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yoonmetogether · 3 days ago

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chapter 3. hell to pay

pairing: bodyguard!yoongi x ceo!fem reader - brother/mob boss!jeongguk, past jimin x reader genre: mafia, e2l, sloooooooooooooooow burn, age gap rating: 18+ only. minors dni!!! warnings/tags: angst, alcohol, smoking, guns, incident of sexual assault (not to reader), nose bleed, panic attack, vomiting (due to anxiety, which is also why reader doesn't eat that much), reader being a badass, speed racing, bam cameo, breaking bad cameo LMAO, ateez crossover, reader and her attitude towards d, if i missed anything pls let me know!!! wc: 12.7k notes: once again aqua @glossdebut rocked my world with this banner !!! 🤌 thanks a ton to aqua, @moochii-daisies and @syllviere for working out some scene ideas when i got stuck. and a million times thanks to aqua and moochi for beta-reading. Yall mean the world to me 🫶🫶🫶 also, there’s a song title, reference to a kdrama, and a quote from a movie in this chapter, and if anyone catches them and tells me i’ll put together something special. i have no idea what but i’ll figure it out lol

masterlist

13:01 Megatron🤖: You’re really not coming to the gym today? 13:01 Megatron🤖: Third week in a row, sis I’m starting to think you were bluffing about beating my ass 13:05 You: Not bluffing 13:05 You: I’ll roundhouse you when I’m not so busy 13:06 Megatron🤖: Sad excuse 13:06 You:🖕 13:08 Megatron🤖: I’m busy too so this is the only time we really have to hang out 13:08 You: Who are you and what have you done with my brother 13:08 You: He once paid me to stay home so I wouldn’t tag along to a party 13:09 Megatron🤖: You were lame back then 13:09 Megatron🤖: You’re cool now

Rolling your eyes, you sigh and look out the window, the trees lining the highway blurring past darkened by the tint, so you can’t really see them at all.

You’ll go back to the gym when you can trust yourself to not potentially lose your shit if your brother makes you go back in the ring with D. You’ve barely spoken to him since that conversation outside of the gym, before you found the money he stashed in your gym duffle. Your pride howls for you to return it to him, but you fear if you open your mouth, an irate tirade will unleash that you don’t have energy for.

You’d love nothing more than to spend the little free time you have with your brother, as opposed to what you’ve been doing to avoid going back to that big house where you feel like you don’t belong - just staying later at work.

Jay is away for the week, on some random trip to do busy work for his father, leaving you to be in the house by yourself. Since he’s not there, neither is his butler, and the maids are always done before you get home.

The first night, you played the piano gathering dust in the living room, because you don’t have the heart to unpack your keyboard. The haunting yet peaceful melodies echoed in the emptiness, and you recorded a few songs for Jeongguk. You sent the clips to Jin too, even though he won’t get them.

Hours and hours you spent at the keys when you should’ve been sleeping, eating, preparing for the next day, but the pieces you played kept intact the withering strings of your sanity because with music you can lose yourself in the person that is truly… you.

Everything is starting to wear down on you - the amount of tedious shit your future FIL piles on your desk every day. Your workload increases and so do your hours in the office. You come earlier and leave later. It’s like he’s testing your limit, how much you can handle before you fall short, show your weaknesses.

He got on your ass for doodling some design ideas during a meeting when he was non-stop yapping and kissing rich board member ass. A piece of your soul collapsed. You dumped your sketchbook in the trash outside of the board room and went about your night, conscience steaming because the glimmer of light that your creativity brings you just died. Towards the end of the night, when you returned to your office, feet aching and stomach empty, your sketchbook was waiting on your desk. Namjoon must’ve fished it out of the bin for you. When you thanked him, he just looked down, smiled, and said that your designs don’t belong in the trash.

Because D continues to be unsuccessful in finding your assistant, Namjoon, the godsend brainiac he is, helps you stay organized by sending reminders of your schedule - deadlines for budget and inventory reports, in addition to introductory meetings with various board members, vendors, and managers of the casino restaurant and hotel staff.

It’s a fucking performance you put on to convince these people that you know what you’re doing - they must think you’re only in this position because your rich mafia daddy arranged everything for you.

Which - you hate to say it - is true. Have you run a casino before? No, but you’re at the very least qualified. After all, you have a masters in business with experience managing a few startups prior to accepting the project for the architecture firm with your friends. You were going to manage that too because of their trust in your leadership skills.

A far cry from a casino as colossal as this one, which is why the faith in yourself has started to dwindle.

You’re losing track of it all. You’re losing sleep, your appetite. You’re losing your goddamn mind.

You’ve started picking at your cuticles again. Those stress headaches you got during exams and thesis season in college are coming back. But times a thousand.

Are you really up for this?

You make your safe haven in your shitty office - setting up your desk with your PC and post-it notes and paper spreadsheets for inventories and budgets, but until you’re given the green light to tear up and replace the carpet and old paneling, you won’t bother to decorate. The ancient smell permeating the stale air makes your nose wrinkle but there’s not much you can do about that either.

When you get time to work away from all the chaos on the floor, D stays out in the hall, giving you the chance to breathe without that prickly feeling beneath your skin that comes from knowing he’s right fucking behind you. Breathing down your neck more than Jay’s father. Well, in a less micromanaging way, but still.

On several occasions, you’ve debated sneaking out, knowing that when D has to make his rounds - checking on the security team, the cameras, the counters, etc. - he places another guard to stand by outside of your office. You’re certain with a small bribe you could get past him - Key, you think is his name - and just get a little taste of time away from your shadow before he comes back to haunt you again.

The one time you made an attempt and poked your head into the hall, D suddenly appeared around the corner from the elevator, and you shut the door before he had a chance to see you. Will you ever get the opportunity to slip out from under his nose?

Your phone vibrates in your lap, breaking you away from your small fantasy, and you flip it over, anticipating it to be Jeongguk calling to further convince you to throw rounds, but much to your disappointment, the contact of Jay’s father flashes on your screen. Your blood pressure spikes in anxiety, and a pulse of pain radiates through your temples.

“Hello?” You answer politely, just to be responded to with his gruff tone.

“I’m not in until later, so I want you to take care of firing a girl who assaulted a customer last night.”

“Oh.” Is that really in your job description? You suppose if you’re acting manager, not just CEO in training, it technically is. “What happened?”

“She threw a drink on him when he was just trying to tip her. She’s waiting outside of your office for whenever you show up.”

Your eyes roll again, with more annoyance. So he’s allowed to be late? “I’m almost there.”

“I’ll call in an hour to check. Get it done. And see to it that she gets her locker cleaned out and her uniform and badge returned.”

“Yes, sir.”

Phone dropping back in your lap once the call ends, you smother your face in your hands, a scream trapped on the edge of your throat that’s clawing your tongue to be released. You had a thousand things to do today and now you have to fire someone. You have half a mind to hijack the car, force D out of it, and drive far far away from the casino, but you can only imagine the earful you’d get from Jeongguk. He’s fucking besties with your arch nemesis.

So, massaging your temples, you press on. Because you can’t leave your brother behind.

13:24 Megatron🤖: I’m taking that as a no 13:25 You: I have a lot of shit to do today 13:27 You: Sorry

He leaves you on read.

A short, pretty young woman stands by your office, hugging herself, eyes red and swollen, and upon seeing you approach, straightens her posture and bows.

“Hi,” you greet gently, twisting your key in the lock and opening the door. “Come on in.”

She follows you quietly, standing in the space between the door and your desk, looking around as you set your bags down next to your chair.

“I know it’s kind of bleary in here, I haven’t had the time to spruce it up. And that stink has been here probably as long as this building. I can’t get rid of it.”

She gives you a weak smile at your attempt to ease the atmosphere.

“Please, have a seat,” you offer, gesturing to the chairs across from you. “Do you want water or anything?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” she replies as she sits in a position that doesn’t look comfortable. You internally sigh at her formal language. She can’t be that much younger than you.

“What’s your name?”

“Choi Byeol, ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you,” you smile cordially. “So, tell me what happened.”

“Please don’t fire me,” she sniffles in a small voice, face crumpling. Looking at her, you doubt she could hurt a fly.

“Just- I want to hear your side.”

“Okay, um-” she sniffs again and you pass her a box of tissues. “Thanks,” she says as she plucks out a sheet, wiping her nose.

“No problem. Take your time.”

“Well, this guy is a regular and he’s always been kind of… creepy with me and the other servers, but just with weird comments and a lot of staring. Then last night,” she swallows, voice thinning. “I served him his drinks and he tried to put cash in the hem of my skirt and when I told him we don’t take tips like that, he grabbed my as- my butt when I started walking away. So- So I threw the drink I had on my tray in his face.”

You nod, processing the fact that Jay’s father wants you to fire this girl for defending herself when she was physically harassed and assaulted. Taking notes, you ask her for more details - the time, exact location, other employees around who could corroborate. It won’t be necessary if you can get the security cam footage, but it’s better to cover all angles just in case.

“I know it was wrong to throw the drink, but is that really enough to get fired for?” she asks as you finish jotting down notes.

“In my book, no.” Byeol shifts in her seat, sitting straighter, eyes relaxing. Shit, you shouldn’t build up any hope. “But I’m afraid that’s not up to me.”

Her shoulders slouch, eyebrows crossing. “What do you mean?”

“This decision isn’t mine.”

“Then why are you the one doing it?”

“I’m being tested,” you sigh. “I’m sorry, I know it’s messed up.”

Her head hangs, fingers pressing together more tightly in her lap, and you frown when you catch her lip wobble.

“I’m in school. My parents-” she sniffs. “They can’t pay for my tuition, and this is the only job that fits with my class schedule.”

You consider telling her that Namjoon is a lawyer and technically she has grounds to go after you and Jay’s father for wrongful termination. Knowing Namjoon, he would put up one hell of a fight but… You’re already on thin ice with Jay’s father and that would not bode well for you nor him.

“Here, send over your résumé,” you say, scrawling Namjoon’s work email on a post-it and passing it to her. “I have a friend who has a lot of connections, and he might be able to help you find another job.”

She hesitates, her frown struggling to turn into a smile as she accepts it. Feeling defeated and helpless, you flump back in your chair.

“I wish there was more I could do.”

She looks up at that, her eyes dry but swollen as her mouth contorts in a half-smile, half-frown.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I caused.”

“Well, I’m sorry he assaulted you and that you’re taking the fall for it. He deserves a lot more than a drink in his face. I’ll make sure that he never comes back.”

Upset still laced in her features, a fuller smile appears as she stands and tips her head towards you.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

You contemplate letting D be the one to accompany her to the locker cleanout so you can hide in your office, avoiding the employees who’ll look at you like it’s your fault this girl is getting fired. Maybe that’s why Jay’s father put you up to this.

But you can’t be someone who hides. (And you don’t want to be someone who sends a girl who was just assaulted by a strange man to be followed and escorted out of the building by another strange man.)

“I’ll come with you to collect your uniform and badge so you don’t have to come back up here. And I’ll get your last paycheck processed tonight so you’ll get it in the mail by next week.”

Gesturing, for her to step out into the hall ahead of you, you catch her polite smile fall as she passes by. Guilt consumes you at the anxiety and frustration you just laid on her shoulders, and you doubt she’d appreciate small talk as you take the elevator down to the first floor. So you bear the awkward silence next to her with D in the corner and finish off your text to him.

14:30 You: Get the CCTV footage for last night around midnight where the blackjack tables are and send it to me seen 14:35

Namjoon catches you on your way back from all the glaring eyes and hushed comments that tickled the hair on the back of your neck as you walked Byeol to her locker and waited outside while she collected her things. Your fingers itch for a cigarette, needing to cope with the fact that now the employees think you’re on the same power trip as the owner. The job just became a lot harder.

