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osarina · 9 hours ago

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ᡣ𐭩 WE WERE BORN SICK

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: that sinking feeling that's been looming over you both has finally come to fruition. truths are revealed, questions are answered, but one big one remains: is love enough for you and dazai's relationship to survive this?

AUTHOR'S NOTES: happy fridayyyyy, i can't believe we only have one chapter left of civzai, it's actually makin me emotional </3 this chapter was quite a doozy to write, and i hope it's equally a doozy to read HAHAH no no jkjk , i hope you enjoy. also do u guys want to add an arcane au to the dazaiverse .. ive been thinking heavily about it. comments & reblogs appreciated

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: hardly edited. angsty chapter. explicit depiction of suicide (past recollection of dazai), implications of past self-harm (dazai), very toxic thought processes at certain parts (dazai), past (and a bit of current) suicide ideation (dazai), manic behavior (reader).

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

“I’ve been eager to meet you for quite a while. In all of the years I’ve known her, my little hime has never let something as trivial as a boy come between her and our work… I knew you must be special, but I never could’ve imagined just how special. I’m so pleasantly surprised.”

Dazai’s head throbs as he comes to his surroundings. He’s laying in an uncomfortable bed—a hospital bed, he thinks, he can smell the unfortunately familiar scent of antiseptic, but the walls aren’t the typical white he’s used to. He winces as he sits up, unable to recall where he is or what happened to him. Everything is too fuzzy, he remembers being with Fitzgerald, the car ride to the tea house, and-

And he remembers you.

He remembers you.

He lets out a shaky breath as he recalls the way you’d pulled him into your arms, cradling him close as soon as you got him back from Fitzgerald. God, he only got to be with you for what felt like a second. It wasn’t enough time. It wasn’t nearly enough time. You sent him off, he remembers—you sent him with two of your subordinates, the weretiger and that freaky little girl, and then…

“Shhh… Don’t speak. I want to get this done and over with.”

The gun to his back, Atsushi and Kyouka’s cries of shock, the baton to his head.

“No can do, weretiger. On orders from the boss.”

His mind tracks back to the words that had been spoken as he was teetering on the edge of consciousness, mouth going dry and eyes widening as he becomes acutely aware of the other person in the room with him. His gaze flicks up to where a vaguely familiar man sits at a desk watching him—straight chin-length black hair, inquisitive purple eyes, a long black coat, Dazai isn’t sure where he recalls this man from but he knows that they’ve met before.

“Who…” Dazai asks, voice wavering as pain shoots through his head with every little movement. “Who are you? Have we… met before?”

His wrist hurts. His mother’s nails dig into his skin so deep that it draws blood, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’d just been sleeping—is he still sleeping? He isn’t sure. He’s stumbling over his own feet trying to keep up with her, he keeps asking her what’s going on but she doesn’t answer him.

They turn a hall and his mother stops so suddenly that he slams right into her, nearly tripping over onto the ground. He doesn’t even regain his footing before his mother is pulling him back the way he came, he looks over his shoulder trying to figure out what caused his mother to panic so badly and he looks at—a man?

Who is that?

Why is he coming from grandfather’s room?

Is that-

Blood?

“Shuji! Shuji, don’t look back! Keep moving!”

Shuji? Who’s Shu-

“I think you know the answer to that already.” Dazai is startled out of the memory—was that a memory?—by the man’s voice. He sounds amused, and from the way that his eyes are glittering, Dazai can tell he’s finding great entertainment out of this situation. It pisses Dazai off. “Don’t you?”

“Tane-chan, you know you won’t be able to hide him forever. You’re just making this harder on yourself.”

Dazai’s breath catches. He shifts backward on the bed to press his back against the wall. Everything is wrong—the air is too cold, his bandages are itching, his head hurts, and he doesn’t know what’s going on. Who is Shuji? Why is he thinking of his mother after all of these years? And what… what was he remembering?

Memories of his youth have always been sparse and fleeting—he can vaguely recall the faces of his siblings, the anxiety he felt around his grandfather, the loneliness—but something like this… The panic on his mothers face, the pain in his wrist, the way she was dragging him around, the fear in her voice when she screamed at Dazai—was he Shuji? But then why—to not look back, to keep moving. He would remember something like that. That would be… crazy to forget, right?

What is going on?

“You’re Mori,” Dazai breathes out, clearing his throat. He hopes he doesn’t look as disconcerted as he feels, but he thinks he must. “You’re…”

The leader of the Port Mafia.

The closest thing you have to a father.

So, how does Dazai remember him from years ago? It doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen, maybe fourteen in that memory. What did he forget? When did he meet him? What’s going on? Dazai wants to scream, his mind is still slow from just waking up—he doesn’t even know how long he was unconscious, it couldn’t have been that long.

Mori’s smile widens as if Dazai just walked right into whatever trap that had been laid out for him, violet eyes flashing with a type of cruel amusement that makes Dazai sick to his stomach. Dazai has to circle back to remember what he just said, he needs to snap out of the daze he’s in. He needs to think. He made a mistake—Dazai made a mistake. He shouldn’t have admitted that he knew Mori. That was a mistake.

How does he fix it?

Can he fix it?

“You do know,” Mori says, like he didn’t actually expect Dazai to admit that he knew him. Like he’s pleasantly surprised. Again. Like Dazai just made things much easier for him. Shit. “Interesting.”

He’s going to use it against Dazai. Dazai knows it. He’s going to use it against him to hurt you. He remembers everything he’s learned about your relationship with Mori—how he pit you against that other girl, Yosano, to get results from you. And he already said it. He already said that Dazai is getting between you and your work, he’ll do the same thing here. He’ll pit you against him.

He’s going to tell you that Dazai knew who Mori was, and that Dazai is someone that he’s not—who is Shuji? Why doesn’t he remember his own name? Is that really his name? How does Mori know all of this? Who is Dazai?—and Dazai needs to be able to say something. He needs to be able to explain. How does he explain this when he doesn’t even know what’s going on? Dazai needs to remember; he needs to remember now, he needed to remember yesterday, because if he’s not the one to tell you this… If he can’t explain this…

This cannot be happening—it can’t. Right when he thought everything would be okay, when he would be with you. His throat starts to clog as anxiety clouds his head and weighs on his chest, a panic attack that he can’t afford right now. He needs to think, he needs to figure out what’s going on—Mori knows something about Dazai that he doesn’t know himself, and he’s going to use it against him to drive a wedge between the two of you. He’s going to tell you, and-

Dazai’s world feels woozy. Why can’t he remember? How does he know Mori? What was happening that night with his mother? He needs to snap out of this, needs to think, but he can’t even breathe. Fear—the mind killer.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Dazai rasps, his voice is hoarse, and he feels sick, and he hates admitting that he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he needs Mori to believe it so that he doesn’t tell you something that’s not true. “I don’t know how I know you. I don’t-”

“You might believe that,” Mori says amused, “but will she?”

Dazai stares at Mori, his stomach churns violently and his vision swims as the answer becomes abundantly clear to him.

He doesn’t know.

———

The gun in your hand weighs heavily.

You hid it in the inside of your blazer to get up to the conference room. No weapons are allowed up past the thirty-fifth floor unless you’re one of the Boss’s hand-picked personal guards—even executives are forced to disarm themselves before going up, but security is much more lax for the upper echelon. Because you’re you—the hime, second-in-command, the Boss’s daughter—the guards outside of the elevator that goes directly to the top floor wave you past the metal detectors to go on up.

A mistake.

(Who is Tsushima Shuji? It can’t be Dazai. You know Dazai. Mori must be wrong.)

The smile on your face is bland and doesn’t meet your eyes as you walk down the hall to the conference room attached to Mori’s office. You greet the guards, and they don’t notice how off your demeanor is, too starstruck over the fact that they’re being acknowledged for once. They also don’t notice the way your hand is curled around the grip of your gun in your blazer.

A mistake.

(Mori is never wrong. Do you really know Dazai?)

When you reach the end of the hallway, you toss them one last brilliant smile. This one is a bit more genuine because you’ve realized that you’ve gotten through the top notch security of the upper levels of the Port Mafia headquarters without a hitch. That you’re one step closer to finishing this. They’re so blinded by the beauty of your smile that they don’t realize your teeth have sharpened into knives and the floral perfume you wear masks a putrid bloodlust.

A mistake.

(It’s always been odd, hasn’t it? The way he approached you. The way he was so insistent on pushing himself into your life. You always questioned it. There was a sinking feeling that something wasn’t as it seemed. Why didn’t you question it more?)

You keep your back turned as you slip into the room. You can feel four presences behind you—Kouyou, Piano Man, Chuuya, Ace. No Mori. No Dazai. That’s fine—you have something to take care of before they show up anyway. The conference room is soundproof; Mori designed it that way because he didn’t want the guards outside to overhear any discussion of sensitive topics. Even if he handpicked them for their loyalty, he understands that money can make the most devout man’s faith waver. Still, it’s not them rushing in that you’re worried about—it’s the people in the room with you rushing out, so you very carefully twist the nub of the lock and then reach up to fix the deadbolt. It won’t stop them, but it will slow them. You can feel their eyes on you as you make sure the door is locked, but none of them call you out for it or try to stop you.

A mistake.

(Mori always told you that the Tsushimas were like cockroaches. If they all weren’t killed, one would eventually return to reclaim their grandfather’s empire. There’d be a power struggle between the factions loyal to the new regime and the ones that still hid in the shadows believing that the Tsushima blood belonged at the head of the organization. Everything the two of you had built would crumble to ashes.)

You turn to make your way over to the conference table where the four of them are sitting. You haven’t decided how you want to go about this yet. You don’t know who all was aware of what Mori did, and because of that, you don’t know who needs to die. Treachery has always faced a death penalty—you don’t care if Mori ordered it, you don’t care that the Boss’s word is absolute, you have bled and breathed for the Port Mafia. You’ve sacrificed everything you’ve ever owned and wanted for the Port Mafia. You have made the Port Mafia into what it is today with your efforts abroad and at home—foreign governments, foreign criminal organizations, the Japanese government and other domestic mafias, all of them are just puppets that you pull the strings of to ensure the Port Mafia stays on top. Treachery against you will face the same penalty one would receive if they betrayed the Port Mafia, because you are the Port Mafia—Mori has made sure of that.

Chuuya and Piano Man share a look with one another as you approach the table. Neither of them say anything—is it confusion? Is it guilt? Did they know? Were you the only one unaware of the schemes going on around you? Were you the only one loyal? The only one you could trust?

Did they know?

(No one could ever love you without your ability at work influencing them. You’ve known that since the very beginning, but you were so quick to forget that when you discovered Dazai’s ability. You should have had more questions, you should have been more suspicious. Mori had been right from the very beginning. You were emotionally compromised. You were weak.)

Ace opens his mouth to speak.

A mistake.

“It was nice meeting your-”

Ace’s head hits the conference table with a hard thunk, his eyes wide and glassy, his mouth open around the words you didn’t let him finish speaking. Blood seeps from the bullet hole in his temple and pools around his head and the ground beneath his chair, staining the glass table and the white floors.

Instead of lowering your arm, you shift it so that the gun is pressed against Piano Man’s temple next. Chuuya says your name—it’s awful, something caught between a gasp of shock and confusion, he’s never said your name like that before. Like he doesn’t know what you’re doing. Like he doesn’t understand you. Like you’re something unfamiliar. Unrecognizable. You ignore him anyway, and the pangs that come along with it, and instead, you keep your gaze trained on Piano Man’s face.

He’s not as panicked as Chuuya, but you can tell that he’s just as caught off guard from the way his lips are twisted. He watches you carefully, waiting for you to say whatever you’re going to say—if you were going to pull the trigger, you would’ve done so immediately, he knows that. He’s always been good at reading you, better than even Chuuya sometimes.

“Did you know?”

Your voice is steadier than you expect it to be. Cold almost. Distant. You don’t recognize it yourself, you suppose it’s no wonder that Chuuya’s staring at you with such a foreign expression. You watch him just as carefully as he does you. He has a tell when he lies: he squints. Not an obvious squint, just the barest hint of his eyes squeezing shut like he’s calculating exactly what he wants to say, in what tone and with what fluctuation he wants to say it.

A subtle tell, but a tell nonetheless.

“No.”

He stares at you steadily as he says it. There’s no squint—he’s telling the truth. You don’t let out a breath of relief, but you certainly feel the weight off of your shoulders. You lower the gun, satisfied with his response, and then you walk over to where Chuuya is sitting.

You don’t raise the gun to his temple immediately. He looks up at you, you look down at him, a whole conversation is had in the silence between you, and eventually he lowers his lashes in resignation, telling you to do what needs to be done for you to feel more at ease.

He’s always put others before himself.

You lift the gun at the same time he lifts his gaze to meet yours. He could activate the Tainted Sorrow and end this before it starts, but he doesn’t—you know in your gut that if you pulled the trigger right now, he would accept the fate you delivered. Probably would take it as a better one than he deserved—it being at your hands rather than Arahabaki.

“Did you know?” you ask. The words taste bitter, rancid—they don’t belong there, Chuuya would never betray you, but you had to hear it from him.

Chuuya doesn’t have many tells when he lies—he’s a good actor, much better than people give him credit for. If he wanted to lie to you, he might be able to get away with it. But he won’t lie to you, not when he’s looking you in the eye.

“No,” he says, voice soft and raspy like he can’t believe he has to say it.

You let the gun drop to your side. It weighs heavier now—heavier than it did in the elevator, heavier than it did in the hallway leading to the room, heavier than it did when it was pressed against Piano Man’s head. You can hardly bear to keep holding it, but you’re not done yet.

Slowly, your gaze turns to Kouyou. Her expression is cold and unreadable, gaze pinned on you in the same way a lion stalks its prey through the tall grass… No, that’s not right. She stares at you with the same look in her eyes that a snake does when it’s curled in a corner, rattle shaking and hissing to try to scare off the predator that has it trapped.

“You knew,” you breathe out softly in disbelief. Your voice hardens and tightens as you repeat, “You knew!”

Before you can raise your gun—before you can pull the trigger four, five, six times, before you can riddle her body with holes because how dare she know, how dare she know and not tell you after what the previous boss did to her—the door that separates the conference room from Mori’s office opens, and your attention is drawn to the one person who caused all of this.

“Oh my,” Mori says airly, looking between you, Ace’s body, and Kouyou with an expression that is frustratingly amused. “I see you’ve been busy.”

You don’t even know what to say to that. You almost want to laugh. You think you do laugh, actually—someone does, and you think it’s you, because you feel yourself walking away, you lift your hands to your head to tug at your ears in frustration. Your vision is blurry—are you crying?

“You betrayed me,” you finally say, voice quieter than you intend, so you raise it as you repeat yourself. “You betrayed me. You. Of all people I never thought you would be the one to-”

You can’t even finish the sentence, your voice cracks over the words. It makes you feel sick, it makes you angry, it makes you want to crawl out of your skin, because how could he? To you? You don’t know why you’re so angry, why you’re so betrayed. Mori has always made it clear that his priority is the Port Mafia, but still, to do this to you. To do this to his-

To his what?

You’re not his daughter. You hate when people imply that you are, you hate being called hime, you hate being called ‘Miss Mori’, you hate when people give you respect because of your perceived relationship to him.

He’s the only father you’ve ever known. Almost every decision you’ve made has been with the motive of making him proud of you. When he seeks out your opinion specifically during meetings, your chest becomes warm with pride.

You don’t love him. How could you? Look at what you’ve become because of him.

Then why do you feel so betrayed? Why did you think he would be the last person to do something like this to you when you know the type of person he is? Why does your chest feel like it’s caving in? Like your heart’s been ripped right out of it? Why does this hurt as much—why does this hurt more than Dazai’s potential betrayal?

And he certainly doesn’t love you. He never would have done this if he did.

He’s killed people for disrespecting you—he hardly ever gets his own hands dirty, but he does when it’s you and your dignity on the line. He spends hours meticulously picking out birthday presents that he knows you’ll like. He gets sad when he invites you for lunch and you don’t join him, reminiscing about the days where you clung to the back of his coat.

He touches your shoulder, and your finger twitches on the trigger of the gun. You want to lift it, press it to his temple and pull the trigger just like you did to Ace, but you can’t. Your arm feels like lead, and when his hand slides down to your bicep to force you to turn around and face him so that your back is to the rest of the executives, you dutifully follow along.

His expression is unreadable as he looks down at you, violet eyes swimming with an emotion you’ve never seen in them before. He lifts his hand to wipe away one of the tears that had spilled over your cheeks with his knuckle, and then taps your cheek twice, chiding you silently.

Do not cry here, little hime. Not here.

“You have always been so dramatic,” Mori hums just loud enough for you to hear, but the words are fond, and the corners of his lip curl up as he looks down at you. “I would not betray you. Not ever, dear.”

You look at Ace pointedly in response and then back to Mori, the man sighs dramatically and gives you a disappointed look. The nerve, you think bitterly, narrowing your eyes on him as you wait for his explanation.

“I told you,” Mori says. “I did this to protect you. I wanted to get ahold of the boy-”

“Because you have some mistaken belief that he’s a Tsushima,” you interrupt coolly. “How did you even manage to come up with that ridiculous theory?”

Mori’s eyes flicker with something akin to interest, but shifts quickly into pity—you can’t tell if it’s genuine or mocking, and you don’t know which would be worse. He must be mistaken, he has to be. You don’t think you can handle the implications of if he isn’t, of what it might mean for you. For Dazai. Your whole relationship with him. How much was manufactured for him to get information about the Port Mafia? So he could get a foothold in the organization? Get in contact with the remaining loyalists to his family?

“Sit,” he tells you, guiding you over to the seat at the right of the head of the table. “I’ll explain everything, but first… Shuji-kun, why don’t you come out and join us?”

Your breath catches at Mori’s words, gaze twisting to the side over to the door that he’d come out of. You watch as the door creaks open, and the achingly familiar sight of his face finally comes into view. You’ve missed him—you’ve missed him, and you hate this. You should be back at your apartment with him, you should have him curled up in your arms, you should be listening to him complain about how long he was stuck with the Guild.

This shouldn’t be happening. You shouldn’t be sitting at the executive roundtable with Ace’s dead body a few feet away, and Dazai entering the room, questions of his identity, of whether or not he’s been using you for information and opportunity to take back his grandfather’s legacy.

You hoped that Dazai would enter the room angry, irritated by the kidnapping and the accusations, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen Dazai look like this before. He looks a mess, fidgeting, brown hair matted to his forehead, dark eyes wide and swirling with emotion. When he seeks you out, they’re pleading, imploring, like he already knows that whatever is about to be said is going to be bad for him.

He looks… frazzled. Nervous. Confused.

He looks guilty, and you know that Mori is telling the truth.

How much of this was a lie? All of it?

Your throat feels uncomfortably tight, gaze sliding from Dazai back to Mori.

“Tell me.”

Who are you, Dazai Osamu?

———

Despite his body being wracked with a strange sense of guilt, Dazai pushes open the door to enter the room where he assumes you’ll be waiting. You’re not the only one there sitting at the table—there’s five… no, four others—but Dazai can’t help the way he immediately seeks you out. He recognizes his mistake instantly. That highly unwelcome, and highly misplaced, guilt amplifies the moment his gaze meets yours and he sees how crushed you are by all of this. His face twists into something that he knows condemns himself more. and from the way you instantly look away from him, directing your full attention to Mori, he knows he has.

Now, you won’t meet his eyes at all.

Dazai sits stiffly across from you to the left of Mori. Nakahara Chuuya is on his opposite side, glaring holes into the side of Dazai’s head, but he can’t drag his gaze from you. He’s never seen you like this before—even back at the beach house when you’d been so close to breaking down under the weight of everything on your shoulders, you’d held yourself together as best you could.

You’re unraveling now; he can tell you’re still trying to hold yourself together, but it’s as good as trying to pick up water with your fists, your emotions spill out through the cracks carved into the walls you used to hide yourself behind. Mori hasn’t even begun talking, yet your breath is unsteady and your eyes are swimming with emotion; your fingers are still wrapped tight around the grip of your gun, and Dazai is very acutely aware of Ace’s dead body slouched over the table not even a few feet away.

And you won’t even meet his eyes.

Maybe it’s a good thing, he realizes, because Dazai isn’t sure what you might see if you do. You clearly didn’t like what you saw the first time. He just feels so guilty, and he doesn’t even know why he feels guilty because he’s not-he didn’t do any of what Mori implied. He didn’t use you, he didn’t know who you were before meeting you, it wasn’t all some scheme to try to take over the mafia. That’s ludicrous—he’s a literature student at YNU, not some gang lord. He just-

He loved you. Loves you. No ulterior motives. No strings attached.

“I said tell me,” you snap when Mori doesn’t immediately begin talking. “You love talking, so why are you holding back now? Tell me, or I’m leaving.”

Dazai feels a bit sick to his stomach when you say ‘I’ with no implication of taking him with you. He tries to get you to look at him again, silently pleading with you to just spare one glance in his direction, but you’re irritated now. He can see it in the way your fingers flex around the gun, knuckles whitening and finger twitching on the trigger—it’s pointed at the woman sitting next to you, who is very acutely aware of the fact from how stiff she is.

“Do you remember the night we took over the Port Mafia, dear?” Mori asks her, voice a low hum.

“What kind of question is that?” you answer tightly. Your lip curls up in irritation, Dazai can see you become more and more antsy and angry—he’s never seen you so out of control before. “Of course, I do.”

“And you, Shuji-kun?” Mori turns his attention to Dazai and he wants to spit in his face—his name is Dazai—but his voice fails him when he sees the way your face twists at the sound of the unfamiliar name. He stares at Mori instead, hating how amused the man becomes at his silence. “I’ll take that as a no, allow me to refresh you.”

“Eight years ago, a coup was staged against your grandfather’s regime,” Mori says, and Dazai feels like he’s being studied under a microscope. All eyes are on him now—even yours, but now, he can’t bring himself to look at you. He doesn’t know what he’ll find, and he’s scared it’s going to be something he doesn’t like. “Your grandfather was mad, killing civilians and mafiosos indiscriminately, something had to be done, and nobody was willing to do it, so we did.”

“We had to wipe out the whole family, and any loyalists. I was fourteen when I killed someone for the first time. She was a girl my age—the previous boss’s grandaughter…”

Dazai’s gaze drags over to you. You’re staring ahead now, gaze listless and expression eerily blank like you’re slowly starting to realize what this means. Dazai hasn’t come to terms with it yet, because if even a little of what Mori is saying is true then…

“We wiped out the whole bloodline and as many loyalists as we could,” Mori continues, “or we thought we did, at least. My dear hime was who I sent to kill the heirs, I trusted in her to make it quick and painless. We didn’t realize one of the grandchildren were missing until it was too late—he wasn’t in his bedroom, apparently liked to wander around at night because he couldn’t sleep. His mother was able to swoop in and get him out of the estate before our men took over the building… Tsushima Shuji, the youngest of the previous boss’s grandsons. Does this sound familiar yet, Shuji-kun?”

He has the best view of the night sky from an alcove on the fourth floor of the estate—his grandfather’s floor. It’s where he likes to go when he can’t sleep at night, and ever since his cousins and siblings started fighting over their grandfather’s legacy, that’s been just about every night: half because of fear now that things have started escalating to violence, half because he’s not even sure why he’s still here.

His knees are tucked tight to his chest, arms wrapped around them and head resting against the cool glass as he looks up at the stars. He hears a commotion happening somewhere downstairs, but there’s always a commotion happening at the estate, so he thinks nothing of it. He submerges himself in the darkness instead, letting his mind float away as he stares up at the sky—it’s the only time he’s able to relax, escape from the shadows of his own mind.

He’s not sure how long he sits there admiring the night, time passes immeasurably when he’s lost in the stars—he’s only snapped out of it when he hears feet slamming against the ground in his direction. He stiffens, eyes wide, wondering if another one of his cousins has finally turned to bloodshed as the way to inherit their grandfather’s legacy, but instead his mother turns the corner, her smooth face contorted in a type of panic he’s never seen on her before.

“Mothe…” he starts to say, confused, but he doesn’t even get a chance to finish the word, gasping as his mother grabs his wrist and yanks him off the cushioned seat in the alcove.

“Shuji, we have to go,” she gasps, “we need to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

He stumbles after his mother, struggling to keep up with her quick pace and longer legs. Her grip was painful, nails digging into the bandages around his wrists, right into the fresh wounds they covered. He grimaces in pain, breathing heavy as he follows his mother down the hall, assumingly toward the steps near his grandfather’s room.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “What about Bunji? Akane? T-”

His mother chokes over what sounds like a sob and his eyes widen—he’s never heard his mother cry before.

“There’s no time,” she chokes out, “we have to leave without them. We-”

They turn a hall, she skids to a stop and-

“It seems that it does… Allow me to continue then,” Mori hums, drawing Dazai out of the memory. He sounds unbearably amused, and Dazai would be angry if he wasn’t so shaken. He pulls his hands off of the table to rest them in his lap to hide the way his fingers are trembling. “Your mother was able to hide you from us for half a year, I warned her that she wouldn’t be able to for long and since she didn’t share your grandfather’s blood, promised to spare her life if she gave you up to us, but she refused. She tried to take you out of the Kanagawa Prefecture, but our men were catching up to her, and she took… drastic measures to ensure we couldn’t track you down. That I’m sure you remember.”

“Mother,” he whispered, staring up at the rope, her limp body, gaze trailing down to the kicked over chair. “Mother, I don’t… why did you…”

He takes a step closer. A step back. Another step closer. He reaches out, fingers brushing the white nightgown she’d worn the night before while getting him settled in bed, but he snatches them back instantly like he’d been burned, clutching his hand to his chest.

He’s not breathing, he realizes when his lungs start to burn. His eyes sting painfully, unable to draw his eyes away—unable to even blink—is it a nightmare? Is he hallucinating? She sways—sways like when she used to distract him when he was settling into a depressive episode by putting on music and forcing him to spin with her in the kitchen, sways like the wind chimes she keeps outside because the house doesn’t feel homely enough without him, sways-

“Shuji! Shuji, get away from there!” The voice that calls to him is familiar—Aunt Kiye? Why is she here? “God, I tried to get here earlier. Nee-san, forgive me.”

Aunt Kiye grabs his wrist, yanking him away from his mother, dragging him out of her bedroom and down the hall. His voice is hoarse as he screams, he doesn’t know what he’s screaming, if he’s even screaming anything intelligible. He doesn’t stop until he’s out of the house and she’s kneeling in front of him, shaking him out of his panic.

“Enough, Shuji! We have to go, we can’t stay here, they’ll be here soon,” Aunt Kiye shouts at him, expression twisted and eyes pooling with tears that she doesn’t let spill over. “We need to go, and we-we need to change your name, change everything. I promised I would hide you, I-”

“We can’t leave her there,” he argues, voice shrill. “I don’t understand, why did she do that? What did I do? It was my fault, It was my fault, wasn’t it? It-”

Aunt Kiye doesn’t answer his question. She looks bitter, angry, hateful. “We have no time. We have to leave,” she whispers, dragging him to the car despite his protests. She continues talking, more to herself than to him, but the words make his chest cave in. “I told her not to get involved with that family. Their blood is black, cursed. Everyone knows nothing good comes from associating with those people.”

His fault, he realizes, breath becoming thin and shallow. It’s his fault, his blood, his fault that his mother-

“Yes, quite the unfortunate scene we walked into,” Mori says dismissively. “She was smart for it though, she never would’ve survived a night with our sweet hime interrogating her. You should see what she did to that despicable journalist. Of course, she wasn’t as fine-tuned with her ability back then, but that would’ve been at your mother’s expense—her first few attempts at conditioning were quite… unfortunate for her test sub-”

“Enough,” you spit out, interrupting him. Dazai wants to believe that it’s because you can see how uncomfortable he’s getting, but he’s not even sure that you care. He’s not even sure you remember he’s in the room. “Get to the point. You think he’s the Tsushima kid we missed—that doesn’t prove shit. It doesn’t mean-”

You don’t finish what you’re going to say, but you do look at him, and Dazai’s breath catches when his gaze finally meets yours again. He can’t tell what you’re thinking—the expression on your face is entirely indecipherable, something caught between being accusatory and guilty. Dazai doesn’t know if he’s going to make it out of this room alive. Even if by some miracle, you decide to believe him, there’s a good chance that Mori will order his death anyway, and he’s not sure if you’ll pick him over the Port Mafia.

That being said, Dazai doesn’t even know if he wants to make it out of here alive. His brain is fogged with memories that he locked so deep within him that they never should’ve resurfaced—every time Mori speaks, Dazai’s recalling something new, something awful, something that proves that he’s every bit the freak people have always claimed him to be. Every bit as bad. Every bit as wrong. Not like other people. A monster whose mother killed herself because of him, a monster who's been cursed since the day he was born.

“... blood is black, cursed… nothing good comes from associating with those people.”

More than that, he doesn’t see how the two of you are going to be able to come back from this, and that scares him more than anything. You’re the only good thing left in his life, and he doesn’t think he’ll make it without you, but he doesn’t think that after all of this things are just going to work out. You killed his siblings. His cousins. And yeah, Dazai was never close to them—they thought he was too quiet, too strange, all of the things that the other students at school whispered, his family was the first to—but… they were still his family, and if Dazai had been in his room that night, he would’ve been just as dead at your hands as the rest of them.

You killed his family. You would have killed him. The Port Mafia is the reason his mother killed herself, the reason why he walked into her bedroom and saw her hanging from a fan. The Port Mafia is the reason his aunt hated him so much that she couldn’t even bear looking at him, the reason why he was left to die in Suribachi City.

Would you ever be able to get over the guilt of that? Would Dazai be able to accept it? You had a heavy hand in ruining his life, is it enough that you saved him years later? He doesn’t know, he’s hardly even processed it, he just knows that he has to cling to what little he has left, dig his nails in and not let go even if it makes you choke on guilt, even if it makes him sick with shame. He won’t let go.

“So impatient,” Mori sighs. “Your aunt hid you for almost another half a year, but she wasn’t able to move out of the Yokohama area. She did well though, I’ll give her that. We had our best trying to find you, but she was very careful. It was partially our own fault that we didn’t get our hands on you back then—some loyalists to your grandfather snuck under our radar, told her when we were closing in on the two of you. She got rid of you before we got to her… but we did get to her. Kouyou-kun was the one who handled her, if I recall it got quite… messy. I can’t imagine how it must feel knowing that your mother and aunt sacrificed themselves to protect you only for you to throw it all away in an arrogant attempt to reclaim your grandfather’s legacy.”

Dazai doesn’t even zero in on the last bit of what Mori says because he’s too busy trying to wrap his head around the rest of it. Aunt Kiye didn’t… die for him. Aunt Kiye hated him. He remembers that clear enough—he remembers how she could hardly stand to look at him, he remembers the way she was always so cold and rough with him, he remembers-

“You have to go, Osamu.” Aunt Kiye is shouting at him, and he’s sitting in the passenger seat of her car. He doesn’t move, he thinks maybe if he sits still enough, she won’t see him there and won’t make him leave. “Osamu, get out of the car and go, we don’t have time! They’ve found us.”

The name is still unfamiliar—he’s not used to it, and he doesn’t know if he likes it, but Aunt Kiye insists that Tsushima Shuji is dead and that name can never be uttered again. She gets mad when he doesn’t immediately answer to it, tells him not to let his mother’s death be in vain, and that’s usually enough to get him to stop being stubborn over it.

“Osamu, go!” She grabs his bicep hard to try to get his attention, but he flinches and squirms out of her grip, still not responding to her. He can’t remember the last time he’s spoken—he thinks maybe since they left the cabin that morning. “You-”

Aunt Kiye sounds angry now, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. It’s only when he hears her unbuckle and feels her start reaching over him that he starts to panic. He reaches up to grab her bicep, trying to stop her from grabbing the handle of the door to open it, but she’s stronger than him. He’s hardly been eating lately, and he’s never been particularly strong—he was always the smallest among his siblings.

It takes no effort for her to bat his hands away, pushing open the door and unbuckling his seatbelt. He struggles against her as she tries to push him out of the car, and she’s still speaking—shouting at him, begging him, he thinks she might be crying too, but he can’t even tell. His mind is fogged with panic and fear—he doesn’t want to be alone in Suribachi City, he doesn’t want to be alone at all. He wants to stay with Aunt Kiye even if she hates him because he doesn’t want to be alone.

Eventually, Aunt Kiye wins the fight—even with him fighting tooth and nail, she manages to push him out of the car. He hits the ground hard, gasping when he lands poorly on his elbow. He’s stunned for a moment by the shock and pain, and Aunt Kiye takes the chance to toss out a backpack from the back seat and close the door behind him, locking it quickly.

“No!” His voice is raspy from lack of use over the past few months. He scrambles to his feet and tries to pry the door open but can’t. Aunt Kiye won’t even look at him, she stares ahead as she switches the car into gear and he slams his hands against the window. “Aunt Kiye! Aunt Kiye, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me here, please, I’ll be better, I’ll do better, just don’t-”

He stumbles back as she pulls the car away, falling when he trips over the backpack onto the asphalt, scraping up his hands and forearms. He’s not sure how long he sits there staring after where the car disappeared waiting for her to come back for him.

She doesn’t.

She didn’t die for him, Dazai thinks again, nails digging crescents into his palm. She didn’t die for him, she couldn’t have. Dazai won’t believe it. Aunt Kiye hated him, she abandoned him in Suribachi—none of this can be true. It can’t. His mother killed herself to be free of him, not to protect him; and Aunt Kiye abandoned him because she hated him, not to save him.

That’s the truth. It has to be. They couldn’t have died for him—for him. It doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t want to remember all of this—he was better off thinking that they hated him, that they wanted to be free of him.

He can feel you looking at him now, but Dazai is back to being unable to look at you. He’s staring down at the glass table looking at his reflection, his eyes are wide and dark and far too black—he looks warped, inhuman almost. His expression is blank, none of the turmoil within him is reflected on it, and he doesn’t even understand why. He thinks it’s probably just making him seem more guilty.

“We figured she left you somewhere in Suribachi City, but we weren’t able to track you down,” Mori says flippantly. Dazai wants him to stop talking, but he has a sick feeling things are only going to get worse from here. “Not until you ended up with Oda Sakunosuke, at least, we…”

Dazai’s ears ring at his old friend’s name. Mori is still talking, but his words become a distant buzz. Everything starts coming back to him at once—his time alone in Suribachi City, the weeks he spent rationing the little food he had, getting the shit kicked out of him by some low rung gang who stole his mother’s ring from him. He remembers giving up, questioning the point of his own existence with a detached logic that left him with only one answer—there was no point to his existence, so he was as good dead as he was alive.

