret. You held his wrists, your fingers gently tightening against his skin. “You have no idea…”

“Tell me,” he insisted, his voice still hoarse, but laden with something so raw, so real, that it made the air around you feel heavier.

You swallowed hard but didn’t look away. “That I thought about it too. That I wanted this too. You. From the beginning.”

The words hit him like a blow, and he let out a short laugh, almost disbelieving, as he pressed his forehead against yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he needed that instant to collect himself, then whispered, “You’re messing with me, right?”

“You think I’d do that now?” you replied, the teasing in your voice mixed with the weight of the truth.

He opened his eyes, and there was something almost glowing in them, something that made you lose yourself completely. “God, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured before pulling you in again, the kiss more intense, more urgent this time.

His hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your hips before stopping at their base, as if he needed to hold you there, as if he feared you might slip away. You pressed even closer to him, feeling his heat, the smell of paint mixed with his scent, and nothing had ever felt so right.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he gave a small smile, his lips still red from the kiss. “So… is this it?” he asked, his voice soft but playful. “Can I stop torturing myself now?”

You laughed, your fingers still tangled in his shirt, and shook your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I like seeing you like this,” you replied, the teasing clear, but your eyes still filled with everything you were feeling.

He tilted his head to the side, a crooked, utterly charming smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. “If that means I can kiss you again, then torture me as much as you want.”

You laughed, short, still breathless, and pushed lightly against his chest, but not enough to create any real distance. His hands stayed firmly on your waist, and it was impossible to ignore the streaks of paint he’d left there—a deep blue staining the pale pink of your blouse. His fingers had drawn an impromptu map on your skin and the fabric, and you knew that, even without a mirror, it was visible.

“Look at what you’ve done,” you commented, trying to sound indignant as you looked down at your blouse, but it was impossible not to smile. “My blouse is ruined.”

Dave laughed softly, his thumbs sliding along the curve of your waist before tracing their way back, as if he wanted to emphasize the mess. “You should’ve walked away while you could.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sure, because you would’ve let me go, right?”

He smiled wider now, his face still covered in paint, but somehow it only made him more irresistible. “Not for a second,” he confessed, with a tone that was both light and serious, like everything he did.

You shook your head, but couldn’t help the laugh, even as you tugged at the fabric of your blouse to examine the stains more closely. “And what do I do with this now? This is beyond saving, you know?”

Dave let out a dramatic sigh, pulling away just enough to look at you properly, but his hands remained firmly on your waist, as if he couldn’t help it. “Okay, I’ll admit it was a fashion crime,” he began, his eyes dropping to the stained fabric before rising back to your face. He looked so carefree and yet so intensely focused on you at the same time, it was almost unsettling. “But, look, you could… I don’t know, keep it as a keepsake.”

You raised an eyebrow again, his mischievous look signaling he had more to say. “A keepsake?”

“Yeah,” he continued, his smile growing. He raised one of his hands, covered in paint, and his thumb lightly brushed against the strap of your blouse, where a small paint stain was already printed. The touch was casual, but you felt a shiver run through you as if he had done it on purpose. “Every time you look at it, you’ll remember today. Me.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it was impossible to hide the heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, sure, because I’d want a ruined blouse to remember you by,” you teased, but your voice came out quieter than expected.

He tilted his face a little closer, his fingers still idly playing with the strap of your blouse, as if he were testing his own limits. “You will,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but with that sweet tone that made your heart race. “Because I know you won’t forget me, with or without the blouse.”

You let out a short laugh, trying to hide the effect his words had on you, but it was useless. “You’re really confident for a guy who’s covered in paint,” you commented, pointing to his face.

Dave laughed again, tilting his head to the side as he ran one hand across his own face, spreading even more paint without realizing. “Oh, seriously?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And who was it that left me like this, huh?”

“You weren’t exactly trying to avoid it,” you replied, crossing your arms, but it was impossible to keep up the defensive posture with him so close, so absurdly adorable.

He took a step back, pretending to examine himself, before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, it’s pretty bad,” he admitted, pointing to the stains on his face, neck, and arms. But then he looked at you, a mischievous smile returning to his lips. “But, you know what? Totally worth it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed any attempt to seem serious. “Really worth it?”

“Totally,” he said, giving that half-smile that seemed dangerous and irresistible at the same time. He took a step forward again, closing the distance, tilting his face until it was only inches from yours. “Wanna know why?”

You barely had time to respond before he continued, his voice low and heavy with something that made your breath falter. “Because now, I know what it’s like to kiss you.”

And with that, he smiled, so completely satisfied, so completely in love, that it was impossible to say anything. And you knew he was right: you’d never forget this. Or him.

[redsea8me]

Did I ever tell you guys about my Jekyll and Hyde AU for tfp? No? Well don’t worry bc you’re about to hear about now

so like, the after math of the Sythn En episode right? Ratchet learns not to take drugs after almost dying right? What if it didn’t end there? What if afterwards he ended up with thoughts and feelings that weren’t his own sometimes? What if whatever remnants of the sythn en that stayed in his system gained a mind of its own?

Now, Ratchet has to share his body and mind w/ an unwieldy, loud, and outspoken version of himself that really really wants to go outside (and calls himself Ratchets brother a lot of the time but he doesn’t acknowledge that (yet))

He is literally talking nonsense all the time

[synthetickitsune]

may i please request florist!san who secretly likes a regular at his flower shop, then he learns that she finally recently broke up with her ex so he does all kinds of things to cheer her up like slipping in cute notes or chocolates in the flowers she buys and to also maybe shoot his shot 🥹💕

thank youuu and no need to rush! please do take all the time you need 🫶

San (ATZ) | Flower Shop AU + hidden notes fluff | 0.9k | gn!reader

The change wasn’t immediately recognizable for what it truly was. 

You might’ve missed a few weeks, which was concerning, but San understood that life happens and sometimes there’s just not enough time, money, or even energy to come to the flower shop, to keep the house looking pretty. 

And of course he spent the better part of those weeks worried if you’ll ever show up again.

Some little part of him hoped that you won’t - the unselfish one, the one that only cared about your happiness as he tends to care about all strangers that come to his shop. If you never come again, then perhaps your manchild of a boyfriend has finally grown into a full fledged man and started buying you flowers like you deserve instead of leaving you to do it yourself.

It was just one of the few pieces of information he got from the limited amount of small conversations you had. Your boyfriend would give you a couple bucks and tell you to go buy yourself some red roses. An exact amount that would in no universe be covered by the money he gave you. Truly, San wonders why you bothered with that guy. 

You deserve better. You deserve someone like him - but that’s only what the selfish part of his heart keeps telling him.

Things are different now, though. Something changed. You’re back to getting flowers, but they’re not roses anymore, and the bouquets are smaller. They also suit you more. You seem genuinely happy getting them.

San feels torn about it, although he’s mostly curious.

Until one day he sees your phone light up just as you’re about to pay, a name briefly flashing on the screen. You decline the call with lips pressed into a thin line. It’s not the time to be nosy, it’s not his place to ask-

“Is everything alright?” he asks carefully, then upon meeting your eyes he panics, “It’s just you seemed upset and you’ve been missing before…”

He’s just making it worse, he knows, but he hopes you can just take it as him being concerned about his business and not creepy. You study his face for a moment before sighing.

“We broke up,” you say simply, “And he keeps calling so that’s a little annoying.”

“Oh,” is all he can say.

And oh is all he can think for the rest of the day. Week, actually. And then he gets it together.

‘Together’ in a way that is perhaps concerning in its own way.

It might be too much - it is too much and wholly inappropriate. But San feels like a madman on a mission, hyping himself before the final stretch as he looks at the handful of notes and another small pile of envelopes.

The notes should be fine - they’re just generic words of encouragement, some may be a little too sweet for strangers, but not too much. The envelopes, well, they hold his heart. He must be in his right mind still if he thought to start with the notes and see how you accept them.