“Hey, Angel,” Namjoon greets, sleeves rolled up as he walks alongside you, tablet tucked in his elbow.

“Oh, hey. The boss isn’t coming in until later.”

“What do you mean? You’re right here.” Playfully scoffing, you bump shoulders with him and he grins.

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“He’s gotta get used to the fact that you’re gonna run everything around here one day.”

You smile even though your gut wrenches. All of this really will be left up to you. You’re the one who has to get used to that.

Thankfully, you have a little bit of a break until Jay’s father arrives, so you both seclude in your office. As you sit at your desk and open up your laptop, he sits across from you and flips the cover on his tablet, clicking to the calendar app so he can check your schedule. With his exposed forearms down, you’re able to see the tattoo in the crook of his elbow: a birds’ eye view of a crow flying with its full wingspan - The symbol for Crow soldiers. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen one of those.

“So, how’s it going with you? Everything good?”

“Ah, no,” you frown, drumming your fingers on the mousepad. “He just made me fire a waitress.”

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

“Yeah, it’s complete bullshit,” you mutter. “This perv customer assaulted her, and she could’ve done a lot worse than throw a drink in his face. I sure would’ve.”

“Damn.”

“I gave her your email so she can send her résumé, do you think you can look at it and see if there’s anyone hiring? Something with good pay and a flexible schedule, she’s in school.�� “Sure. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” You feel like you owe your life to Namjoon at this point. You’ll make sure your brother doles out one hell of a bonus for him.

An incident on the floor draws you out of your office to check a patron’s allegations that a dealer was cheating. D clears out the security room save for the director of the tech team so you can analyze the footage yourself, but you can’t see any evidence that the dealer switched or flipped cards like the player claimed. Fuck, if he did though, you’d be in a load of shit. You’re relieved you don’t have to fire two people in one night.

In the elevator for what has to be the 80th time today, you’re back on your phone to email the pit boss that his dealer is in no trouble. Eyes sore from the blue light and ankles throbbing from your heels, you could really use a fucking drink.

“I sent the footage you asked for,” D’s gravelly voice drones from the opposite side of the metal cabin. “It was deleted but the tech team recovered it.”

Of course it was. Jay’s father is turning out to be an outstanding piece of shit. Opening up the video attachment, you watch as what Byeol told you plays out word-for-word, gripping the edge of your phone so hard, your fingertips hurt. Sharp pain in your temples pounding at full force, cheeks heating at the visual of this situation panning out, no one helping her or stepping in and you had to fucking fire her?

A spot of red plops on your screen.

“Shit,” you mutter, back of your hand pressing against the blood dripping from your nose.

“Here,” D says behind you, a white handkerchief appearing in your periphery.

You stare at it for a moment, because what’s he trying to do? Earn brownie points? You almost scoff and ignore his gesture but you don’t want to stain your blouse.

You pluck it from his fingers and press it to your nostril, tipping your head forward so you don’t swallow copper.

The bleeding comes to a stop by the time you get back to your office, red splotches staining the silk and a miniscule part of you feels guilty but then you remember the kind of person who gave it to you.

Turning to face him and paying no mind to your heart stumbling when he’s already looking down at you, you hold out the borrowed handkerchief.

“You know how to get out blood, right?” Slowly, he reaches out to take it and you disappear into your office in case you don’t like his answer.

In the midst of an intensifying headache, Namjoon visits you again towards the end of the night, tissue in your nostril from the nosebleed that started up again around the time you were reading an email from Jay’s father of a highly detailed itinerary for the next day.

“Is your nose bleeding?” he asks, approaching your desk, concern in his narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, I think it’s just dry in here.”

“Are you okay? I can cover for you if you want to take the night off.”

“And give him fuel to call me incompetent? I’ll be good, Moon, thanks though.”

“Don’t hurt yourself for this job, Angel. It’s not worth it.”

“I have to prove myself to them.”

Namjoon’s frown says he’s less than content with your answer, so you look back to your laptop to communicate you’re done with that conversation.

“Well, I just came to tell you the good news, I think I found Choi Byeol a job.”

Namjoon truly wastes no time. That’s why he’s so treasured by your brothers. “Already?”

“Yeah! As your assistant.”

“What?” Dimples in his smile, he scrolls through his tablet, presumably through her résumé.

“She’s minoring in communications on top of her computer science degree and she used to work at a circulation desk at her school library. Her GPA is well above average, and she volunteers to tutor on the weekends. Overall, it looks like she has some really strong organizational and personable skills as well. What do you think?”

“I think I lucked out.”

“I’ll call her tomorrow to set up an interview with you and I already asked D to do a background check.” You shake your head.

“If she’s cleared with D, just hire her. Full-time, 60,000 won an hour, plus benefits. She’ll be on my payroll, not the casino’s or Sol’s. Just let her know that it’s demanding, but she can work on school stuff when there’s downtime.”

He smiles, scribbling notes with the stylus. “You got it, boss. And I’ll train her, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Super big bonus.

He leaves after giving you a gentle reminder that you’re meeting with Captain tomorrow, having dinner with Jay’s parents Friday night, and embarking on your first round of collections on the weekend.

As if this job isn’t stressful enough.

Sparkling strobes of light dance around the dark lilac walls to the bass of suave, bumping music as you wait by the VIP entrance with D in his stance a step behind you. He just notified a bouncer that you’ve arrived to meet Captain and your fingertips tap some anxiety against your clutch as you look out for the bouncer’s return.

Namjoon already briefed you on Captain - that he’s a chill guy for the most part, but gatekeeps his jewelry trading business and doesn’t appreciate people trying to take away his oversight. But your brother told you to show him who’s boss and your mind races with techniques to assert that without creating some kind of resentment.

The bouncer leads you up a flight of stairs to a private lounge and announces your arrival. As he steps aside, a guard with thick biceps and short black hair with parted bangs comes forward to pat you down but D moves in front of you, hand held out to push him back.

“How are we supposed to know she’s not carrying?” The guard asks, begrudgingly backing up.

“Because I’m carrying for her.” D opens his jacket to reveal his two holstered guns. Your toes curl in your heels.

“Just let her in, San,” a smooth male voice calls from inside. The guard dutifully steps away so you can enter the dim lounge, a soft gold hue surrounding the perimeter of the ceiling.

A man with dark blue hair poking out from a backwards beret looks over from where he’s sitting on a low couch mounted into the wall. He’s hunched over a small black table with a single, bright lamp at the top left corner, holding a long, thin pair of pliers with sharp ends that he uses to pick up tiny diamonds and inspect through a small, square magnifying glass.

The shine on the table is underwhelmed by the bling around his neck that drips down his slightly exposed chest. Hoops lining his ears, watch and studded bracelets decorating his wrists, gleaming rings on almost every finger. Yet he wears it in a way that’s not gaudy - excessive, but tasteful.

“Nice watchdog you got there,” Captain says as you approach, eyes flicking up and down in a quick once over of you. “I guess a gorgeous girl like you has to walk around with muscle like that.”

He rises to pull out a chair adjacent to him at the table, waiting for you to get comfortable.

“I think it has more to do with the fact that I’m your boss.”

Crossing your legs, you place your clutch in your lap, giving him your full attention. “I’m my own boss, sweet thing,” he smiles with a subtle wink as he sits back down. Okay, so he’s not threatened. Yet.

“Then why are you going to report your dealings to me and also pay me to keep your protections in place?”

“It’ll be on my terms.”

“Right.”

Glancing around, you take in the walls covered in contemporary paintings portraying many different styles of art. More luxurious couches and lounge chairs line the perimeter, a classy bar tucked in the middle, the shelves behind it lined with hookah.

Your mouth suddenly feels dry, nerves begging to be soothed.

“Can a girl get a drink in here or what?”

“What’ll you have?”

“Whiskey sour.” That was Jin’s usual, the one he made on girls night and sometimes let you sneak a sip.

He snaps a finger in the air and a uniformed bartender steps out from a curtained hallway, nodding to Captain’s order and getting to work behind the bar.

“So what’s the beef between you and my brother?” you ask as you wait for your drink.

“There’s no beef.”

“He said you two don’t get along.”

“We just have different ideas of how to do things. He wants me to move my business closer to Seoul, but I have no interest in doing that.” He gestures between you with his pliers. “I assume that’s why he wants us to work together.”

“Ah.” Your brother’s headquarters are set up in that direction, so it makes sense that he would want all of his main business dealings to be in the area and not close to the casino.

The conversation lulls as Captain restores his attention to his work in front of him and you watch him curiously.

After inspecting the diamonds, he separates them into two piles, but you can’t tell if there are any differences. They all appear to have the same size and shine.

“What do you do exactly?”

“I pass off lab-grown diamonds as natural.”

“How?” “A magician never reveals his secrets,” he says with a wink. When you roll your eyes, he flashes you a bright smile. Quite literally, because of the ice on his teeth.

“Is this one natural?” you ask, lifting up your left arm to show off the heavy, square diamond ring that you have to take off in the shower and to wash your hands. A nuisance, if you’re being honest.

“Hm, let me see?” He drops his tool to offer his palm and you hesitate for a second before placing your fingers there so he can examine your ring more closely, squinting at it and turning your hand from side to side.

“Yup, definitely mined, 18 karat white gold. Around 180 million won.”

Retracting your hand, you’re baffled by his expertise. The bartender comes over with your drink and you both thank him.

“It’s too flashy and unethically sourced for my taste,” he continues with a disapproving shake of his head.

Unethically sourced. You agree, but doesn’t he do crime for a living?

“You’re not wearing it,” you quip, his eyes sliding to you in amusement as he picks up his tool again to sort through more microdiamonds.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “I’d pick a ring that goes with the size of your hand and fits your aesthetic. Not one that’s there to show how much money was spent.”

“And what would a ring like that look like?”

He peers at you with what appears to be mirth and snaps again, calling, “Yeosang-ah!” and shortly after, a head of handsome blonde hair shaping an angelic face pops out from the curtain.

“Yes?”

“Get my box of rings, will you, please?” Yeosang nods with a smile and disappears, returning moments later with a rectangle box big enough to be carried by both of his gentle hands. He sets it on the table, fixing you with the same smile before bowing out to Captain.

“You have a collection of engagement rings just lying around?” you ask once Yeosang exits.

“I have a collection of a lot of things,” Captain replies as he clicks the 4-digit combination into place.

“Like what?”

He winks. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate to tell someone who thinks she’s my boss.”

Chuckling at your eye roll, he lifts the lid and turns the box to face you. You’re lured in by all of the stunning rings that sit along five black velvet rows, missing the way Captain looks between the rings and your occupied finger.

He plucks one out that you’d been eyeing and motions for your left hand again. You quickly slide off your engagement ring, placing it in your left hand, and Captain slips on the much more comfortable band with a subtler but still beautiful jewel.

“Oh, wow,” you marvel, elevating your hand to wiggle the diamond and catch the sparkle under the light.

“Better?” A hint of a smug smile curls his lips. You level his with a mischievous one.

“If I were to walk out right now?”

“Our guards would have to tussle.”

Both of you share a chuckle that puts you on a more even footing.

“So, seriously, what else do you collect?” you ask, begrudgingly removing the ring to return it to Captain.

“Sports cars.”

You scoot to the edge of your seat, intrigued, your engagement ring still in your cupped hand. “Oh, you race?”

He smiles and winks. “That’s how I won them.”

“You and my brother have that in common.” You sit back when he doesn’t look too pleased with that observation.

“Don’t you race?” he asks, dutifully changing the subject.

“I haven’t in a while.”

“Can you drift?”

Now, that has your attention. “Maybe you have to find out.”