He remembers seeing on a sign that it was the eve of his fifteenth birthday, and he remembers dropping himself in the bay during a storm, hoping that the tide dragged him so far beneath the surface that he’d never see the light of day again.

He remembers waking up the next morning to an unfamiliar face at his bedside, brows knit in disapproval and lips turned down, and he distinctly remembers feeling put out by a stranger looking at him that way.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Dazai couldn’t remember anything but the name Aunt Kiye had drilled into him over and over again the past few months.

“Dazai Osamu.”

“Hm. Oda Sakunosuke. You got a family, Dazai?

Odasaku brought him in.

Odasaku saved him.

The doctors said he’d been dead for almost three minutes when Odasaku found him washed up on the beach—said his memory might return over time, but it might not—but Dazai didn’t even care, because Odasaku brought him in. He gave him a roof over his head, food to eat, and a reason to live. He sent him to school so he could feel like a normal kid his age. He played board games with him and didn’t even care when Dazai was a sore loser and quit mid-game when he realized he wouldn’t win. He humored Dazai when he faked being sick because he didn’t want to go to school. When Dazai was going through bad depressive episodes, Odasaku would sit with him silently and write his book so Dazai never felt alone. Odasaku introduced him to Ango and they were-

They were his friends.

Family, maybe.

They were all he had, and they were all he needed.

And then-

“We were the ones who killed him.”

Dazai’s gaze drags up from the table to focus on Mori. The man’s lips are curved into a cruel smile, his eyes are sharp, and Dazai is moving before he can stop himself. He lunges across the table, but Mori doesn’t even flinch because Nakahara Chuuya grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back down into his seat.

“You-” Dazai spits, voice raspy and angry.

“Don’t look at me like that, we were trying to get to you,” Mori says casually as if the words don’t shatter Dazai’s entire world. “We would’ve loved to have Oda Sakunosuke amongst our ranks. His death was unfortunate. Collateral damage. He was an assassin for a long time—one of the best in the world. He was pretty much unkillable, his ability allowed him to see six seconds into the future. I never understood how our sniper managed to get him that day, but now I do. He saw you getting shot with his foresight and tried to pull you out of the way, but your ability is nullification, so when he touched you to save you, he damned himself. In those split seconds when he was pulling you to safety, he couldn’t see the future, and couldn’t see the bullets aimed for you that lodged into his chest instead.”

Dazai can’t do this anymore. He tries to push himself up to his feet but his legs are numb and uncooperative, and he can’t move his hands or arms. Mori’s lips part to continue speaking but Dazai can’t do this, he can’t hear anymore of this. He’d always known in his heart that Odasaku’s death was his fault even if he couldn’t remember much about his mother and Aunt Kiye and their desperate attempts to hide him from the Port Mafia. He’d known, but hearing it-hearing the confirmation, it’s too much for him.

Before Mori can say anything, Dazai is startled from his spiraling thoughts when you stand up so abruptly that your chair goes flying back. Your expression is haunted and you’re not looking at him again, but Dazai is glad for it, because he thinks he’s about to throw up.

“I… I need a minute. I just need a minute,” you say shakily before fleeing the room into Mori’s office so quickly that you almost trip over the chair you knocked over.

The room is silent in your wake, and after a few impossibly long moments, Mori stands to follow you into the other room. The three Port Mafia executives left in the room don’t say anything for a moment, and Dazai is just trying to breathe. He’s trying to breathe and process what Mori just said, but he’s failing miserably at it.

It’s the woman, Kouyou, who speaks first.

“She’s going to kill me for knowing about this,” she says simply, sparing a glance down at the dead body on her opposite side. “I’ve never seen her like this before. Even when Chuuya-kun went missing for a few days, this…”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have conspired against her,” Piano Man sings, looking entirely unperturbed. “I mean honestly, after what the previous boss did to you, I would’ve thought you’d be more sympathetic. Silly me to think you aren’t a cold-hearted bitch.”

Dazai tries to pay attention to what they’re saying, he tries to ground himself with the conversation happening so he can forget the feeling of Odasaku’s blood all over his hands, staining his clothes, smeared on his face. He tries to replace Mori’s echoing words with what they’re saying but he can’t.

“We were trying to get to you.”

“It has nothing to do with sympathy,” Kouyou snaps, but she does look ashamed. “It’s a security threat, it’s bigger than love. This boy could spell the end of everything we’ve built.”

“She won’t kill you, Ane-san,” Chuuya finally speaks up, his knuckles are tight around the armrest of the chair he’s sitting in. “I’ll talk to her, I just-”

“When he touched you to save you, he damned himself.”

“Chuuya-kun, she almost killed you,” Kouyou says so dryly that the words almost don’t even register to Dazai, but when they do, they’re the only thing that effectively draws him from his spiraling thoughts. He looks at Chuuya sharply to see if what Kouyou said was true, and his eyes widen when he only grimaces and looks down. “You and Piano Man. She didn’t even hesitate before pulling the trigger on Ace. She’s unstable right now, there’s no talking to her.”

“But she didn’t,” Chuuya says tightly. “I’ll talk to her, but first…”

Chuuya looks at Dazai so suddenly that he almost wants to snap his head away and ignore him, but he can’t. The ginger studies Dazai so intensely that it makes him want to crawl out of his own skin.

“Did you know?” Chuuya asks, voice low. He’s angry, Dazai can tell from the way a dark red color starts to flicker around his hands, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Tell me. Did you know who she was and use her to get closer to the Mafia for revenge? I’ll spare her the pain of having to put a bullet through your fucking head and kill you myself right now. Did you know who she was and purposely-”

“No,” Dazai interrupts, voice hoarse. “No. I didn’t-I didn’t know.”

Chuuya stares at him for a few seconds, studying him like he doesn’t know if he actually believes him, but after what feels like an eternity, he finally shakes his head and looks away, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Fuck, this is such a mess,” Chuuya breathes out, voice strained. “Fuck. She-”

Chuuya doesn’t finish his sentence because the door to Mori’s office reopens and you step back into the room, Mori at your heels. Your eyes are red, but your expression is withdrawn now, void of the tumultuous emotions that had been raging across it just a few minutes before. You settle back in your seat. Your eyes flit over Dazai like he’s not even there before focusing on Mori.

Dazai suddenly has a bad feeling.

“I’m not quite sure how you escaped us after that,” Mori continues where he left off, and Dazai is so sick of the man’s voice that he almost wants to rip his own ears off. “Probably Sakaguchi-san from the SDUP, I recall him and Oda-san being close… but that brings us to the present, doesn’t it? Four years later, you stumble into our lovely hime… Come, dear, let me tell you my running theory, and you tell me how accurate I am, yeah?”

Mori is looking at you now, eyes glittering as he waits for your response. Dazai has his own serious issues with the man, but he thinks it’s sick the way he’s enjoying your clear discomfort and increasing distress. Your jaw tightens a bit, but you nod, signaling for Mori to speak. Dazai’s nails dig into his pants as he waits for Mori to continue. Neither of you look at him, and Dazai’s lips part to speak so he can preemptively deny whatever Mori is about to accuse him of, but he can’t push a single word out.

“Your first meeting with him wasn’t by chance. A cafe, maybe… a bar?” Mori offers, watching your face carefully for a reason. You look away at the second option, and the man’s lips curve up. “A bar, then. One you frequent, I bet. The one in Hodogaya-ku, perhaps? Your first meeting, but not Shuji-kun’s first time seeing you. Ui Koutarou—his journalism professor at YNU—wrote his first article implicating the Mori Corporation’s connection with the Port Mafia in February of this year, around a month before rising fourth year students register for classes. Shuji-kun, naturally, has been following anything related to the Port Mafia closely, so when he sees a class being offered in the fall by the same man who has been openly targeting the Port Mafia, he sees an opportunity and signs up for the class.”

No, Dazai tries to say. His lips form the word, but the sound doesn’t come from his lips. No. No, no, no, no. You look haunted suddenly, and Dazai remembers the argument he had with you during the government event in Tokyo. How cold and withdrawn you’d become. How when he confronted you next, you accused him of working with Ui Koutarou and blackmailing you for money. Mori is reigniting all of the initial fears you once had.

“Ui-san has had his sights set on you for quite a while, dear. You don’t need me to tell you that, you’re very well aware of the man’s hatred of you… When Shuji-kun started classes in the fall, Ui-san roped him into his plans, and you became his project. That wretched man had many documents on you. I had the Black Lizards raid his apartment after we captured him—most were harmless, detailing places you frequented and people seen around you, but when Shuji-kun became involved, he started using that information to manufacture meetings between you. I imagine that after you met him that first time, he started appearing around you rather regularly. Bump-ins at that cafe you like in Minami-ku, on the streets—he even started renting an apartment on property that we own after he realized the opportunity he had with Ui… he’s only been living there since the summer, you know?”

His last apartment wasn’t close enough to the school, Dazai wants to argue desperately. He’d been lucky that a cheap apartment opened up in Hodogaya-ku before the semester started—he’s been trying to get one since his first year. It has nothing to do with-

Dazai suddenly feels nauseous again, everything is spinning around him—he still hears Aunt Kiye screaming at him, he still hears the creaking of the rope his mother hung himself on, he still hears Mori’s confirming that Odasaku’s death was his fault. And now this, and you’re not looking at him again, and he’s not saying anything, why isn’t he saying anything? Why isn’t he denying this?

“He attached himself to you quickly, didn’t he?” Mori asks rhetorically. “Too quickly, I’m sure you had doubts—not even your ability makes people reliant on you as swift as he became. How long did it take for him to start prying for information? Trying to make you slip up and implicate yourself with the Mafia? Confess yourself as an ability user?”

The night of the earthquake when you showed up at his apartment, he remembers dizzily. He started pressing you on your political opinion because he remembered Ui saying that all of the criminal syndicates in Japan are going to do whatever it takes to prevent the military bill from passing. But he wasn’t… doing it to prove anything? He just wanted to know more about you, he was curious, he was finally putting the mystery that you are together. It wasn’t malicious—he just wanted to know you. That’s all it ever was, he’s only ever wanted to know you.

“When did you tell him about your ability? More about our organization? Around when the Guild started making their move in Yokohama, I’m sure. He never told you about his ability until his hand was forced. In fact, I’m willing to bet he lied and said he didn’t know he had one, but tell me, do you really think an assassin of the caliber of Oda Sakunosuke would not realize his ward had an ability that negated his own? That he wouldn’t be trained in how to use it… Most importantly, if all of this wasn’t a scheme of revenge—if he really did love you—then why did he never get rid of the flash drive that contained the proof that his journalism house published? The proof that got you thrown in prison?”

You’re crying.

Dazai’s throat swells when he sees the tears silently tracking over your cheeks. At once, he realizes that he’s never seen you cry before; he itches to reach over to you, to grab your hand or wipe away the tears. He doesn’t—partially because he doesn’t think he could move if he tried, but mostly because he knows that he’s the reason you’re crying.

He wants to assure you that none of this is true. He had nothing to do with the Guild—they kidnapped him for fuck’s sake. He didn’t know about his ability, he didn’t even know Odasaku was an assassin. And he was just… careless with the flash drive, and he shouldn’t have been, but there was always so much going on, and he was so new to having someone in his life that really loved him that he was quick to bask in it and forget everything else.

He doesn’t assure you of anything, instead he watches as Mori reaches out to do what Dazai wants to do. He brushes away your tears and turns your face to look at him, a disgustingly sympathetic look on his face.

“I know you were eager to believe that someone could love you without your ability at work influencing them, dear,” Mori murmurs, “but people like us will never find a love that pure. There will always be other factors at work sullying it—wealth, revenge, threats. You understand now what this was, don’t you?”

No, Dazai wants to scream at you. He does love you, this wasn’t some ridiculous revenge plot for family he hardly remembered until this meeting, that-

“I do.”

Dazai finally is able to make a noise when those two words leave your lips. It’s weak—something caught between a wheeze and a whimper that sounds too loud in the silent room. He feels eyes on him—Chuuya and Kouyou’s in particular. Not yours. You stare down at the table.

“Ogai-dono,” Kouyou clears her throat. “If I may… perhaps we could… send the boy away. Abroad. Ensure he never comes back to Japan so we don’t have to risk him coming back and disrupting things.”

“We could give him a seat at the table,” Chuuya interrupts, ignoring the wide-eyed look both Kouyou and Piano Man give him because of the radical idea. “We’re down an executive anyway. We tell people who he is, that he supports the new regime. It’s what you wanted to begin with, right, boss? You wanted one of the grandchildren to legitimize the passing of power. We could make it work.”

“It’s too risky.” Mori isn’t the one to speak, Piano Man is, but he doesn’t look happy to do it. “Maybe back then it could’ve worked, but the Port Mafia killed his friends and family, and hunted him down. Too much has happened, he’s an unpredictable variable that we can’t risk. We can’t trust that he’ll just accept it all, that he won’t work behind the scenes to take us down. Giving him any leverage in the organization is the last thing we should do, but what Kouyou-”

“Leave him alive and we risk everything we’ve built falling apart—a civil war igniting, Yokohama being caught in the crossfires and all of our foreign enemies crawling into the city to reap the benefits of our fall. It’s one life or hundreds—thousands, even,” Mori interrupts, voice cool. He turns his gaze onto you. “I trust you know what has to be done, dear.”

Your expression is resolved, a heavy emotion in your eyes that tells him your answer before you even speak. “Yeah, I know.”

You stand up, and Dazai knows that it’s over. When you look down at him, it’s with a type of apathy that makes his stomach twist—he’d rather hate than nothing. His lips part to speak but he pauses when you shake your head slightly, so subtly that he almost doesn’t even notice it.

“Get up,” you say flatly, and then glance at Chuuya. “Chuuya, will you…?”

“Yeah,” Chuuya replies without you even needing to finish the question. His voice is hoarse, he looks more than a little disturbed. “Yeah. Of course.”

Chuuya rises to his feet and then grabs Dazai’s bicep to pull him up to his feet too. Dazai doesn’t even have the heart to give him a dirty look in response, following along as he leads him out of the conference room and into the hallway.

For a split second, Dazai really believes that maybe you’re just trying to fool Mori, you made him think you were taking Dazai to have him killed so that you can get him out of here safely, but even once you’re out of the conference room without Mori’s eyes carefully watching you, you don’t look at him.

“Get one of the clean up crews up here,” you tell one of the guards waiting in the hall instead as you frown at your phone, typing out a quick text to someone. You pointedly ignore how alarmed they are by the offhand comment to click on the button to the elevator.

When you look back at the two of them, it’s not to look at Dazai—it’s to look at Chuuya. The two of you are having a conversation, Dazai can tell that much, and he thinks that maybe he should be putting in the effort to figure out what’s going on, what you have planned, but he’s just… tired. He’s not even sure if he cares what happens to him anymore, and he figures the worst case scenario is that he dies at your hands, and of all of the ways he could go, he thinks that would be the most preferable, because at least you would be the last thing he saw.

He doesn’t try to speak again until the three of you are in the elevator and the doors have closed.

“I-”

“Stop.”

Dazai is startled by the sharpness in your voice. He looks at you, but you’re still not looking at him, your lips are curved down as you stare at your phone, typing furiously. He glances up into the left corner of the elevator, noticing the cameras—maybe that’s why, he thinks a bit unsurely, deciding to stay quiet until out of the building.

When the elevator doors open, it’s Chuuya that urges him to keep walking by nudging his shoulder. You don’t touch him, don’t look at him. There’s nobody in the main entrance of the building, which Dazai thinks is a bit odd, but he bites back any comments he might have when he sees a black car waiting outside the building.

The doors to the building open at your approach, and Dazai inhales the crisp, fresh air greedily, not even having realized how stifled he’d felt in that room with Mori, you, and the other Port Mafia executives. He thinks maybe that you’ll sit in the backseat with him and he’ll finally be able to talk to you, but you don’t. You open the door to the passenger seat and sit there without even sparing him a glance.

Dazai’s throat starts to swell again, stopping in his tracks as he stares at where you disappeared behind the car door. Chuuya pushes him forward, not letting him linger for long—he opens the door to the backseat and pretty much manhandles Dazai into the car before taking a seat next to him.

He recognizes the person at the wheel—Albatross, your friend. He’s driven you and Dazai around before, every time Dazai gets in the car with him, he makes a sharp comment aimed to embarrass you in some manner. This time, he doesn’t even look at Dazai through the rearview mirror. He just puts the car in gear and starts driving.

A pit starts to form in Dazai’s stomach. Dazai tries to initiate conversation with you again now that you’re outside of the Port Mafia headquarters within closed quarters, nails scraping against his pants as he decides what he wants to say.

“I d-”

“Stop.”

When you cut him off now, Dazai’s stomach flips. He stares at the side of your face, trying to understand why you won’t even listen to him. You can’t actually believe what Mori was saying, you can’t. You were faking him out, tricking him into thinking you fell for it—you had to be, you have to be. You can’t possibly believe him.

“You won’t… even hear me out?” Dazai asks you quietly.

“There’s nothing left to say.”

Oh, Dazai thinks to himself, withdrawing. He stares at you for a moment before turning away stiffly, expression tight and strained as he stares out the window, watching the buildings pass by as they get closer and closer to the ports.

You believe it, he realizes dully. You believe that it was all just a scheme. You believe that everything was manufactured, that he used you for some fantastical revenge plan, that he never loved you. You believe it.

But it doesn’t make sense, he thinks desperately. He doesn’t understand how you’re not seeing through it, and if you are, why aren’t you at least giving him some hint? He should try to say something again—he knows that, but he finds himself unable to. He’s a smooth-talker, quick on his feet, but never when it comes to you—since the day he met you, he’s been fumbling over words awkwardly, but now it’s costing him everything. He finds ash in his mouth preventing him from salvaging anything he might’ve had with you.

Dig your nails in and cling, he reminds himself, but his nails have become rounded out and blunted from how long he was scratching at his pants and skin while remembering all those memories he locked away. He tries to dig his nails in and cling, but his voice fails him and his nails can’t even find purchase on your skin, you slip out of his hands as easily as an eel.

He’s going to lose you. He might’ve lost you already.

Dazai thinks that’s worse than the realization that he really might be about to die.

The car comes to a stop much quicker than Dazai had hoped, and he stiffens when you waste no time before getting out of the car. He makes no move to join you outside, and Chuuya sighs next to him.

“Get out,” Chuuya says flatly. When Dazai doesn’t budge again, Chuuya snaps, “Get out of the car-”

“-and go, we don’t have time! They’ve found us.”

Dazai draws his knees to his chest, breath becoming a bit labored as his aunt’s voice echoes in his ears. He doesn’t even realize that Chuuya has gotten out of the car until Dazai’s car door is pried open. For a split second, he confuses the executive with his aunt as he’s yanked out of the car—he’s fourteen again and being abandoned by the only person he has left, and he can just barely bite back the “don’t leave me here!” that almost spills from his lips as his knees hit the ground hard.

Dazai is instantly hit with a thick scent that makes him gag. It’s noxious, almost entirely unbearable, clogs his throat to the point he almost struggles to breathe—a blend of rot, acrid chemicals, and something he doesn’t recognize, but it’s sickeningly sweet. As he pushes himself to his feet, he notices you pass your gun over to Chuuya, but in that moment, Dazai is more concerned with figuring out where he is, and when he does, his stomach drops.

The dumping grounds by ports stretch endlessly under the heavy, overcast sky. Mounds of trash rose like grotesque hills patched with scraps of torn plastic and suspicious lumps that Dazai doesn’t have to get close to know what they are. The ground is uneven and treacherous—a mix of sticky mud and sharp shards of discarded glass and plastic, and pools of murky water shimmering with oil slicks.

It’s disgusting, and Dazai has a feeling it might be his final resting place.

He trails over to the side of the road and his gaze tracks down to the ground directly below him. It’s not a far drop, hardly a foot or two, and certainly less gross than some of the other parts of the area, but that’s a low bar to meet. He tears his eyes away from the scenery around him to look back at you, lips parted to speak but he doesn’t say anything.

You’re leaning against the front of the car, watching him with an expression that Dazai can’t describe. Sad, maybe, resigned. Chuuya is back in the car, from what Dazai can tell, he's still fiddling with your gun—he wonders if this is his way of letting the two of you say goodbye in private.

“I do love you,” Dazai says. His voice cracks over the words. “No ulterior motives. No schemes. I just loved you. Love you.”

You don’t say anything for a moment, eyes drawing from him somewhere over to the side like you’re looking for something, but after a moment, you look back at him, your face a little softer than it was before.

“I know,” you tell him quietly. “I know, Osamu.”

Dazai’s lips part to say something back—he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, because confusion fogs his mind. If you know, then why-

Why are you doing this?

He doesn’t get the chance to ask. The car door opens and Chuuya steps back out, he passes your gun back to you and Dazai sees you subtly slide something into his hand too, but he can’t tell what it is. You sigh as you look down at the gun before looking back up at him again, he holds his breath as you make your way closer to him.

His lashes flutter shut, expecting to feel the cool barrel of the gun against his forehead, but his breath hitches when he instead feels the familiar warmth of your hand cradling his cheek. Your fingertips are flaked with Ace’s dried blood, but Dazai still leans into your touch, eyes sliding back open to look at you.

Up close, your expression is twisted with regret and… is that fear? Dazai can’t tell, he doesn’t care, he’s more preoccupied with memorizing the image of you before he runs out of time to.

“Forgive me,” you whisper so faintly that Dazai almost doesn’t hear you.

“I do,” he replies just as softly.

Your face crumbles as you look away. You take a step away from him, and your hand drops down from his face. Dazai instantly mourns the loss. You let out a heavy, shaky breath, sparing one last look down at the gun in your hand, one to Chuuya who stands half a step behind you, and then you look at Dazai again.

“Forgive me,” you say again, this time as you lift the gun—your voice is raspy, breath uneven.

Your fingers tremble so violently that the whole gun is unsteady, but Dazai doesn’t even care to look at it, gaze focused on your face instead.

“I do,” Dazai repeats.

You pull the trigger.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

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jinwoosbabyboo · 1 day ago

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Blue Magic

How I imagine the lads men (pre-relationship) react to you verbally enjoying them gently greasing your scalp. A/N: This one is specifically for my black girls and anyone with thick hair who understands what it's like to have to grease your scalp. Also for those who understand what it was like growing up with your momma and aunties brushing your neck, ears, forehead, and inner most thoughts. Getting popped with the comb for moving too much and the dread of knowing they’re about to pull out that hot comb. [Requested by: Anon]

Summary: He was always curious when you would turn down plans because you needed to wash your hair. He never understood why you had Wash Days instead of just a quick wash while you're showering. Since you had a crush on him you took the time to explain how your hair is different from his and how there's no such thing as a quick wash while showering for you. You decided to let him see what all goes into your Wash Days. Now here you were sitting crisscross on the floor in front of your full length mirror surrounded by all your hair tools. You just finished blow drying your hair in four sections and it was a relief to drop your arms and relax them for a while. You hung your head knowing that you had one last step to do before you could lay down.

“Do you need some help?”

Zayne

Zayne would be so meticulous with his hands as if he were actually doing surgery on your hair. He would be so gentle gliding the rat tail comb through your roots and gently spreading the grease on your scalp and slightly massaging as he went. “I’ve never had someone be this gentle with my scalp” You couldn’t help, but sigh however your sighs seemed to come out as soft whimpers. “Right there, scratch right there” he did exactly as you said and felt his ears getting hot in the process. Hearing you moan and whimper out soft “That feels so good” and “wait wait massage right there” followed by the most sultry sound he’s ever heard come out of you.

Nearly halfway through he's standing at attention. His nerves are on edge and he doesn't want you to see him like this. "I’m sorry, but I have to head home I have an early out-patient to attend to in the morning" You turn suddenly making him jump. "We're only half done" Your words came out more whiney than you intended.

You’re a little confused at his sudden need to leave, but you nod and stand to walk him to the door. "I'll make it up to you. Good Night." You don’t miss the very obvious bulge in his pants as he quickly grabs his coat and slips out your front door.

Rafayel

Rafayel is unintentionally rough as hell when he starts parting your hair. “Ow! why are you tugging so hard?!” You smack his hands away opting to do it yourself, but he begs to try again and you give in to those big puppy dog eyes he has. “Be gentle!”

Second time around he’s so gentle it almost feels like a lovers touch as he massages the section of your hair before going through with the rat tail comb like you showed him. You can’t help the noises that escape out of you as he smears just the right amount of grease on your scalp. “Are you always this vocal during this process?” He asks in almost a whisper. You try to turn to look at him, but he quickly snaps your head back towards the mirror, hiding his face behind your head. “It feels good when someone else does it” Another sigh leaves you as he keeps going “Please don’t stop” Once he reaches the last section you end up leaning slightly back into him and thats when you feel something poking your lower back.

Y/N: Raf are you…..are you turned on? Rafayel: You’re the one moaning my name while im doing this! Y/N: So it’s my fault? Rafayel: YES Y/N: pokes it Rafayel: do that again and im calling the authorities

He quickly excused himself out of the room while you cleaned up your mess of hair products.

Xavier

Xavier is hanging on by a single worn thread while he’s greasing your scalp. He can barely make it through the first section before he’s already nearly panting listening to you moan “Thank you Xavier” Hearing his name on your lips like that had him near feral. “You’re welcome” He whispered in a raspy tone. You feel him constantly adjusting his position and clearing his throat while he slowly works his way through the next section of hair. “Right there rub right there” You whimper and he inhales deeply as he does as you say. “Right here?” His voice is low and gravelly it actually sends tingles through your body.

Xavier literally can’t take it. His composure was slipping the minute you sighed his name. He managed you finish the job only to turn and tilt your head back to look in your eyes. The tension was always thick between you two. His gaze bounced from your eyes to your lips and you melted when he whispered “Can I kiss you?”

Sylus

Sylus is outing you right then and there he don’t care. The minute you whimper from his fingers gliding across your scalp he’s smirking. He’s so gentle while he does it you almost forget this is a Mafia Don that you have greasing your scalp in the middle of the night. “People would get the wrong idea if they could hear you now” He teased in that sultry voice of his. You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you that quickly dissipated the second he started massaging your scalp again. “It just feels so good” You whimper again while he slowly works his way through your hair. “I can tell”

He would be able to hold his composure throughout the entire process and by the time he’s done you can finally think clearly. You quickly slip your bonnet on and turn to face him thats when you notice his red cheeks and ears. “You’re never going to do this for me again will you?” You see the corner of his mouth quirk upwards.

He’s enjoying this.

“I don’t mind making you moan again” You shove his shoulder and he just chuckles as you pound your fist into his chest. “You owe me a scalp massage now sweetie”

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anundyingfidelity · 1 day ago

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CLAWS & SHIELD — Wolverine, Soldier Boy

Summary: Logan, Ben, and you sharing a motel room. That's it, that's the fic.

Pairing: Logan x fem reader x Ben.

Warnings: pwp smut, threesome, unprotected everything, oral (male receiving), hair pulling, cum play, cream pie, facial, mentions of marking, dirty talking, pet names, sub!reader, female pronouns.

Notes: I know no one asked but here you have because I can't stop thinking about them sharing like the good assholes they are. Soldier Boy and Wolverine are their own warnings in general so😫

GEN MASTERLIST!

“I- I’ve never done this before,” you gasp, hands and knees on the ground as Soldier Boy sits at the edge of the mattress with your head between his thighs. The tip of his cock is red and he’s aching to be sucked, and you want to. Fuck, how much you want to, but you feel kinda anxious as the mutant pulls your hips towards his own.

His cock is also hard, veiny and throbbing already to feel your walls wrap around him. You whine when he teases your entrance with his dick, covering himself with your slick and you moan. Logan takes a messy grip of your hair and rubs his cock once, twice, before his tip buries inside your needy cunt.

“Oh, but how you’re enjoying it,” Logan remarks with a dark chuckle, followed by the supe, who wipes your mouth with his thumb.

And you suck on his digit, swollen lips wrapped around him as if your life depends on it.

“Dirty little slut, can’t wait to be filled up, can you?” Soldier Boy teases as Logan pounds mercilessly into your aching pussy. You whine at the feel of the mutant gripping on your hips now, sure it’d leave more marks into your skin by tomorrow.

Your knees already hurt, your palms are bruising on the carpet of the dirty motel room. It was true, you never had been in this situation before. But being shared by these two piles of muscles and strength, manhandling you around and ordering you to take what they could give to you was more than you ever dreamt of.

Soldier Boy pulls his thumb away from your mouth, and takes your jaw with his fingers.

“Open,” he orders and you obey, sticking your tongue out, fucked out already as Logan continues his rut from behind you.

He spits on your mouth and you flinch a little, but he doesn’t hold back, instead guides his cock between your lips and you happily take him, humming and gagging at how far he had reached inside in just a matter of seconds.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it,” Soldier Boy moans, watching his cock disappear into your mouth.

“She’s fucking close,” Logan warns, the rhythm of his thrusts increasing by the moment, and he grabs your ass cheeks, spreading them to see right in the spot where you two connect as he keeps fucking you to bliss. He hisses at the view of his cock sliding out, covered in the wetness of your abused cunt. “God, that’s a perfect pussy right there, look at you…”

Logan hits your sweet spot and you moan and cry around Ben’s cock, the soldier never giving you the easy time. He fucks your throat hard, as if he was on a competition with the other man fucking your cunt right now, and you do your best to suck on his cock, tongue tracing his veins and your throat creating a wet cave for him to use.

With a hand, Soldier Boy grabs onto your hair and guides your pace to a more brutal one, feeling himself close.

“Keep sucking me off, sweetcheeks,” he groans, thrusting up his hips until your nose meets his pelvis.

You blurt incoherences, pussy clenching around Logan’s cock, and god, does it feel so damn good to you, being filled by both men at the same time, used for their pleasure and however they want… If this was heaven you wouldn’t want to leave the room ever.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Soldier Boy grunts and quickly pulls out of your mouth. He is jerking himself and holding your pretty, fucked out face with the other hand.

“Open for me, yeah, that’s it,” he praises and he finally cums, white ropes painting your cheeks as you hold your tongue out, his hot cum all over your nose, lips and cheeks.

“Keep her there, I’m gonna fill her up real good,” Logan darkly whispers and is no longer for him to get there, when he empties inside your needy cunt balls deep with a beautiful moan of his. Though, he already has come, the stamina and strength is enough to keep fucking his seed into you and a chain of moans and pleas leave your lips and sore throat.

“Fuck, yes! Right there, that’s the spot, please keep fucking me-”

His orgasm triggers your own climax and you finally come, crying so loud and milking his cock as he thrusts to meet your hips.

Soldier Boy wipes the cum off your face before offering his fingers coated and forcing them into your mouth. You lick them obediently, longing eyes on him.

“Fuck, best pussy I ever had,” Logan praises and he finally stops, lazy and sloppy hips against your ass.

“And wait when you have her ass,” Soldier Boy smirks, you moan unwittingly at the thought. “Hole is even better.”

Logan groans and he feels himself getting hard again, pulling out of your cunt, seed leaking out and rolling down your thighs. He plays with your sensitive folds and clit with calloused fingers.

“Yeah, well, I’m ready for round two,” Logan says, leaning towards you, his strong chest pressing against your back. “Bub here as well. But are you ready, baby?” he whispers over your ear.

You shiver at the thought, and you know they know you want it bad. It’s become a need at this point. Their high senses tells you they fucking know, and they enjoy having this control over you.

“Whatever you want,” you respond, holding the soldier’s lustful stare as you try to catch your breath.

Soldier Boy smirks and Logan chuckles on your back. He roams his hand over your breasts, kissing your shoulder, his beard leaving a sweet burn on you. Their dicks are already hard, and oh, you know you’re so fucked in the best way you could dream of.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett fanfic #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut #wolverine fanfiction #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x female reader #logan howlett x female reader #the boys fanfiction #x men wolverine #x men logan #hugh jackman fanfiction #jensen ackles fanfiction

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thesecondhandwoman · 2 days ago

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A FLAVORFUL SURPRISE

Vi x f!reader

Summary: You and Vi have been dating for sometime, and one thing she’s learned is that you are obsessed with chapstick. But when you buy a new one, she decides that she also wants a taste of them, on your lips.

You and Vi had been together for a while now, and one of the things she loved teasing you about was your ever-expanding chapstick collection. It had started innocently enough, but now, every time you went out, you found yourself drawn to new flavors, whether you meant to or not. It was your little guilty pleasure, and Vi knew it all too well.

Today, you came home with another addition: a tropical fruit blend—mango and coconut. You had a soft spot for fruity scents, and this one was calling your name.

Wanting to try it as soon as possible, you pulled it out of your pocket, twisting the cap off and swiping it across your lips.

Vi, who was lounging on the couch scrolling through her phone, noticed the motion and glanced up. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the chapstick in your hand.

“Another one?” Vi smirked, raising an eyebrow. “I swear, your collection’s gonna take over our whole place.”

She sat up, clearly amused. “What’d you get this time?”

You chuckled, feeling her eyes on you as you smoothed the chapstick over your lips. “Mango and coconut. Thought I’d go for something tropical today”

Vi’s playful smirk turned into an exaggerated pout as she folded her arms. “Mango and coconut? Getting bold with your choices, huh?” she teased.

You shrugged, grinning at her. “Gotta keep it interesting, you know how it is. Plus, it was the store's new flavor, so..”

Vi pushed herself off the couch and stepped closer, her gaze never leaving the chapstick. She’d always been curious about your collection, often teasing you about how you had one for every occasion. But today, she seemed especially interested.

“Can I try some?” Vi asked, her voice light and playful. “I mean, you always get new ones, but you never let me try. C’mon, just a little taste?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew she was joking, but the way she looked at you made your stomach flutter. You hesitated for just a moment before handing her the chapstick. “Alright, alright, you can try.”

Vi took it from your hand but didn’t immediately swipe it onto her own lips. Instead, she tugged you closer, her hands gentle but firm on your waist. You blinked in surprise as she pulled you toward her, her warm breath brushing against your face.

“Vi?” you asked, voice suddenly a little breathless. “What are you—”

She cut you off with a mischievous grin, her lips brushing against yours before you could say anything more. The kiss was soft at first, just a gentle press of lips, but the moment you felt her pull you even closer, it deepened, and your breath caught.

Vi’s hand slid to the back of your neck, her touch tender but insistent. You froze for a second, stunned by the sudden shift, but then you melted into the kiss, feeling her warmth, tasting the sweetness of the mango and coconut chapstick on her lips. Your mind raced, short-circuiting in a whirl of heat and surprise.

When she finally pulled away, her eyes glimmered with mischief, and a satisfied smile played at the corners of her lips.

“Mm…” Vi hummed, her voice soft with amusement. “Well, I’ll be damned. It really does taste like mango and coconut. You weren’t just making that up, huh?”

You were still recovering from the kiss, your thoughts scattered and your face burning. “I—I wasn’t making it up,” you stammered, still trying to process what had just happened.