…And that doesn’t apply anymore weeks later when he’s stealthily slipping the first envelope into the bouquet before wrapping it for you. His heart is about to burst and you’re looking at him with concern. His hands are shaking, but at least you only noticed now. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, brows furrowed.

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles. It’s easy to make it genuine. 

“I…” you hesitate and he leans closer, nodding at you to continue, “I know I never said anything, but I wanted to thank you for the notes. I mean, you probably noticed I started coming in more. They just really helped me get through the hard times.”

He did notice. He also noticed you slowly opening up, lingering, gracing him with short conversation each time.

“I’m glad,” he says and he means it. Even if nothing comes out of this, making you happy is enough.

“So I was wondering, would you like to go on a date with me?” you bite your lip, “If you’re okay with going slow-”

“Yes,” he interrupts before you can change your mind. He already saw you spiral into overthinking many times, he’s not gonna do it today. “Absolutely. Just, uh, could you give that back to me?”

He points to the wrapped flowers in your hands. You look at him with a suspicion. “Why?”

“I don’t want to embarrass myself and make you change your mind, please?” he begs. Suddenly he can’t remember what’s written in the short letter. He only knows it’s sappy and pathetic.

“Is your number there?” you chuckle.

“Among other things,” he admits. For once he doesn’t like the way your smile grows bigger.

“Then if I like the other things I will text you,” you seem so satisfied with yourself, San is in love - and shambles, “If not, I’ll come here again and pretend I didn’t see anything. You can ask me on the date again if the note doesn’t work.”

That’s not the issue, the note isn’t asking you out, he wants to say, but you’re already turned away from him and walking out. He can’t speak, his tongue feels too heavy and his mind is blank. Slowly, he feels a smile stretching his lips against his will.

Maybe you like losers, he hopes.

[hellfire--cult]

Edit of Eddie: pitifulbaby

Chapters: Masterlist (Go here to see list of chapters, plotline and general warnings.)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Non-Traditional Omegaverse, Slow burn, Modern!AU, Mechanic!Eddie

⚠️18+: angst, jealousy, possessiveness, eddie being a jerk, smut

wc: 10.6k

A/N: Sorry for the lack of update, i am not proud of this chapter BUT its the beginning of the angst loves. not proud of how i portrayed words here but its okay its fine, thank u @andvys for proofreading it ❤️

Anyways, Enjoy! ❤️ And don't forget to always support me by hitting the reblog button or leave a comment!

Taglist is closed

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CHAPTER 20

He wiped his forehead for the seventh time in the past five minutes. 

The heat inside his shop was being a little suffocating now that the spring completely rolled over. It was humid and everything just felt too sticky. Every tool he grabbed almost slipped out of his hands thanks to the grease and sweat. He looked around to see Jeff in the same situation, working shirtless over a mustang’s open hood. 

“I am going to get the AC fixed, I didn’t think the heat would come so quickly Jeff.” Eddie sighed, feeling a bit horrible with himself for making his friend work with these conditions. Jeff only chuckled, shaking his head, grabbing the rag from the back pocket of his jeans and wiping his hands with it.

“Not your fault, Eds. You can’t control the weather… but yes, please, fix this.” He pointed at the high ceiling where the ventilation system was located. Eddie groaned and nodded, getting up from the stool he was sitting on, flexing his body and deciding to discard his shirt that was drenched in sweat from working hunched over for over an hour. 

He stretched his neck all around as he tightened the bun in his head. He sometimes wanted to chop all of his hair off when it was work and heat coming together. The hair stuck to his face and it felt so wrong, and the amount of times he has to wash it in the spring and summer is insane… but no. He would never chop his beautiful mane, as he calls it, away just because of some temporary distress. 

He heard Jeff start coughing loudly, and Eddie turned around to see his friend looking wide eyed at him, his own fist punching his sternum while Eddie stood completely baffled, not knowing what happened to his friend.

“The fuck happened–”

“Holy fucking shit, your back! Were you attacked by a fucking animal or something man!?” And Eddie was confused for just one more second until– Oh.

He felt a twitch in his pants as he realized what marks he was talking about. The nail scratches all over his back, on his biceps, on his chest… The bite marks and hickeys that lingered on his collarbone and some on his thighs that he couldn’t see thanks to his jeans. They were so intense that they popped out just like his tattoos. Eddie cleared his throat as he grabbed the rag behind his back pocket, a smirk displaying on his features as he started to clean the sweat off his chest a bit with it.

“Uh, sure, you can call it that.” Jeff whistled as his eyes stared wide eyed at his friend. 

“Well fuck… I’ve never seen you marked up like this. She’s good GOOD, isn’t she?” And Eddie’s mind wandered back to two days ago, how the two of you were driving back from Jonathan’s bar and you had a few more drinks than he had, making you bold and confident. You had rubbed your hand all over him through the whole ride to your house, making him lose his self control minute by minute. 

You had leaned over at red lights, kissed his neck, bit his shoulder that made him hiss, and when you two finally arrived at your home, the moment you closed the door, you slammed him against it and dropped to your knees. You controlled the night. He was stunned and just purely amazed by you. Every encounter was something new and– you two couldn’t keep your hands off eachother. 

Out of the seven days of the week, you two fucked four or even five. A month passed since you two started this new agreement, and he never in his life felt this much desire towards someone. He assumes it’s because of your capability to do things his other hookups had yet to match. It must be it.

“She is… excellent. The best I’ve ever fucking had, Jeff.” His friend whistles again at that, pointing at Eddie’s back with a proud chuckle.

“I can see that. I’ve never in my life seen those marks on you.”

“I’m not one to let himself be marked easily.” And it was the truth, and Jeff tilted his head, squinting his eyes, a playful smile appearing on his lips as Eddie frowned. “What?”

“I think someone is falling a little deeper than he should~” He groaned loudly at Jeff’s words, rolling his eyes, pushing away the fact his stomach did some turn at them.

“No, I am not. I just get too lost in it and forget to tell her not to.” Eddie retorts, crossing his arms over his chest as Jeff raises an accusatory eyebrow at him.

“Right. So this is just fucking then? Just a little hook-up every now and then?” He asks with a cheeky tone behind his voice, making Eddie squint and push his friend on the arm, making Jeff laugh. 

“What else?” 

“She the only one?” At that Eddie stopped in his tracks, his eyes getting a bit lost at the question because– you were. For some reason, he couldn’t be with anyone else, and he had hovered over the messaging button on past girls' Instagrams… But he always went back to your chat.

He never did exclusivity. It was too intimate, too private, and the last thing he wanted was to make things complicated. He didn’t want them to be complicated with you, and if they did become that way, things might end, and he doesn’t want them to end, not this soon. But you two are just having sex, yet the idea of someone else touching you was making him clench his fists tightly every now and then. 

He wondered if you felt that same kind of worry or passing thought with him. Wondered if he was sleeping with other girls, if he talked to others. This is just because of who he is, no more than that. He ignores the fact this hasn’t happened with any of his past hook-ups, better to be oblivious than think too much over it.

“Um–” As he opened his mouth to talk, not really knowing if he was going to tell the truth or deny it, the small garage door opened, the one made for employees, and Steve walked in with three bags of food in his hand. Eddie sighed with relief, feeling saved by a god or something and Jeff rolled his eyes, but immediately put the rag away as his mouth salivated when he saw Steve walking towards them with food.

“Hello there ladies– HOLY SHIT!” Steve jumped a bit as he saw Eddie’s body and– fuck.

“I had the same fucking reaction Steve.” Jeff commented, chuckling as he saw Eddie’s glare towards him before turning back to talk to Steve who was checking him out with his jaw dropped and a frown in his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m having sex, where’s the shock in that?” But Steve’s eyes were still roaming him from head to toe, never having seen Eddie in this state. 

“Oh nothing, is your partner a fucking bear?” Jeff snorted, making Eddie glare at him with everything in him.