“Well, then let’s set something up. See what you’re made of.”

You guarantee he will. After comparing schedules, you set up a time to race.

There’s only one person you can ask for a car that will win.

Finally, after almost a month, you have a day off. Jay still isn’t back, so you fully intend on rotting in bed until you can’t stand yourself anymore. But texts from your brother notify you that is indeed not what you will do today.

8:05 Megatron🤖: Heard it’s your day off 8:05 Megatron🤖: I cooked one of hyung’s recipes. Come over for lunch. 10:55 Megatron🤖: Hellooooooo???? 10:59 Megatron🤖: Wake up before I come over there and blast an air horn

You wince, not putting it past your brother to do something childish like that. Back when you pulled an entire week of all-nighters studying for the college entrance exams, you passed out on the couch after the test, only to be jump-started awake by Jeongguk standing over you with his electric guitar and speakers on full blast as he played purposely horrible riffs. You damn near smashed that guitar on his head. Jin just made him sit in a corner for the rest of the day and told you that Jeongguk had stupid ways of letting you know he missed you.

11:28 You: I'm sleeping in bitch! 11:28 You: Don’t tell me you already ate up all the food he packed 11:30 Megatron🤖: … 11:30 You: You really are a T-rex 11:31 Jurassic Park🦖: Guy’s gotta eat 11:32 You: Well are u gonna pick me up or what 11:34 Jurassic Park🦖: Nah D’s gonna have to do it I’m finishing up with a meeting

Great. You have to see the bane of your existence on your day off.

11:35 You: I’m going to my brother’s for lunch 11:36 Demon: I can pick you up in 15 11:37 You: Make it 45 seen 11:37

As you take your time in the shower, it briefly occurs to you that if this is your day off, it’s D’s too. But not if he has to take you to your brother’s. Oh well. It’s not like you gave him the job.

You’ve missed leaving the house wearing clothes and shoes that you actually like and feel comfortable in, without having to sit for hours doing your hair and makeup to look “good” enough through the professional lense of your future father-in-law.

But D is waiting for you in his typical suit and long black coat.

“Guess you can make overtime for this,” you say, briefly glancing at him as you open your door. His shades prevent you from seeing if he’s looking back. As always.

Your brother’s new house is on the outskirts of Seoul and takes a little longer to drive to, especially since it’s up-hill.

The car stops in front of the gate, and a well-built, bald older man steps up to the driver’s side as D lowers the window. You recognize him as the man who drove you and Jeongguk to see Jin off at the docks. Your heart constricts - you have yet to hear from him. You thought he would’ve called by now, to let you know he made it somewhere safe.

“Mike,” D greets in a monotone.

“D,” Mike rumbles back in a low, gritty voice, just as flat. “If you’re not too busy, can we have a chat? Just about some surveillance.”

“Yeah, give me ten.”

Mike straightens and pats the roof of the car just as the gate shudders open and D slowly drives forward, past two heavily armed guards.

Your brother’s new house isn’t as big as the mansion you both grew up in, but it’s more modern and suited to Jeongguk’s aesthetic. Well-tended lawns and weathered gardens litter the compound, and you’ve heard from Jin that Jeongguk has developed a green thumb over the years. You’re excited to see what the spring brings. Wait, your wedding is in the spring. Goddamn it. There goes your good day.

Your mood sours but dissipates when the cutest, sweetest brown Doberman puppy bounds up to the car as you step out.

“Oh my goodness!” You exclaim, squatting down to hold out your hands before the small dog can get too far on the asphalt. “Who are you?”

Your brother rushes down the driveway, calling “Bam!” and you understand that this is your nephew.

“When did you get him?”

“This morning. And he’s already shit in the house five times.”

“That’s the spirit!” you coo to Bam, stroking his long ears so he won’t lick your face too much. You grin at your brother’s glare and he rolls his eyes before turning to D, leaning in to dap him up.

“Wanna come inside for lunch?”

Your muscles lock at the invitation your brother extends to the man you need a break from, and Bam takes the opportunity to lick your earlobe. You lean away with a giggle.

“Nah,” D shakes his head. “I’m gonna join posts with Mike. He wants me to check some surveillance points around here.”

Jeongguk nods. “Alright, well, I’ll pack you something.”

“Thanks.”

As D turns to walk away, Bam starts to whine and wiggle out of your hold and you have no choice but to set him down, eyes widening in mild panic when he takes off after your guard.

“Wait, Bam!” Your cry has D twisting around and looking down as Jeongguk’s dog runs up to him, jumping at his leg and barking playfully. Your brother chuckles and walks towards the sight of D bending down to pet Bam’s small head with a minute smile that makes something in your heart twinge. You swivel on your heel and head for the porch so you don’t witness anything else.

You make grabby hands for Bam when Jeongguk brings him back in the house, shoes already off and duffel bag dropped by the door so you can jump right into playing with your nephew.

“What’s the bag for?” Jeongguk asks, taking off his shoes as you get on your knees and Bam runs over to collapse into your lap with his tongue hanging out. You’re in love.

“Um… I’m sleeping over?”

“Oh, uh,” his smile droops. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why? You having a party I’m not invited to?”

“No,” he says with a glare. “It’s just- in case I, y’know.”

Your heart dips down in your chest. He’s worried he’ll have a night terror and you won’t be able to handle it as well as Jin.

“It’ll be fine, bro.”

His smile is uneasy as he shakes his head. “We’ll have lunch and play video games and you can stay for dinner but then I think you should go home.”

He’s just trying to protect you but it still hurts that you have to go back to an empty house instead of spending the rare free time with your brother. Oh, well. What can you do?

Jeongguk sits across from you, leaving enough space for Bam to run back and forth as you toss a small tennis ball between you.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” you say, glancing around when Bam takes to wrestling Jeongguk’s hand for the ball.

“Thanks. I was gonna ask for your advice on decorating but you already have a lot going on.”

“Mm. I don’t know anything about decorating a bachelor pad though.”

“This isn’t a bachelor pad!”

“What about a pool table, a dart board, and a big ass TV with five gaming systems in the living room doesn’t scream ‘bachelor pad’?”

“Fuck off.”

It comforts you to see that he’s really settled into this place, more so than you have in your house, but then you spot the mini bar nestled in the corner and your fingers curl tightly around the glass.

“That came with the house,” Jeongguk murmurs when you keep staring. “And it’s empty.”

You nod, smiling at him to hide that it bothers you how temptation lives so close when he’s been working so hard to stay away.

“I guess you could use it to store all your banana milk.”

“I have that in the regular fridge.” And you don’t hesitate to help yourself despite his whiny protest.

“Smells good in here!” you call, laughing to yourself at the disarray of the kitchen, pots and pans and little bowls littering the counters - the outcome of your brother cooking for the first time without Jin around to give him pointers or clean up behind him.

“Oh, yeah!”

With Bam in his kennel munching on some nutritional meal your brother personally prepared for him, you set the table as Jeongguk finishes up plating, and you both ignore the missing presence, past memories floating around even in this new space. Jin at the stove, calling over his shoulder at you and Jeongguk arguing about who gets the best pair of chopsticks - Jin taking them for himself in the end. Silly, stupid family stuff that can’t be replaced.

He offers you a little taste of the bibimbap before he brings it over to the table. The flavors are rich and savory, textures perfectly blended and you don’t realize how much you haven’t eaten this past week until this very moment. You could eat all the servings in sight, but your brother would fight you to the death.

“It’s not bad.”

Your brother’s face lights up. “Really?”

“I mean, it’s obvious Jin didn’t cook it, but it’s still good.”

Jeongguk flicks your forehead and you reach out to smack him on the neck in retaliation, and for a split second, both of you pause and glance to the head of the table, expecting Jin to scold and push you apart. When he’s not there, the heartbreak in your chest sits you back in your chair, Jeongguk mirroring you, and you both eat in silence, wishing your brother was here to crack one of his dumb jokes.

“How are you doing? With everything,” you ask carefully.

“Fine,” he shrugs as he chews. “Hyung set things up for a smooth transition, but it’s a little weird picking up where he left off. People are still getting used to me.”

“Well, I’m sure it won’t take them long since you’re so much like him.”

His eyes crease along with a smile. “You think so?”

“Yeah, you’re just as annoying and bossy and headstrong.”

He scowls and reaches over to snatch a bite out of your bowl, and you grab his forearm to hold him back from eating it but you’re no match for his kangaroo strength. Letting go, you grimace and flip him off to which he chews happily in your face.

“So are you, y’know,” he says after a few moments of resumed eating.

You hum. That’s true. You both carry qualities and traits of Jin since he was the one who pretty much raised you. You hope you don’t lose that in all this mess.

“What about you?” he asks mid-bite.

“I’m-” you sigh. “-having a bit of a hard time adjusting. Joon is really helpful though. He found my assistant.”

“Oh, good,” He smiles, cheeks full. “Now I can get him back.”

“He has to train her first but then he’s all yours.”

“You can still go to him if you need to.” “He’s told me the same.”

The rest of the meal is spent in silence as you fill up to the point that your tummy hurts and you’re satisfied.

“You done?”

When you nod, he stands and collects your bowl and you follow him into the kitchen to help clean up.

As you get started on dishes, your brother packs up the extra food in glass tupperware and tucks it in a reusable bag before placing it back in the fridge.

“Remind me to get that out for D.”

“Remind yourself.”

“Okay, jerk.”

He joins you at the sink to dry the dishes that you wash, and it’s taking a lot of constraint on both your parts to not start swishing water and soap at each other. But without the distraction, you’re able to debate ways to convince your brother to lend you a car so you can race and win against Captain. Jeongguk’s a stubborn bull and doesn’t like to share his things - which, growing up, you acted as if that never applied to you, and as his adorable younger sister, you felt entitled to “borrowing” his sweaters, jackets, socks (if Jin had just pulled them out of the dryer), headphones, chargers, etc.) but it’s a little harder to “borrow” one of his cars. He’d probably do more than chase you around the house and call you names if you attempted that without asking.

After you hand him another dish to dry, he suddenly grabs your wrist and lifts it up, disregarding your attempts to wrestle out of his grip.

“Ow, hey!”

“Hold still.” You close your mouth when you realize he’s looking at your irritated cuticles.

“You started that again?” You scowl, shaking him off. He does it too, why is he getting on your ass about it?

“It’s not a big deal.” He side eyes you with a look that means he wants to argue but his teeth toy with his lip ring instead.

“It helps when you get your nails done, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have time. It’s fine.”

“Didn’t hyung used to do them for you?”

“Are you offering instead?”

“No,” he says quickly, but the way he averts his eyes says otherwise.

Lightbulb.

“Instead of painting my nails, you could lend me a car,” you say, turning the conversation.

Jeongguk’s pierced eyebrow raises.

“A car,” he responds, like he doesn’t know what you’re getting at. “Yeah, one I can race.”

“Who are you racing?” he asks curiously, fully turning to you as he dries his hands with the dish towel.

“Captain. It’s a networking thing.”

His amusement capsizes. “Uh-huh.”

Hip leaning against the counter, he stares down at the floor, teeth in his lip ring as he thinks.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head before raising it, eyes lowered in disagreement. “You’ve got to stay off the radar as much as you can, sis.”

“Oh, come on. What’s one race gonna do?”

“Bullshit, this won’t just be one race.”

Damn, he’s right. But who does he think you got it from?

You fold your hands under your chin and push out your lips in a pathetic pout.

“Please?”

Eyes rolling, he shoos away your pitiful attempt. “I’m not hyung, that shit won’t work on me.”

“D’s gonna be there, right? Isn’t that why you hired him? So I can do stuff?”

“Work stuff,” he counters.

