#the world is a better place with you in it

[toshisdecadence]

What A Woman Wants

PAIRING: dilf!toji fushiguro x rich girl!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon, age gap (reader is in college, toji is in his forties), unprotected sex, implied infidelity, slight angst, implied virgin!reader, cherry popping (read: exterminating), manhandling, rough sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, oral sex (f receiving), degradation, choking, spitting, fingering, obscene dirty talk, creampies, dumbification, overstimulation, dacryphilia, marathon sex, size kink, size difference, stomach bulge, cervix mentions, doggy, mating press, missionary, referenced public sex, referenced quickies, referenced phone sex and sexting, smoking, alcohol consumption

WORD COUNT: 15.2k

SUMMARY: You find yourself tangled in an intense affair with the last man you should ever want—Toji Fushiguro, broke, rugged, and utterly irresistible.

© toshisdecadence

Toji Fushiguro—a single dad, financially struggling, with a bare apartment and rugged disposition—seemed to unite some of the worst misfortunes in existence; and had lived nearly 42 years with many things that distressed and vexed him.

His life had been far from ideal, but he tried his best. Well, as good as “best” could be. If it was just him, Toji would’ve just fucked off to some other dump. But he wasn’t. He had Megumi, his only son. A son he was barely a father to, admittedly, but Toji never claimed to be a model parent.

A skill that Toji had picked up from his shitty four decades of living was the ability to read people off the bat. Their body language. Demeanor. Way of speaking. The way they held their gaze. He could tell when a person had never experienced any form of hardship.

You were one such person. Toji could smell it from the moment you emerged behind Megumi’s back, dressed in a pretty white ensemble that no doubt cost one of his paychecks.

You’d shown up to Megumi’s apartment with a practiced ease that screamed entitlement—not the loud, obnoxious kind, but the subtle sort that came from never having to second-guess whether the world would open its doors for you. You carried yourself like someone who’d never been told “no” in a way that actually mattered.

Toji noticed it right away.

It wasn’t just the clothes—though the crisp linen blouse that clung to your figure and understated pearl earrings definitely told a story. It was the way you lingered in the doorway without stepping aside, as if the worn-out carpet and cheap furniture might rub off on you. The slight wrinkle of your nose, almost imperceptible, quickly smoothed over when Megumi introduced you. The polite, pretty smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yeah, Toji knew your type.

He leaned back against the raggedy, saggy couch, sprawled out in a way that was equal parts lazy and deliberate. He’d learned a long time ago that people like you hated men like him. Men who didn’t clean up well, who didn’t pretend to be better than what they were. He let his gaze drag over you just long enough to make you shift uncomfortably.

“Didn’t know Megumi had friends like you,” Toji said, voice low and rough around the edges.

You arched a perfectly manicured brow, the polished kind of expression that said you weren’t easily rattled. “Like me?”

“Yeah.” He took his time lighting a cigarette, even though Megumi’s annoyed glare told him not to. He liked pushing buttons, liked seeing how far people could bend before they snapped. “The kind who looks out of place here.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. Your voice remained even as you replied, “And what kind is that?”

Toji smirked, slow and mean, the scar running through the corner of his mouth making it almost look like a sneer. He exhaled smoke in your direction, earning a furrow of your brow. “The kind who thinks this shithole’s beneath her.”

“Dad, could you not?” Megumi groaned, intercepting the exchange.

Toji simply shrugged, lazily letting his gaze trail from his son to you.

You stared at him, your expression controlled. If anything, you looked amused.

The tension sat heavy between you, like a tug-of-war where neither side wanted to flinch first. Toji could see the war in your eyes. The same kind he saw in all the women who thought they were too good for him but still couldn’t stop looking.

Before either of you could push further, Megumi came back into the room, breaking the moment. Toji watched the mask slip back into place as easily as it had fallen. Polished, perfect, untouchable.

“Then, excuse me, Mr. Fushiguro,” you said, smiling politely.

He leaned back against the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips, and let his gaze follow you as you walked behind Megumi in tow. Toji appreciated the view. Prissy as he thought you were, you sure are one pretty woman.

And then you looked back over your shoulder, meeting his gaze with an unreadable expression.

Yeah, this was going to be fun.

You spotted him by accident.

The streets of downtown gleamed under the afternoon sun, polished storefronts and valet stations lining the walkways. The sun almost made the pavement shimmer a blinding white. It was your kind of area. Clean, expensive, and carefully curated to keep out the riffraff. Which is why Toji Fushiguro stuck out like a sore thumb.

He was leaning against the faded green truck parked half on the curb, the black sleeves of his sweater rolled up to his forearms, cigarette dangling between his lips as if he had all the time in the world. The smoke curled around him, blending with the faint scent of engine oil and sweat that seemed to follow him.

You almost didn’t recognize him without that thin black t-shirt clinging to the kind of frame belonging to a man in his forties. But the moment he turned and locked eyes with you, the unmistakable scar on his lips twisting as his lips spread into a lazy smirk, you knew exactly who he was.

“Mr. Fushiguro,” you greeted, lips tightening into a strained smile.

Toji raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one. Didn���t think you’d bother pretending to be polite.”

You stopped a few feet away, your hand gripping the strap of your leather designer bag from sliding down your shoulder. “I’m polite when I need to be.”

“And this is you needing to be polite?” He blew out a puff of smoke, eyes dragging over you appreciatively like he was appraising something valuable—lingering a moment too long on your legs before flicking back up to meet your stern gaze. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“You’re blocking the valet lane,” you said, voice steady.

Toji glanced at the painted curb, then back at you without moving an inch. “Think they’ll survive.”

“Bold of you to assume they won’t tow that thing.”

His grin widened. “Bold of you to assume I’d care.”

The words might have hit harder if his eyes hadn’t been pinned to you the entire time. Steady, calculating, like he was waiting to see whether you’d crack under the weight of his gaze. But you didn’t. You’d dealt with enough men to know how to handle it.

“Well,” you said lightly, your hands loosening around the strap of your bag, “tell Megumi I said hi.”

“Sure,” he said, but he didn’t make a motion to move, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “You sticking around?”

The question should’ve sounded casual, but it didn’t. It hung there, thick and heavy.

“Just passing through.”

“Figures.” He exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Guess I’ll let you get back to swiping that platinum card of yours.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, but you didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, you smiled sweetly, stepping closer just long enough to brush past him and murmur, “Have a good rest of your day, Mr. Fushiguro.”

He took a long drag of his cigarette, eyes roaming over you in a way that felt deliberate—lingering on the contours of your face, your lips, the slope of your bare shoulders—before flicking back to your face.

“Call me Toji.”

“I’ll stick with Mr. Fushiguro.”

Your smile was as sharp as your words, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin deepened, slow and wolfish. With a polite bow of your pretty head, you walked away with your head high and your heels clicking against the pavement.

You didn’t expect Toji to show up.

It was supposed to be a quiet dinner between friends. Just you and Megumi, grabbing food at a spot you introduced him to right after class. Something close enough to the bus stop so Megumi could catch his bus back to his side of town. But instead, Megumi was already sitting at the table when you arrived, arms crossed, scowling like he’d rather be anywhere else. And sitting across from him—half-sprawled in the booth with an elbow placed on the table—was Toji.

You faltered for a split second before slipping into the seat next to Megumi, carefully ignoring the older man’s amused glance as you set your bag down.

You let your expression do the talking, nudging Megumi’s leg under the table.

“I didn’t know,” Megumi muttered in defeat. “He just showed up.”

Toji’s voice cut in before you could respond, smooth and slow as ever. “Relax. I’m just here for the food.”

“Not sure you can afford it,” you said without looking up.

Megumi snorted. Toji didn’t.

“You worried about my finances, princess?”

You finally looked at him, meeting his dark green eyes across the table. “Just imparting financial literacy. That’s all.”

His lips curled, but before he could fire back, the waiter appeared with menus. You ordered first without even looking at the menu—something seasonal with a bottle of sparkling water—while Toji leaned back when it was his turn.

“Burger,” he said. “Fries. Whatever beer you’ve got on draft.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Megumi looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Toji didn't care. He let the silence stretch, absently flipping over the silverware while Megumi focused on his phone. And when his gaze eventually slid back to you, it felt deliberate.

“You and Megumi,” he said after a beat. “You two dating or something?”

Megumi groaned, but you were already replying. “No.”

“Sure about that?”

“Certain.”

Toji’s grin was slow, almost predatory. “Good to hear.”

You hated the way your pulse jumped at the implication.

“Dad, don’t start,” Megumi muttered, staring daggers into his father.

“What?” Toji said, feigning innocence. “I’m just curious about who you might or might not be dating.”

“Megumi and I are just friends,” you clarify. 

“Smart girl,” Toji said, leaning back again. He cocked his head to the side, lips curling, that scar through his lip embedding itself in your eyes. “You could do better.”

Your nails dug into your palm under the table.

“You’re one to talk,” Megumi snapped suddenly, cutting through the tension. “You show up out of nowhere, act like you give a shit, and then—”

Toji’s expression shifted. Subtle, but sharp enough that Megumi immediately clamped his mouth shut.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Barely.”

“Better than nothing,” Toji said.

Megumi’s jaw clenched. You’d never seen him this visibly frustrated before. You knew that he had a dubious relationship with his father, but you didn’t realize it was this bad. Usually, Megumi was the definition of even-tempered. Calm and composed. He never let anyone or anything ruffle him. But Toji clearly had a talent for poking at weak spots.

Your gaze flickered between the two of them. The tension was uncomfortable, like being trapped in a room with a lit fuse.

“This is why we don’t talk,” Megumi said suddenly, pushing his chair back with a sharp scrape.

Toji’s brows lifted slightly, as if the outburst amused him. “Because I showed up to hang with my kid?”

“No,” Megumi snapped. “Because you always do this.”

Toji leaned forward, resting his beefy arms on the table. “Do what?” He asked with a cock of his head.

“Show up when it’s convenient. Then disappear just as fast.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before Megumi stood up, grabbing his phone and bag. “I’m out of here.”

You blinked up at him. “Wait—Megumi—”

“I’ll text you later,” he muttered, already halfway to the door. He didn’t even glance at Toji as he left.

The restaurant door closed behind him, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

“Well,” Toji leaned back again, looking thoroughly unfazed by the whole ordeal. “Guess it’s just us now.”

You set your glass down carefully, staring coldly into his face. “Apparently.”

Toji’s smirk widened. “You don’t have to look so happy about it.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you still here?”

“Free food,” he said easily.

“You said you came here to hang out with Megumi.”

“Same thing. Besides, that brat left already.”

You exhaled sharply, already regretting letting Megumi drag you into this mess. Toji didn’t seem inclined to leave anytime soon, given his lackadaisical manner, and there was something about the way he looked at you—casual, curious—that made it impossible to relax.

“So,” he said after a moment, eyes flicking down to your glass before dragging back up to your face, “how long have you and Megumi been friends?”

You hesitated, not liking the sudden shift in focus. “A while.”

“Close?”

“As close as anyone can be with him.”

Toji snorted at that, and the sound made your jaw tighten. He wasn’t wrong, but something about his attitude made you bristle.

“Don’t act like you know him,” you said sharply.

That seemed to catch him off guard. For a second, his smirk faltered, replaced by something darker. “And you do?”

“Better than you, apparently.”

Toji leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “That so?”

You didn’t back down, even as his piercing gaze pinned you in place. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause before Toji laughed—a low, rough sound that grated against your nerves. “You’ve got some nerve, princess.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know me.”

His wolfish grin returned, sharp and deliberate. “No,” he said, voice lowering. “But I think I’m starting to.”

Your stomach twisted at the implication. You hated how casual he sounded, like he already had you figured out.

You picked up your drink, taking a long sip and finding refuge in the burn of the fizz to bury the mortification burning through your body.

“So,” Toji said after a moment, breaking the silence again. “What do rich girls talk about over dinner? Stocks? Real estate? Or just all the guys who couldn’t impress you?”

You set your glass down with a soft clink. “I don’t waste my time talking about men.”

Toji whistled. “That so?”

“Most of them are disappointing.”

His brows lifted, and for the first time, he looked like he was actually interested. “Disappointing how?”

You leaned back, crossing your arms as if you were completely unfazed. “Let’s see. No ambition. No sense of direction. No emotional intelligence. No general intelligence. No follow-through. Should I go on?”

The corner of his scarred mouth twitched, and something about it made you feel like you’d walked into a trap.

“Sounds like you’ve got high standards,” he said, voice low and smooth. “But what happens when no one meets them?”

You didn’t answer right away, letting the question hang in the air. Toji didn’t look away. He wasn’t like the other men you’d brushed off before—the ones who shrank under your stare or fumbled over their words, trying to impress you. No, Toji looked at you like he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. If anything, it felt like he was the one sizing you up.

“I don’t settle,” you said finally.

“No?”

“No.”

“That’s cute, princess.”

You ignored him, picking up your drink again and taking another slow sip. But the heat prickling your skin didn’t fade. Not with Toji’s green eyes still on you, sharp and dark, like he was waiting for the exact moment you’d falter.

The food arrived soon after, cutting through the tension for a brief moment. You ate slowly, composed, carefully spearing your salad while Toji tore into his burger like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“So, what is it you do?” you asked eventually, letting the question drip with feigned politeness.

Toji glanced up, mouth still half-full. You tried not to let your expression sour at the sight. “Depends,” he said.

“Depends on what?”

“What pays.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No real job, then?”

“Not one you’d approve of,” he said, leaning back and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who cares about approval,” you said, tilting your head.

“I don’t,” Toji said. “But you do.”

Your fork paused just above your plate.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he said, voice low and steady. “Girls like you? Everything’s about appearances. Doesn’t matter what’s underneath, as long as it all looks good on the surface.”

“And what about you?” you countered, your voice sharp. “What’s underneath?”

Toji leaned in slightly, his lips curling. “All you had to do was ask if you wanted to see me naked, princess.”

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, but you covered it up with another sip of your drink. The worst part wasn’t the smugness in his expression, or the blatant flirting and teasing—it was the fact that he was right. Everything about him, from his ragged edges to the dark look in his green eyes, was something you should’ve and usually turned your nose up at. And yet, you couldn’t stop staring.

You set your glass down, fixing him with an unimpressed stare.

“Are you seriously flirting with me?”

Toji shrugged. “It’s whatever you think it is, princess.”

The conversation shifted after that—courtesy of you blatantly ignoring the topic altogether—but the tension never fully faded.

By the time the check came, you were more than ready to leave. Toji leaned back and stretched. The waiter approached the table cautiously, clutching the black leather bill folder like it might detonate in his hands. He glanced between the two of you. First at Toji, whose broad frame and casual slouch made him look wildly out of place at the upscale restaurant, then at you, perfectly composed in your crisp linen top and polished jewelry.

You didn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in the waiter’s eyes. He was clearly trying to piece together the dynamic—father and daughter? Boss and employee? Lovers?—before ultimately deciding he didn’t want to guess wrong.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the waiter said, placing the bill carefully in the middle of the table.

Toji reached for it first, but you were faster, sliding it out from under his fingers before he could even lift the cover.

He raised a brow at you. “What? You think I can’t pay?”

You flipped the folder open without looking at him, not bothering to look at the total.

“No,” you said coolly, already pulling your dark brown leather wallet out of your purse. “I know you won’t.”

Toji grinned wolfishly, leaning back like this whole thing amused him. “Smart girl.”

The waiter lingered awkwardly, pretending to straighten the silverware as you pulled out some crisp bills. The metal cards in your wallet glinted under the soft lighting, unmistakable even to someone like Toji.

“Nice card,” he said, voice dripping with something that could’ve been admiration, or mockery.

“Thanks,” you said, snapping the folder shut and handing it back to the waiter. You smiled warmly at the waiter. “Keep the change.”

The waiter blinked at the implied tip, which was generous enough to make up for the strained atmosphere that had hung over the table all night, before he thanked you and quickly excused himself.

Toji whistled low, watching the waiter walk away, before he dragged his gaze back to you. “Big spender, huh?”

You reached for your purse, unfazed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not to you,” he muttered, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You paused, but only for a moment. “No,” you agreed softly, letting the word linger before you rose from your seat. “Not to me.”

Toji stayed seated, watching as you gathered your things with practiced ease, smoothing down your skirt and adjusting your jewelry.

“Leaving already?” he asked, sounding far too entertained.

You met his eyes, calm and composed despite the tension still lingering in your chest. “The meal’s settled,” you said simply. “What else is there to stick around for?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze drag over you, taking in every detail—your immaculate clothes, your careful and upright posture, your perfectly applied lipstick.

Oh, how Toji wanted to smear them.

“Fair point,” he said at last, but there was something in his tone that made it feel less like an agreement and more like a challenge.

The faint thwack of tennis balls echoed across the court as the conversation continued, but you stayed quiet, idly running your fingers through the rim of your racket. Marissa and Chloe were still picking apart the details of dating someone outside their world—outside the carefully curated expectations—and every word struck a chord you didn’t want to acknowledge.

The others were still talking about Chloe’s boyfriend, picking apart his flaws with clinical precision, but you barely heard them anymore. You were too busy dissecting your own ridiculous impulses, the way your body had betrayed you, the way your mind kept circling back to him.

Toji Fushiguro.

You hated even thinking his name, hated how it echoed in your head like a whisper you couldn’t shake. It was absurd. He was absurd. What did he even have to offer besides a handsome face and a body that looked carved out of stone? He didn’t belong anywhere near this world—your world—and he never would.

He wasn’t polished. He wasn’t educated. He wasn’t even financially stable. He was the type of man who looked out of place in restaurants like the one you’d taken him to, and you knew that he hadn’t even cared. Not one bit.

That’s what got under your skin the most.

You’d spent your life perfecting the art of composure, of setting expectations and making sure they were met. Because in your world, expectations mattered. They were everything. But Toji? He didn’t live by expectations. He didn’t even pretend to. He just existed—blunt and crass and unapologetic—and it infuriated you how freeing it seemed.

“He’s sweet,” Chloe repeated defensively, but the words sounded hollow. “He’s just a bit… rough around the edges.”

“Sweet only gets you so far,” Marissa said, adjusting her tennis bracelet. “What happens when you’re hosting a fundraiser or when you’re at dinner with your parents, and he doesn’t even know which fork to use?”

“Exactly.” Julia, who had been scrolling absentmindedly on her phone, finally looked up. “You can’t spend your whole life trying to fix someone. If he’s not polished enough, he never will be.”

Chloe sighed, slumping back into her seat. “It’s not like I’m trying to marry him,” she muttered.

“Yeah, because your mom and dad would never approve,” Marissa said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s about being practical, Chloe. If he can’t keep up with you now, he’s not going to suddenly catch up later.”

“It’s not that simple,” Chloe huffed. “He’s not bad, okay? He’s sweet, and he tries, but—”

“But he’s broke,” Marissa finished bluntly.

“Not broke broke. He just doesn’t have family money. He’s still working his way up, and you know how hard it is to find a guy who’s actually attractive and driven.”

“Please.” Marissa snorted. “It’s not that hard. You’re just being sentimental.”

You weren’t paying attention before, but now? Now the words stuck.

You leaned down to retie your shoelace, turning your head sideways to hide the way your jaw tightened.

The hypocrisy of it all gnawed at you.

Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise, you knew the truth. If Toji had been rich—if he’d been sitting in that restaurant in a tailored suit instead of an old raggedy sweater—you wouldn’t have cared about his age or his baggage or the fact that he had a grown son your age. You wouldn’t have even blinked.

And the worst part?

You weren’t any better than Chloe.

“He doesn’t have to be rich,” Chloe argued, drawing your attention back to the conversation. “But he should at least aspire to something, right? I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t bother me when he gets uncomfortable when I try to take him somewhere nicer than a steakhouse.”

“It’s a compatibility thing,” Marissa said. “You can’t force someone to fit into this lifestyle. If he’s not comfortable in it now, he never will be.”

Your stomach twisted.

The words rang in your ears, uncomfortably close to the thoughts that had plagued you since that dinner. Since Toji’s sharp smirk and unbothered stare had somehow left you feeling raw and exposed.

“I mean, what’s the point of all of this?” Chloe gestured vaguely around the pristine tennis courts. “What’s the point of working hard and doing well if we’re just going to settle for guys who can’t keep up? It’s exhausting.”

You almost laughed. Exhausting.

Toji wasn’t exhausted. He wasn’t running himself in circles trying to impress anyone. He didn’t even try to fit into places he didn’t belong. And yet, for all his bluntness, for all his rough edges and the casual way he seemed to exist without apology, he’d felt more solid than anyone you’d met in years.

And that terrified you.

“You’re quiet today,” Marissa said suddenly, pulling you back to the present. “Everything okay?”

“Perfectly fine.” You managed a smile, twirling your racket by its grip. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing important.”

You gripped your racket tighter, nails digging into the synthetic leather.

“Are we playing another set or what?” someone asked.

You forced yourself to stand up, to push him out of your head and focus on the game.

But even as you stepped onto the court and adjusted your stance, you knew it wouldn’t last.

The clock on the wall ticked away lazily, the soft hum of your air conditioning the only sound breaking the silence in your lavish apartment. You were sitting at your kitchen island, flicking through some textbooks as you mentally prepared yourself for the hours of work ahead. Megumi had texted earlier, saying he’d drop off the final details for your project—he’d promised to take care of it when you saw him last. But now, sitting in your pristine apartment with a glass of rosé beside you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

The soft ping of a text from Megumi interrupted the quiet of your apartment. You glanced down at your phone, fully expecting it to be a message about the project materials. Instead, your eyes widened slightly as you read the sudden shift in plans.

Sorry, there’s an emergency with Kuro so I’m at the vet. I’m sending my dad instead to drop off the stuff you need. Hope that's okay. I’ll catch up with you later.

You exhaled sharply, your fingers momentarily gripping the phone tighter. Toji. The last person you were expecting.

You had half-expected Megumi to be reliable. Sure, his father was... something else, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t follow through. You rubbed your forehead, sighing as you felt the unrelenting weight of the fact that Toji—Megumi’s deadbeat dad, the man with a charm as sharp as his lack of direction in life—was about to show up at your door.

For a moment, you almost texted Megumi back to argue. To suggest he just drop it by tomorrow, that you didn’t need his father showing up like this. But before you could even type out your thoughts, a knock echoed through your apartment.

Your heart skipped a beat—whether from excitement or dread, you couldn't pinpoint. You set your phone down on the countertop, trying to steady your breathing, but your pulse was already racing. You had no business feeling this way. He was an obstacle, a challenge to your composure, but nothing more. This was just another inconvenience, another reminder that you were far above whatever Toji was.

With a reluctant exhale, you made your way to the door, clicking the lock open, and standing there in the frame, Toji’s tall figure filled the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, holding the folder in his hand, looking every bit the same unbothered, rugged man you’d met before.

You stood there, holding the door open just a little too long as your mind races. Toji’s presence in your apartment felt like a looming storm—heavy, pressing, relentless. Megumi’s absence only amplified the tension, leaving you alone with the one man you know you should not be alone with.

Toji stepped inside, just far enough to clear the doorway, his eyes already scanning the room. His gaze swept over the space with a mixture of appreciation and something darker, something more intense. He’s not just looking at the furniture or the art on the walls. He’s looking at you.

“...Mr. Fushiguro,” you managed.

You closed the door behind him, standing just a little too close, but you can’t exactly tell him to leave. Not when you need the materials, and not when your damn pulse is racing just from being in the same room as him. Your eyes fell to the folder in his hands, trying to distract yourself, trying to stay calm. You don’t want to feel anything.

He gave a small grunt of acknowledgement but didn't immediately hand you the folder. Instead, he set it down on the coffee table, his gaze locking with yours in that way he always does, like he’s studying you.

You felt exposed—your place, your clothes, everything about you right now feels vulnerable. You weren’t expecting this. Toji Fushiguro, your friend’s father, standing in your apartment, staring at you with that heavy, calculating gaze. It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like that, but it’s the first time it’s made you feel this much.

"Nice place," he said, his voice low, his tone appreciative but edged with something more—something that causes your pulse to pick up, just a little. "Definitely fits you. All the right things in all the right places." He’s not talking about the apartment anymore.

You managed a tight smile. "I like to keep it clean." You tried to sound nonchalant, but your hands, now clutched in front of you, betrayed the nervous energy you can’t seem to shake. He’s too close, his presence too powerful.

He stepped closer, examining the space with a casual interest, but it’s all too clear that his eyes are more on you than the apartment. "Yeah. I can see that." His gaze lingered a moment too long before he pulled his focus away to gesture around the room. "All this... it fits you. Perfectly."

You swallowed, your heart picking up its pace. The compliment should feel good, should be flattering. But instead, it twists in your stomach. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need any of this. So why does it make you feel like you’re being torn open, laid bare?

"Thanks," you muttered, the word slipping out easily despite the discomfort tightening in your chest. Toji’s proximity feels suffocating now, his every movement calculated and unnervingly direct.

You glanced down at the folder on the island, the one containing the documents you’d been waiting on, but your mind is somewhere else entirely. His presence overwhelmed you. It was strange how it seemed to fill the room with the kind of pressure that had nothing to do with the space around you.

“And,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady as you took the folder from his hand. You can’t help but notice the way his eyes linger on you, that slow scan of his gaze, the way it feels as if he’s undressing you with nothing but a look. “Thanks for bringing this.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.”

Your grip on the folder tightened, but it wasn’t because of the papers inside.

It was him.

Standing there, weight shifted lazily onto one leg, arms crossed over his broad chest like he had all the time in the world. Like he could feel how badly you wanted him gone, but more than that—how badly you wanted him to stay.

He smirked, slow and easy. "You gonna open it, or just stand there clenching it like that?"

You forced a breath through your nose, willing your hands to relax. "I’ll look through it later."

He hummed, unconvinced, stepping closer. "That so?"

You nodded, lips pressing into a thin line as you refused to look up. Because if you did, you’d see the way his dark eyes gleamed with amusement. With certainty.

Toji thrived on this, on the push and pull, on the game you were trying so damn hard not to play.

"You know, you’re real uptight, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck rise. "Always actin’ like you got somethin’ to prove."

Your jaw tensed. "I don’t have to prove anything to you."

That damn smirk deepened.

"Never said you did." His voice was smooth, like velvet laced with something sharp. "Just funny how you keep tellin’ yourself that."

Your fingers curled into your palm, nails pressing into skin. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, something dangerously close to frustration—no, not just frustration.

It was something else you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Because goddamn it, he was right.

Every time Toji was near, it took everything in you not to acknowledge the pull, the way your body betrayed you in his presence. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t fair.

Toji shifted, and suddenly, he was too close, the scent of him—smoke, leather, and something distinctly masculine—wrapping around you like a noose.

"You always this tense around guys, or is it just me?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was something beneath it. Something pressing.

Your throat felt tight. "Just you."

The words left you before you could stop them.

His smirk vanished, replaced by something heavier, something darker. A beat of silence stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid.

"Yeah?" he murmured.

You swallowed the dryness in your throat.

He didn’t move, but you could feel it—his patience thinning, the careful line he was toeing fraying with every second you stood there, staring up at him like you were waiting for something to happen.

And maybe you were.

Maybe you’d been waiting this whole damn time.

His gaze dipped, lingering on your lips just long enough for your breath to hitch before dragging back up, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

Then—so slight it could’ve been accidental—he reached out, fingertips just barely grazing the back of your wrist.

You should have pulled away.

You didn’t.

The touch was fleeting, gone before you could fully process it, but the damage was done. Your pulse pounded, skin burning where he’d touched you, and Toji knew.

Oh, he fucking knew.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, so low you almost didn’t catch it. "Hate to break it to ya, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over your cheek, "but I think you like it."

Your stomach dropped.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And that? That terrified you more than anything.

Your breath came too fast, too shallow.

Toji wasn’t just close—he was looming, his presence swallowing up all the space between you, thick and suffocating. He wasn’t touching you, not really, but it didn’t matter. His heat curled around you, his scent—smoke, steel, something dark—flooding your senses, making it impossible to think.

You needed to stop this. You had to stop this.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

His lips twitched. Amused. Unbothered. "Ain’t playin’."

God, you were shaking. You gripped the folder tighter, knuckles white, but it was useless. You had nothing. No grounding, no control. Just the unbearable weight of his gaze and the way your body—traitorous, desperate—leaned closer when it should have pulled away.

"This—this is a bad idea," you tried, your voice breaking.

Toji hummed, slow, like he was thinking about it, like it was even a question. "Probably."

Your stomach twisted. "Megumi—"

"—ain’t here," he finished smoothly, cutting you off before you could even try to make that excuse stick.

Your stomach twisted, your resolve slipping like sand through your fingers. "You're his dad."

He tilted his head slightly, gaze heavy-lidded, knowing. "That bother you?" 

Yes. No. It should.

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat because goddamn it, the way he was looking at you was undoing every carefully built wall you’d spent months constructing.

His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—until his fingertips brushed against your jaw. A barely-there touch, but your whole body reacted, heat blooming under your skin like he’d set you on fire.

"You’re too old for me," you whispered, desperate now, clinging to anything.

Toji huffed a quiet laugh. "That so?" His thumb dragged along the curve of your chin, tilting it up just enough to make you meet his green eyes. "Funny. You don’t feel like you mind."

A shiver ran down your spine. You did mind. You had to mind.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, close enough that you could see the scar slicing through his lips, close enough that if you so much as swayed, you’d—

"No job," you blurted, grasping at straws now, voice breathless. "You're—you’re broke."

Toji laughed. Laughed. Low and amused, like none of this even fazed him. "That why your heart’s racin’?"

Damn him.

You could hear it—feel it—the thundering pulse in your chest, your body's betrayal laid bare in the space between you.

You had one last defense. One last excuse.

"I—" Your voice wavered. "I don’t want this."

Liar.

Toji’s smirk softened, just barely, but the hunger in his eyes never wavered. His fingers trailed from your jaw to your throat, light, teasing, before settling against the rapid beat of your pulse.

"Lemme hear you say that again."

You opened your mouth—ready, willing yourself to say it—but nothing came out.

Because you couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t true.

And Toji knew it.

Knew it when your breath shuddered, when your lashes fluttered, when your body leaned—just the smallest fraction—toward him instead of away.

His lips barely ghosted over yours, not quite a kiss, but there, teasing, taunting.