“I asked the same shit man… But no, it is in fact a woman.” With that, Jeff grabs one of the food bags from Steve’s hands as Eddie rips one in anger, making Steve whistle just like Jeff had done minutes before. 

“Does the woman identify as wolverine or some shit?” Steve finally laughed, but Eddie could sense the curiosity in his friend as a frown was still etched in his eyebrows. He was a bit nervous at the prospect of Steve interrogating him, but he could play it off as one of the many hookups he had. But– The problem was, Steve knows all about them. This is the first time he saw Eddie this way, all marked, bitten, completely ravished.

“I am just that good Steve. Want to try?” He jokingly asked and Steve scoffed, shaking his head as Jeff chuckled, closing the hood of the car and sitting on it, opening the bag on his lap. Eddie’s nose scrunched up, snapping his fingers at his friend. “Not in the client’s car.” “It’s going to get washed and polished either way.” Jeff retorted and Eddie rolled his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge that Steve’s eyes were still on him. He turned to his brown-haired friend, trying to gulp down the nerves.

“Thanks for bringing the food man.” He peeked inside the bag, mouth salivating as he saw the pastrami sandwich Jonathan makes at his bar. It’s delicious, one of Eddie’s favorites. 

“Don’t mention it… Eddie–” Suddenly, the door opened once again and his eyes widened, heart stopping for a second. Soft heel sounds were heard and echoed through the whole shop, rustles of bags and– oh, fuck.

The moment the three men came into view, you stopped in your tracks.

Eddie could see the emotions running all over your body, your face frozen as you saw Steve staring at you, confused by your sudden presence, but Jeff wasn’t. He was used to you being here, not knowing what had been happening between you and Eddie. Eddie disguised it as you coming in to ask about your car, not to arrange when and where the two of you would fuck after work. Not at all.

“I– Hi.” Your voice was small and Eddie almost winced at it. His eyes roamed your body as you got closer, and it felt like his body turned a switch and something ignited inside of him. It was automatic. Every time he saw you, it was as if there was this predatory trait in him, something in you making him go feral, primal.

You were wearing that stupid ass office attire he dreamed of staining with his fluids mixed with yours, of maybe ripping a button or two. That grey skirt, grey blazer with that turquoise blouse peeking from inside, and those low heels that for some reason make him go insane. His eyes then fell to the three bags in your hand, his face trying to conceal a wince as he realized you had the same idea Steve had.

Your eyes were fixated on him, slowly roamed over his exposed body and arms, and he saw how your breathing hitched, how it lost its pace for a second, how your eyes darkened and your lips trembled slightly. He wanted to smile victoriously, but he would give himself away if he did… but as soon as that lustful look on your eyes appeared, he sensed the panic. Steve saw your marks. Jeff saw your marks. 

“More food, fuck yeah.” Jeff interrupted and your eyes went towards him and then glanced at Eddie once, and– a sinking feeling came to his stomach. He didn’t like that look in your eyes. He saw how you turned to face Jeff once again, and you fucking smiled sweetly at him. 

Oh, fuck no.

“Y-Yeah! I just… thought you guys might be hungry and I know all the work you guys have lately so–” And Eddie felt his jaw tense up. Steve though… his eyes were going between you and Jeff, and he was trying to conceal a smile. 

“Well, Stevie here had the same idea.” Eddie’s voice was low, rough, and he had to force his mouth open to talk because if he hadn’t he would have spoken through his teeth. Your eyes went towards him and then all over his body. You had the nerve to scrunch your face in disgust, an eyebrow going up in question.

“Did you fall into a lion enclosure at the local zoo or what?” At that, Jeff and Steve snorted, looking away momentarily from the two of you. Eddie’s eyes were now on you, and he felt like he wanted to bend you over and show these two what he could do to you. Your mouth is being really brave right now when he can turn you into a stupid mess in the matter of seconds.

But he also understood how you two had to act. He understood what your idea was and you were being smart… Still, he glared at you, and he saw how you shivered underneath his gaze. His jaw clenched once before he gave a forced smile, a warning towards you.

“These just means I do a good job.” His eyes turn to Jeff. “You can’t say the same, huh?” 

Your eyes widened as well as Steve’s. Jeff turned to look at Eddie, a frown appearing on his eyebrows in confusion at his friend’s anger towards him. He was about to open his mouth but Steve suddenly stepped in between, a fake smile on his lips as he looked at Eddie.

“Eds, let’s go to the office, I wanna talk to you about something.” Eddie saw how Steve gave a quick pointed look towards Jeff and yourself and– He wanted to punch someone. Why did you have to go and tell people you were fucking Jeff? Why not a random guy? Even if you were right, and they have bought into the idea that Eddie was yours and Jeff’s wingman, he did not see this confrontation coming.

“Y-Yeah! You two go talk, I’ll keep Jeff company!” Your voice was high-pitched and sweet, and with the act of being excited and Eddie wanted to choke you. Steve was buying your whole show and Jeff was plainly confused. Your eyes were on his brown ones and you gave a raise of eyebrows as if telling him to go with Steve, to follow your lead.

He sighed and nodded, but his blood temperature elevated when he saw Steve turn around and wink at you and Jeff before turning with Eddie and heading up to his office. It’s just an act. It’s something that was going to happen sooner or later. But now, Jeff will have to know, won’t he? There’s no way of covering that one up. His heart was hammering in his chest and it’s just this stupid sense of possession he has over you and–

He opened his office door, and walked inside to drop the bag on his desk, sitting on his chair with a huff, rubbing his hand over his face as Steve closed the door behind him, a smile still on his stupid face. 

“Well, I think that our little lady is smitten.” He felt annoyed at those words as he walked over to his mini fridge, opening it to take two bottles of coke out, while Steve put the food bags on his table, already opening them to reveal the pastrami sandwiches he had gotten with fries. He let out the breath he was holding in his stomach, feeling it growl in hunger and the scent of food filled his nostrils, making him sit down immediately.

“What makes you say that?” He asked, intrigued even if irritated because… if he thought that of Jeff, then it meant that you would appear like that with him. You didn’t bring food or visit Jeff in particular. You came to do those things with him. Steve shrugged, sitting down on the seat in front of his desk, across from Eddie, as he started opening his sandwich.

“Coming to the shop just because?” That wasn’t a good enough reason for you to be smitten, wasn't it?

“It really doesn’t mean anything. She came to the shop before, many times.” Steve frowned at Eddie’s words, taking a fry into his mouth.

“Just to bring in food?” Fuck.

“Uh, yeah. We became good friends.” He hoped his voice didn’t give him away, though, it wasn’t entirely a lie. You didn’t show up just because, but this wasn’t the first time you brought food with you. Even if you came to the shop because of your car before, the having lunch together part is not entirely new.

“And it still baffles me.”

“Aw, you afraid she will take your place?” Eddie snickered and his best friend rolled his eyes, taking a bite of his sandwich as Eddie opened his own, licking his lips in anticipation as his stomach growled.

“As if. Does she know what I know?” Steve asked and Eddie stopped midway on taking his first bite. He closed his mouth and cleared his throat, a small shake of his head.

“No.” And just like that, Steve scoffed in victory and Eddie took his first big bite, moaning as he closed his eyes in delight. They kept eating for a minute in pure silence, and Eddie was grateful for that until Steve decided to be a fucking menace.

“So… Who is she?” “Huh?” Steve pointed to his shoulder blades with a fry pinched in between his fingers.

“Leopard girl. Wolverine. I don’t know, whoever the fuck it is.” Steve ate the fry and Eddie thought he wasn’t going to question it at all but he knew he was wrong in that. Eddie took another bite of his sandwich, taking his time to chew so he could think of something, making Steve roll his eyes at the theatrics. 

“Um– Just… A friend of a client of mine.” He lied, trying to make this person as unknown as possible to make it seem like the actual woman he was fucking was not a few steps away from them. 

“Explain?” “She came to fix her car after her friend recommended us to her.” Eddie took another bite of his sandwich as he felt the nerves making his heart beat into his chest, and he could hear the pumping of his own blood rushing in his ears as he saw how Steve was looking at him.