“This is work! Technically.” Jeongguk huffs out an elongated sigh.

The familiar sound of reluctance.

“Alright, let’s go pick one out.”

Your brother’s cool as fuck garage is underground, requiring a trip outside to a vacuum elevator protected by a glass enclosure. The sun is beaming down on the grounds as you and Jeongguk stride into the yard, Bam bouncing in his arms.

“D!” Jeongguk calls, lifting his free hand to wave over the man standing by the gate and leading conversation with Mike and two other guards, all dressed in the same uniform fashion. You focus on your sneakers to avoid seeing D look over as your brother gestures to let him know you’re going down to the garage.

To your much needed relief, D doesn’t follow and you’re left to explore the garage with your brother. And Bam, just happy to be here.

In the dimly lit, cold garage, multiple rows of luxurious cars at your beck and call, you already know the one you’re going with.

“I’m taking the Divo.” He scoffs. “Like hell you are!”

“Just try and stop me!” Your shout bounces off the walls as you speed towards the royal blue Bugatti.

“No way, Angel.”

The Divo is the rarest, most expensive car in his collection -the one Jin bought for his birthday last year- which is why he’s not giving it up easily, but he owes you this at least.

“Give me the Divo, or I’m taking Bam.”

“You’re not seriously negotiating a car with my dog.”

Honestly, you’d take Bam home either way. Darn cute baby. (But you won’t, because your brother needs him.)

“C’mon, do something nice for your little sister for once in your life.”

His eyes narrow at you in a glare, but he doesn’t make any disputes.

“Can’t you take literally any other car?”

“No.”

“Pain in my ass,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You better fucking win.”

“I always win, bro,” you grin, leaning back on the hood.

“I guess,” he concedes. “Except when you’re up against me.”

“Your head’s gonna explode with all that hot air.”

Jeongguk can’t chase you with Bam in his arms.

After multiple rounds of video games and a minor food fight as you cooked dinner together, Jeongguk’s sleepy eyes hint that it’s time to go home.

“I’m gonna go get D to bring the car around,” he yawns, stretching his arms up high.

Booooo.

“I’m driving it home, right?”

Jeongguk looks at you as if that’s the opposite of what he had in mind, attention redirected to Bam yipping at his feet. That’s a yes.

You use the bathroom before you go and Jeongguk is outside on the patio talking to D. His shades are gone now that it’s night so you know it’s time to keep your eye level down.

“Just tail her and make sure that-“

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” You sing-song as you walk right between them, shoulders brushing their chests, forcing them to take a step back.

“It’s about your safety, dodo!” Jeongguk calls, and you throw up a middle finger in response.

The Divo is waiting for you outside the gate and you giddily skip towards it, twirling back around for your brother, expectantly holding out your hand for the fob. He rolls his eyes as he pulls it from his coat pocket and reluctantly slaps it in your palm.

You smile at the sound of the doors unlocking in that expensive way they do, and you lean in to very gently set your duffel on the passenger’s seat.

“So where’s this dinner thing again?” Jeongguk asks as you get ready to lower yourself down into the seat, buzzing with excitement.

“What dinner thing?”

“With Jay’s family?”

“Oh!” You totally forgot. Despite Namjoon’s reminders, your brain-fried mind totally threw that off your radar. Jeongguk chuckles.

“It’s at the King Hotel. You’re really gonna come?”

“I was invited, wasn’t I?”

“I think they were just being courteous.” His knee lifts as if to kick you but you angle your body to be shielded by his favorite car and he settles you with a dark glare.

Sighing, he turns to your guard and daps him up again in a tough guy goodbye hug.

“See you then, D.”

You shut yourself away in the car as D opens his mouth to reply.

Ohhh. It feels so good to have the leather steering wheel of a sports car in your hands, the fitted curve of the chair molding you to the interior, the satisfying click of the fob as you slide it in its designated slot to start it up, and the loud, sharp growl of the engine that thunders to life beneath you.

In a car like this, you might never want to get out. You could reach the edge of the city in a matter of minutes with this kind of horsepower under your control. But there’s one thing standing in the way.

One man.

And he’s getting in the Elantra to fucking tail you home. The N may be a sports car, but the engine has no comparable power to what's riding in the center of your brother’s Divo.

You’re going to put that to the test.

As the gate closes, you glance into the rear view mirror to watch your brother disappear up the driveway, and it’s only until he’s out of sight do you ram your foot on the gas and take off, zooming down the windy, narrow roads feeling absolutely fucking free.

Once you get onto the main road, you weave in and out of traffic to try to evade him but he stays in clear sight of your rearview mirror.

What will it fucking take? A slow burning builds in your fingers clenched around the steering wheel as you switch gears to kick up your speed as traffic clears and you have longer stretches of road to get away from him.

In the near-distance, the light turns from green to yellow and you pump the gas to make it through. As you pass through the intersection, your heart jumps in delight when you see the Elantra stuck at the red light. Grinning victoriously, you speed into the night.

Rolling down the windows to catch the cold wind running past,

freedom is yours as the Divo rips onto the highway. You could go to Seoul right now and get lost in the busier streets. For the first time since you came back home, a smile graces you without force, heart feeling full.

But that is annihilated by the growl of an engine sidling up yo you and - Fuck, there he is, pulled up right beside you, perfectly matching your speed. How did he-

Okay, now you’re pissed.

Propping your elbow on the door handle, you hold up your middle finger and direct it at his tinted window, not putting it down until you have an opportunity to pull ahead, cut into his lane and drive in front of him.

You don’t let him get beside you again. And he doesn’t let you completely lose him. You have no choice but to go home. Well, to the house you currently live in.

Steam is ringing out of your ears as you slow your roll into the driveway, gate closed and locked. You stare at the small keypad standing on your left, blinking a red dot at you.

Shit. What’s the code? It’s crazy that you don’t know the code to your own goddamn home. As you intrusively consider just ramming through the gate, your phone buzzes in the console, a text from D flashing the message ‘537426#’.

You punch the numbers in so hard the keypad rocks and you flip one more middle finger in the air as the gate grinds open and you drive the Divo through.

You sit in the car until it’s too cold, picking at your cuticles until they're raw. You really should paint your nails.

As soon as you pass over the threshold of the casino, your phone rings loudly with an incoming call from Jay’s father again.

His gruff voice greets the line before you have the chance to open your mouth.

“My office. Now.”

Your empty stomach churns as he hangs up and you look around, expecting him to be on the floor waiting for you but he’s nowhere in sight. How did he know you’d arrived?

You don’t want to be in a room alone with him, but he might not give you the choice. Taking the elevator up, you tuck your hands under your elbows so you’re not tempted.

His door is already open and D is still walking down the hall as you pause to take a deep, albeit shaky breath. Grow a fucking uterus.

“What’s this about, sir?” you ask, somewhat bravely approaching him as his attention snaps up from his computer with a rage in his eyes that makes you falter, stomach lurching.

“You can wait outside,” he snaps at your guard behind you. Glancing back, your anxiety swims deeper in your gut, rendered with no clue where your place is. You’re D’s boss, but Jay’s father is yours, so you’re aware that you don’t have the upper hand in this scenario. You can’t counter his command.

“Either the door stays open or I stay in here,” D’s tone is flat as ever so it doesn’t sound like a threat, but Jay’s father must take it as one because he doesn’t argue and your guard takes position by the door, standing against the wall.

“I don’t appreciate you going behind my back and hiring that girl I fired as your assistant.”

“Well, I’ve been looking for one and she happened to fit the criteria.”

“But I let her go.”

“With all due respect, sir, she’s not going to be working for you.”

“Who’s paying her salary, then?”

“I am.”

“You mean your brother.”

To ensure that Byeol’s income doesn’t become muddied with dirty mob money, the salary she’ll earn will strictly come from what you make at the casino but if it appeases him to think otherwise…

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine,” he acquiesces, folding his arms, still obviously pissed. “But if she becomes a liability, the consequences will fall under you.”

“I understand.”

He starts typing at his computer again as if you’d suddenly disappeared, so you give an insincere bow of your head that he doesn’t see, and turn to leave, but just as you pass D, he speaks up.

“Oh, and we’ll be having the family dinner here tomorrow night.”

“Here? I thought it was at the King Hotel.”

“Change of plans. Be on time for this and wear something nicer than your work clothes. You have to make a good impression on us.”

Your entire body is tied in a knot as you finally walk out. If the dinner your brother was initially invited to you is here, at the casino, he won’t be able to attend. An ugly, sharp-toothed monster gnaws at your ribcage because you can’t help but think they did this on purpose.

How are you supposed to tell your brother without sending him into a wreckage he might not be able to repair without Jin?

If you can’t, who else can? Your breath constricts when you realize that the singular other person is walking right behind you. Your words turn bitter on your tongue as you wait to come to a stop at the elevator and D leans over to press the down button.

“Can you tell my brother that the in-laws changed the venue for dinner tomorrow to the casino?”

He continues facing the wall as he nods and you’re glad (for once) that he keeps his mouth shut on the elevator ride back down to your office.

“Hi, Miss Jeon!” A cheery voice greets you. You look up in mild confusion to see Byeol bouncing on her toes by the desk outside your office, wearing a black long-sleeved button down cardigan and pencil skirt with matching flats. Namjoon sits at the computer, typing away at the system, probably getting it set up for her.

“Oh, hi, Byeol!” you try to match her energy, but the nausea tamps it down.

“Thank you so, so much for this opportunity!” Her smile is wide and eager and it’s a pleasant sight compared to her melancholy as she left your office the other day. “I want you to know that I will work very hard to help you in any way I can and I won’t let you down.”

You don’t need much else to believe her.

“Thank you, I’m sure you won’t.” She beams at you. “I see that you’ve started on your training, so I’ll check on you later. I’m gonna head in to get some work done.”

And by that you mean crawling under your desk, holding your knees against your chest until you can breathe normally without the threat of crying.

Hair formal, makeup flattering, outfit chic. You look fucking good. But you don't feel it.

Jay waits for you at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a monochrome ensemble of a black dress shirt, blazer and slacks, sleeve pushed up on his left wrist showcasing the expensive, diamond encrusted Rolex. Captain pops into your mind and you suppress a smile, wondering if the diamonds are real or lab-grown.

“You look amazing,” he compliments as you reach the last few steps, offering his hand as a substitute for the railing. Hair swept off his forehead, he’s not completely unfortunate looking, but you’re still way out of his league. A shallow part of you hopes he knows that.

“And tonight, I’ll make sure everyone knows that you belong to me.”

He kisses your knuckles and you try to match his smile, despite the persistent whirlpool in the pit of your stomach that only worsens on the drive to the casino because he never lets go of your hand.

It doesn’t get any better even after stepping into familiar territory because the people there are anything but. There are so many of Jay’s family that you have to make a good impression on, including his mother who has not stopped staring at you since you walked in.

Already, it’s getting hard to breathe and you can’t lose it before you even start. So before Jay’s parents can walk over and suck you into countless introductions, you politely excuse yourself to the bathroom and it takes all of your grace to not run out. Shimmying out of your coat, you toss it at D without looking back, knowing he's already there.

Since it’s the beginning of the night, the bathroom is empty, and once the door closes, you stumble over to the counter and grip onto the edge, a whirl in your head that weakens your ability to ignore your nausea. You stand there so long that your soles start to ache, heels straining your ankles.

You jolt at the sound of the door swinging open, heart stopping when in walks Jay’s mother. So much for that. Without hesitation, you straighten and wipe your clammy hands on your dress, smoothing out the wrinkles as she regards you with a stiff smile before secluding herself in the stall.