"That’s what I thought."

And just like that, the last of your excuses crumbled.

You don’t know how it happens. One moment, you were trying to catch your breath, trying to think—the next, Toji’s crowding you against the counter, his sheer presence suffocating, intoxicating, inevitable.

"Been fightin’ this so hard, huh? Thought you were too good for it?" His voice was nothing but a slow, lazy drawl, but you felt the way his words curl around you, creeping into the deepest, filthiest parts of your mind.

You tried to push at his chest, your palms pressed against the hard muscle—useless. His hand engulfed your wrist with a single squeeze, pinning it beside your head. The other? It slid slowly over your thigh, teasing the hem of your shorts.

"Toji—" your voice was a breathless whisper, but even you don't know if you’re begging him to stop or to keep going.

"Tell me to stop, then." His grip tightened when you squirmed, his thumb pressing just right over your pulse point. "Tell me you don’t want it."

You should. You have to. But your mouth refused to form the words when his fingers dipped lower, grazing the damp fabric of your underwear. A sharp inhale betrayed you, your thighs tensing against his touch.

"Filthy girl," he rasped, the smirk in his voice unmistakable.

With one sharp yank, your shorts are gone, tossed somewhere and forgotten along with the folder Toji had come here to bring. A gasp caught in your throat, embarrassment warring with the unbearable need twisting low in your stomach.

Then—

"Fuck—look at you," Toji groaned, dragging his roughened thumb against your slick folds, heavy and hot. "Gotta stretch you out first, yeah? Can’t even take the tip like this."

The first press of his fingers had you choking on a gasp. Thick, deliberate, his touch was slow as he worked you open, forcing your body to take more, his thumb pressing teasing circles against your puffy clit. You trembled beneath him, whimpering as he curled his fingers inside you, stretching your gummy walls, coaxing out slick with every lazy stroke.

"Mmm, still too tight," he mused, his voice a rough purr against your ear. "Gotta make sure you can handle me, baby. Don’t want you breakin’ on me too fast."

Your body betrayed you, hips rocking into the steady intrusion, your thighs trembling when he scissored his fingers inside you. It’s too much—the sensation, the way he watched you, the way he’s holding back just to make sure you felt every second of this.

“You’re creamin’ all over my fingers, baby,” Toji cooed, fucking in two rough fingers. Your face burned at the sound of squelching. You could hear how wet you were. Could feel it soaking his palm, your ass, and even the kitchen island beneath you. “Do you not touch yourself, hm? Pussy’s so fuckin’ tight.”

You quivered beneath him, thrashing and twisting as his thick fingers fucked into you. You felt tears pricking at your eyes from the sensation. You felt so full. His rough fingertips rubbed against the ribbed walls of your cunt, curling into a spot that rendered you breathless.

Toji relished the sight. “Atta girl,” he rasped, the sound sending heat straight to your pussy. “You can take more f’me, hm?”

Your mind was too cloudy to properly respond, your lips parted in a silent cry, mewls and whimpers escaping your glossy lips.

Toji smiled wolfishly. “‘Course you can, sweetheart.”

Then he pushed a third finger in. Your walls clamped down on him, fluttering like it was panicking from the stretch.

He grunted at that, working his finger in. “So tight. Almost makes me think you’re a fuckin’ virgin.”

Your walls fluttered at that, your body tensing at the words. Toji’s smirk deepened, eyes sharpening as he caught the subtle shift in your reaction. He stilled his movements for just a moment, head tilting slightly as realization dawned on him.

“Oh,” he drawled, voice dropping even lower, thick with something dangerous. “That so, sweetheart?” His fingers flexed inside you, making you jerk. “Fuck, no wonder you’re squeezin’ me like this.” His wolfish grin widened, teeth flashing as he leaned in, voice like a growl against your ear. “Your first time, and it’s gonna be with me? Hah. Ain’t that somethin’?”

Your breath hitched, shame and arousal mixing in a dizzying heat. Toji chuckled darkly, fingers starting to move again, slower, deeper. “Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw. His scent overwhelms you—cigarettes, musk, and something warm. “I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

You clenched even tighter at that, earning a grunt from Toji who had to work much harder to fuck his fingers into you.

Toji chuckled, voice dripping with amusement. “Oh? That got you clenchin’ up real tight. What is it, baby? The thought of this big cock being your first get you all worked up?” His fingers curled again, stroking that spot inside you deliberately. You choked on a gasp, your hips jerking against the countertop.

His free hand moved to your jaw, gripping it roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Nah, can’t be. Not with a fuckin' pussy like this,” he murmured, his voice dark and amused. “Too fuckin’ sweet. Too fuckin' greedy.” He pried your lips open with his thumb, watching with a glint in his eye as your tongue lolled out on instinct. “See? Good little sluts always open up for me.”

Before you could respond, he spit. The thick warmth of it landed right on your tongue, and you whined, your body betraying you as you swallowed without thinking. He grinned at the sight, fingers still fucking deep inside your cunt.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with approval. “Knew you’d be fuckin' perfect for me.”

His fingers spread inside you, stretching you even wider, and you gasped, hands flying up to clutch at his wrist. His grin only widened.

“Aww, poor thing,” he mocked, leaning in so his lips brushed against the corner of your mouth. “Can’t take my fingers? Then how the fuck you gonna take my cock?”

You couldn’t answer—all you could do was whimper as he fucked his fingers into you harder, knuckles-deep, the wet sounds of your arousal obscene in the quiet of the kitchen.

“Maybe I should make you beg for it first,” he mused, lips ghosting along your jaw. “Make you admit how bad you want me to split this tight little cunt open.”

His fingers finally withdrew, leaving you empty and aching, but before you could complain, Toji was already lowering himself between your thighs. He lifted one of your legs over his broad shoulder, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to leave bruises.

“Gotta open you up nice and proper, baby,” he murmured, voice dripping with sin. “Can’t have this tiny fuckin’ hole strugglin’ too much, huh?”

His breath was hot against your drenched folds, his dark eyes locked onto your fluttering cunt. Then, without warning, he spit. The thick glob of saliva landed right on your swollen clit, mixing with your arousal, and you gasped at the sensation.

Toji groaned at the sight. “Fuckin’ messy,” he muttered, using two fingers to spread the slickness over your folds. “Bet you’ve never had anyone eat this pretty pussy, huh?”

You barely had time to shake your head before he dove in. His tongue was hot, rough, and unrelenting as he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. Hard.

Your back arched off the counter, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as Toji devoured you like a man starved. His tongue worked you over, hot and wet, flicking and swirling in ways that had your thighs trembling around his head. He didn’t just eat pussy—he dominated it, owned it, made it his.

His fingers pressed back into you, two thick digits stretching you open while his tongue teased your swollen bundle of nerves. He pumped them slowly at first, letting you feel every ridge of his calloused fingertips rubbing against your slick walls.

“Gotta get this tight little hole ready,” he murmured between licks, his breath hot against your soaked folds. “Can’t have you cryin’ when I stuff you full.”

You whimpered, your hands flying to his dark hair, gripping tight as your hips bucked against his mouth.

Toji growled, pleased by your desperation, and shoved his fingers deeper. “That’s it, baby. Fuckin’ take it.”

His tongue never relented, flicking, sucking, teasing, until the pressure inside you coiled unbearably tight. He could feel it, the way your walls squeezed around his fingers, the way your body trembled beneath him.

“Gonna cum for me, huh?” he rasped, his voice vibrating against your clit. “Go on, then. Fuckin’ soak me.”

A few more ruthless strokes of his tongue, and you shattered.

Your orgasm tore through you, your body locking up as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Toji groaned against your pussy, drinking in every drop of slick that gushed out of you, his fingers still working you through it, milking every last bit of your release.

When you finally came down, breathless and trembling, Toji pulled back just enough to admire his work. Your cunt was puffy, glistening, a mess of his spit and your cum.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with approval. “Now that’s a pretty sight.”

Toji pulled away from your ruined cunt, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark eyes full of something primal as he stood to his full height. His cock strained against his sweats, a thick outline pressing against the fabric, and he smirked down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.

“Now,” he drawled, gripping your thighs tighter, his voice a dark promise, “where do you want me to ruin you, baby? Right here on the counter? Bent over that fancy couch of yours?” His smirk deepened as he leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur against your lips. “Or should I stretch you out on that big, empty bed of yours?”

He let the question hang in the air, but the wicked glint in his eyes told you—this wasn’t really your choice.

Toji didn’t wait for an answer. Not that you could give him one—your brain was too fogged with lust, your body too pliant in his grasp. He hauled you up effortlessly, strong arms keeping you locked against him as he carried you through the dimly lit halls of your home. The path to your bedroom felt both too long and too short, every step sending another wave of slick arousal dripping down your thighs.

Your back hit the mattress before you even realized he had thrown you down. The bed dipped under his weight as he crawled over you, eyes dark and hungry as he took in the sight beneath him—your flushed skin, your trembling legs, the way your breath came in short, desperate pants.

“Look at you,” he murmured, running a rough palm up your thigh. “Fuckin’ perfect. Spread out for me like a good little girl.”

His hand gripped the underside of your knee, shoving your legs further apart. The air was thick with the scent of sex, your arousal glistening between your thighs. Toji groaned low in his chest, tapping the heavy weight of his cock against your swollen clit, smearing your slick all over the thick head.

His fingers trailed down your belly, calloused fingertips tracing over your trembling skin before stopping just above your pelvis. "You on the pill, baby?" he asked, voice low, rough—almost like he didn’t really care what the answer was.

You swallowed thickly, nodding. "Y-yeah."

His smirk widened, lazy and dangerous. His palm pressed down against your lower stomach, fingers flexing possessively. "Mm. Not like it would’ve mattered."

Your breath caught in your throat, your stomach tightening at the weight of his words. The realization barely had time to settle before he shifted, spreading your thighs wider, his broad hands gripping the plush of them like he owned every inch.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered, dragging the fat head of his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in the wetness he had worked you into. "Drippin’ for me like a needy little thing. Bet you’d take it either way, huh?" His tone was mocking, almost pitying. "Doesn’t even matter, baby—I’m gonna fuck you full, gonna stretch this little cunt open till you’re ruined for anyone else."

A pathetic whimper slipped from your lips, and Toji groaned, guiding himself to your entrance, pressing just enough for you to feel the unbearable pressure of his size.

“You ready for me, baby?” His voice was almost mocking, a dark smirk pulling at his lips. He knew the answer. Knew from the way your body trembled, from the way your breath hitched when he pressed the fat head of his cock against your entrance.

Still, he wanted to hear it.

You nodded, gasping as he rubbed slow circles against your clit with his cock. “Y-Yeah.”

“Yeah?” He raised a brow, feigning disinterest. “Dunno, sweetheart. You sure this tiny little pussy can take me?”

You whined, your hips bucking instinctively, desperate for more friction. “Please,” you whimpered, voice barely above a breath.

Toji chuckled darkly. “There’s that pretty beggin’ again.”

He didn’t make you wait any longer.

A sharp gasp left your lips as he pushed in, the thick crown stretching you open in a way his fingers never could. The burn was instant, overwhelming, your walls struggling to take the sheer size of him. Toji groaned, low and guttural, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he fought to keep himself from bottoming out too fast.

“Shit,” he ground out, watching the way your tight little hole struggled to take him. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby.”

Your head tipped back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched down on him. It was too much—too big, too thick, too deep already, and he wasn’t even fully inside yet.

“Relax,” he muttered, voice strained with restraint. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, taunting circles to ease the tension. “You can take it, sweetheart. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You nodded frantically, fingers twisting in the sheets as he pushed in another inch. The stretch was unbearable, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but the pleasure was just as intense. You felt so full, so stuffed, your body struggling to accommodate him.

Toji groaned at the sight of your teary, desperate face. “Fuck, look at you. Cryin’ on my cock already.” He pushed in another inch, watching the way your body trembled beneath him. “You wanted this, baby. So take it.”

And then he slammed the rest of the way in.

"Biiig stretch, sweetheart," he rasped, teasing, savoring the way your walls fluttered in panic. "Deep fuckin’ breaths. This pussy’s gotta learn to take me."

A broken cry tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as he bottomed out. The sheer fullness of him sent a shudder through your body, your thighs twitching where they were spread wide. Toji stilled, gritting his teeth at the way your walls spasmed around him, struggling to adjust.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin' me so tight.” His voice was wrecked, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest. “Takin' me so fuckin' deep, baby… Look at you, stretched so pretty around me.”

Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin as you tried to ground yourself. Toji's hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“Breathe,” he rasped, his thumb dragging over your parted lips before pressing down against your tongue. “There you go. Just like that. Lemme in, sweetheart.”

You whimpered around his thumb, dazed, overwhelmed, your mind drowning in the sensation of being so utterly filled. Toji grinned, something dark and satisfied curling in his expression.

“That’s it,” he praised, shifting his hips slightly, letting you feel every inch of him buried inside you. “This pussy was made to take me.”

Then he pulled back, just an inch—before driving his cock back in, harder, deeper.

You choked on a gasp, pleasure ricocheting up your spine as Toji set a brutal rhythm, dragging his length out before slamming it back inside, making sure you felt every ridge, every vein, every inch. Your bed creaked pitifully beneath the force of it, the sound of skin meeting skin obscene in the quiet room.

“So fuckin' good,” Toji groaned, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Makin' a mess all over me, baby. So desperate, so needy for cock.”

Your walls clenched at his words, the filthiness of it only heightening the coil tightening in your stomach. Toji caught it immediately, his grin widening.

“Yeah? You like that? My dirty little girl, gettin' off on being used?”

You couldn’t answer—not when he was fucking you so deep, so hard, the air punched from your lungs with every thrust. All you could do was sob, overwhelmed, delirious with pleasure.

Toji chuckled darkly, leaning in, his breath hot against your ear. “Such a nasty little slut.”

Your stomach twisted, shame and arousal tangling into something unbearable, but Toji didn’t let up.

“What would Megumi think, huh?” he sneered, voice dripping with mockery. “His pretty little friend—so fuckin’ proper, so well-behaved—lettin’ his deadbeat old man fuck her stupid.”

A sob tore from your throat, half-formed, half-pleasure, half-mortification. Toji only laughed, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him.

“That’s right, baby,” he cooed, thrusts growing rougher. “Nothin’ you can say now, huh? Too busy cryin’ on my cock.”

Toji groaned, his pace never faltering. “You’re mine now, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you so full, make sure you never forget who this pussy belongs to.”

His hand slid down between your bodies, pressing against the bulge in your lower stomach, making you feel just how deep he was inside you. “You feel that?” he murmured, voice thick with possession. “That’s me, baby. Right where I fuckin’ belong.”

Your breath hitched, eyes rolling back as his fingers returned to your clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles. The sensation was too much, your body wound tight, teetering on the edge of something devastating.

“Gonna cum for me?” he taunted, his thrusts turning sharp, bruising. “Gonna cream all over my cock like a needy little thing?”

You sobbed, legs tightening around his waist, nails raking down his back. Toji groaned at the sting, at the way your walls spasmed, clenching down so hard it nearly broke his rhythm.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

The coil snapped, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you nearly blacked out. Toji cursed, feeling you tighten around him, his own release barreling down on him as he drove into you with frantic, punishing thrusts.

“Take it,” he gritted out. “Take all of it.”

A final thrust, a guttural groan, and he was spilling inside you, filling you up with everything he had. His body shuddered, muscles taut as he rode out his high, keeping himself buried deep, making sure not a single drop was wasted.

He slumped over you, pressing a lazy, filthy kiss against your temple before pulling back slightly, just enough to meet your dazed, ruined gaze.

“Tappin’ out already, sweetheart?” he murmured, faux sympathy in his husky voice. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your reflection in the vanity mirror was a mess—teary-eyed, mouth open in gasping moans, body trembling from overstimulation. Toji had you bent over the vanity, his rough hands gripping your hips, keeping you steady as he pounded into you from behind. The mirror shook violently with each thrust, the delicate perfume bottles and makeup brushes rattling dangerously close to toppling over.

“Look at you,” Toji rasped against your ear, one large hand sliding up to fist into your hair and yanking your head back, forcing you to watch yourself. "Letting a man like me use you like a cumdump. What would your parents say?" He punctuated his words with a brutal snap of his hips, knocking the air out of you.

A choked sob left your lips, your body jolting forward from the sheer force of it. Your nails scraped against the wooden surface, legs trembling as Toji groaned behind you, his hands tightening on your hips.

“Fuck, you’re still so goddamn tight,” he growled, pulling back just to slam in again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “Thought I broke you in already, but this pussy’s still clingin’ to me like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

Your mouth opened in a silent cry, the stretch unbearable, the pleasure too intense. Toji’s hands slid up your body, one wrapping around your throat, forcing you to lift your head and look at yourself in the mirror.

“Watch yourself,” he ordered, his grip tightening just enough to make your breath hitch. “Wanna see what a filthy fuckin’ mess you are takin’ my cock.”

Your teary eyes locked onto your reflection—onto the way your body jerked with every punishing thrust, onto the way Toji loomed over you like he owned you, his scarred lips curled into a smug smirk. The sight alone had your walls fluttering around him, clenching tight in helpless desperation.

Toji groaned, his free hand twisting in your hair, yanking your head back further. “Tight little thing,” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “You like this, don’t you? Bein’ used like this? Letting a man old enough to be your daddy fuck you stupid?”

You whined, barely able to form a response, your cheek smushed against the cool surface of the vanity. The only sounds leaving your lips were broken moans and gasps as he stretched you out, stuffing you full and hitting deep with every ruthless thrust.

"N-not—" you tried to speak, but Toji’s grip tightened in your hair, tugging you up so your back arched further, making his cock slide even deeper inside you. You sobbed at the sensation, thighs trembling from the overwhelming pleasure.

"Not what, sweetheart?" He mocked, his free hand slipping around to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. "Not supposed to let me fuck you like this? Too late for that. Look how fuckin’ messy you are for me."

He leaned in, his lips slanting over yours in a sloppy, desperate kiss, tongue plunging into your mouth and swallowing your gasps whole. He kissed like he fucked—hungry, all-consuming, utterly devastating.

The vanity rocked harder, the mirror shaking so violently you thought it might crack. Toji’s pace was relentless, his grunts and growls mixing with the obscene wet sounds of skin slapping against skin. You could barely keep yourself upright, your arms shaking as you tried to brace against the vanity.

"Fu-fuck, Toji—" you mewled, your entire body burning from overstimulation.

"What, baby? Can’t handle it?" He cooed mockingly, a smirk tugging at his lips as he pulled back slightly, only to slam back in with enough force to make the vanity screech against the hardwood floor. "Don’t tap out yet, princess. I’m not finished with you yet."

He wasn’t lying. His hands roamed over your trembling form, one hand gripping your hip in a bruising hold while the other moved to press firmly between your shoulder blades, forcing you deeper into the vanity. The change in angle had you keening, tears welling up in your eyes, body jolting with each harsh thrust. His fat tip was practically making out with your cervix. He was reaching so deep you swore he would somehow rip into you.

"That’s it, take it," he growled, pressing wet kisses along your spine, only to bite down hard enough to make you yelp. You felt his stubble tickling your skin. "Gonna fuck you so good, you won’t be able to think about anything else."

His fingers found your swollen clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles that had your legs shaking violently. The overstimulation was unbearable, but you couldn't stop yourself from clenching down around him, your body betraying you in its desperate need for more.

Toji chuckled darkly, feeling your gummy walls spasm around him. "Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart. Cream all over my cock. Show me just how much you fuckin’ love it."

You let out a choked sob, your release slamming into you with blinding intensity. Your body seized up, pleasure crashing over you in waves so strong it left you breathless.

“Go on, then,” he murmured, voice dripping with filth. “Cum for me, baby. Make a mess of yourself.”

His words shattered whatever restraint you had left. Your body convulsed, pleasure washing over you in waves so intense you nearly blacked out. Your walls spasmed around him, milking him, dragging him deeper. Toji groaned, his pace turning frantic, bruising, his own release barreling down on him.

“Fuck,” he snarled, snapping his hips forward one last time, burying himself deep. “Take it—take every fuckin’ drop.”

He filled you up, his body shuddering against yours, his breath ragged in your ear. His grip loosened on your throat, his other hand sliding down to rub slow, lazy circles against your overstimulated clit, making you jolt with aftershocks.

Your body barely had a second to recover before Toji was moving again, hands gripping your thighs as he dragged you off the vanity and down onto the cold hardwood floor. The shock of the cold floor jolted your warm body, shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Your legs were jelly, trembling from overstimulation, but he handled you like you were weightless, shoving you onto your back and manhandling you into a deep mating press.

Your knees nearly touched your shoulders, folded up so tight you had no control—no escape. Toji loomed over you, his massive frame caging you in completely, dark eyes hooded with hunger as he took in the sight of you laid out beneath him. His fat cock, still slick from your previous release, slapped against your raw, swollen folds, making you whimper.

Pap. Pap. Pap.

“Not done with you yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, rubbing the thick tip against your overstimulated clit, making your whole body jolt. He smirked at your reaction, pressing in just enough to make you gasp. “You can take more, can’t you? Fucked this little pussy open real nice already.”

You moaned, brain too foggy to form words, only able to squirm under him as he teased you. His hands slid down, gripping the backs of your thighs and spreading you even wider, completely exposing you to him. He groaned at the sight, his cock twitching. “Fuckin’ made for this. Just look at you.”

You tried to babble something—maybe a protest, maybe a plea—but Toji didn’t give you the chance. He pushed in with one brutal thrust, bottoming out instantly, punching the air from your lungs. The stretch was unbearable, white-hot pleasure and pain mixing as your walls spasmed around the thick intrusion.

Toji let out a rough groan, rolling his hips to make you feel every inch of him buried inside. “Biiiig stretch, baby,” he grunted. His large hand pressed down on your belly, right where he was nestled deep, and his smirk widened when he felt the outline of his cock there. “Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, pressing down harder. “Feel that, baby? You’re so fuckin’ full of me.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, body overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all. You nodded weakly, a choked sob escaping as he gave an experimental thrust, grinding deeper, making your vision blur.

“Too much—” you whimpered, nails clawing at his biceps, but Toji only chuckled darkly, leaning down until his lips brushed your ear.

“Too bad,” he murmured. “Takin’ it. Every fuckin’ inch.”

And then he started moving.

His thrusts were deep and brutal, slamming you down into the floor with every snap of his hips. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wet squelch of your soaked cunt, and Toji’s rough groans filled the room. Your moans were reduced to broken, breathless cries, your legs twitching from the relentless pace.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, voice thick with lust. “This tiny pussy takin’ me so good—look at the mess you’re makin’.”

You barely registered his words, too lost in the stretch, the overwhelming fullness of him splitting you open. Your nails dug into his arms, desperate for something to ground yourself with, but it was useless—he had you trapped, helpless beneath him.

Then, Toji leaned in, capturing your lips in a filthy, desperate kiss. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and heavy against your mouth. He swallowed your whimpers greedily, sucking on your tongue before pulling back just enough to let a thick strand of spit drip into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he ordered, voice dark and commanding.

You obeyed without thinking, your body too far gone to do anything but submit. He grinned, dragging his thumb down to smear your spit-slick lips before diving back in, devouring you in another feverish kiss.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he gritted out, watching the way your body took him. “Lettin’ me break you in like this. Letting a man old like me fuck you stupid on the floor.” He dragged his tongue along your cheek, tasting the salt of your tears. “Pretty princess was pampered all her life, but all she really needs is some good dicking down, huh?”

You could only nod your head weakly, overwhelmed, overstimulated—completely at his mercy.

Toji growled, his grip tightening on your thighs as he drove into you even harder, grinding so deep you could feel him in your stomach. “Good,” he muttered. “’Cause you’re mine now. Ain’t gonna let anyone else have this pretty fuckin’ pussy.”

Your back arched off the floor as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak, your walls clamping down around him, pulling him deeper. Toji cursed under his breath, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles to push you over the edge. “Fuckin’ take it, baby. Wanna see you dripping with me.”

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you, body convulsing under him. Your walls spasmed, milking his cock, and that was all it took. Toji snarled, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, all that filled the room was heavy breathing, the both of you panting against each other, bodies slick with sweat. But Toji wasn’t done.

His dark gaze flickered down to where you were still twitching around him, his cum leaking out in thick dribbles. A slow, lazy smirk stretched across his lips as he rolled his hips once more, making you shudder.

Your legs twitched with overstimulation, your mind blank with pleasure as Toji fucked you through every last wave. He leaned back just slightly, admiring the sight beneath him—your thoroughly ruined form, the way your body trembled, the way his come dripped from your swollen, used pussy, smearing along your inner thighs and pooling beneath you on the floor.

“Messy fuckin’ girl,” he muttered, dragging a thick finger through the creamy slick spilling from your cunt. He pushed it back inside, groaning at the way you clenched around the intrusion. “Still takin’ me so good, even like this. Guess I fucked the fight right outta you.”

He leaned down, pressing a slow, filthy kiss against your parted lips, savoring the taste of you, the heat of your breath against his. Then he pulled back, eyes dark and gleaming with satisfaction.

“Hope you didn’t have plans tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Hello? Earth to dumbass.”

You blinked, abruptly pulled from your haze by the irritated voice across the table. Megumi was staring at you, brow furrowed, fingers drumming against the chipped ceramic of his coffee cup.

“You’ve been spacing out for the past five minutes,” he said flatly, taking a sip of his drink. “What the hell’s up with you lately?”

Your fingers curled around your own cup, but you barely registered the warmth seeping into your palms. Your mind was still stuck in the days before, still reeling from the way Toji had left you a mess—inside and out.

And then, he’d left his number.

You hadn’t even had time to process it before your phone buzzed later that night, his name—well, a name, since he saved himself as just ‘T’—lighting up your screen. Since then, you have been texting. Constantly. Not just late at night, but throughout the day, his presence worming its way into your routine, his words lingering in your head long after you locked your phone.

And fuck, the things he said.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively under the table, breath hitching as you thought about his last text. About how he described exactly what he wanted to do to you next time, about how he made sure you understood just how ruined you already were. How he had you sending him voice messages late at night, muffling your moans into your pillow while he groaned filth into your ear.

It wasn’t just dirty talk, though. Toji had a way of creeping into your head, teasing you about how you were already addicted to him, how he bet you couldn’t go a single day without thinking about how good he felt. And the worst part? He was right.

You had tried to keep the conversations short, to play it cool, but Toji was relentless. Always saying just enough to get under your skin, to have you squirming with frustration or anticipation. Like when he’d sent you a lazy, taunting text that morning:

Bet your legs are still sore, huh?

Good girl. Meant to do that.

Your stomach twisted just remembering it, the phantom ache between your thighs only proving his point. The way he talked to you—like you were already his, like you belonged to him—made your skin burn, made your breath hitch in a way you couldn’t control.

“You’re doing it again.” Megumi’s voice cut through your daze once more, and you nearly jumped. His gaze was sharper now, scrutinizing. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, too quickly. You grabbed your coffee, taking a sip to mask your flustered expression, but the heat did little to hide the flush crawling up your neck.

Megumi didn’t buy it. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Bullshit. You’re never this quiet.”

You swallowed, forcing a casual shrug. “Just tired.”

He frowned, clearly unconvinced. “You sure? Because you’ve been acting weird for days now. Spacing out, jumping at your phone like it’s gonna bite you—”

“I do not—”

“You do.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “And now you’re acting all weird and fidgety. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were talking to some guy.”

Your stomach twisted violently, fingers tightening around your cup. Megumi said it like a joke, like the idea of you sneaking around with someone was ridiculous. But if only he knew.

If only he knew that you had let his father, of all people, stretch you open on your own bed. That you had been texting him for days, hanging onto every filthy word, every little reminder of how thoroughly he had wrecked you. That even now, in the middle of a café, you could still feel the ghost of Toji’s hands on your skin, still hear the way he groaned your name in your ear.

You let out a nervous laugh, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, right.”

Megumi hummed, eyeing you for a long moment before finally sighing and dropping the subject. “Whatever. Just get your shit together for our group project. I’m going to murder Nobara if she keeps ghosting our group chat.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you forced yourself to focus on the conversation, but your mind was already wandering again—right back to Toji.

It had become a bad habit.

A filthy, reckless, all-consuming bad habit.

You weren’t sure when it officially started—when the first time bled into the second, then the third, until keeping count felt pointless. Maybe it was when he first showed up outside your place late at night, an amused glint in his eye when you opened the door and let him in without question. Maybe it was when you started to leave it unlocked for him, knowing he’d come anyway.

Now, it was routine. Toji slipped into your sheets, into your body, into your life like he had every right to be there. He didn’t wait for an invitation anymore, just took what he wanted, when he wanted, and you let him—every damn time.

And it was never safe. Never careful. Always on the verge of getting caught.

A quick fuck in a restaurant bathroom between lectures. His large hand stuffed over your mouth, teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle his own grunts as he forced you to stay quiet.

Bent over the hood of your car in an empty parking garage, the metal cool against your burning skin, his palm flat between your shoulders to keep you in place.

His fingers pressing into you under the table at a restaurant, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured filth, his other hand idly stirring his beer like he wasn’t two knuckles deep inside you.

It didn’t matter where, didn’t matter when. If he wanted you, he took you. And you let him.

You were addicted to the danger of it, to the sick thrill of knowing just how easily you could be found out.

And that was the worst part. Because despite knowing how disastrous it would be if anyone—if Megumi—found out, you still didn’t stop.

It was supposed to be just physical.

A bad decision. A reckless indulgence. Something to get out of your system before you went back to your real life—before you found someone appropriate, someone who made sense.

A mistake, then a bad habit, then something you stopped trying to name because there wasn’t a word for what you and Toji had become. It wasn’t love, wasn’t romance. But it wasn’t just fucking, either.

Somewhere between the nights tangled in his sheets and the stolen moments that left you breathless, the lines had blurred. It wasn’t just about the way he touched you anymore, or the way you fell apart under him. It was the way you felt when he looked at you like he knew you—really knew you. Like he saw past the carefully curated version of yourself that the rest of the world expected.

Toji had a way of dragging the real you to the surface, of unraveling you with nothing but a smirk and a well-placed taunt. He didn’t care about appearances, didn’t give a fuck about the prim and proper image you’d spent your entire life maintaining. With him, you didn’t have to be perfect. You could be messy, needy, selfish. You could whimper and beg and take everything he gave you without worrying about how it looked or what it meant.