Vi chuckled, her smile never faltering. She leaned her forehead against yours, teasing, “Well, looks like I’ve got more flavors to try then, don’t I?”

Your heart skipped again as you realized she wasn’t done. You could barely form a response, your brain still on overload. “Vi…” you whispered, your voice shaky.

Vi kissed the tip of your nose, her grin widening. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be gentle. But you’re definitely gonna have to share more of your collection with me now.”

You let out a nervous laugh, your mind still spinning from the kiss. The only thing you were sure of now was that, no matter how many chapsticks you had in your collection, there was no flavor you’d ever crave more than Vi’s lips and those sweet kisses they gave you.

#vi x reader #vi x you #vi fanfic #vi x reader fanfic #vi arcane #vi #arcane #arcane fanfic #lesbian fanfic #lesbian #fluffy fanfic #fanfic

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nuria-schnee · 1 day ago

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Dead Boy Detectives - Fic Rec List (Part 1)

I've been wanting to do a rec list for a while, and now I have found a bit of time to do so. I've read A LOT of DBD fics in the past months, so I'm gonna split this rec list so this doesn't get insanely long. Also, check the tags of the fic because I'm just adding a few for length's sake.

Anyway, let's dive in! ❤️

Run your fingers through my soul by Hse11z5 (@thenyoumaykissthebride)

| T | 3k | Tags: Love Confessions, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Feelings Realization, Miscommunication, Idiots in Love, Fluff |

“Charles-” Edwin started, his voice catching over his friend’s name. “Just let me… Can I go first, please?” Charles begged, his hands still caught up with Edwin’s. Edwin nodded and swallowed the words he wanted to let escape. “Okay. Don’t be mad. But there’s no case.” Edwin scowled and opened his mouth. Charles winced. “I said don’t be mad! Now, I had to bring you here because there’s something really important I’ve been needing to tell you for a while now and it’s that-” Charles stopped. His hands fell to his side because he no longer had Edwin’s hands to hold. One second Edwin was there and then the next he just… wasn’t. Charles looked around madly, trying to work out what had happened, what kind of magic could have caused him to just disappear in a puff of smoke. That was when he saw the small orb bobbing behind the board games. aka The One Where Charles Fucks Up His Love Confession So Badly Edwin Orbs Out.

Notes: This was the cutest thing ever. I loved it so much, I swear.

and at once i knew i was not magnificent by aletterinthenameofsanity (@aletterinthenameofsanity)

| T | 3k | Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unreliable Narrator |

The problem with being Charles Rowland- or, rather, the truth of being Charles Rowland- is that he is not somebody that people kiss because they truly want to. Or rather, because they truly want him. When he was alive, it was because girls wanted the other guys on the team and he was a decent second option. It was because girls wanted to try out kissing and he did too and why not figure out their problems together? And now that he's dead, it's more of the same, isn't it? Crystal kisses him to try to feel something. And Edwin kisses him because their mouths are close together, and Edwin has just helped Charles through his crisis about his father and Brad and Hunter, and emotions are high, and, well- It makes sense that Edwin kisses Charles right now, doesn't it? It makes sense that Edwin is testing something out, and Charles is the person he trusts to test things out with. (Edwin kisses Charles at the end of Dead Dragons. Charles thinks that Edwin is doing it for practice. Edwin will just have to correct him, won't he?)

Notes: This broke my heart in a million pieces, but it was very worth it. This fic is absolutely brilliant.

the great snogging debacle of '95 by thatgayprince (@prince-simon)

| M | 26k | Tags: First Kiss, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Disguise, Gender Fuckery, Near Sex Experience, Charles Rowland Has ADHD (DCU), Bisexual Charles Rowland (DCU), Internalized Homophobia, Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, Post-Canon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse |

London, 1995 – Charles Rowland gets ambushed at a house party. He doesn’t think about it for the next 30 years.

Notes: Look, I'll be forever screaming about this one. It was amazing from the first word to the last. I think it rewired my brain, because I couldn't stop thinking about it afterwards.

i’ll be waiting for twenty years (praying for redemption) by aletterinthenameofsanity (@aletterinthenameofsanity)

| E | 4k | Tags: Heavy Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Canon, First Kiss, First Time, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Religious Imagery & Symbolism |

The kindest thing that anyone has ever done for Charles was guide him to death. The cruelest thing that anyone has ever done is tell Charles that they would rather Charles have left with Death in that attic than stuck around. Charles has spent the last thirty years being haunted by the same ghost, of course. What an irony that Charles only started being haunted after he died. (What an irony that Charles only realized he was in love after that same ghost proved that Charles still had a heart in his dead chest, because that heart had broken the moment that Edwin had turned on his heel and left a shattered Charles in the place they once called a home.) And yet, Charles cannot stop wishing for Edwin to just turn around. For Edwin to just turn around and smile and laugh as he did in that attic. For Edwin to smile at him, for Edwin to accept him back, for Edwin to love him. (Edwin and Charles go their separate ways in 1990 and spend the next thirty years pining for each other. Don't worry, they'll figure things out eventually.)

Notes: The way this broke my heart and put it back together, I swear- Absolutely amazing. It's angsty and it hurts, but I have no regrets. I wanted to give it a thousand kudos (please, AO3, let me).

so I try to talk refined by shadowquill17 (@shadowquill17)

| E | 6k | Tags: POV Charles Rowland (DCU), Self-Esteem Issues, Internalized racism, Jealousy, Oblivious Charles Rowland (DCU), Misunderstandings |

Edwin tells Charles about the Cat King taking his appearance and Charles, after he's done being angry, thinks about it some more and comes to the conclusion that the only reason that could happen and Edwin could still be more flustered by the Cat King when he didn't look like Charles... is that Edwin doesn't find Charles attractive. He has no idea why it feels so painful.

Notes: This made me feel INSANE in the best of ways. I re-read it often and enjoy it as much as the first time. Thank you, @shadowquill17, for this amazing fic.

That Story Ends Tragically by Alexander_Writes (@neitherthehoneynorthebee)

| M | 12k | Tags: Ep 7 canon divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Pre-Canon Scenes, Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Trauma, Love Confessions, First Kiss |

"Can you explain this?" Charles begged. "Charles, don't leave," said the boy behind them. Edwin glared, but forcefully smoothed his expression when he looked back at Charles. "Hell is ... perceptive. It likes to snare souls. What is ..." He swallowed, throat moving with it. "What is the thing that you are most scared of, right now?" "Losing you." Or, what if Charles got lost trying to find Edwin in Hell?

Notes: MY GOD THE BRILLIANCE OF THIS. This was so well written it had me on the edge of my seat from start to end. The angst and the resolution of it were incredible.

Turnabout's Fair Play by LikeMmmCookies (@likemmmcookies)

| E | 7k | Tags: Edwin learns to flirt, Charles is down so bad, Edwin wears SHORTS, Charles walks into a door about it, Cute and silly, Cheesy flirting |

Edwin learns how to flirt.

Notes: This one had me giggling and kicking my feet because it was so amazing. It was such a fun and sweet read that I just had to include it in this list.

A gentleman by Superfriki

| Not Rated | 2k | Tags: First Kiss, Getting Together, Courting Rituals, Fluff, Love Confessions, Charles being a simp, Niko and Charles being friends |

“Niko, I can’t walk into the office with a flower bouquet and ask Edwin to let me court him. He would shit himself and run the other way” He looked at the girl, worry etched into his brow. “Don’t worry, you can do some things before that. Maybe you could start by getting him a gift or being a gentleman with him” “Oi! I’m always a gentleman with him” - Or Charles tries to woo Edwin in the Edwardian way.

Notes: ABSOLUTE FLUFF. The love. The courting. Everything about is a 10/10.

The Case of Richard Rowland by RB (BlueflowersandWings) (@writerofstuff)

| M | 31k | Tags: Post-Canon, Case Fic, Abusive Parents, Past Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Homophobia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Romantic Tension, Mutual Pining |

"Right on time, Charles," Edwin calls as he phases in through their office door. "It seems that we have a new client. We were just about to—" Charles freezes. "As I was saying," Charles' father coughs, sat across from Edwin with his back to the door, "my name is Richard Rowland, and I believe I have been murdered." — Or: Charles' father dies on a Sunday. On Monday, he arrives at the doorstep of the Dead Boy Detective Agency.

Notes: One of my all-time faves, honestly. This one hit me in the feelings with such force and shook me so fundamentally I had to stare at the wall for a bit after reading some scenes. It's angsty, but it's brilliantly written. Thank you @writerofstuff for this masterpiece.

a part of me that will never be mine by tragedy_machine (@tragedy-machine)

| E | 22k | Tags: Mutual Pining, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Unreliable Narrator, Oblivious Edwin Paine, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions |

Edwin tells Charles he loves him in Hell, but when Charles quickly responds with his own breathless 'I love you', Edwin assumes his friend meant it platonically, so he gives up halfway through his confession, leaving out the crucial 'I'm in love with you' part. Dejected, he decides to keep his feelings a secret. Meanwhile, Charles has been in love with his best mate for years, so when they unexpectedly exchange 'I love yous' on the staircase of Hell, Charles happily assumes that they've just started dating and are just going at a really slow pace. Needless to say, they're not really on the same page. --- OR: because of a misunderstanding during the confession in Hell, Charles thinks they're dating now, while Edwin believes his love will stay unrequited forever

Notes: This fic has my whole heart, I swear. It's one of my faves ever, and the sensation of receiving the email when it was updated was unparalleled. A true jewel. Thank you @tragedy-machine

pinch me (I don't want this to be a dream) by shadowquill17 (@shadowquill17)

| E | 15k | Tags: Accidental Mind Reading, Light Angst, Oblivious Charles Rowland (DCU), Misunderstandings, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Getting Together|

Charles has never met a magical object he didn’t want to use. He might have gotten cursed a couple times over the years, but he also found some great stuff that way, and it keeps his afterlife exciting, you know? So when he and Edwin find something called “Desire’s Pince-Nez”, spelled glasses that make you see someone’s desires if you look into their eyes, Charles doesn’t really think twice before trying them on.

Notes: This one killed me and revived me with every line. I cannot express properly how much I loved it, but it's one of the fics I re-read most often, so I guess that says something. Seriously, it's amazing,.

#dead boy detectives #payneland #painland #edwin payne #charles rowland #dead boy detectives fic recs #crystal palace #niko sasaki

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dissapointu · 2 days ago

Note

For all the arcane characters.

Their s/o stood from them with a distant look well our body seems.. tense as well from they're perspective we almost like a statue. "S/o? what's wrong, love?" They asked almost like they were gonna reach out to 'comforted' us.

"I can't do this, this is too much" their s/o muttered while leaning or even stepping away from them, we seem.. almost scared or maybe petrified as we cover our eyes. Peeking though our fingers locking eyes with them with a look of fear or terror.

Basically write how their reaction to their s/o seems standoffish towards them or even afraid to look at them without a terror look in their eyes 🙏😔 (something they did made us afraid of them-)

OKAY ANGST QUEENS (AND KINGS), WE’RE GOING IN. how the Arcane squad reacts when their s/o looks at them like they’re the villain in the story (even though they probably kinda are, let’s be real).

Jinx

“Wait. WAIT. Don’t do that.” Her voice wavers, panic setting in like a storm cloud. Jinx is jittery now, her hands twitching by her sides because she doesn’t know what to do. “I didn’t mean to scare you, okay?! I’m not—I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She tries to laugh it off, but it’s hollow, her eyes darting everywhere except at yours. “You’re messing with me, right? This is a joke?” But when you don’t laugh, she freezes, like all the gears in her brain just stopped turning. “Please don’t look at me like that…” Her voice cracks, soft and broken. She’s shrinking into herself, more scared of you leaving than she’s ever been of anything.

Vi stops mid-step, hands raised slightly like she’s trying not to spook you further. “Hey, hey, it’s me,” she says, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard. Her brow furrows, and she looks so lost. “What’s going on? What did I do?”

When you step back, her heart breaks a little more, but she doesn’t move closer. “I don’t get it—why are you acting like I’m gonna hurt you?” Her voice catches, and for a second, she looks like she might cry, but she quickly shakes it off. “Just… talk to me, alright? Whatever I did, I’ll fix it. Just don’t…” She swallows hard. “Don’t be scared of me.”

Sevika

Sevika’s expression hardens the moment she sees you flinch. Not because she’s mad at you, but because she’s furious with herself. “…What the hell did I do this time?” she mutters, more to herself than you.

She takes a step forward but stops when you lean away. “Alright, I get it,” she says, her voice rough but quieter than usual. “But don’t think for a second I wanted this.” There’s a flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes as she runs a hand through her hair, looking away. “You don’t have to be scared of me. I’d never—I mean, I can’t—” She exhales sharply, cutting herself off. “Just tell me how to fix it.”

Silco

Silco’s entire body goes still, his hand freezing mid-reach. “…Is that fear I see in your eyes?” he asks, his voice low and controlled, but there’s a sharp edge to it—like it hurts more than he’s willing to admit.

He straightens up, letting his hand fall to his side. “I see,” he murmurs, his tone almost cold, but his expression betrays him. There’s a flicker of something soft, almost regretful, in his gaze. “Whatever I’ve done to frighten you… I’ll correct it. But you must tell me what it is.” He steps back, giving you space, though it clearly pains him. “I won’t hurt you. Surely, you know that.”

Vander

Vander’s heart sinks the second he sees the look on your face. “Hey, now,” he says gently, his voice thick with worry. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

When you flinch away, he freezes, his hands hovering awkwardly. “…Did I do somethin’? Whatever it is, I didn’t mean to.” His voice cracks, and he looks so… sad. “You’re scared of me?” He takes a slow step back, running a hand down his face. “I never wanted this. Just tell me how to make it right.”

Ekko

Ekko’s face drops like a stone. “Wait, what? What did I do?” His voice is a mix of confusion and panic, and he steps back instinctively, his hands raised.

“C’mon, you know me. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t hurt you.” He’s practically begging now, his eyes wide and pleading. “Just tell me what’s wrong. Please. I’ll fix it, I swear. Just… don’t be scared of me like that.”

Jayce

Jayce’s entire face falls, his usual confidence crumbling in an instant. “What… What do you mean, you can’t do this?” he asks, his voice soft and shaky.

When you step away, his hands drop to his sides, and he looks like a lost puppy. “I don’t understand. What did I do?” He’s desperate for an answer, but he doesn’t want to push you further. “Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. Just don’t look at me like that, okay?”

Viktor

Viktor’s eyes widen, and he takes a cautious step back, his cane tapping softly on the floor. “Please… tell me what’s wrong,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

When you cover your eyes, he feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest. “If I’ve done something to frighten you, I assure you it was unintentional.” His words are careful, measured, but there’s a faint tremor in his voice. “I would never hurt you. Please, believe me.”

Caitlyn

Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat, and she freezes mid-step. “…Darling?” she says softly, her tone full of worry. “What’s going on? What did I do?”

When you refuse to meet her eyes, she looks like she’s on the verge of tears. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?” Her voice wavers, and she steps back, giving you space. “Please, just tell me what I did wrong. I can’t fix this if I don’t know.”

Mel Medarda

Mel’s calm facade cracks immediately, her eyes widening in genuine surprise. “I see,” she says softly, stepping back to give you space. “You’re afraid of me.”

Her voice is steady, but there’s a hint of pain beneath her composed exterior. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only want to protect you. But if I’ve overstepped…” She trails off, folding her hands tightly to keep herself from reaching for you. “I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa’s jaw tightens, and she lets out a sharp exhale. “So that’s how you see me now,” she says, her voice low and gruff.

But when she sees the terror in your eyes, her expression softens, and she takes a deliberate step back. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, almost grumbling like it’s hard for her to admit. “But if I did, then I’ve failed you. Tell me what I can do to fix this.”

Cecil B. Heimerdinger

“Oh, my stars!” Heimerdinger exclaims, his ears drooping as he takes a step back. “Have I done something to upset you? Please, do tell me!”

He looks absolutely heartbroken, wringing his tiny hands together as he tries to figure out how to make things right. “I would never wish to cause you distress. Please, let me help!”

Salo

Salo frowns deeply, his usually cocky demeanor dropping instantly. “You’re scared of me?” he asks, his voice quiet and unsure.

He steps back, his hands clenched at his sides. “I didn’t mean to—whatever I did, I didn’t mean it. Just tell me how to fix it, okay?”

Scar

Scar looks stunned, her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say. “Wait, hold up. What did I do?”

She looks genuinely hurt but tries to play it cool. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You know that, right?” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie freezes, her smile dropping in an instant. “What? Babe, no—what’s wrong?”

She takes a cautious step back, her eyes full of worry. “Whatever it is, I didn’t mean it. Please, just talk to me.”

Lest

Lest’s expression doesn’t change much, but her eyes darken with concern. “I see I’ve frightened you,” she says softly, her voice measured.

She steps back, giving you space. “That was never my intention. Please, tell me what I’ve done.”

TL;DR: Everyone’s reactions are basically “PANIC MODE ACTIVATED,” but in their own unique ways.

#x reader #arcane x reader #character x reader #imagine #arcane imagine #headcannons #arcane #arcane headcanon #jinx arcane #jinx x reader #arcane vi #silco x reader #arcane sevika #arcane silco #arcane caitlyn

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granny-griffin · 1 day ago

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1. There are a lot of people who think they're the only one who would speak up. Imagine what would happen if everyone who thought they were the only one... Spoke. But even if you do think you're alone... Why is antiracism not worth standing alone for?

I mean I think it is, and I’ve done it (or tried to). But I do tend to second guess my interpretation of a situation a lot more if I haven’t seen anybody else say something—maybe people sometimes aren’t sure if what they’re looking at is racist or not, and then decide not to do anything with that uncertainty because it would require thought.

2. There is a difference between feeding the trolls and speaking up when something wrong is happening. Do you feel people are more comfortable assuming the former so that they don't have to interact via the latter?

I think people are taught that the latter only exists in real life, and that if you try to do it in fandom you’re just yucking someone’s yum. People who do the second one generally receive the same kind of pushback as people who do the first one (even though they don’t deserve it).

3. Why do we think that bigotry will go away if it goes unaddressed? Is that how you also feel about bigotry that you experience via your other identities?

Because trolls go away when you don’t pay attention to them. But like you already said in question #2, those situations aren’t the same. People are drawing a false equivalence between the two. And as far as bigotry I experience in fandom—I think I just assume that it will be there and not go away no matter what, and I’m pleasantly surprised when that’s not the case. But that’s not really the point of this.

4. Why should we entertain and prioritize the annoyance of bigots? Why do you not deserve to be here and have a safe, comfortable space any more than they do?

I want to annoy bigots XD I love the excuse. Honestly not sure why more people don’t feel this way on tumblr, the website that’s all about being as annoying as you please.

At the same time, I want the annoyance to come because I’m giving them a message they don’t want to hear, not because I’m also being a jerk about it. Maybe it’s weird, but I care about bigots because they’re people, and their bigotry hurts them too, and I want them to listen to me long enough that they hear what I have to say and change what they’re doing. But even that isn’t a reason to try to keep from offending them—coddling somebody in their bigotry isn’t kind either.

I do think that people often don’t want to offend bigots who are good at creating fanworks, because they look up to them as a creative and/or don’t want to drive their skill away from the fandom. Yeah—the better you are at fanworks, the more you can get away with.

The second question is hitting me really strangely—yes, I think everybody deserves to have a comfortable space, and I want to defend that for others. I don’t know if I care to defend it for myself.

5. What do we plan on doing when Black fans lose their patience due to disillusionment? Are we okay with the outcome of that, of choosing... Well, being racist but safe? (Be honest with yourself!) Would we rather Black fans just accept that it's easier to assume everyone is antiblack, the same way it's easier not to speak up against it as a social norm? If we want to show that there is still a welcome for Black fans, that we are safe, why don't we act to show that?

I mean I plan to listen to them, even if I don’t like the way they’re presenting their frustrations—if somebody’s mad at me for something that I really did (or sat by and failed to stop) then it’s so not my job to critique their attitude.

I don’t think I’m okay with the outcome—that’s why I’ve spoke out in the past—but the parenthetical is psyching me out. Maybe I do ignore things out of fear! I’ll have to keep introspecting.

I don’t want Black fans to assume everyone is against them, and I don’t think other people want that either—but I think fixing the situation requires people to be proactive. I think a lot of people think that just not being antiblack is enough, and then don’t think about it any harder. And so nothing happens, because instead of looking to do something right, people are only trying not to do something wrong.

6. If everyone only hangs around people who aren't antiblack, why is the space still so overwhelmingly antiblack? Have you considered that you cannot adequately judge from within?

YES 100%!! I don’t think we can accurately judge from within! This is one of my biggest struggles—it goes back to my answer to #1. I want to speak out against racism, but even though I’m trying to educate myself so that I can spot it, sometimes I’m really not sure. And calling somebody racist feels like a really big accusation—if it lands publicly in the right way it could get somebody blocked by all their friends. I wouldn’t want to do it to mistakenly. So I’ve been trying to watch and see when Black people call out racism so that I can amplify/support what they’re already saying.

But maybe we need also to have a less all or nothing approach? If we aren’t sure if someone is being racist, we could start a more private conversation to tell them about our concerns, and see if their response sheds any light on the situation. Sometimes I ask people leading questions about their thought process when making something instead of just telling them to quit being racist.

Inevitably, no matter what I do, I worry that I’m not using the right level of forcefulness. But I guess sitting here and angsting about the appropriateness of my approach is still better than doing nothing.

7. No one really answered my "what is the boundary" question at all. What I should have asked is, are you willing to recognize that you have a willing tolerance for antiblackness? That there is a certain amount that you are okay with allowing before thinking it's worth speaking up?

Yes, and I think it’s tied to my struggle to judge situations. There’s a certain threshold of racism under which I can’t identify it with enough accuracy to feel comfortable making a callout. But again—maybe “public callout” and “do nothing” are not the only two possible responses.

Okay so after sitting on the responses from yesterday's question, I have some follow up questions to what seemed to be some consistent... Themes in the answers.

Like yesterday, I am asking with intent to listen (and maybe ask more questions) so I will not be arguing- at best, you'll get a "hm" to acknowledge i saw what you said.

My follow up questions:

3. Why do we think that bigotry will go away if it goes unaddressed? Is that how you also feel about bigotry that you experience via your other identities?

4. Why should we entertain and prioritize the annoyance of bigots? Why do you not deserve to be here and have a safe, comfortable space any more than they do?

6. If everyone only hangs around people who aren't antiblack, why is the space still so overwhelmingly antiblack? Have you considered that you cannot adequately judge from within?

*I also want to note that I'm not directing this to Black fans. I know that the context changes when you have to fight. I'm asking the people who have the privilege of fighting antiblackness while not having the identity. I.e. some marginal power in the area.

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zara-renata · 17 hours ago

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And everything that is now already existed then | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Sylus shows you his favorite parts of his house, you are haunted by a strange feeling of familiarity, you spend some time with the twins and Noah, you learn about the bet they have going, no this is not a wattpad bet story that will be turned into a multi-part tv series even though i love that trope so much, the self control i exerted should be acknowledged if not praised. This part has less humor than other parts, I've been in a contemplative mood recently, sorry. Part 17 of the Sylus series.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV. They/them pronouns are used to refer to reader as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. The slowest of slow burns friends-to-lovers. This story contains: angst, fluff, banter, poetry, questions of morality, video game violence, discussions of real life violence, profanity, alcohol mention, self-harm mention, mc with self-esteem and guilt issues.

The water is warm. The man underneath you is warm. Your heart, you realize, is also warm. Quiet. Nothing hurts. You marvel at the feeling. How long can you get away with this? Plastered against Sylus’s big body, his rough hands just resting on your back. You feel guilty for keeping him from doing something else. For not being at work. For doing absolutely nothing useful to anyone. For feeling so good.

Sylus holds you, seemingly content to just sit here with you as the water laps against the sides of the pool.

“Don’t you have business to attend to?” you reluctantly ask, because you’re incapable of just trusting that good things can last. That the fulfillment of your deepest desires won’t be snatched away when you least expect it, so you push, push, push, seeking the weakness that will ultimately crack and cause the moment, finally filled, to break.

Sylus holds you a little tighter. “No.”

You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. You should just accept it. Just enjoy this moment. All you have in this life is each moment—that’s all there is. Why can’t you just experience each one, savor it, suck it dry, until the next? Why must you always waste the pleasure of each moment by being in such a rush to get to the inevitable end?

But you can’t just accept it. You don’t know how. Your whole life has taught you that the moment you trust the permanence is the moment that the moment shatters. Might as well ruin it first, instead of fearing the end. And who are you to complain? What have you done to deserve it in the first place?

“Business slow in the Onychinus economy?” you ask.

“Tch,” he responds, seemingly indignant at the mere suggestion that his business isn’t printing him money even as he canoodles in a hot tub with you. “Business is booming, darling. The human capacity for cruelty is an endlessly growing market.”

You press your cheek harder against the sweaty skin just under his collarbone. You don’t want to think about what he offers people to enable that endless cruelty right now.

“Then how do you have the luxury of lazing about with me?”

“I’ve tasked Aidan with handling business that requires executive decisions for the foreseeable future. As much as it annoys me, I will likely have to answer calls like this morning, but I’ve informed him that I will not be leaving the base unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

You lift your head, curious. He looks down at you, relaxed, eyes glowing in the low light from the pool.

“Why?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Guess.”

You stare at him. He’s taking time off, not pursuing new deals, not focusing on growing his wealth… for you? Ridiculous.

“What will you do while you’re not doing business?” you ask, not able to bring yourself to guess out loud that he took time off for you, to spend time with you while you’re staying with him.

“What do you want to do?” He runs his fingers along your temple, brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, traces the shell of it with a fingertip.

“That’s not an answer,” you say, softly.

“Yes, it is.”

You can’t believe it. The man who is always on the go, from one deal to the next, disappearing for weeks at a time, doing who knows what, who knows where—the man who probably gets bored out of his mind while instigating a riot—says that he just wants to do whatever you want to do. You, whose idea of excitement is a new pair of sleep pants and a night off to watch let’s plays of horror games that you don’t have the time and energy to play yourself anymore.

“You can’t mean that.” You frown at him.

“Try me,” he challenges.

You try to think of something that he’d hate just to prove your point that he doesn't actually mean it when he says he’ll do whatever you want.

“Oh, kitten’s plotting,” he snickers after seeing your expression.

“I want to watch every Justin Bieber documentary ever produced,” you say defiantly. You really don’t. But you’re sure he’ll balk at this outrageous suggestion.

He shrugs a little. “Okay. We can see if they’re on demand in the theater room. If not, I’m sure we can pirate them.”

You narrow your eyes. He can’t mean it. Fuck, if he’s going to call your bluff, you’re going to have to actually sit through who knows how many hours of Justin Bieber: Our World. You barely suppress a shudder.

“Actually, I want to fly to a warm seaside resort and swim with dolphins,” you try, the picture of casual entitlement. You do not want to do this. You’re fucking tired. The last thing you want to do is get on an airplane.

“Dolphins can be as vicious as humans, but if you really want that, we can pack some things now and be on our way by dinner,” he says calmly. As if the suggestion isn’t utterly outrageous.

Is he being as petty as you, intent on not admitting that he didn’t actually mean it when he said he would do whatever you want, or does he actually want to do whatever the fuck you want? You can’t read him at all right now.

You’re desperate and stubborn. “Actually, I think the amusement park in Linkon City is having a furry event all week. I’d like to dress up as our respective fursonas and ride the roller coasters all day.”

Sylus doesn’t even blink. “Do you have a fursuit already, or do we need one tailored before we can go?”

You laugh in disbelief and rest your forehead on his shoulder. “What about you? Do you have a fursuit already?”

“No, I don’t have a fursuit, because I’m not a fucking furry,” he says drily. “But I do think I’d make a very majestic caracal cat. Which goes nicely with your kitten fursona.”

You blink. “That's quite self-aware of you." And then you scowl. "My fursona wouldn’t be as lame as a kitten.”

“Oh? What animal do you think accurately portrays your personality?”

You lift your head and think. You’ve never really thought about it. Something small and mean, probably. “A mongoose.”

He tilts his head, considering. “That actually fits you quite well. Good at hunting snakes, and very, very cute.”

You can feel yourself blushing. “Yeah, well. I’m not a furry, so it doesn’t matter even if it doesn’t fit,” you mumble a little.

“And yet you want to go to the furry event at the amusement park,” he lifts an eyebrow.

You stare at him, mulishly. You’re not going to admit that you’re trying to poke holes in his patience because you can’t trust nice things.

“But I don’t think that’s what you actually want to do,” he continues, with a gentleness that hurts your heart. He urges you to wrap your legs around his waist. “When I said you could test me, this is not exactly what I had in mind,” he teases. “How about you test me by telling me what you actually want to do, and then you’ll see that I mean what I say when I refrain from complaining about being bored while we do them?”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he stands gracefully, the water sliding down both your bodies. “I don’t want you to just not complain about being bored,” you argue. “I don’t want you to be bored at all. You don’t have to entertain me while I’m here. You can do whatever you really want to do.” You mean this. It’s enough, just being in the same house as him right now. Knowing that in the evening he’ll end up in the same bed as you. You don’t want him to tire of you too quickly by insisting that he spend every moment with you.

“Then I repeat—what do you want to do?”

Okay. Okay, he asked for it.

“Show me your favorite things to do at home, when you’re not being a warlord.”

He looks surprised. “That’s it?”

“Yeah. I’m really tired. I never get a chance to just relax. I don’t want to go anywhere, or do anything exciting.” You bite your lip, unwilling to admit that you’re desperate to learn more about him and that worried he’s going to think you’re boring.

He leans forward and catches the side of your lip not caught in your own teeth with his. With your lip between his sharp teeth, he pulls back, gently, until you release it from your own. He pauses, inhales, and then lets go, licking your bitten lip with a quick, soothing flick of his tongue.

“That’s my spot,” he murmurs, pulling back.

Your brain is offline. You have no idea what you were just talking about, or what just happened. All you can feel is the slick of his saliva on the plush of your lip.

Fuck.

You want to fuck him so badly.

You search his face. Can he tell? Does he feel the same way? He touches you like this, and then does nothing. What does he want?

If he can tell what’s going on in your head, he doesn’t comment on it. “Then we can stay home. I’ll show you what I like to do when I’m tired and don’t want to do anything exciting.” His faint smile is tinged with self satisfaction.

“Okay,” you choke out. You will not slide down his body, push him onto the soft moss, and jump on him.

“But first, I will feed you.” The tendrils of his evol bring the fluffy towels to his waiting hand, and he wraps one around you, all while you cling to his torso. He just drapes the other around his shoulders, over your arms still wrapped around his neck. His evol then ferries the two cocktails that remained untouched for the whole time you were in the hot tub, following you back through the pool room and into the chill hallway as Sylus carries you to the kitchen. Between the heat of Sylus’s body and the towels blanketing you, you’re still warm. You watch the drinks following you over his shoulder, and then glance at him.

At your look, he says, “What? It would be a shame to let perfectly good drinks go to waste.”

“What time is it? Don’t you think it’s a bit early to start drinking?”

He shrugs. “It’s probably past midnight, sweetheart. That’s when one normally drinks alcoholic beverages, isn’t it?”

You sigh. “So it’s basically noon in your day-night cycle.”

“Time is a construct, and inherently meaningless,” he says serenely.

After this insufferable response, you give up trying to save his liver for the moment.

____________________

Later, after Sylus serves you a meal packed with protein that pairs nicely with the cocktails as the fire crackles pleasantly and the clouds, reflecting the N109 Zone’s bright lights even at night, sweep across the sky outside his kitchen windows, after you’ve showered and put on warm, comfortable clothes, you find him in the sitting area of his bedroom, reading a book, the Beatles playing on his record player. You recognize the song— The long and winding road.

You stop, suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of sorrow. He looks up from his book and watches you curiously.

You left me standing here, a long long time ago

You feel like you’re forgetting something very, very important. Like your dream last night, but not about your family. About the man watching you inquisitively, his long, graceful fingers holding the book gently, the outline of his aquiline nose limned in the soft lighting of his bedroom.

Don’t leave me waiting here, lead me to your door

You suddenly can’t bear to be separated from him for one more second. You pad to him on your freshly bandaged feet, knock the book out of his hand, clamber into his lap, and hug him.

His arms come around you as if he doesn’t mind that you’ve just bulldozed your way onto his lap. After a few minutes, the song ends, and a new, more upbeat one begins.

You feel like you can breathe again.

You sit up, looking down into his face. You want to kiss him so badly. You’re afraid that he’ll gently push you away, as he pushed your hand away from the tie of his sleep pants that you were fiddling with recently. With such kindness, but a loud, resounding rejection of what he perceived to be you offering your body to him.

He’ll bite your lip, but you’re so scared that he doesn’t want to kiss you. Sometimes it seems like he wants you, you, not just a body, not just anyone praising him or challenging him, but you. Do you really still not know? My beloved is perfect to me.

But what if you’re wrong? What have you done to earn this incredible man's devotion?

“Will you tell me what you’re thinking right now, without the guessing game?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “No. And I don’t want to play the guessing game right now.” You can’t bear to think about what you may be forgetting as you look into his blood-bright eyes. You can’t bear to reveal how badly you want to kiss him, only to be rebuffed.

“Not even a hint?” He nudges your nose with his. “Otherwise I’ll spend every free moment sitting around reading, listening to classic rock music.”

You look at him in confusion. “Why?”

“It seemed to work in luring a kitten into my lap this time. Maybe it works every time.”

Your heart is doing something funny. It doesn’t hurt. It feels… it feels so fucking warm. Like in the hot tub. What is happening to you?

“The music made me sad,” you offer this truth, as a reward for his sweet response.

“Not a fan of the Beatles?” He fiddles with the hem of your shirt, his knuckles brushing against your skin underneath.

“I do like their music. My gran used to listen to them a lot.”

“Is that what made you sad?”

You give him a look. “I said I didn’t want to play the guessing game.”

“I’m just asking questions,” he protests, the picture of innocence. “Is it a crime to want to get to know you?”

You gaze at him. Weren’t you just thinking about how you’re desperate to know everything about him? “Not one I’d arrest you for,” you say, looking down, smiling a little.

He laughs softly. “Lucky me. It would be hard to uphold my end of our deal and show you the music room, the library, and my favorite part of the greenhouse from behind bars.”

“That sounds like a busy itinerary,” you say, lifting a finger, tracing his clavicle revealed by his soft v-neck sweater.

His knuckles sweep over your skin just above the band of your soft pants.

“We have time—we don’t have to do everything today. Which one do you want to see first?”