You did come in here to use the bathroom, but you had to remember how to breathe first. The toilet a few doors over flushes before you’re done and you telepathically will her to leave, but after the sink runs for a few minutes, you deduce from a thunk on the counter followed by the rustle of dense plastic that she’s touching up her makeup.

If you stall any longer, she may ascertain that you’re sick or avoiding her - which you are, but the last thing you want to do is make your future mother-in-law think you’re rude.

So, pulling up your big girl panties, you exit the stall and strut to the counter opposite of her with your head down. You offer a polite smile in the mirror when you feel her eyes examine your reflection as she applies a fresh coat of lipstick.

“It’s good to see you again, Angel.”

“You as well, ma’am,” you answer, willing a cordial smile, flicking off excess water before reaching for a paper towel.

She nods, capping the tube as she pops her lips together.

“I’m sorry your brother can’t make it.”

“Yeah, he’s very busy these days.”

“Yes. That’s the reason.”

Oh. So it’s like that?

“Without him here, I hope you’ll conduct yourself with proper etiquette.”

What the fuck? “I’m sorry?”

“I heard about your incident at the commission meeting. With the cigar.”

Word really gets around. So Jay must know that too. Is there a reason why he hasn't said anything?

“That hot headed behavior will not be tolerated by anyone in this family.”

Your nail pierces into the skin of your hand, the sting doing nothing to quell the growing blaze in your veins. She’s really coming for your throat.

“And my husband told me about the situation with your assistant. You won’t get away with undermining him or my son once you’re married. So start learning your place.”

Your… place. What kind of archaic bullshit-?

“Are you saying I’m supposed to submit to them?”

“Yes, if you want to survive,” she affirms sternly, a coldness in her eyes that makes you uneasy. “This is about power and tradition, and I’m just warning you that they won’t allow you to disturb that.”

Is she expecting you to be a good little trophy wife, who stays at home and shines his shoes? You’d rather an anvil be dropped on your head.

“I won’t cook for him. Or do his laundry. Or pick up after him.” She turns to you with a tight-lipped smile. “Of course not, you have people for that. And when the time comes to have a child, you can hire all the nannies you want.”

A thick knot lodges in your throat and your breath catches on it. An heir? Jin said you don’t have to give an heir.

“That was never agreed on with my brothers.”

“But it was with your father.”

A fist grapples your heart and squeezes, yanking and tugging painfully through your ribcage.

Your father is probably down in the hottest part of hell having the last laugh at your expense. He truly never gave a rat’s ass about you. Lee Dongwook was right - you are just a pawn in your father’s plan to keep his power seated at the head of the syndicate. You have no value otherwise. Will you even get to keep working at the casino once you’re married? Or was that a compromise Jay’s father made with Jin before he left and it’s all just a lie?

“What if I don’t want a child?”

“Then I suggest you make the effort to change your mind. It’s your duty as a woman.”

Force you into duty. Put you in your place. Strip away your power. All things you would’ve never imagined being a part of.

“And just remember, if you decide not to go through with this marriage, it will be on you for the failure of the alliance. There will be hell to pay. You don’t want to fail your brothers, do you?”

She may as well have punched you in the face.

The whole syndicate could crumble and collapse because of you. You would fail your brothers, let down Jeongguk and make him take on more responsibilities - ones that are yours and yours alone because he has too much to oversee already. He can’t take care of you or worry about you so you can’t give him any reason to.

What the fuck is your life? How are you supposed to live like this?

Bursting out of the bathroom, you just barely notice D positioned next to the door, too busy frantically looking for a way out.

“Where’s the roof?” you utter, nerves in every cell shaking so much you see a double of him as he points to the end of the hall.

“Take a right, there’s a set of stairs.”

Chest tightening with each breath you struggle to take, your hand on the wall holds you up as you rush in the direction of the stairwell, tripping on almost every step on the way up to the heavyset metal door you have to use all of your weight to open.

The cold air of the dry, wintry night sharply plunges into your lungs that inflate and crease tortuously under your ribs, failing to catch a single breath.

Your blurred vision finds the lights of the city decorating the horizon and you wander towards it, but your feet malfunction because you can’t fucking-

“Breathe.” D’s voice penetrates the static blaring in your ears, and you don’t need him telling you what to do! If only you had enough oxygen to say that.

“Don’t-!” You wheeze, reaching out to push him away, but the force of your hand on his chest has you staggering back a step. When you clench his lapel with both hands to hold yourself up, you suddenly feel like you’re not going to drown.

But panic continues to rage through your airways and the edges of your vision are darkening so you rack your dizzy brain for that calming technique you learned during your stressful uni days.

Five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste.

Five things you can see, okay, um. The ring on your hand curled in the lapel of his coat, his silver collar bar, his Adam's apple… You gulp.

Two more.

Your shaking focus shifts up to the mole next to the left side of his nose.

The vertical scar under his right eye.

Four things you can touch. Breathing still shallow, your fingers slide over to his tie, and you expect the texture to be coarser, but it’s so soft.

You can’t feel his heartbeat, doubting he even has one anymore.

Wait, his chest is… solid. Unnaturally so. Right. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest.

You think about how he’s standing here right now, guarding you. How your brothers hired him, chose him for the job, paying him to take a bullet for you if need be.

Is that why he hates you?

He’s still holding your coat, and as you go to clutch it, your fingertips accidentally graze the thick silver rings above his knuckles, the touch of the cold metal causing fizzles beneath your skin.

Three you can hear. Your labored breathing, cars on the street below, the crinkle of his suit in your fist. (You ignore the noise in your head screaming, why can’t you let go of your shadow?).

Almost done, okay, you can do this, you can calm down. You have to.

Two you can smell. Your perfume, rich and velvety. His… cologne, smooth and smoky. Warm. Fuck.

Let go let go!

But you only have one left - one you can taste. Your eyes flit down to his lips and- Hold the fuck up! That’s not- He doesn’t- You’re about to start panicking for a whole other reason.

Snatching your coat, you step away from him, twisting around with your head down to swing it around your shoulders and pretend like you didn’t just use him to bring yourself out of a nearly uncontrollable spiral.

You want to get away from him, but that would mean going back inside. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Damn it. So you head back to the horizon, the railing stopping you from reaching it. D stays a few feet behind you.

“Cigarette,” you demand with no inflection as you lean against the metal bar, palm held up, arm wrapping around your middle to keep your coat closed. You would’ve bought your own damn pack, but the only cash you have on you at the moment is the wad of 500,000 won that’s been burning a hole in your purse for the past few weeks because you don’t have the fucking stomach to confront D. But at the very least, you have the audacity to bum a smoke from him.

You keep your eyes on the dark evening horizon as D reaches into his suit to pull out the familiar carton and lighter, letting you pick a stick out of the fresh pack and use his lighter up the end.

“Did you hear everything she said?” He shakes his head, and you flick off ash, really hoping he didn’t. But he’s probably still a good liar, if not better.

“She told me you won’t always be around. They’ll fire you once I get married.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why the fuck should I believe you?” you spit with your bitter, champagne-laced mouth.

“Because it’s my job to stay.”

Stay. Stay? Now he’s going to fucking stay?

“Well, I guess that’s tough fucking shit for you, huh?” you grimace sarcastically with the cigarette between your teeth, taking a deep drag so smoke fully inflates your lungs. “Get out of my face, go stand by the door.”

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand over your shoulder, and he takes a silent step back before turning around and walking towards his position as you furiously smoke the cigarette.

He’s only staying for a goddamn check.

Money. That’s become your only worth. It wasn’t until you came back home. Well, before that you were worth next to nothing.

No value, no worth. Except for being a money- and a baby-maker.

“You want him out here?” D’s voice rips you away from the onyx horizon and you twirl around, ready to rip him a new one for speaking after you dismissed him, only for your anger to be dimmed by a silhouette pushing open the roof door. Your fiancé, coming to mind your business.

“Fuck,” you mutter, hitting the cigarette once more before dropping it on the ground and squishing it under your heel.

Blowing out smoke and hoping Jay doesn’t see, you turn back with a slight wobble as he calls out, “Angel, I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Sorry, I just needed some fresh air,” you fake a smile, walking towards him with a quick smooth down of your dress.

“It’s freezing, you’ll catch your death out here!”

Might not be a bad thing, the devil in the back of your head whispers saccharinely as Jay puts his hands on your shoulders and rubs to warm you up. All you want to do is shrug him off and go the fuck home to your separate sleeping quarters.

“Were you smoking?”

“Yeah, but I don’t do it that often.”

“We’re going to have to break that habit. It’s not good for you.”

Neither is this lifestyle, but you've lost control of that now.

Back in the dining hall that is slowly becoming your personal hell, Jay disappears to fetch you a drink, and seconds later, his mother struts towards you, carrying two flutes of champagne. She offers you one, flickering a brief glance at the space behind you. The shadow behind you.

“Tell your guard to keep his glasses on. He looks like those thugs he’s supposed to be protecting you from.”

What does she mean by tha- oh.

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass as she walks away to greet a few people in an elegant tone she has never used with you.

Because for some reason you’re unable to say them to his face, you pull out your phone and type with shaking thumbs the message to D:

Keep your glasses on. There are high-class people around

The message sends and you briskly walk away, washing down the strange feeling in your gut with the pricey bubbly, refusing to look at him for the rest of the night. But you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

Glasses remaining, he lingers on the sidelines, and you wonder what he pays attention to most:

The people bustling all around you - your fiancé’s family and friends who greet you with fake smiles and forced small talk because your brother is the don and they have to make nice.

Jay’s arm that never leaves your waist, his hand rubbing across your hip, making you shiver and not in a way you like.

The men who leer at you as you pass by; who shake your hand and unashamedly look you up and down. All the while Jay doesn’t notice, or turns an oblivious eye.

You who smiles through it all. Because his mother’s words ring in your mind - you’re supposed to be like the women who won’t speak unless spoken to by their husbands: quiet and submissive. Complacent.

Everything you are not.

What the fuck did your brothers sign you up for? What did your bastard father set you up to become?

At dinner time, Jay grabs your left hand and leads you to the grandiose table. The food laid out looks delicious, but you don’t know how much of it you can stomach. You spare a peripheral glance behind you, finding D standing against the wall parallel to your seat. You feel some of the nausea waver away, taking it as reprieve for finally sitting down.

Jay’s mother clinks the rim of her champagne glass as her husband stands at the head of the table.

He clears his throat once he has the attention of the entire room, and zeroes in on you with a gesture of his flute.

“As you all know, this lovely young woman will be joining our family in the spring. Officially!”

Jay holds up your adorned hand as the table claps, showing off your ring. His father puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“We’re very excited for their future together, and the future of our legacy.”

Bile creeps up your esophagus as the table raises their glasses in tandem, all eyes on you.

“To Jay and Angel!”

The rest of the night goes on with you feeling as if your body doesn’t belong to you. Maybe that’s what Jay was going for.

For whatever reason that you’ll be eternally grateful for, Jay sends you off home alone to stay behind with his parents and you cannot get out of there fast enough.

In the car, nausea swims laps throughout your stomach as you silently beg, plead the universe for Jin to come home. He’s the only one who could fix this.

Your phone buzzes and you snatch it up - maybe someone, something out there heard your cries but disappointment comes in the form of texts not from your brother.

21:47 Hope: I’m not having a lot of luck in finding your mother, I apologize 21:47 Hope: But I’m not giving up!

He’s a cop, he was Jin’s- something, he has to know a way to get in touch. You dial his contact before you can think smarter.

“Hi, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be calling like this-“

“It’s no problem. What can I do for you?”

“There’s no way to get in contact with my brother, is there?”

“Atlas? No, I’m afraid not. He said he’ll reach out when he can.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, nails scraping the leather hard enough to make marks.

“Is everything okay?”