And he liked that. He liked knowing he was the only one who got to see you like this. He liked reminding you of it, too, voice rough in your ear as he told you no one else could fuck you like he did, that no one else would ever know you like he did.

The worst part was that he was right.

But it wasn’t just him getting under your skin. You’d learned him, too, in ways you weren’t sure anyone else had. Toji wasn’t the type to open up, wasn’t the type to share unless he had something to gain. But you caught the way his expression softened sometimes, the way he listened when you talked, even if he pretended not to care. Like how he always remembered little details about you, things you hadn’t even realized you mentioned. How he never outright said it, but you could tell when he was listening, when he was paying attention. How he poked fun at the life you led but still entertained it in his own way—swiping a sip of your overpriced coffee just to grimace at the taste, picking at the expensive fabric of your clothes like he couldn’t believe people paid so much for something so impractical. He’d tease you about your rich girl problems, mock you for your spoiled habits, but then he’d fix your necklace when the clasp got caught in your hair, or toss his jacket over your shoulders when he thought you looked cold.

It was a push and pull, a delicate game neither of you acknowledged but played all the same. You weren’t sure when it had started feeling like more than a transaction, when the nights you spent together stopped being about lust and started being about something else entirely. Maybe it was the way he never left right away anymore. Maybe it was the way he pulled you against his chest when it was over, tracing lazy circles into your hip like he didn’t want to let go.

Or maybe it was the way you let him.

The air was thick with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, the low hum of the city outside filtering through the open window. You sat at the edge of the bed, legs crossed, fingers curled into the plush fabric of the sheets. Toji was leaning back against the headboard, shirtless, sweat still cooling on his skin, lazily dragging from a cigarette. The orange ember flared as he inhaled, casting a fleeting glow over his sharp features.

You should’ve gotten dressed. Should’ve left already. But instead, you were here, tracing the seam of the pillowcase, debating how to say what you’d come here to say.

His eyes flicked to you, amused, like he could already tell something was on your mind. “You’re quiet.”

You hesitated. “I have something to tell you.”

Toji exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “That so?”

You nodded, swallowing. Your throat felt tight. “I’m getting engaged soon.”

There was a pause. A beat where all you could hear was the faint hum of the city beyond the window.

Then Toji huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Knew it was comin’.”

Your stomach twisted. There was no shock in his voice. No real reaction at all. Just that same damn smirk, lazy and knowing, like he had been waiting for this moment.

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles flexed, shifting under his scarred skin. “Guess that means our little arrangement’s gotta end, huh?” He was grinning now, but there was something biting underneath it. “Wouldn’t wanna mess up your perfect little life.”

You swallowed, your gaze searching his. Trying to find something beneath that smug exterior. Something real.

But Toji just smirked wider, eyes half-lidded as he raked a slow glance down your bare skin. “What’s the lucky guy like? Bet he’s got a nice suit, fancy-ass watch. S’what your folks always wanted, huh?”

You said nothing.

He tsked, shaking his head. “What a shame.” Then his hand was on your chin, fingers firm, tilting your face up to his. His grip was possessive, almost cruel. “Hope he knows what he’s gettin’. ‘Cause I sure as hell do.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was deep and filthy, like he was branding you—making damn sure you remembered exactly who had you first. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, his tongue claiming your mouth, a cruel mockery of every time he had pulled you under him and ruined you. His grip tightened when you whimpered, and his other hand found your waist, dragging you closer like he didn’t care that you had just told him you belonged to someone else.

Because right now, you still belonged to him.

And he was making sure you never forgot it.

The arrangement dwindled the way all things doomed to end eventually did.

It wasn’t abrupt, wasn’t some dramatic confrontation—it simply faded. A slow decline, a natural withering. The late-night texts became scarce. The stolen moments fewer. The lingering touches reduced to nothing. You got busier, consumed by the responsibilities of graduation, the whirlwind of your engagement, the pressure of stepping into the life that had always been laid out for you.

And Toji let it happen.

He saw it coming. Of course, he did. He always knew this was temporary, a guilty indulgence neither of you should’ve entertained for as long as you did. He didn’t chase, didn’t demand an explanation. His last message had been weeks before the wedding, something teasing, something impersonal—one last echo of the man who had unraveled you so thoroughly.

You hadn’t replied.

The wedding was perfect. A masterpiece of wealth and status, orchestrated down to the finest details. The Italian villa gleamed under the golden afternoon sun, its marble floors reflecting the light of extravagant chandeliers. Crystal glasses chimed in elegant toasts, the air thick with the scent of imported florals, the hum of string instruments weaving seamlessly into murmured conversations.

You were the picture of a bride who had it all. Draped in delicate lace, diamonds glittering at your ears and throat, the weight of expectation settled as effortlessly as the veil cascading down your back. Chloe, Marissa, and Julia—your bridesmaids, your childhood friends, your social equals—stood beside you in gowns carefully chosen to complement your own, their smiles radiant, their laughter effortless.

“Your husband is absolutely smitten,” Chloe teased, adjusting the bracelet on her wrist as she leaned in. “I don’t think he’s taken his eyes off you all evening.”

“He’d be a fool if he did,” Marissa added with a smirk, sipping her champagne. “God, this whole thing looks like something out of a dream. You’ve really outdone yourself.”

Julia sighed wistfully, watching the crowd swirl around the dance floor. “It’s everything we imagined when we were little, isn’t it?”

You smiled—because it was expected, because you knew the right expression, the right words, the right way to nod as if everything was falling into place exactly as it should.

And yet, your mind wandered.

Across the room, Megumi sat among the other honored guests, suited up and polished, the image of the young man he was always meant to be. A quiet presence, sharp-eyed and observant, a reminder of a past that should have been long buried. Your gaze lingered on him too long, searching, tracing the familiar shadows of his father in the angles of his face. The resemblance sent a ripple through you, something unsteady and unshakable.

Toji should not have been in your thoughts today. And yet, he was everywhere. In the phantom sensation of calloused hands gripping your hips, in the echo of a gravelly chuckle against your ear, in the ghost of bruises long faded but never truly gone.

Your husband touched the small of your back, his warmth a contrast to the chill creeping up your spine. “You look beautiful,” he murmured, his voice full of quiet reverence.

You turned to him, offering the practiced softness he deserved. He was good, kind, everything your family had hoped for. Everything you had been raised to want.

So why did you feel like a guest in your own life?

The clinking of glasses signaled another toast, another moment to be captured, another perfect memory being curated for the life you were meant to lead. You lifted your champagne flute, smiled for the cameras, and played your part with practiced grace.

But deep down, you knew.

No matter how beautiful the setting, how flawless the performance, there was a version of you that had been left behind in tangled sheets and rough hands, in whispered taunts and breathless gasps. A version of you that had been ruined long before you ever recited your vows at the altar.

The wedding night only made you remember the gruff man with the scar running through his lip and a pair of poisonous green eyes.

Your new husband held you in his arms, kissed you with a gentleness that should’ve made you feel cherished, safe, loved. He was everything you were supposed to want—handsome, well-mannered, well-bred, the kind of man your parents would be proud of. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. And yet, you felt nothing.

Not like you did with Toji.

Because with Toji, there had never been any pretending. He had seen you, the real you, in ways no one else ever had. He had stripped you bare—of your clothes, of your composure, of every carefully constructed part of yourself that you wore like armor. And you had let him. You had loved it. Because for once, you weren’t the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect bride-to-be.

You were just his.

And now, lying beside the man you were supposed to spend your life with, you couldn’t stop thinking about the one you had left behind.

The illusion of a picture-perfect marriage was easy to maintain.

You had stepped into the role seamlessly—graceful, poised, the ever-dutiful wife draped in luxury. The townhome was pristine, the social obligations fulfilled without fault, the smiles exchanged between you and your husband warm enough to never invite suspicion.

And yet, beneath the surface, something gnawed at you. A restlessness. A quiet, lingering hunger.

It wasn’t love that was missing; it was something far more visceral, far more ruinous. The kind of fire you had known in secret, in sin, in the hands of a man who had no place in your world but had left his mark so deeply that even months of distance hadn’t erased him.

You weren’t supposed to see him again.

It happened at a gala—a refined, exclusive event, the kind your husband thrived in. Champagne flutes clinked, laughter hummed through the room, and you played your part to perfection, offering effortless smiles, exchanging pleasantries, standing at your husband’s side like a perfectly placed accessory.

And then you saw him.

Toji.

He didn’t belong in a place like this, and yet, there he was—leaning against the bar, broad and imposing in a tailored black suit that fit him too well, the collar slightly loosened as if he refused to be fully tamed. The same lazy smirk, the same sharp green eyes raking over you with a knowing amusement, as if he had been expecting this moment.

He looked the same as he did the last time he held you in his arms all those months ago.

Your breath hitched. Heat coiled low in your stomach, unbidden, unwanted. Your steps slowed to a stop, your left hand clenching around the stem of the perspiring champagne flute.

"Look at you," he drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before setting it down. His eyes dragged to the glittering diamond on your left hand. "All wifed up and still starin' like you want me to bend you over this table."

Your throat went dry.

You should walk away. You should say something dismissive, feign indifference, remind him—and most importantly, yourself—that you had moved on. But the words didn’t come, and Toji stepped closer, his presence cutting through the air like a knife, his scent filling your lungs, something deep and masculine and maddeningly familiar.

Your husband was still in the room, but far enough, engrossed in conversation, unaware. You weren’t in his direct line of sight—only a corner of the grand ballroom, tucked away just enough for shadows to swallow what should never happen.

Toji’s fingers brushed your wrist, barely a touch, and yet your body reacted, betraying you. His hand took your drink from you, setting it down on a nearby end table, his calloused fingers stroking your fingers, the hardness of your wedding ring. His smirk deepened at the way your breath hitched, at the way your lashes fluttered.

"Bet he don’t fuck you the way I did, huh?" His voice was low, rough, dripping with sin. "Bet you still think about it. How I stretched this tight little cunt. How you took it like you were made for me."

A shaky breath escaped you. The world around you blurred, the weight of your choices pressing in from all sides.

You really shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t even be entertaining those thoughts in your head. But then again, had he really left your head in the first place?

During the nights your husband kissed you, tried to fuck you, you found that there was much left to desire. Sometimes, you had to close your eyes and pretend it was a scarred lip kissing you sloppily, that same embrace that reminded you more of a furnace wrapping around your frame, and a pair of smoldering, dark green eyes boring into your own to even bring you close to cumming.

His knuckles grazed your jaw, thumb dragging along your lower lip, teasing, testing. Your lips parted slightly, betraying you, and Toji hummed, gaze flicking down.

"Still got that pretty little mouth, too," he murmured, voice thick with something darker, heavier. "Miss havin' it all fucked dumb for me."

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering against your ribs.

And then he leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. "Be honest, sweetheart. You miss me?"

Your silence was answer enough.

The fire had never gone out. It had only been waiting to be reignited.

[missdynamighttt]

About the interview thing where Bakugou say "when I make love to my wife", here is a few more lines he could say! Imagine Bakugou softer when talking about that. He has a lost look and a strange smile on his face, all because of his girl.

"The bed it's our kingdom and she's my queen".

"That's where I belong. In her."

"Being a hero is just my job, something I'm good at for a while. But making love to her? There's nothing better. Knowing that I'm the only one who can make her feel like that, who can adore her like that... And she's the only one for me too. Nothing else matters. Not the fights, the danger, the villains, the paperwork, the pressure or the expectations. Just a husband and wife loving each other all night along."

And in this context, Bakugou would say that he finds pathetic and sad that a man only lasts a few minutes and only one round. Sometimes he hears his fellow heroes talk about sex and he can only feel sorry for their girlfriends, but also proud to know that his wife will never know how those girls feel, because for Katsuki Bakugou if a man is not willing to last at least all night, if each round does not last more than 10 minutes, if he does not have his woman crying with pleasure and love, If he doesn't make her not remember how many times she came, if he don't have sex with her every single day without miss, if she is not on the verge of fainting without being able to walk the next day, is the man really a man or just a poor attempt?

as your husband walks through the threshold of your home, the sound of the lock clicking behind him echoes in the quiet room. katsuki immediately notices the change in the air—there's an awkward tension that wasn't there when he left.

you’re avoiding his gaze, busily moving around the kitchen, trying to keep your mind occupied. you’re embarrassed, the thought of his words replaying in your mind again and again.

the fact that he shared such... intimate, genuine thoughts with the entire world... it wasn’t that you were ashamed, but the sudden attention on your private life caught you off-guard.

"so... you’re gonna act like you didn’t just see me on tv?" katsuki says with a hint of curiosity, and a touch of worry as he notices how your back was turned away from him.

without a word, you feel the heat of his body as he presses himself against your back, his strong hands settling on your waist. he presses his lips to the side of your neck, warm and soft against your skin. it starts off slow and gentle at first, but there’s an underlying urgency to it, a need for your attention.

"i'm sorry, baby," he murmurs between kisses. "i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, alright?"

"katsuki," you scold as he apologizes, your breath hitches when he places a particularly slow kiss on your collarbone, warmth from his affection still lingering in your chest.

"i’m sorry… but i don’t regret saying any of it. you’re my wife, and i’m fuckin' proud of it. i'm the one who gets to love you like this. i'm the one who gets to fuck you so hard you see stars."

katsuki doesn't stop kissing you, his kisses growing more insistent, but you don’t let him off the hook so easily. you finally turn around, gently pushing him back, even as your heart races.

"i just can't believe you said all that. on live tv," it’s clear you’re not mad, unsure of how to handle this side of him— this soft, unfiltered honesty as his lips trail down your neck to your shoulder.

his fiery gaze softens just a little, and then presses another kiss to your lips, this one slower, deeper, as if to reassure you. "i know, baby, i'm sorry. just… don’t ignore me, okay? it hurts."

"you’re unbelievable," your voice holds more affection than you’d like to admit. "you just gonna let millions of people know how much stamina you have, huh? bet they all think you're some kind of—"

sex god. but before you can say it, katsuki presses a firm kiss to your lips, cutting off your words, his hands slipping around your back to pull you in even closer. he doesn’t let you retreat this time, his lips working their magic on you, unable to ignore the way your body betrays you.

"don't fuckin' care. you're still my wife, sweets. you’re the only one who matters to me. maybe i just need to show you how much i love you. properly."

you scold him with a half-hearted shove, but there's no real heat behind it. "you really know how to make a woman want to kill you and kiss you at the same time, don’t you?"

as he pulls away just enough to look you in the eye, feeling the heat of his gaze. you can’t deny the way his words, his kisses, have melted the tension between you. "you know you're the only one for me, sweets. always."

"i know. but you’re still crazy for doing that."

he chuckles, pulling you close, burying his face in your hair. "yeah, well… crazy’s what you get when you’ve got an amazin' fuckin' wife like you."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ SHAMELESS KATSUKI ENJOYER NUMBER TWO OMGOMG

[libraford]

A local organization here has released a list of books that they feel are imperative to have in the time ahead. The list was not easily shareable, so I copy-pasted it here.

There is no need to read all of these, but one thing you can do that takes little effort is call your library and see if they have them in stock.

If you are moneyed, you can buy some copies and put them in little free libraries.

EDUCATING FOR ADVOCACY BOOK LIST

All books are written by authors from that culture

BOOKS FOR ADULTS

(2024) Be a Revolution: How Everyday People are Fighting Oppression and Changing the World - and How You Can, Too by Ijeoma Oluo

Each chapter discusses how someone is advocating for oppressed populations

and has examples of how others can do the same or similar.

(2024) The Message by Ta-Nehisi Coates

The author travels to Senegal, South Carolina and Palestine and grapples with deep questions and emotions.

(2023) Better Living Through Birding: Notes From a Black Man in the Natural World by Christian Cooper

A memoir of a Black man learning to claim space for himself and others like him.

(2022) Myth America: Historians Take On the Biggest Legends and Lies about Our Past Edited by Kevin M. Kruse and Julian E. Zelizer

The title explains it so well.

(2022) South to America: A Journey Below the Mason Dixon to Understand the Soul of a Nation by Imani Perry

History, rituals, and landscapes of the American South and why they must be understand it in order to understand America.

(2022) Memphis by Tara M. Stringfellow

Tells the story of 3 generations of a Southern Black family in Memphis.

(2021) How the Word is Passed: A Reckoning with the History of Slavery Across America by Clint Smith

An exploration of important monuments and landmarks in the USA that show

how slavery has been foundational in the development and history of our country.

(2021) The Sum of Us: What Racism Costs Everyone and How We Can Prosper Together by Heather McGhee

The title explains it.

(2021) The Seed Keeper by Diane Wilson

Historical fiction telling the story of several generations of a Dakota family

(2020) The Good Immigrant: 26 Writers Reflect on America edited by Nikesh Shukla and Chimene Suleyman

26 authors share their stories of living in the USA.

(2020) Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents by Isabel Wilkerson

Examines the unspoken caste system that has shaped America and shows how we continue to be defined in this way..

(2020) This Is What America Looks Like: My Journey from Refugee to Congresswoman

by Ilhan Omar

This title explains it.

(2019) The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story by Nikole Hannah Jones (among others)

Reframes our understanding of American history by placing slavery and its continuing legacy at the center of our national narrative.

(2019) Things are Good Now by Djamila Ibrahim

Stories of how migrants sort out their lives in foreign lands.

(2018) So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo

An examination of race in America.

(2018) I’m Still Here by Austin Channing Brown

A memoir telling her journey of learning to love her blackness while navigating America's racial divide.

(2018) If They Come for Us by Fatimah Asghar

Poetry that captures the experience of being a Pakistani Muslim woman in contemporary America, while exploring identity, violence, and healing.

(2016) Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of History of Racist Ideas in America by Ibram X. Kendi

Traces the history of Black America.

(2015) Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

A memoir, in the form of a letter to his young son, telling his personal experiences with racism and violence in the United States.

(2015) My Seneca Village by Marilyn Nelson

Poetry and information about Seneca Village – a multi-racial, multi-ethnic neighborhood in the center of Manhattan (Central Park ) that thrived in the mid-19th century.

(2014) An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz

Tells the 400+ years of US history, from the perspective of Indigenous peoples

(2013) Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom Scientific Knowledge, and the Teaching of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer

Explores the place of plants and botany in both Indigenous and Western life.

(2010) The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration by Isabel Wilkerson

Follows the stories of three Black Americans’ migration journeys from Mississippi, Florida and Louisiana.

(2010) The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness

By Michelle Alexander

Explains how we haven’t ended, but have redesigned, the caste system in the U.S.

(1972) Lame Deer, Seeker of Visions by John (Fire) Lame Deer and Richard Erdoes

Told by Lame Deer, a Lakota medicine man, this memoir teaches the history of Indigenous people in the USA.

BOOKS FOR GRADES K-12

GRADES 7 - 12

(2021) Firekeeper’s Daughter by Angeline Boulley

The novel's main character is a young woman with a French mother and an Ojibwe father, who often feels torn between cultures.

(2021) The 1619 Project: Born on the Water by Nikole Hannah-Jones and Renée Watson

Illustrated by Nikkolas Smith

Tells the story and consequences of American slavery in verse.

(2020) Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Jason Reynolds and Ibram X. Kendi

Shorter and appropriate for middle and high schoolers.

(2020) All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson

Series of personal essays about the author’s life growing up as a gay, black man.

(2020) Dictionary for a Better World: Poems, Quotes, and Anecdotes from A to Z by Irene Latham and Charles Waters Illustrated by Mehrdokt Amini

Explained in title.

(2020) Woke: A Young Poet’s Call to Justice by Mahogany L. Browne with Elizabeth Acevedo and Olivia Gatewood Illustrated by Theodore Taylor III

Poetry about fighting for racial justice through joy and passion.

(2020) Be Amazing: A History of Pride by Desmond Is Amazing Illustrated by Dylan Glynn

The history of Pride, with bold illustrations, focusing on the importance of embracing one’s own uniqueness and tuning out the haters.

(2020) Dear Justyce (Dear Martin #2) by Nic Stone

Continues the story of Justyce from Dear Martin in a series of flashbacks and letters.

(2020) Punching the Air by Ibi Zoboi and Yusef Salaam

A novel in verse about a boy who is wrongfully incarcerated.

(2019) Gender Queer: A Memoir by Maia Kobab

The author tells the story of life as a nonbinary person in graphic novel form.

(2019) An Indigenous Peoples' History of the United States for Young People original book by Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz adapted by Debbie Rees and Jean Mendoza

Shorter and appropriate for middle and high schoolers

(2017) Sea Prayer by Khalad Hosseini Illustrated by Dan Williams

Written as a poetic letter, from father to son, this is a story of the journey of refugees.

(2017) Dear Martin (Dear Martin #1) by Nic Stone

A story of the realities of a Black teen living in America.

(2015) All American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely

From the perspective of two teenage boys, one Black and one White, a story is told with the realization that racism and prejudice are still alive and well.

(2015) Beyond Magenta: Transgender and Nonbinary Teens Speak Out by Susan Kuklin

The author interviewed six transgender for gender-neutral young adults and lets

them tell their story.

(2011) Heart and Soul: The Story of America and African Americans written and illustrated by Kadir Nelson

The title explains it well

GRADES 4 - 6

(2023) An American Story by Kwame Alexander illustrated by Dare Coulter

Tells the story, poetically and honestly, about American slavery

(2023) Step by Step!: How the Lincoln School Marchers Blazed a Trail to Justice

by Debbie Rigaud and Carlotta Penn illustrated by Nysha Pierce

Tells the story of a group of Black mothers and children and their two-year march to integrate an Ohio elementary school.

(2022) Say Their Names by Caroline Brewer illustrated by Adrian Brandon

A young Black girl leads a #BlackLivesMatter protest march.

(2021) Stamped (For Kids): Racism, Antiracism, and You by Jason Reynolds and Ibram X. Kendi.

Shorter, more kid friendly version of Stamped from the Beginning.

(2021) Unspeakable: The Tulsa Race Massacre by Carole Boston Weatherford illustrated by Floyd Cooper

Traces the history of this African-American ‘Wall Street District’ and its destruction by White supremacists.

(2016). I Dissent: Ruth Bader Ginsburg Makes Her Mark by Debbie Levy illustrated by Elizabeth Baddeley

The life and work of RBG told in picture book form.

(2008) Silent Music: A Story of Baghdad written and illustrated by James Rumford

Ancient and recent history of Baghdad from the perspective of a young boy.

(2005) Show Way by Jacqueline Woodson illustrated by Hudson Talbott

Traces the history of the ‘show way’ quilt from slavery through freedom.

(2005) My Name is Bilal by Asma Mobin-Uddin illustrated by Barbara Kiwak

Muslim-American student experiencing religious prejudice.

(2005). Amelia to Zora: Twenty-Six Women Who Changed the World by Cynthia Chin-Lee Ilustrated by Megan Halsey and Sean Addy

An alphabet book that teaches about the extraordinary lives of 26 women.

(1978). The Other Way to Listen by Byrd Baylor and Peter Parnall

Helps children learn about indigenous cultures.

GRADES PRE-K - 3

(2023) These Olive Trees: A Palestinian Family’s Story written and illustrated by Aya Ghanameh

A story of a young girl and her family in Nablus, Palestine, 1967

(2020). Antiracist Baby by Ibram X. Kendi illustrated by Ashley Lukashvsky

Teaches young children how to be an antiracist.

(2016). When We Were Alone by David A. Robertson and Julie Flett

A young, indigenous girl learns about her grandmother’s experience in a

residential school.

(2013). A is for Activist by Innosanto Nagara (board book)

An ABC book that teaches children about being an activist.

[pathologicalreid]

spring into summer | s.r.

in which Spencer pursues a relationship with you. you try to resist every advance - for your own protection.

[previously]

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angsty content warnings: blowing smoke part tew, at a bar but it's not specified whether or not reader drinks alcohol, kissing, if you have a problem with my bar music keep it to yourself, maeve as a plot device, love confessions, not edited word count: 2.25k a/n: y'all i wasn't gonna do this, but listening to this song... yeah i had to.

“Spencer’s here!” Penelope exclaimed from her bar stool, her heels clicking on her way to the front of the bar, hoping to lead Spencer through the crowd to where the team had decided to set up shop.

Your head snapped up in alarm, tilting your head to the side and trying to get JJ’s attention, “I didn’t think Spencer was coming out tonight.”

She frowned slightly, placing her glass on the bar and shrugging, “It was an open invite.”

An open invite that you extended to the guy you’re seeing. You huffed, pulling the strap of your dress back over your shoulder and flagging down the bartender, hoping to get a drink before you need to play defense against Spencer.

“Hey,” Ethan said from behind you, a cute guy from counterterrorism that Penelope had introduced you to. His hand sat comfortably on your waist as you got the bartender’s attention again, letting him know that you’d actually need two drinks.

You smiled back at him, panicking slightly when he leaned in to kiss you. Evading his kiss, you let his lips land on your cheek, turning your head so that you were facing Spencer.

The two of you had as little contact as you could manage in the past two months, ever since Spencer’s attempt to ask you out had gone completely awry. Of course, ceasing all contact was unavoidable, between work and Spencer’s continued pursuance, you continuously found yourself under his net.

Ethan squeezed your waist gently, taking the glass that the bartender had placed in front of him and grabbing a straw for yours. You thanked him, crushing the straw wrapper against the bar and taking a sip.

Admittedly, you weren’t interested in the guy in the slightest. The second time you went out together, he’d gotten your name wrong, but he was friends with Penelope’s crush, so you were trying to be a good sport.

It felt like the world was playing a cruel joke on you, pairing you with someone who couldn’t be bothered to remember your name while you were trying to shut out a guy who remembered your favorite flower from a conversation three years ago. Yesterday, you’d found a bouquet on your desk for the third Thursday in a row.

Every time you read the card that he sends with the arrangement, you almost forget yourself. It would be a waste for you to get rid of them, which is the only reason you’ve kept them on your desk.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

“You look nice,” Spencer whispered to you, reaching between you and JJ so he could grab his drink from the bar. He looked good, you noticed him against your better judgment, even the embroidery on his tie managed to catch your attention.

Before you could collect yourself enough to respond to him, Morgan had already pulled him back to a booth, putting an arm around his shoulders and pointing out different girls in the bar while Savannah rolled her eyes. His hair was growing out from the undercut that he’d debuted in the fall, falling in front of his eyes until he inevitably flicked the stray hairs away.

Peeling your eyes off of him, you looked back at Ethan, who’d already made his way through half his drink. His eyes were glued to the baseball game being displayed above the bar. If your date had noticed you ogling your coworker, he didn’t show it.

Tentatively, you tapped his stool gently with your toe, “Hey,” you tried to get his attention, batting your eyelashes. “Do you wanna go over to the jukebox with me? We can pick a song together,” you offered.

He frowned and shook his head, “Nah, the Nationals game is on.” He nodded his head up to the TV, refraining from sparing you a glance.

You looked up at the screen, they were at the bottom of the second inning, and you were in for an exhausting night. “Right,” you said flatly, “I’ll be right back.”

Sharing a look with Penelope, who shot you a supportive thumbs up from the other side of the bar, you got off your stool and adjusted your purse over your shoulder. You liked that this bar still had a real jukebox, as opposed to the updated touchscreens commonly found in bars nowadays. You dug through your purse for a quarter, half paying attention to your rummaging and using the rest of your brain power to study the available songs.

A few things caught your eye, most of the available tracks were classics—Journey, Queen, and a Meatloaf track that was suspiciously out of order. Probably because the song was over eight minutes long. “Here,” the familiar voice—that you’d been trying to avoid—spoke.

Spencer held a quarter out for you, leaving the coin displayed in his palm until you graciously accepted it. “Thanks,” you said, “Do you have any suggestions?” You expertly dodged his attempt at eye contact, sliding the quarter into its slot and reading through the titles again. Pressing your lips in a thin line while you ignored the way he was leaning over the jukebox.

“Why did you ask him to come out?” He asked, pointing at one of the songs and chuckling when you shook your head. He should’ve known better than to actually make a request. After all, you were just being polite.

You squinted at a title, worn with time, and you distracted yourself with the task of reading it. “I didn’t know you were coming with us,” you muttered, refusing to let your curiosity get the better of you and resisting the urge to just select the worn button. “You don’t usually like this bar,” you reminded him. You couldn’t remember the last time Spencer went out to a bar that wasn’t O’Keefe’s.

He hummed next to you, standing so close that you could feel his body heat intermingling with your own. “So,” he started, “You wouldn’t have asked him to go out if you had known I was going to be here.”

“I didn’t say that,” you told him, your eyes flickering to the side. Not enough to see his face, but enough to notice that he’d taken off his suit jacket, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“You might as well have,” he returned, watching as you finally chose a Fleetwood Mac song, concluding that you’d either have to choose a song you didn’t want or waste Spencer’s quarter.

You peeked around him, your date still preoccupied with the sporting event. Even so, you tried to make your way around Spencer, but he grabbed your elbow and held you back.

There was nothing forceful in his action. If you wanted to snatch your arm away and stalk away from him, he wasn’t going to stop you, but you found yourself interested in staying with him. It would be worth your while to stay with someone who was begging for your attention rather than return to the bar to beg for someone else’s.

Spencer looked around, mindful of the members of your team who were still in earshot while he led you away from the crowds. He tucked you away, resting your back against a shiplap wall in a corner, perfectly concealed from curious profilers. “I want to talk to you,” he whispered, leaning against the wall.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest in preemptive defense, making sure he stayed at least a foot away from you. “I’ve said everything there is to say to you,” you made no effort to avert his gaze, no attempt to duck away from the conversation.

“I haven’t,” he responded immediately, his voice steady despite the noticeable pounding of his carotid. It was almost as if he’d practiced this speech before, going through every permutation of the conversation in his mirror before meeting you out.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked up at him; the sun was setting, the orange light reflecting in his brown irises while he studied you like it was the last time he’d ever see you. “Spence,” you breathed, waiting expectantly for him to continue.

“You never actively pursued me, how was I meant to know you were interested?” His question made you want to scoff, but the earnest look in his eyes gave you pause. “Admittedly, social cues aren’t my strong suit, and I know you know that.”