“And is she like… a recurrent hookup?” And Eddie pondered that question because… he just had to lie about who he was fucking, didn’t he? “Oh yeah. Not letting her go any time soon Steve.” And it felt good to tell someone about it. To tell someone about you without really saying it was you. Steve smiled as he leaned forward, putting his crossed arms on the desk as he gave Eddie his full attention.

“Well, I never thought I’d hear that from you.” Steve’s face was one of shock and amusement as he looked at his best friend. Eddie noticed, yet, nodded slowly as he took the last bite of his sandwich. His mind suddenly filled with your encounters, never more than a fuck, never less than just that. 

“She… I– I enjoy sex with her. I enjoy it very much, Steve. For the first time ever I feel entirely satisfied with someone.” Eddie wasn’t looking into his friend’s eyes, just picking into his fries as his mind was elsewhere. Steve’s eyes were wide, staring at Eddie in shock, amusement, and some worry etched within.

“That’s certainly something I never heard from you, Eds… What makes her different from the rest?” Eddie took a fry into his mouth as he thought, a wave of something he doesn’t know how to identify rushing over him as your face popped up in his head.

“I mean, we started as friends, you know… Just messaging eachother, and then one day it just happened… She–” He felt his cheeks flush completely and Steve’s face was one of understanding, looking down at Eddie’s fidgeting fingers.

“Not the usual… size troubles, I assume?” And Eddie slowly shook his head, making Steve even more intrigued. He got nervous for his best friend, his thumb going to his mouth to bite onto the edge of it as he thought. Eddie’s eyes found Steve’s gaze moved somewhere else, making him frown.

“What is it?” “I mean, Eds… You sound kind of serious with this girl.” 

What? “Huh? No. I assure you, it’s nothing serious, Steve. We–” Did he? Did he sound serious about you? No, absolutely no. He has never sounded serious about anyone before. It just sounds like it because it is the first time he has been with the same hook up for so long.

“You never talk to me about your affairs. I mean, sure you told me about some chicks you slept with, but they were always complaints… This one is–” 

And Eddie realized he had never talked about a single good moment he had with a woman before with Steve. He had them, he sure has, but never in the extent he had them with you. You felt like nothing ever before, and that didn’t make you serious, it just made you– special. Just that. 

“I know, but I promise you, it’s nothing like that. It’s just sex.” He felt his words choking him up slightly, but he cleared his throat, trying to take the lump he got away. Steve’s eyes found his and then went down towards Eddie’s body.

“It’s just… you letting her do that means you aren’t sleeping with anyone else but her, isn’t it?” Oh he got busted. Eddie bit his bottom lip as he felt his stomach closing in on him, not knowing why Steve was making a big deal out of him sleeping with just one person.

“Am I that promiscuous?” He tried to play it off as a joke, but his best friend sighed, shaking his head.

“Eddie, I never heard you talk about a woman before, much less see you only sleeping with one and just one. Are you two exclusive?” 

“What?” “Are you exclusive to eachother?” And that conversation was something that never happened between the two of you again. He hadn’t slept with anyone but you, he never told you it, and probably never will, but it was because he was satisfied with you. You met his needs and that was the deal of it… but he wondered if it was the same for you. He wondered if you slept with others but him. He wondered if he was the only one. 

But no. Exclusivity means that the relationship is heading to a more serious tone and Eddie does not want that. You surely don’t want that. He won’t talk about this to you anytime soon, yet, answering the question to Steve felt like he was being punctured by needles in the tip of his tongue.

“No. We are not.” That tasted like piss in his fucking mouth. Why? You two are not exclusive, and probably never will be. That tasted even worse in his mind.

“It’s just– You gotta tell her if–”

“We are not exclusive and we will never be a couple. Drop it, Steve.” At his sharp words, Steve’s eyebrows met in the middle in a frown.

“That’s because you avoid it! Eddie, I’m sure someone out there doesn’t care about your condition! This is the first time I hear you talk about a girl this way and you are letting her go–”

“I am not letting her go! I have no one to let go of because we are just fucking, Harrington! Fucking! I’m so sorry I don’t have the perfect love story you and Johnny had, or Nance and Robin. Hell, even Argyle and Eden!” He was angry now, he didn’t want to be but talking about this matter just made him become infuriated at his friend. Why did he make such a big deal out of this? Why question him about his decisions? 

“Perfect!? I had to endure watching Johnny flirt for about a year until he decided we were more than friends with benefits.” And Eddie remembered that distinctively. Steve crying on his shoulder after he saw Jonathan flirt with someone… even with you. After the night they met you, and Jonathan asked you out, he went to his home with Robin, consoling him. Another reason for his stupid hatred towards you when you didn’t know Steve at the time. You didn’t know Steve was in love with Jonathan, much less they were sleeping together.

Eddie’s jaw clenched as he looked away, trying to avoid his best friend’s gaze. He knew all of his friends had their hardships with their relationships, but it didn’t mean his would be more than just a fuck buddy system thing. It doesn't mean that you two will become a couple. He can’t do that. He knows a relationship with him means that it will meet an impending doom at one point or the other. He was meant to fail.

“It’s not going to turn serious. It can’t.” Eddie’s voice was small, and Steve’s demeanor softened, a low sigh escaping him as he looked at his best friend with a pitiful look in his eyes.

“You are insufferable. You know that?” Eddie chuckled and looked up to see Steve smiling at him.

“You told me once or twice.” Steve nodded once as he started throwing all the wrappings into one of the food bags he brought.

“You think they’re fucking? Should I stay a bit longer up here?” “Huh?” Eddie was confused until Steve smirked and nodded towards the door. The long-haired man wanted to crack his neck from the sudden annoyance that washed over him. 

“No, Jeff knows that he should not do that at work. I’d have to fire him.” Eddie said as he got up from his chair, his heart beating in his chest with something he couldn’t pinpoint what. It was a feeling of nervousness, or of anticipation, or worry as he got closer to the door. He heard Steve getting up to follow him as he opened the door and–

He stopped.

You giggled as your hand rubbed Jeff’s cheek while he sat on the hood of the car he fixed. You were in between his legs, his hands were on your waist and to your hips as you two giggled with eachother, intimately. Steve stood next to Eddie, smirking, looking down at how you looked radiant once again after a few months of not doing so after your break up. As if remembering what Eddie had told him, he cleared his throat loudly.

Jeff’s eyes looked up the stairs, wincing as he ripped his hands away from you, making you gasp as you pulled away, acting ashamed as you looked down at the floor and fixed your blazer. Steve elbowed Eddie a few times before starting to head down, not noticing the state his best friend was in.

Eddie’s chest was rumbling. 

He was seeing red. He wanted to rip Jeff’s head off and then claim you in front of him, even in front of Steve. He wanted nothing more than to show off how dumb he could get you. How sweaty and how desperate you looked when you were underneath him. It was something he hadn’t anticipated and the fact was, he didn’t know if it’s a plan or not from you and Jeff. He knows it is, but his brain, his very own self is making him think Jeff is taking you from him. 

But this was the reality he was in. He couldn’t do what he wanted to do with you, not in front of them. They didn’t know you two were an item. He has to remind himself of that part, of that little detail in order not to lose you. If he fucks up, and you decide to cut everything off, he doesn’t know how he could cope with the need you fill. The need you satisfy, and for now, it is you only.

He slowly walked down the stairs while Jeff smirked your way and then looked around as if shy, only making him get angrier, but he has to fucking calm down. He started feeling how his palms started sweating the more you did googly eyes at his friend, and Steve was eating that shit up. He heard Steve clear his throat as Eddie stood next to him, his eyes never leaving your face.

“I think I’m leaving now. I’m supposing you’re… staying a bit longer?” His question was directed your way, which you fidgeted in your place, looking at Eddie for one second, and he knew you felt his anger, or his displeasure. He knew you felt it because he saw how you straightened up for a second, to then realize you were looking his way too much, and then you turned towards Jeff.