“I’ll be fine. Sorry again.” And you hang up, tossing your phone on the floor below the opposite seat.

The wave. It won’t stay down.

“Pull over.”

Covering your mouth, you slide to the other side of the leather seat as D maneuvers the car onto the shoulder, smacking the lock and handle to dump yourself onto the asphalt, bile hitting the ground before your feet do.

Since you barely touched dinner - and ate nothing more than one square meal a day this week - all you’re throwing up is the champagne and what little you digested.

When you’ve finished humiliating yourself on the side of the road, feeling sicker than you did before you emptied your guts, D is standing by the trunk of the car, just in front of the white line separating the road from the shoulder. He’s not facing you, but he definitely still heard you retching. You get into the car before he turns around.

You’re buckling up when D gets in, dizzy like your brain is sloshing around in your skull and in the blurry darkness, you barely see the handkerchief dangling in the air.

“You alright?” he asks quietly.

“Fuck you,” you snap, nonetheless snatching up the silk so you can wipe your mouth instead of using the sleeve of your coat.

You keep the handkerchief this time.

ahhhhh sorry for the delay!! i'm sorry i had to split this in two parts but I SWEAR TO GOD THE SECOND PART WILL BE FINISHED TOMORROW!!!! thank u so much for reading!! let me know what you think!!

<<<previous chapter * next chapter>>>

taglist (open!): @polarnightmyg @rinkud @viankiss @futuristicenemychaos @busanbby-jjk @skzlover24 @wonh0oe @mar-lo-pap @ktownshizzle @taegijns @glossdebut @butterymin @kiki-zb

114 notes · View notes

tomikashii · 13 hours ago

Note

Ghouls reaction to MC drawing them?

MC can either be a great drawer or a horrible one, your pick! But the concept is that MC is trying to either paint them or sketch them without the Ghouls knowing.

tokyo debunker : the ghouls with an mc who secretly draws them!

to anon : thank you for the cutest request ! as an artist myself, THIS WAS JUST THE CUTEST CONCEPT EVEEEEEEEER 😭 hope you enjoy this as much as how i loved writing this ! 🩷

⚠️ : slight ooc (?)

frostheim

jin kamurai

he found out when he caught you doodling on your textbook when he was tutoring you

doesn't mind it as much, instead he scolds you for not paying attention

then he looked closer at the doodle, he realises it was him (his heart is exploding)

tohma ishibashi

already knows this little fact about you ! how ? because he somehow knows...

caught you off-guard one day when he caught you doodling something, and the other page was a sketch of him.

smiles to himself before surprising you out of nowhere, making you jump and close your sketchbook.

kaito fuji

when he caught you drawing him, he was super excited. preparing a confession and everything.

he would keep the doodle AND BRING IT TO HIS GRAVE

PLEASE GIVE HIM A CHANCE, HE IS TOO EXCITED ABOUT THIS !!!

lucas errant

caught it by chance actually when you were doodling at the corner of your textbook.

doesn't question because he know you would immediately shut the textbook.

the smile on his face got bigger when he sees you doodling his face. 🥴

vagastrom

alan mido

he noticed this fact about you and doesn't question it as much

but when starts to notice the small doodles that resembles him, he bites back a small smile

now he always looks out for any doodles of him in your sketchbook or textbook

leo kurosagi

the moment he notices, he TEASES the hell out of you 😭

wants to use it as tiktok clout but you refused profusely, clearly embarrassed of being caught by leo

“you are so cringey, honor roll.” as he secretly takes a photo of the doodle

sho haizono

notices when you guys were having a study-date together.

“whatcha drawing there, senpai ?~” he cooes, making you fluster and shut the textbook.

now he is trying to get a glance of the doodle you were doing. (his ego will boost further if he finds out you were doodling him)

jabberwock

haru sagara

how did he notice ? when you were taking a break from helping around jabberwock and you were sketching haru.

he actually smiles softly behind you before jogging backwards and calling out to you.

he smiles even harder when you quickly closed your sketchbook to greet him, trying to be secretive about your doodling

towa otonashi

lets face it, do you really think you can hide the fact that you doodle him secretly ?

the moment he finds out, he is always asking you to doodle him and you kissing or being together 🥹

you are NEVER gonna be able to hide the fact you doodle him in secret.

ren shiranami

he accidentally took your textbook instead of his and when he flipped it open, he saw the doodles of his face on your first page.

CUE HIS BLUSHING FACE AND EXPLODING HEART AS HE CRASHES INTO THE BED

he then gets up, texts you that he has your textbook. when you came over to collect it, he has the most nonchalant expression before inviting you inside for a movie.

sinostra

taiga hoshibami

i think he doesn't really care if you draw him or not actually

but maybe, if you squint, he suddenly more clingy when he finds your doodles of him ?

he does not let you of his sight. AT ALL.

romeo scorpio lucci

he EXPECTS you to doodle his beautiful face, BEAUTIFULLY.

didn't realise you would actually doodle him in your sketchbook, making him EMBARRASSED

avoids eye contact with you when he learns about the new fact about you

ritsu shinjo

another one who accidentally took your notes instead of him.

his face blushed RED when he saw a small sketch of him doing his work when you both were studying together

condemns himself for looking through your stuff and avoids eye contact with you for awhile

hotarubi

subaru kagami

he found out because he accidentally activated his stigma on your sketchbook.

his face flushed red when he saw you sketching two whole pages of him with a soft smile on his face.

“kagami-san, are you okay ?” you asked, with him vigorously nodding his head with a red blush on his cheeks.

haku kusanagi

THIS TEASE. THIS BIG TEASE.

the big grin on his face when he saw the doodle of him on your textbook. he keeps this information to himself for awhile, before randomly saying :

“you should draw me with you more often, princess.” he mentionly randomly out of nowhere, making you cough on your tea.

zenji kotodama

another one who if possible, will bring your doodle to the grave.

he found out by chance, when he hovered over you when you were studying, unaware of his presence.

he accidentally made his presence known when he gasps at the BEAUTIFUL drawings of him.

obscuary

edward hart

if he can't get lyca to draw him, he can get you to draw him.

sees it as a win-win situation, especially when he found that beautiful drawing of him in your sketcbook by chance.

he would pester you for a drawing, making you give up and draw for him from time to time.

rui mizuki

you were doing your assignment at the bar, on the counter. when he was about to place a drink next to you, he noticed that you were a little engrossed in your textbook.

when you noticed his presence, his curiosity was piqued when you immediately shut the textbook. this is when he used his artifact to hide in darkness and watch you for abit, to see what you were engrossed with.

HIS SMILE. HIS SMILE WAS SO BRIGHT. SO DAMN BRIGHT. when he saw you drawing SO BEAUTIFULLY. A BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF HIM. he is combusting.

lyca colt

he was super excited when he found out that you draw, just like him.

doesn't understand why you were so embarrassed about him catching you drawing him ? (he will draw you to make you feel comfortable)

doesnt understand the feeling he is feeling when he realises that you draw.... only him. (he is confused, this is a new feeling ! subaru to the rescue)

mortkranken

yuri isami

you must be wondering, how did this GUY find out about your little habit ? .... jiro, jiro told him.

how ? there was one time where yuri was drawing a diagram and it was not understandable and jiro suggested that you should draw it instead. thats when he mention that since YOU can draw him (yuri) so well, you should be able to draw the diagram.

victorian man yuri activated. avoided you like the fucking plague.

jiro kirisaki

another one who doesn't find it like a big deal ? he would be confused on why you have to secretly draw him though.

would ask you to draw anatomy diagrams for his notes.

now what YOU DONT SEE, is his small smile as he watches you engrossed in drawing the diagrams.

79 notes · View notes

rimzaaa · 1 day ago

Text

You Belong To Me

Series!

Chapter Five: Don't Touch What's Mine

Pairing: Dark!Inho (Frontman) x Fem!Reader (y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: After surviving yet another brutal game, Y/n finds herself questioning everything. As secrets deepen and players begin to turn on each other, she starts to suspect that something — or someone — is watching over her. But when the lights go out and she finds herself locked in the bathroom alone… it’s clear. The real game has only just begun.

Warnings: Psychological tension, mentions of blood & death, mild gore, controlling/possessive behavior, paranoia, claustrophobia, subtle obsession, and suspenseful cliffhanger.

Author's Note: Here's the chapter you all were waiting for! Sorry for the wait, I tried my best to make it worth it. And ty for all the love <3 (and yes, the cliffhanger is always intentional 😏🖤)

Words Count: 2060

Tag list: Let me know if you want to get tagged in the series or other LBH fics.

@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovehwanginho @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @theredvelvetbitch

Y/n stood frozen.

Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened — both in shock and disbelief — as the robotic voice echoed through the silent hall:

“Player 315, eliminated.”

Gasps filled the room.

Above them, hanging grotesquely from the ceiling by thick black cords, was the lifeless body of Player 315. His limbs limp, head slumped forward, and his shoulder—

Bloodied.

Riddled with bullet holes.

The same shoulder that had brushed against hers the night before.

Whispers swirled through the players like smoke.

“They say he misbehaved with a guard…”

“Must’ve disrespected the rules…”

“They warned us about this…”

But Y/n wasn’t buying it.

Her heart pounded. Her fingers clenched the hem of her tracksuit jacket. Her eyes stayed locked on the damage — on that shoulder. That same shoulder he had used to intimidate her, to accuse her, to grab her wrist.

Why that shoulder?

Why only him?

---

High above, in the shadows of the private viewing room, In-ho sat calmly on his leather couch. A glass of dark whiskey dangled loosely from his gloved hand.

The screen in front of him flickered with the image of her frozen face.

And a slow, satisfied smirk curled beneath his mask.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmured into the dim air. “It’s exactly what you’re thinking.”

He lifted his drink and took a slow sip, the ice clinking gently in the silence.

“No one,” his voice dropped to a growl, “touches what’s mine.”

His tone was quiet.

Deadly.

Possessive.

The door opened just slightly, allowing two guards with black coffin — a satin pink ribbon tied across it like a cruel joke.

---

The hall had returned to a heavy stillness.

Y/n sat quietly on her lower bunk bed, a tray of food in her lap — untouched. Her mind replayed the morning over and over, the image of that hanging body etched behind her eyes like a scar.

She exhaled shakily and placed the tray aside, her appetite gone completely.

And then, almost instinctively, she looked up.

At the camera.

That tiny black dot on the wall — blinking red.

Watching.

Something inside her said look.

And she did.

She stared.

Right into it.

Right through it.

In-ho sat forward.

His glass paused halfway to his lips.

For a second — just a second — it felt like she was staring right at him.

Like she knew.

Their eyes met through the screen — the watcher and the watched — and his chest tightened.

He let out a breathless laugh, low and rough.

“Well, look at that,” he whispered to himself, tilting his head.

“Curious kitten.”

He leaned back again “Soon…” he murmured darkly, fingers tracing the rim of his glass,

“…soon we’ll meet.”

And when we do…

You’ll understand why you were never just another player.

You were always mine.

---

The vintage telephone in the corner of In-ho’s room let out a shrill, old-fashioned ring that echoed through the dim lighting of his private suite.

He stood slowly, calm and poised, as he crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

“Frontman speaking.”

A raspy voice on the other end gave a simple message.

“They’ve arrived.”

In-ho didn’t respond. He simply hung up the phone, lifted the black mask resting beside it, and slid it on with practiced ease. His expression was unreadable — but beneath the mask, his eyes narrowed with sharp focus.

The VIPs were here.

And the most dangerous game was about to begin.

---

Down below, the players were herded like silent cattle into a cavernous, pitch-dark hall. The cold air reeked of oil, steel, and dread. Above them, barely visible in the shadows, stood two towering yellow platforms connected by long metallic bridges — their surfaces narrow, their height dizzying.