Your shoulders relaxed, “So, because I never actively pursued you, it’s my fault that we never ended up together? Was I supposed to declare my intentions to you?”

He shook his head, sending strands of wavy brown hair tumbling in front of his forehead. In another life, you would’ve reached out to fix his hair. “No, I’m saying that while you never actively pursued me, I am actively pursuing you. I just want to make sure you know what page I’m on,” he told you, nervously picking at his nails.

“Spencer,” you sighed his name, “I already told you I couldn’t do it.” You’d cried it to him, actually. You expected this conversation to be more of the same, pleading with Spencer to understand your perspective on the situation while he relentlessly begged you to reconsider.

Reaching out, he touched your arm gently, nothing more than a graze of his fingertips across your bare skin, “And I want to prove to you that we can do this. I can be the guy that you want.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to push yourself further into the wall until you phased right through it, “I can’t take the back and forth.” You needed something stable, but what you needed would never be reflective of what you wanted. The most brutal truth of all was that you still wanted Spencer. You considered him your first love, and no one ever gets over their first love.

Just like he’d never get over his.

“There are just too many years between us, Spencer. It’s too complicated,” you told him, trying to keep your breathing steady. It would be exhausting to explain your tearful look to the rest of the team.

He waved your reasoning away, “It’s not. It’s not complicated. I love you and you love me. So, why can’t we be together?”

Your lips parted, staring up at him with wide eyes as your brain frantically tried to catch up with the situation at hand. Each beat of your heart was like a repetition of the word—love, love, love.

Spencer took your silence for rejection, “Maybe it’s just me then.”

“It’s not,” you croaked, fear and love and sorrow causing your throat to strangle your words. You looked up at him and wondered how long he’d been sitting on that confession. You wondered how long he’d known you loved him. You wondered if he still dreamed about Maeve. For whatever reason, that’s the only curiosity that you voiced, “Do you still dream about her?”

“I only dream about you these days,” he answered, his voice soft in the cacophony of the bar, keeping the conversation private despite your public stage.

“You can’t mean that,” you murmured, your face warming in response to his confession.

Your response only seemed to encourage him further, leaning his head down to allow himself contact. He pressed his lips to yours gently, and you found yourself leaning into him more than you��d like, each movement of his lips reminiscent of a chisel against the wall that you had constructed between the two of you.

Reaching your arms up, you propped one over his shoulder and used your free hand to weave your fingers in his hair—just as silky as you had always imagined it would be. His lips were soft against yours, and you knew you were fighting a battle that you could never win. You’d always run back to him.

Even when you pried yourself away from him, there wasn’t an ounce of regret in your bloodstream, but there was an outpour of sorrow. “Spence,” you breathed, blinking tears from your eyes while he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he responded, “I shouldn’t have done that.” His tone didn’t reflect his words in the slightest, there was no remorse in his eyes when you met them for the first time in a new light.

You shook your head instantly, “It’s okay.” You understood why he had done it. Telling you he loved you. Kissing you. He hadn’t done either of those things with Maeve. Spencer was trying to make a statement with you; he wanted his actions to speak louder than words.

He frowned, “You’re crying. I’m so sorry.”

Your lips parted to respond, but you hesitated for a moment. Curiosity was rapping at your door, wanting to know if the last person he had kissed was Diane. “I’m not crying because I didn’t want you to kiss me,” you admitted, hoping that your candor would serve to bring him some comfort.

“Oh,” he breathed, “Oh.”

You nodded, confirming his suspicions, “But I meant it when I told you I can’t do this. I just… not right now.” You needed time to come to terms with the fact that the love you never expected was right around the corner, and you needed time so that Maeve wasn’t the first person you thought over after kissing him.

“Okay,” he said, taking a small step away from you, “But you… you’ll let me know?”

Your head bobbed, “I’ll let you know.”

"I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word." - Ernest Hemingway

[strayingawayy]

i'm all ears...

...the one where minho's there to listen, even when you've forgotten the sound of your own voice.

the night does something to lee minho.

sarcastic comments and playful bantering turn into drowsy, lovesick eyes and lips that are forever pressed to your skin. and you wouldn't have it any other way.

usually, you melt into it. usually, atleast.

but tonight, you are tired.

sweet suffering jesus, you are so fucking tired.

you don’t say it. you don’t have to. minho notices the second he slips under the covers, hair damp, skin smelling like something clean, something warm. his fingers ghost over your jaw, barely there, but still enough to tell.

you’re more tired than you were yesterday.

minho knows silences. he understands the way they settle in rooms, in bodies, in the spaces between words left unsaid. he knows the difference between the silence that means talk to me and the silence that means stay, but don’t ask.

this is the latter.

so he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t press.

instead, he shifts closer, pulling the blankets over you like he’s tucking you into the safest place in the world. and it is, with soondoongdori curled around your lying figure as minho pushes your hair up and presses a kiss to your forehead. a silent promise that he'll be there when you wake up.

and then, just before sleep takes you, his fingers find yours under the sheets. a pinky hooked around yours, small but certain.

i’m here, it says. i’m all ears, when you’re ready.

the weight of exhaustion sits heavy on your chest, pressing into the space between your ribs, curling into your lungs and making it hard to breathe on the nights minho isn't with you. you’re not sure when it started. this endless ache, this feeling of running on fumes, but minho notices. he always does.

he doesn’t ask you to explain. doesn’t tell you that you should rest more, or that you should take care of yourself better. he knows you know all of that already. knows that sometimes, knowing isn’t enough.

so he stays.

somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, you feel him shift, feel the whisper of his lips against your temple.

“sleep," he murmurs, voice like a tide rolling in. steady. certain. home.

and for the first time in what feels like forever, you do.

...

when you wake, it’s to the smell of tangerines and something warm, something sweet. the sheets beside you are empty, but only just, his warmth lingers in the space where he lay, in the pillow that still smells like him as you're greeted by the felines that make his home, along with you.

you hear the soft shuffle of sock clad feet in the next room, the faint sound of a knife against a cutting board.

when you sit up, minho is already there, standing in the doorway with a small plate of fruit in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. his hair is still a little messy, his hoodie hanging loose on his frame, lips slightly pouty and ready to be kissed, should you want to.

"good morning," he says, and there’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s been waiting for you to wake up, like he’s been making sure the world is soft enough for you to return to, that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

he walks over, setting the plate down beside you before sitting at the edge of the bed. his fingers find yours again, slow, careful, tracing the lines of your palm.

“eat first,” he says, because eating was always a priority with him. “then tell me what’s on your mind.”

it’s not a request. it’s not a demand. it’s just him, letting you move at your own pace. letting you have the space to breathe, to exist.

so you do. you take a bite of the orange he peeled for you, let the juice burst bright and sweet against your tongue.

and when you finally speak, when the words finally come, tentative but real...he listens.

like soft paws listen to the steady hum of home.

[libraryogre]

My life really started at 30.

I had a fairly predictable Gen X trajectory. High school, college, first career at 23, first marriage at 24. The year I turned 30, I had to admit those both were over... I wasn't getting call-backs for teaching jobs, and my (now) ex and I had grown apart, and were divorcing. I was working in a burger place that was too far from home when a customer suggested I look into library work.

A few months in circulation turned into a few years in reference, which turned into a Master's degree. A busy gaming schedule turned into a partner who turned into a spouse, who then turned out two kids. Articles about D&D turned into books about Hackmaster and Savage Worlds.

If you'd have asked me in 2005 what my life would look like in 2025, I couldn't even picture this. We have a house of our own. I like my job, publish RPGs with my spouse as a hobby, and have two great kids. It's 20 years later, and I'm not the man I was... I am so much better.

There were plenty of rough times. I am where I am partially because my family could do so much to support us; I don't pretend that this was just grit and gumption. Those early years, that half-decade and change of my mid to late 20s, helped shape me, too. I wouldn't be the husband I am now without having been a husband now, and I wouldn't be the librarian I am without having been a teacher.

But they're not where *this* life took off. This life took off in 2007, when a 30 year old man got told "Hey, have you thought about library work?"

For most people, life doesn’t truly begin until they’re 26-30 or older. The way we romanticize and obsess over youth is super harmful. Your life is not over at 21, I promise you. It’s just beginning

[hyuny-bunny]

seasons // series

summary: your bestfriend minho just wants you to see desperately in love he is with you

warnings: mentions of sex, past relationships, omegaverse mentions of heat and knots

part i • part iii here

Upon entering your apartment, you make a beeline for the couch plopping down, letting your mind run over everything that had happened. Your last ‘heat’ cycle had been several months ago and you feared what havoc the next cycle would wreck on your body if you didn’t find an alpha who met the basic standards of human decency. Too many guys you had met either by a friend of a friend or via omega finder apps lead to complete and total assholes who had little regard for how a heat cycle made you feel or in worst cases, those who had weird kinks with subservient omegas kneeling at their every whim. You grimaced remembering the one guy who insisted you wear a collar and leash for him… on the first date. Turning over on the couch screaming at the pillow beneath you.

Eventually, you found some strength to sleep in your bed. A quick nap turned into 5 hours, only waking at the buzzing of your phone.

“Hello?”

“Feeling any better?” Minho’s sweet voice echoed through the phone, “Did I wake you up?”

“Feeling better and yes but… my nap was much deeper then I anticipated.”

“Ah sorry, safe to assume you haven’t eaten yet?” Your stomach growled at the question.

“You would be right,” Swinging your legs over the bed to head for the bathroom.

“I have about an hour left in my shift, I’ll come by with food and we can watch a movie yeah?”

Your heart swooned at the idea, you keep your voice level as you respond.

“That sounds amazing, can you get Italian from that place across the street from you?”

“Of course, the usual?”

“Yes, please, I love you, you’re my best friend in the whole world.”

He lets a soft chuckle as he mutters an ‘I know’ before telling you he’d be there in an hour or so. It gave you enough time to settle in for a bath, deep scrubbing your skin, hair, and face till you felt smooth again. You took the time to comb out your hair, picking out a set of clothes for your movie night with Minho because undoubtedly, you always fell asleep together on the couch. He always ended up staying the night but subconsciously you felt more inclined to look nice? No that would be ridiculous, for him to suddenly change his perspective of you because what? You put on the cute black cat patterned pajama shorts that he got you for Christmas accompanied by the matching cat paw socks and the sweater he left out your place one night that you had taken hostage of claiming as your own since it smelled like him…

There’s a gentle knock at the door indicating Minho was here, you open the door to see him wearing a black knit sweater and grey sweats holding a bag of take out. You could see the faintest out line of his c-

“I got your favorite, Carbonara with a Shirley Temple soda, where should I set it down?” He asked as he walked in.

“Coffee table is good, let me grab my laptop,” You said rushing out of the living room into your bedroom to grab the laptop along with a plethora of blankets and pillows.

He waited till you left the room before grabbing the hoodie by your door and rubbing his scent glands all over it. Along with the blanket and pillows set on the couch, he knew that If you even dared to bring someone home tomorrow night, they’d have to work past his scent and mark on every fabric of your place first. He sat down smugly opening the bag of food as you returned oblivious to what he had done in the few moments you were gone. He takes in your appearance, and the clothes you’re wearing, everything is from him, he hides his smirk as you take your place beside him. He watches the way your nose twitches as you take one of the blankets he had just rubbed himself all over.

“Jesus, Minho, did you just run ten miles? All I can smell is you…”

“Ah sorry must’ve been from carrying all the shipments in today, do you want to crack a window?”

“No it’s okay, I don’t mind…” 

You really didn’t mind, his scent was warm like vanilla and cinnamon but grounded in something earthy like sandalwood. It brought you a sense of comfort and peace, always making you forget anything you had on your mind allowing you to only be consumed by him and his presence.

The two of you eat, talking about his work and the upcoming classes you had for your master's program. He was a dance major and you were an English literature major, just two people with a love of the arts in different ways. You spent the night watching comedy movies, Minho’s pick, they weren’t his favorite but he loved to hear your loud cackle or the snorts or when you were tired the soft giggles that shook your shoulders. Eventually, you found yourselves entangled in each other on the couch, he laid back bringing you into his arms with your head laid on his chest, when he knew you were asleep based on the soft snores, he rubbed his scent glad into your hair knowing the slightest wind would waft the smell. He should just get off his chest now and profess his undying love, how he’s been in love with you since you two were twelve but he couldn’t in fear he’d lose an entire friendship over it. Rather having you in his life as a friend then not at all was a deep fear of his. But, so was losing you to someone else…

part iii here

[calypso-rt]

road trip!

with the insufferable Rafe Cameron

-> Rafe x F!Reader

You should’ve seen this coming.

I mean, first, your car broke down and had to be taken to the shop.

So, when your best friend called in a frantic apology about car trouble, food poisoning, and possibly a minor curse, you knew you were doomed. Flights were sold out, rental cars were booked, and every other friend headed to the wedding was somehow already out of town.

Which left you with one horrifying, soul crushing option.

Rafe Cameron.

You stare at his name on your phone screen like it personally offends you. Your thumb hovers over the call button as if pressing it might burn your skin.

There has to be another way. A bus? A miracle Uber? A very fast bicycle?

But deep down, you know the truth. If you don’t find a way to get there, you’ll be missing out on one of the biggest moments of your friend's life. And there’s no way in hell you’re going to let that happen.

You take a deep breath, swallow what’s left of your pride, and hit call.

It rings. Once. Twice.

Then...

“Wow.” Rafe’s voice is impossibly smug, like he already knows why you’re calling. “Didn’t expect to see your name pop up. What, did hell freeze over? Pigs start flying?”

You clench your jaw, already regretting this. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t even said anything,” he says, which is a lie because his tone is practically dripping with amusement. “So? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. Just say it. Rip off the Band-Aid.

“I need a ride.”

There’s a pause. Then, the unmistakable sound of him laughing.

It’s not just a small chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, downright delighted laugh. You swear you can hear him grinning.

“Oh, this is amazing.”

“Rafe—”

“No, no, let me enjoy this. You. You, of all people, need me?”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Do you want gas money or not?”

“Gas money? Sweetheart, I don’t need your gas money. What I need is for you to say it one more time. Just so I can fully appreciate the moment.”

You grit your teeth. “I. Need. A. Ride.”

Another pause. Then—

“Yeah, alright.” He says it so easily, like he wasn’t planning on saying no in the first place. Like he was always going to say yes. “I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all choked up about it. Just be ready.”

He hangs up before you can respond.

You stare at your phone, debating whether it’s too late to back out entirely. Maybe getting a bike wasn’t such a terrible idea.

But then, twenty minutes later, Rafe Cameron rolls up in his car, window down, smirk in place, and the smuggest glint in his eye as he calls out:

“Ready for the best road trip of your life?”

This is going to be a long ride.

...

The first hour is tense.

You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the endless stretch of road ahead. Rafe, for his part, lounges behind the wheel like he has all the time in the world, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the other adjusting the radio.

“Jesus,” you mutter as he flips through stations again. “Can you just pick one?”

He clicks past another song. Then another.

“I could,” he says, like it’s a thoughtful decision. “But then how would I find the perfect song to fit our current mood?”

You scoff. “And what mood is that?”

He smirks. “Deep, unresolved sexual tension.”

You whip your head toward him so fast it’s a miracle you don’t get whiplash. “You’re insufferable.”

He laughs. “I mean, you did beg me for a ride, so...”

“Beg is a strong word.”

“Practically groveling.”

“Oh my God, Rafe.”

You sink lower into your seat, face burning in suppressed rage as he chuckles under his breath, clearly enjoying every second of this.

For a moment, there’s silence... until Rafe reaches for the GPS and completely ignores the route you mapped out earlier.

“Wait, what are you doing?” you demand.

“Taking the faster way.”

You frown. “That’s not the faster way.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it isn’t! I literally checked last night. My route is better.”

He glances at you like you’ve personally offended him. “I think I know how to read a damn GPS.”

“And I think you have the directional skills of a blindfolded himbo.”

Rafe scoffs, gripping the wheel. “That’s rich coming from someone who almost got lost inside a Target last week.”

Your jaw drops. “I did not—”

“You called me from the home goods aisle panicking.”

“It was a big Target!”

He grins, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sure, sweetheart.”

You glare daggers at him, but before you can fire back, the GPS’s robotic voice chimes in:

“Recalculating route…”

You turn to him slowly, a smirk curling at your lips.

“Oh?” you say, mocking surprise. “What’s this? The GPS thinks I was right?”

Rafe clenches his jaw, white knuckling the wheel.

“I hate you.”

You beam. “No, you don’t.”

He lets out a long suffering sigh. Then, before you can bask in your victory, he suddenly cranks up the radio obnoxiously loud, blasting some overplayed pop song.

You groan, sinking into your seat.

...

The gas station is a godsend.

After what feels like hours of bickering, you practically fling yourself out of the car the second Rafe pulls into the lot. The fresh air is a relief, or at least, it would be, if Rafe weren’t right behind you, stretching obnoxiously like he’s never known a single hardship in his life.

“God, I love road trips,” he says, grinning as he watches you roll your shoulders like you’re shaking off his entire existence.

You ignore him and push through the glass doors, the too-cold AC blasting you in the face. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, and the aisles are stocked with the usual: chips, questionable hot dogs, and enough sugar to give an elephant heart palpitations.

You head straight for the snack aisle, Rafe following too closely behind.

“I’m thinking—" you start, reaching for a bag of your favorite chips.

Rafe makes a disgusted noise.

“Oh, absolutely not.” He plucks the bag from your hands like it personally offends him. “We’re getting road trip snacks, not whatever this garbage is.”

You snatch it back. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at the bag. “That’s the worst possible choice.”

Your mouth drops open. “Are you insane? This is objectively the best snack in the entire store.”

“Objectively wrong.”

You glare. “Okay, genius, what’s your expert pick?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Beef jerky.”

You actually recoil. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re one of those people?”

Rafe smirks. “One of what people?”

“The kind of people who sit in the car, chewing on some nasty, dried-up piece of cow like it’s fine dining?”

He scoffs. “It’s protein.”

“It’s disgusting.”

He places a bag of jerky in the basket anyway. You dramatically shove your chips in beside it, like it’s a battle of good versus evil.

“What else?” he asks, scanning the shelves.

You grab a candy bar. “This.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow. “That’s just straight sugar.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs, tossing in a pack of peanut butter crackers. “Balance.”

You wrinkle your nose. “What are you, my dad?”

Rafe ignores you, moving toward the drink coolers. You trail behind him, still fuming about the beef jerky situation.

He pulls open the glass door and grabs a bottle of water.

You squint. “Water? That’s your road trip drink?”

“Yeah?” He frowns at you. “What’s wrong with water?”

You shake your head in disappointment. “You’re so boring.”

Rafe glares. “Oh, I’m boring? What are you getting, then?”

You grab the brightest, most radioactive looking energy drink you can find and hold it up triumphantly.

Rafe looks deeply unimpressed. “That is going to take years off your life.”

“And?”

He just shakes his head, tossing his water into the basket. “If your heart gives out mid-drive, I’m not pulling over.”

You grin. “I knew you cared.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, marching toward the counter to pay. You follow, watching as the bored looking cashier scans your deeply incompatible snack selections.

When Rafe pulls out his wallet, you immediately reach for yours. “I can pay for mine.”

He tuts, shoving his card into the reader before you can argue. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, smirking. “You can owe me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Owe you what?”

His smirk deepens. “Haven’t decided yet.”

You cross your arms, but he just grabs the bag of snacks and saunters out of the store, looking far too pleased with himself.

You sigh, trailing after him.

This road trip is going to kill you.

...

The rain starts suddenly.

One second, the road is dry and clear, then, out of nowhere, the sky splits open, unleashing a torrential downpour so intense that Rafe has to crank the wipers up to their highest setting. The world outside turns into a blurry mess of gray and streaking headlights, and even he slows down, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Great,” you mumble, pulling your hoodie tighter around you. “Just perfect.”

Rafe barely spares you a glance, both hands gripping the wheel. “Relax. It’s just rain.”

It is not just rain. It’s an apocalypse. The wind howls, trees sway dangerously, and the GPS chimes in, completely unhelpful:

“Rerouting… rerouting…”

Rafe exhales sharply. “Fantastic.”

You frown, glancing at the map. “Uh… I think we missed our turn.”

“We did not—”

Lightning flashes. The GPS glitches. And then, as if the universe itself wants to prove a point...

THUNK.

The car jerks. Rafe curses, fighting the wheel as he pulls over to the shoulder. The rain slams against the windshield, making it nearly impossible to see, but you already know what’s wrong.

Flat tire.

You both sit there for a second, staring at the dashboard like maybe, somehow, this is just a bad dream.

Then...

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rafe mutters.

You sigh, already unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’ll fix it.”

Rafe’s head whips toward you. “Excuse me?”

You shrug. “I know how to change a tire.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”

“I do!”

He gives you a deeply skeptical look. “Alright, fine. Let’s see it, then.”

You roll your eyes and push the door open, stepping into the absolute nightmare that is the current weather situation. Rain instantly soaks through your hoodie, the wind nearly knocking you off balance as you march around to the trunk.

Rafe follows, watching as you pull out the spare and drop to your knees to inspect the damage.

You try to focus, really, you do, but the rain is relentless, blinding and cold and miserable. Your fingers slip against the wet metal as you wrestle with the jack, struggling to get it in place.

And then, before you can stop him, Rafe crouches down beside you, scowling as he physically moves your hands out of the way.

“What the hell—”

“You should’ve let me handle it.” His voice is low, grumbly, but not in his usual mocking way. It’s different.

Protective.

You blink up at him, shivering slightly as he moves closer, blocking some of the rain with his body.

“I had it,” you argue, but it comes out softer than intended.

He doesn’t look at you. Just focuses on loosening the lug nuts, his jaw clenched like he’s irritated... but not at you. At the fact that you were out here, in the freezing rain, doing this yourself.

The rest of the job doesn’t take long, and when he finally lowers the jack, he stands, reaching down to haul you up without warning.

You stumble slightly. He catches you easily.

For a second, you just… stand there.

Close.

The rain drips from his hair, his hoodie completely soaked, but all you can focus on is the way his hands linger: one on your wrist, the other still at your waist, like he’s making sure you’re steady before he lets go.

It’s… unsettling.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a way that makes your stomach feel weird and your heart do something stupid.

But then he exhales sharply, like he’s snapping himself out of something, and steps back.

“Next time, just let me handle it,” he mutters. Then, before you can argue, he’s already moving, tossing the tools back into the trunk.

You watch him for a moment before shaking yourself off and climbing back into the car.

The ride after that is… different.

Quieter.

Not in a tense, waiting-for-the-next-argument kind of way, but in a way that feels oddly comfortable.

Rafe leans back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually behind your headrest.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel annoying.

It just feels… warm.

Familiar.

At some point, he reaches over to mess with the radio again. This time, when he flips through the stations, you don’t complain. You just glance at him, shaking your head, lips twitching slightly.

He catches you looking. Smirks.

And you don’t roll your eyes.

Not this time.

...

After the flat tire, the rainstorm, and the unfortunate realization that there were no motels nearby, you and Rafe had been forced to crash in the car overnight. Literally. Him in the driver’s seat, you curled up in the passenger seat, both of you grumbling about how much this sucked before eventually passing out.

Now, you wake up to the smell of coffee.

For a second, you’re disoriented, blinking against the golden light pouring through the windshield. Your neck is stiff, your hoodie is bunched in all the wrong places, and the leather seat sticks to your skin in the worst way.

And then...

A voice.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

You groan, rubbing your eyes. Rafe leans against the open driver’s side door, arms crossed, a smug but noticeably softer smirk on his face.

“We’re at a diner,” he says, nodding toward the neon sign outside. “Figured you’d want real food instead of gas station snacks.”

You blink at him. Then at the diner. Then back at him.

And that’s when you see it.

In his other hand: a cup of coffee.

Your coffee.

You sit up straighter. “Wait, is that...?”

He shrugs. “You take it with two sugars, right?”

You stare at him, momentarily speechless.

Rafe Cameron, your mortal enemy just yesterday, remembers how you take your coffee. And brought you one before you even woke up.

“Uh.” You take the cup hesitantly, fingers brushing his for a split second. “Thanks?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, turning toward the diner. “Come on. I need real food before I lose my mind.”

You follow him inside, still thrown off by… whatever this is.

The place is quintessential roadside diner. Vinyl booths, checkered floors, an old jukebox in the corner playing a song that sounds straight out of a ‘90s romcom. A waitress with a pen tucked behind her ear waves you to a booth near the window.

Rafe slides in across from you, stretching his arms over the back of the seat. “So,” he says, smirking again, but there’s something different about it this time. “What’s the move? Classic pancakes? Or are you one of those avocado toast people?”

You scoff. “Avocado toast? What do I look like, a health influencer?”

He grins. “Hey, you give off the vibe.”

You kick him under the table. He chuckles.

The waitress reappears, flipping open her notepad. “What can I get y’all?”

You glance at the menu quickly before ordering the pancake combo. Rafe orders an omelet, then, as the waitress starts to walk away, he calls out:

“Oh, and... can we get extra syrup?”

You freeze.

You always ask for extra syrup. You were literally about to say it.

You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you...”

He just shrugs. “You like extra syrup. You always complain when there isn’t enough.”

Again, you’re momentarily speechless.

Rafe doesn’t just remember things about you. He notices them.

And now, in the warm morning light, with his hoodie slightly rumpled and his hair messier than usual, he looks…

Less like the cocky nightmare who laughed when you asked for a ride.

More like the guy who fixed a tire in the rain without hesitation.

Who made sure you had coffee before you even woke up.

Who just ordered extra syrup for you.

“Okay, who are you,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, “and what have you done with Rafe Cameron?”

Rafe tilts his head, considering. Then, lazily, he smirks. “Maybe you just bring out the best in me.”

You roll your eyes, but this time, it’s harder to ignore the way your stomach flips.

And when the food arrives, when he casually slides the syrup your way before you can even reach for it, you’re pretty sure you’re screwed.

...

By the time you finally pull up to the wedding venue, a sprawling lodge tucked into the mountains, the sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. It looks ridiculously picturesque, like something out of a movie.

You, on the other hand, look less picturesque.

“I swear to God,” you grumble, twisting around in the passenger seat to grab your overnight bag, “if my hair is permanently flattened from sleeping in the car, I’m blaming you.”

Rafe snorts, shifting the car into park. “Please. You’ve looked worse.”

You turn to glare at him, only to find him already looking at you. Except this time, there’s no evil Rafe smirk. Just… something else. Something softer.

It throws you off so badly that you almost forget to respond.

Almost.

“Thanks,” you deadpan. “That’s exactly what every girl wants to hear before walking into a wedding.”

Rafe chuckles, shaking his head before pushing his door open. You follow suit, stepping out into the cool mountain air.

Up ahead, the venue is already buzzing with activity: people unloading suitcases, music drifting from somewhere inside, laughter echoing across the lot. Your best friend is probably freaking out over last minute details.

And you?

You’re standing beside Rafe Cameron, staring up at the lodge like you haven’t just spent the past twenty four hours begrudgingly trapped in a car with him.

Like you haven’t spent the past two hours noticing little things you weren’t supposed to.

Rafe stretches, rolling his shoulders before glancing at you. “You good?”

You nod, but before you can take a step, he reaches over and tugs your hoodie into place.

It’s nothing. Just a small adjustment, fingers barely grazing your shoulder. But the second it happens, your breath catches.

It’s stupid, really. After everything, the bickering, the bad directions, the gas station argument, this is what gets you?

A two second fix?

But when you glance up at him, there’s something unreadable in his expression. Something that lingers for half a second too long before he clears his throat and steps back.

You swallow. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” His voice is quieter than usual.

For the first time since this whole trip started, you have no idea what to say next.

So instead, you hoist your bag higher onto your shoulder and nod toward the lodge. “We should… probably go find everyone.”

Rafe nods once. “Yeah.”

Neither of you move right away.

And when you finally do, when you walk side by side toward the entrance, the glow of the venue lights spilling onto the gravel path, you can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted.

Like maybe, just maybe, this trip isn’t over yet.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 4

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 20k

MASTERLIST

Blood.

The warm, red liquid splatters onto your face, dripping down your neck and soaking into your clothes. For a split second, your mind blanks. You’ve been shot?

You freeze, waiting for the pain to hit, for the sting of a bullet tearing through flesh. But there’s nothing. No sharp ache. No burning sensation.

Not you.

Your gaze shifts downward. The woman in front of you staggers, her breath hitching painfully in her throat. Her wide eyes stare at the man in front of her in shock, unblinking, as blood pours from the gaping wound in her neck. The bullet has lodged itself on the right side, just above her collarbone. Her lips move—trying to form words, trying to breathe—but all that comes out is a gurgled wheeze.

Your heart pounds violently in your chest, the world tilting sideways as you try to make sense of what just happened. You turn your head, slow and deliberate, your body moving on instinct rather than thought.

Jungwon. He’s still crouched near the van, his hands empty. The rifle remains untouched on the ground beside him, exactly where he left it. His eyes meet yours for a brief second, wide with alarm, but it’s not him.

Your gaze shifts forward.

Sunoo. He’s mid-tackle, slamming into the man with the rifle. Smoke curls lazily from the barrel, the sharp scent of gunpowder stinging your nose.

The woman collapses into a heap at your feet, her blood pooling beneath her.

For a moment, everything stands still.

Silent.

Still.

Then—

Chaos.

A heart-wrenching scream cuts through the silence, raw and broken.

“No!” The man in front of you drops to his knees, his voice cracking as he cradles the woman’s body.

It’s a sound you’ll never forget. Pure grief. Devastation.

Your hands tremble, the knife slipping from your fingers and clattering uselessly to the ground. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Your mind races, but your body remains frozen, your legs rooted in place. You feel the warmth of the blood on your skin, smell the metallic tang in the air, taste the bitterness on your tongue.

You blink once. Twice.

No. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The plan was to scare them off. To protect your people. To survive.

But now there’s a woman lying dead at your feet, and you’re the one who held her hostage. You’re the one who brought her into this.

Would this be how it played out in Jay’s mind every night since it happened—the same nightmare on repeat? The man with the knife. The girl he cared so much for held hostage, and later had her life ripped away from her right in front of him. The choice he made to satisfy his hunger for revenge.