You don’t care. Your heart is being weird and Sylus is touching you, and you’re touching Sylus. You could just sit here, forever, and enjoy whatever this… feeling is. But you’re afraid you’ll ruin it. Like you always do. If you take too much, he will actually get bored. You should pick one.

“Library,” you say firmly.

“As you wish,” he says, standing, holding you all the while. You can’t bring yourself to protest. You can walk on your own feet. Your feet already feel a little better after just a day. But he’s warm. And he doesn’t seem to mind at all. You drape yourself over him, and let him carry you through the dark halls to his library.

He sets you down outside one of the ubiquitous black doors, and then opens it for you.

His library, like the greenhouse, the pool, the room like a mountain hot spring, is lovely in a way that the rest of his house simply isn’t. Soaring ceilings, heavy built-in wooden bookcases lining the walls, a huge fireplace, electric as opposed to the wood-fireplace from the kitchen, at one end of the room. A wrought iron spiraling staircase leads up beyond the heavy wooden rafter beams to a space you can’t see. Deep red, plush rugs in antique designs hush your footsteps. Plush, deep seated chairs and loveseats, side tables with Tiffany lamps gently illuminate the space. One wall of his preferred floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the N109 Zone night, the red moon bright in the sky as the clouds scuttle past.

It’s like a library from an old, prestigious university. The kind of university you always wished you could have gone to, if you lived in another world. If this world didn’t need people prepared to kill and die for existential threats to humanity. Where you could study something functionally useless, but enriching to the human experience. Like French literature or poetry. The room smells of wood oil, old paper.

You turn in a circle and find Sylus leaning against a bookcase, watching you take in the room. “This is one of your favorite spots in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s quiet. The twins aren’t big readers, so they don’t come in here. It’s a good place to think, and concentrate.”

“Have you read every book in here, like you’ve seen every film in your collection?”

He straightens from the bookcase and walks to you. As he comes to a stop in front of you, he reaches for your face, holds your cheeks gently in his hands. “No. This room is more about the future. Books I’d like to read when life is a little less busy. I’ve read some, but not as many as I would like.”

“Do you think that someday your life will be less busy?”

“If I have my way, yes.”

“And you’ll spend your days quietly reading in the solitude of your lovely library?”

“Not in solitude. But yes. You think it’s lovely?”

You look at him strangely. Didn't he just say he enjoys it because it's quiet and no one bothers him here? “Of course I do. It’s like someone designed it just for me.”

He looks down into your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones.

“Like I said. This room is about the future.”

You tilt your head at his non-sequitur. What does your loving the library have to do with his quieter future?

It almost sounds like…

The moment is full. You refuse to shatter it by considering such outrageous thoughts. You will enjoy this moment for what it is. A peek into the mind of this enigmatic man. The opportunity to explore a beautiful, private space in his home.

“Read to me,” he orders, striding to one of the soft couches and plopping down.

You snort. “What do you want me to read you, your spoiled highness?”

“Anything you want. Look around, pick something that catches your interest.” He lets his head drop onto the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as they follow you walking to one of the bookcases, as you let your fingertips run along the spines of book after book. You see a lot of titles you don’t recognize. You see a lot that you do—classics as well as newer publications. You and Xavier spend enough time in the bookstore that you know a lot of titles by sight, even if these days you rarely have the time to read beyond the manga you share with your partner.

Your eyes catch on a familiar title.

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Find something?” Sylus asks languidly.

“One of my favorite poets. Gran had a copy of this.” You pluck the book from the shelf and walk back over to where Sylus is sprawled on the couch. The moonlight through the windows makes his eyes look even brighter than usual, glowing in the soft light.

“You’re a fan of poetry?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

“Don’t act so surprised. I’m not entirely uncultured.”

“Your manga collection could have fooled me,” he teases.

“Manga is art. You’re a pretentious fool if you can’t recognize that.”

“No need to get your knives out, kitten,” he smiles, one sharp tooth peeking from behind his full lip. “I have a collection of manga here as well.”

“You do?”

He just steadily stares at you.

“Where?”

He closes his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to stay long enough to explore and find it.”

You stand over him, drinking in the sight of him. Surrounded by the scent of books, polished wood, the moon’s red light rendering him slightly otherworldly.

You want to stay long enough to find out. It’s only been two days, and you want to live in this moment forever. You're so greedy. You're so unworthy.

“Still want me to read to you?”

Instead of answering, the tendrils of his evol wind up from your ankles to your waist, lift you, deposit you on the seat next to him. He scoots down, places his head in your lap.

“You could have just said yes,” you say drily. “No need to be dramatic.”

“I don’t hear any reading. Chop chop.”

Oh hell no. You scowl down at him, but his eyes are closed. “Lap service costs extra.”

“Good thing I’m filthy rich.”

You scoff. “I don’t want your money.”

He opens his eyes. “I suspected as much. It makes taming you all the more difficult.”

You look at him curiously. “Is that what you’re doing? All of your generosity, in order to acquire a tame hunter?”

“What use is a tame hunter?” He dismisses your suggestion. “Your imagination is distressingly limited.”

“Once again, I disappoint,” you murmur. He clearly isn’t in the mood to answer your questions.

He tsks and closes his eyes again, wiggles a little to get more comfortable in your lap. “Make up for it by reading your favorite poetry to me.”

You want to lean down and kiss the smug look off of his face. You don’t want him to turn away if you do.

You begin to read.

“Try to praise the mutilated world.

Remember June's long days,

and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.”

He interrupts you. “I see why you like Zagajewski. Someone else who shares your taste in middling wine.”

“No comments until the end, thank you,” you jostle his head by bouncing your thigh a few times.

He scowls, places one big hand on your thigh and presses down. “Stingy. This should be interactive storytelling.”

You ignore the howling need in you to grab his hand, to guide it further up your leg. You continue to read.

“The nettles that methodically overgrow

the abandoned homesteads of exiles.

You must praise the mutilated world.

You suddenly think of the N109 Zone and all of its misery. Paying the price of some shitty corporation’s greed. But you keep reading.

You watched the stylish yachts and ships;

one of them had a long trip ahead of it,

while salty oblivion awaited others.”

You pause, thinking about Sylus’s wealth, the wealth of people like him, and everyone else. The yachts, versus the ships that will sink.

“That’s not the end. Why have you stopped?” Sylus's voice jerks you out of your thoughts.

“You know this poem?”

“I own the book, don’t I?”

“You said you hadn’t read everything in here.”

“Point,” he concedes. “But yes, I know this poem. I’m also an admirer of the poet.”

You think about him calling you kindred spirits, when you first met. How angry that idea made you. Now, you want to lean down and kiss him. You shake your head a little. You keep reading.

“You've seen the refugees going nowhere,

you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.

You should praise the mutilated world.

Remember the moments when we were together

in a white room and the curtain fluttered.”

Sylus interrupts you again. “I always liked the imagery of the moments spent together, the simplicity of the white room, the curtain fluttering. What more can one desire, when at their love’s side?”

You don't think you've ever heard him say something so romantic. But why would you have? You're not in a romantic relationship with him. Your heart doesn't seem to understand that fact—something inside you thrills that his idea of romance mirrors yours so closely. But his focus on the gentle moment, instead of the rest of the poem, strikes you as strange. “That’s what you see? Not the lovers enjoying simplicity, safety, while the refugees are going nowhere, and the executioners are singing joyfully?”

“The point of the poem is that you must wrest joy from an imperfect world where you can. You’re not helping the condemned by moping about their fate.”

“Is that the point? Perhaps the point is that all you can do is try to praise the mutilated world, but it’s fruitless. If that were the point, he would have entitled it 'Praise the mutilated world,' not 'Try to praise the mutilated world.' ‘Trying’ isn’t succeeding—try all you want, but it’s impossible to praise the world as it is. Better to use your yacht to save those drowning in the salty oblivion.”

“Idealist,” Sylus scoffs, as if the label is a profanity instead of a compliment.

You jostle his head again. “Cynic,” you retort.

“You’re not done,” he sniffs, closing his eyes again.

You resist the urge to buck your hips in order to dump him on the floor. You read again.

“Return in thought to the concert where music flared.

You gathered acorns in the park in autumn

and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.

Praise the mutilated world

and the gray feather a thrush lost,

and the gentle light that strays and vanishes

and returns.”

You finish, filled with a strange feeling. You’ve loved this poem ever since the first time you read it with the sunshine gushing into your gran’s living room on a slow summer day. As you grew, you loved it for different reasons, for its ambiguity, its hope and its resignation, its acknowledgment of the horrors of life and its simple pleasures. It always felt familiar to you, but the specific imagery reading it this time around is familiar in a way that feels concrete.

You think about the gray feather, the light that strays and vanishes and returns. You think about the feeling while listening to the Beatles, that you’re forgetting something important. You think about Sylus’s casual dismissal of the suffering of others.

Calling suffering fate seems like a convenient excuse to you. Why bother trying to make the world better, if fate deems that it should be miserable?

You think about sipping the rosé, biting the strawberry Sylus offered you. Your curtains fluttering in the breeze in your room, when Sylus has come to your place at night. These things you have enjoyed, as people suffer beyond the safety of your apartment and Sylus’s fortress walls.

“Stop torturing yourself, darling,” he says through your racing thoughts. He turns his head, presses his lips against your thigh, inhales deeply. It’s not a kiss, but you feel the press of his mouth through the fabric of your pants as if it were. You resist the urge to spread your thighs further.

“Should I read another?” you ask quietly. You don’t want to think about these things. You want to live in the moment. What kind of person does that make you? The desire to ignore the cost of this pleasure, your enjoyment of Sylus's home, proves that you don’t deserve it.

“Of course,” he says, but his phone vibrates in his pocket. He grunts unhappily as he reluctantly sits up, sliding the phone from his pocket. “Keep exploring,” he says, heading to the door. “I’ll try to make this quick.”

So you do. Wandering amongst the books, finding other titles that are your favorites, but so many that you’ve never read, never heard of. Many of them are not in your native language. You wonder how many languages Sylus speaks.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, he returns. "Read more to me," he orders, sprawling on the couch once more.

You look back at him, admiring the wrought-iron staircase spiraling up, the moon through the windows, his long, strong body casually stretched along the couch.

“Can we light the fire?”

“Of course. Fire," he says, and the fireplace flares to life at his command. You wonder if such a system is in place in each room. You wander back to the couch, and he pulls you down. You read him the rest of the poems from this collection, arguing here and there, learning his favorite parts, both matching and diverging from your own. Until your stomach growls, causing him to nuzzle it, insist on taking you to the kitchen and feeding you another meal. After you're once again full, he offers to show you the conservatory.

“Okay,” you say, relaxed, satisfied. He wraps his arms around you, lifts. You let him, wrapping your legs around his waist. You think about a gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns. What are you forgetting?

He takes you to the music room. It’s behind another black door. You would never be able to guess, walking through his solemn hallways, each expansive room unfolding behind each uniform door.

As you walk into the beautiful space, you’re struck with the realization that Sylus’s home is strange in many ways, and not just because it serves as both his home and his fortress, an armory and an indoor playground. The halls are winding and despite the height of the ceilings on each floor, they’re oppressive. There is no open floor plan for the house itself. Each room’s door can be closed, barricaded, turning the room within into a bunker. But behind each door, each room fans out, soaring windows, high ceilings, glass giving way to a savage view of the harsh landscape in a way that renders even the ugliness of the N109 Zone beautiful in a stark, barren-planet kind of way. You suspect that the glass is bullet-proof. You wonder what kind of impacts it can withstand beyond firearms. Could it survive a thrown grenade? A direct strike from a drone? Would anyone dare actually wage a full-on assault on the leader of Onychinus’s home?

“Not even the greenhouse rendered you speechless, kitten. Does that mean you like it, or hate it?”

You blink. You had been so busy wondering about the strategic choices of Sylus’s architectural design that you hadn’t even begun admiring the metal support beams, curling like vines in a distinct art nouveau style between multiple panes of glass, each meeting at the pinnacle of a glass ceiling. Two of the larger glass panes are not the standard window glass, but are stained glass, continuing the art nouveau theme, depicting colorful curls of plants, flowers, as well as animals—beasts from mythology, dragons, phoenixes, winged chimeras. Luscious potted plants scattered along the white marble floor. A white grand piano sitting in the center of the circular space. Instruments of all kinds, from all parts of the world, hung or resting on more organically wrought metal display mounts along two-thirds of the glass walls. A seating area, filled with comfortable, low furniture, carved blond wood in flowing, plant-like designs, sits between the piano and the view of the landscape through the clear glass, framed by the murals of stained glass.

It’s breathtaking. But you’ve had your breath taken by the greenhouse, the pool, the room with the hot tub, the library. Each in a distinctly different style from the rooms of the house that see daily use by their owner: Sylus’s bedroom. The kitchen. The hallways. The imposing dining room and its equally imposing banquet table. The cave-like theater room. Each dark—black marble, maroon accents, deeply masculine, modern, abstract art. But the rooms that have taken your breath instead of making you feel oppressed are so startlingly different from Sylus’s often-used spaces.

You can’t accept the moment. You can’t stand not knowing, even as you are afraid to know. You have to ask. “I don’t understand,” you say, turning to him.

He glances around the room, and then looks back at you. “It’s a home conservatory, sweetheart. Not a trick question.”

You ignore him. Your curiosity will eat you alive if you don’t ask him. You want to know. You don’t want to know. “Why does it feel like two different people designed your house?”

His eyebrows lift in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Half of your house is edgy, big-dick rich vampire man-cave, and half is this,” you sweep an arm to indicate the delicate yet sturdy steel beams, organically curving into the height of the room, the chairs carved like palms, stained glass, the lush vegetation.

“Can one person not appreciate more than one style of home decor?” he asks, walking over to you, winding an arm around your waist.

You stare at him. Nothing Sylus does is by accident. You know this much by now. You know a lot about him by now. You don’t know enough about him by now.

“The parts of the house you spend the most time in reflect your style. But the other parts… the parts that wait for an owner that rarely comes. Did you choose the design yourself? Or did you let your architect run wild?”

His smile is faint as he gazes down at you. “How very observant of you, darling. But I designed every room in this house. The architect modified the plans where necessary to ensure the structural integrity was sound, but I chose the decor.”

You wait. It sounded like he ended that sentence with a ‘but.’

“You’re right. I didn’t have just my preferences in mind as I was planning each room.”

You want to know. You don’t want to know. What if you’re wrong? The very idea is insane. Presumptuous. How could he possibly know? You only met him a few months ago. This base isn’t newly built. You have no idea how long I’ve already waited, his voice whispers through your mind.

“Whose preferences did you have in mind?” you ask, your heart doing that thing again. That weird thing that doesn’t hurt but scares you with how good it feels. Don’t leave me waiting here, lead me to your door.

His smile widens, just a little. “Do you really not know?”

You can’t process this. How could he have known?

It’s like these oases in his dark fortress of a home were designed with your deepest heart’s desires in mind.

You want to kiss him. You want to resonate with him again. You want to drop to your knees in front of him.

The enormity of your feelings is terrifying.

What if you’re wrong?

How much worse will it be, if you let yourself believe, and he turns you away. What if he designed all of this for someone else. Because how could he have known, before you met just a few months ago—how could he have known the contours of your tastes, the things that make you most comfortable, the yearning of your heart in your small apartment, of what you’d give yourself if you could ever afford to make your home exactly how you would want? A refuge from the harsh world. Space to breathe.

Your feelings are choking you. You step away from his embrace, turn. You have time. He said he’ll wait. You focus on this room.

It’s beautiful. Because of course it is. You don’t recognize even half of these instruments.

You turn back to him. He has moved to the piano, straddling the white bench, legs spread, just watching you.

“Do you know how to play all of these?”

He shakes his head. “No. Most of these are collector’s items, antiques. But I do know how to play the piano.”

You stand, resisting the constant pull towards him. You want to go to him, run your hands through his hair, tug his head back, expose his throat, bite.

“Only the piano?” You satisfy your need to move by walking over to the sitting area, forcing yourself to sit away from him. You need to control yourself. You plop down on one of the beautiful chairs, carved like a ginkgo leaf.

He turns, sitting properly on the bench in order to face you, and opens the cover over the piano keys. He leisurely presses down on one key, and the note resounds through the lovely room.

“I can also play the organ,” he murmurs, before beginning to play in earnest.

You don’t recognize the piece. You know you’ve never heard it before. But the longer he plays, the more you’re overcome with the sense that you know it. The blood under your skin, your lungs, your bones—you feel pulled to him, to his long fingers sweeping over the keys, unseen from your vantage point in the room. You know what’s coming, the crescendos and the pauses. It’s beautiful. It hurts. Your thoughts drift to the poem. Its strawberries, its rosé wine. Its familiarity. Return in thought to the concert where the music flared. You want to ask Sylus if he owns a yacht. You’re convinced that there will be a park, and acorns, and you will pick them up and offer them to him on a sunny summer morning after a long, long night. It has already happened. It will happen in the future.

You can’t resist the pull any longer. You stand and walk over to him, stand next to him at the bench. His hands hypnotize you. Big. Rough. Delicately pressing the keys—sure, confident, flowing. Like his evol. Like him.

“Sit,” he orders, and you obey, sliding in next to him. You try to give him space, but he takes one hand, still playing with the other, and pulls you by the waist until you’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

You watch his hands, lost in the moment, lost in the feeling of recognition, of … something. That warm feeling in your heart, threaded with the pain of having lost something that you can’t remember.

Slowly, the piece comes to an end. His hands become still on the keys.

“What song was that?” you ask.

He flicks his eyes to yours.

“It doesn’t have a name.”

“Who composed it?” You hope that perhaps you can track it down later and listen to it again when Sylus isn’t around.

“Me,” he says, turning his head to look at you.

Wait, what?

“It’s already shocking enough that you play, but when do you have the time to compose?”

He lifts one of your hands and threads his fingers with yours. “Why so shocked that I have hobbies, like anyone else?”

“I just figured you’re always too busy with murder, mayhem, and munitions to have hobbies like a normal person,” you squeeze his hand as it swallows yours.

“I don’t have a lot of free time, but when I do, I like to spend some of it practicing and composing. Sometimes when I’m bored during business meetings I compose a little in my head and then write it out when I get home.”

At your incredulous look, he flicks your forehead gently with his free hand. “What would you have guessed that I spend my free time doing if it occurred to you that I do not, in fact, work in every waking moment?”

You consider it. “I would have assumed you spend all your free time hanging out in your shady nightclubs.”

He frowns at you. “I own classy nightclubs because they make me money and provide convenient venues for business deals now that I no longer host such deals in my own home. I do not spend any more time in them than necessary.”

“Is that what you meant when you said that Amnesia isn’t really your vibe?”

“You remember,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“Even though it feels like weeks ago, you did just tell me that like, two nights ago,” you flick his forehead in revenge.

“Fair point,” he concedes. “All right, then, yes. That’s what I meant.”

“So what is your vibe?”

“Curious, kitten?”

“Yes.” That warm feeling you have is overriding your fears of admitting this to him. You want to know him. You want to know everything about him.

“It’s easier to show you my vibe,” he shrugs. “We’ll make a date of it.”

He dropped the “fake” part again.

His phone begins to vibrate in his jeans pocket again.

He frowns in irritation. You stand, forcing yourself to move away from him.

“I’ll entertain myself,” you smile at his questioning look. He holds onto your hand as you move away, until your arm and his are stretched between you, and then he lets go.

You’re thankful for the interruption. Too much unadulterated time being the subject of Sylus’s entire focus makes you think insane things. Like that he designed parts of his house with you in mind. That you know music that you’ve never heard before. That you’re forgetting something important about him, even though you only met him recently. That a poem you read in your youth is a roadmap of things that have already happened between you and the man pacing behind the door, and what will happen before the light strays, vanishes… returns again.

You step into the hallway and wander back toward the kitchen. After a few minutes, you hear the flap of Mephisto’s wings. He’s keeping you company again. You keep walking.

You’re distracted halfway to the kitchen, however, when you hear voices coming from the theater room. It sounds like the twins, and someone else whose voice is familiar, but you can’t pinpoint it. You knock.

“No need to knock,” one of the twins yells.

You open the door and peek into the room. It’s dark, with all the lights dimmed.

On the large screen where you almost watched a movie with Sylus the other night, a video game is playing.

Luke sits on one of the loveseats, holding a game controller, while Kieran is squished onto the same small loveseat with him, their two big bodies barely fitting, hiding his face in Luke’s shoulder.

Noah is sprawled out on another loveseat, perfectly at ease. She gives you a lazy wave.

Luke pauses the game and looks over his shoulder at you.

“Boss busy?” he asks as Kieran lifts his head, a look of relief on his face at the interruption.

“Business call,” you say, nodding. You stare at the screen. It looks like…

“Are you playing the Silent Hill 2 remake?” you squeal.

“Yeah! Since boss is on a little holiday, he gave us the time off as well. Figured we’d finally play it.”

“Are you a fan of the original?” Kieran asks.

You nod. “Huge fan. I was so excited when they announced the remake, but I’ve been too busy with work to play it.”

“Wanna join? Kieran is too scared to look half the time. We can take turns, if you want,” Luke offers, sounding pleased to have another person to share the game with.

You seriously consider his offer, but you’re still so tired. You don’t really want to learn the controls mid-way through a playthrough. Weren’t you just thinking about watching let’s plays of horror games you haven’t had a chance to play yet? You can watch Luke play without having to do a thing.

“I’m good, but do you mind if I stay and just watch until Sylus is done?”

“Is that even a question? Get in here.”

Luke unpauses the game, and the familiar sounds of the world of Silent Hill, with amazing, updated graphics fills your vision. You slink inside the room and sit on another love seat, preferring to give Noah her space since she’s sprawled out like she already owns the place.

You watch as Kieran hides his face in Luke's shoulder again as a lying figure jerkily lumbers towards James Sunderland.

Apparently Noah notices Kieran’s fear as well.

“Aren’t you one of the feared Raptors of Onychinus? Like, you’re famous in the Zone. How can the same person who is known for intentionally leaving mutilated corpses in public as warnings to your boss’s enemies be afraid of video game monsters?”

You turn and stare at the twins, a little horrified. Not entirely surprised, because you know what kind of man Sylus is. You know what his organization stands for. But mutilated dead bodies? Where normal people just trying to get through their shitty workday, where kids can see them?

“That’s fucked up,” you say out loud.

“Hey, you’re a fucking cop. We know what cops are capable of,” Kieran says softly, with a flatness in his tone you’ve never heard before. Noah looks between you and Kieran like she wishes she has popcorn. “Don’t act like what you sometimes do is any better than our calling card.” Luke kills a monster shaped like two shapely pairs of legs attached at the waist with a metal pipe, and it dies loudly. He stomps on it for good measure. “At least we’re honest about it, and don’t hide behind a shield of so-called legitimacy. People know what they’re getting when they deal with us.”

You look at Kieran thoughtfully. It’s difficult to admit, but he has a point. You know that there are corrupt hunters. The so-called Tenebrae. You also recognize that dark part of yourself, when you’re faced with someone who you know has done terrible things, and the itch to pull the trigger before you can bring them in. You know that innocent people suffer at the hands of criminals and law enforcement alike.

Kieran stares steadily back at you, his normally cheerful face serious. “How did you come to work for Sylus?” you ask.

Luke pauses the game. “We don’t talk about that,” he says in the same flat tone that his brother just spoke in.

“Oh?” you say, because you don’t want to continue to pry, and you don’t know what else to say.

“Boss says it doesn’t matter where we come from. Only where we’re going. So there’s no use talking about the past if we don’t want to.”

“And you don’t want to?” Noah asks, the look of entertainment morphing into something else on her face.

The twins shake their heads in unison.

You think she’s going to say something snarky, but she just nods. “Then you shouldn’t. No one is entitled to your story.”

“That’s what boss says. I see why he hired you now,” Kieran says, smiling at her, the odd stillness broken.

“He hired me because I’m fucking awesome,” Noah sniffs, flicking her braids behind her shoulder. They’re down now, spilling over her back.

You tilt your head. “Are you a new hire?” For some reason you thought that Noah had been Sylus’s driver for a long time.

“Did he not tell you?” she asks, looking at you strangely.

“Tell me what?”

“I’m not gonna do his work for him,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiles at you, and it’s unnerving instead of soothing. “Anyway, yeah I’m a new hire. You’re gonna be seeing a lot of me in the future.”

Although Kieran seems to have reached some sort of approval of Noah, Luke still shudders and starts the game again.

You let it go. You’ll ask Sylus about Noah’s weird comment later. Instead of dwelling on it, you sink into admiring the awesome graphics, the atmosphere, your childhood nostalgia rendered in state of the art graphics

When the sirens go off as James is about to enter the Other World, you have a sudden flashback to playing the original Silent Hill 2 with Caleb. You were also too afraid, like Kieran, to play yourself, so you just clutched Caleb’s arm as he held the controller, and you delighted in the safety of vicarious thrills, of Caleb’s reassuring, solid presence at your side as you experienced the story. You suddenly miss him so, so much. The feeling of loss is overwhelming.

The sudden punch of grief leaves you breathless. Everyone else is so focused on the screen, they don’t notice your gasp. You want to watch. You’ve been wanting to experience the remake ever since the developers announced it, over a year ago. You want to experience it with who you are tentatively thinking of as your new friends. But you need a second to ground yourself before you can bring yourself to keep watching.

Your force your voice through your throat. “I’m going to grab a snack. Do you guys want anything from the kitchen?”

“Popcorn!” Noah calls.

“We’re good,” Luke answers, because apparently Kieran is almost catatonic with terror.

“All right, be right back.” You take your time getting to the kitchen, Mephisto following you out the theater room door. You rifle through the fridge, shove some snacks into your mouth. You’re shocked to find microwave popcorn in one of the cupboards. Sylus strikes you as the kind of snob who insists on popping loose kernels on the stove, or over the fire in the fireplace. Nothing so pedestrian as store-bought and in the microwave. You snicker, that feeling of sorrow fading as you engage in everyday tasks, with company to look forward to. You’re not alone right now. You’re excited to see more of what the devs retained from the original game and what they added or changed in the remake. You head back to the theater room, but accidentally drop the bag of popcorn before you can open the door. As you pick it up, you can hear Noah.

“You know you don’t actually have to kill every monster you encounter, right?” She asks in barely disguised disdain.

“You know that you don’t actually have to offer your opinion when no one asked, right?” Luke snarks.

“Oooh, someone’s grumpy because he isn’t going to have an advantage in the bet like he thought,” Noah says through a snicker.

“What advantage? We agreed not to interfere. Boss is gonna have it in the bag even before the two weeks are up even without our help,” Luke responds.

“If he doesn’t fumble it by being too passive,” Kieran adds, thoughtfully.

“What ‘help?’ I bet your help would result in more delay than progress,” Noah taunts. “I probably don’t even have to do anything to counter your nonsense. You’ll do all my work for me.”

“Hey, flooding the guest floor was a good idea,” Luke protests.

This is just met with a cackle.

You stand, frozen. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But what is their boss going to have in the bag without their help? What bet?

Something inside of you already knows. Hadn’t you thought earlier that the twins probably made a bet out of your obvious, pathetic crush?

But they said it was about their boss achieving something. Not about your feelings.

You don’t want to know.

You try desperately to cling to that warm feeling you’ve had since the pool.

Boss is gonna have it in the bag.

You spin on your heel, intending to return to the kitchen without them knowing you heard anything, just to buy yourself time to process. But of course, you promptly knock over another ugly sculpture. It shatters on the floor.

You stand there in your bandaged feet, holding the popcorn, staring down at the mess you just made.

The door swings open and Kieran, Luke, and Noah jostle each other to see what just happened in the hallway.

“Sorry,” you say. What the fuck else can you say?

“What happened?” Kieran asks.

“Just me being clumsy,” you say, trying to smile.

Luke squints at you. “Oh shit.” He turns to Kieran. “They’re making that horrible face again.”

Kieran stares at you.

Noah flicks her braids and tilts her head, examining you like an art critic trying to find meaning in a child’s finger painting. “What does that face mean?”

“It means they heard what we were discussing,” Kieran says grimly.

Luke glares at Noah. “What are you even doing here? Now the bet is fucked and boss is gonna be mad because his hunter’s making that expression again. Look at them. We’ve hurt their feelings!” He gestures at you.

She glares back. “Boss told me to report here for duty every day to remain on standby in case the hunter wants to go anywhere. What are you doing here?” she sneers.

“We live here,” he answers, looking confused that that’s even a question.

You take a step back, away from the sharp shards of the broken sculpture. Maybe they’ll be too busy arguing to notice.

That good feeling is gone.

You think about every move Sylus has made since the auction. All of his attention, his gentleness, his kindness, his dogged reappearance at your home, his arranging for you to have sick leave.

Would Sylus do all that for a bet?

Is he that bored? Is he that good of an actor?

How on earth would you even know? You don’t know shit about him. You’ve known him for a few months. In that time, you’ve seen him a handful of times. What the fuck are you doing?

You think about that feeling you had while listening to the Beatles, while listening to Sylus play the piano, of forgetting something really important. You want to throw up.

Yeah, you’re forgetting something all right.

You can’t stand the feeling inside you right now. It’s too big. It’s eclipsing everything you’ve felt up until this point.

You think about what it will take to get out of here.

You think about picking up one of the sculpture’s shards and digging it into your thigh, anything to override this feeling inside you now.

You think about the resonance with Sylus when you woke up. Could he fake that?

His evol is unearthing a person’s deepest desires. But is it more than that? Could he make you feel adored without using his aether core? Did he promise not to use his evol on you because the terms of the bet forbade interference? Your fears send you spiraling.

“Oh no. No, no, no, no,” Luke says, peering at your face again. He takes a step forward, reaching out to you like someone trying to calm a wild animal, his house shoe crunching on the broken bits of sculpture.

You take a step back.

Noah just looks between the twins and you, confused.

“I’m just going for a walk,” you lie. You take another step back, turn, and start to walk down the hallway that will eventually lead to the lift. The lift that goes to the underground garage.

As you round the corner, Luke says,“Get—”

“On it,” Kieran says, with his phone to his ear.

Noah looks thoughtfully down the now empty hallway. “The hunter’s fucked up, huh?”

Luke shrugs. “Aren’t we all?”

Noah frowns at him. “Speak for yourself. You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know that boss hired you after looking into your soul. Which means you’re fucked up too. He isn’t interested in wholesome things or people—too boring.”

“And you?”

“You said it yourself. I really enjoy carving people up.” He shrugs. “Soothes something from our shitty childhood.”

Noah considers him. “Your brother seems to be okay with me now. Are you going to have a problem with me?”

Kieran grins at her. “What makes you think I have a problem with you?”

“You were mean when I suggested you try to stealth around the monsters. And don’t think I didn’t see your reaction when I said I’d be around more often. And acting like the hunter being upset is solely my fault, when we all made the stupid bet.” She counts each piece of evidence on her pretty fingers.

“Who the fuck likes backseat gamers?” He pouts a little. “And I didn’t like being hit on within an hour of meeting you. I don’t like people like that.”

Noah scowls back at him. “You don’t like people like what? ”

“I mean, I don’t like, like people. I get the creeps when people hit on me.”

Her lovely eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh.”

“But boss likes you, so I like you. We’re cool, so long as you don’t hit on me again.”

Noah nods.“I was just giving you two shit since you hauled me in front of your scary fucking boss. But I promised boss I wouldn’t do it again.”

“Then we’re cool. And if you don’t like how I play Silent Hill, then you can play if you want.” He opens the door again, gesturing for her to go in ahead.

“Nah man, I like being in the peanut gallery.”

“Does that mean you’re not gonna shut up?”

“You know it.” Noah gives him a big, feral grin.

Luke grins back at her, equally frightening. “Then I’ll be sure to kill every single monster we come across, no matter how much ammo it wastes.” The door swings shut on Kieran standing in the hallway, looking thoughtfully down at the phone in his hand.

_____________________

Sylus hums the melody of the music he played for you as he ends the call with Aidan. Luckily the issue this time could be settled by answering Aidan’s questions, and he can still look forward to a mostly uninterrupted day with you. He wonders where you’ll like to go next. Back to the library? To the greenhouse?

He’s in a great mood, despite the interruption. Every conversation with you convinces him that you’re closer and closer to accepting the truth. That you’re his, and he’s yours. He wants to drag you back to the library, listen to you read to him, argue about poetry—the way your eyes flash when you’re making a counterargument, the sneer in your retorts to his needling you—he wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you so much it hurts.

His phone vibrates in his pocket again. He clenches his jaw, pauses. He wants to throw the damn thing against the wall and just continue looking for you, business be damned. But he also doesn’t want to leave Aidan in an awkward position. He fishes the phone out of his pocket and accepts the call.

“Boss, your hunter is making a strategic retreat again,” Kieran says breathlessly.

Sylus jerks to a stop.

“Repeat that?” he demands.

“They overheard us talking about the wager,” Kieran explains, sounding pained.

It takes Sylus a second to remember what he’s talking about. “The bet about how long it will take for kitten to realize that I want to date them?”

“Yeah.”

Sylus thinks. Why would you be spooked by a stupid bet between his henchmen and your driver?

“But they—well, they overheard us talking about it, and they don’t know what the wager is actually about. I am afraid that they might have misunderstood something,” Kieran says carefully, like he’s waiting for Sylus’s wrath.

Sylus immediately realizes what probably just happened.

“I left kitten alone for less than twenty minutes,” he sighs. Just his fucking luck. It’s like the universe or some cruel god wants to create obstacles in his path to winning your precious heart.

“Your bet is over,” he barks.

“Understood.”

Sylus ends the call and pulls up Mephisto’s app. You’re walking quickly, with purpose. He squints, trying to figure out which part of the house you’re in. It looks like you’re trying to get to the lift that leads to the underground garage. Sylus dissipates into red and black mist.

_______________

As you walk, you make your way to the garage, not even sure what your plan is. You have that hollow, manic feeling filling you—the feeling that always fills you when you’re hurt like this, when you just need to get out, to outrun your own body and the feelings it contains. This time though, through the noise in your head, you remember your promises to Sylus. About not hurting yourself, but going to him. If you have doubts about his intentions, to go to him. To ask him when you have questions, instead of making assumptions.

But how can you? What’s the point of honoring promises made to a man who thinks your feelings are fair game for a bet?

You need to think. You don’t want to think. You’re hurting so, so much. You need time. Your body feels like you’re out of time. You miss Caleb. You miss your grandmother.

It takes all of your self control to stop moving. You hear Mephisto’s wings flapping behind you. You close your eyes. You resist the urge to punch yourself, barely. If you’re just a bet to him, you should punch him instead. You open your eyes and realize you stopped next to a door with an electronic lock blinking on the handle. You turn and look at it fully, and you hear the lock click.

It recognized your face. Just as Kieran and Luke told you all the locks in this house would. Why would Sylus bother programming your face into his home if you’re just a bet?