Suddenly, the robotic voice echoed from all directions, deep and soulless:

“All players, divide into groups of ten.”

Y/n’s heart raced.

She looked around desperately. The others had begun forming groups already — players clinging to anyone they’d spoken to, barging into circles for safety, friendship, or numbers.

But she… hadn’t bonded with anyone.

Her trust had worn thin long ago.

By the time the dust settled, she was left with the final remaining group — five other women and four men. None of them looked particularly strong. None of them were leaders.

She was the sixth woman.

And her stomach dropped.

What if it’s a strength-based game?

What if we’re being set up to fail?

The robotic voice returned.

“The next game is… Tug of War.”

There was a pause. Players murmured. Eyes darted to one another.

“Two groups will compete at a time. The losing team… will fall.”

Then the bridge platforms lit up fully — blinding golden beams exposing just how high they were. Steel cables stretched across the gap, attached to thick ropes that ran through enormous gears. In the center of the suspended bridge — a giant guillotine blade hovered, ready to slice the rope clean once one team was pulled across the center line.

The trapdoor beneath them? Death. A straight drop into solid steel below.

Y/n swallowed hard.

Her legs shook.

And her group, visibly the weakest among the remaining ones, stood frozen in horror.

---

Far above, in a private golden viewing chamber — walls decorated with crimson velvet and gold-trimmed mirrors — the VIPs lounged on plush chairs. Their masks were elaborate: a lion, a stag, an owl, a fox… all expressionless, all twisted behind laughter and greed.

Drinks in hand, they watched the screens and sipped aged brandy like they were at a theater.

Among them, seated in silence, was In-ho.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t drink.

His eyes locked on the screen displaying Group 3.

Her group.

Y/n.

And for the first time in years, the Frontman’s jaw tensed beneath the mask.

---

The first round began.

Groups 5 and 9 were transported to the bridge via a vertical lift platform that rose with mechanical creaks.

The buzzer sounded.

“BEGIN.”

A thunderous struggle followed.

Grunts. Screams. A desperate pull for survival.

One group fell — rope released, blade triggered, and ten lives disappeared into the abyss.

Y/n’s breathing turned shallow. Her knees weakened.

Another group fell.

Another.

And then…

Only two teams remained.

Group 3 — hers.

And Group 7 — all men. Tall, muscular, smug.

As they boarded the bridge, the men from Team 7 shot them a wicked smile. One of them mouthed across the platform with a slow shake of his head:

“You’re finished.”

Y/n’s fingers curled tighter around the rope in her hands.

She couldn’t tell if it was sweat or fear making her palms slick.

Back in the VIP chamber, In-ho stood up quietly, excusing himself with a polite nod. His departure went unnoticed among the drunken chuckles and whispers of the masked beasts.

The hallway was dark and silent as he walked.

But his mind was loud.

This wasn’t how she was supposed to die. Not like this.

Not while he still had power.

He reached for his walkie-talkie with gloved fingers, voice dangerously low:

“I want Team 7 dead.”

A pause. Then he added:

“How? That’s your job. Just make it happen.”

And without another word, he shut it off.

In-ho returned to the viewing room with silent confidence.

He sat down again, legs crossed, swirling his untouched drink.

No one noticed the slight curve of satisfaction on his face.

No one could see the shift inside him — the man who once punished guards for disobedience… now bending every rule, breaking every code he once lived by.

All for her.

---

The countdown began.

Y/n’s grip tightened on the rope. Her feet dug into the metal grates. Her chest heaved.

Team 7 leaned back with practiced precision — but something shifted. A guard near their side blinked once, nodded slightly.

And suddenly, their rhythm broke.

The gears clicked.

The rope slipped.

The platform tilted.

And one by one…

They fell.

Gone.

The blade sliced down, the tension snapped — and Team 3, against every possible odd, won.

Y/n fell back on the platform, breathless, disoriented, but alive.

She couldn’t believe it.

Neither could her teammates.

But somewhere above, far from the bridge…

A man with mask exhaled deeply, letting his fingers trace the rim of his glass.

“Good girl…” he murmured under his breath.

“I told you you’d make it.”

---

The metallic clang of boots echoed as the remaining players were led back into the main dormitory hall.

They walked slower now — fewer in number, eyes darker, faces weary from the tug-of-war. Sweat clung to their brows. Some limped. Others simply stared ahead, hollow and silent.

As they entered, the sound that had begun to feel hauntingly familiar now returned — a mechanical click-click overhead. Everyone looked up.

The golden piggy bank.

Descending slowly, dramatically.

And then — clink, clink, clink — the heavy stacks of money dropped inside, louder than ever in the dead silence.

Y/n stared up, her chest tightening.

It was growing fuller. Each drop was someone’s life.

As soon as the doors sealed shut behind the guards, after the voting the whispers began.

Then the shouting, as the majority had voted to stay.

“You voted to stay, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t! You think I want to die in here?!”

“If we had all voted X, we’d be home by now!”

“Stop being cowards! Let's play one more game”

---

Across monitors and cameras, high above them, In-ho leaned back on his chair — mask on, eyes gleaming behind the black.

A low chuckle vibrated through his throat as he watched her.

“Even fate wants you to stay,” he muttered under his breath, the corner of his mouth curling with dark satisfaction.

---

Y/n stayed quiet on her bunk, hands clenched in her lap as she listened to the arguments explode around her. Players pointed fingers. Accusations flew like bullets.

The room was collapsing into chaos.

But she couldn’t focus on any of it.

Her thoughts were stuck back on the bridge. On the tug-of-war. On how… they had won.

Her team — the weakest in the hall — had survived.

She had tugged with everything in her, teeth gritted, feet sliding, arms burning. But they were losing.

Until they weren’t.

Something had shifted. Something unseen had pushed the weight in their favor.

It couldn’t be luck.

Her brows furrowed. Lips parted slightly as if she wanted to ask the room aloud — What really happened up there?

But no answer came.

---

A metallic clang jolted everyone into silence again. The steel doors hissed open and in came the dinner trays. The guards rolled them down without a word.

Y/n accepted her tray — a roll of bread, and a boiled potato with fork.

She didn’t hesitate.

For the first time since the games began, she finished every bite.

Because now, she understood.

These games weren’t just physical. They were mental. Emotional. Survival wasn’t just about strategy. It was about strength — of body and mind.

And she was going to survive.

Even if she had to become someone else to do it.

---

The robotic voice rang out again overhead, echoing off the concrete walls:

“Lights will be out in thirty minutes.”

Y/n didn’t waste a second.

She slipped off her bunk and made her way toward the door tucked in the corner.

The same one she’d used the night before.

The pink-hooded guard on duty stood straight, stiff.

“Bathroom,” she whispered.

He nodded and opened the door.

She walked down the short corridor quickly, shoulders tense, and entered the women’s bathroom — a space as cold as the rest of the compound.

Flickering lights buzzed overhead.

She turned on the tap and splashed some cold water on her face, taking a moment to look at herself in the cracked mirror.

And then —

Click.

The lights went out.

Darkness.

Complete, consuming.

Y/n’s breath hitched.

She reached for the door and turned the knob.

It didn’t budge.

Locked.

She tried again — harder.

Nothing.

Her pulse spiked as she pounded once on the steel.

“Hello?” she called out. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

Just the sound of her own shaky breathing in the pitch-black room.

She was alone.

Or so she thought.

Chapter 6(coming soon)

124 notes · View notes

starksweasley · 2 days ago

Text

tucked in

pairing: percy jackson x reader

summary: you’re just trying to finish inspection rounds without losing your mind, but percy jackson has to go and be asleep and soft and ridiculously cute about it. and now you’re tucking him in? gods, you’re never living this down.

wc: 1.5k+

You’re already annoyed before you even reach the Poseidon cabin.

Your inspection sheet is wilting slightly in your sweaty grip, the ink smudged from your thumb. The sun is high and cruel today, hanging over Camp Half-Blood like it’s got a personal vendetta. Your shirt clings damply to your back, and your shoes are coated in a thin film of dust from marching between cabins all afternoon. You’ve done twelve inspections already, and you’ve had to argue with at least eight campers about what counts as "clean." One of them actually tried to convince you that throwing a blanket over a pile of weapons made it decorative.

So, yeah. You’re not in the mood.

You drag your feet up the short set of steps to Cabin Three, muttering under your breath as you flip your clipboard to the right page. Of course Poseidon's cabin is last. Of course.

You knock once. Sharp. Clear.

Nothing.

You frown, tilt your head slightly, and knock again, louder this time. “Inspection,” you call, voice clipped.

Still nothing.

You lean in slightly, squinting at the door. “Percy,” you add, tapping the heel of your palm against the frame, “I swear, if you’re pretending not to be here so you can avoid cleaning again, I’m going to dock you so hard you’ll wish you lived in the Hermes cabin.”

Still no answer. Not even a grunt.

You huff exaggeratedly, hand tightening around your pen. “I’m coming in. If you’re naked or half-dressed or whatever, it’s your own fault,” you warn, already twisting the handle.

The door creaks open slowly, hinges groaning, and you step inside with every intention of telling Percy Jackson exactly what you think of his lazy, irresponsible, impossible self.

But then—you stop.

The air inside is still and dim, and the musty scent of ocean salt and boy sweat lingers in the room like it's soaked into the walls. It’s cooler in here than outside, shaded by thick stone walls and sea breeze charmwork. And there, in the center of the room, sprawled across a half-made bed with one leg dangling off the mattress and the other crooked awkwardly beneath him, is Percy.

Asleep.

Your mouth parts slightly, irritation forgotten for a second as you just... stare.

He looks like he collapsed the moment he walked in. His armor’s still strapped across his chest, albeit a little askew, like he barely had the energy to fasten it. His shoes are still on, untied and slightly caked with dried mud. His fingers are curled loosely into the blanket, and his hair—gods, his hair—is a dark mess of salt-swept curls, sticking up in every direction like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times before giving up.

And his face...you think he looks so soft like this. The sunlight spills across his skin in slow, honeyed ribbons, catching in his hair and turning it the color of sand at golden hour. His lashes fan out against his cheeks, delicate and still, and his lips are parted just barely, caught somewhere between a dream and waking. Even his jaw, usually tight with some impossible sense of responsibility or sharpened by a grin that dares the world to challenge him, is relaxed now. Unclenched. Peaceful. Like this is the version of him no one else gets to see.

You blink, still frozen in the doorway. Against your better judgment, something in your chest tugs. You exhale quietly through your nose, eyes dragging slowly around the rest of the room. It’s a mess (predictably). Socks poking out from under the bed, a towel draped over the desk chair, half a granola bar squashed onto the floor next to a pair of damp swim trunks. There's a trident doodled into the wooden headboard—badly, you might add. Someone left a shield propped against the nightstand like they got halfway through organizing and gave up.

You sigh. Still staring. Still not moving. And maybe you're just tired. Or maybe there’s something about the way his fingers twitch in his sleep that makes him look smaller. Younger. Human.

You shake your head once and force your eyes back to your clipboard. “Lucky you’re cute when you sleep,” you mutter under your breath, lips tugging in a reluctant smile. You circle off a surprisingly generous score and glance back at him. Still out cold.

You should leave.

But instead, you step closer. Your movements are instinctive. Careful.

Percy looks like he might fall off the bed at any second, one leg half-hanging. You bite your lip, crouch beside him, and gently finish untying his shoes. The laces come undone easily, and you slip each one off slowly.

He doesn’t stir.

You glance at his legs, still draped haphazardly. You reach for his ankle first, then his knee, easing his legs the rest of the way onto the mattress with a care that surprises even you.