Would you now become the monster in someone else’s story? The monster who leaves nothing but broken people in their wake? The one they obsess over, hunt down, seeking revenge? You’ve seen what grief can do, how it festers and twists until there’s nothing left but hatred and the singular need for retribution.

Your chest tightens painfully, tears pooling in your eyes, blurring your vision. You don’t even realise you’re shaking until you feel the tremor in your legs. Everything feels wrong—so, so wrong.

Movement.

Ni-ki sprints across from the front of the van, no longer bound. He’s quick, his hands working fast to untie the ropes holding Sunghoon, Jake and Heeseung. Jake is already moving, reaching for the med kit, but he falters, his gaze falling on the lifeless body on the ground.

Sunoo is still wrestling the man with the rifle, their grunts and shouts blending into the background noise of your panic. The other two attackers stand frozen, clearly in shock. They don’t move. They don’t reach for their weapons.

Maybe they’re victims too.

Maybe they didn’t want this.

None of you did.

Everything is happening too fast.

Your mind screams at you to move, to react, but your body refuses to obey. You don’t even catch the shift in the man at your feet—the subtle way his grief twists into rage—until it’s too late.

His hand shoots out, grabbing you by the throat.

You gasp, your hands flying to his arm, trying to pry his fingers loose. His grip is like iron, crushing your windpipe, cutting off your air. Black spots dance in your vision as he drags you closer, his bloodshot eyes locking onto yours with pure hatred. His face is twisted, consumed by pain, fury, and vengeance.

“You—” he spits, his voice raw with grief. “You did this. You—”

A gunshot. Sudden. Sharp. Deafening.

The pressure around your neck disappears instantly. The man collapses to the ground, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut, right next to the woman. Blood seeps from the bullet wound in his temple, his expression frozen in an eternal snarl.

Your hands fly to your throat, coughing and gasping for breath as you stumble backwards. The world spins, your lungs burning as you suck in desperate gulps of air.

Jungwon. He’s standing now, rifle in hand, his gaze locked on the lifeless man on the ground. His expression is unreadable—calm, composed—but there’s something dark lurking behind his eyes.

You wipe the blood from your face with trembling hands, your mind struggling to catch up with reality. Everything feels surreal. Disjointed. Like a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

Jungwon steps closer, lowering the rifle. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet. Controlled. “Are you alright?”

You nod, though you’re not sure if it’s true. Your voice won’t come, stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled with the sobs you’re trying to suppress.

You don’t even have time to catch your breath when you hear the scream tear through the air, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

“Y/N, watch out!”

Your head snaps forward, your heart plummeting into your stomach. Sunoo’s down—pinned to the dirt—his hands grappling uselessly as the man he tackled scrambles to his feet, grabbing the fallen rifle.

Sunghoon is already sprinting toward him, but he’s too far. He won’t make it in time. The man grips the rifle tightly, his eyes wild with panic and grief, and before you can even think to move, he spins—locking the crosshairs squarely on you.

The world slows. You see it all in perfect, horrifying detail. His hands trembling as he raises the weapon. His lips pressed into a thin line. The way his chest heaves with shallow, erratic breaths. And the tears. The tears welling up in his eyes, glistening as they fall.

He’s going to do it.

Your feet won’t move. You’re rooted to the ground, frozen by the realisation.

He’s going to kill you.

And you deserve it, don’t you? After what just happened—after the woman died at your hands, after everything that’s led to this moment—maybe this is the inevitable outcome. His finger tightens on the trigger.

You close your eyes. You’re not ready. You’ll never be ready. The thought crashes over you like a wave. This is it.

And then—

The gunshot.

It echoes through the surrounding, deafening, final.

You’re not dead. Slowly, shakily, you open your eyes. Your knees buckle, nearly giving out beneath you at the sight before you.

Jay.

With his pistol in hand, dangling at his side. He must’ve circled around to retrieve it—used the chaos, used you as the distraction. He could’ve taken the shot clean. He could’ve stayed hidden, waited for the right angle, and taken down the guy aiming for you without risking himself.

But he didn’t.

Jay is standing in front of you.

His body sways slightly, his stance unsteady, but he holds firm. There’s blood—so much blood—it seeps through his shirt, dark and spreading fast, soaking the fabric and dripping down his side. So much blood. It stains the hem of his jacket and clings to his skin like oil, like ink.

You blink, unable to process what you’re seeing, unwilling to believe it.

Jay took a bullet for you.

The bullet hit him in the side, just below his ribs—aimed for him but meant for you. If he hadn’t taken it, it would’ve hit you square in the heart.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Then he drops to his knees.

“No. No, no, no.” The words tumble from your lips as you rush to his side, your hands shaking as you reach out to steady him. “Jay, why—why would you—”

He lets out a sharp breath, cutting you off. His usual glare is gone, replaced with something softer. Weaker. Human.

“Couldn’t let you die,” he says, his voice strained but steady. “Not like that.”

Your chest tightens painfully, your eyes burning with unshed tears. “You—stupid—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, managing a weak chuckle. “I’ve heard that before.”

Ahead of you, Sunghoon reaches Sunoo, pulling him to his feet. The shooter is on his knees, his hands raised in surrender, his rifle now in the hands of Ni-ki.

But none of that matters right now. All you can see is Jay. All you can think about is the blood on your hands—his blood—and how he took that bullet for you.

“We need to get him back to the van,” Jake’s voice cuts through the fog in your mind, calm but urgent. He kneels beside you, his gaze locking onto Jay’s. “You’ll be alright. Just hold on.”

Jay’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Didn’t… think you cared.”

Jake’s jaw clenches. “Shut up.”

Heeseung and Sunghoon sprint over, their footsteps pounding against the dirt. “We’ve got him,” Heeseung says, already lifting Jay’s arm over his shoulder.

Jake rushes forward with the med kit, his face pale. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

You stay by Jay’s side, your hands hovering uselessly. Why did he do it? Why would he risk everything for you?

As they lift him, Jay’s gaze meets yours again, his eyes slightly glassy. “Don’t…,” he murmurs, barely audible.

“What?” you lean in closer, holding your ear close to his lips but he fails to conjure enough energy to speak.

Guilt. Fear. Regret. It all coils inside you, twisting and knotting until it takes shape—rage.

White-hot, blinding rage.

You barely register your own movements as you lunge forward, your hand closing around Jay’s pistol lying in a pool of his own blood. The metal feels cold against your skin, slick with crimson that seeps between your fingers. It makes you sick, but not enough to stop you. Not enough to drown out the fury coursing through your veins.

Your legs move on their own, shaky but determined, carrying you over the lifeless bodies sprawled across the dirt. The crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot echoes in your ears, drowned out by the pounding of your heart. You don’t falter. Not when you reach him—the one who pulled the trigger.

He’s on his knees, trembling, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. His hands are raised in a futile plea for mercy, but you’ve got none to give. Not now. Not after Jay.

The gun feels heavier in your hand than it should, weighted down by blood and grief. You raise it slowly, deliberately, your aim locking onto his forehead. He flinches, his lips trembling as if to beg, but you don’t hear his words. You don’t care.

Your finger curls around the trigger. But just as you’re about to squeeze, a deafening gunshot shatters the air.

Your body jolts, your eyes snapping wide as the man before you crumples to the ground, blood pooling from a clean shot through his skull. You freeze, the gun still raised, your breathing ragged as you process what just happened.

Slowly, you turn.

Jungwon stands a few feet behind you, the rifle pressed firmly against his shoulder, barrel still smoking. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—dark and piercing—say everything he doesn’t. His hands are steady, his grip unwavering. There’s no hesitation in him. No regret.

He lowers the rifle slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence between you is deafening, save for the fading echo of the gunshot ringing in your ears.

You drop the pistol, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear. It hits the ground with a dull thud, splattering crimson droplets across the dirt and all over your boots. Your arms fall limply to your sides, trembling as the adrenaline starts to wear off.

Jungwon steps closer, each footfall deliberate, cautious. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet but firm. “You don’t need to carry that weight.”

His words linger in the air, but they don’t sink in—not yet. Your gaze drifts back to the lifeless bodies, to Jay lying still in the back of the van, blood staining the carpet beneath him.

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper. “He saved me.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his gaze flickering to Jay before settling back on you. “I know.”

You close your eyes briefly, guilt gnawing at your insides, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “I was going to kill him.”

“I know that too.”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “And you did it for me.”

Jungwon exhales softly, his voice steady. “No. I did it for me.”

The weight of his words sinks in, pressing down on your chest. There’s no solace in them, no comfort. What did he mean? He did it for himself?

The echo of the gunshot lingers in the air, a haunting reminder of what just happened. But it doesn’t linger alone for long. The groans begin—a low, guttural sound that rises from the treeline like a warning bell.

The dead are coming.

Jungwon hears it too. His head snaps toward the trees, his hand tightening around the rifle. "We need to go," he says, voice clipped and urgent.

You nod numbly, forcing your legs to move. You turn back towards the van, your steps unsteady, mind racing to catch up with the chaos around you. Sunghoon is already at the van, throwing the back doors open. Jake is inside, frantically working with Heeseung and Sunoo to keep pressure on Jay’s wound, their hands slick with blood. Jay groans, shifting weakly, his eyes fluttering open for a brief second before closing again.

"Let’s go!" Ni-ki quickly pours however much gas he can from the canister into the fuel tank, packs up whatever's left and jumps into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The engine sputters to life, the familiar rumble somehow grounding you in reality. You climb into the van, pulling the door shut behind you.

The van rumbles down the cracked road, each bump jostling Jay in the back as Jake works tirelessly to slow the bleeding. The tension is suffocating, thick and heavy in the air. The only sounds inside are laboured breaths, the low hum of the engine, and the faint groans of the dead growing more distant.

Then—footsteps. Rapid. Desperate.

You glance out the back window and see them—the two remaining men from the other group. It was so chaotic that you don’t even remember seeing them around the area. Maybe they hid in fear. Doesn't matter. Because they're running now, stumbling over roots and rocks, trying to keep up with the van. They’ve ditched their weapons. They’re unarmed, vulnerable. And terrified.

One of them shouts, his voice hoarse. "Wait! Please! Don’t leave us!"

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms. Your mind flashes back to the chaos moments earlier—the gunfire, the blood, the woman collapsing at your feet. These two men had stood by, not pulling the trigger but not stopping it either. Complicit of your actions.

"Jungwon," you whisper, your gaze flicking to him. He’s sitting in the front passenger seat, his rifle resting on his lap. His eyes are hard, his jaw set. He doesn’t look back at you.

Behind the van, the men stumble again. One of them falls to his knees, chest heaving, before scrambling back to his feet. "We’re sorry!" the other shouts, his voice cracking. "We didn’t want it to go this far! Please, we just want to live!"

The van lurches forward, and you feel the weight of their desperation pressing down on your chest.

"They’re unarmed," you say quietly, though you’re not sure if it’s a statement or an excuse. "They don’t have anything left."

Jungwon finally speaks, his voice low and steady. "Neither did we. Didn’t stop them from coming after us."

"They’re running," you counter. "Not fighting."

"They’re running because they lost," Jungwon says coldly, his gaze locked on the road ahead. "If we stop, they’ll turn on us the second they get the chance."

In the rearview mirror, you catch Ni-ki’s expression—stoic, but his clenched jaw betrays his unease. Jake doesn’t look up from Jay, focused on keeping him alive, while Sunghoon grips the other rifle tighter, his knuckles white.

The men’s voices grow louder, more desperate. "We’ll do anything!" one of them screams. "We’ll work for you—protect you! Please, just don’t leave us here!"

You can feel the eyes of the group on you, waiting for your reaction. It’s suffocating.

And then, one of the men stumbles again, falling hard to the ground. He stays there this time, his hands pressed to his knees as he gasps for air. The other one slows down, grabbing his friend’s arm, pulling him up.

"Y/N." It’s Jungwon’s voice, cutting through your thoughts like a blade. "We don’t have time for this."

Your gaze flicks to him. His eyes meet yours—steady, unwavering. But there’s something else in them. Something more. Regret? Sadness? You can’t tell.

"They don’t have a weapon," you say again, quieter this time. "They’re not a threat."

Jungwon exhales sharply. "They were part of the group that almost killed you. That shot Jay. That held the rest of them hostage."

"That woman—" you start, but the words catch in your throat. That woman begged for her life. She was just as scared as they are now. And you stood there. You let her die.

Your heart twists painfully in your chest.

Sunghoon, sitting in the corner with his arms hanging over his knees, finally speaks. His voice is softer than usual. "We can’t save everyone."

It hits you like a punch to the gut. He’s right. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Jungwon nods once, his expression hardening again. "Keep driving," he says to Ni-ki. The latter hesitates for a moment, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. Then he presses his foot on the accelerator, and the van picks up speed.

"No!" the man screams behind you, his voice breaking. "Please! We don’t want to die!"

You can’t look away as they fade into the distance. One of them collapses again, clutching his chest as he gasps for air. The other tries to pull him up, but they’re too slow. Too weak.

And then, the groans return. The dead have caught their scent.

They’re going to die.

Your chest feels like it’s being crushed. You press your hand against the window, watching as the two men disappear from sight. Jungwon doesn’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.

You lean back against the van, the weight of what just happened settles over you, suffocating and inescapable.

They begged for mercy but you left them anyway. This shouldn’t surprise you. It’s the right call, after all. And if you’d been alone, you know you’d have done the same thing. Survival over sympathy—that’s the rule you’ve lived by since the community building fell. You don’t waste time mourning strangers.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You’re not alone anymore.

And as the van jolts over the uneven road, the weight of that difference presses heavily on your chest. Jay’s words from earlier echo in your mind, cutting through the silence like a knife:

The whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from.

It hits you then, the realisation settling like a stone in your stomach. Maybe a part of you wanted to protect something for them. To preserve that fragile thread of humanity they’ve managed to hold onto in this fucked up world.

But all you did was shatter it. Leaving behind the cold hard truth of survival.

You see it in their faces now. The way Sunoo curls in on himself, as if he’s trying to disappear. The way Sunghoon’s jaw clenches tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. The way Jake’s hands tremble ever so slightly as he presses another bandage to Jay’s side. The way Heeseung is wiping away the sweat forming on Jay’s forehead, almost absentmindely. Even Ni-ki, who’s been quiet since you left that village, looks lost in thought, his grip on the wheel a little too tight.

And then there’s Jungwon.

He’s always been the calm in the storm. The one who makes the hard decisions so no one else has to carry that weight. But right now, he looks as hollow as you feel. He’s sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, his gaze locked on the road ahead. His rifle rests across his lap, but his hands aren’t on it. They’re clenched into fists, pressed tightly against his thighs, like he’s carrying something far too heavy for one person to bear.

You glance down at your hands, noticing the faint red stains on your palms. Blood of all that lost and almost lost their lives. You wipe them on your jeans, but the stain lingers in your mind.

If you’d run into this group back at that auto shop—if they were the people they are now: hardened, desperate, with the blood of three strangers on their hands—they wouldn’t have kept you alive.

They wouldn’t have let you speak.

They wouldn’t have given you a chance to prove your worth.

It would’ve been a cold, practical choice. Eliminate the threat before it had the chance to grow. And you wouldn’t have blamed them.

But now? You wonder if they’re blaming you. Blaming you for the decision to leave those two men behind. For the way things spiralled.

The woman’s face flashes in your mind. Her wide, terrified eyes. The blood pooling around her body. “We’ve crossed a line,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the hum of the van’s engine. Jungwon’s head tilts slightly, but he doesn’t look at you.

No one argues. No one tries to convince you otherwise.

Because they all know it’s true.

Sunoo finally speaks, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “We’ve crossed plenty of lines before.”

“Not like this,” you murmur, your words settling heavily between you all.

Ni-ki shifts in the driver’s seat, breaking the silence. “What do we do now?”

No one answers. Because none of you know. Not even Jungwon. And you can’t help but wonder if this is the beginning of the end. Not for the world—it ended a long time ago.

But for this group. For the fragile hope that’s kept them all going.

You lean your head back against the window, eyes drifting shut.

You’ve crossed a line. And you know you’re going to keep crossing lines, one after another, until there’s no point of return.

Ironically, that’s the one thing you’ve been trying so desperately to hold onto—your sanity, your humanity.

And now you’re afraid. Afriad of how the weight of their survival—the choices you’ll have to make, the risks you’ll have to take—is going to change you.

You’ve spent so long fighting to hold onto the parts of yourself that still feel human. That separates you from the dead that damned the earth.

Your boundaries, your morals, the thin, fragile line between surviving and losing who you are. You told yourself that as long as you had those things—those pieces of yourself—you wouldn’t become just another product of this world’s cruelty.

But now, you can feel that line blurring.

Whatever you said to Jay back in that field, about how wanting justice or revenge makes you human—you’re not so sure if you believe that anymore.

Because protecting them might mean crossing lines you swore you never would. It might mean compromising the very things that make you you.

And isn’t that how it starts?

One compromise. One choice made out of desperation. One decision that feels necessary in the moment.

Then another.

And another.

Until one day, you look at yourself and don’t recognise the person staring back. Until you realise you’re no different from the people you swore you’d never become.

And that’s what terrifies you.

Not them.

But the person you might become for them.

“Ni-ki pull over. We’ll stop here for today.” Jungwon speaks, the first words uttered from any of you in the past hour and a half or so. The sun is still out, early afternoon by what you can tell.

Ni-ki’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he glances in the rear-view mirror. “We’ve still got a few hours of sunlight. We can keep going. We’ll reach the rest stop by dusk,” he says, confusion lacing his voice. But despite his words, he slows the van and pulls it to the side of the cracked road.

“We’ll stop here for today,” Jungwon repeats softly, his gaze fixed ahead. His tone leaves no room for argument.

The van grinds to a halt with a jolt, the engine ticking as it cools in the quiet. For a moment, no one moves.

“I can hear your stomach growling,” Jungwon says, glancing at Ni-ki with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s take a short break. Eat something before we move on, yeah?”

It’s a lie. You all know it. His voice lacks its usual firmness, and there’s no mistaking the heaviness in the air. No one argues, though. There’s a quiet understanding that Jungwon needs space, and this cramped van isn’t offering him any. So, without a word, everyone begins moving, stretching out stiff limbs and gathering what little supplies remain to set up camp by the roadside.

Jungwon heads straight for the edge of the road, lowering himself onto the ground with a weary sigh. He pulls his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around them as he stares into the distance. The way he sits—hunched, small—makes your chest ache. He looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and for once, you can’t blame him. He had to pull the trigger today. Twice. On strangers who, by all rights, had it coming. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Killing people, even in self-defence, leaves a mark. One that never quite fades.

You take a hesitant step toward him, considering whether to offer him someone to talk to. But before you can get far, Heeseung catches your arm, shaking his head. His gaze is soft but firm.

“Let him be,” Heeseung murmurs. “He needs time.”

You nod, pulling back, though the guilt lingers in your chest. Jungwon shouldn’t have to bear this alone. None of you should.

Behind you, Sunoo’s voice breaks the tense silence. “Seriously? This is all we’ve got left?” His frustration is palpable as he crouches by the van, rummaging through the supply bag. “I swear we had five extra cans of beans last night.”

You tear your gaze away from Jungwon, forcing yourself to focus on the immediate problem. Food. Or rather, the lack of it. You walk over to where Ni-ki and Sunoo are crouched, the bag of supplies between them. The way they sift through it—careful, precise—makes the meagre contents all the more depressing.

“Are we running low?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend.

“Yeah.” Sunoo’s lips twist into a grimace. “Those bastards—sorry, I mean, those men from earlier—they ate some of our food while we were waiting for you to get back.”

Even in the apocalypse, it seems disrespecting the dead doesn’t sit well.

You peer into the bag, taking stock. Two dented cans of baked beans. Five energy bars. One sad little sachet of instant coffee. And a leftover packet of ramen seasoning. It’s pitiful. Barely enough to sustain eight people. And Jay needs more than this. He needs proper food. Protein. Calories to help his body recover.

Your gaze shifts to the van. Jay is still lying flat on his back, propped up by makeshift bedding. His chest rises and falls slowly, his bandages soaked through with dried blood. His eyes are closed, but the furrow in his brow betrays the pain he’s in.

“We’re not going to make it far on this,” you say, glancing at Heeseung. “Not with Jay in that state.”

Heeseung sighs, running a hand through his hair. His fingers snag on the tangles, and he winces, but he doesn’t stop. “I know. We’ll reach the rest stop soon, hopefully they left something for us there.”

“Soon isn’t good enough.” Jake crouches down, picking up one of the cans, it looks almost too light in his hands. “Jay’s barely hanging on.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “And Ni-ki’s right. We could’ve kept going. We should’ve kept going.”

“We can’t push too hard,” Heeseung counters gently. “Jungwon…” His gaze flickers toward the figure still sitting at the roadside. “He’s trying to keep it together, but he’s hanging by a thread.”

You follow his gaze, watching Jungwon’s silhouette against the pale afternoon sky. He hasn’t moved from his spot. He sits so still, like a statue carved from grief and exhaustion.

“What do we do?” you ask quietly.

Heeseung exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “We give him a moment. And then we keep moving. We don’t have a choice.”

The words sit heavy in the air. You know he’s right. There’s no time to stop, no time to rest—not really. The dead don’t wait. And neither does the world that’s out to kill you.

You glance at Jay again. His lips are pale, his skin clammy. He shifts slightly, letting out a soft groan of pain.

“We’ll get him through this,” Heeseung says, his voice firm with quiet determination. “We’ve made it this far. We’re not losing anyone else.”

His words aren’t loud, but they don’t need to be. They carry weight, grounding everyone in a way that feels almost tangible. You watch as the effect of his reassurance ripples through the group, see how the flicker of hope reignites in their faces, how determination replaces the exhaustion etched into their features.

Your respect for Heeseung grows.

He isn’t trying to be the leader, isn’t trying to take Jungwon’s place, but his presence is undeniable. He’s become the steady force they need right now, the glue holding them together when everything feels like it’s about to fall apart.

And in that moment, you realise something you hadn’t before: maybe the strength of this group doesn’t rest on just one person. Maybe it’s not just Jungwon who holds them together.

It’s all of them.

All of them, picking up the pieces when one of them falters, stepping in without hesitation when someone needs support. Even if it means carrying more weight than they’re used to, they do it. Without complaint. Without hesitation.

And you can’t help but wonder if Jungwon knows.

Knows how much they lean on each other when he can’t carry the weight himself. Knows how much his own silence and retreat weigh on the group. Knows how they’re quietly filling the gaps he’s leaving behind, steadying themselves and each other without blame or resentment.

You wonder if he realises that even though he leads, it’s not his burden alone. It never was. It’s all of theirs, shared in a way that keeps them moving forward—even when it feels impossible.

And you want to believe him. Believe that you’ll get through this. But as you look at the dwindling supplies and the fading light of day, a gnawing doubt takes root in your chest.

You push yourself to your feet, brushing dirt from your hands as you glance around the makeshift camp.

“We can’t just sit here waiting for the rest of the world to collapse around us,” you say, breaking the silence. “I’m going into the forest to hunt. I could bring back some game for all of us.”

Heeseung immediately rises to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” you reply quickly. The sharpness in your tone makes him pause. “I’m going alone.”

Heeseung’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “It’s not safe out there. You shouldn’t—”

“I said no,” you cut him off, your gaze locking with his. There’s a finality in your voice that stops him from pressing further. Heeseung knows better than to argue with a woman bleeding her fury. His shoulders slump slightly, and he nods once, reluctantly stepping back.

The group needs Heeseung to rely on at the moment, and having him come along will only plunge them into deeper anxiety.

You know it’s dangerous not having anyone to watch your back. One wrong step or a moment of inattention could end everything. But that also means you don’t have to worry about watching someone else’s back.

And frankly, you’d rather be alone right now. You don’t have the capacity to look out for someone else. You’re mentally disoriented, emotions frayed and teetering on the edge of control. In this state, you’re probably more dangerous than the dead if someone presses the wrong buttons.

Human beings, right? How weak they are. Easily impressionable, quick to trust the wrong person, to follow blindly. Stupid, with an unmatched talent for self-destruction. They build, only to tear themselves apart. They cling to fragile hopes and ideals that crumble at the first sign of adversity.

It’s baffling how you and these people even made it through the initial chaos of the outbreak that rattled the world.

Without another word, you head toward the van. The air feels heavier with each step, your thoughts churning in your mind as you approach the vehicle. You reach the foot of the van, reaching down to grab your bag and Jay’s bow, when a familiar voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

You freeze, your hand still on the strap of your bag. Slowly, you turn to see Jay sitting upright in the van, his eyes half-lidded but sharp, piercing through the haze of pain he’s in.

Your heart skips a beat. He knows.

“What makes you say that?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Jay’s lips twitch into a faint, humourless smile. “Because I was going to. Back then… when I lost her.” His gaze drops to his lap, his fingers picking at the edge of the blanket covering his legs. “The pain was so unbearable that I didn’t think I could handle losing anyone else. I just wanted to be alone with her ghost.”

Your chest tightens at his words. There’s so much grief buried in his voice, a sadness so deep that it feels like it could swallow you whole.

“She must’ve really meant a lot to you,” you say.

“The world,” says Jay, his voice barely above a whisper. “She was my world. But then I found new meaning to keep going. To keep these people safe, no matter what it costs me.”

You shake your head, guilt settling in your chest like a stone. “Now, look at the state I’ve got you in,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “You’re not keeping anybody safe like this.”

Jay’s gaze lifts, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity that takes you by surprise. “I kept you safe, didn’t I?”

The weight of his words crashes over you like a wave. You don’t know what to say. You’ve never thought of yourself as someone worth saving—worth sacrificing for.

“Jay…” you trail off, your throat tight.

“Just promise me,” he says softly, his voice steady despite the pain etched into his features. “Promise me you won’t run off.”

You hesitate, your grip tightening on your bag. Lying to him feels wrong, but you can’t give him false hope. You can’t promise something you know you won’t keep.

So you compromise.

“I’ll make sure you’re alive before I do,” you say, your voice wavering with a bitter edge of truth.

Jay chuckles quietly, though it sounds more like a soft exhale of exhaustion. “That’s the best I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?”

You don’t answer, but your silence speaks volumes.

He leans back against the van’s wall, his gaze drifting to the sky outside. “You’re stronger than you think, you know. But you’re also more stubborn than you realise.”

You laugh softly, a sound that surprises even you. “Takes one to know one.”

Jay smiles faintly, but the warmth of it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… be careful. You’ve got more people who care about you than you think.”

His words settle into your chest, heavy and uncomfortable. You don’t respond. You can’t. The knot in your throat makes it impossible to speak.

Instead, you sling your bag over your shoulder and adjust your weapon, giving Jay one last look before turning away. His eyes follow you, but he doesn’t say anything more. As you walk toward the treeline, your footsteps slow. The implication of Jay’s words hangs over you, intertwining with the growing ache in your chest.

The forest feels heavier than it should. Each step you take presses down on the dry leaves and twigs beneath your boots, the crunch echoing in the otherwise still air. You keep your grip firm on the knife in your hand, eyes scanning your surroundings for any sign of movement. It’s eerily quiet, but that’s how it always is now. The world hasn’t made a sound in a long time—at least not the kind that reassures you that life still exists.

You don’t know how far you’ve walked. Maybe a mile. Maybe more. The camp is long out of sight, and the silence in the trees feels more oppressive with each step. There’s no wind, no birdsong, no rustling of leaves. Just you, your footsteps, and your thoughts.

I kept you safe, didn’t I?

It stings. Not because it’s untrue, but because it is. He did keep you safe. He took a bullet for you, risked his life more times than you can count. And what are you doing in return? Hunting pathetic game and picking berries hanging heavy off bushes.

You shake your head, forcing the thoughts away as you crouch near a patch of moss. There are tracks—faint, but there. Rabbits, maybe. Or something smaller. You run your fingers over the prints, noting their direction. They lead deeper into the forest.

The sun filters through the canopy above, casting long shadows across the forest floor. You keep your steps light, your ears straining for any sound of movement. A rustle in the bushes makes you freeze, your grip tightening on your weapon.

There—just ahead. A rabbit. It’s small, barely enough to feed one person, but it’s something.

You lower yourself into a crouch, holding your breath as you inch closer. Your heart pounds in your chest, the adrenaline sharpening your senses. You’re close enough now. Just a little further—

A snap of a twig under your foot.

The rabbit bolts, disappearing into the undergrowth.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, rising to your full height.

Frustration prickles at the edge of your nerves, but you force yourself to stay calm. This isn’t like the hunts you’ve seen on TV. There’s no waiting in a tree stand with a high-powered rifle. No camouflage, no bait. This is raw survival, and more often than not, you walk away empty-handed.

But you can’t go back empty-handed. Not today.

Determined, you keep moving, weaving through the trees with renewed focus. You’ve lost track of time, your eyes scan for more tracks, more signs of life. And then you hear it: the soft, melodic trickle of a stream.

A water source. Not just for you, but the animals. You move toward the sound, careful with your steps, until the trees part to reveal a small clearing. The stream cuts through the earth like a silver ribbon, its water sparkling in the late afternoon light.

And there it is. A deer. It’s young—small, but it’s enough. Enough to feed the group, to keep Jay’s strength up. Enough to make this trip worth it.

It stands on the other side of the stream. Its oblivious as it dips its head to drink from the cool water. The sight is almost magical, like a scene pulled from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

For a moment, you just watch. You can’t help it. The way the deer moves, the way the light plays on its fur—it feels like something out of a movie. You’re struck by how much has changed, how far removed the world has become from anything remotely beautiful. And yet here it is: beauty, in its purest, most natural form.

But reality quickly pulls you back. This isn’t a movie, and you’re not here to admire the scenery.

You crouch slowly, your movements calculated and silent. You reach for the bow slung over your shoulder, your fingers steady as you pull it into position. The string hums softly as you notch an arrow, your heart beating in sync with the rhythm of the forest. You take aim, your breath slow and controlled, the deer still unaware of your presence.

The release is smooth, and the arrow flies true. A soft thud follows as the arrow finds its mark. The deer stumbles, collapsing to the ground with barely a sound. Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by a twinge of guilt. It’s fleeting, though.

You move quickly, crossing the stream and kneeling beside the deer. Your hands are steady as you check its pulse, ensuring it passed without much suffering. You offer a silent thanks—not to a god, but to the animal itself—for what it’s giving you, for what it’ll mean to the others.