“Um… If the boss lets me.” You said innocently, this time, your eyes still glued to Jeff, who then looked at Eddie. The metalhead’s hands clenched as his glare was directed to his friend now.

“I was about to have lunch anyways… right?” Jeff asked and Eddie wanted to rip his head off. But you weren’t leaving. No. He had to talk with you privately about this stupid show you just did. So, Eddie faked a grin, nodding at his friend and then turned to you. Your eyes were worried as you looked at him.

“Of course, Peach can stay.” He felt a pat on his shoulder as if saying ‘Good job’. He didn’t turn to face Steve, his eyes still glued on yours, the fake grin still plastered on his lips.

“Well, I gotta go help Jon so… I’ll talk to you guys later, okay?” His best friend bid his goodbye and he knew he winked at you because your eyes followed Steve, and you rolled your eyes at him as he left. The moment the door closed, Eddie’s grin fell, his jaw clenching tightly as your eyes found his, filled with nerves and uncertainty.

“I um…–”

“I knew you two were fucking, jesus fucking christ.” Your eyes widened, and you turned your head to look at Jeff but Eddie’s anger elevated yet it also calmed down slightly, knowing that Jeff knew about you two made you now untouchable, at least to his friend.

“You told him?” Eddie asked and your eyes found him again and now they were angry as your jaw clenched. He tilted his head in question only to then hear laughter from his friend. Eddie sighed as he ran a hand over his face, knowing he was the one who fucked up. 

“I didn’t. You just fucking did.” Your voice was coming through gritted teeth and Eddie glared down at you, and he felt a hand on his right shoulder. He turned to look at it, and seeing Jeff’s hand made him remember how it was on your waist minutes before. He licked into his bottom lip, turning to look at his friend.

“She didn’t, but I had my suspicions when she told me to act as if we were hooking up just now.” Jeff talked, sitting back on the hood of the car as he opened his bag of food. Eddie’s nostrils flared as he heard you sigh, making him look back at you.

“We had to do this sooner or later… or at least I had to. It was going to happen at one point that everyone would be in the same room–”

“So this means, that if we are in the same room with everyone else, you two will act all lovey-dovey like just now?” His words seemed to take you aback because your eyebrows met in the middle as you looked at him as if he had gone insane.

“Well, not lovey-dovey, but we gotta pretend Eddie.” Your words were sharp, while you crossed your arms over your damned chest, making his eyes gaze at it then back at your eyes, and then at his friend who sighed as he unwrapped his sandwich.

“Look, I can help, but– I have a relationship too, and it’s becoming serious and I don’t want it fucked over because of this.” Jeff clarified and that made you sigh, making Eddie look back at you as he felt his belly burn in the pits of hell for some reason.

“I promise it– I don’t know for how long but… it’s just so no one gets suspicious if we are at the same place and they don’t see us interacting at all…” Eddie rolled his eyes as he held back a displeased groan. He did not like those words coming out of your mouth. It sounded as if you were already putting an end to you both, and while his head started reeling, he failed to notice how his friend was looking at him.

“Well… Why not let them know? It’s… just fucking right?” Jeff’s words made Eddie’s head snap towards him, and their eyes locked for a second before you interrupted.

“Yeah but… it might cause issues in the group, just– It’s better this way.” You replied and Eddie’s jaw clenched tightly as he looked at the floor. Jeff shifted in the hood of the car, a smirk appearing on his face as he turned towards you.

“Then, it will be a pleasure to be your fake fuck buddy for as long as you need, sweet thing.” 

“Can you go have lunch somewhere else, Jeff?”

Eddie’s voice was sharp, rough, and filled with something that sent the other two people in the room shivers down their whole bodies, goosebumps pricking on their skin. Your eyes were locked on Eddie, and he knew you sensed something was going on. His fists were clenched as he kept his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes still directed towards the floor.

“I still have work–”

“I will finish it, take the rest of the day off.” 

“But–”

“I’m your boss, do as I fucking say.” 

Silence.

Jeff slowly got off the hood of the car, and Eddie saw how he gave you one last look. Your eyes followed Jeff’s figure as he grabbed his things that were on the desk near the front door. Eddie cracked his neck as he heard the door finally shut, leaving the two of you alone in the shop. Your neck turned quickly, eyes filled with fire as you frowned in complete confusion and worry.

“Why did you treat him like that? He–” He didn’t even let you finish. He turned around and walked towards the stairs, going up towards his office and he knew you were going to follow. He would have smirked when he heard your soft heels against the stairs if it weren’t for the fact he felt himself as if he wanted to rip a wall open with his own fists. He walked towards his mini fridge, taking two beers out as he heard the door of his office close.

“Here.” He put a beer on the desk as he popped the other one open with his bare teeth, taking a gulp out of it. The coldness of it not helping at all with the burning in his stomach, the heat all over his body. 

“I have to head back to work, I can’t fucking drink– What the hell was that down there!?” Your voice was loud, now knowing the two of you were alone. His gaze fell on you, eyes scanning you from head to toe. That fucking office outfit–

“Don’t do that shit in my shop.” Your mouth fell in a big O, in complete disbelief and he knows he sounds crazy. He knows he sounds… weird, but he can’t help it. He really can’t help himself.

“I had to think fast! If I didn’t appear close to Jeff then Steve would grow suspicious! In his head, and Robin’s, and in everyone else’s, Jeff and I have been fucking for the past month and YOU were our wingman.” Oh, he took a long sip of his beer at that, because rationally, it made sense. Rationally, it was a good plan because Steve left content and, probably, with the intention of telling Robin about it, who will tell Nancy, and so on. It was a good plan.

But it doesn’t mean he liked it just because it's good.

“Did you think of Jeff’s relationship at all?” He was using something else to disguise his anger, and it was pitiful, it was pathetic, but what is he supposed to tell you? That he wants to scrub away Jeff’s hand prints off your waist? For what reason? With what motive other than his possessiveness?

“He said it was okay! His girlfriend is not part of your job group or ours, so we are fine!”

“And what about a club, huh? What if Steve decided to start inviting Jeff over for our outings? He thinks you are smitten, like romantically involved with Jeff.” You fell silent at that. He felt his heart beating in his chest, his ears ringing with something he could not fully describe. There was this feeling of hope, or need inside of him that he could not figure out what it was.

“Smitten? I– Why would I appear smitten?” It seemed his words got to you, because you walked towards the desk to grab the beer he left there, and you popped it open by smashing it against the edge of his desk, followed by a big gulp. The room grew tense, he felt it. He saw your body language, the nerves that suddenly invaded you, and he wondered if it was because of the situation, or rather something else.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because instead of doing some flirty googly eyes, you were smiling at him, caressing his cheek like a lovesick idiot, while he held your waist?” His voice was sharp, the edge of it as sharp as an ancient katana. He saw how thrown aback you looked, how confused that made you and he wanted to just erase that frown, wanting to replace it with your mouth in the shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes teared up thanks to him.

“It– It wasn’t that big of a deal! I thought it was a convincing action and the hand on my waist was not premeditated.” At your words, Eddie’s eyes widened a bit, his jaw clenching tightly as he realized it was Jeff’s fucking improvisation. He touched you, and not because you told him to. 

And how many were there like that? How many were like Jeff when he didn’t see you? When he didn’t meet you? How many were touching your waist, your thighs, your arms, your face, when he told you he was too busy? Or when you two simply didn’t contact eachother for that sole reason? Does he have a right to ask? 

But why the fuck does he care?

He has all the right to do the same. He shouldn’t be bothered by this but– He blames who he is. He blames this stupid thing he has to live with because if not, he cannot explain what is happening or why he feels this way. So possessive of you, so protective and like he wants to eat you whole the entire time you two are together, even if it’s just minutes. 