You watch your hand reach out, grasp the handle. You pull, and the door opens easily. You slip inside and let it close before Mephisto can follow.

The lights flicker on.

You gasp.

It’s like standing inside an upscale jewelry store, built inside a bank vault. Except instead of sparsely filled display cases, designed to emphasize and showcase a select number of precious jewels, each glass case is stuffed with the things. Diamonds. Rubies. Emeralds. A mind-blowing variety of beautiful stones that you don’t even know the names for. Loose stones, as well as jewelry—necklaces, rings, earrings. Where most of Sylus’s house is the picture of meticulous order, this vault looks like a dragon’s hoard of priceless treasures, casually piled high without much thought.

Why would Sylus trust you with access to such wealth, if you were just a bet?

But more importantly, how much death must Sylus Qin sell, to afford such a vault?

How many lives in exchange for each gem?

You turn in a circle as you slowly process the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a sea of blood diamonds.

What are you doing?

What the actual fuck are you doing?

You were just marveling at the luxury of the rooms he designed, filled with the thrilling possibility that he had built them for you. You had thought about the cost of the heating in the hot tub, the pool. And yet you were willing to overlook such expenses. Why? Because at least the pool, the lovely architecture are useful? Because they provide some value to the human experience, even if only a select few will ever get to experience them at Sylus’s house?

But what value do diamonds have? Shiny clumps of compressed carbon. You can’t burn them for warmth. You can’t eat them. Okay, so maybe they’re used in some industrial processes, but for fuck’s sake, artificially created diamonds could serve that purpose. And you’re absolutely sure that the diamonds Sylus has hoarded in this vault are real, products of millions of years of pressure, and not made in some lab.

You sink to the black marble floor. It’s cold. You draw up your knees and hug them.

There’s too much happening in your brain right now. Your grief. Your uncertainty about Sylus’s intentions—the question of who his beloved is. The bet.

The realization that you’re falling in love with a man whose life’s work is bringing misery to others.

You hate yourself. Here you are, thrown into a tailspin from the idea that Sylus may have spent all this time on you because of a bet with his minions, when you should be in a tailspin about the fact that it’s probably already too late for you to stop falling for a man who not only praises the mutilated world, but is one of the people shoving the knife in deeper.

There is so much you don’t know about him. But what you do know is that Sylus is too busy pouring salt into the wound of the world to dedicate so much time and resources to something as frivolous as a wager about how long it will take for him to get you in the bag. It’s pure, self-pitying hubris to assume otherwise.

You’re focusing on the wrong things, again. You’re forgetting what’s important, again.

What do you want? What can you live with? Why do you feel a connection with this complicated, cruel, ruthless man, as if you’ve known him for more than a few months? What kind of person are you, if despite sitting in a sea of diamonds paid for in other peoples' blood, you still want this merchant of death to come find you, to hold you in his arms, tell you that he wasn't placing bets on how long it would take to have you in the bag?

You begin to rock, somehow resisting all of your terrible urges: to hurt yourself, to run, to set this awful room on fire. You rock, and you hurt, and you wait for the terrible man you’re falling in love with to find you, as he always does.

______________

Sylus finds Mephisto pacing on the floor in front of his gem vault. He caws in distress when he sees his owner re-materialize in the hallway. Sylus finds the fact that you’re in the gem vault, and not currently trying to procure a getaway car, to be a source of hope—a strange feeling for him. What use does he have for hope? He has plans. Plans with contingencies, alternatives, backups. They either succeed because he planned well enough, or they fail because he did not plan well enough.

Hope has no place in his world.

People suffer and die. Deals are made and broken. Fate is cruel, inflexible. He knows this all too well, no matter how much he’s struggling against fate this time around.

Hope has no place in his world.

But.

You could have kept running. You could be in any one of his vehicles right now, trying to break land speed records to get the fuck away from him, convinced that he was involved in a bet about the biggest gamble of his life.

But you’re not. You’re in his gem vault, for some reason. You strange, unpredictable, delightful creature.

He finds himself hoping that this misunderstanding hasn’t just caused you to retreat beyond his reach again.

Your fingers in the dip of his clavicle.

The yearning look on your face, that he doesn’t think you even knew you had, when he bit your lip—the closest he’ll allow himself to a kiss until he’s one hundred percent sure you’ll welcome him while awake.

He opens the door.

He pauses, struck with the strange sensation of viewing his greatest treasure surrounded by so much of his material treasure. You belong here. The value of all of these precious stones nothing in comparison to you, shining like a beacon to him at the end of a long and winding road from the marble floor, dimming everything else in this room by comparison.

His house shoes whisper along the cold marble floor where you’re sitting, curled in on yourself.

He has watched you take down wanderers the size of an elephant. All that strength, contained in your huddled body. You look so small to him. He wants to protect you from all the horrors of the world. But of course, he’s the biggest horror of all. Is it any wonder that he keeps hurting you instead?

A better man might keep his distance in an effort to protect you. Like your partner. A better man might know when to quit. Like your dandy artist friend. A better man might be content with loving you from afar. Like your fucking doctor.

But Sylus is a terrible man, because he’s not going to stop trying to get it right, even as he hurts you in the process, until you order him to stop and mean it.

You don’t look up at the sound of his footsteps, but you also don’t retreat as he approaches.

He sits on the floor next to you, wraps an arm around your shivering shoulders. He pulls you into his arms, feels the rush of hope when you let him.

He cradles your head in his palm.

“The twins bet on everything. Which snail is the fastest on a leaf. Whether it will rain or snow tomorrow. How long it will take someone to bleed out. Whether the traffic light will change in five versus ten seconds,” he says softly into your hair.

“About how long it will take to get your pathetic hunter in the bag?” Your voice is small, just as your body feels in his arms.

“About how long it will take for my beloved to realize how I feel about them,” he sighs.

You stiffen, and he feels a moment of paralyzing fear, before you melt into him. He breathes again.

“What did you bet?” you ask, and Sylus feels the sorrow in your voice like a gunshot in his chest.

You ran, but you stopped. You assumed, but you’re asking questions now. You’re allowing him to touch you, to hold you. The hope in him surges again.

“I didn’t place a bet in this particular wager,” he manages through the unfamiliar feelings. “But if I had, the gamble would be my whole heart.”

“Does a man who has a dragon’s hoard of wealth, bought with the blood of the guilty and the innocent alike, have a heart?” you ask, finally looking up, your eyes hollow in a way that he doesn’t like.

Sylus is a terrible man. He has never lied to himself about this, or to you. He showed you the worst of himself, the day you met. He has to hope that the fact you’re still here, still asking him questions, means that he hasn’t lost you yet. An unpleasant feeling of doubt slithers through him. Is it the bet upsetting you, or something else?

“Even dragons have hearts, darling.”

You close your eyes. He wants you to open them again. He wants you to look at him. He never wants you to look away from him. Even if you’re looking at him with doubt, or hate, so long as you’re looking at him, that means you’re not leaving him.

“What do you want?” he asks.

You open your eyes again. He is terribly tempted to use his aether core on you, because for once, he can’t read how you’re feeling.

“You offered me time.”

He leans forward, rests his forehead against yours. “And I will give you time.”

“I want to see your favorite part of the greenhouse.”

“And I will show you my favorite part of the greenhouse,” he whispers, breathing, breathing. He can’t tell how you’re feeling, but you smell like home, a door at the end of a long road. The hope grows.

“I want to see Luke and Kieran and Noah play the remake of Silent Hill 2.”

The hope shifts, dissipates. There is no need for hope, once it is fulfilled. You want to stay, for now. He can work with that. Whatever damage learning about the bet caused, he can work with your willingness to stay. If that look in your eyes isn’t about the bet, he has more time to dismantle your walls, to pull it out of you. Just two nights ago, you were running barefoot through the dark. Tonight, you stopped yourself and waited for him to find you. “You’re in luck. They’re still playing.”

You watch him, as if you’re weighing something behind your hollow eyes. “Will you watch with me?”

Of course, he thinks. Of course. You could ask for so much more, and the answer would be the same. “Do you want me to watch with you?”

“I want you to want to watch with me.”

He smiles, his mouth a breath away from yours. You smell like popcorn. He wants to throw a piece in the air, catch it in his mouth, feed it to you. “Again, you bring me luck. We have a win-win deal.”

He stands. Carries you out of his gem vault.

“Why do you have so many jewels?” you ask, quietly.

“In case the authorities freeze my accounts, physical currency will be useful. A sort of insurance.”

You gaze at his face, and he wonders what you see when you look at him. “You’ll escape with a truck full of precious stones?”

“Something like that,” he says.

“No other reason?”

He tells the truth. “I’ve always been fond of shiny things.”

“Do you have a favorite stone?”

He laughs softly. “Whatever stone you’re wearing.”

Instead of looking at him with suspicion, a helpless look crosses your face. Like you’re in pain from his admission. He doesn’t like it. But then you lean forward, press your face into his neck. He tells himself that he has time. He’ll figure out what’s bothering you, and he’ll fix it.

Outside the theater room, he pauses. Looks down at the pieces of shattered sculpture. "If you didn't like it, darling, you could have just said so."

You just mumble that you're sorry.

"We've talked about your apologies," he says, frowning down at you in his arms.

You huff. "Fine. I'm not sorry. That sculpture was edgy and ugly. You should replace it with something beautiful."

"Deal. But only if you come with me to choose something," he says.

"Deal," you say softly, and he still can't tell what's going through your head.

When you enter the theater room, Luke pauses the game. “We’re really sorry for hurting your feelings and shit. The bet was about boss’s rizz, not about you. Please don’t leave.”

Kieran nods in approval, as if he had helped Luke compose this little speech.

Noah just looks at you, face unreadable, as you rest your head on Sylus’s shoulder.

“I had planned to give you a lot of shit. But I think I would’ve lost anyway,” she says, not looking apologetic at all. “It’s only been two days and you’re practically merging into one person.”

Sylus carries you to a loveseat next to the twins, with Noah on their other side.

“Thanks,” you say. “No worries.”

Everyone is awkwardly silent for a moment after your brief response. You seem to notice, and smile a little. “Can we hang out while you play?”

“Fuck yeah,” Luke says, and Kieran groans as the game is unpaused.

After a while, you, Luke, and Noah start discussing the difference between the remake and the original. What everyone likes, what they don’t. Sylus leans back, draws you onto his chest. His relief remains intense as you let him. The discussion moves on to which Silent Hill games are the best in the franchise, which are the worst. Luke and Noah have a good-natured clash about Silent Hill 4: the Room, with only a few insults flung at each other. You and Kieran share your admiration for Bloober Team's Layers of Fear, which Kieran liked because he didn't think it was scary, and which Luke hated, because he thought it was boring. Sylus doesn't give a shit about video games, and certainly not horror games. Life itself is already horrific enough, he doesn't have the patience for manufactured terror. He just listens, feeling your heartbeat against his chest, breathing in your comforting scent.

A feeling of wholeness settles in him, as unfamiliar as hope. As unfamiliar as the happiness from your movie night, just last night. You, Luke, and Noah have moved on to animatedly arguing about some character’s outfit changes between the original and the remake.

He feels like he’s been standing, left behind in the dark for so long, and he’s finally being allowed home. Whatever is bothering you, he’ll fix it. He’ll destroy the world if he has to, to preserve the scene in front of him, so that he can offer you this, so that he can experience this with you, again, and again, and again. His gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns.

End notes: I had planned shenanigans for the twins and Noah to increase their odds in winning the bet, but this story is already out of control with how long it is, and some of the things I thought of were really manipulative and fucked up even if I personally thought they were hilarious, but my brain is craving a softer vibe for this story I guess (lmao if this can be considered soft), so I hope this isn't too much of a let down for the resolution of the bet subplot. I've given up hinting at what's coming next because it turns out I'm very bad at guessing what's next.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #my fanfic #hope it's enjoyable despite the somber tone

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liviawildrose · 3 days ago

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𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

read this to transform your life

hey guys! today, we’re diving into something that can literally transform the next 20 years of your life. why? because pluto has officially entered aquarius, and let me tell you, this is huge. if you’ve got aquarius anywhere in your birth chart like i do, you’re probably already feeling that intense energy—the urge to level up, get things done, and completely reinvent yourself. i mean, look at me: this is my second vlog today and i’ve been non-stop posting since yesterday. it’s like this cosmic shift has supercharged me, and i know it can do the same for you.

but don’t worry, even if you’re not an aquarius, this energy is hitting everyone in some way. so whether you’re ready for it or not, pluto in aquarius is here, and it’s bringing transformation on a massive scale. now, this blog is part of my series called the “game of life”, but since this pluto shift is so major, i’ve decided to make this a crossover between the two themes. we’re going to talk about how to actually use this energy to change your life, level up, and play the long game to completely transform the next 20 years and beyond. so, if you’re ready to tap into this cosmic power and take control of your future, follow along because this blog might just change your life.

just before we dive in, i want you guys to check out a blog i posted a couple of weeks ago—it’s all about the first steps to getting your shit together. it’s a great starting point for understanding how to lay the groundwork for your transformation journey. if you haven’t seen it yet, head over to blog “first steps” and give it a read. trust me, it’ll help you get a solid foundation before you dive into the next level of this process.

avatar

okay, now that you’ve got your basics down from the previous blog, let me introduce you to the game of life. this is where things get fun. first, we’re going to focus on creating your avatar. now, if you’ve read that earlier blog, you’ll remember i talked about building an alter ego. for example, mine is called livia wildrose. she’s my vision of absolute perfection the version of me i aspire to be. this is your chance to go wild. grab a journal and start designing your alter ego and how her life is. i don’t care how crazy, bold, or unrealistic it might seem this is your imagery of perfection. who is she? how does she look? how does she act? what does her life look like? write it all down. get creative draw her, make a mood board, whatever feels right. this is your blueprint. now, here’s the twist: in the game of life, you are the avatar. your current self, with all your flaws and strengths, is the player in this game. your mission? to become your alter ego. think of it like this: your avatar (you) might not have everything your alter ego has right now. maybe she’s more confident, more successful, smarter, richer, or better-looking. but that’s okay because she represents your end goal. every step you take toward embodying her, every choice that aligns you closer to her energy, earns you points in the game of life. the idea is to bridge the gap between who you are now (your avatar) and who you want to be (your alter ego). every time you make progress whether it’s a mindset shift, a small win, or a big milestone you’re leveling up. this is how you win the game.

for example, let’s say your alter ego is this ultra-rich, world-famous singer, idol, and total icon. she’s confident, magnetic, and lives her dream life effortlessly. that’s your end goal that’s your alter ego. now, your job is to build her. create her personality, her habits, her lifestyle, her goals, and most importantly, her mindset. think about it what kind of mindset does she have? does she radiate confidence? does she have unshakable discipline? does she take no for an answer, or does she turn every rejection into motivation? for me, my alter ego, livia wildrose, has a queen-like, goddess-like mindset. that means every single brick life throws at me, i’m gonna build a castle out of it. scratch that i’m gonna build a shrine. nothing breaks me; i only get stronger, wiser, and better. that’s how livia wildrose operates, and that’s what drives me every single day.

imagine you’re playing a game where you have to build a village from scratch. when you start, you don’t just dive in blindly—you go around and observe how other players have built their villages. you notice their strengths, but also their flaws. maybe someone’s village is too cluttered, or their defenses are weak, or their farms are in the wrong spots. you take mental notes: ‘okay, that’s not my vibe. i’m not gonna do that.’ this also brings me to the point that learn from other peoples mistake too. my friend right now is going through a very tough break up. and the guy is being a total asshole. and the more she talk about the relationship to me how it was, and we try to get the cues like “oh we could’ve realised back then when he said this particular thing” that he is not the one. (the fact he was a total sexist asshole) i realised that when i get into a relationship, and if i see my future boyfriend having these traits, i will leave. why? because I learnt from her mistakes of letting things slide, and not noticing the minor red flags that later became worse.

(back to the topic) then, you create an image of your ideal village in your head. you don’t copy anyone, but you take inspiration. you think, ‘this is my aesthetic, this is how i want my village to function.’ you make a mental note of all the details where the farms will go, where the population will live, how everything will flow. and then you start building, step by step, upgrading, improving, and making decisions based on the vision you created. now apply that same concept to your life. create an ideal version of yourself (alter ego) in your head. imagine your ideal life, your ideal personality, your dream self. think about who she is, how she thinks, how she acts, what her daily habits are. don’t just copy someone else’s life take inspiration. maybe you admire someone’s confidence but not their style, or their work ethic but not their priorities. fine. make mental notes and adjust it to fit your vibe. every time you make a decision or work to improve yourself (your current avatar), use that ideal version of yourself as a guide. ask yourself, ‘what would she do? how would she handle this? what choice aligns me closer to her?’ take inspiration from her and let her energy fuel every upgrade you make. step by step, you’ll start building a life that’s completely aligned with the vision you’ve dreamed of. for example in pubg. the end goal is to become a conqueror so what you do every single time when you play that game is make sure that you’re good with your teammates, you get the most kills, you win every single match, because that is what will bring you to your end goal.

the bars of life

1. health bar

health is the foundation, the core, the absolute main bar. without health, nothing else matters. it’s like playing a survival game if your health is low, you’re dead in the water, right? you can’t progress, you can’t fight, you can’t level up. every single step in your journey starts with taking care of your body and mind. health is everything. make sure you’re eating right, sleeping enough, working out, and keeping your mind in a positive, stable place. the healthier you are, the more you’ll be able to conquer in all aspects of life. keep this bar maxed out, or you won’t even have the energy to fight for your dreams.

2. physical bar

now, let’s talk about the physical bar. this is all about how your body looks and feels. how’s your physique? toned? fit? are you putting in the work to make sure your body is in shape, or are you letting it slide? it’s not just about the gym though—it’s about how you present yourself. do your clothes flatter your body type? are you dressing in a way that highlights your best features? are your nails done, your hair styled, your makeup light but on point? when you walk into a room, does your physical presence demand attention and admiration? this is about taking pride in your appearance and making sure your physicality aligns with the highest version of yourself. everything from your posture to the way you dress, this is how people will notice you. own it.

3. mental bar

the mental bar is all about your mindset, emotional health, and mental well-being. how do you show up in the world every day? what is your internal dialogue like? are you a powerhouse of positivity and productivity, or are you letting negative thoughts control you? this bar is about building a mindset that propels you forward, no matter what life throws at you. like i always say, every single brick life throws at me, i will build a castle out of it—or a shrine. i don’t care what happens, it’s all fuel for my fire. this is the mental toughness you need to develop to grow.

if you’re facing challenges—whether it’s dealing with stress, anxiety, or depression—take care of your mental health. if you need a therapist, get one. if journaling helps you unpack emotions and thoughts, make it a habit. every step you take to improve your mental health is a step toward leveling up your life. every time you choose a positive, productive mindset, you’re not just surviving—you’re thriving. strengthen this bar, and everything else in life becomes more manageable.

your mental bar is not just about surviving the chaos—it’s about learning to navigate it with grace, strength, and an unbreakable belief in your ability to create your dream life.

4. spiritual bar

the spiritual bar is your path to alignment with yourself and the universe. this is where you connect with your higher self, your energy, and your beliefs. spirituality isn’t just about religion—though it can be if that’s part of your journey. it’s about meditating, doing yoga (especially Kundalini, like i mentioned), and tuning into the deepest parts of yourself. when you start aligning your chakras and balancing your energies, you’re strengthening this bar. it’s about connecting to something greater than yourself—whether that’s through rituals, prayer, or mindfulness practices. this is the bar that ensures your spirit is nurtured, your energy is clean, and your soul is grounded. if you’re in tune with yourself and aligned with your truth, you can face anything the world throws at you.

5. financial bar

now, let’s talk about the financial bar. this is where you track your wealth, your earning capacity, and how financially empowered you are. how’s your financial situation? are you getting paid what you’re worth? are you bringing in new streams of income? every single time you land a promotion, secure a new deal, or create another source of income, this bar rises. even small wins matter—getting that side hustle going, saving a little extra this month, investing in yourself. all these things count. this bar is about actively working toward your financial freedom and success. if you’re serious about leveling up in life, this bar has to be taken seriously. wealth isn’t just about money—it’s about abundance in every area of your life. when you strengthen this bar, you give yourself the power to live the life you want

6. career bar

the career bar is all about progression, ambition, and success in your professional life. every time you take a step forward—whether it’s landing a promotion, launching a side hustle, or expanding your business—it’s a win for your career bar. it’s not just about the outcome, but about the process too. when you learn a new skill to level up in your field, or when you push yourself to take on more responsibility, this bar grows. every single action you take to further your career—no matter how small—contributes to building the empire you want. it’s about building something that lasts and ensuring that your career serves as the foundation for the life you envision.

7. social bar

the social bar is about how you connect and interact with others. it includes your relationships with family, friends, lovers, and colleagues, as well as your social media presence. every time you make a meaningful connection, whether it’s through a new friendship or strengthening bonds with existing relationships, your social bar grows. it also covers your social media footprint—every time you post something, earn followers, or engage with your audience, you’re building your social presence. the way you show up in the world, the vibe you put out, and how others perceive you are all part of this bar. what’s important is that you’re intentional about your social connections. it’s not just about quantity, but quality. how do you carry yourself? how do people feel around you? remember, you can always adjust the way you’re perceived by adjusting how you act. we’ll dive deeper into how you can shift your social presence to your advantage later on.

8. legacy bar

the legacy bar is about the impact you leave behind and how you’re remembered. while you might not need to focus on this too much at 17 (like me too), it’s still something that will guide your actions as you grow older. your legacy is like the final level of your life game—it’s the impression you leave on others, the tangible and intangible things you pass on to the next generation. think about it like this: your legacy could be how generous you were. maybe you donate to charities, help the less fortunate, or fund scholarships. maybe you leave behind a family with strong values, or set up a business that supports others and creates opportunities. or even, it’s the homes you buy and the wealth you build that your kids will inherit. that’s a form of legacy too—creating something that endures, that your children or loved ones can benefit from long after you’re gone.

you want to make sure you’re giving back—whether it’s in terms of charity, helping your community, or creating something that continues to benefit people beyond your time here. it’s about living with intention, creating something greater than yourself, and making sure that when people look back, they say, “wow, she did something good.” when I think of my legacy, I want to be known for making an impact on my country, helping its economy grow, and providing jobs. so, always think about the ripple effect your actions will have not just on yourself but on the world around you, long after you’re gone.

9. environmental bar

okay, so let’s talk about your environmental bar. this is pretty much everything around you: where you live, who you hang out with, and what you’re consuming—whether it’s people, media, or food. your environment shapes you more than you think. if you live in clutter, your brain gets cluttered. if you’re surrounded by negative energy or toxic people, guess what? that negativity starts rubbing off on you. toxicity? it’s contagious. trust me. this is why i always say: your environment is EVERYTHING. let’s say you’re stuck in a place where people are draining your energy, or your room looks like a hurricane hit it—what’s happening? your life starts feeling chaotic. but if you clean up your space, set boundaries with toxic people, and start surrounding yourself with supportive, positive vibes, you’ll see that your life follows suit. if you’re surrounded by success-driven people, guess what happens? you start moving differently too.

for example, i know my current living situation is toxic. but, once i move out, that’s going to be my environmental grace. i’ll finally have the space to thrive, away from negative energy. maybe for you, it’s as simple as clearing your workspace or unfollowing people on social media who bring you down. the key is that you’re actively creating a good environment for your growth. declutter, move people who don’t vibe with you, and make sure everything you interact with is aligned with your goals.

10. fun and recreation bar

listen, life isn’t just about hustling and grinding, okay? it’s also about having fun. and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. people always forget that joy and peace are important parts of growth. hobbies, fun experiences, and doing things that bring you relaxation and joy are just as vital as your career or health bar. sure, you might not make money from every hobby, but if it brings you peace or helps you unwind, then it’s worth it.

like me, i might not be making millions off of drawing, but damn, it’s relaxing. it’s something that i look back on and feel proud of. the point is, don’t skip out on fun. go out with friends, explore new things, travel, dance, create. don’t just work to live—live to enjoy it. make time for meaningful parties, exploring new places, or just learning something new for fun. trust me, it will make you feel whole. it’s the only life we’ve got, so might as well enjoy it. while also being productive (im sorry had to add this 😭)

11. intelligence bar

okay, this one should be obvious, but let me make it clear: your intelligence bar should always be leveling up. this is the bar for everything you do to expand your mind, whether it’s learning a new skill, reading a book, acing a test, or just getting smarter from life lessons. it’s not just about school or formal education; it’s about constantly seeking knowledge. every time you learn something new—whether it’s about physics, psychology, or how to make the best goddamn smoothie—your intelligence bar grows.

never stop learning. school isn’t the only place for growth. you’re an adult now—take control of your learning. buy books, watch educational videos, take courses that interest you, and dive into everything that can help you grow intellectually. intelligence doesn’t stop when you leave school, it grows with you, forever. always be leveling up your mind.

watch her video to get more info on this topic (she is MOTHER) literally.

youtube

cheat codes in the game of life

read this blog by me first

life is full of cheat codes if you know where to look. one of the easiest ways to hack your life and manifest your desires is by using subliminals, grabovoi codes, eft tapping and even customizing your ChatGPT. these tools are like magic spells, designed to align your subconscious mind with your goals. for example, grabovoi codes are just numbers, but when you write and repeat them, they can bring about extraordinary shifts in your life. subliminals work and eft tapping the same way reprogramming your mind while you go about your day. and with ChatGPT, you have a personal assistant that can help you navigate any life situation, offering advice and insight whenever you need it. these are your personal life hacks use them to transform your reality with ease.

okay, let’s dive even deeper into these cheat codes, because once you start using them, you’ll realize how easy it is to shape the world around you. let’s talk about altering your social image—this is like an advanced life hack that many people, especially celebrities, are already using, but they’re not telling you how. you know how celebrities act on social media, right? that perfectly curated, almost “too good to be true” persona? the thing is, that’s not really them. most of them aren’t as perfect as they look in front of the camera, and they sure as hell don’t act the same behind the scenes. think about the people who might’ve bullied you in the past. they might have treated you like crap, but when they’re in front of others? angels. they put on this sweet, charming persona to get what they want. it’s all about duality—using different faces to your advantage. so why not do the same?

you can reinvent the way people see you. perception is everything. for example, let’s say you want to be perceived like a star, like an icon. one of the biggest secrets to this is creating a unique persona—something that screams you, but is captivating enough to make others want to be around you. think about how a lot of idols have such a distinctive style or energy. that is the cheat code. they don’t just wear the coolest clothes, they embody a vibe, an energy that makes them stand out in a crowd. so, how do you do it? first, know what you want. if you want to be that calm, collected, alluring figure who commands attention without even trying, start by adopting a few things that you know fit that style. if you want that dark, sultry energy, you need to own it—the way you talk, walk, dress, and even the way you hold yourself should exude confidence.

take someone like Dakota Johnson she has this quiet-chaotic energy about her, right? she speaks slowly, her words dripping with this almost sultry vibe. she doesn’t try too hard. it’s not about being overly energetic or trying to impress; it’s about confidence, calmness, and an air of mystery. she can make something as simple as a joke feel funny and seductive because of the way she says it. that’s the magic. it’s not about being loud or brash to get attention, it’s about learning how to carry yourself in a way that leaves people wanting more.

here’s the trick you don’t need to be a different person; you just need to refine your vibe. create a version of yourself that’s like an upgraded avatar. and then, simply start to live like them. how would your alter ego talk? would they speak with more authority? would they be more laid back, or would they be mysterious? do they have a sultry, slow tone when they speak? model yourself after that, and it’ll become second nature. this is where the pluto in aquarius energy comes in if you’re an aquarius (or have aquarius placements), this is your moment. you have the power to reinvent yourself in ways that you never thought possible. take this time to shift your self-perception and how the world perceives you. you can break out of old habits, behaviors, and expectations that others might have of you. this is your chance to become the best version of you, the version that’s unstoppable.

how do you get started?

1. talk like her: figure out how your alter ego would speak. take note of the cadence, the tone, and the vibe they exude. do they talk slower? more deliberately? maybe they joke with a certain confidence that makes everyone laugh, but also feel intrigued. learn to replicate that tone.

2. dress the part: style matters. you can’t be a fashion icon if you’re always dressing like a potato sack. find a style that feels unique to you, but also gives off that vibe you want—whether it’s sleek, bold, or soft. make sure your clothing complements the persona you want to show the world.

3. be unpredictable: people love mystery. don’t always let them in on everything. make them wonder about you. embrace the chaotic quietness—be the person who seems calm, but you always have something up your sleeve. keep them intrigued.

4. embrace the duality: you can be whoever you want to be. show one side to certain people, and another side to others. be strategic about how you present yourself in different scenarios. this is how you gain control of your social image.

5. confidence is key: once you start showing up as this new version of yourself, your confidence will shoot through the roof. people pick up on energy. if you believe in the persona you’re creating, others will too. and that’s how you start changing how people perceive you.

the beauty of this is, you’re not just faking it. you’re becoming it. you’re tapping into a version of yourself that’s always been there, just waiting for the right moment to step into the spotlight. the more you practice this, the more natural it becomes. “fake it till you make”

so, here’s the game plan: figure out your alter ego, start speaking like them, acting like them, dressing like them, and above all, own it. no one can compete with a version of you who’s fully aligned with your highest self. this is the cheat code to creating your dream life and stepping into the role you were always meant to play. use mindmovie, vision board, manifestation books to keep yourself aligned with your desires and goals

yeah, seriously, take this game of life really seriously. it’s not just about coasting through, it’s about making moves that align with your goals and dreams. your environment plays a huge part in that—where you live, who you’re around, and what opportunities are available. if you’re in a place that doesn’t nurture your dreams or support your growth, it might be time to think about moving. i’m in the same boat—i know the dreams i have won’t be fully supported where i’m at, so i’m already planning my next moves. but remember, everything is strategic. you have to play to win, baby girl. don’t settle for anything less than the life you deserve. make the changes, take the risks, and keep leveling up.

life’s like a game, and there are plenty of players trying to win, but how do you outsmart the competition? it’s not just about luck—yeah, that plays a part, but it’s also about skill, strategy, and having the right people around you. you can’t level up on your own, and just like in any game, teamwork makes all the difference. think of it this way: the kings and rulers in history didn’t get where they were alone; they knew how important it was to have the right team by their side. whether it’s friends, mentors, or business partners, you need good people who can support, challenge, and push you forward. surround yourself with those who elevate you, not drain you. build a strong, skilled, and loyal team because with the right crew, you’ll always be ahead of the game. just like the environment you choose—quality food, media, and surroundings—your team matters too.

notations

life is like a mix of different games, okay? think of it like the Sims where you have the ultimate free will. you can literally do whatever you want, and it’s up to you how far you take it. want to be a singer? start posting your singing videos everywhere—Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, and even Twitter. manifest it, use subliminals, grabovoi codes, EFT tapping, and let ChatGPT help you figure out the algorithm and best ways to grow. life gives you all the tools, so use them to build your dream life.

but life isn’t just the Sims, it’s also like Chess. you have to be strategic about when and how you move. be nice but not naive, be a bitch sometimes too period. don’t throw out your best pieces too soon keep things lowkey and make others underestimate you. right now, I’m not the top student in my class, but I’m playing the long game. I’ll show people my pawns first—small, safe moves. later, when it’s the right time, I’ll pull out the knight or queen to checkmate the competition. keep people guessing. be mysterious. don’t tell anyone what you’re planning until it’s already in motion. keep your moves quiet, let them think you’re just playing small, and when the time comes—boom, you’ll show them exactly what you’re capable of.

this is where your team really comes into play. think of it like playing PUBG—if your team sucks, you suck. you can’t lead a squad full of lazy players and expect to win. it’s like trying to win a game while everyone else is just chilling. that’s why you have to be super selective with who you let into your inner circle. the people you’re building your success with need to be on the same level as you, otherwise, you’ll just drag each other down.

i’ve mentioned this before i literally asked a tarot reader to read the people around me, and she pointed out which friends weren’t good for me. guess what? those people turned out to be exactly as she said. so, don’t ignore your gut feelings. these are the people who will be there when you make it big, so make sure they’re the right ones. remember, in life, you don’t often get to choose your teammates, so be super careful who you let in. if you’re young, like 17 or 18, this is the time to build those lifelong friendships. trust me, pick wisely, because they’ll either help you level up or hold you back.

if i were to start a new life from today, this would have been the blog post that would have helped me reach that level. so, thank you so much for reading it through and through, and i hope you like it. also, i’m gonna pin this blog, and from now onwards, every single blog that you’ll see on my channel, on my account, will be somewhat similar to this. i’ll be using this blog as a centerpiece in future posts, building on it and referencing it. so stay tuned, because there’s a lot more to come, and this is just the beginning of the journey. and i’m gonna be doing all these again with you guys too. :)

also, happy 20 years of success as pluto returns to aquarius. love you guys.

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usomads · 2 days ago

Text

Finisher // Roman Reigns x Reader (Pin Me Pt. 2)

Author’s Note -> Hiiii everyone! So many of you requested a part two to Pin Me, which again thank you so much for all the love on the first part. I honestly didn’t think of making it multiple parts when I first wrote this, but here we are and here it is lol! Happy reading!

Plot -> After pinning the Smackdown Women’s Champion in your mixed tag-team match with Roman Reigns, you gained popularity and with that your first singles title opportunity. You’ve never been more nervous for anything in your life, so your Tribal Chief helps ease your nerves before your match…

Pairings -> Roman Reigns x Fem!Reader (Y/N)

Warnings -> Cursing, Oral Sex (Fem!Receiving), Fingering, Gagging, Implied Smut, Not Proofread, MDNI

Word Count -> 3.0k

(time skip to the first Smackdown episode after Saturday Night’s Main Event)

“I’ve been your Smackdown Women’s Champion for nearly five months now, and since becoming your champion I have proved that I am the irresistible force and nobody can take this title from me. Not Bayley, not Naomi, not Tiffany, and esp-” Nia’s promo was cut short by your entrance music hitting, the crowd rising to their feet and popping loudly for your theme. Since pinning Nia at Saturday Night’s Main Event, you had taken the WWE Universe by storm; your social media following went up, more and more people were recognizing you in public, you had gotten exactly the recognition you wanted all along- and it was all thanks to Roman Reigns.

Since last Saturday and your “celebration” post-match, you’ve grown closer to Joe. You were getting to know each other better, spending more time together, and what you initially thought was a one-time thing in the heat of the moment was clearly not. Joe got his hands on you every chance he could, it didn’t matter where or when, if he wanted you he was going to have you. And who were you to turn down your Tribal Chief?