You do your best to drain the blood and skin the deer by the stream. It’s messy, your hands slick and trembling from the sheer mass of it, and the finished product is far from professional. But who’s complaining about fresh venison meat in the middle of an apocalypse?

When you return to the camp, the pleased expressions on their faces ignite a spark of accomplishment in your chest.

“Holy shit, you actually did it,” Sunoo breathes, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief as he stares at the game you’ve brought back.

Jake wastes no time updating you. “Jay’s been going in and out of consciousness. He’s desperate for something—anything—other than beans.”

You glance at Jungwon, half-expecting some critique or lecture about risks. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead, you catch the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough. Enough to know he’s grateful.

The rest of the group gets to work immediately, dividing the meat. Half of it is chopped into small cubes and added to the bubbling concoction of beans and ramen soup seasoning. The other half is sliced into smaller pieces, skewered onto sticks, and slowly roasted over the flames.

The waiting process is brutal.

The fire crackles, filling the silence as everyone stares at the cooking meat with unwavering focus, as if sheer willpower could make it cook faster. The air is thick with the scent of roasting venison, and stomachs rumble audibly, a cruel reminder of how long it’s been since anyone had a real meal.

Finally, Heeseung gives the go-ahead, and no one hesitates. They dig in with abandon, the first taste of fresh meat in what feels like forever sending a ripple of relief through the group.

Jake carefully scoops some of the broth into a makeshift bowl carved from wood and brings it to Jay in the van. When you catch Jay’s gaze, the look in his eyes says it all.

He’s grateful—not just for the food, but for the fact that you didn’t take off running into the woods.

The next morning—or afternoon, rather—everyone except Jungwon sleeps in, a luxury that feels foreign in this world. You never thought you’d use the phrase “overate” in the middle of an apocalypse, but that’s exactly what happened. With no way to preserve the meat, everyone unanimously agreed to finish it off while it was still good.

Jungwon looks noticeably better—calmer, more grounded—compared to the tense, hollow version of himself from the day before. By the time the camp starts packing up, he’s fully back in his role, directing the group with quiet authority.

Before long, you’re all on the move again, resuming the trip to the rest stop. The exhaustion lingers, but for now, this is a win. And in this world, wins like these are few and far between.

The sun dips low on the horizon by the time you arrive at the bus terminal leading out of the city, signalling that the rest stop is not far now—about another thirty minutes' drive. That is if you can get past the bus terminal without any hiccups.

The terminal looms like a forgotten monument—its once-bustling gates now a graveyard of cars, all frozen in time from when people tried to flee the city. Some doors hang ajar, others sealed shut. Windows cracked, tyres deflated, their drivers long gone—or worse, still inside.

The terminal is a bottleneck, leading into a wide expanse of roads out of Seoul. But it’s a choke point, too—a trap. You know that every car out there is a potential coffin, and every shadow could be hiding something worse. The dead don’t move until they hear or smell something alive. Something warm. Something vulnerable.

Like a van carrying eight passengers. One of which is bleeding out of a hole in his body.

The scent of Jay’s blood is thick in the confined space, metallic and unforgiving. It clings to your skin, your clothes, your thoughts. You glance back at him. He’s still pale, still barely holding on, Jake pressing a bloodied cloth against his side to stem the bleeding. But it won’t be enough. Not if you don’t keep moving.

“The last time I was here, I went on foot,” you murmur quietly to nobody in particular—maybe someone in particular but you try not to make it obvious. Your voice feels too loud in the tense silence. “Even then, it was risky. There are too many cars, too many places for them to hide.”

Jungwon doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, his grip on the rifle tightening with every passing second. “We don’t have that option now.”

No. You don’t.

“Why does this feel so eerie?” Sunoo’s voice breaks the silence, his usual sarcasm stripped down to unease. He leans forward from the back seat, resting his arms on the centre console. His eyes dart around the scene outside, scanning the cars and the deserted terminal. “Like we’re being watched.”

You don’t respond, but you feel it too—that creeping sense that you’ve just walked into something far more dangerous than you anticipated.

“Ni-ki, switch off the headlights,” Jungwon orders quietly. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an edge to it. A tension that pulls tighter with each passing second.

Ni-ki reaches for the switch, cutting the lights. Darkness swallows the road ahead, the only illumination now coming from the fading light of the setting sun. He carefully guides the van up the curb, circling around the edges of the terminal as quietly as possible.

You crane your neck, glancing out the window. Bodies sit slumped in the front seats of cars, their heads tilted at unnatural angles. Their hands still grip steering wheels, as though they never made it out of the city. Some are fully decayed, little more than skeletal remains in tattered clothes. Others… others look almost whole.

Your stomach churns. You’ve seen enough to know the difference.

The van bumps gently as it rolls over debris—discarded suitcases, backpacks, remnants of lives left behind. You catch sight of a baby seat in the back of one of the cars, a blanket still draped over it.

Don’t look too closely.

Don’t think about it.

“There,” Jungwon whispers, pointing to a narrow gap between two cars ahead. It’s barely wide enough for the van to squeeze through. “Go slow. Keep the engine quiet.”

Ni-ki nods, his hands steady on the wheel as he manoeuvres the van through the gap. The tyres crunch softly over gravel and shattered glass.

“Do you think they’re dead?” Sunoo whispers, his voice low and tense. You glance at him. His gaze is locked on a car to your right—a man slumped against the window, his face pressed to the glass. His eyes are closed, his mouth slack. He looks dead. But you’ve seen them wake before.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But we shouldn’t stay to find out.”

Jungwon presses his hand against the dashboard, leaning forward to get a better look at the road ahead. His knuckles are white, his expression unreadable. “Keep moving. Slowly.”

The van inches forward, navigating the maze of cars and debris. You press your hand against the door, your fingers twitching near the knife strapped to your leg. Every instinct in your body screams to stay alert, to be ready for anything.

But nothing happens. The van makes it through the terminal without incident. No sudden lurches of movement from the cars, no decayed hands clawing at the windows. Just silence. You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest easing ever so slightly.

Maybe the dead aren’t here after all.

Ni-ki steers the van onto the open road beyond the terminal, the cracked asphalt stretching endlessly ahead. The trees lining the road sway gently in the breeze, their rustling leaves the only sound aside from the low hum of the engine.

“We made it,” Ni-ki breathes out, leaning back in his seat with a relieved sigh. “Thank fuck.”

Even Jungwon’s shoulders relax, his grip on the rifle loosening just a fraction.

But the moment is fleeting.

A wet, rattling cough echoes from the back of the van and everyone’s heads snap toward the sound.

Jay.

He’s laying flat on the carpet, his face pale and slick with sweat. His hand, trembling slightly, presses against his wounded side. But it’s the blood staining his lips that catches your attention—the dark red smear he tries to wipe away before anyone can see.

“Jay?” Jake is the first to move, scrambling to his side. “Hey, look at me.”

Jay coughs again, harder this time, his whole body shaking with the effort. Blood spatters onto his shirt, onto Jake’s hands as he tries to steady him.

“Pull over!” Jake snaps, his voice urgent. “Now!”

Ni-ki doesn’t hesitate, swerving the van to the side of the road and bringing it to a screeching halt. The tyres crunch against the gravel, and the van shudders as it comes to a stop.

Jake lifts the cloth that’s been pressing onto the wound, checking with practised hands. His fingers come away slick with fresh blood. Too much blood.

Your eyes dart to the wound, taking in the angry, swollen edges and the telltale patches of red creeping outward, spidering across his skin. You don’t have to be a doctor to recognise the symptoms of blood poisoning.

“Fuck,” Jake mutters under his breath, grabbing a clean cloth from the med kit. He presses it against Jay’s side, applying pressure. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Jay lets out a weak laugh, his voice strained. “Yeah… figured.”

“Don’t joke about this,” Jake snaps, his usual calm demeanour cracking under the weight of the situation. “You should’ve told me the moment it got worse.”

Jay doesn’t respond. He just leans back against the carpet, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. His gaze flickers to you for a brief moment before closing again, like he’s too exhausted to hold it.

Jungwon is out of the van in seconds, sliding open the side door with a sharp tug. His movements are sharp, precise, but there’s an edge to them—a barely concealed frustration that you can practically feel radiating off him.

His footsteps crunch against the gravel as he paces in front of the vehicle, his hands resting on his hips, fingers digging into his sides. His shoulders are tense, rising and falling with each heavy breath, and his jaw clenches and unclenches in a steady rhythm. You can see it clearly: his mind spiralling through every possible scenario, none of them ending well.

And if you know Jungwon the way you think you do, he’s probably blaming himself. Blaming himself for stopping yesterday. Telling himself that if he hadn’t broken down, if he hadn’t let himself falter for even a moment, they’d have reached the rest stop by now. They’d be safer, better prepared, instead of stuck here with too many variables and not enough solutions.

It’s a vicious cycle. And no matter how many times you tell him it’s not his fault, you know he’ll never believe it.

Because that’s who Jungwon is. The leader who carries the weight of everyone’s survival. The one who always blames himself when things go wrong.

But it’s something you all should’ve seen coming. Considering the conditions and the crude materials Jake had to work with just to stem the bleeding, infection was always a risk—one you all silently hoped wouldn’t happen. But now, staring at the unmistakable signs spreading across his skin, you realise there’s no more denying it.

It also means his countdown has started. Time is slipping away, and with every passing minute, his chances of survival grow thinner.

“What do we do?” Sunoo asks quietly from inside the van. His usual sarcasm is gone, replaced by a cautious uncertainty that makes your chest tighten.

Jake doesn’t lift his head from where he’s crouched beside Jay, his hands pressing down on the makeshift bandage to stem the bleeding. “We need to stop the bleeding,” he says firmly. “But he needs rest. Proper rest.”

“There’s nowhere safe,” Jungwon mutters, still pacing, his eyes darting to the road and back again. “Not out here.”

You watch him carefully, noting the way he keeps flexing his fingers, like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, as if sensing your gaze, he stops abruptly and turns to you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, a flicker of something vulnerable slipping through the cracks of his usual calm exterior.

He’s looking to you for help.

It catches you off guard—this boy, who always seems to have the answers, who leads with quiet confidence and keeps the group together through sheer willpower. And now he’s standing there, staring at you like he’s out of ideas, like he needs you to have the solution he doesn’t.

Your gaze flickers to Jay. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. His skin is deathly pale, and sweat beads along his hairline. He’s slipping, and fast.

Your thoughts flash back to the moment he jumped in front of you, taking the bullet that should’ve been yours. The memory hits you like a punch to the gut. Hell, you don’t even know how you’d handle it if he died because of you.

Your mind races, turning over every possibility, every bit of knowledge you’ve gathered from surviving on your own. And then your eyes land on the bus terminal in the distance.

“Jake, what do you need?” you speak up, your voice steady despite the chaos in your mind.

Jake blinks, startled. “What?”

“What do you need to keep him alive?” you press. “Just name it. Whatever it is, we’ll find it.”

Jake’s brow furrows in thought, his hands still working on Jay’s bandages. “Well, it doesn’t look like it hit any major organs. That’s the only good news. The bullet is still inside, and I can’t wedge it out now without any equipment or at least antiseptic, it’ll only worsen the infection. He’s also lost way too much blood and is starting to burn up. If we don’t get antibiotics into him and stabilise his blood pressure, he’ll go into septic shock.”

“Jake, layman terms, please.” Sunghoon says as he pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated.

Jake sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Basically, if we don’t find the medicine and supplies he needs soon, he’ll die.”

The words hang there, unspoken fears suddenly given form. Silence falls over the group like a heavy blanket, pressing down on all of you harder than ever. The only sounds are Jay’s laboured breaths and the distant rustle of wind through the abandoned cars. You glance around at the others—Jungwon, Heeseung, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, and Sunoo—all of them wearing the same haunted expressions.

“There’s a drug store at the terminal,” you say, your voice breaking the silence. Everyone turns to you, hope flickering in their eyes, fragile but present. “If we can get behind the counters where they keep the prescription meds, we might find antibiotics. Maybe corticosteroids, TXA—whatever Jake needs.”

Jungwon’s gaze sharpens, locking onto you with unwavering focus. “You’ve been there?”

You nod, brushing stray hair from your face. “I passed through. There were supplies. But the locked room at the back? I couldn’t get in without making a lot of noise. I doubt anyone else would’ve been desperate enough to risk it, so there’s a good chance the medicine is still there.”

Jungwon straightens, adjusting the strap of his rifle across his chest. The cracks you saw earlier—the uncertainty, the fear—are gone, buried beneath that steely mask of determination he always wears when the group needs him most.

“We don’t have a choice,” says Jungwon, his tone resolute. “We’ll go. We’ll find what we need.”

“We?” Sunoo’s sceptical voice cuts through the tense air, his eyebrow arching. “Who’s we?”

“Me and Y/N,” Jungwon replies without hesitation. “The rest of you stay here with Jay.” His words leave no room for debate, but Ni-ki shifts uncomfortably, clearly wanting to protest. The severity in Jungwon’s voice, however, stops him in his tracks.

Jake speaks next, his eyes darting between you and Jungwon before ultimately fixing on you. “You can recognise the medicine, right? Make sure you get the antibiotics. Hard, strong ones. If we don’t hit him with the right stuff, it won’t make a difference.”

“I know what to look for,” you assure him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll grab everything we can.”

Jake exhales deeply, but his jaw remains tight. “I would offer to go myself, but if anything happens to him while I’m gone…” He trails off, glancing at Jay, who looks pale and lifeless where he lies.

“We got this,” you promise, your voice unwavering. “You focus on keeping him alive until we get back.”

“In the meantime,” you add, turning to the others, “two of you should head to the rest stop on foot. Scout the area for any signs of trouble. But be careful. If I’m wrong and The Future is still there, at least we won’t be driving straight into their crosshairs.”

Jungwon’s eyes linger on you again, something flickering behind his expression. It’s not just relief—it’s trust. He trusts you. Despite everything that’s happened, despite how little time you’ve spent with the group, he’s relying on you now.

“Yeah, that would be smart,” Heeseung says, stepping forward. “Sunoo and I can handle it. Ni-ki, Sunghoon and Jake should stay here and keep watch.”

“If we’re not back before you two, just leave without us. We’ll meet you halfway.” Heeseung adds, his voice even.

“And if we’re not back before you two, and the rest stop is safe, leave without us,” Jungwon says, his words carrying a weight that, unlike Heeseung, seems to hang in the air. His eyes lift to meet yours for a fleeting second—a silent understanding passing between you. “We’ll catch up.”

You give him a firm nod, mirroring his determination. Neither of you says it aloud, but the message is clear.

Failure isn’t an option.

“Let’s move,” Jungwon says, gripping his rifle tighter.

You and Jungwon move in silence, weaving between abandoned cars and twisted metal barricades. The stench of rot hangs in the air, thick and cloying, as if the dead themselves are watching, waiting for the right moment to lurch forward.

“Stay low,” Jungwon whispers, his voice barely audible over the crunch of gravel beneath your boots.

You nod, gripping your knife tightly as you press yourself against the side of a rusted bus. The terminal doors are just ahead, glass cracked but still intact. You glance at Jungwon, who gestures for you to move forward, his rifle at the ready.

The two of you approach cautiously, your steps light, deliberate. You catch a glimpse of movement inside—a lone zombie shuffling aimlessly near the entrance. Its clothes are tattered, blood smeared across its face, and its eyes… lifeless, yet all too aware of any sound that might bring it to life.

“I’ve got it,” you mouth, stepping forward. One quick jab to the temple and the zombie crumples to the floor, lifeless once more.

Jungwon nods approvingly, motioning for you to follow him inside. The terminal is eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. Dust clings to every surface, softening the outlines of benches and kiosks that haven’t been touched in what seems like forever. Abandoned bags and scattered belongings lie across the floor like forgotten memories, each one telling a story you’ll never know.

Your eyes settle on a battered duffle bag near the entrance. The fabric is torn in places, and the faded logo suggests it once belonged to someone travelling light, someone who never made it to their destination. You crouch down, brushing off the dust before carefully tipping out its contents—clothes, a water bottle, a crumpled photograph. The remnants of a life reduced to debris.

You shake the bag to make sure it’s empty, then stretch it open to inspect the inside. It’s worn but sturdy. This should be big enough to store the medicine you need.

You make your way toward the drugstore tucked in the corner of the terminal. The moonlight reflects faintly off the sign above it, and the sliding doors are stuck a quarter-open, jammed by an overturned display rack.

Inside, shelves are mostly bare, but you search diligently. Bandages, aspirin, paracetamol—all over-the-counter stuff. Useful, but not what you need.

“Jake said we need antibiotics,” Jungwon reminds you, scanning the shelves. “Strong ones.”

“I know.” You crouch down, rifling through the lower shelves, frustration growing with each passing second. “But they’re not here. They’re probably locked in the backroom.”

Jungwon’s gaze shifts toward the heavy door at the back of the store. It’s secured with a sturdy lock, the kind that won’t budge without serious force.

You try the handle out of instinct, even though you already know it’s pointless. Yet, there’s that stubborn flicker of hope gnawing at you, the same irrational hope that’s kept you going this far. Who knows? Maybe some other stragglers came through, just as desperate as you to save a life, and managed to open it. But alas, it’s locked tight.

“Of course it is,” you mutter, brushing dust off your hands.

“We could try prying it open,” Jungwon suggests, but you both know it’ll take too long—and make too much noise.

“The longer we’re here, the more we’ll draw them in,” you say, casting a wary glance toward the entrance. You’ve already seen a few zombies shuffle past the glass doors, their hollow eyes scanning the streets for movement. They’re not inside yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

Jungwon steps closer to the door, inspecting the lock with a critical eye. His fingers tighten around the rifle slung across his chest.

“I could shoot it,” he offers, his tone calm, measured. “One shot to take the lock out. We grab what we need and get out.”

You hesitate, weighing the risks. The sound will draw them in, no question. But how long would it take to pry the door open? Too long. Far too long.

Jungwon sees the conflict in your eyes and steps into your line of sight, forcing you to look at him. “We don’t have time to think this through,” he says softly. “Jay doesn’t have time.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. Jay—lying back at the van, clinging to life.

Time is not on your side.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Do it.”

Jungwon raises his rifle, aiming directly at the lock. His hands are steady, his breathing controlled. “On my signal, we run in, grab everything we can, and get out. Don’t stop. Don’t second-guess. Just grab and go.”

“Understood.”

You brace yourself as he pulls the trigger. The shot echoes through the terminal, deafening in the stillness. The lock shatters, pieces of metal scattering across the floor. The backroom door swings open, revealing shelves packed with boxes of prescription medication.

But the noise has done its job.

From outside, you hear them—the unmistakable groans of the dead, drawn to the sound like moths to a flame.

“They’re coming,” you whisper.

Jungwon glances over his shoulder, then back at you. “Move. Now.”

You bolt inside, heart pounding as you grab boxes at random—anything that looks remotely useful. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Anti-inflammatory meds. You shove them into the duffle bag with shaking hands, your mind racing.

Behind you, Jungwon is doing the same, his movements quick and efficient. But you can hear the groans getting louder, the shuffling of feet growing closer.

“They’re inside,” Jungwon warns, his voice tight with urgency.

You glance toward the entrance of the store. Shadows flicker across the broken glass as the first zombie pushes its way inside, its dead eyes locking onto you.

“We need to go,” you say, slinging the duffle bag over your head, the straps digging into your shoulders. Your voice is steady, but your pulse thunders in your ears. You can’t stay here any longer. The scent of blood and decay is thick in the air, and every second you linger feels like borrowed time.

Jungwon nods without a word, grabbing one last box before turning toward the door. The corridor is filled with the low, guttural moans of the undead, their decayed bodies pressing forward in a relentless wave. They trip over each other, stumbling through the narrow store entrance, their milky eyes locked on the two of you.

Another shot rings out as Jungwon takes down a zombie clawing its way through the entrance. The recoil barely seems to faze him, but you notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands tighten around the rifle. He’s running out of bullets, and both of you know it.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, glancing back at the growing horde. “We’re trapped.”

Your eyes dart around the store, searching desperately for another way out. There’s no back exit. The front is swarming with rotters. But then—your gaze catches on something above. A hatch in the ceiling, barely noticeable through the dim lighting.

“There!” you shout, pointing.

Jungwon follows your line of sight, spotting the hatch. Without a word, he slings the rifle over his shoulder and moves toward it. “I’ll boost you up,” he says quickly, lacing his fingers together to form a step.

“No,” you say, shaking your head as you glance back at the corridor. More zombies are pushing through, their groans growing louder, more desperate. “You go first. I’m lighter. It'll be easier for you to pull me up.”

Jungwon looks at you, torn. His jaw clenches, his eyes flicking between you and the hatch. “We don’t have time to argue—”

“Exactly!” you snap, your voice cutting through the rising noise. “There’s no time. Quick—go!”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His expression is hard, conflicted. But then he nods sharply, understanding that there’s no time for stubbornness. He turns and grabs the edge of the shelf beneath the hatch, pulling himself up with a grunt. The wood creaks under his weight, but it holds.

As soon as he’s up, he reaches down, his hand outstretched. “Grab on.”

You don’t hesitate. Throwing the duffle bag behind you, you jump, gripping his wrist tightly as he pulls you up. The muscles in his arm flex with the strain, his face set in determination. But just as you reach the edge of the crawlspace, a hand shoots up.

The rotted hand grabs your ankle, its grip like a vice, fingers digging into your skin. You let out a startled gasp, kicking instinctively, but the zombie holds on tight, pulling with surprising strength.

“No—shit!” you hiss, panic lacing your voice as you scramble to free yourself. The jagged wood around the hole splinters under your weight, cracking with each tug of the zombie’s hand.

“Y/N!” Jungwon’s expression shifting from urgency to pure panic in an instant.

Your body jerks violently, your chest slamming against the rough edges of the hatch. Pain blossoms through your ribs, but you barely register it over the sheer terror coursing through you. You kick wildly, your free leg connecting with something solid—bone, maybe—but it’s not enough to break its grip.

“I’ve got you,” Jungwon says through gritted teeth, his grip on your wrist tightening as he pulls you back. His eyes burn with determination, his muscles straining as he fights to keep you from being dragged into the swarm below.

“Fuck, fuck—” Your heart pounds in your chest, the sound of your own blood rushing in your ears. You twist your body, trying to free your leg, but the zombie’s fingers are locked around your ankle like steel clamps.

More hands start clawing up, fingers reaching, desperate to grab hold of anything living.

Jungwon shifts, bracing his feet against the frame of the hatch for leverage. “Hold on! Don’t let go.”

“I’m trying!” you snap, panic making your voice sharper than intended. But your hands are sweating, your grip slipping, your strength waning. Faster now that the duffle bag is weighing you down.

You feel the zombie’s filthy nails scrape against your skin, digging in deep enough to draw blood. The rancid smell of decay wafts up from below, making your stomach churn.

Then you hear it—the unmistakable growl of another one joining the frenzy. They’re piling up, climbing over each other to get to you.

“Jungwon!” you gasp, desperation clawing at your throat. “They’re going to—”

He doesn’t let you finish. In one swift move, he lets go of one hand holding onto you and reaches for his rifle, swinging it around with practiced precision. He doesn’t hesitate. He aims down through the gap and fires.

The zombie’s head jerks back, a sickening crack echoing through the crawlspace as the bullet finds its mark. The grip on your ankle loosens, and with a final desperate kick, you free yourself.

Jungwon grabs your arm again, hauling you up with a grunt. You collapse onto the platform beside him, gasping for breath, your chest heaving.

“Are you hurt?” Jungwon’s voice is calm, but there’s an edge of urgency to it. His eyes scan you quickly, looking for any signs of a bite.

“I’m fine,” you manage, still catching your breath. “It didn’t get me.”

He nods, stepping closer to you, his hand hovering near your shoulder. “You sure?”

You nod, though your heart feels like it’s about to burst from your chest. “Yeah… yeah.”

But you both know it’s a lie. You’re not okay. Neither of you is. You can still feel the ghost of that grip around your ankle, the way it clung to you like death itself. You meet his gaze, and for a moment, you see the concern etched into his features—the slight crease between his brows, the way his lips press into a thin line. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

“We need to go,” Jungwon says, his voice softer now but still firm. He brushes a lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a second too long before he pulls back.

You nod again, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You could’ve died. But even worse—if you hadn’t insisted Jungwon go first, he could have—no, there’s no “could’ve” about it. He would have died. You wouldn’t have had the strength to pull him up if the roles were reversed.

It’s always like this, isn’t it? The small choices. The split-second decisions that separate life from death. The apocalypse doesn’t give you time to reconsider, to take back your mistakes. If it had played out differently, if Jungwon hadn’t made it out of that hatch… you don’t think you’ll ever be able to face them again. Then, Jay would die. And The others wouldn’t survive much longer either.

The thought churns in your stomach, twisting like a knife. You force it down. There’s no room for regret. No time for fear. You’re still here. You’re not dead. Not yet. And you’ll make damn sure it stays that way.

“Y/N.” Jungwon’s voice pulls you from your spiralling thoughts. He’s a few paces ahead, glancing over his shoulder, his expression grim and serious. There’s a tension in his eyes that wasn’t there before, something raw and unspoken.

“Stay close. Please.”

His voice is quieter on that last word—almost a plea. It startles you more than anything else that’s happened so far.

You nod. “Got it.”

He peers over the edge of the roof, scanning the ground below for anything that can cushion your descent. His movements are quick, efficient, but you can see the weight he carries pressing down on his shoulders. He’s not just leading you right now; he’s holding everything together—the group, the plan, your survival—but more so himself.

“There.” Jungwon points to a vending machine tipped against the side of the terminal building. Its display glass is shattered, shards glinting in the fading light, and the machine itself is battered and empty. Still, it looks sturdy enough.

“We can use that to climb down.” says Jungwon.

He takes the lead without hesitation, lowering himself carefully over the edge and testing the machine’s stability before finding a footing on top of it.

Once he’s sure it can hold both your weight, he glances up at you and stretches out a hand.

“Come on.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you’re scared, but because something about the sight of him—standing there with his hand outstretched, waiting for you—makes your chest tighten. He doesn’t have to do that. He doesn’t have to look back for you. But he always does.

You slowly ease into him. His grip around your waist is firm, steady as he lands you gently beside him on the machine. And for a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that everything will be fine.

However, the moment your feet touches the ground, the sound of distant groans reaches your ears. It’s faint, but growing louder.

Jungwon’s fingers slip into yours without warning, his grip firm but not crushing. It’s instinctive—there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing, as though the simple act of interlocking his hand with yours is the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t pull away.

His palm is calloused, but his touch is grounding, like a tether keeping you from spiralling into the chaos around you. The warmth of his hand seeps into your skin, anchoring you to this moment.

The world around you feels like a blur—half-destroyed buildings and rusting cars blending together in the fading light. The distant groans of the undead echo from somewhere behind you, a haunting reminder that danger is never far. But Jungwon’s focus never wavers. His steps are quick but deliberate, each one calculated.

It’s like he knows exactly where to go.

The path ahead seems impossible to see—fog, shadow and debris blocking your view—but Jungwon moves with certainty, his eyes scanning the terrain with a sharpness that only someone used to surviving in this world could possess.

“Watch your step,” he says softly, guiding you around a cluster of jagged rocks and broken glass. His hand tightens slightly around yours as you stumble over a crack in the pavement. His fingers squeeze gently, a silent reassurance.

You glance at him, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of something rare—something softer beneath the hardened exterior he wears so well. His brows are drawn together in concentration, but his lips press into a line that seems more anxious than confident.

“Do you even know where we’re going?” you ask, your voice hushed.

“We just need to make it past the gate, can’t be that hard,” Jungwon says, his voice steady and composed, but the lack of conviction in his tone is deafening. He doesn’t look back as he speaks, his pace quickening as if he’s trying to outrun the weight of his own words.

It makes your chest ache. Even when he’s unsure, he keeps the facade up—for you, for everyone. To keep you hoping. To give you something to cling to, no matter how thin it might be. But Jungwon knows better than to hold you to meaningless reassurances. He knows you don’t believe it, not really. Yet he says it anyway, maybe out of habit. Maybe because it’s all he knows how to do.

You wonder if he’s afraid. Surely, he must be. Only you’re not sure if that fear is directed towards the dead.

Before you can think too much, Jungwon halts abruptly, the sudden stop jolting you out of your spiralling thoughts. His hand clamps around your wrist as he pulls you forward, weaving through the maze of rusted and abandoned cars, his grip firm, unrelenting. His movements are sharper now, deliberate, and it doesn’t take much to realise he’s actually running from something.

You want to turn back, to see what it is that’s chasing you, but Jungwon doesn’t give you the chance. His arm loops around your waist, and before you know it, he’s hoisting you onto the back of a battered lorry that looks like it’s barely holding itself together. You don’t have time to ask what’s going on before he’s climbing up after you, throwing a filthy, moth-eaten tarp over the both of you, cocooning you in darkness.

“What—” The question barely escapes your lips before his hand presses against your mouth, silencing you. His other arm braces over your body, shielding you.

Then you hear it.

A sound that chills you to your very core. Low, guttural groans, and the unmistakable shuffle of dozens—no, more than dozens—of dragging feet. The dead are close. Too close.

They’re moving past you, the tarp hiding you from their vacant stares, but the proximity makes your breath hitch in your throat. It’s not just one or two. The sound is overwhelming, the groans echoing all around you like a sinister symphony of death. You can feel the vibrations through the lorry’s frame, the weight of their movements too much to ignore.

But it’s not just the horde that sends a chill down your spine. It’s the direction they came from.

The van.

Your mind races, panic clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Did Heeseung and Sunoo make it back to the van? Did the dead catch onto Jay’s blood? Are they— No. You can’t think about that. You can’t let your mind spiral like this. Not now.

Jungwon’s hand shifts slightly, his grip loosening as he removes it from your mouth. You’re on the verge of falling apart, the weight of everything threatening to crush you. But then you feel it—a gentle squeeze around your waist. Reassuring, grounding.

You glance up, meeting Jungwon’s eyes in the dim light filtering through the tarp. His gaze locks onto yours, steady and calm despite the chaos around you. He’s saying something without words, speaking to you through his expression.

They’re okay. I know they are.