Yet the present was something he was focusing on, and that was, his friend is taking all the merit for what Eddie does to you. He didn’t like that. Not one bit. He knows you told Robin because the girl always joked about inviting Jeff to the get togethers, making you and him have a panicked exchange of looks, only for Robin to always laugh it off, that she would never overstep over your boundaries like that. Not when you weren’t ready.

But ready for what? He never got an answer.

“Yeah, good job tho! Your little act worked.” His voice was dripping with disgust, no sarcasm because it was the truth. Steve had bought into your show, and Eddie should be happy, glad and relieved it did… yet he started thinking that maybe it would not be so bad to tell the group about the two of you. You two are adults. They also fucked with eachother before becoming romantically involved–

Ah, he sees why he cannot tell the group. He sees why the two of you are hidden. The others didn’t hide it because they liked one another, romantically, and the sole purpose was to, in the end, get together. That was not the end with you. That would never be the end with you. 

“And who did you tell Steve you’re fucking, huh?” You asked with a roll of your eyes, taking a sip of your bottle, to then wave it towards his naked torso. He almost forgot he was not wearing a shirt still, looking down at his chest, the marks of your nails still there as well as on his stomach. 

“A friend of a client. A random non-existent person.” He replied with a flare of his nostrils and his eye clashed with yours, a scoff leaving your lips, shaking your head at him.

“Don’t start this shit again. It wasn’t the smartest decision when it came out of my mouth, but it was for this whole month our ticket to leave with one another without raising any suspicions! If it were a random person, why the fuck would you take me to their house all the time?” You took a long sip of your beer and Eddie’s fists clenched as his chest started burning, rumbling, like a fucking earthquake.

“Another client of mine.” He suggested, his eyes moving from your neck to the first buttons of your blouse. You didn’t notice him, still drinking your beer as you chuckled with almost no humor in your voice.

“Right, as if that weren’t suspicious at fucking all. What’s your problem, Munson?” You asked him, and he wondered if telling you would be wise, but tell you what exactly? He took a few steps towards you, seeing how your body stiffened as you stared at him, waiting for a response.

“I don’t have a problem. It’s just… Jeff being the one to take the credit for how fucking dumb you get when I fuck into you it’s almost funny.” Your mouth fell open at his words, huffing at him as you put the beer on top of the mini fridge, crossing your arms over your chest as you faced him.

“Me? Dumb? Should I remind you Munson who whimpered stupidly just because he got his balls sucked on?” You were playing a very dangerous game with him right now. This was not going to end in civil terms. Your perfume was invading him, your smell, just you. You were contaminating his entire space and he was growing a little dizzy thanks to it. His jaw clenched as he took another step your way, his gaze hard as you stood your ground.

“Baby, someone who gets drool and tears running down their face as she gets fucked into a mattress, should not play this game.” He could fucking feel you. He knew how much you wanted him right now, how aroused you were. He saw you shift in your place as you scanned his body, a cocky grin appearing in your face as you looked up at him.

“No one knows that… But you, everyone, will now know what I do to you, without them knowing it was me.” His jaw clenched as he felt the tip of your fingers running over your nail scratches, your bites on his shoulders, your hickies on his collarbone. Steve saw it all, and Eddie confessed to feeling incredible with you. Steve will tell Robin and Jonathan. 

“Yes. They will think that a random chick did this. Not you.” Your smile fell at his words, and he knew he hit your ego, but he was not ready for your response. He was not ready for the turn of events against him.

“And whatever you do to me, they will think Jeff did it. Not you.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

He felt his arms shaking. He felt fire just running through his entire system and he didn’t know how to take it, how to tame it, or what it meant. This is not normal, yet he knows it isn’t new. His teeth clenched against eachother, and all he wanted now… all he needed… is to fucking show you that no matter what you say, it was still him. Everything was done by him. Every single thing you felt was thanks to him.

“You know Peach… I always liked this attire of yours.” He mentioned, putting the beer on top of the mini-fridge as he walked towards you, your head tilting to the side as if you were stupid when he knew you weren’t. 

“What does that mean?” And he walked behind you, his left hand grazing your shoulder to then slowly wrap it around your neck, not even pressing into it, and he dipped his head low to whisper in your right ear.

“That I’ve always wanted to lift that skirt up and fuck into you until you forgot about work altogether.” He heard your breath stuttering, a small gasp leaving your lips as you felt him press his body against your back, his voice hoarse into your eardrum. “Think about it, a quick fuck before you leave…”

“Y-You’re crazy if you think I will let you ruin my suit.” You turned your head to look at him as he held you close, his head over your shoulder to look down at you. Your pupils were dilated, probably as much as his were. Your words died in your tongue completely as he saw you made no move to get away from his grasp.

And a smirk was displayed on his lips.

Not even ten minutes later, you two were in the same position, standing next to his desk, but your legs were spread, your panties down to your mid-thighs as your tube skirt was unzipped and pulled up, bunching up over your hips. His hands were grabbing onto your bent elbows for leverage as his knees were slightly bent in order to reach you. In order to be able to rail into you the way he was doing.

His pants and boxers bunched up on his feet, the open foil of a condom right next to them on the floor. Your head was thrown backwards as the sound of skin slapping over and over filled his entire office. He looked down to see his cock going in and out of your wet cunt, all the way, and almost all the way out. Repeating that motion in quick movements, deliberated. 

You were on your tippy toes, with your heels still on, in order to lift your ass to him as much as you could, arching your back so he had more access. He looked at how you jiggled against his movements, your moans coming out of your mouth with no restraint, knowing the two of you were completely alone now… or at least he hoped Steve didn’t decide to come back for something.

But for some reason, he would love that. He would love it for Steve to know it was never Jeff. For Steve to know just how good you two make eachother feel. For Steve to know that it’s you the one who marked him up. For Steve to know, and to tell everyone, that your disheveled hair, and the marks on your body, the ones he will surely leave now, were made by him.

He kept pounding into you, his grip on your arms tightening, his knuckles turning white as he groaned when he felt you fluttering all around him, just like you always did. Everytime he hit your g-spot, you fluttered. That’s how he knew he found it. And well, there’s also your moans–

“Eddie– Eddie– fuck!” He smirked in victory as he angled himself and pulled you into him, keeping himself seated against you after each hard thrust. Deep and brutal, knocking the breath out of your lungs, choking on your voice. He growled each time he felt his tip just hitting you in your deepest parts. The warmth all around him. The sound of your whimpers and cries in his ears. 

“Yeah, keep screaming my name, Peach.” He began to roughly fuck into you again, using you like a fucktoy, but that’s just because– His eyes diverted towards your waist, the image of Jeff’s hands on there, making him groan in anger, not wanting to think about that now. He is fucking into you, not touching you lightly just like Jeff did. He wins in this equation, doesn’t he?

He could hear the squelching of your juices with his thrusts, and he could feel the wetness all over his pelvis, his pubic hair, proof of how you were feeling with him, how you always felt with him and him only. 

But his eyes fucking went to your waist again.

He growled as he pulled out of you, making your knees tremble, your feet hitting the ground again and he noticed how weak your legs were. You whined in question, wondering why he stopped filling you the way he was. He made you turn around and take two steps back, slowly moving his feet with his pants and boxers still tangled around his ankles, trying not to trip on these two steps in order to follow you. 

He gripped your waist, his fingers burning, hoping that they somehow would brand their digits there and create a barrier so that no one– Fuck, no. No. He lifted you up on the desk, taking your panties off completely, and he threw them over his shoulder as he spread your legs so he could nestle between them.

You were breathing heavily, your blouse open, chest out with your bralette showing. Your blazer was still on, still buttoned, and it was just fucking delectable. You were holding yourself up with your hands behind you and on the desk. His face immediately leaned forward, capturing your lips in a strong kiss. He hadn’t kissed you since you entered his shop.

It was something he couldn’t really go without in the night or in every encounter you two had. He had stolen kisses from you in Steve and Robin’s kitchen. You had trapped him in Nancy’s apartment and kissed him senselessly. He had pulled you out of view in the club and under some stairs in order to rub himself against you, kiss you stupid, before letting you return to everyone and keep dancing.