Now, you two hadn’t defined your “relationship” just yet but you both were perfectly fine with the way things were at the moment- taking things slow and really getting to know each other (among other things) before making anything official. You were doing pretty well for yourself; you were gaining more traction than before and you had a fine ass man to go home to- you had zero complaints with how your life and career were going at the moment.

You emerged from backstage, microphone in hand, as the crowd roared at your entrance. You signaled for production to cut your music, walking confidently to the ring as you spoke. “Now, Nia, I know damn well you didn’t come in the ring to talk all this mess about ‘no one can beat me’ after last week… did you hit your head too hard during our match or something because I,” you paused, signaling to the crowd filling the arena, “as well as the entire WWE universe remember very clearly that I pinned you last week at Main Event.” The crowd cheered in response, boosting your already high confidence as you smirked at Nia. “If you’re soooo confident you can beat me one-on-one, then do it. Put your title on the line next week and let’s see how much of a ‘force’ you really are.”

“Oh, Y/N…” Nia mocked you, “it’s so adorable that you think you’re a threat to me and my title. That win you got last week, pinning me? Was pure luck.” Nia stepped to you, with little distance between you too as she glared down at you, “But unlike you, at least I don’t have to sleep with anyone to get my main event spots, I work hard for what I have. Do that first, then come talk to me.” That wasn’t in the fucking script, is she serious right now? Oh, if she wants to improv, best believe I can too. You swung without thinking twice, using the microphone in your hand to hit her on the side of the head. It was time for a fight.

You and Nia took turns trying to go at each other, both of you countering the other until she blindsided you out of nowhere with a hit that made you see double for a second. You knew you were done after that, feeling blood trickle from a cut on your head created by her. She continued to attack you while you were down, the crowd booing with every hit she delivered. After your body had slumped in the center of the ring she grabbed you by your hair and pulled you up, showing your beaten and bloody face to the crowd and cameras. “This isn’t fantasy, Y/N, stop playing pretend with Roman and go back to catering where you fucking belong.” She threw your head back onto the mat and exited the ring as security and medical personnel rushed to the ring. You dragged your fatigued body out of the ring and backstage, refusing treatment from medical despite their protests. You walked into the locker room Joe and you now shared, while Joe was screaming at someone on the phone.

“Nick, are you fucking kidding me? There’s gotta be some form of punish- I don’t give a shit what the higher ups thought about it, she could’ve seriously injured Y/N, I-,” Joe paused, turning around and seeing you enter the locker room, “I gotta go. This conversation isn’t over.” Joe hung up on the GM and rushed over to you. “Baby, are you okay? Did she hurt you? Have you gotten looked at by-”

“No, Joe, and I’m not going to. Just please, drop it. I’m over it.”

“Well, I’m not. Why the fuck would she even say something like that? How would she have known about us?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, Joe! Now leave it alone, seriously, I’m not in the goddamn mood.” You went silent, thinking about what you were going to do about Nia. You needed to do something different, something she would never see coming. Your priorities shifted completely after that segment, you now no longer wanted just the title. Your biggest priority, maybe even more than wanting the belt, was to beat the shit outta Nia Jax, no matter what it took.

“Babe, c’mon, you need to sit down. You’re gonna stress yourself into a heart attack if you don’t quit pacing around the room like that,” Joe was currently attempting to calm you down, you had been completely fine this past week you were training and promoting the match, but now that the show had officially started your overwhelming amount of confidence had completely vanished.

“Easy for you to say, title matches are second nature to you. Muscle memory. I have never competed for a title before, I have every right to be freaking the fuck out right now, Joe,” you sighed. “It feels like everything just did a 180 degree turn, like I have so many eyes on me now and they all want me to beat Nia’s ass, and I just don’t know if I-”

“Hey, none of that. Y/N, look at me,” you slowly brought your head up to meet his eyes, the same ones that completely captivated your being just a couple weeks ago. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. That crowd out there knows exactly what you’re capable of, you know what you’re capable of, and I know what you’re capable of. I believe in you, baby, and if you can’t find it in you to believe in yourself then I’ll believe enough for the both of us. You got this, Y/N, I know you do.” Your heart melted at his words, the soothing and reassuring tone in his voice providing you some much needed comfort.

“You still nervous, baby?” You nodded your head, looking down at your lap as he scooted closer to you on the couch. “I think I have an idea on how we can fix that. Do you trust me?”

“A-always, Joe.”

“Good girl.” He lifts your chin with his finger and passionately presses his lips to yours, resting his palm on the side of your face as you moan into the kiss. Your stomach flutters at his soft demeanor, feeling some of your nerves dissipate as his lips caress yours. He lays you down on the couch, hovering over you as he deepens the kiss. Breathless, he pulls away, leaning his forehead against yours and looking lovingly into your eyes. “You still feelin’ nervous, baby?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed out, “a little less, but still pretty nervous.”

“I guess I’ll have to keep going then, don’t I?” His lips find their way back to yours, resting there for a moment before trailing along your jawbone and down your neck, leaving a few wet kisses at the base of your throat before continuing his path downward. Your breathing had picked up, and you were now looking down at him as his lips left a trail down your abdomen.

“A-are you sure we should… now? I mean, I have my match later and I-”

“Shhh, I promise I’ll be quick. Just wanna take care of you, help my baby out,” he muttered against your hip bone as he teased the lining of your ring gear you had been wearing. You sighed contently, leaning your head back against the arm of the couch and allowing yourself to relax into his touch. His fingers interlock in the lining of your bottoms as he looks up for you, asking for permission to remove them. You lift your hips off the couch, allowing him to slowly drag the material down your legs and throw them to the side. He snakes both hands up your legs, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs before splitting them apart and exposing you to him. Your body was so reactive to him- Joe loved how goosebumps would scatter across your skin at the brush of his lips or how your eyes would flutter closed and your eyebrows would scrunch together with just his touch, but most of all, he loved how how wet he made you without doing a thing to you.

“Fuck, ma, always so ready for me,” you moaned loudly and bucked your hips, desperate for any sort of friction, “you gon’ have to be quiet for me, don’t want nobody to hear us, right baby?” You nodded and bit your lip, trying to hold in your cries and his fingers danced up the smooth skin of your inner thighs and through your folds, leaning down to make his face level with your core and presses a soft kiss on your clit before wrapping his lips around the swollen bud, nipping and sucking while he continues to drag his fingers along your slit before pushing a finger inside. His thrusts are slow, putting his focus on his mouth as he eats you with a burning intensity. His tongue works itself in ways that set your body on fire, the scruff of his beard along with it only adding to the sensation he’s giving you. The lip you’re biting to keep quiet is nearly drawing blood. You want to cry out, you want to moan his praises loud enough for the crowd inside the arena to hear, but you know you can’t so you continue to restrain yourself despite wanting to do the complete opposite.

He replaces his fingers with his tongue now, pumping it inside of you and using one to pin your hips down and the other to draw slow circles into your clit. This time you can’t help yourself; your clit is so sensitive that the second his fingers brushed it, you were done for. He pauses for a moment to remove his t-shirt he was wearing and you whine from the loss of contact, watching as he morphs the cotton material into a ball and hands it over to you, bringing his hand back down to your clit. “Bite down on this, since you can’t keep yourself quiet, I’ll make you.” You hesitate for a moment and look down at him, his features darkening and giving you a sly smirk before nodding his head. You bring the material to your lips before biting down on it, your senses being completely filled by Joe. He goes back to eating you as you moan into the cloth, the material successfully muffling your cries. Joe’s movements become more and more desperate, moving his tongue and fingers faster as he can sense you’re close. You can’t stop your moans now, saliva drooling from the corner of your mouth as you feel yourself getting closer to your release. Your legs begin to shake and Joe, noticing you were close, dives his head deeper into your pussy, trapping you with his mouth. Your eyes squeeze shut as you inhale, breathing in his scent and cologne you were using as a gag, triggering your own orgasm. You came on his tongue hard, shaking and moaning into the fabric of his shirt as he laps up your juices like an animal deprived of water. You even your breathing and throw his shirt back at him, the both of you laughing as he crawls on top of you.

“Oh, you wanna throw things at me do you? I might just have to teach you a le-”

Joe was interrupted by someone knocking on the door to his locker room. “Excuse me, Ms. Y/N? It’s almost time for your match, we need to head to Gorilla to finalize some things real quick.” You both sigh, him getting off of you as you put your bottoms back on in a rush. You make a run for the door to hurry and get to your position, but he grabs your arm to stop you. “You still feeling nervous?” You smiled at him and shook your head, going to thank him but getting cut off. “Good luck out there, baby. I’ll be waiting for you in Gorilla for you to show me that new title,” he kisses your cheek and you blush.

“Thank you, Joe, for everything. I mean it, I wouldn’t be doing this without you.” He gives you a soft smile and ushers you out the door, as you prepare yourself for possibly the biggest match of your entire career.

“Ughhh,” you groaned as Nia dragged you from the center of the ring to the corner, preparing to give you an Annihilator and win this match. From the jump Nia had punished you, much to the crowd’s distaste. It seemed like everybody in the arena had been behind you and you felt it, right up until the bell rang and she started throwing heavy combinations your way. You managed to sneak in a couple pieces of offense but none were convincing enough to give you any sort of edge. Nia got on the ropes, and performed the move. She remained seated on you, trying to get the pin. 1… 2… kick out. You pushed her off of you and sat on your heels, gripping your side. Jesus, my fuckin’ ribs.

Finally to your feet, you unload on Nia as she laid on the ground. Kicks, punches, springboard moves, you threw the whole arsenal but each pin attempt gave a 1 or 2 count, and never close calls. You knew deep down you were going to have to do something completely insane to get this win, so you start stringing things together to get it done. You start by giving her a drop kick to send her to the outside, following her out, then throwing her into the steel steps. You dragged her by the hair to the announce table, laying her on it as you ran to the ring and climbed to the top rope. You made sure everyone near the table had cleared before crossing your heart and doing a senton, landing on Nia as the table and collapsing along with it. You could tell that Nia was nearly to the breaking point, so you mustered all the energy and strength you could to drag her back into the ring and climbed to the top rope once more. You hit your finisher, but wasn’t satisfied. You wanted no doubts, so you climbed up and hit it again, straddling her shoulders and hooking your arms around her legs. The arena was so loud you could barely hear the ref’s count. 1… 2… 3… ‘Here is your winner, and the NEW… WWE Women’s Champion… Y/N!’

You couldn’t even process what had just happened, all you wanted to do was get the hell out of that ring so you snatched the title from the ref and escaped. You slowed down when you made it to the stage, clutching the title in your arms and looking down at it with tears brimming your eyes. Your knees felt weak, and your heart was beating out of your chest. You did it. You triumphantly raised the title in the air, tears starting to fall as you smiled and took the moment in. After the cameras had cut and you had taken a few pictures with fans, you walked backstage only to be greeted with cheers. You made your way to everyone, getting pictures, hugs, and everything else in between before locking eyes with the man you wanted to see ever since your hand was raised. Joe. You practically ran to him, jumping into his arms and wrapping yours around his neck, hugging him tightly. He spun you around and smiled from ear to ear.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, baby. You had a helluva match out there, I knew you had it in you,” he kissed you sweetly right there, not caring who was watching as you grinned widely. “Now, let’s get you home,” he winked at you, setting you down before whispering low in your ear.

“We’ve got some more celebrating to do tonight.”

#roman reigns #roman reigns smut #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x female reader #roman reigns oneshot

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estellan0vella · 2 days ago

Text

All I'll Ever Ask: L. Mh Lee Minho x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 20K

CW: Anxiety, Soft Minho, Protective Minho, Protective SKZ, Abuse of Power, Attempted Blackmail, Fighting, Violence

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist Part I

The faint hum of Minho’s desk lamp fills his room in the Alpha Phi frat house, casting a soft, golden glow over the cosy chaos. The walls are adorned with a mix of framed photos, band posters, and a whiteboard covered in scribbles about everything from anatomy diagrams to doodles of what you suspect are the other frat members with Changbin being drawn criminally short. His scent lingers in the air, clean, warm and something uniquely Minho.

You’re curled up in his desk chair, legs tucked beneath you, wearing a pair of black yoga shorts and one of his oversized grey hoodies. It hangs loose on your frame, enveloping you in its softness. The cuffs drape over your hands, one of which fidgets idly with a silicone pop-it on the desk. The other spins the anxiety ring on your left hand, the repetitive motion grounding as your thoughts churn.

The blue light glasses perched on your nose catch the light from your laptop, reflecting faintly in the otherwise dim room. Your eyes skim over the open document in front of you, but frustration clouds your focus. You mutter under your breath, venting half-formed curses at the assignment that’s been tormenting you for days.

Behind you, Minho lounges on the bed, the epitome of relaxed confidence. He’s shirtless, the sharp cut of his collarbones and lean torso illuminated in the lamp’s glow. His grey sweatpants sit low on his hips and a hefty veterinary science textbook rests on his lap, though his dark eyes stray from it every few seconds to watch you. Amusement dances in his gaze as he takes in your fidgeting fingers and the tiny crease between your brows.

“You’ve been sighing like a goddamn storm cloud for the past ten minutes,” he drawls, closing his book with a soft thud and leaning back against the headboard. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, baby?”

You groan loudly, your head dropping to the desk with a dramatic thump. The pop-it lets out a weak little pop under your cheek. “This assignment fucking sucks,” you mumble, your voice muffled against the desk. “I didn’t even get to pick the topic. It’s like Jae—the professor’s assistant—has it out for me. He fails me on everything he marks. Everything.”

Minho frowns, sitting up straighter, his full attention now on you. “You’re kidding me. Everything? Even the ones I’ve looked over?”

You lift your head, tugging off your glasses and shoving them into your hair. “Yes! Every single one. I swear, it’s personal at this point. Maybe he hates my writing style or something, but I’m at my wit’s end.”

His brows knit together, a spark of protective frustration flashing across his features. “That’s total bullshit. I’ve read your work. It’s good, really good. Better than half the crap I’ve had to peer review for my classes.”

“I don’t know, Minho.” You exhale heavily, leaning back in the chair and rubbing the bridge of your nose. “It’s just I don’t know how to deal with it. Every time I see another failed mark, it feels like I’m suffocating.”

Minho swings his legs off the bed and strides across the room in a few easy steps, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. He plants himself behind you, his hands landing gently on your shoulders. His thumbs press into the tense muscles at the base of your neck, working out the knots with practised ease.

“You should talk to your professor,” he says, his voice low and steady, the kind of tone that makes you feel safe no matter how stormy your thoughts get.

“Easier said than done,” you grumble, though you can’t help but lean into his touch. The warmth of his hands is soothing, and your eyes flutter shut as he kneads the tightness away. “What am I even supposed to say? ‘Hey, Professor, your assistant has a personal vendetta against me, and it’s driving me insane.’ That won’t sound whiny at all.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers still working their magic on your shoulders. “You don’t have to put it like that, silly girl. Just explain how you feel about your work. Writing’s subjective, right? Maybe Jae’s seeing it differently than you intend.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. His expression is soft, serious, and utterly focused on you. It’s the kind of look that makes your chest ache in the best way. “You really think that’ll help?”

“I think it’s worth a shot.” He leans down, brushing his lips against the top of your head. The kiss lingers, warm and reassuring. “And if it doesn’t, at least you’ll know you did everything you could. But for the record? Jae’s a dick.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, a shaky but genuine sound. You rest your head back against his stomach, his skin warm through the hoodie. “I didn’t tell you I failed because I didn’t know how to handle it. Just the thought of admitting it made me feel like I was going to lose it.”

His arms wrap around you loosely, his chin coming to rest on top of your head. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, frustration lacing his voice, though it’s not aimed at you. “Don’t carry that shit on your own. You’ve got me, remember?”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh, craning your neck to look up at him again. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty good at internalizing everything. Panic spiral, rinse, repeat.”

“Fucking stop that,” he says firmly, though a teasing smile tugs at his lips. He flicks your forehead lightly, making you scrunch your nose in mock annoyance. “That’s what I’m here for. You don’t have to do this alone, sweetheart.”

You poke his stomach in retaliation, a smirk breaking through your frustration. “Fine, Mr. Fix-It-All. I’ll talk to the professor. But if I have a meltdown, it’s on you to clean up the mess.”

Minho grins, ruffling your already messy hair. “Deal. Just don’t let some asshole make you think you’re not amazing at what you do. You’re a badass, baby. Don’t forget that.”

You smile, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “Thanks, Minho.”

“Always, sweetheart,” he replies, pressing another kiss to your head.

The fidget cube spins endlessly in your fingers, its clicks and rotations keeping time with the chaotic rhythm of your thoughts. The assignment taunts you from the glowing laptop screen, each word blurred by the mental block you can’t seem to break through. The harder you try to focus, the more it feels like your brain is wading through quicksand. Anxiety bubbles under the surface, rising like steam in a pressure cooker, and every fidget is a small attempt to keep yourself from boiling over.

Behind you, Minho hasn’t moved. His hands rest lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs occasionally brushing soothing circles over the fabric of his hoodie that you’ve claimed as your own. His quiet presence is grounding, though he says nothing for a while, letting the silence stretch between you. Finally, he sighs with a dramatic exhale, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck.

“Okay, that’s enough of this,” he declares, voice laced with playful exasperation. His hands grip your shoulders firmly but gently. “Let’s figure this shit out, baby. Up you get.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your eyebrow arching in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘up you get?’ I’m trying to—”

Before you can finish, he swivels the desk chair around and slides it back a few inches, his movements deliberate and fluid. He pulls you gently but insistently to your feet, his fingers wrapping securely around your wrists. “I mean,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument, “you’re sitting in my lap. Maybe if I hold onto you, that overthinking brain of yours will actually chill the fuck out for two seconds.”

He plops into the chair, tugging you down with him as if this is the most natural solution in the world. He settles you sideways across his lap, his arms wrapping securely around your waist. You try to frown at him, but the warmth of his chest against your back and the way his thumbs rub slow, reassuring circles against your sides make it impossible. “You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, though your body instinctively relaxes against his.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he teases, resting his chin on your shoulder and peering at the laptop screen. His dark eyes scan the glaringly blank document with mock seriousness. “Alright, first step, let’s go through your old assignments. I want to see exactly what kind of bullshit this Jae guy’s been pulling. Maybe there’s a pattern.”

“Fine,” you mumble, reaching for the laptop and navigating to the folder where you’ve stashed every paper you’ve written for this class. The tension in your shoulders begins to creep back, but before you can start spiralling again, Minho reaches over to grab the mug of tea he made for you earlier. He presses it into your hands with a quiet but firm, “Drink.”

You roll your eyes but obey, the mug warming your palms as you take a sip. The faint sweetness of the tea soothes your throat, and something in Minho’s unwavering presence keeps you tethered as he leans forward to scroll through the latest assignment. His brows furrow almost immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes skim over Jae’s comments.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, his voice low and incredulous. “This isn’t even constructive criticism. ‘Lacks depth?’ ‘Needs better support for arguments?’ That’s it? No examples, no explanation of what he wants? How the hell are you supposed to improve if he’s not giving you anything to work with?”

Your fingers abandon the fidget cube, moving to spin the anxiety ring on your left hand instead. Minho doesn’t miss the subtle shift. His gaze flicks to your restless fingers, and he lets out a soft sigh, pulling back slightly. “Okay, fuck this.”

Before you can protest, he closes your laptop and sets it on the desk, his movements decisive but careful. Grabbing the silicone pop-it toy from the mess of trinkets on the desk, he guides you up and leads you to the bed with an ease that leaves no room for argument.

He drops onto the mattress, leaning back against the headboard, and pulls you into his lap again. His arms wrap securely around you as he presses the pop-it into your hands.

“Here,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Pop this thing until you feel like you can breathe again. No overthinking, no staring at that laptop. Just you and me, baby.”

You rest your head against his shoulder and the first pop of the toy echoes faintly in the quiet room, followed by another, and another. The rhythmic motion gives your restless hands something to focus on, and slowly, the tightness in your chest starts to loosen.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Minho speaks again, his lips brushing against your hair as he does. “Next lecture, you’re gonna talk to him, okay? We’ll figure out exactly what you want to say together. No stressing over it by yourself.”

You let out a short laugh, tilting your head to glance up at him. “So, now we’re scripting confrontations? Is that what we’re doing?”

“Well, yeah,” he says with a grin, clearly enjoying himself. “We both know you’re not gonna do it without a script. Let’s not pretend. We’ve walked around Target five times before you let me ask a worker for help finding something. Oh, and how about all the times I’ve had to complain about your coffee order? Honestly, I deserve a medal.”

“Minho—”

“No, no, I’m not done,” he says, his grin widening. “I see one tomato on your plate? Boom, gone. Not on my watch. And let’s not forget the time I literally did your return for you because you couldn’t even walk into the store because you were so anxious about being inconvenient. That’s right, baby. Boyfriend of the year, right here.”

Despite yourself, a laugh bubbles out of you, light and free. You shake your head, poking him in the chest. “You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?”

“And yet,” he says, dipping his head to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you love me for it.”

You don’t reply, but the way you lean into him speaks louder than words. He grins, grabbing the remote off the nightstand and flicking on the TV. The screen lights up with a true crime documentary, and he drapes a blanket over both of you.

“Now,” he says, pulling you closer against him, “watch some freaky shit while you pop that thing. We’ll deal with Jae later. Right now, it’s just you and me.”

You press a kiss to his jaw, settling into his embrace as the documentary begins. The sound of the pop-it fills the quiet gaps between the narrator’s voice, and for the first time in days, the storm inside you feels like it’s clearing. With Minho’s arms around you, you can almost believe that everything will be okay.

The lecture hall is quieter now, the echoes of chatter and rustling papers fading as the last of the students filter out in pairs or small groups. The hum of their voices lingers faintly in the hallway before dissolving into silence, leaving you alone in the cavernous space with Jae, the professor’s assistant. He’s at the front of the room, gathering his things, his laptop, a few loose papers, and a sleek leather satchel slung carelessly over one shoulder.

You sit frozen at your desk in the middle of the room, the cool metal of your anxiety ring spinning beneath your fingers as you fidget. Minho’s words from the night before replay in your mind, his voice steady and reassuring: Just talk to him. You take a slow, steadying breath, tugging the edges of his hoodie closer around you. The weight of it feels protective, grounding.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you steel your nerves and make your way down the aisle. Your black flares swish softly with each step, and the cropped white turtleneck you’re wearing feels almost too revealing under the fluorescent lights, despite the oversized hoodie hanging loose around your shoulders. As you approach the desk, your stomach churns with a mixture of nervousness and determination.

Jae glances up as you stop in front of him, his expression neutral at first, then shifting into something harder to read, his gaze flickers over you briefly before settling on your face. “Oh, hey. Y/N, right?” His tone is casual, almost too casual. “You need something?”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat and clearing your voice. “Yeah, um, I wanted to talk about my grades. I’ve been failing a lot of assignments, and I just… I want to understand where I’m going wrong.”

His head tilts slightly, his lips curling into what might have been a polite smile if not for the strange glint in his eyes. “Grades, huh?” He sets his bag on the desk and leans back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. What specifically do you want to know?”

You hesitate, feeling small under his scrutinizing gaze, but you push through. “Well, I’ve been reading the feedback you’ve given, but it’s not very specific. It’s hard to know what to fix when all I see is stuff like ‘lacks depth’ or ‘needs better support.’ I was hoping you could explain what you’re looking for, so I can improve.”

Jae’s lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smirk, but it makes your stomach twist uneasily. “Hmm,” he hums, considering you for a moment. “Yeah, I’ve noticed you’ve been struggling. But, you know, sometimes it’s not just about the writing. It’s about making the right… connections.”

Your brow furrows, confusion overtaking your nerves for a moment. “Connections?” you repeat, the word foreign in this context.

He shrugs, his smirk growing more pronounced. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he says, his voice lowering as he straightens up, stepping a little closer. “You’re a smart girl. If you really want to turn those grades around, there’s an easy way to make it happen.”

Your stomach twists harder now, unease blossoming into something closer to alarm. “What do you mean?” you ask, your voice cautious, even as the pit in your stomach deepens.

He leans in, his tone conspiratorial, as if he’s letting you in on some great secret. “You fuck me, just once, and I’ll make sure you never fail another assignment. Ever.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, the air in your lungs vanishing as the room seems to tilt slightly. Your brain stalls, struggling to process the sheer audacity of what he just said. “I—” you start, your voice catching in your throat. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jae chuckles softly, as if this is all a joke and you’re the one who doesn’t get it. “You heard me. Look, it’s not a big deal. Just one time. You do that, and I’ll make sure your grades are golden for the rest of the semester.”

Your heart pounds so loudly in your ears that his next words almost drown beneath it. The bile rises in your throat, and your voice, when it comes, is small, shaky, barely your own. “That’s… that’s not appropriate.”

He shrugs, unfazed, his smirk never faltering. “Think about it,” he says smoothly, his tone bordering on smug now. “I’m giving you an out here. No more stress, no more late nights trying to figure out what I want. Just one night, and it’s all good.”

The room feels suffocating, the fluorescent lights too bright, the walls too close. Your fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, your body trembling as adrenaline courses through you. “I—I need to go,” you stammer, taking a shaky step back.

Jae’s smirk deepens as he watches you retreat, his posture still casual, as if he hasn’t just turned your world upside down. “Suit yourself,” he calls after you, his tone infuriatingly light. “But don’t say I didn’t offer.”

You don’t stay to hear more. Grabbing your bag, you bolt for the door, your steps echoing loudly in the empty lecture hall. The hallway feels colder, the bile rising higher in your throat as your vision blurs with tears of humiliation and anger. His words play on a loop in your head, the weight of them crushing.

You don’t stop walking until you reach the Alpha Phi frat house, your breathing shallow and uneven. Your chest is tight, every inhale feeling like it catches somewhere in your ribs. Your hands tremble as you fumble with the front door, struggling to get it open. The chill of the evening air still clings to your skin, but the panic burning in your chest is what drives you forward.

Minho’s at his lectures, you know that much. But Jisung should be home, and if anyone can help you calm down, it’s him. Just the thought of someone familiar, someone safe, is enough to keep you moving.

The door swings open, and the warm hum of voices greets you. Laughter spills out from the living room, a sound that feels almost surreal against the chaos in your mind. Chan is the first to notice you as you step inside, his easy laugh fading the moment he spots you. He’s sitting on the couch with Seungmin, Jeongin, Hyunjin, and Changbin, all of them mid-conversation, but his eyes lock on yours instantly.

“Y/N?” Chan’s voice shifts, concern threading through it as he stands quickly. His brows knit together as he takes in the wide, glassy look in your eyes and the way your hands clutch tightly at the edges of Minho’s hoodie. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The question cuts through the fog in your mind, but only barely. The words you need are trapped in your throat, jagged and sharp, refusing to come out. You feel frozen, the weight of the panic pressing down harder, your chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Chan is already moving, crossing the room in a few strides. He places a firm but gentle hand on your arm, his touch grounding. “Hey, come here,” he says softly, his voice steady and sure. “Let’s sit down.”

He guides you to the couch, motioning for the others to clear the space. “Guys, out. Now.”

There’s no hesitation, no argument. The others exchange quick glances but don’t question him. Seungmin and Jeongin head upstairs, Hyunjin and Changbin following close behind. Their laughter and chatter are gone now, replaced by the quiet weight of concern that lingers in the room.

Felix stays, though, settling on the couch beside you as Chan crouches in front of you. His warm, freckled face is creased with worry, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he leans closer.

“You’re on the verge of a panic attack, aren’t you?” Chan asks gently, his tone calm but firm and you nod. “That’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything right now, alright? Just focus on me and Felix.”

Felix nods, his expression soft and understanding as he shifts closer. “We’ve got you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “Just breathe, love. We’re right here.”

You nod faintly, but the tears that have been threatening to fall spill over now, streaking hot down your cheeks. Your trembling hands clutch at the oversized hoodie, the fabric twisting under your grip. The room feels too bright, too still, but then Chan wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a firm, steadying hug.

“You’re safe,” Chan whispers, his voice right by your ear. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. You’re not alone.”

Felix shifts closer, his warmth pressing against your other side. His arm drapes gently around your shoulders as he leans his head against yours. “Just let us be here with you,” he murmurs, his accent soft and lilting. “Don’t worry about saying anything.”

The weight of their presence is overwhelming in the best way, their warmth wrapping around you like a cocoon. You let yourself lean into them, the tears coming harder now as the tidal wave of panic begins to crest. For a moment, you feel like you might drown in it, but their voices pull you back.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention briefly, and you glance up to see Changbin approaching, something small and colourful in his hand. It takes a second for your blurry vision to clear enough to realize what it is: your fidget cube. He holds it out to you silently, his dark eyes warm with understanding.

“I thought you might need this,” Changbin says softly, his voice steady but gentle.

You take it with trembling hands, managing a faint nod of thanks as he gives you a small, reassuring smile before retreating back upstairs. The familiar feel of the cube in your hands helps anchor you, its smooth surfaces and clicking mechanisms giving your fingers something to focus on.

Chan’s hand rubs slow, soothing circles on your back as he keeps his voice low and steady. “You’re doing great, Y/N. Just keep breathing. Deep breath in and out. That’s it.”

Felix hums softly, a sound almost like a lullaby as he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re not alone. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Minho sits in the middle of his animal behaviour lecture, slouched low in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Normally, this class keeps his attention, discussions about operant conditioning, animal instincts, and behavioural patterns are usually right up his alley. But today, the professor’s droning voice feels like background noise. His mind is restless, caught somewhere between the monotony of the lecture and the clock on the wall, which seems to tick slower every time he looks at it.

He pulls out his phone, thinking maybe a quick scroll will distract him when it vibrates in his hand. A call from Changbin. Minho frowns. Changbin doesn’t call unless something’s wrong. His stomach twists as he answers, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Yo, what’s up?” he says, keeping his voice low. He glances around to make sure the professor hasn’t noticed him.

“Minho,” Changbin’s voice is quiet but laced with urgency. “You need to get back to the house. Now.”

Minho straightens in his seat, his body tensing. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N,” Changbin explains, his words coming fast. “She showed up looking for Jisung, but he wasn’t here. She’s in the living room with Chan and Felix now. Man, she looked like she was about to have a full-blown panic attack when she came in.”

Minho’s grip tightens on his phone. “Is she okay? Did she say anything?”

“No,” Changbin says, his tone grim. “She’s in that, you know, that nonverbal state she gets into sometimes when it’s bad. I gave her her fidget cube, but it’s not really helping. She’s completely shaken.”

“Shit,” Minho mutters under his breath, his mind already racing. He shoves his notebook and pens into his bag without caring about the mess. “Stay with her. I’m leaving now.”

“Chan and Felix are with her,” Changbin reassures him. “But yeah, hurry, man. She needs you.”

“I’m on my way.” Minho’s voice is clipped as he ends the call, already standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t glance back at the professor, doesn’t care about the glares he gets from classmates as he manoeuvres his way out of the row. He takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into the hallway, his boots thudding against the tiled floor as he cuts through campus at a near jog.

His thoughts race alongside him. The image of you, wide-eyed, trembling, on the verge of breaking, plays over and over in his mind. He twists the rings on his fingers absentmindedly, picturing the way you’ve done the same when anxiety takes hold. He knows those rings are as much for you as they are for him. The thought makes him walk even faster.

By the time he reaches the Alpha Phi house, his chest is tight, and his breathing is shallow, not from exertion, but from the urgency pressing down on him. He doesn’t bother with his usual calm entrance, throwing the door open with enough force to make it bang against the wall. His eyes immediately scan the space, locking on the living room.

You’re curled up on the couch, the oversized hoodie you borrowed from him drowning your frame. Your knees are drawn up to your chest, your fingers twitching against the fidget cube Changbin handed you. But the small, rhythmic clicks aren’t soothing you the way they should. Your shoulders are stiff, your breathing shallow.

Chan is sitting beside you, his body turned toward you, his hand resting lightly on the back of the couch as if ready to intervene at any moment. Felix is on your other side, his soft, freckled face a mask of quiet concern as he leans close. Neither of them says anything when Minho steps into the room.

Chan stands, nodding toward Minho in silent understanding. “She hasn’t said anything,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “But she’s not in a good place.”

Felix glances up briefly, offering a small, reassuring smile before turning his focus back to you.

Minho doesn’t waste a second. He drops his bag to the floor, stepping around Chan to sit beside you. His dark eyes sweep over your face, taking in the tear tracks on your cheeks, the way your lips tremble even though you’re not speaking. His heart clenches, but he keeps his voice steady and soft.

“Hey,” he murmurs as he settles beside you, leaning forward slightly. “It’s me. I’m right here.”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the fidget cube in your hands. Your fingers fumble with it, twisting and clicking aimlessly, but it’s clear it’s not enough. Minho doesn’t push. He knows you won’t meet his eyes or speak until you’re ready.

Instead, he extends a hand, holding it steady in your line of sight. “C’mere, baby,” he says gently. “Take my hand. You don’t have to do anything else.”

For a moment, you hesitate. Then, slowly, your trembling fingers let go of the cube and slide over his palm. You don’t look at him, but you begin twisting the rings on his fingers, your movements careful, deliberate. Minho releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“That’s it,” he says softly, his other hand resting lightly on your knee. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Felix leans closer, his hand brushing over your arm in a soothing motion. “We’re all here for you. Take your time.”

The room feels quiet, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind of silence filled with understanding, the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the couch the only sounds. Minho stays still, watching as you twist his rings, your breathing begins to slow. The tension in your shoulders eases a fraction, but it’s clear you’re still struggling to ground yourself.

Minho leans in slightly, his thumb tracing small circles over your knee. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart,” he says softly. “No rush. Just let me know you’re here, okay?”

Your grip on his hand tightens briefly. An unspoken answer. Minho feels a wave of relief crash over him, though he doesn’t let it show. He just adjusts his position slightly, keeping himself as close to you as possible without crowding you.

As the minutes tick by, the room remains still except for the faint sound of your fingers twisting Minho’s rings. The cool metal shifts smoothly under your touch, catching the light with every turn.

Minho’s presence is unwavering. His dark eyes are steady, warm, and full of quiet reassurance, never leaving you. He waits, giving you the space you need to exist in this moment, no expectations, no pressure.

He’s the one to break the silence, his voice low and soft, with that familiar teasing edge that always makes you feel lighter. “So, this is where my hoodie went.”

The words are simple, but they land like a soft anchor, pulling you gently back toward the present. Your lips twitch just barely, a hint of a smile ghosting across your face. It’s fleeting, but Minho catches it, and the weight pressing on his chest loosens just a fraction.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he continues, leaning his head back against the couch with a casual air. His tone carries a playful warmth as if he’s inviting you to share a little moment of normalcy with him. “You look cute today. Those flares and that crop top? Already killing it. But you add my hoodie?” He smirks, lowering his voice to a murmur like he’s letting you in on a secret. “Sweetheart, I could just fucking eat you.”