The words ring silently in your mind, a fragile lifeline in the sea of doubt. But even as you hold onto that unspoken promise, you know.

Even Jungwon can’t say for sure.

The tension is suffocating, thick enough to choke on as the minutes crawl by at an excruciating pace. Every second drags painfully, your body tense and your breathing shallow, afraid that even the smallest sound will betray your presence. The groans of the undead echo just beyond the tarp, their shuffling feet and guttural rasps terrifyingly close.

You force yourself to take stock of your position, assess how easy it would be for you to get up and run if the situation permits. You’re lying on your side, pressed tightly against Jungwon. His body is turned towards you, his arm cradling your head while his other hand rests firmly on your waist.

You try to shift slightly, attempting to ease the weight off his arm. The last thing you want is to make this uncomfortable for him on top of everything else. But before you can move much further, Jungwon’s grip tightens. His hand presses gently but firmly against the back of your head, pulling you closer to his chest until your cheek is practically resting against his collarbone.

“Stop moving, will you?” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. The low timbre of his voice sends a chill down your spine, a contrast to the heat emitting from his body.

Your breath hitches, not just from the tension of the situation but from the unexpected intimacy of it. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek, grounding you in a way that feels strange and unsettling. You nod slightly, a silent agreement to stay still, and Jungwon relaxes just a fraction, his hand still resting on the curve of your waist.

The world outside the tarp feels like it’s closing in, the groans of the dead growing louder before tapering off again as the horde slowly moves on. Each sound sets your nerves alight, your muscles tensing involuntarily as you wait for the inevitable moment when one of them will catch a whiff of life and turn back. But that moment doesn’t come. Not yet.

Beneath the tarp, the silence between you is thick, heavy with unspoken words and unacknowledged emotions. You can’t bring yourself to look up at him, but you feel the weight of his gaze, protective and steady even in this precarious situation.

You stay under the tarp for what feels like hours, though you’re not sure how much time has passed. The groans of the horde slowly grow more distant, but the occasional shuffle of feet or guttural rasp reminds you they’re still out there—stragglers lingering behind.

Jungwon hasn’t moved, his arm still lightly draped around your waist. His breathing is steady, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. He’s waiting, listening, calculating. You don’t dare to speak, your heart hammering against your ribs as you lie there in silence.

Eventually, the noise dwindles to nothing more than faint echoes. Jungwon tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he listens intently for any signs of danger. After what feels like an eternity, he lets out a quiet exhale and shifts slightly, lifting the edge of the tarp just enough to peer out.

“Come on,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. You nod, following his lead as he slides out from under the tarp and drops to the ground.

The air feels heavier now, thick with the stench of decay. The horde might have passed, but the stragglers are everywhere.

Jungwon motions for you to follow, his movements silent and deliberate. You mimic his steps, keeping low and hugging the shadows of the abandoned vehicles. The slightest misstep could draw their attention, and you’re hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric as you move.

As you near the edge of the terminal, your eyes dart frantically across the barren lot, scanning for any sign of the van, of Heeseung and Sunoo, of the others. The silence feels heavy, pressing against your ears as you search. But all you see is emptiness—the van is gone.

For a moment, dread begins to creep in, whispering that maybe—just maybe—they didn’t make it. And then it hits you.

The van is gone.

Thank fucking god.

Jungwon’s hand brushes against yours, snapping you out of your thoughts. He points towards the tyre tracks leading away from the terminal, faint but unmistakable in the dirt.

“They made it out, they’re alive,” Jungwon murmurs, his voice low but filled with conviction. His words aren’t just for you—they’re for himself too. A reassurance that the others are okay. That the plan worked.

Relief washes over you like a wave, but it’s quickly replaced by a new urgency. Your thoughts snap back to the weight of the bag on your shoulder, heavy with the precious medicines and supplies you risked everything to find.

“Jay’s medicine,” you say, your voice breaking the silence.

Jungwon nods, already stepping forward, his rifle at the ready as his eyes sweep the path ahead. There’s no time to waste. Not with Jay’s life hanging on a silver thread.

“Let’s go, it’s not far now.”

The walk to the rest stop is weighed down by silence. Every step feels heavier than the last, each one dragging you further into your own thoughts. There’s a thousand things you want to say—words that linger at the back of your throat, pressing against your chest—but you can’t seem to summon the courage to speak them out loud.

You glance at Jungwon from the corner of your eye, half-expecting to catch him doing the thing. The thing where he sneaks glances at you when he has something to say but is not sure how, only to avert his gaze nervously the moment your eyes meet. But this time, there’s none of that. His focus is locked ahead, his expression unreadable.

He has nothing to say to you.

The silence follows you like a shadow, lingering even as you catch sight of the van parked in the clearing. Relief flickers in your chest for a brief moment, but it’s quickly snuffed out when your gaze shifts to the towering barricade surrounding the rest stop.

It’s clearly the work of some powerful force. Military-grade equipment is woven through the defences, the barb wire circling the top of the enclosure glinting under the moonlight. Wooden spikes line the perimeter like jagged teeth, making it abundantly clear that this place was never meant to welcome anyone.

Which is weird because the last time you passed through this place in search for food, it was nothing more than an open rest stop. It’s not one of the sprawling ones you’d find further down the expressway, but it’s big enough. Big enough to refuel, grab a bite, and carry on your way.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow as he takes in the scene. His hand hovers near his rifle, fingers flexing restlessly. “Looks fortified,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

“Too fortified,” you mutter, your gaze following the stretch of barricades. The gas station and the attached convenience store sit within the enclosure like something out of a nightmare—a beacon of hope warped into something far more sinister.

The location is perfect. Open road for miles, no trees or buildings to block your view. If a horde approached, you’d see it long before it became a threat. Which begs the question...

Why the hell is it abandoned?

You approach the van slowly, your footsteps crunching softly against the gravel. With every step, your heart pounds louder in your chest. Half of you expects to see it empty, and when you peek inside, you find that you’re right.

“They must be inside,” you murmur, glancing towards the barricade.

Jungwon doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his tension in the way he grips his rifle tighter. He’s thinking what you are—if they’re inside, why is everything so quiet?

You both make your way to the gate. It’s slightly ajar, swaying just enough to make you think it’s been left that way deliberately. You hesitate before pushing it open, and the rusty metal gives a screech that cuts through the eerie silence. The sound makes you wince, setting your teeth on edge. But nothing stirs.

You step inside cautiously, your eyes sweeping the area. The gas station looms ahead, the broken windows glinting like jagged shards of glass. The convenience store sits just beyond it, the door perfectly intact which is more than what you can say for other places you’ve scavenged. Everything looks wrong—too clean, too still, too quiet.

Not a single living soul in sight.

You glance at Jungwon, who’s scanning the surroundings just as intently as you are. His brow is furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. You know what he knows, even without him telling you. In this case, it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

People like The Future don’t abandon their posts. Not without a damn good reason.

“No way they’d leave a set-up like this behind.” Jungwon whispers, the words barely audible

The door to the convenience store glides smoothly as you push it open, the stale air inside rushing out to meet you. The smell of dust and old wood fills your lungs as you step inside cautiously, your eyes darting around the room. It’s dark, but even with the dim light filtering through the cracked windows, you can see the shelves are completely gone.

In their place are makeshift beddings—sleeping bags spread out haphazardly, blankets thrown over crates to make impromptu mattresses. There are even personal belongings scattered around—boots lined neatly by a corner, a few scattered pieces of clothing draped over the back of chairs.

Your stomach knots. This wasn’t how the place looked the last time you were here.

Your eyes drift down to the floor, and that’s when you see them—a cluster of bags, familiar ones. Your breath catches in your throat as you step closer. You kneel down, running your hands over the straps, the worn fabric.

These aren’t just any bags. They belong to your group.

Heeseung’s patch-covered backpack. Jake’s med kit bag. Even Sunoo’s colourful duffle that Ni-ki has been begging him to cover with mud to conceal the colours.

Panic rises in your chest like a tidal wave. “No,” you whisper under your breath, shaking your head. “No, no, no…”

You scramble to your feet, stumbling towards the back of the store. “Heeseung? Sunoo? Jake?” Your voice echoes through the empty space, growing more frantic with each name. “Sunghoon? Ni-ki? Jay?”

Silence.

“Where are they?” you mutter, spinning around, eyes darting from one shadowed corner to the next. “Where the fuck are they?”

“Y/N.” Jungwon’s voice is firm, grounding. “We’ll find them.”

But you’re already moving, your gaze locking onto something near the far wall—a door. It’s subtle, blending almost perfectly into the wallpaper, but the peeling edges give it away. There’s no handle, just a faint outline of a frame.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach it cautiously. You glance at Jungwon, who gives a small nod, his rifle raised. With a deep breath, you press your hand to the door and push.

The door swings open easily, revealing a dimly lit room beyond. The room must be soundproof, because the moment the door opens, the noise rushes out—a mixture of hushed conversation and distant shuffling. The voices are familiar. Too familiar.

Your hand trembles as you push the door fully open, stepping inside.

The first thing you see is Jay.

He’s sitting upright right beside the door frame, leaning against the wall, his head resting back. His shirt is still stained with blood, but you can see his torso is wrapped up with fresh bandages. His eyes flutter open when he hears the door creak, and he turns his head slowly to look at you.

“Hey,” you whisper, crouching low to meet his eye, your voice cracking with emotion. “Are you okay?”

Jay gives you a weak smile, his lips twitching at the corners. He doesn’t speak but you can tell he’s happy to see you two alive.

Relief crashes over you, so overwhelming that your knees nearly give out beneath you. Before you can say anything else, Jungwon’s voice pulls your attention.

“Y/N,” he calls out, stepping into the room behind you. His voice holds a mix of awe and disbelief. “Look.”

You follow his gaze and finally take a good look around.

The shelves—the ones that had been removed from the front of the store—are all here. Lined neatly in rows, stacked with canned goods, MREs, bottles of water, medical supplies, ammos. Enough to last an entire year or more with careful rationing. More than you’ve ever seen in one place since the world ended.

“Holy shit,” you breathe out, taking a slow step forward.

Jungwon lowers his rifle, his expression unreadable as he scans the room. “They’ve been stockpiling.”

Your fingers brush over a can of soup on one of the shelves. It’s pristine, untouched. Like it’s been waiting here just for you.

“Jungwon? Y/N?”

The voice comes from the back of the room, faint but unmistakable. Your head snaps around, your heart thumping in your chest. It’s too dim to make out his face at first, but the familiarity of that voice cuts through the haze of exhaustion like a knife.

“Jake,” Jungwon breathes, his steps quickening as he strides toward the figure emerging from the shadows.

Jake barely has time to react before Jungwon wraps him in a tight hug, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. “Fuck, man,” Jungwon mutters, his voice rough with relief. “I’m glad you lot are okay.”

Jake pats him on the back, his own relief evident in the way he sags slightly into the embrace. “We thought something happened,” he says, pulling away. His face is tired, dark circles shadowing his eyes, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We heard the gunshot. Sunghoon and Ni-ki wanted to go after you, but then the horde started coming down on us.”

He pauses, glancing over at you. “We waited as long as we could, but Jay’s wound…” Jake’s voice trails off, his expression tightening. “We were afraid the dead would catch the scent of his blood.”

You barely process what he’s saying. Your mind is too busy counting heads, scanning the room for the others. They’re safe. They’re alive

“Yeah, we ran into a bit of trouble,” Jungwon says, glancing at you briefly before turning back to Jake. “But good news—we got the antibiotics you needed.” He pulls the bag from his shoulder and opens it, revealing boxes of prescription medicine that even The Future can’t get their hands on.

Jake’s eyes widen as he takes in the haul. “Shit. Damn. Don’t be disappointed, Jay. Looks like you’re living another day.” His grin is infectious, a flash of humour cutting through the tension. “That rhymes, by the way. And that too.”

Jay lets out a weak laugh from his spot on the floor. “Looks like you’re the one disappointed, Jake.”

The warmth of their banter spreads through the room, and for a brief moment, everything feels normal. The tension in your chest loosens slightly, but you know it won’t last. It feels fragile. Like a glass bubble that could shatter at any second.

“I already took the bullet out,” Jake says, pulling you from your thoughts. “Thanks to the supplies stockpiled here. And thank fuck this room’s soundproof, because he was screaming like a bloody baby.” Jake crushes a tablet into a cup of water and holds it out to Jay, who takes it with a grimace.

Your gaze drifts across the room. It’s genuinely surreal. “What is this place?” you murmur, still taking it all in.

Jake shrugs. “Heaven in hell, apparently.” He gestures toward the far end of the room. “There’s a basement too. Stocked to the brim.”

The sound of footsteps draws your attention. From the shadows, Sunoo emerges, a flashlight in hand, its beam bouncing off the walls in jagged patterns. His grin is wide, lighting up his face in a way you’ve rarely seen since you’ve been with this group. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, his steps light, his voice carrying a note of relief that feels almost out of place in this grim, desolate world.

“Thank god you’re both okay!” he exclaims, rushing towards you and Jungwon, his feet barely touching the ground as he moves. The rest of them follow suit, trailing beind him.

“Have you seen this place? The supplies would last us for months! And that barricade outside—it’s miles better than the one we had before.” Sunoo exclaims.

That’s the thing. You have seen this place. And it wasn’t like this.

Your stomach twists as dread coils in your chest. Slowly, you shake your head. “Something’s not right,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. “When I came here two months ago, it wasn’t like this. There were no barricades. No fortifications. It was just… a regular rest stop.”

Heeseung turns towards you with a frown. His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his face. “I could’ve sworn they marked this place on one of their maps back at base camp. Captain Hwang showed it to me when I got promoted in the security department.”

“Maybe it was a work-in-progress,” Jake suggests, his voice steady but thoughtful. “They could’ve started building it but hadn’t fully moved in when Y/N passed through.”

You can hear the curiosity in his voice, the way he’s already trying to rationalise what you’re saying. It’s how they survive—by making sense of things, by explaining away every lingering threat until it no longer feels like one.

“Maybe,” you admit reluctantly, though the unease gnawing at your gut doesn’t let up. ”But it’s clearly no longer a work-in-progress. Whoever built this will come back.”

Heeseung runs his finger along one of the shelves, lifting a thick layer of grime and holding it up for everyone to see. “No one’s been here in a while. Those sleeping bags outside? Covered in dust. Same with these shelves.”

Dust means time. Time means abandonment. But why? Why would anyone leave behind a place fortified this well, stocked with enough supplies to last a year? Which in apocalypse standard time, it might as well be a lifetime.

Your gut twists uncomfortably. “Like Jake said, this is heaven in hell. An oasis in the desert. It just doesn’t make sense, why would anyone leave all this behind? It’s not safe to stay here. We should grab whatever we can carry and keep moving.”

The moment those words leave your mouth however, a heavy silence falls over the room, heavy and suffocating. You glance around, catching the way their faces shift—how exhaustion weighs down their expressions, dulling the sharp edges of fear and worry. That’s when it hits you.

They’ve already made up their minds.

They’re tired. Tired of running. Tired of scraping by on borrowed time. Tired of surviving without truly living. And this place, with its sturdy barricades and stockpiled supplies, promises them something they haven’t had in a long time.

A home.

They see this place as a refuge. A chance to finally stop running. The desire to settle down, to stop looking over their shoulders, has taken root, pulling them in like a siren’s song. But it’s nothing but a lie—a lie that this world has dangled in front of you far too many times.

You turn to Jungwon, hoping—praying—that he’ll say something. That he’ll back you up. That he’ll remind them of what you all know deep down: nothing good ever comes easy in this world.

But when your eyes meet his, your heart sinks.

Because you see it in him too. That same exhaustion. That same longing for rest. The desire to finally stop running.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice amidst the rising panic in your chest. “Jungwon, you know we can’t stay,” you say, your voice quieter than you’d like.

Jungwon looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. There’s a heaviness in his gaze, a weariness that mirrors your own. He knows you’re right. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag just slightly, in the way he presses his lips together like he’s trying to stop himself from agreeing.

Because places like this don’t just get abandoned without a reason. The apocalypse is full of these places, scattered across the country like cursed relics of a civilisation long gone. You’ve learned the hard way that anything that looks too good to be true usually is.

But before Jungwon can say anything, Ni-ki steps forward. His expression is calm, collected, his eyes calculating as they sweep across the room. “Whoever left these supplies behind will come back,” he says, his voice steady. “But when they do, they’ll find eight armed individuals. If we play our cards right, we could secure this place.”

Jake nods. “Jay isn’t fit to move. He needs rest if he’s going to fight off the infection. We’ve got medicine, sure, but if we keep running, he won’t stand a chance.”

“I’m with Ni-ki on this,” Sunoo adds. “This place is too good to give up. It gives us a fighting chance against whatever’s out there.”

Your frustration boils over before you can stop it. “And what makes you think whatever’s out there won’t find a way in here?” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. The room falls silent again, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

Ni-ki’s glare cuts through the stillness like ice. His jaw tightens, his arms crossing over his chest. “You’re the one who led us here,” he says, his voice low and biting. “And now you want us to leave all this behind?”

The guilt hits you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. He’s right. You did lead them here. Just like you led them into every bit of danger that almost cost them their lives; the motel, the village, the bus terminal—and now, here. Every risk, every danger—it all ties back to you. And now they’re looking at you like you’ve betrayed them.

“I didn’t bring you here to settle,” you say quietly, the weight of your own words pressing down on your chest. “I brought you here to survive.”

Ni-ki doesn’t waver. His voice remains steady, calm. “We will survive. We can survive here. We don’t need to keep running.”

And that’s when you realise.

They’ve already stopped running.

Your chest tightens as Ni-ki’s words settle over the group like a final verdict. The exhaustion, the constant fear—it’s worn them down to the point where even the slightest hope of stability feels like salvation.

And who could blame them? You’ve all been running for so long, barely surviving. This place offers a lifeline, however fragile it may be.

But it doesn’t feel right.

It can’t be right.

Jungwon hasn’t spoken since you addressed him directly, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces. You watch him carefully, hoping for that flicker of leadership you’ve come to depend on, the clarity he always brings in moments of uncertainty. But it’s not there. Instead, there’s a weariness that drags him down like chains around his ankles.

“You’re right,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. It catches you off guard, making your heart skip a beat.

“We’ve been running for too long.”

Your stomach twists. No. He’s giving in.

“But—” he adds, glancing up to meet your gaze. “We’re not settling blindly. We don’t know why this place was abandoned, and we can’t afford to assume it’s safe. We secure it. We prepare for the worst.”

There’s a collective exhale from the group, the tension easing slightly. Ni-ki nods in agreement. “We fortify the barricade. Set up traps, expand our perimeter. If anyone comes back, they’ll regret it.”

“I’ll keep an eye on Jay. He’s stable for now, but he needs proper rest.” Jake says, wiping his hands on his jeans as he rises from where he was crouching beside Jay.

Sunoo chimes in next, his voice lighter than before. “I’ll start taking stock of the supplies. We need to ration carefully if we’re staying.”

Everyone seems to fall into place, tasks assigned and agreed upon with a silent understanding. But you remain still, your hands clenched at your sides, heart pounding in your chest.

“Jungwon.” You call his name softly, pulling him aside as the others begin to disperse.

He follows you out of the room without question, the two of you stepping into the cool night air outside the barricade. The wind carries the faint scent of petrol and dust, mingling with the metallic tang of lingering fear.

Jungwon’s gaze is locked on the barricade, his rifle hanging loosely in his grip. You watch him for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly. There’s exhaustion in the way he stands, a bone-deep weariness that makes your chest ache. And it’s more than just physical fatigue. You see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the void behind his eyes.

“You know this is a mistake,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “You know better than anyone that places like this don’t stay safe.”

Jungwon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I know it’s a risk.”

“Then why are you letting them believe it’s safe?”

He looks at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. “Because they need it. We need it.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling over. “And what happens when whoever built this place comes back? When they’re more armed, more prepared than we are?”

“We’ll handle it,” he says firmly.

“Jungwon—”

“I can’t keep running.”

You blink, taken aback by the vulnerability in his tone. You’ve seen him tired, stressed, angry—but this is different. He’s crumbling under pressure.

“I can’t keep dragging them from place to place, always looking over my shoulder,” he continues, voice cracking slightly. “I’m tired, Y/N. We all are. This might not be the perfect solution, but it’s what we have right now.”

The words settle between you like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river. They’re heavy, filled with truths you know too well. But another weight—one you’ve been carrying since the village—presses down on you harder.

“You hate me, don’t you?” Your voice comes out quieter than you expect, almost swallowed by the night air. It’s not really a question. More of a statement.

Jungwon’s brow furrows as he glances at you. “I don’t.”

“You regret letting me come along,” you press, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’ve done nothing but put you all through hell since you let me in.”

“Y/N—”

“No, listen.” You take a breath, forcing yourself to keep going. “Ni-ki doesn’t have to say it, but I know he thinks I’ve got no clue what I’m doing most of the time. And he’s right! Half the time, I’m winging it.”

“Y/N.”

“And you—” Your voice trembles as you continue. “You keep risking your life to protect me, and I don’t even know why. I should’ve just let that zombie bite me in the auto shop. I was supposed to go down with the city that day. Hell, I should’ve taken that bullet. I—”

“Y/N!” Jungwon’s voice cuts through your rambling like a knife, sharp and commanding. He steps closer, turning to face you fully. His eyes bore into yours, intense and unwavering.

It silences you instantly.

“Stop,” he says quietly, almost pleading. “Stop doing this to yourself.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“Ni-ki’s just frustrated. He doesn’t think that about you. And you can’t put us through hell if we’re already living in it.” His voice softens further, exhaustion creeping into his words. “I don’t regret making the decision to keep you. Jay would never forgive himself if something happened to you. And I don’t hate you.”

There’s a pause, and then he adds, so quietly you almost miss it, “I hate myself. For letting the world get to me.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. For a moment, you can’t think of anything to say. You’ve never seen him this vulnerable, this open. It’s both unsettling and grounding, and you feel the cracks in your own walls widening.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, your voice trembling. “You hate me for driving you this way. It’s not the world. The world doesn’t have anything on you.”

Jungwon tilts his head slightly, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk. “And you think you have the power to influence me in ways the world can’t?”

You let out a shaky laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “No. But I think you look at me like I could be someone who can finally lift the burden of leadership off your shoulders. You trust my calls. You listen to my opinions. And what I said back at the field, about justice and revenge—you weren’t just listening. You were thinking.”

He doesn’t deny it. His gaze flickers, but he stays quiet, letting you speak.

“Thinking about how maybe I might have a point,” you continue. “Thinking about how you might have been approaching the world the wrong way. But that’s the thing—I don’t want you to think. To second-guess what you’ve always believed in just to weigh mine in.”

Your voice falters slightly, but you push on. “I don’t want you to change. You don’t owe me or the world anything. Fuck the world. To hell with it.”

Jungwon lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re hating the world. As ironic as that is.”

The comment catches you off guard. Cute? Your brows furrow in confusion as your mind scrambles to process his words. How can he crack a joke right now?

But there’s something about the way he says it—the way his lips twitch into the faintest smile, the way his eyes soften just a little. He’s trying to lighten the moment, to ease the tension that hangs between you like a noose.

And it works. Sort of.

“I don’t want to hate the world,” you murmur, your gaze locking onto his. Your voice is softer now, raw. “After all, it has all of you in it.”

Jungwon’s expression shifts, his playful smirk fading into something more serious. His gaze lingers on you, studying your face like he’s searching for something he can’t quite name.

“It’s not just about what you said. If that’s what you’re wondering.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “I felt it—the blinding rage for justice… or revenge.”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you turn to him fully, waiting for him to continue.

“When he had you in that chokehold,” he says, his jaw tightening at the memory, “my mind switched off. I wasn’t even thinking. All I knew was that I couldn’t let you die. I picked up that rifle and pulled the trigger without a second thought. And when Jay…” ”

His voice cracks, the name catching in his throat. He stops, closing his eyes briefly to steady himself before speaking again. “When Jay took that bullet for you, I lost it. I completely lost it. That’s when I started thinking about what you said.”

“And you’re right,” he continues, voice quieter now. “If either of you had died right there and then, I would’ve done worse than just give him a quick death.”

You blink rapidly, struggling to process his words. The sheer depth of his emotions is overwhelming, leaving your mind scrambling for a response.

What Jungwon is saying is valid. You know that deep down. You would’ve done things—unimaginable, unspeakable things—if Jay, Jungwon, or anyone else had died. You would’ve burned the world down, torn apart every last remnant of civilisation if it meant protecting them.

But that’s what makes this even harder to hear. Because it also means Jungwon truly, deeply cares for you. The same way you truly, deeply care for them.

And that wasn’t part of your plan.

Noticing your loss for words, Jungwon seizes the moment to press on, his tone quieter, more reflective. “And you’re also right… I don’t like the fact that their lives are practically in my hands. It’s suffocating.”

He pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “But when you came along… I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. You know how to make the hard calls, the split-second decisions that mean life or death. And all I’ve been doing is leading this group away from those problems. Trying to avoid them. Making decisions in their stead so they don’t have to. Hoping they’ll never have to face it.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a good problem to have,” you shake your head, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

Jungwon huffs out a dry laugh, one that barely passes for amusement. “No, it’s not.” He pauses, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in every movement.

“Jungwon,” you say softly, your voice careful. He doesn’t look at you immediately, so you step closer, catching his gaze. “You’re not sheltering them the way you think you are.”

That gets his attention. His brows furrow slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What?”

“These people aren’t following you because you’re their leader,” you continue, your tone gentle but firm. “They’re following you because you’re you. They trust you, even if it costs them everything.”

“And you’ve done a phenomenal job keeping them alive, better than most would” you add, your voice softening. Jungwon stays quiet, his gaze flicking to the ground, as if he’s trying to process your words. You can tell he’s not used to hearing this—compliments don’t seem like something he knows how to take.

He exhales sharply, a sound caught between frustration and exhaustion, his shoulders slumping as if the weight he’s been carrying has suddenly doubled.

“I never asked to lead,” he murmurs, the words heavy with quiet resentment.

“But that’s the thing about responsibility, isn’t it? You don’t get to pick and choose when it falls on you.” you say.

For a moment, he just stands there, his lips pressed into a thin line. You can see the conflict playing out in his expression—the part of him that wants to argue, to deny what you’re saying, because he doesn’t believe it himself. But there’s another part—a quieter, more vulnerable part—that knows you’re right. That knows he’s been carrying this burden far longer than anyone should have to.

“Jungwon,” you whisper, stepping closer. “This place… it feels wrong, and you know it. They trust you. If you tell them to leave, they’ll listen. They’ll pack up and—”

“This place,” he interrupts, his tone deliberate and resolute, cutting through your words like a blade. “It’s hope. Something that these people need now more than anything. And if they think it’s worth fighting for, it is.”

His voice carries the finality of someone who’s already made up his mind. You don’t miss the way his gaze hardens, the way his jaw tightens as he speaks. He doesn’t say it outright, but you can tell he’s not just talking about the others.

This place is hope for him too.

It’s all they have left now, after everything else has crumbled—their faith, their humanity, their belief in something better. And now that their previous hope of holding on to what made them human has shattered—by the likes of you—they’re desperate. Clinging to anything that might give their lives meaning.

And once hope takes root, there’s nothing you can do to convince him otherwise. Jungwon has already decided that this is where they’ll make their stand, no matter how dangerous it might be.

And if Jungwon isn’t leaving, none of them will.

They’ll stay. They’ll fight. And they’ll fall right into the trap of whoever left it here. And the worst part?

They’ll do it willingly.

For hope. For him.

You glance at Jungwon again, noticing the way his eyes drift toward the barricade behind you, scanning the treeline and the roads as if he’s mapping out every possible threat in his head. Even in a rare moment of rest, he’s on guard. Always looking out for them. Always protecting. Always leading.

And in this moment, a realisation settles heavily in your chest—you don’t actually know him the way you think you do.

Because unlike Jungwon, you’ve never had to carry the weight of leading people. You’ve never had to shoulder the responsibility of keeping them alive, day after day. You’ve never had to watch people you care about die because of decisions you made.

You wouldn’t even count the people back at the community building among the people you care about. Sure, you’d shared meals, traded supplies, and worked together to keep the place standing. But at the end of the day, that’s all it was—a band of survivors benefiting from each other’s abilities. A mutual arrangement, nothing more.

When it really comes down to it, you wouldn’t take a bullet for any of them. Not the way Jungwon would. Not the way you’ve seen him do—standing between danger and his people, no hesitation, no second-guessing.

And in that sense, you and Jungwon are different.

Where he sees people worth saving, you see liabilities. Where he sees hope, you see a death trap waiting to happen. Where he takes on the burden of leadership, you’ve kept your distance, never letting yourself get too close. Never letting yourself care too much.

You tell yourself it’s because caring makes you vulnerable. But deep down, you know it’s because you’re afraid—afraid of the weight Jungwon carries every day. Afraid you wouldn’t be able to bear it.

And you’d be right, because you see the toll it’s taken on him written all over his face. The haunted look in his eyes, the tension in his posture, the weariness in his voice. It’s all there. And it’s breaking him, piece by piece.

“I don’t want to see you lose yourself,” you say softly, your words hanging in the air between you.

Jungwon sighs, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. His voice lowers, as if speaking any louder would make him crumble. “I’m not losing myself. And I won’t let the group lose themselves either.” He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with quiet intensity. “That’s why you’re here. You keep me grounded.”

You scoff quietly, shaking your head. “I’m not exactly the best moral compass.”

“You are for me,” he says simply.

The honesty in his words makes your breath catch in your throat. It’s raw. Unfiltered. And it terrifies you.

“I hope you’d stop looking at me like I could solve all your problems. I could never replace you. Even if you wanted me to,” you say, your voice wavering slightly before you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. You glance at Jungwon, searching his expression for any sign that he might push back, but he’s listening—silent, thoughtful, waiting.

“But what you can do,” you continue, softer this time, “is share the burden. Share it with the people who’ll gladly bear it with you. Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, Ni-ki… they're not helpless, you know? And I know for one that they’ll follow you anywhere.”

His gaze shifts ever so slightly, something flickering in his eyes at the mention of their names. A hint of guilt, maybe. Or perhaps a deep-rooted fear that he’s failed them somehow, that he’s not enough.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, eyes searching yours. And his next words hit harder than you’re prepared for.