You couldn’t not kiss eachother every time you saw one another. 

You moaned into the kiss, his hands going to hold your neck, both of them wrapping around it, his fingers overlapping onto one another in the back of your head, his thumbs hooked underneath your jaw. His tongue instantly invaded your mouth, a place that was its second home by now. If not in his mouth, it was in yours, dancing with your tongue, making a mess out of eachother. 

He went blind with it, thrusting his hips forward and luck was on his side when in two movements where the tip of his cock kissed your clit twice, the third time it caught on your slicked entrance. He huffed a laugh into the kiss with satisfaction as his hips pressed on, his dick disappearing once more inside of you. You stopped kissing him, yet you didn’t separate from him as you moaned into the kiss. 

He moaned your name into your mouth followed by a curse as he felt you engulf him once more. It will always be a new sensation, never fully sitting with him how he is going to go on without it once you decide to put an end to it, or in the crazy event, for him to be the one to do it. 

He pulled away from the kiss, his hand moving to press onto your chest, pushing you just slightly for you to get the hint. You let yourself fall backwards, glad that there was nothing on the desk that could be in the way, and if there were a few papers of clients underneath you, so what? He has the copies in a computer.

He grabbed the back of your right knee, giving a kiss on your calf as he pulled your leg on his shoulder. He repeated the process with your other leg and his hands grabbed onto your waist, his fingertips digging into your skin as if he were holding onto you afraid you would slip away from him. But it was because he wanted to mark you there. Particularly there.

He immediately started railing into you once again, the coil in his belly turning as he saw your mouth falling open, those eyes filling with tears of pleasure as his name tumbles out of your lips like a prayer. You bounced against his thrusts, the sight of your disheveled office attire making his mind short circuit as he felt himself burn. The outfit he wanted to ruin from the very first moment he realized he wanted to rip it off from you. He hoped you couldn’t put it back as perfect as it was before. He wished for people in your office to notice you were just fucked by someone. He wished people knew you were fucked stupid by him, only him.

“Look at you… yeah, I’m the only one that can make you feel like this Peach.” He said it with confidence because he knew he was. He has to be. If he weren’t you would have gotten tired of him by now, right? But he wanted you to say it, no, he needed you to say it. He needed you to admit he is the only one.  “Say it.” 

“Mhmm–” You couldn’t even pronounce a word from what he could see, but he was going to make you talk. He growled as he started to pull you to him each time he thrusted back into you, making his movements go deeper, and making them punch the air and soul out of you. His cock twitched inside of you at each tiny gasp you let out thanks to what he was doing to you.

“Come on, use words. I know you are a little cock drunk right now, but I’m sure you can manage this– Fuck–” He cursed when he felt your pussy fluttering and clenching around him, and that never gets old for him. All tight around the base, making him see stars. You were close, he was close, but he needed this. “Peach, I’m not letting you cum until–”

“You! Just you Eds– Fuck, just you–” You were breathing heavy, moans escaping you in between, and he groaned in pleasure at your words, relief washing over him and he didn’t know why. He just felt a little lighter than before. He decided to believe your words because who knows if you’re lying or not, but for some reason he knows you aren’t. He knows you are telling the truth. He is the only one who can make you feel like this, and hopefully, that makes him the only one you’re fucking for now.

“You make me feel good too Peach, perfect every time.” You moaned loudly at that, and he assumed it was because you liked what he said, he could feel your delight at his words. He felt his lower abdomen tighten, signaling how close he was getting, making him hiss. His right hand left your waist in order to wrap his arm around your thigh, his hand reaching your clit, fingers pressing onto it and immediately rubbing in circles to help you achieve your orgasm.

Your back arched from the desk as your hands grabbed onto the edges of it, your moans becoming whimpers and cries as he kept pistoning inside of you while rubbing onto your clit, feeling your walls tremble and flutter around him. 

“God– Baby– I’m–” The pet name slipped out of your mouth and it always drove Eddie to the edge. You never used them outside of sex, so this made them special. Eddie was panting through his moans as he kept his pace even if he felt his hips wanting to stutter, his climax right around the corner.

“I know sweetheart, I know, I can feel it. Come on–” And he growled, groaned, and moaned your name loudly when you clenched around him like a vice, tightly. His cock was engulfed completely by you, being sucked in as your back arched, your moans loud cries of his name as he kept circling your clit with his fingers, unable to move from how hard you were clenching around him.

He looked at how twisted in pleasure your face was, your body trembling and twitching as you rode your orgasm out. The sight before him was insanely perfect, hot, just a mix of everything that is good. You looked so beautiful when you were in complete pleasure, you looked… ethereal—made for him. Each fucking time.

“Eddie–!” And his name in your mouth in the middle of your orgasm was enough to make the elastic band snap for him, his abdomen finally feeling like it explodes as his body tightens, tenses up, and he finishes inside the condom, filling it to the brim as he always does. Spurt after spurt. He moaned loudly, his hips stilling deeply inside of you, twitching at every shot of his cum.

He felt his body drenched in sweat, and he was left breathless, panting, putting your legs down and slamming his hands on the desk, caging you in between him and the hardwood. Your eyes were closed as you tried to catch your breath, your chest moving up and down, his eyes going over your bare collarbones, your dark lace bralette still in full view for him. He looked at the skin on your neck, now seeing the mark of his hands, then a bite he gave you on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. He marked you like you marked him.

“So much for not messing this little suit of yours, huh.” He said and that’s when your eyes opened, your head snapping to look at the clock that hung at the top of the door, quickly sitting up, making him pull away and out of you, the both of you groaning at the sensation of it. He quickly pulled his pants and boxers up, his eyes never leaving your form as you quickly buttoned your blouse back to place.

“Fuck, I have a meeting in ten fucking minutes!” You yelled and he could only chuckle, and he saw a smudge of your lipstick on the side of your face. He wanted to dart his thumb out, needing to wipe it off from you so you could be presentable, but that gesture was too intimate, wasn’t it?

“You didn’t mention that to me, can’t blame me for it.” He licked his lips cockily as you glared at him, jumping down from the desk, pulling your skirt down and zipping it on the back again. Your eyes looked around, frowning your eyebrows which made him tilt his head in question.

“Where’s my underwear?”

“Oh, I have no clue. I threw it over my shoulder–”

“This is the third one! I am losing the underwear that goes with my bras! I have to wear mismatched colors!” Eddie rolled his eyes at that, but he couldn’t help it, you looked kind of adorable when you cared for stuff like this.

“I am the only one that sees them anyways, so why does it matter?” At his words, your head turned to look at him.

“Who says you’re the only one? Don’t act cocky.” And he flared his nostrils, looking at you, studying you, doing the one thing he never cared of doing before meeting you because he believed he was invading people’s privacy with it. 

“I know you’re lying now.” You turned your head to face him again, a puzzled look on your face, and also, surprised. Before you could talk, he opened his mouth again. “You will have to go commando for now, Peach. I’ll try to find your underwear.” 

“Yeah, sure, you’re probably going to keep it and sniff it like a pervert.” At your words, his eyes widened in surprise, and he started sniffing as if he were a dog. Loud and invading your space, making you snort out a giggle as you tried to swat him away like a fly. “I said like a pervert, not a cute angelic being!”

“Dogs are angelic beings? I once saw a man getting his dick bitten off by a rottweiler–” You winced at that and this is what it was being with you. He was a horny teenager ten seconds ago, and now you two are laughing as if… nothing happened. It was the perfect scenario. 

“Goodbye Munson, find my underwear! All of them! And no more hickies! I need to wear blouses and, unlike you, I meet with important business people almost everyday.” You said, fixing your skirt again, and then your hair. You’re probably going to notice the smudge of lipstick in the car.

“I meet important people too! You think that everyone owns a Ferrari sweetheart?” You stared at him for a few seconds and then you nodded, frowning your lips downwards with a nod.