This time, the smile on your face lingers a little longer, though your focus stays on his hands, your fingers still moving over the rings. Minho doesn’t push for more. He’s patient, letting you take these small, steady steps toward feeling like yourself again.

After a moment, he shifts slightly, brushing his knee against yours as he speaks again, his tone casual but inviting. “I’m making sweet potato noodles tonight. You wanna stay over?”

You nod, the motion small but deliberate, and something in his chest softens. His hand squeezes your knee lightly in acknowledgement.

“Good,” he says with quiet certainty. “Can’t have you missing out on my culinary genius. You’d be devastated.”

Before the warmth of the moment can settle completely, the front door bangs open, and the sound of loud, stomping footsteps fills the house. Minho doesn’t even flinch, but you tense slightly until a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“Seungmin called me!” Jisung declares, practically bounding into the living room with the kind of chaotic energy only he could bring. His pale green hair bounces as he moves, and his expression is a mix of exaggerated determination and genuine concern. “I’m here to save the day and my best friend from the suffocating void that is anxiety!”

Felix, who has stayed quiet until now, chuckles softly as he stands from the couch. “Alright, Ji, she’s all yours. I’ll make some tea.”

Jisung steps aside to let Felix pass, then all but dives into the now-empty spot on your other side. He lands with a bounce, his knee knocking gently against yours as he turns to face you fully.

Chan gives your shoulder a brief squeeze before heading toward the kitchen with Felix, the two of them disappearing behind the swinging door. The sound of the kettle clicking on echoes faintly, a comforting background noise.

Now alone with Minho and Jisung, you glance up briefly, your eyes meeting Jisung’s for the first time. His usual playful grin is softened, though his energy is as unmistakably Jisung as ever. “Hey,” he says, his voice a little quieter now. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, the movement small but definitive.

“Okay,” Jisung replies immediately, not missing a beat. His tone is light, free of any judgment. “What about throwing things? Crying? Hitting something? Hitting someone?”

Your fingers falter on Minho’s rings at the word someone. It’s a tiny pause, so subtle most people wouldn’t notice, but Minho and Jisung aren’t most people. Their eyes meet briefly over your head, an unspoken exchange passing between them.

“Alright,” Jisung says gently, shifting his tone. “No pressure. We’ll just sit here and vibe.”

You don’t respond, but your hands resume their rhythm, twisting Minho’s rings in a familiar pattern. Minho leans closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His touch is light and brief, but it lingers just enough to remind you he’s here.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Minho murmurs, his voice steady and grounding. His thumb resumes its slow, soothing circles on your knee. “Whenever you’re ready, we’re here.”

Jisung, never one to let a moment of silence sit too long, starts humming under his breath. The tune is random, a little chaotic, but it’s so unmistakably him that it feels like a soft tether pulling you further out of the fog. He adds exaggerated beatboxing noises, throwing a dramatic drumroll into the mix for good measure.

“Better than Spotify, huh?” he quips, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow. “I can do requests, too, if you’re into, like, anxiety-friendly bangers.”

A tiny laugh escapes before you can stop it, barely audible but real. Minho’s gaze flicks to you, his lips twitching into the faintest smile as he catches the sound.

“There she is,” Jisung says triumphantly, leaning closer with a grin. “You laughed. That means you’re stuck with me now.”

Minho smirks, resting his head lightly against the back of the couch. “You heard him, sweetheart. You’re officially stuck with us. Might as well give up and let us take care of you.”

You don’t respond, but you lean ever so slightly into Minho’s side, your weight shifting closer to him. His arm moves instinctively, wrapping around your shoulders and holding you securely against him.

The sound of the kettle clicks off in the kitchen, and a few moments later, Felix reappears, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of tea. He sets it down on the coffee table, his gentle smile returning as he hands one to you.

“Chamomile,” he says quietly.

You take the mug with both hands, the heat radiating through your palms grounding you further. The room is quiet again, filled only with the faint hum of Jisung’s off-key humming and the steady presence of the three people around you.

“Come on,” Minho murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

You blink up at him, your hands hesitating over his fingers for just a moment before you let them fall away. He stands smoothly, his movements deliberate but unhurried, and extends a hand toward you. You take it wordlessly, your fingers slipping into his, and he gives a gentle tug, guiding you to your feet.

“Good girl,” he says softly, his lips curving into the faintest smile as he squeezes your hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You follow him out of the living room, the familiar feel of his hand grounding you as he leads the way. Jisung throws an exaggerated thumbs-up from his spot on the couch, grinning as if he’s just overseen a major life event. You catch the faint sound of him humming something ridiculous under his breath as you leave.

The walk up the stairs is quiet, the hum of the house filling the silence between you. The faint creak of wood beneath your steps feels oddly comforting. By the time you reach Minho’s room, you’re already exhaling a little easier. The sight of the rumpled bedspread, the carefully cluttered desk, and the small pile of your fidget toys stacked in a corner feels like stepping into safety.

Minho closes the door softly behind you and steps closer, his hands brushing lightly over your shoulders. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you sorted and comfy.”

He moves to his dresser, pulling open a drawer and rifling through it before he pulls out one of his oversized jumpers and a pair of black basketball shorts. He sets the clothes on the bed and turns back to you, his expression softer now, his eyes scanning your face.

Stepping closer, he rests his hands lightly on the hem of your hoodie. “Can I?” he asks quietly, his voice gentle.

You nod, your fingers still clutching his rings. His movements are careful as he peels the hoodie off your frame, lifting it over your head and pushing it off your shoulders. He folds it automatically, setting it on the chair nearby before his hands find the hem of your cropped turtleneck.

He pauses, his eyes meeting yours briefly, silently checking in. When you nod again, he pulls it over your head just as gently, leaving you in your lace bra. His eyes flicker to yours again, scanning for any hint of discomfort, but he doesn’t linger.

“Almost there,” he murmurs, crouching slightly to help you step out of your flares. The fabric pools at your feet, and he scoops it up, tossing it onto the same chair.

He holds the shorts open for you, guiding the waistband up with steady hands before he reaches for the jumper. The oversized fabric swallows you as he pulls it over your head, the scent of him wrapping around you instantly. It’s soft, warm, and comforting in a way that makes your shoulders relax just a little more.

“Better?” he asks, his fingers brushing lightly over your arms, the touch tentative but grounding.

You nod, a small but sure movement, and he smiles faintly before stepping closer again. His hands move to your hair, unclipping the bun that’s come loose. The strands tumble down messily, and he works through them with careful fingers, smoothing out tangles with an ease that speaks to how often he’s done this for you.

Once he’s finished, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that quiet, unwavering gaze. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks softly.

You shake your head and he doesn’t press.

“Okay, you hungry?”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod, your voice barely audible when you speak. “A little. That sweet potato noodles offer still on the table?”

“For you, baby? Obviously. We’ll go cook now, or you can sit and look pretty while I cook. Hmm?”

You nod again, a small, fleeting smile tugging at your lips.

“Good.” He presses a light kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “Grab one of your fidget things, yeah?”

You reach for the silicone pop-it on the desk, the familiar texture calming as you clutch it in your hand. Minho takes your free hand again, leading you back downstairs to the kitchen.

The space feels lively when you step inside. Jisung is perched on a step stool, his head half-buried in a cupboard as he mutters something unintelligible. Boxes and bags clatter faintly as he rummages, and he lets out a dramatic groan.

“There’s no fucking Oreos left!” Jisung whines, turning to face the room with his hands thrown up. “Who eats all the Oreos and doesn’t replace them? That’s a crime against the Geneva Convention! An actual war crime!”

Minho rolls his eyes, steering you toward one of the stools at the kitchen island. You sit down quietly, the pop-it resting in your lap as your fingers press it rhythmically, the soft popping sound blending into the warm chaos around you.

Jisung bounds over, clutching a bag of popcorn triumphantly. He wraps his arms around your shoulders in a dramatic hug, leaning his head against yours. “Bestie! You’re alive. I missed you. I mean, you were gone for like five minutes, but still.”

You huff softly, the sound almost like a laugh, and Jisung grins before plopping onto the stool beside you. “Alright, let’s vibe.”

Minho is already at work, his movements practised and fluid. Sweet potatoes, spinach, sesame oil, and a variety of spices pile onto the counter as he pulls ingredients from the fridge. His hands move with precision as he peels a sweet potato, the rhythm of the peeler scraping against the skin oddly soothing.

“Can I get in on the noodles?” Jisung asks, watching Minho work with wide eyes. “I mean, you’re dating my best friend, so like you feed her, you have to feed me. It’s the law”

Minho doesn’t even look up. “Not how it works, you scavenger.”

Jisung clutches his chest dramatically. “So cruel. So heartless. I’m starving, Minho!”

“You just raided the cupboard!” Minho shoots back, but he sighs, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll make extra. But you’re doing the dishes.”

“Deal,” Jisung says instantly, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

The warm, savoury scent of sesame oil fills the room as Minho starts cooking, the soft sizzle of vegetables hitting the pan adding to the comforting atmosphere. You sit quietly, watching him, the pop-it still in your hands. He glances at you occasionally, his gaze softening each time he sees the tension in your fingers easing.

Jisung nudges you lightly, his grin infectious. “You know he’s showing off, right? I bet he doesn’t go all out like this when it’s just him.”

“Shut up,” Minho mutters, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound small but genuine, and Minho’s shoulders relax slightly at the sound. He tosses the sweet potato noodles lightly in the pan, the smell of garlic and spices filling the kitchen as he turns to you with a smile that feels like home. In this moment, with the warmth of the kitchen and the familiar banter around you, the lingering weight in your chest feels just a little lighter.

The room is bathed in the soft, golden glow of Minho’s desk lamp, its warm light casting a cosy hue over the space. The faint blue glow of the TV on the wall flickers, illuminating the dim room as Corpse Bride plays, its melodic score filling the air. You’re seated cross-legged on Minho’s bed, a steaming bowl of vegetarian ramen cradled in your lap, the comforting aroma of miso broth mingling with the warmth of the room.

Minho sits beside you, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his own bowl resting in his hands. He’s shirtless, as usual, the smooth planes of his chest catching the soft light, and his black sweatpants hang low on his hips. His hair is slightly mussed, strands sticking up in different directions like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. He looks comfortable, utterly at ease, but his eyes flick toward you more than the TV, observing you with quiet attentiveness.

You’re wearing one of his oversized black t-shirts, the fabric hanging loosely on your frame, paired with a set of lacy green boyshorts and your favourite Alice in Wonderland ankle socks. Your hair is clipped up haphazardly, stray strands framing your face, and Minho can’t help but notice how you tug at the loose fabric of the shirt every now and then as if grounding yourself in its softness.

“Dunno why we don’t eat ramen like this every day,” Minho says, breaking the quiet. His voice is casual, a playful warmth weaving through his words as he slurps up another bite of noodles. “This shit’s perfect.”

You hum in agreement, twirling noodles around your chopsticks, though the motions are absentminded. Your bowl is loaded with colourful vegetables, tofu cubes, and the rich, flavorful broth he tailored just for you, separating the ingredients in the pan like second nature to keep it vegetarian. It’s something he always does, unprompted, and it warms you, even when you don’t have the energy to say so.

As the movie continues, Minho keeps stealing glances at you, his sharp eyes catching the subtle ways you’re quieter than usual—the way your chopsticks hover over the bowl, the way you push a piece of tofu around without eating it. His brow furrows slightly. He knows you too well to miss the signs.

“So,” he says finally, his tone light but laced with curiosity, “wanna tell me why you’re not going to your lectures?”

Your hand freezes mid-twirl, the noodles slipping back into the bowl. Your shoulders stiffen slightly, but you don’t look at him. Instead, your gaze fixes on the TV, the animated characters moving through the dim glow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Minho quirks an eyebrow, setting his bowl down on the nightstand with deliberate movements. He shifts to face you more fully, one leg bending as he props himself up on his elbow. “Two weeks,” he says, his voice dropping to something firmer. “You haven’t been to a single fucking class”

You shrug, your eyes still glued to the screen. “I just haven’t felt like it.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, not buying it for a second. “Let’s try that again. Did you talk to the assistant? What’s his name- Jae?”

At the mention of the name, your reaction is immediate. Your shoulders tense, and your grip on the chopsticks tightens slightly. Minho notices, of course, his sharp eyes narrowing as he sits up straighter.

“Okay, so you did talk to him. What happened? Did he insult your work? Call you stupid? What?”

You keep stirring the broth, your chopsticks moving aimlessly as if they might somehow distract him. The weight in the room seems to press down harder, the background noise of the movie fading into nothing.

Minho leans forward, the mattress shifting under his weight as he watches you closely. “Did he touch you?”

“No!” you say quickly, your head snapping up to meet his gaze. “No, Minho, nothing like that.”

He studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours for any hint of what’s going on. The tension in his shoulders relaxes just slightly, but the concern etched across his face doesn’t fade.

“Alright,” he says slowly, his voice steady and careful. “But he did something. Something that’s got you avoiding your fucking lectures. So, what did he say? Verbatim.”

You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “Min, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His jaw tightens, and his hand flexes briefly against the bedspread. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, leaning back against the headboard as his eyes flicker over you. He doesn’t push. Not yet. But the silence feels heavier now like he’s waiting for you to crack.

“You spoke to the guy,” he says after a beat, his tone quieter but no less insistent. “And now you won’t even go to class. That feels to me like something happened.”

“Min, please,” you whisper, your voice carrying a hint of exhaustion like the weight of this has been pressing on you for days.

He leans forward again, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. His lips linger there, soft and warm, before he pulls back. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper now.

You nod faintly, but your lips press into a thin line, and Minho knows you’re not ready. He watches you for a moment longer, his hand brushing lightly against your knee in a silent show of support. Then he leans back into the pillows, his body shifting as he rests his arm behind his head.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “But just so we’re clear, you’re not going through this alone. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

You nod again, still not meeting his eyes. Your fingers tighten slightly around the bowl, but you don’t speak, and Minho lets the conversation drop. For now.

The room feels quieter, the muted colours of the TV casting soft shadows across the walls. Minho reaches for his bowl again, taking another bite of noodles as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press, but his presence is steady, a quiet reminder that he’s here.

The weight in the room doesn’t lift entirely, but the warmth of Minho beside you, the gentle hum of the movie, and the familiarity of the space are enough to make it manageable. And for now, that’s enough.

You’re curled up against Minho, your face nestled against his chest, one hand loosely resting on his side. His oversized shirt engulfs you, the hem riding up slightly to reveal the curve of your hip as you shift in your sleep. The blanket drapes lazily over you both, but Minho’s mind is far from the peace that your quiet form exudes.

He lies still for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face. The way your brow smooths out in sleep, the soft flutter of your eyelashes against your cheek. It all tugs at his heart. But beneath the warmth he feels for you is a simmering frustration, not directed at you but at the situation. Something happened.

He can feel it in the way your laughter doesn’t come as easily, in the way you poke at your food more than you eat it, and in the way you’ve avoided your lectures for two weeks. And whoever caused that? They’re going to regret it.

Carefully, he begins untangling himself from you, moving with the kind of precision only Minho can manage. He lifts your arm gently, resting it against the pillow, and pulls the blanket higher over your shoulders.

Brushing a strand of hair from your face, he lets his fingers linger briefly against your temple before standing. The glow from his phone illuminates his path as he grabs it from the nightstand, padding silently out of the room. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, leaving you to rest.

The hallway is dim, lit faintly by the golden glow of a lamp someone left on. Minho moves with purpose, his steps quick but quiet as he makes his way to Felix’s room. A sliver of light spills out from under the door, and the faint sound of typing reaches his ears. Felix is still awake.

Minho knocks once, sharp but not loud, before twisting the handle and stepping inside. Felix is sprawled across his bed, his laptop propped on a pillow in front of him as he scrolls through what looks like a recipe website. His face lights up slightly when he sees Minho, but the curious tilt of his head suggests he knows this isn’t a social call.

“What’s up?” Felix asks, closing the laptop and sitting up, his brows furrowing as he takes in Minho’s tense expression.

Minho closes the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Y/N trusts you.”

Felix blinks, slightly taken aback. “I’d say so, yeah. Why?”

Minho runs a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose as he chooses his words. “Good. I need you to find out what her dickhead professor’s assistant said to her two weeks ago.”

Felix frowns. "I'm gonna need more context"

Minho steps forward, his voice dropping as he explains. “The day she came here. On the verge of a panic attack. You and Chan were with her, yeah? Something happened before she showed up.”

Felix nods slowly, his posture straightening. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

Minho’s expression hardens. “Before she came here, she spoke to her professor’s assistant. That guy’s been failing her on assignments she absolutely should’ve passed. Since then? She hasn’t gone to a single journalism lecture. Not one. She won’t tell me what he said or did, and I need to know. She trusts you. So, you talk to her, get her to open up, and then you tell me.”

Felix leans back, crossing his arms as he studies Minho. “You’re asking me to break her trust?”

“Yep,” Minho says bluntly, not missing a beat.

Felix snorts, though there’s no humour in it. “Why not go to Jisung? She tells him everything.”

Minho shakes his head, his tone flat. “Because Jisung’s gonna lose his shit. He’d storm into her lecture hall, make a scene, and scare the crap out of her. She doesn’t need that.”

“And you’re not gonna overreact?” Felix asks, his brows arching sceptically. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re already planning murder.”

Minho’s lips curve into a cold smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Oh, I’ll react. But not in front of her. Jisung would go full ‘big dramatic protector’ and freak her out. Me?” He taps his temple with a finger. “I fix problems at the root. Like a plucking a weed.”

Felix tilts his head, considering this. “So you’d break his nose?”

“Maybe a rib,” Minho muses, his tone conversational. “Depends on what he did.”

Felix exhales sharply, shaking his head, though the corner of his mouth twitches. “Fair enough. But is she okay? Like, actually okay?”

“Some days are better than others,” Minho admits, his voice softening slightly. “But her anxiety’s been worse lately.”

Felix leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “If this assistant guy’s the reason break something for me, too. Preferably twice.”

Minho chuckles lowly, though the humour doesn’t reach his eyes. “Consider it done.”

Felix nods, his voice steady. “Alright. I’ll talk to her. It might take time, though. You know how she is about opening up.”

“I know,” Minho says, running his hand through his hair again. “But you’ve got that gentle-ass aura or whatever. She trusts you. Just ease into it. When she tells you, you tell me. Then I’ll take care of the rest.”

Felix nods again, his gaze firm. “You’ve got my word. I’ll handle it.”

Minho pushes off the door, clapping Felix lightly on the shoulder before heading for the door. He pauses with his hand on the handle, glancing back. “You’ve got her, right?”

Felix’s expression softens, his voice resolute. “Always. And you?”

Minho nods, his tone firm. “Always.” With that, he slips out of the room, his footsteps quiet as he heads back to yours, his mind already turning over what needs to be done.

For now, he’ll focus on making sure you feel safe. But the second he knows who’s responsible for the weight you’ve been carrying, he’ll make damn sure they regret it.

A few nights later, Minho's room is enveloped in a hushed stillness, the only sound the rhythmic rise and fall of Minho’s breathing as he sleeps beside you. His arm is tucked under the pillow, his body curled slightly toward you. For a moment, you watch him, his peaceful expression a stark contrast to the restless storm in your own mind.

You let out a quiet sigh, your fingers brushing against the fidget cube resting on the nightstand. Careful not to disturb Minho, you slip out from under the covers. His oversized t-shirt falls to your mid-thigh, paired with his basketball shorts, your feet protected from the cool floor by your Ravenclaw socks.

Your movements are deliberate, your breath steadying as you take the fidget cube in one hand and tiptoe toward the door. You glance back at Minho one last time, his chest rising and falling with even breaths, before quietly pulling the door shut behind you.

The hallway is dark, save for the faint glow of a nightlight someone left plugged in near the stairs. You pad quietly toward the kitchen, the familiar creaks of the floorboards grounding you as you move. When you reach the kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator greets you, a soothing backdrop to the clicking of the fidget cube in your hands.

You set a mug on the counter, pulling the kettle from its base and filling it with water. You flick it on, the soft whoosh of heat filling the space as you reach for the box of chamomile tea. Your hands tremble slightly as you unwrap the tea bag and drop it into the mug, but the repetitive motion of brewing steadies you. By the time the kettle clicks off, your breathing has evened, the warmth of the mug in your hands a comforting anchor.

As you turn toward the stairs, the faint glow from the living room catches your attention. Curious, you step closer and peek in. Felix is sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging over the edge as he leans forward, a controller in his hands. The faint sounds of gunfire and the hum of voices filter through his headset, blending into the quiet of the house.

He glances up as you approach, his face lighting up in recognition. He pulls off his headset, pausing the game. “Hey,” he greets, his voice soft but warm. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really.”

Felix pats the cushion beside him. “Come sit. I’ve got tea if you want more.”

You smile faintly, lifting your own mug in response. “Already covered.”

“Smart girl,” he says with a grin. “Come on, sit down anyway. Let me ruin your night with my terrible gaming.”

His easy humour coaxes a small smile out of you as you settle onto the couch, tucking your legs underneath you. Felix leans back, draping one arm over the back of the couch, his posture casual but his gaze attentive. He studies you for a moment as you sip your tea, the faint steam rising in soft curls around your face.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

You shake your head, your gaze falling to the fidget cube in your lap. “No, just too much on my mind.”

Felix nods, his tone light but knowing. “You’ve been like this a lot lately. Wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate, your fingers fidgeting more rapidly with the cube. “It’s nothing. Just... stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Felix raises a brow, his voice softening further. “Does this ‘stuff’ happen to involve a certain professor’s assistant?”

Your hands freeze, the cube stilling in your lap for just a second before your fingers start moving again. You don’t look at him, focusing instead on the swirling tea in your mug.

Felix leans forward slightly, his expression calm but serious. “Hey, no pressure. I just want to help. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

The words fall out before you can stop them, quiet and trembling. “He… he said something.”

Felix doesn’t move, doesn’t react, his gaze holding yours. “Okay,” he says softly, his voice encouraging. “What did he say?”

You bite your lip, your grip tightening on the cube. The words catch in your throat before you force them out. “He said if I- if I fucked him, he’d make sure I passed all my assignments.”

The confession hangs heavy in the air, the silence that follows almost deafening. You feel your chest tighten, your breathing uneven as you clutch the cube harder. “I didn’t know what to do,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I just- I left. I haven’t gone back to class since.”

Felix exhales slowly, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on your knee. His voice is calm, steady, but there’s an undercurrent of quiet anger. “That’s a lot. I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. That’s so fucked up.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, your grip trembling. “I felt so stupid. Like, I should’ve said something, but I just froze.”

“Hey,” Felix says firmly, leaning closer. “Stop that right now. None of this is your fault. That guy’s a fucking creep, and you did the smartest thing you could’ve done. You got out of there. That’s not stupid.”

His words make your chest ache, the tears spilling over despite your best efforts to hold them back. “I keep thinking, what if I see him? What if he’s in the hallway? I can’t even think about going back. I just-”

Felix cuts you off gently, his hand squeezing your knee. “You’re safe, okay? He can’t touch you here. And you’ve got Minho, Jisung, me, the whole fucking house. No one’s letting him near you.”

You sniffle, your breathing uneven as you lean into his words. Felix moves closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. His other hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back.

“We’ll figure this out, alright?” he murmurs. “No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want to. And that guy? He’s gonna regret ever saying that to you. Trust me.”

A weak laugh escapes you, shaky but real, and Felix grins faintly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “There she is,” he says warmly. “Now, let’s finish that tea and get you back to bed. You deserve some rest.”

The late morning sun streams softly through the blinds in Minho’s room, painting the bed in streaks of pale light. The golden glow highlights the tousled strands of your hair spilling across the pillow, the curve of your shoulder peeking out from under the blanket.

You’re curled up, your body angled slightly toward the spot where Minho had been lying just a little while ago. Your breathing is steady but shallow. Not quite the deep rhythm of restful sleep.

Minho stands by the door, his hand resting lightly on the frame as he watches you for a moment. His sharp eyes take in the faint crease in your brow, the way your body shifts under the blankets as if even unconscious, you’re searching for some comfort.

He doesn’t need to ask if you slept badly. It’s written all over you, in the faint shadows under your eyes and the restless energy still clinging to you.

With a quiet sigh, he steps into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him with deliberate care. The faint click echoes softly in the stillness as he heads toward the kitchen, his mind already turning over what he can do to make your morning better.

In the kitchen, Minho moves with his usual precision. He grabs your favourite mug that he bought for you, the Corpse Bride one with the chipped handle you refuse to replace, and sets it on the counter beside his black cat mug.

As he measures out the coffee grounds, the rhythmic clink of the scoop against the machine’s edge fills the room. The aroma of fresh coffee begins to waft through the air as the machine hums to life, steam curling upward.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulls his attention. He glances over his shoulder to see Felix padding into the kitchen, barefoot and dressed in a loose hoodie and sweatpants. His hair is a little tousled, and there’s a slight pink tint to his cheeks, the telltale sign of someone who’s been awake for a while but not quite ready to face the day.

“Morning,” Felix says, his voice soft as he heads for the fridge. “You’re up early. Y/N still out?”

“Trying to sleep,” Minho replies, grabbing the creamer from the counter. “Didn’t have a great night, though.”

Felix pauses mid-reach, the fridge door cracked open, and turns to look at him. “Yeah, about that.” He closes the fridge door, leaning against it with crossed arms. “I know what happened.”

Minho freezes, his hand hovering over your mug, the creamer unopened. His head turns slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “When did she tell you?”

Felix’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Last night. She couldn’t sleep, came downstairs to make tea. We talked.”

Minho places the creamer down slowly, turning to fully face Felix. “What did she say?”

Felix exhales softly, his fingers drumming against his forearm. “She told me what that assistant said. Jae.” He pauses, watching Minho’s reaction. “He propositioned her. Said if she slept with him, he’d make sure she passed all her assignments.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Minho’s shoulders tense, his fingers curling into a loose fist before he forces them to relax. He doesn’t speak immediately, instead turning back to the counter. He picks up the creamer, pouring it into your mug with a steady hand as if the ritual of making coffee can anchor him.

“She told you that?” he asks finally, his voice low.

Felix nods, stepping closer to the counter. “Yeah. She was shaking when she said it. Sniffling, trying to hold it together. I didn’t push her. It just came out.”

Minho sets the creamer down again, reaching for the pumpkin spice syrup you love. He adds a careful amount to your mug, stirring it slowly with a spoon. The metallic clink against the ceramic is the only sound in the room for a few beats. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight but calm. “Are you going to tell her you told me?”

Felix studies him for a moment, noting the way Minho’s knuckles tighten slightly around the spoon before he sets it down. “Are you going to tell her that you know?”

“Not yet,” Minho says, his voice softening. “Once I've dealt with it, then I will. If I tell her before she might spiral”

Felix leans against the counter, his expression contemplative. “You’re scarily good at this boyfriend thing.”

“Practice,” Minho mutters, grabbing a napkin to wipe the rim of the mug. He looks up then, meeting Felix’s gaze. “Let me guess. You’re wondering if I’m planning to fight him.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, smirking faintly. “No, I’m assuming you’re planning to fight him.”

A humourless smile tugs at Minho’s lips. “I’m not going to fight him. Not yet. I’m going to have a quiet, friendly conversation with him. He’s going to quit, and when he does, I’ll tell her.”

“And his nose?” Felix asks, his voice light but his eyes sharp.

Minho’s smile turns cold, his tone conversational. “Oh, his nose is absolutely getting broken. A little incentive to stay away.”

Felix’s grin widens slightly, though his eyes remain dark. “Good. She’s been holding it in, Min. She’s worried, maybe her anxiety’s making her think you’ll blame her or something, but it’s really weighing on her.”

Minho exhales through his nose, his fingers tightening slightly around the handle of your mug. “I see it,” he admits quietly. “The way she smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The way she keeps saying she’s fine, even when she’s not.” He pauses, his voice softening further. “She carries too much. Always trying to be invisible, not to bother anyone.”

Felix tilts his head, his expression thoughtful. “She’s just like Jisung, you know? Same anxious brain. Same need to please everyone. You’re basically dating the female version of him.”

Minho lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he picks up the mug. “Thanks for that image. Really needed it.”

Felix smirks, crossing his arms again. “You’ve got this, though. Just be careful. Don’t make her feel like she’s not in control.”

“I know,” Minho says, his tone firm. “Thanks for telling me. I’ve got her.”

Felix watches him leave, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “I know you do,” he murmurs, the kitchen falling quiet again.

The journalism lecture hall empties slowly, students filing out with the shuffle of papers and muted conversations that fade into the hallway. The sound of the last student’s footsteps echoes faintly, the large room gradually falling into silence. Outside, Minho leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his face impassive but his eyes sharp and dangerous.

A few students glance at him curiously as they leave, their expressions ranging from confused to wary, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. His focus is fixed entirely on the room and the man still inside it. As the door swings shut behind the last student, the faint click marks the beginning of what Minho has come to do.

Straightening, he steps inside with deliberate, measured strides, the sound of his boots on the polished floor echoing faintly in the quiet. The atmosphere in the lecture hall shifts immediately, the air thickening as if sensing the weight of his presence.

At the front of the room, Jae is bent over his desk, sorting through a stack of papers with a distracted expression. The sound of Minho’s approach draws his attention, and he looks up, his face neutral at first. But when he sees Minho, his brows furrow slightly, confusion flickering across his features.

“Can I help you?”

Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He stops a few feet from Jae’s desk, his stance casual but his eyes locked on Jae’s with a piercing intensity. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Jae, right? The professor’s assistant?”

Jae straightens slightly, frowning. “Yeah, that’s me. I don’t think I’ve seen you in the class. Are you-”

“Oh, I’m not in the class,” Minho interrupts smoothly, his voice cold and edged with quiet steel. “My girlfriend is, though. Y/N. The one you tried to blackmail into fucking you for a passing grade.”

Jae’s face drains of colour instantly, the papers in his hands falling to the desk with a soft rustle. His mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish gasping for air. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammers, his voice faltering.

“Don’t,” Minho cuts in sharply, his tone dropping into something lethal. “Lie to me.”

Jae swallows hard, his hands twitching as they grip the edge of the desk. The flicker of panic in his eyes is unmistakable, but Minho’s unrelenting gaze holds him in place. After a tense beat, Minho jerks his chin toward the chair behind the desk.

“Me and you are gonna have a little talk,” he says, his voice steady but cold enough to freeze the air between them. “So sit down. Now.”

Jae hesitates, his eyes darting toward the door as though calculating his chances of escape. Minho doesn’t miss the movement. He takes a single step closer and slams his hand down on the desk with enough force to send the papers scattering to the floor.

“I said. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”

The command sends a visible jolt through Jae, who stumbles backwards before nearly tripping into the chair. He sinks into it hastily, his movements frantic and uncoordinated, and looks up at Minho with wide, trembling eyes.

Minho’s hand lashes out suddenly, gripping the back of Jae’s head before slamming his face down against the desk with a sickening thud. The impact sends a burst of blood streaming from Jae’s nose, and he lets out a muffled cry of pain, his hands scrambling to push himself upright.

Before he can make another sound, Minho clamps a hand over his mouth, silencing him. “That,” Minho says evenly, his voice steady but laced with venom, “is for terrifying my girlfriend.”

Jae’s muffled whimpers grow louder, his tears mingling with the blood dripping onto the desk. Minho leans closer, his grip on Jae’s head tightening as his voice drops into a cold whisper.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You will quit as the professor’s assistant, and you will tell the professor exactly what you did. Every girl you’ve tried this shit with. Every word you said to Y/N. Because if you don’t, I swear to fucking God, you’ll never walk again. Are we clear?”

Jae nods frantically, his head jerking up and down against Minho’s hand as tears stream down his face. Minho’s eyes narrow as he grabs Jae’s nose, twisting it sharply enough to draw another strangled cry of pain.

“Words, asshole,” Minho sneers, his voice cutting through Jae’s sobs like a blade.

“Yes!” Jae blurts, his voice trembling with desperation. “I’ll quit! I’ll tell him! I swear!”

Minho releases his grip abruptly, stepping back slightly as he watches Jae clutch his nose with trembling hands. Blood streams between Jae’s fingers, staining his shirt and dripping onto the papers scattered across the desk. Minho tilts his head, his expression unreadable as he studies the pitiful sight in front of him.

“Why her?” Minho asks suddenly, his voice quiet but cutting. “Because she’s quiet? Because she’s anxious? Is that why you thought you could pull this shit with her? Thought she'd be too scared to tell anyone?”

Jae doesn’t respond, but the panicked look in his eyes gives Minho all the confirmation he needs. Without warning, Minho slams Jae’s face against the desk again, the impact louder this time. Jae cries out, his voice muffled as blood pools on the desk beneath him.

“You made a mistake,” Minho says evenly, his tone almost conversational. “Because you upset her. And you know what happens when people upset my girlfriend?”

Jae whimpers, his body trembling as he clutches the edge of the desk.

Minho leans closer, his voice dropping into a cold whisper. “When people upset her? Make her scared to go to class? Take advantage of their authority over her? I get pissed off. And when I get pissed off-” He trails off, gesturing to Jae’s bloodied face with a small, humourless smirk. “Well, let's just say this is me holding back.”

Jae sobs openly now, his hands shaking as he tries to stem the flow of blood. Minho tilts his head slightly, his gaze dark and unrelenting.

“You will never talk to her again,” he says, his voice quiet but resolute. “You won’t look at her, you won’t breathe near her. Because if you do, I won’t stop here. I’ll find Chan, Changbin, and Jisung. And trust me, they’ll be far less forgiving than I’ve been. The whole fucking frat house will come for you"

Jae lets out a strangled squeak, shaking his head frantically as Minho straightens. “And just so you know,” Minho adds, his tone turning icy, “the only reason you’re walking out of here today is because my girlfriend is too soft-hearted to want you hurt. But me? I don’t have that problem.”

Without waiting for a response, Minho wipes his hands on his jeans as if brushing off dirt, his movements calm and deliberate. He doesn’t spare Jae another glance as he turns on his heel and walks out of the lecture hall, the door swinging shut behind him with a decisive click.

The room falls silent again, save for Jae’s ragged breathing and muffled sobs, his blood pooling on the desk beneath him as he clutches his broken nose.

Minho steps into his room at the frat house, closing the door behind him with deliberate quiet. The air inside is warm and familiar, filled with the soft scent of lavender from the diffuser you insisted he get. You’re completely buried beneath his blankets, only a few strands of your hair spilling out over the pillow giving away your position.

He pauses in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he watches you. The anger that had been burning hot in his chest earlier is still there, but now it simmers, dulled by the sight of you curled up and peaceful, your breathing steady and rhythmic. He exhales softly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.