“Will you?”

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you hesitate. But before you can stop yourself, the word slips out.

“Yeah.”

The lie falls from your lips so easily, it surprises even you.

Jungwon’s expression softens, relief flickering in his eyes. He nods once, quietly accepting your answer. But as soon as the word is out, regret crashes over you like a wave, cold and unrelenting. Because you know the truth.

You’re not going to stay.

You’re not going to help him carry that burden.

You’re going to run.

And Jungwon doesn’t know it yet, but when you leave—when you inevitably abandon them—he’ll have to pick up that burden all over again.

And somehow, you know that will hurt more than anything the world could throw at him.

part 3 - whispers | masterlist | part 5 - people

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: happy lunar new year to all celebrating! this is actually the last part i have in drafts... meaning i have to race against time to get the next part written and ready by next week... don't hold me to that though. i'll try my best 🫡 and shoutout to @youcancometome for guessing the title of this part right!!!

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[mandarinmoons]

A Guiding Light

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gender neutral reader Summary: Worried about the new found method you discovered to help you fall asleep, Spencer takes it upon himself to make sure you're both safe and at peace Words: 1K Warnings: none

Sleep was something you had struggled with for a while. Whether it be to not moving around enough during the day to tire yourself out or sometimes nightmares plaguing your dreams, a good night’s rest was rare and at this point you would do anything to have even one night of undisturbed rest.

Over the years you had experimented with some tricks to see if anything would help you feel less restless to fall asleep faster. Some of the suggestions you had followed had worked, but it wouldn’t be long until you’d be tossing from side to side again.

The biggest help was when you started dating a sweet man named Spencer. Spencer was quick to learn about your unhealthy sleeping pattern and tried everything he could think of to try and let you rest. It wouldn’t be long though until you would be asleep in his arms, his thumb brushing over your temple lightly as soft breaths came from your mouth.

Luxuries like this weren’t a regular occurrence though. With Spencer working for The FBI he was constantly on the road and it pained both of you knowing that you had to be apart from one another for God knows how long. The first few nights apart from him were alright, Spencer had left one of his cardigans for you and the scent of him emanating from it helped find your way to dreamland soon. As the nights passed and Spencer’s scent from the garment started to dissipate, the tossing and turning returned and you were nearly in tears because of it.

“I finally found something to help me sleep and you took him away from me. You’re cruel, world.”

The next few nights were once again filled with scouring the internet and reading suggestions from people about what they have done when they’ve had trouble sleeping and some posts caught your eye.

There were many people that expressed that opting to light candles at night instead of using an electric light helped them to relax more and in turn helped them fall asleep faster. This piqued your interest and you decided to give it a shot.

That night, you lit a couple of tea candles by your desk and got cozy under the covers as you decided to read a book before you snoozed for the night. It was a book of poetry Spencer had read to you the last few nights before he left for a case and as you were reading the lines, you couldn’t help but hear Spencer’s voice in your head.

“Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,”  

And it worked. Something about the cozy ambience and the sweet poetry made such a comfortable environment that you were out like a light. You continued with your routine until Spencer came home and upon hearing about what you had experimented with to fall asleep better, his eyes grew wide and multiple facts spewed from his mouth.

“When a candle burns for too long carbon may collect on the wick and the wick may become unstable, thus creating a potentially dangerous flame. A turbulent flame may also start to smoke and release soot, which can be harmful if inhaled. Additionally, if the candle is placed in a container, the heat can cause the container to crack or shatter, which can create a fire hazard or result in hot wax spilling out. Also, an unattended candle can be dangerous if it gets knocked over and could potentially cause harm to others as the candle can quickly start a fire if it falls onto a flammable surface. Then there’s also the pollutants burning candles emit that are harmful if inhaled in large quantities…”

As Spencer rambled on about the facts of how dangerous it was to leave a lit candle unattended, you wrapped your arms around him and pecked his cheek to stop him from talking for a minute.

“Spence, I’m okay, really.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t worry about you.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

Spencer always seemed to have an answer and this situation was something he was going to find an answer to no matter what.

The suggestion he came up with was quite simple but you were quick to try and stop him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep?”

“I’m alright, just try and relax, okay?”

The idea Spencer had in mind was that he would stay up until the candle was completely burnt while you got to sleep peacefully without having to worry about anything happening. Truth be told you didn’t even think that anything could happen, they were little tea candles and your desk surface wasn’t uneven in the slightest, so the chances of something bad happening were pretty low. But you were smarter than to argue with your genius boyfriend, at least when it came to safety procedures, so you cuddled up to his side while he kept an eye on the flames.

Spencer’s eyes glanced from one way to the other, monitoring the fire on one side for a moment and then turning his attention to you, his fingers rubbing over your head while they caressed the locks of your hair, a sigh parting from your lips when his digits moved and caressed your temple which always seemed to do the trick to help you to sleep.

Not long after, you were gripping onto Spencer’s shirt as you were resting peacefully and the wick of the candle gave in and the light vanished from the room, leaving you both in complete darkness. A slight burnt smell wafted through the room and Spencer cringed at the smell, he knew the odor would disappear soon enough and instead he finally got comfortable next to you and rested his nose against your head, the smell of your freshly washed hair helping to cover up the bad fragrance in the room and also helping him relax as well after a hell of a work week. He might’ve been the cure to help you fall asleep, but little did you know that you helped him out just as much, if not even more.

You can find my masterlists here! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3

[leaentries]

nico taking extra care of reader when on her period and him just being so in tune with her every sign and need

nico is just a huge teddy bear and i will die on that hill

-

It’s around 3:30 by the time nico is back at his apartment. As he texting you, he can’t help but notice something’s off about the way you’re talking to him. Shorter replies, the lack of wanting to come over, even your lack of exclamation marks is setting off red flags in his mind.

This goes on for about an hour until you stop responding all together. Nico tries his best to wait patiently but his own worry and protectiveness gets the better of him.

Nico doesn’t waste another second before grabbing his keys and heading over to your place. He drives over in complete silence, his mind plagued with worry and the possibility of you being mad or upset with him. He ticks off everything he did yesterday, trying to see if it would have set you off or angered you. Pulling into your complex, he quickly parks his car and practically runs up to your apartment.

Knocking on the door, he waits for a moment, biting his lip anxiously when you don’t answer. Eventually, he grows too impatient and grabs the spare key under the rug and lets himself in.

“Schatzi?” Nico calls gently, waiting to hear the familiar cadence of your voice, but frowns when it never comes. His heart begins to beat harder against his chest as his feet carry him quicker around your apartment.

Finally reaching your room, he quietly pushes the cracked door open, letting out a breath of relief as he finds you curled up in your blankets asleep. He moves carefully to sit beside you on the bed, using his hand to feel the back of your forehead. His eyebrows furrow when he feels that you’re not warm, which means you’re not sick. He looks around the room, noting the bottle of pain meds and the black cord that disappears under the blankets.

Ah.

Nico smiles softly, realizing that you must be on your period. He gently strokes your hair, cooing gently as he knows you must be in pain if you didn’t want to come over to his apartment.

At his gentle touches, your eyes begin to flutter open.

“Nico?” You mumble out, voice still heavy with sleep.

“I’m right here, schatzi.” He says gently, brushing some hair out of your face. “Do you need anything? Water? Chocolate? More pillows?”

You shake your head, “M’ okay. When did you get here?”

“Just a little bit ago,” He says softly, “I was worried about you. You didn’t want to come over and then you stopped responding. I thought did something to upset you.”

Shaking your head once more, you sit up fully with Nico helping support you. “No, I’m not upset with you…I’m just—“

“On your period.” Nico smiles, kissing your temple. “I put two and two together when I got here.” His face grows more serious, “You don’t have to hide that from me, schatz. It doesn’t gross me out or turn me off. You’re my girlfriend, I want to take care of you.”

You smile softly at his words, “Positive?”

Nico returns the smile, “Positive. Now, lay back down and I’ll get you what you need, okay?”

Nodding, you settle back into the pillows, knowing you can surrender yourself Nico. Knowing that he’ll cherish your body and well-being like the most precious thing in the world.

[thghtsofawallflowr]

education and basic navigation of media (this includes books!!) is SO extremely important in the coming years. Learn as much as you can, get that knowledge in physical forms. make cds, buy records, buy books, movies, print copies of things, anything and everything you can. teach your community, share your knowledge. practice civil disobedience and how it’s been used in the past for positive change, connect connect connect. roots everywhere, we will weave together and we will not be forced into submission. we will fight for this place we call home. who cares about nationalism but i do love the place i live in and the history behind the things that shaped our country and we will continue to push forward for a better world. it did not end on january 20th, but it did not begin either. but we will not stop, because they have fought in the past for us to be where we are today, and we will make a better future.

Please hold on to hope in these times. take a lot of time for yourself, and please be gentle with yourselves. if you can’t do the dishes tomorrow and you’d rather rewatch the entire Toby Maguires’ “Spider-Man”, can i join you? i’ll bring snacks (boycott compliant, but i’m also a hell of a baker)

just as a general reminder

learn how to fact-check for yourself, cause soon enough, most online sources won't be reliable

[nicholasluvbot]

ㅤ୨ৎ ｡｡ MAKE MY HEART MELT IN YOUR ARMS, BABY ────── 보이넥스트도어

𝑓emale 𝑟eader ⟡ 1874 words / fluff , established relationship ✶ skinship , kissing ! ( click for more ) — @kstrucknet & @k-films & @sgz-net

alternatively ───── when they pull you on their lap.

myung jaehyun.

you’re sitting on the couch, the room bathed in dim light, and a movie is playing. a movie you’ve both seen a hundred times, but you never seem to get tired of it. even though you know the entire plot by heart, with every scene memorized, you’re still so engrossed. jaehyun, however, had grown bored within the first five minutes, now fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie, hoping you’d notice and do something to entertain him. but you’re too focused on the screen, completely unaware of his subtle signals.

any other night, jaehyun would’ve been able to get through the movie with ease. usually, you’d be cuddling him, or letting him rest his head on your lap while you played with his hair. but tonight, you’re on the other side of the couch, and jaehyun’s patience is running thin. he needs your attention, and he needs it now.

he scoots a little closer, but you don’t even glance at him. he scoots even closer, still no response from you. finally, he can’t take it anymore. with a small whine, he tugs at your shirt, making you finally turn to face him.

“what?” you ask casually, not yet realizing what he’s up to.

another tug at your shirt, more insistent this time. “jaehyun, what—”

before you can finish, he pulls you onto his lap, catching you completely off guard. you land on his lap with a surprised yelp, and before you can protest, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. he buries his face in your neck, nuzzling his face against your cheek. “this is better,” he mumbles, his lips brushing your skin as he places a few open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

it’s hard to argue with him when he’s holding you like this. so you just bite back a giggle, melting into his embrace and resting comfortably against your boyfriend’s chest.

park sungho.

you’re pacing back and forth around the room, rambling for what feels like forever, hands moving animatedly as you explain new ideas for a project you’re working on. sungho’s head is starting to pound from watching you move around like a damn pendulum, your energy practically buzzing in the air.

just when you pass by him again, he can't take it anymore. he reaches out, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you into his lap. his arms secure you in place, pulling you close, and he rests his chin on your shoulder, breathing softly against the skin of your neck. “you’re making me dizzy,” he mutters, his tone light but his hands gently resting on your hips, a calm anchor against your whirlwind energy.

you’re still talking, but now your voice is softer, less intense. his warm breath against your neck makes it hard to focus. you can feel your heart do a little flip in your chest as you try to concentrate, but it’s nearly impossible with sungho staring at you, looking up at you with those big doe eyes that are full of admiration and something else—a softness that makes your stomach flutter.

you can’t help but smile, the words slowing down as you realize how much you’ve been rambling, your heart racing a little faster under his steady gaze. “sungho,” you murmur, and his arms tighten around you slightly, as if he’s making sure you stay right where he wants you.

“i’m listening,” he says, his voice low and a little teasing, but there’s no mistaking the tenderness in it as he looks up at you with that lovesick expression. and for a moment, everything else fades away. nothing matters except for the way he’s looking at you, holding you in his arms, making you feel like you’re the only thing in the world worth focusing on.

lee riwoo.

you’re pouting, arms crossed as you tap your feet against the ground impatiently, clearly upset about something. maybe it’s something silly, like a text you didn’t get a reply to, or someone stealing your food that you were looking forward to eating. whatever it is, riwoo can’t help but notice the way your lips are puffed out. it’s cute, but it’s also driving him crazy.

"hey," he says softly, patting his thighs. "come here."

you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden request, but before you can protest, he’s already reaching out and pulling you into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you in close. the warmth of his embrace sends a little shiver down your spine, but you’re still too focused on your pout to fully let go.

"riwoo," you mutter, trying to squirm away, your blush spreading quickly across your cheeks. "i’m fine. i don’t need you to—"

"shhh," he cuts you off gently, his hand coming to rest on your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "you’re fine right here, okay?"

“hey, let me go,” you say, but it’s half-hearted, because being this close to him feels nice.

“nah,” he says with a grin, his fingers lightly tapping on your side. “i think you like it. besides, you know i can’t stand it when you pout.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. he pulls you a little closer, making sure you stay exactly where he wants you. “now stop being all grumpy. i can’t handle it.”

you finally stop squirming, relaxing into him, and he just grins, clearly satisfied with himself. he playfully pinches your side, the mood light, and for the first time today, you forget whatever it was you were upset about.

han taesan.

you were mad at taesan for whatever reason—maybe he forgot to do a chore you asked him to, maybe he left the toilet seat up, or maybe he forgot to kiss you goodnight last night. it didn’t really matter. all taesan cared about right now was making it up to you. he’d do anything to get you to talk to him again.

he was sitting in his chair, working on the new album, but the ideas just weren’t coming. he didn’t even care about the damn song anymore; all he cared about was getting your attention. you were in the same room, doing mundane tasks here and there, but not once did you glance at him. he let out a frustrated sigh, fed up with your cold shoulder. the silence between you two was driving him crazy, and he couldn’t focus on anything else.

finally, he pushed back in his chair and leaned forward, grabbing your wrist with a gentle but firm tug, pulling you towards him. “taesan,” you gasped, caught off guard as he tugged you back, your knees hitting the chair before you ended up in his lap. your breath hitched at the sudden shift, and before you could even react, his hands locked around your waist, holding you firmly in place as if he wasn’t going to let you go anywhere.

“can’t believe you’re giving me the silent treatment,” he said with a pout, his lips brushing against your shoulder before resting his chin there. his eyes met yours, and with a small smirk, he asked, “you’re not mad at me anymore, right?”

how could you be?

kim leehan.

you were just finishing up the last touches of your makeup, standing in front of the mirror with a brush in hand, trying to apply just the right amount of blush. the room was quiet, only the soft hum of music in the background. you thought you were alone, but the door creaked open, and before you could turn around, you felt the weight of someone’s gaze on you.

a small smile tugged at your lips. leehan had a way of sneaking in unnoticed, always so sure of himself. you kept your focus on the mirror, pretending not to notice him at first.

but you could feel his eyes on you, tracing every movement. was he doing it on purpose or just caught up in how you looked? you couldn’t tell.

after a moment of silence, you glanced over your shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “are you just going to stand there and stare?” you teased.

he didn’t flinch, just grinned. “just admiring my pretty girl.”

before you could respond, he was already walking toward you, slow and sure, and within seconds, you found yourself being pulled into his lap. you gasped slightly, surprised by the sudden move, but your heart skipped a beat when his arms wrapped around you, pulling you snugly against his chest.

"leehan, what the hell—" you started, but the words died in your throat as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, then your temple, and then your jaw.

“you look so beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss, his lips lingering against your skin, making you shiver slightly at the softness of his touch.

you tried to pull away, but his hold on you was firm. "leehan, I’m trying to finish," you muttered, but the soft kisses he was placing along your neck had you melting into him, your resolve weakening with each one.

"you’re already perfect," he whispered, placing a kiss right beneath your ear. “no need to rush, I just need a little more of you.”

you rolled your eyes, though the playful smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. "you're ridiculous," you sighed before finally relaxing into him.

kim woonhak.

woonhak had been grumpy all day. ever since he came home from work, it had been one sigh after another, banging doors, and muttering under his breath. you decided to give him space, not wanting to push him further, especially when you weren't sure what had set him off. so you sat on the couch, reading your book, trying to stay out of his way.

but then, without warning, woonhak flopped down beside you on the couch, pulling you onto his lap with a low grumble. you were caught off guard, your book slipping from your hands as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. you instinctively squirmed, surprised by the sudden shift in his mood. he'd been in such a sour mood all day, and now here he was, acting like he couldn't get enough of you.

"hey," he murmured, his voice low and warm against your skin. "i think i need a little attention from my favorite person." you couldn’t help but chuckle at the way his voice softened, a stark contrast to his earlier grumpiness. his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, and his lips brushed against your cheek in a light kiss.

you tried to shift, attempting to regain your personal space, but he just tightened his hold, pulling you further against him. "what are you doing?" you asked, voice half-amused, half-confused.

"shh," he said, a playful glint in his eyes. "you know i can’t stand it when you're all distant. now, relax." you rolled your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. there was no resisting him when he got like this—soft, warm, and just a little needy.

"fine," you mutter, rolling your eyes, but you can’t resist resting back against him, a smile tugging at your lips.

‎ ‎     • feedback 🗯 reblogs ───── highly appreciated ˆᗜˆ

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[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the black sheep

a/n: wrote this at five in the morning after i woke up from a nightmare ✌️

summary: “don’t,” a sharp breath filled your lungs as you shook your head and your eyes instantly squeezed shut, “don’t do that… don’t act like you care just because my father pays you. I know you’re no better than all of the others out there…” 

warnings: soft!mob!bucky x mob boss daughter!reader, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden romance, age gap, sexual references, horrible and abusive family, bullying, mental illness (depression, anxiety, stress), references to being institutionalised at a terrible place against one's will, party, dancing, crying

word count: 1511

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The creak of a heavy pair of boots crossing over the threshold found your ears, though didn’t persuade your neck to twist around and see who had appeared in the doorway. 

“Miss?” Bucky’s tone echoed quietly throughout the room as his metal hand continued to clutch the doorhandle he’d just twisted. 

But instead of tearing your eyes away from the night sky that twinkled on the other side of the window, you instead continued to sit on the floor, the fancy dress you’d been forced into wrinkling around your legs, as you faintly began to murmur, “you know, I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little…” your eyes traced one of the constellations gleaming above, “it wasn’t because I had some fascination with space, but it was the one thing I could imagine that would take me as far away from here as possible…” a breath escaped you before your vision finally floated back down to earth and you glanced over your shoulder, “would you mind closing the door? It’s so loud out there…” 

As you reunited your gaze to the world outside and you heard the door shut behind you, the mobster then carefully asked, “are you alright?” 

“Don’t,” a sharp breath filled your lungs as you shook your head and your eyes instantly squeezed shut, “don’t do that… don’t act like you care just because my father pays you. I know you’re no better than all of the others out there…” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried to conceal his painful awareness of your situation. 

“I know what the others say behind my back,” you uttered, your mind haunted by their voices, playing the comments on a loop till they turned into boiling tar, “poor Y/n, weak and broken Y/n who is crazy and could never really be a part of this family… but unfortunately for everyone, I am,” you breathed, memories of your adolescence flooded your system, how they had sent you away to a broken institution at the smallest sign of vulnerability, “so I could never just leave. I couldn’t go out and earn my own money, they would cut off any attempt I made of getting a job in this city,” you pointed out their power, “and if I tried to get away, move to somewhere else, then they would have to take care of that as well because they can’t have a liability just out there. They own me, and they’ve made sure that I am nothing without them, and with them, I’d never be able to accomplish a goddamn thing. They wouldn’t hesitate to cut my life short if I ever stepped out of line again, you know that, it happened to my aunt… for all I know, it’ll probably happen as soon as my brother takes over, it is after all what everyone has surely wished for since the day I was born…” 

As those last few venting words escaped your lips, a sinking feeling bloomed in your stomach as you realised those shattering truths hadn’t been contained in your thoughts alone. 

“Oh shit…” tears began to blur your vision as you spun around and jaggedly rose to your feet, “please don’t tell anyone about any of that,” you took a panicked step forward, “I–… I didn’t mean any of it, it’s not–…” your chest rose and fell rapidly as you stared back at the gangster, “what do you want?” you attempted desperately, “do you want money? I could talk to my father and give you another leg up? I’ll give you whatever you want, just please don’t tell anyone, I–…” 

An idea then struck through your terrified blubbering, and without giving it another thought, you dropped down to your knees before him. 

“What are you doing?” he finally spoke, blinking down at you by his feet. 

Wiping your cheek as a steady flow of tears rolled down them, you then reached out for Bucky’s belt and sniffled, “you can have me, if that’s what could buy your silence.” 

But instead, your father’s right-hand man grabbed your hands, “stop,” he pleaded, “just stop.” 

Blinking up into his eyes, your hazy vision then drifted down to his fingers enveloping your wrists before you gloomily concluded, “…right…of course… I get it,” your head bowed even further as you uttered, “why would you think of me any differently… of course, you wouldn’t want me to touch you, you probably think I’m cursed just like the rest of them do…” 

But instead of ripping his touch away from your skin as if it was a scorching flame, Bucky’s frame suddenly lowered to be at your level, kneeling by you before he lifted one of your palms up to cup his stubbly cheek.

“I don’t,” a faint shake found his head, “never have,” you found yourself floating away into the ocean of his eyes as he stared back at you, his slow breath fanning across your wet cheeks at the close proximity, “I won’t tell anyone what you said,” he promised, his deep voice nearly at a whisper, “you have my word.”

But as you were filled with equal amounts of uncertainty, as well as shock, footsteps on the other side of the door found you both and tore you apart, just before the door ripped open and in strolled the boss himself. 

“Barnes!” your father’s glare landed on the mobster first before it shifted to find you, hastily wiping your cheeks, “oh great, you found her,” he uttered impatiently, “darling, come, it’s time for your brother to cut the cake. You need to be there,” he swiftly waved a hand for you to shadow him. 

The storm of the party made you feel as if you could come undone and burst into tears at any moment, pushing and shoving your shaky soul till you felt like just a tiny speck of dust floating around in the air. Keeping your gaze on the floor as you pushed through the bustling crowds, it stayed there as your sibling sank a shiny blade into the ridiculously elaborate cake that was rolled out for everyone to applaud. 

Raw and bleeding while the others drank and laughed, your vision finally found enough courage to flicker up, though only to find those same blue eyes, across the room and locked upon you. 

When the music soon was cranked up high and people swarmed to the middle of the floor in pairs, you briefly spotted one of your brother’s friends, a guy not too far from your own age, march straight towards you with an air of confidence that couldn’t help but relax your tense shoulders as you were slowly filled with hope. 

But as he neared and a greeting fell from your lips, a confused look muddled up his features as he shot you a glance before grabbing the waiting hand of a girl standing in the crowd behind you. 

Amused snickers and cruel comments found your ears even though you knew their tones attempted to be silent.

“What a freak.”

“Could you imagine if it had actually been her he’d wanted to dance with? In her dreams.”

“She should just run back to that insane asylum she somehow escaped from.”

With your back soon pressed up against one of the perimeter walls, a shadow then came to darken the spot on the floor your reddened eyes were glued to. 

“You wanna dance?” you glanced up with a wide pair of eyes to spot Bucky settled in beside you. 

“Why?” your brows knit together, “so that everyone can have another thing to laugh about?” 

Holding out his palm, he then let out a sigh, “just take my hand,” and the next thing you knew, your fingers were tangled in his own. 

Once he’d led you out onto the floor, your eyes darting around to all the bewildered glances that shot your way, a sudden breath then filled your lungs as his wide palm slid over your waist and dragged you in closer to his frame, causing your vision to cease their torture and meet his own steady gaze instead. 

The sway was slow and intimate, though you weren’t sure if the sensation terrified or calmed you, as the intoxicating way he made you feel had previously been something you’d packed far away as just an inconsequential crush back when he’d first started working for your father. Though as he held you in his arms and showed you a rare display of compassion, how could your heart not begin to thump once more?

With your gaze hazily cast over his shoulder as you danced so near that your cheeks almost touched, the warmth of his hand then slid down to your lower back before he whispered in your ear, “I know it won’t fix anything, but if it was up to me, you’d be the one inheriting this whole business, not your brother,” he uttered sincerely under his breath, “he’s a hot-headed idiot, while you are stronger and more brilliant than all of these fools combined.”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[catcze]

NSFW!! 18+ ONLY !!

Wriothesley holding your hands while he sits you on his lap, cock buried into you to the hilt, making you whine with how full you are. Wriothesley telling you to take what you want, telling you, no, I can’t help you. Can’t you see how my hands are busy? And giving your palms a little squeeze for good measure. Wriothesley's head falling back and his eyes rolling when you whine and whimper his name as you jerkily try to bounce yourself on his lap, only able to rise to about halfway before your knees give in and gravity pulls you back down onto him.

Wriothesley who groans, deep and ragged in his throat when you sob, begging him to help, that you just can’t do it. That he's just too big.

“Too much, hm?” He asks voice little more than a rough whisper. His hands gently untangle from yours, tenderness so at odds with the thoughts in his mind— how he wants to see you crying from pleasure, how he wants to hear you sobbing his name and begging him to fill you up and keep you warm with his cum.

Scarred palms gently rest on your hips and, with ease, he lifts you up, up and up until only the fat head of him is left inside you— before he drags you back down, his hips rising to meet yours in a rough, deep thrust. He stretches you open, dragging a needy whine from your throat and making you see stars behind your eyelids. The stretch of him is immeasurable, filling you up to the brim and stuffing you with his cock so deep that you think that he's carved a little place out inside of you just for himself.

"Fuck, baby," he laughs softly as his tip goes as deep as he can, making you yelp when it brushes your innermost parts. Balls-deep in his lovely sweetheart, holding your trembling, whimpering form on his lap. He can't imagine anything better than this.

Wriothesley groans softly, burying his face in the back of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. "You're so warm. So perfect," he murmurs the praise softly, and all you can do is hiccup his name in response. He bounces you on his cock again, pulling you off of it and then pushing you down once more, and he swears that the world narrows down to nothing else but you in that moment.

"Buckle up, sweetheart," Wriothesley says, voice low and ragged and rough— an unspoken promise of what's in store for you tonight. Hands tighten on your hips, and you can feel his grin as he presses a kiss to your hair. "You're gonna be in for a bumpy ride."

[silentstaresfanficandfanart]

you know this post seems a lil sad to me, cause when I was stuck in a corn maze I only managed to get out because there was an enthusiastic effort amongst everyone in the corn maze to help one another get through it, pointing the way and offering hints and asking questions When I was in the dmv so miserably early the doors hadn't even opened yet people were bringing over big buckets for others to sit on, and when inside there were so many random acts of kindness between the individuals there and silly little interactions that by the time I finally got my driving test done there was an air of kinship in the air and I only got out so quickly because another person realized she'd gotten something wrong paperwork wise and gave me her place in line

And when I hurt my wrist as a kid everyone kindly held open doors for me at every turn When my mom and I got stranded in the middle of no where thanks to a car issue like 5 different people stopped by our car and asked if we were okay, offered to help, (we were waiting for the repair guys or something like that) and warned us "its a bad area so be careful" and yet not once did anything bad happen at all, every person we saw was kind and worried for our wellbeing...(which while that does make me wonder what on earth they were trying to warn us about it did give me the impression at the time that perhaps they just all had some sort of beef with other, but i was a little kid so I wouldnt really know, it seemed to me like it was in fact a much nicer than average area)

When tragedy strikes don't people rush out to help?

When there's a hurricaine, a fire, a tornado, an earthquake, don't neighbors rush to help and protect one another? don't we try to save each other? don't we express heartache and rage when the first response ISINT to help? Why is it that our first response is rage? grief? heartbreak? when the first response to a bad situation is to take advantage of it or to abandon those suffering, or worse yet, to yank them back down?

Because we are social animals Crabs dont likely understand why they cant get out or even that theyre forcing the other crabs to stay in the bucket when they yank and pull, they just think its a way to pull themselves up, they dont have enough going on to grasp how physics works or to be cruel and want others to suffer with them.

Selfishness does exist, but it's not the rule

it's the exception, and we shout and point when it happens.

Of course we notice, because kindness is the rule

do we know the names of every single individual to ever save another human life? let alone to save thousands? Have we memorized the names of heroes who eradicated disease or created safety guidelines or fought for rights and for goodness in this world? Is it not the names of those we revile that we focus on most

telling our children of their crimes?

Why don't we focus more on every hero? Because theres just too many of them, because being a good decent human being is the norm.

Maybe not perfect, maybe even a pretty messed up human being but with a good heart, goodness knows I know a lot of people who while you might not say "thats a great person" you'd also never call them cruel or evil, just that they could use some help or deserve better lives.

I truly believe humans for the most part are good, and I say this without denying the evil exists. I am vividly, horrifically aware of the darkness in this world, but I refuse to let that define our race because to do so would be to excuse those who chose to do the wrong thing.

I believe humans are above all else, defined by the fact we can chose right or wrong. I dont want those who do evil to be the ones who represent us, in my mind or in anyone elses mind

They are the exception to a kinder rule.

this is just a me ramble though , my opinion thats not more valuable than anyone elses, just one I felt like sharing, because maybe it will bring someone some relief...

I used to feel guilty as a child for being human, for being something as horrible as that, and I know maybe some others did or do too

But remember please like mewtwo once said, its not the circumstances of your birth which defines you, but what you do with the gift of life.

we are not evil we are capable of it.

we are not good

we are capable of it.

and we will do both in our lives.

but I have been pleasantly surprised now that I'm older and know more about the world to see that in fact the world isint just like in history books overflowing with grief and pain, and convinced that since everyone said children were naive and unaware, that it must be worse than I could ever imagine

but in fact the world is full of the mundane, and every day normal people go about their lives and chose to be decent to one another and often do much more kindness than we will ever know.

I'm glad we arent crabs in a bucket

i love you all

people are like "if you put crabs in a bucket they can't escape because they keep pulling each other back in, this is called crab bucket mentality and describes why people don't help each other" and never acknowledge that crabs do not naturally occur in buckets, a human with more power had to put them there