“Good point.” You walked towards the door, opening it, ready to head out and this was one of the parts Eddie did not particularly like.

“Talk to you later, fuck buddy.” You flipped him off over your shoulder, closing the door behind you and he was left in the silence of his room, a huge contrast to what was happening ten minutes ago. 

It was a perfect scenario for sure… but that didn’t mean he liked it.

He didn’t know why, or what, but he didn’t want to be like he is with his other hookups, or rather was. You are a friend, and you two share something special unlike some random situationship. You two greet eachother normally, never with a kiss, and then when you bid your goodbyes… this was it.

A funny exchange of words, and then it’s him or you leaving out the door. He stayed over and you stayed over, yet, never once you two had morning sex. Rarely had breakfast together. He understood it, and he accepted it because, you two are nothing more than just friends who fuck… constantly fuck, and will never be, and he knew it and he accepted it. 

You also got out of a relationship, and most likely did not want another one at all, much less with someone like him. He decided to keep it this way. The waves from afar when saying goodbye, and no intimate gestures right after waking up. He took a deep breath in as he looked to his side, spotting your underwear underneath the metal archive drawers. He walked over and picked it up, looking down at it on his palm.

His gut turned with uncertainty as he looked at his door. He knew why he was angry before now that his mind is a little clearer. Right after having you. Right after you admitted what he needed to hear at that moment. He doesn’t want to say it or think on it, and maybe he shouldn’t. He wasn’t angry because of the whole plan. Sure he was being possessive but that’s just because of his nature and who he is, but it was more than that.

It was way more than what he dared to admit.

Because sure, Jeff had his hands on your waist…

But you never caressed his cheek the way you did to his friend.

end of chapter 20

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Creating a New, Sinful Tradition

15 Days Until Christmas: Tradition Made for Ikemen Advent hosted by @queengiuliettafirstlady and @candied-boys Featuring: Ikemen Villains Roger Barel x f!reader Tags: smut, humor, modern AU, fingering, size kink Word Count: 1171

It hurts… It hurts... It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts!

Your nether regions literally feel like they’re being torn apart. Tears sting your eyes. You frantically tap on the beefy man’s shoulders, so worked up you can’t find the words to tell him to stop.

“Roger,” you finally choke out.

The chiseled, Greek statue of a man you love peers down at you with his amber eyes, a look of bewilderment on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“It hurts,” you mewl. “You’re too… too big!”

You hate admitting this to him, especially after all the times you’ve boasted you could take him no problem when he warns you of his size, but also because it would lead to this…

“Heh…” Roger snickers. “Did I not prep you enough to take me?”

Your eyes narrow, your lips pressing into a thin line. You glower at the smug man hovering over you, biting back the desire to slap that infuriating snicker off his arrogant lips because… because how dare he laugh at your suffering?! Sometimes… sometimes he could be such an egotistical, insufferable prick – a prick you love, but still, a prick!

“I told you,” Roger swipes his tongue across the tears that have welled in your eyes, but have yet to fall, “you’d have to take three or four of my fingers before you can take me, sweetheart.”

You frown and look away, somewhat in petulance, somewhat to hide your embarrassment. He’s not wrong. It’s you who demanded for him to skip the step where his fingers pry you open and turn you into a gooey mess, but… ugh, you just can’t stand it when he’s right.

However, embarrassment and hate aside, you’re also confused at how you ended up caged between his thick, mouthwatering arms with his delectable, sculpted ass between your legs. When you suggested the two of you marathon the ‘Home Alone’ series after Thanksgiving dinner – your holiday tradition, you certainly didn’t expect it to lead to… this!

Though in hindsight, when it comes to Roger and the couch and movies, you probably, maybe, should’ve expected it… 

“Stop teasing me,” you gripe, shooting him a look that could bring any man to his knees – if that man isn’t Roger. 

“But I like teasing you,” he grins, “otherwise how would I get you to cry such delicious tears for me? How else would I” – he drags his tongue along your neck causing you to shiver – “hear you moan just for me?” 

“Roger, stop!” You squirm from beneath him, but no matter how much you wriggle, it doesn’t matter. He has you caged so tight, there’s no possible way you can escape.

“That’s right, lil lady, keep calling my name.”

You huff, an annoyed grumble rising in your throat, but when he reaches that ticklish spot under your ear, it changes into a sultry moan.

“Mm, just like that. Keep moaning for me.” 

Roger’s mouth sucks on that bit of sensitive flesh, and your back – the traitor – arches of its own accord. A faint thought that no amount of concealer would be able to hide the blooming, angry bruise on your skin crosses your hazy mind. It flies away the moment Roger’s hand finds its way to your clit.

“Roger, the movie!” you protest, but it comes out half-heartedly, a shaky whimper rather than a true protest.

“Don’t care about the movie,” he says, his breath prickling your skin. “It’s a shit movie anyway.”

“Hey!” You open your mouth, ready to shoot him a scathing rebuttal because how dare he insult your favorite Christmas movie of all time, but a startled gasp leaves your lips when he takes that opportunity to slip in his thick pointer.

“I don’t think you care about the movie either, sweetheart,” he teases, his amber eyes gleefully taking in the tremor coursing through your body. “That’s one.”

Roger curls his finger, and your eyes flutter shut. Your hands on his shoulders clench. Your fingers dig into the taut muscle underneath.

How was it possible for him to drive you insane with just one of his fat fingers?!

Roger slips in a second finger and slowly begins to pump his hand, the ridges of his joint dragging as they slide in and out. “That’s two,” he smirks. “You like that, don’t you?”

“No,” you spit out between grit teeth.

“Can’t lie to me, sweetheart.” Roger pulls his fingers out, spreading them apart. The slick evidence of your arousal stretches between his fingers. “Your body tells me everything.” He plunges his fingers back, this time adding a third – his ring finger. “That’s three.”

You feel your entrance fluttering around his digits, struggling to accommodate the width of all three of them combined. Even with just his fingers, you can feel yourself stretching to what feels like your limit, despite the fact this isn’t the first time the two of you have been intimate.

“Come on,” he coos. “You can do it.”

“Roger, you’re too…ngh… fucking big.”

“I thought you liked that,” Roger blithely responds.

You roll your eyes at him, but they’re interrupted when he sinks his fingers down to the knuckles, your eyes rolling back into your head.

“Fuu–-uck,” you scream, your hips jerking up to meet his palm.

“I like it when you scream for me.”

Normally his throaty whisper would drive you to glare at him, but with his fingers buried inside of you, you don’t care. You just want him to do something about the growing ache in your loins.

“Roger, your fingers–” 

“Hm, what’s that, sweetheart?” He has that shit-eating grin you love and hate on his face.

“Roger,” you grumble.

“Okay, okay, calm your tits,” he laughs. “If that’s what you want, I’ll oblige.”

Roger pulls his fingers out and drives them back in, the tips tickling your cervix in the process. You groan, rocking your hips to match his rhythm, your breasts flush against his firm, broad chest.

Just then, the sound of machine gunfire floats into your ear along with the iconic line, ‘Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal, and a Happy New Year’.

Your muddled mind pops out of the pleasure it's roiled in, your attention back on the movie playing on the TV. Right, you almost forgot. Your Christmas tradition.

“Roger, the movie,” you urgently whisper.

Roger leans in, his mouth right by your ear. “Sweetheart, right now I’m more concerned about making you come, and when you do, you’re going to take me like the good little girl you are.”

“But, Roger, my Christmas tradition…”

Roger strokes that sweet spot within you, sending electricity coursing through your veins and forcing any and all thoughts about your tradition out of your mind. “I was thinking,” he murmurs, his voice enticingly, spine-tinglingly husky, “we could start a new tradition. One where you turn on that stupid movie, and I pound you senseless.”

Your Roger-drunk mind immediately hums in agreement, especially when his fingers send another wave of sparks careening down your spine.

Traditions… traditions are meant to be broken… right?