Walking over, he crouches by the bed, his movements careful and precise. His hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger there for a moment, his touch soft.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “I need to talk to you. Then you can go back to sleep.”

You stir slightly, your body shifting under the blankets. Your eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and you blink at him, your face scrunching up in that familiar way he finds so endearing. “Min?” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the heels of your hands.

“Yeah, sweetheart. It’s me,” he says gently. “Sit up for me, okay? Just for a little bit.”

You groan softly, a sleepy protest, but you push yourself up, the blankets pooling around your waist as you sit. Your hair is a mess, a halo of stray strands framing your face, and your cheeks are puffy from sleep. Despite everything, Minho thinks you look impossibly adorable.

“What’s going on?” you ask, your voice still heavy with sleep.

Minho moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his expression serious but calm. He’s careful as he speaks, watching your reaction. “I spoke to Jae today,” he begins. “He told me what he did.”

The sleepiness in your eyes vanishes instantly, replaced by something sharp and anxious. You stiffen, your body going still. “Did you hurt him?”

Minho tilts his head, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk. “I only broke his nose a little bit.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, you seem caught between shock and something else. Maybe relief, maybe disbelief.

“He’s going to tell the professor what he did to you,” Minho continues, “and to any other girls he tried to pull this shit with. Your assignments will probably get regraded, and you’ll finally get the marks you deserve.”

You nod again, but you still won’t meet his eyes. Instead, your fingers find a loose thread on the blanket, picking at it restlessly. Minho watches you for a moment, his heart tightening in his chest. He stands briefly to grab your silicone pop-it from the desk, then sits back down and places it gently in your hands.

“Here,” he says softly. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, your fingers moving over the pop-it’s silicone bubbles in a steady rhythm. The soft popping sound fills the quiet, and your breathing begins to steady as you focus on the motion. Finally, you speak, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I just- I felt gross,” you say, the words trembling. “I tried so hard on those assignments, Min. I put everything I had into them, and he didn’t even see that. He didn’t see my work. All he saw was my body.”

Your hands tighten around the pop-it, your fingers pressing harder against the bubbles. The sound feels louder now, punctuating the silence. “I didn’t even feel like a person,” you continue, your voice breaking slightly. “I felt like an object. Like that’s all I was to him. My intelligence didn’t matter. My hard work didn’t matter. All that mattered was if I’d fuck him to pass.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. His gaze stays fixed on you, his hands clenched into loose fists in his lap as he fights the urge to let his anger show. This isn’t about him, it’s about you, and he needs to let you say everything you need to.

Your voice drops even lower, trembling with emotion. “And I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d think less of me. Which is stupid, I know, but-”

“It’s not stupid,” Minho interrupts gently, his tone firm but kind. “Baby, you have anxiety. I know you know I’d never think less of you, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy for your brain to believe it. That’s not your fault.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you seem frozen. Then Minho shifts closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you against his chest. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back as you continue fidgeting with the pop-it, the steady rhythm grounding you.

“I’m proud of you, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice soft. “It must’ve been so hard, keeping all that in. But you’re here, baby. You got through it.”

You hesitate for a beat, then admit quietly, “I told Felix.”

Minho keeps his expression neutral, pretending he doesn’t already know. “You did?”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. He was so nice about it. He didn’t get mad, just comforted me.”

Minho smiles faintly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “That was really brave of you, sweetheart. My brave girl. How did I get so lucky?”

You pull back slightly, your lips quirking into the tiniest of smiles. “You calmed me down at that awards night,” you say, your voice soft. “Told me I was beautiful. Jisung set me up on a date with Felix because he thought you’d just fuck me around, and then you showed up at my apartment after the date, and, well, now here we are.”

Minho chuckles, shaking his head. “Ah, yes. That’s how I got so lucky. I was so fucking pissed at Jisung for that, you know.”

You laugh softly, the sound quiet but genuine. “I remember. Jisung caught us kissing that night in my apartment, and he was so mad.”

Minho smirks, leaning closer. “And then you locked him in the living room so we could have sex in your room.”

Your giggle grows louder, and Minho grins, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “There she is,” he murmurs, his voice full of affection.

Minho shifts slightly, his weight sinking into the bed as he tilts your chin up with gentle fingers, guiding your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushes lightly over your jawline, the motion soothing, almost absentminded, as if his hand belongs there and nowhere else.

“Baby,” he starts, his voice low but steady, every word deliberate. “I need you to know something.”

You swallow hard, your hands pausing their rhythmic popping on the silicone toy in your lap. His tone is so certain, so resolute, that it demands your full attention. His thumb moves again, a tender stroke against your skin that feels grounding.

“I will never think less of you for anything,” he continues, his gaze boring into yours. “Not for your anxiety, not for being scared of something, none of it. Okay?”

Your throat tightens, and you try to blink back the sting in your eyes, but it’s no use. A tear slips out, trailing silently down your cheek. Minho’s hand moves immediately, his thumb brushing the tear away as if he’s wiping away more than just a drop of salt water, like he’s trying to erase the weight of your fears entirely.

“That shit doesn’t make you weak,” he says, his voice soft but fierce. “And it sure as hell doesn’t make me love you any less.”

You nod silently, your throat too tight to speak, but your eyes stay locked on his. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t rush you to respond. He just stays there, his hand cradling your cheek like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Minho shifts closer, his voice dropping even lower, softer but no less firm. “I’m not gonna hold it against you for having fears or for assuming what I might feel. I get it, baby. Your brain runs a million miles a minute sometimes, and that’s okay. But all I ask-” He pauses, his thumb tracing slow circles on your cheek. “is that you ask me how I feel, okay? Could you do that for me, my silly girl?”

You nod again, finally finding your voice, though it’s small and trembling. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I need,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a faint, reassuring smile. His hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he lets it drop, resting it lightly on your knee. “That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

You look down at the pop-it in your lap, your fingers resuming their soft, steady movements over the silicone bubbles. The gentle popping sound fills the quiet space between you, grounding you as you process his words. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly, and when you glance back up at him, there’s a faint hint of playfulness in your tone.

“Did he cry?” you ask tentatively, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Minho’s smirk is instant and smug, his brows lifting slightly. “I think he might have pissed himself a little.”

The laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, light and genuine. It catches you off guard, and the sound feels foreign after so much tension, but it’s freeing. Minho’s grin widens, clearly pleased with himself.

“I’m serious,” he says, his tone teasing but proud. “I’m scary.”

You giggle again, shaking your head. “I know. My scary guard dog.”

“Damn fucking straight,” Minho replies, puffing his chest out slightly in mock bravado. “Returning your food when the order’s wrong, fighting off creeps who think they have a chance with you, taking back tops when they’re the wrong size. I’ve got this shit down to a fine art. Honestly, Hyunjin should be jealous. I could pass his art history major for him, I’m that good. And let’s not forget, I’ve got better hair.”

You snort. “I don’t know about that,” you say, raising an eyebrow playfully. “Hyunjin’s hair is pretty majestic.”

Minho gasps dramatically, clutching his chest like you’ve just delivered a mortal wound. “Okay, fine,” he concedes with exaggerated flair. “Hyunjin’s hair is like a fucking Renaissance painting. But I’m prettier, right?”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, and Minho narrows his eyes at you in mock suspicion. “Well,” you draw out, your lips twitching. “You’re sexier. And scarier.”

Minho’s smirk returns in full force, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Damn right, I am.”

You laugh again, this time louder, freer, the sound filling the room with a warmth that hadn’t been there before. Minho leans forward, his hand coming up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there, brushing lightly against your cheek as he presses a kiss to your forehead. His lips are warm and firm, lingering just long enough to feel like a promise.

When he pulls back, his expression softens, the smugness melting into something gentler. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of affection. “I knew you had good taste.”

“I guess I do,” you reply quietly, your tone playful but sincere.

Minho leans back slightly, his hand sliding down to rest over yours. His fingers lace through yours easily, the pop-it still cradled in your other hand. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence between you filled only with the rhythmic popping of the toy and the soft hum of the world outside the window.

Then, Minho breaks the silence, his tone turning light again. “You know,” he says, his eyes narrowing playfully, “Jisung owes me a massive apology. For that date setup with Felix. Biggest cockblock of my life.”

You shake your head, your smile lingering as you glance down at your intertwined hands. The warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his presence, it feels like a lifeline, pulling you back to a place of safety.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice almost a whisper. “For everything. For being here. For listening.”

Minho squeezes your hand gently, his expression softening again. “Always, baby. You don’t have to thank me for that. It’s just what I do.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache, but this time it’s not from sadness. It’s from the overwhelming relief of knowing you’re not alone, of having someone who sees all of you, the messy, complicated parts, and chooses to stay anyway.

Minho shifts closer again, his forehead resting against yours, his dark eyes gazing into yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, the words a quiet vow. “And I protect what’s mine. Always.”

The evening air carries a crisp coolness, just enough to brush against your skin but not bite. The streets are alive with the hum of student life, clusters of laughter and chatter spill out of bars and restaurants, mixing with the occasional sound of a passing car. You walk arm-in-arm with Jisung, his boundless energy an anchor in the buzz of activity.

Your black leather flares swish with each step, the soft click of your black heeled boots echoing against the concrete. The strapless white tube top you’re wearing fits snugly, accentuating your silhouette, and the small white purse hanging from your shoulder ties the outfit together.

Jisung looks as effortlessly cool as ever. His black cargo trousers and white sneakers give him a laid-back edge, and the Eminem t-shirt beneath his black zip-up hoodie looks perfectly lived-in. His beanie is pulled low over his messy hair, the soft fabric framing his expressive face, while the silver chain around his neck catches the glow of the streetlights as he gestures animatedly. His free hand flails as he sidesteps a group of loud, tipsy students, pulling you closer to him.

“We’re two pretty best friends,” he announces suddenly, his voice brimming with exaggerated pride.

You laugh, leaning into his arm as your smile stretches wide. “We even have matching mental illnesses.”

“Exactly!” Jisung cheers, throwing his free hand up like he’s proclaiming your shared anxiety as a badge of honour. “Anxiety crew, represent!”

His exuberance draws a few amused glances from passersby, but you don’t care. His humour, his ease, it’s exactly what you need to shake off the heaviness of the week.

You tilt your head, glancing down at his outfit as you ask, “How come we’re all in black and white? Did you guys plan this?”

Jisung groans dramatically, his entire body exaggerating the motion as he throws his head back. “Hyunjin insisted,” he says, his tone dripping with faux exasperation. “Something about ‘aesthetic cohesion’ and ‘timeless elegance.’”

Your laugh bubbles up before you can stop it, the sound mixing with the steady rhythm of your boots clicking against the sidewalk. “That man loves a theme.”

“Loves it way too much,” Jisung mutters, though there’s no real bite in his tone. “You should’ve seen him lecturing Changbin about matching his belt to his shoes. Nearly gave the man an existential crisis.”

The two of you laugh together, the sound easy and light as you approach the bar. The familiar neon sign above the entrance glows a vibrant blue, its light spilling out onto the sidewalk. The steady thump of bass pulses from inside, vibrating faintly through the pavement, and the warm buzz of voices filters through the open doorway. Jisung holds the door open with an exaggerated flourish, bowing slightly as he gestures for you to enter.

The bar wraps around you in a wave of sound and warmth. The chatter of patrons, the clink of glasses, and the faint, rhythmic beat of music from the speakers create a lively symphony. The air smells faintly of citrus and beer, mingling with the aroma of wood from the polished tables and bar counter.

Your eyes scan the room, searching through the sea of faces until they land on a familiar booth near the back. It’s packed with your group. Chan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin are crammed together, their laughter carrying even over the din of the bar.

Drinks sit scattered across the table, condensation pooling around the bases of the glasses as everyone gestures animatedly, their hands cutting through the air in exaggerated motions as they talk.

Minho spots you first. His dark eyes light up immediately, and a slow, easy grin spreads across his face. His gaze locks on yours, his expression softening with something unspoken but undeniable.

Felix notices the shift in Minho’s face and nudges Changbin, who slides over to make room in the booth. Felix stands, waving enthusiastically, his signature bright smile beaming at you across the room.

“There’s our power duo!” Felix calls out, his voice carrying above the din.

You and Jisung weave through the crowd, dodging chairs and bodies with ease. When you finally reach the booth, Felix steps aside, his grin widening as he gestures toward the newly cleared space. “Ladies and gentlemen, the anxiety icons have arrived.”

You laugh as you slide into the booth beside Minho, with Jisung quickly claiming the space on your other side. The moment you’re settled, Minho’s arm drapes over your shoulders in a fluid motion, pulling you into his side. The warmth of his body against yours is immediate, his woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a cocoon.

“Hi,” you murmur, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. The noise of the bar fades slightly, muffled by the closeness of him.

“Hi, baby,” he replies, his voice low and smooth, the words sending a ripple of comfort through you. He slides a drink across the table toward you, a strawberry daiquiri with a tiny paper umbrella perched delicately on the rim.

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as you pick up the glass, the condensation cool against your fingers. You take a sip, the sweet tang of strawberries washing over your tongue, and you hum in satisfaction. “You know me too well.”

Minho smirks, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as he presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Only the best for my girl.”

The conversation around the table continues, bursts of laughter and teasing filling the booth as the rest of the group dives into their drinks. Chan and Hyunjin are deep in a debate about the best way to pour a draft beer, their hands miming the action with exaggerated gestures. Jeongin and Seungmin watch with amused expressions, occasionally throwing in dry commentary that makes Changbin nearly choke on his drink.

But Minho’s attention never wavers from you. His fingers absentmindedly play with a strand of your hair, twirling it gently before letting it fall back into place.

His other hand rests on the table and you reach over, your fingers brushing against his as you begin to fidget with the cool metal bands. The motion is familiar, calming, and Minho’s lips twitch into a small smile at the gesture.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the noise of the bar.

Your cheeks warm at the compliment, but you smile, your fingers still toying with his rings. “You’re biased.”

“Damn right, I am,” he replies without hesitation, his grin widening. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

You glance up at him, your smile softening as your eyes meet his. His arm tightens around your shoulders slightly, pulling you closer to his side.

Jisung’s voice cuts through the quiet bubble around you, pulling your attention back to the group. “Hey, are we playing darts or what? I’m ready to kick Changbin’s ass.”

“You couldn’t hit the board last time,” Changbin fires back, his grin mischievous.

“Details,” Jisung retorts, waving a dismissive hand. “This time, I’m fueled by friendship and alcohol.”

The group bursts into laughter, and Minho chuckles softly, his hand brushing over your shoulder. “You wanna play, baby?”

You shake your head, still nestled against him. “I think I’ll sit this one out. I’m pretty comfortable right here.”

Minho’s smirk returns, his voice dropping just slightly as he murmurs, “Can’t blame you. I’m an excellent pillow.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you tease, though the fondness in your tone gives you away.

He leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Too late.”

The sound of the group heading toward the dartboards fills the booth, leaving you and Minho alone for a rare moment. His fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and his dark eyes search yours with a quiet intensity.

“I mean it,” he says softly, his tone earnest. “You’re stunning.”

Your heart flutters, and for a moment, you forget the noise of the bar entirely. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice almost lost in the hum of the room.

Minho smiles, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your lips which you happily reciprocate. When he pulls back, his smirk returns, lighter now but no less confident.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice filled with affection. “Always the prettiest one in the room.”

The booth is alive with laughter, the warm glow of the bar's hanging lights casting everyone in soft hues of gold and amber. Drinks clink together as stories flow freely, the kind of energy that only exists when you’re surrounded by the people you trust most.

Felix is mid-story, his hands gesturing animatedly as he recounts one of Hyunjin’s failed attempts at “artistic photography.” Even Hyunjin can’t hold back his laughter as Felix mimics his exaggerated poses, their voices blending into the hum of the crowded bar.

You’re nestled against Minho’s side, his arm draped protectively over your shoulders, anchoring you in the lively chaos. His thumb rubs slow, absentminded circles against your upper arm, grounding you as your fingers toy with the cool metal of his rings. The weight of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing, is a constant comfort.

But then, cutting through the warmth of the moment like a shard of ice, comes the sound of loud, grating laughter. It’s obnoxious and overblown, the kind of noise that demands attention whether you want to give it or not. The entire booth turns instinctively toward the sound, and the moment your eyes land on the source, your stomach plummets.

Jae.

He’s standing near the bar with a group of equally rowdy friends, all of them leaning against each other and laughing too loudly, their voices slurred with the unmistakable edge of too much alcohol. His presence feels like a punch to the gut, and you freeze, your fingers stilling against Minho’s rings.

Felix notices immediately. His laughter cuts off mid-sentence, and his usual bright smile dims into something tight and unreadable. Minho, however, doesn’t even try to mask his reaction. His arm tightens around you, and his dark eyes narrow as they lock onto Jae with a sharpness that could cut through steel.

“Min,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the din of the bar. “Just enjoy the night, okay? Please?”

Minho’s jaw tenses, the muscle ticking as he takes a slow, deliberate breath. He doesn’t respond immediately, and you can feel the controlled anger radiating off him in waves. Before he can say anything, Jae’s voice cuts through the air like nails on a chalkboard.

“There she is!” he shouts, pointing at you, his words slurred but still sharp enough to carry across the bar. “The little slut that ruined my life!”

The world tilts slightly, your vision narrowing as the words hit you like a slap. The booth goes completely silent. The laughter and easy chatter are gone, replaced by a thick, oppressive stillness.

Jae stumbles forward slightly, his friends egging him on with jeers and smirks. “The one who has to send her big, bad football player boyfriend to save the day!” he sneers, his tone dripping with mockery.

Minho stiffens beside you, his grip on your shoulder tightening. His voice, when he speaks, is eerily calm, a quiet storm brewing just beneath the surface. “He’s dead,” he says simply, his tone flat.

Felix doesn’t hesitate. He pushes his drink aside, his movements deliberate as he rises to his feet. “Yup.”

Jae isn’t done, his voice rising above the ambient noise of the bar as he continues his tirade. “She just couldn’t keep her mouth shut or spread her legs! Too pious to fuck me for a better grade, and now look where it’s gotten me.”

The laughter from Jae’s group is harsh and grating, echoing across the room like a bad joke no one asked to hear. The implications of his words click into place for everyone at the booth.

Chan’s usually calm, composed demeanour cracks, his expression hardening into something cold and unyielding. Hyunjin’s jaw drops, disbelief and anger flashing across his face. Changbin’s hand clenches into a fist against the table, his knuckles whitening.

Jeongin and Seungmin's faces go as cold as ice and Jisung, seated beside you, vibrates with barely contained fury, his sharp gaze darting between you and Jae.

“Motherfucker,” Jisung mutters, his voice low but brimming with rage.

Minho doesn’t wait for Jae to speak again. He hops over the table in one fluid motion, his movements calm but with a predatory edge that makes the air feel heavier. Felix follows immediately, his expression grim, and Jisung is right on their heels, his hands already clenched into fists.

Chan curses under his breath, pushing his chair back as he stands. “This is about to turn into a fucking bar brawl,” he mutters, glancing at Seungmin. “Stay with Y/N.”

Seungmin nods, his expression unreadable as he shifts closer to you, sliding into the space Minho just vacated. The others follow the trio, their expressions a mix of anger and determination.

You sit frozen, your fingers trembling as they grip the edges of your purse. The familiar weight of your fidget cube presses against your palm, and you pull it out with shaky hands. The soft clicks and rotations offer a small measure of comfort, but your chest still feels tight, your breaths shallow and uneven.

You drain the rest of your strawberry daiquiri in one go, the sweetness doing little to settle your nerves. Without thinking, you reach for Felix’s abandoned pina colada and take a long sip, the chilled drink momentarily grounding you.

Seungmin’s arm wraps around your shoulders, his touch steady and reassuring. His presence, calm and unflinching, feels like a lifeline as you struggle to keep the panic at bay. He follows your gaze toward Jae, whose bandaged nose is a stark reminder of Minho’s earlier confrontation.

Seungmin’s lips quirk into a faint smirk. “Did Minho do that to his nose?”

You nod, your voice small as you murmur, “Yeah.”

Seungmin huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “He held back.”

The comment draws a weak chuckle from you, the sound shaky but real. Seungmin’s smirk widens slightly as he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice dropping into a reassuring murmur. “They’ve got this. Jae doesn’t stand a fucking chance against Minho and Felix. And if the others gets involved?” He grins faintly. “Game over. I mean have you seen Chan's shoulders?"

The words settle over you like a blanket, offering a small measure of comfort. Jae leans against the bar like he owns the place, his arms crossed in mock confidence as he spots Minho approaching with the group behind him. His friends egg him on, their laughter obnoxiously loud as they slap him on the back, goading him with jeers and grins.

“Well, if it isn’t the boyfriend,” Jae sneers, his voice carrying over the bar’s thumping bass. His words are slurred, his bravado clearly fueled by the alcohol in his system. “Here to defend your little slut again?”

The temperature in the bar seems to drop. Minho stops just short of Jae, his hands hanging loose at his sides. His knuckles flex once, the tendons in his hands tightening as though preparing for action. His dark eyes bore into Jae with a calmness that’s far more dangerous than any shouting match could be.

Minho takes a slow, deliberate breath and his neck rolls lazily to one side, a quiet crack breaking through the tension. “You’ve got about three seconds,” he says, his voice low and measured, “to shut the fuck up.”

Before Jae can respond, a blur of motion cuts between them. Jisung surges forward, his fist swinging with everything he has. The impact lands square on Jae’s cheek, a sickening thud that reverberates through the room as Jae’s head snaps to the side. He stumbles against the bar, gripping the edge for balance.

“You fucking asshole!” Jisung snaps, shaking his hand out with a wince. “You don’t get to talk about her like that!”

Jae barely has time to recover before chaos erupts. His friends lurch forward, fists flying wildly, but Chan, Changbin, Felix, Hyunjin, Minho, and Jeongin are faster. The music fades into the background, drowned out by shouts, curses, and the sound of bodies colliding.

Felix moves with a precision that’s almost clinical, his taekwondo training evident in the sharpness of his kicks and punches. One of Jae’s friends lunges at him, but Felix sidesteps effortlessly, delivering a swift kick to the guy’s ribs that sends him sprawling.

“I always forget Felix did taekwondo for like ten years,” Seungmin mutters, his arm steady around your shoulders.

“Twelve,” you correct automatically, your voice shaky but steady as your fingers work furiously at the fidget cube in your lap. The rhythmic clicks and rotations offer a small anchor against the chaos.

Seungmin smirks faintly, sliding a forgotten glass of Sex on the Beach toward you. “Here. Looks like you need this more than Jeongin does.”

You nod, grateful, and take a long sip. The sweetness of the drink calms your nerves slightly, but your gaze remains fixed on the fight unfolding before you. Minho is a force of nature, calm, controlled, and devastatingly efficient. He moves through the fray with a predator’s grace, every punch deliberate and unrelenting.

When one of Jae’s friends tries to grab him from behind, Minho twists effortlessly, slamming an elbow into the guy’s stomach before throwing him into a nearby table.

Hyunjin and Jeongin work in tandem, their usual playful energy transformed into something almost terrifying. Hyunjin distracts one of Jae’s friends with feints and jabs, giving Jeongin the opening to sweep the guy’s legs out from under him. The two share a brief smirk before turning to face the next opponent.

Chan and Changbin are unrelenting, their punches landing with a precision that speaks to years of dealing with troublemakers. One of Jae’s friends charges at Chan, but Chan steps aside at the last moment, letting the guy crash into a table. Changbin follows up with a solid punch to the guy’s jaw, sending him crumpling to the floor.

Jae tries to regain his footing, his face twisted in rage as he lunges at Minho. But Minho is faster. He grabs Jae by the hair, yanking his head back before slamming his face against the edge of the bar. The impact is brutal, the sound of bone meeting wood audible even over the music.

“Enough!” the bartender shouts, slamming his hand on the counter. His voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Take this shit outside, or I’m calling the cops!”

Minho straightens slowly, releasing Jae, who collapses to the floor in a heap. Blood drips from his already broken nose, staining the floor beneath him as he groans in pain.

Minho doesn’t spare him another glance, his focus shifting as he turns and walks back toward you with a calmness that’s almost eerie. His chest heaves slightly, his adrenaline still running high, but the moment his eyes meet yours, his expression softens.

He holds out his hand, his voice steady but still tinged with adrenaline. “Come on, baby.”

You set the empty glass down, your fingers trembling slightly as you slip your hand into his. His grip is warm, solid, and grounding, and the tension in your chest begins to ease. Minho helps you out of the booth, keeping you close as he leads you toward the exit. The others begin to follow, Chan calling out as they regroup.

“Let’s head back to the frat,” Chan says, his voice firm as he wipes at a smudge of blood on his knuckles.

The group murmurs their agreement, Felix throwing one last disdainful glance at Jae, who is still groaning on the floor. “Yeah, let’s go,” Felix mutters, shaking out his wrists.

As the group moves toward the door, Minho slows his pace deliberately. Just before stepping outside, he pauses, his eyes cutting down to Jae’s hand, which is splayed weakly on the floor.

Without missing a beat, Minho steps on it with all his weight. The sickening crunch of bone is faint over the music, but Jae’s howl of pain cuts through the room like a blade.

Minho doesn’t look down as he continues walking. His hand tightens slightly around yours, his focus already back on you. The cool night air greets you as you step outside, washing over your heated skin and easing some of the tension from your body. The faint hum of distant traffic mixes with the muffled bass from the bar, the world outside feeling calmer, quieter.

You glance up at Minho as the group starts making their way back toward the frat house. His arm slips around your waist, pulling you closer to his side as you walk. His presence is steady and reassuring, and for the first time since the night began, you feel like you can finally breathe.

“Feel better?” you ask quietly, your voice hesitant.

Minho smirks faintly, his dark eyes glinting in the streetlights. “Not yet,” he admits, his tone low. His arm tightens around you slightly as he adds, “But I will. Once we’re home.”

The frat house is alive with energy as the group spills inside, their voices bouncing off the walls, fueled by adrenaline and a few drinks too many. Everyone heads straight for the kitchen, where Chan takes command like a seasoned general, throwing open cabinets and yanking out bottles.

You lean against the counter, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You bend down, tugging at the zippers on your heeled boots, muttering under your breath when one gets stuck.

Minho, mid-pour with a bottle of vodka in hand, glances at you. His eyes catch on the sight of your Bambi socks, the design peeking out as your boots come off. He snorts, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, the words laced with affection.

You look up, holding one boot in your hand as you stick your tongue out at him. “And you love it.”

“I do,” he says, shaking his head with mock exasperation as he pours pineapple juice into your glass. “Heavy on the vodka, right?”

“Always,” you reply, your lips twitching into a small smile.

Before you can settle, Jisung is suddenly in front of you, his expression unusually serious as he wraps his arms around you in a warm, slightly desperate hug. The smell of his cologne mingles with the faint scent of booze clinging to his hoodie. You melt into him, your hands clutching at the soft fabric of his hoodie as he presses his cheek against yours.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug, your face still buried in his shoulder. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal,” you mumble, the words muffled against him.

Jisung sighs, the sound heavy with frustration and concern. “It is a big deal. You’re my best friend. I’m supposed to know this shit.”

You don’t respond, your fingers tightening slightly against his shirt. The weight of the night threatens to creep back in, but the comfort of Jisung’s hug and the chatter around you keeps it at bay.

Minho slides a glass across the counter toward you, the condensation forming small droplets that glisten under the overhead lights. “Here,” Minho says, his voice soft but firm. “Drink.”

You smile faintly, your free hand reaching for the glass. The first sip is cold and sweet, the tang of pineapple cutting through the vodka, and you hum in satisfaction. Minho’s lips twitch into a satisfied smirk as he leans against the counter, watching you.

Chan, standing nearby with his arms crossed, tilts his head as he studies your face. “You alright?”

You glance at him, nodding. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Chan uncrosses his arms, pulling you into a brief but firm side hug. His grip is strong and reassuring, and when he lets go, he places a hand on your shoulder. “Good,” he says simply. “You know this whole house has your back, right? Every one of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” you reply, your voice soft but genuine.

“Damn right we do,” Felix chimes in from the island, raising his glass of rum and coke in a toast. His grin is bright, the kind that could lighten even the darkest mood. “We need our two anxious mascots in tip-top shape.”

Jisung looks at Felix with furrowed brows. “Who’s the second one?”

Minho raises an eyebrow at him, his voice dry. “You, dumbass.”

Jisung blinks once, then twice, before nodding in agreement. “Yeah, makes sense.”

Felix’s laughter is the first to break, and the rest of the room follows, the sound rippling through the kitchen like waves. Minho pours himself a glass of whiskey and coke, the ratios leaning heavily in favour of the whiskey.

He moves behind you, his arm snaking across your chest to pull you gently back against him. The comforting weight of his presence settles over you, and you let yourself lean into him, your head resting against his chest.

“The cube helping you, baby?” he murmurs, his lips close to your ear, the low timbre of his voice sending a wave of calm through you.

You nod, your fingers clicking the toy’s buttons rhythmically. “Yeah. It’s helping.”

Jisung bounds toward the speaker in the corner, pulling out his phone with the dramatic flair of someone announcing their magnum opus. “We need music!” he declares, his fingers flying over the screen.

The opening beats of Hey Daddy by Usher fill the kitchen, the smooth rhythm instantly lightens the atmosphere.

You giggle, sipping your drink as the guys start bopping along to the music. Hyunjin pulls Felix into an impromptu dance, their movements overly dramatic as they spin and pose like they’re auditioning for a music video. Jeongin laughs so hard he nearly spills his drink, and Chan claps along, his grin wide.

Minho keeps his arm snug around you, his free hand resting lightly on your waist. His thumb traces small, lazy circles against your side, his touch grounding. He leans in closer, his voice a quiet murmur against your ear. “You always smell like mango and passion fruit.”

“It’s my shampoo, conditioner, body spray. Everything, really,” you reply with a small laugh, glancing up at him.

“I love it,” Minho says simply, his tone sincere. “And I love you.”

His lips press a kiss to the crown of your head, lingering for a moment. You smile, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand as you tilt your head back to look at him.

“I love you too,”

Across the kitchen, Chan raises his glass, his voice cutting through the music. “Alright, let’s get super fucked up!”

“And talk about how ugly Jae and his friends are, right?” Felix adds, his grin mischievous as he looks to you for confirmation.

You nod, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Right.”

Felix leans forward, clinking his glass against yours with a wink. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Seungmin, perched on a stool nearby, takes a sip of his drink before adding dryly, “Jae gives off major bitchless energy.”

Hyunjin nods enthusiastically, his voice light and playful. “Very demure. Very ‘I don’t get any pussy.’”

The night winds down into a comfortable haze, the once-lively frat kitchen now littered with half-empty bottles, abandoned cups, and the remnants of snacks scattered across the counters.

The music is still playing, though quieter now, and the energy in the house has shifted. Laughter is softer, conversations slower, the kind of relaxed vibe that follows a night of good drinks and better company.

Minho’s arm stays firmly around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your side. His touch is steady, grounding, a quiet promise of safety even as the chaos of the evening fizzles into a low hum. He leans down, his breath brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “Come on, baby. Let’s head upstairs.”

You nod, leaning into him for a moment before he gently guides you toward the hallway. His hand rests lightly on your back, steering you past the remnants of the night.

Jisung is sprawled across the couch in the living room, one arm draped dramatically over his face, muttering something about how Seungmin stole his drink.

Felix, meanwhile, is perched on the coffee table, dramatically belting out the chorus of whatever song is playing, much to the delight of Changbin and Hyunjin, who are egging him on.

Minho chuckles softly as he watches them, shaking his head in amusement before nudging you forward. “Come on, before they rope us into Felix’s karaoke session.”

The climb up the stairs is slower than usual, your legs a little unsteady from the drinks and the lingering adrenaline of the night. Minho keeps a firm hold on you, his hand brushing lightly against your back every few steps as though to remind you he’s there.

You step inside his room, the door clicking shut softly behind you. The room is dimly lit, the warm glow of Minho’s desk lamp casting soft, golden shadows across the walls.

Minho leans back against the door, his eyes fixed on you as you reach for the zipper of your leather flares. The tight material peels away slowly, revealing the long expanse of your legs and your white panties. You pull your top over your head revealing your strapless white bra as you toss the top onto the chair in the corner of the room.

Minho stays where he is, watching you with a look that’s equal parts admiration and hunger. His gaze roams over you, taking in every curve, every line, with a reverence that makes your cheeks warm. His voice is low and rough when he finally speaks. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you coming to bed?”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that way that always makes your stomach flutter. “Demanding, aren’t we?”

“Always,” you reply, sliding under the cool blankets and settling into the soft mattress.

You watch as Minho pulls his hoodie over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso. He tosses it aside, then shucks off his cargos with the same ease, leaving him in just his boxers.

When he joins you under the blankets, the warmth of his body seeps into yours immediately. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close until your back is pressed against his chest. His chin rests lightly on the top of your head, and you sigh softly, the tension in your body melting away.

For a while, the room is quiet, the distant hum of voices and music downstairs fading into the background. Minho breaks the silence first, his voice low and steady. “I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”

You hum in agreement, your head turning slightly so you can glance up at him. “I think bouncing his head off a bar and crushing his hand might have been enough of a deterrent.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint smile. “I think he got the message loud and clear.”

Minho shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and his expression softens as his fingers brush lightly against your cheek. “I’d kill for you, baby. You need to know that.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze is unwavering, his thumb tracing small circles on your cheek as he continues. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. Absolutely nothing.”

Your breath catches, your chest tightening at the weight of his words. There’s no hesitation, no doubt in his tone, and the intensity of his conviction makes your eyes sting.

You reach for his hand, your fingers brushing over the cool metal of the rings still on his fingers. The familiar motion of twisting them grounds you.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I know, Min.”

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s soft but full of emotion. It’s not rushed, not hungry, it’s steady and sure, a quiet vow in the way he holds you. When he pulls back, his eyes search yours, and a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “I mean it, you know. You’re everything to me.”

You nod, your fingers still toying with his rings. “And you’re everything to me.”

The words hang in the air between you, unspoken truths finally laid bare. Minho presses a kiss to your forehead before settling back down, his arms wrapping securely around you. You rest your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t felt all night.

Downstairs, the faint sound of Felix’s laughter drifts up the stairs, followed by Jisung’s voice dramatically proclaiming something about being the world’s best singer. You smile against Minho’s chest, the warmth of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Home,” you murmur, your voice heavy with sleep.

Minho’s arms tighten around you slightly, his lips brushing against your hair. “Home,” he echoes, his voice full of quiet certainty. “Right here.”

Got carried away with the word count but protective men do something to me. A week of writing and rewriting and forcing my boyfriend to proof read and it's here!

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