Then you move to the armor, leaning in close, holding your breath as your fingers ghost over the leather straps. You unbuckle the chest plate slowly, working each clasp with practiced hands, the metal cool against your fingertips. The buckle near his shoulder is tangled in his shirt, and you have to lean closer, exhaling softly as you pry it free.

You set the armor carefully on the chair.

Then, finally, you reach for the blanket at the edge of the bed, shaking it out to clear off a few crumbs (gross), and drape it over him. Tuck it in lightly at his side.

And that’s when he twitches.

At first, it’s just the furrow of his brow. Then a scrunch of his nose, a jerk of his fingers. His lips press together like he’s trying to speak through sleep, and then suddenly, he violently jerks upright with a gasp, eyes wide and startled.

You yelp and stumble backward, crashing into the chair behind you with a loud thunk.

“What the—” His voice is rough with sleep and confusion. He looks around wildly, dazed. “What are you—why are you in my cabin?”

You lift your hands like he’s just accused you of theft. “Inspection!” you shoot back, as if that explains everything. “I knocked, you didn’t answer! I thought you were ignoring me again!”

He squints at you, still clearly half-asleep, his shoulders rising and falling with slow, confused breaths. His hair is even worse now, sticking up in every direction, and the blanket is twisted around his torso.

“You—” he blinks. “You undressed me?”

“Oh my gods,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face. “I took your armor off, Jackson. You looked like you were going to fall off the bed and crack your head open. I was being nice. Which, by the way, is a mistake I won’t be repeating.”

You turn sharply toward the door, the heat of embarrassment prickling at your ears. “Whatever. I’ll mark you down for being messy. Happy?”

But before your hand can reach the knob, his voice stops you again.

“Wait.”

You turn your head. He’s sitting upright now, feet flat on the floor, blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He looks like a child in the aftermath of a nightmare.

“I just…” He exhales. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

You frown, footsteps halting. “Bad dreams?”

He nods, once. Small. “Yeah. For a while now.”

Something in you softens. Just a little. “I get them, too,” you say after a moment. “Sometimes they stick to your ribs for days.”

He glances up at you, searching. “How do you make them stop?”

You shrug. “I don’t know if you can. But it helps to think about something that makes you feel calm. Happy. I picture myself eating strawberries on the beach. Sounds stupid, I know, but it works.”

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “That doesn’t sound stupid.”

You don’t say anything. Just nod.

You’re halfway out the door when he says your name again. This time, quieter. More hesitant.

“Could you maybe stay?”

You pause, blinking. “Stay?”

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just for a bit. It might help me sleep. You’re… I dunno. You’re calm.”

You stare at him. You’re pretty sure your brain short-circuits for a second.

But then you’re walking back toward him before you can think better of it, easing yourself onto the bed with cautious grace. “Not the whole night,” you say, “just for a bit.”

He scoots over wordlessly, and you sit beside him, the blanket rustling under your weight. His shoulder brushes yours when he turns onto his side, curling slightly to face you. His eyes are soft now, ocean-deep and quiet. There’s a kind of rawness there that steals the breath from your lungs.

“What?” you whisper, self-conscious.

He shakes his head slowly. “Nothing,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I just feel calm.”

And for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. You just sit there, letting the silence settle around you like sea foam. And when his eyes flutter shut, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, you find yourself watching him all over again with something dangerously close to fondness.

You stay. Longer than you mean to.

And when you finally leave, your inspection sheet still smells faintly of saltwater.

#percy jackson #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x yn #camp half blood #rick riordan #logan lerman #demigods #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson x you #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackson fluff #walker scobell #book percy jackson #poseidon #fluff #cabin three

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agustdsluv · 17 hours ago

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IN THE SPACE BETWEEN US - JJK

summary | they grew up side by side. they just didn’t know they were falling in love. years of silence, one moment of truth, and a love that was always there.

paring | jungkook x f! reader

genre/warnings | one shot! childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff with light angst, first love, they’re honestly just blind and idiots for each other, mutual pining, them just being cute, time skip, and again just them being dumb

word count | 8.7K

notes: honestly I debated whether or not I should post this. It’s the first time I’m publishing something of my own and I’ve written a lot of stuff over the years, but I’ve never posted anything like this before so I really hope you enjoy it. It took me a long time to have the courage to post this so I really hope you like it and let me know what you think.

The summer Jungkook turned seven, a new family moved into the yellow house across the street.

Their daughter—shy, messy-haired, with oversized glasses—stood out like a cloud on a clear day. While the other kids played soccer on cracked pavement and scraped knees on jungle gyms, she spent the first week hiding behind her mother’s legs or sitting silently on the front porch with a spiral notebook.

On the second Monday of July, Jungkook found her crying behind the bush next to the schoolyard fence.

He blinked, unsure if he should run or offer a tissue. She noticed him watching and quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand, which left a dirt streak across her cheek.

“You lost?” he asked, walking closer with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

She shook her head.

“Then why are you crying?”

She hugged her notebook tighter. “Some girl said I’m weird because I brought dried squid for lunch.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “That’s not weird. I eat squid all the time.”

She peered up at him, skeptical. “Really?”

He nodded confidently. “Wanna see something cooler?”

Before she could answer, he unzipped his backpack and pulled out a crumpled bag of spicy seaweed crackers.

“They taste gross,” he said proudly. “But I eat them anyway. Wanna try?”

She took one cautiously, eyes narrowing as she chewed. Then her lips twitched. “That’s disgusting.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Now you have to be my friend.”

And just like that, the thread was tied.

From that day on, they were inseparable.

They walked to school together every morning, side by side with their backpacks bouncing. During lunch, they’d trade doodles in their notebooks and dare each other to eat increasingly weird snack combos—banana and kimchi, yogurt with soy sauce, chocolate-covered seaweed.

“Someday we’ll open a snack shop,” she declared one day, her mouth full of strawberry pocky. “But only sell cursed food.”

Jungkook nodded seriously. “And we’ll call it… ‘Don’t Eat This.’”

When they weren’t in class, they were on the playground or at each other’s houses, building blanket forts and pretending the couch was a ship lost at sea. Jungkook’s mom started keeping extra slippers by the door just for her. Her dad started calling Jungkook “our honorary son.”

By third grade, everyone in the neighborhood knew their names as one: Jungkook-and-YN.

The first time yn got jealous, she didn’t know what it was.

It was a warm spring afternoon. They were playing tag with a group of neighborhood kids when Minji, a girl from the next block, ran up and tugged on his sleeve.

“Jungkook-ah,” she said sweetly. “Do you want to play with me instead?”

He glanced over at her—his her—standing a few feet away, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She didn’t say anything.

He turned back to Minji. “No thanks. I already have a partner.”

Minji pouted, but Jungkook ran off before she could protest.

When he got to her side, he nudged her shoulder. “Hey. Why’d you look sad?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “You can play with other people, you know.”

He frowned. “But I don’t want to.”

“You don’t?”

He blinked. “Why would I? You’re my best friend.”

She looked at him then, a quiet smile playing on her lips. “You’re mine too.”

The bracelet came that summer.

They were sitting under the big plum tree in her backyard, stringing beads together with clumsy fingers and bug bites on their arms.

“This one’s yours,” he said, holding up the blue and green bracelet he made.

She gave him a red and yellow one in return, which didn’t match at all, but he tied it on proudly.

“Now we match,” he said. “Even if you move away someday or go to a different school—this means we’ll still be best friends.”

She touched the beads carefully. “Okay. But you have to promise.”

“I promise.”

He didn’t know then how heavy a promise could be.

But he meant it anyway.

Middle school arrived with an awkwardness she couldn’t quite name.

Hair got weirder. Voices cracked. Kids started dividing into cliques and couples, drifting apart like puzzle pieces that no longer fit. She felt it everywhere—in the way people whispered about crushes, or asked who liked who, like it was the most important question in the world.

But not with Jungkook.

He was still her constant. The one unchanging thread in all the chaos.

Only… even constants begin to shift.

They didn’t play tag anymore. The friendship bracelets they made under the plum tree were too small for their wrists now, tucked away in drawers or lost to time. Instead, they sat side-by-side at lunch, shared earbuds on the bus, and texted late at night about songs and stupid jokes and everything in between.

It was still them.

Mostly.

Until it wasn’t.

He joined choir in seventh grade.

She hadn’t thought much of it at first—until she heard him sing.

It was rehearsal for the spring showcase. She was backstage, helping a teacher organize props, when his voice filtered through the noise. She didn’t realize it was him at first. The sound was too soft, too rich, too careful. But then she peeked around the curtain and saw him standing on the risers—hands in the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes slightly down, completely unaware of how easily he was stealing the breath out of her lungs.

Something in her shifted.

And that was when she knew.

She didn’t just like Jungkook.

She was in love with him.

She didn’t say anything, of course.

How could she?

They’d been friends since they were seven. He’d seen her with grape jelly on her face and crooked teeth. He knew every version of her—sleepy, grumpy, awkward, annoying. Telling him would be like stepping off a cliff with no rope.

So instead, she wrote.

Her journal became her safe place—pages full of things she couldn’t say out loud. Things she wished he knew. Things she wasn’t brave enough to tell him.

March 15

He walked me home again today. I counted 23 sidewalk tiles between our houses. I wanted to ask if he liked anyone. I didn’t.

April 2

His hoodie smelled like citrus gum and laundry detergent. I wore it the whole night. He said I could keep it. I didn’t give it back.

April 28

He smiled at Minji today. I hated that I noticed. I hated that it hurt.

By eighth grade, the space between them was harder to ignore.

They still talked, still laughed, still existed in that same shared rhythm. But something was different. He texted less in the evenings. He looked away faster when she caught him staring. He laughed more with other girls.

And she started wondering if maybe she was the only one holding onto whatever they used to be.

The worst part was how natural it all looked—him fitting into those groups, those jokes, those conversations with other people. With other girls.

She tried not to let it bother her. But the ache in her chest said otherwise.

One night, walking home from a study group, she almost said it.

The air was thick with the smell of rain. The sidewalks shimmered under the streetlights, and the sky still held the blush of a fading sunset.

Jungkook bumped his shoulder into hers as they walked. “You’ve been quiet all day,” he said. “Lost in thought?”

She glanced at him, then down at their feet. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, everything stilled.

“I was thinking…” she began, voice small. “Do you ever—”

Her phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring.

It was her mom. A reminder about dinner.

When she looked up again, the moment had already passed. Jungkook had slipped his hands into his pockets, the weight of whatever had just almost happened falling away like sand between fingers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

But that night, as she stared up at her ceiling, the words haunted her.

Do you ever think about us as more than friends?

The school festival came that fall.

By then, they were in high school—and Jungkook had become someone everyone noticed. Not in an obnoxious way. He was just there—always laughing, always moving, always shining in a way that drew people in.

She stayed where she always had: close, but never quite center.

Not the kind of girl he’d fall for. Not the kind of girl people whispered about in the hallways.

But she couldn’t help it—she loved him anyway.

The night of the festival, he was set to perform solo for the first time. She found a spot near the back of the crowd, standing under a tangle of fairy lights strung across the courtyard.

He stepped up on stage in jeans, sneakers, and his worn denim jacket. No drama. No spotlight.

Just Jungkook.

He adjusted the mic, cleared his throat, then looked out at the crowd. “Uh… this one’s a cover,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “It kind of reminds me of someone I’ve known a long time.”

And then he started to sing.

It wasn’t perfect. His voice cracked once. He messed up a chord.

But it didn’t matter.

Because every word felt like it had weight. Like it had a name.

Her name.

And as she stood in the dark, listening, something inside her broke and healed all at once.

She couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not when everything in her heart screamed for more than friendship.

Not when it was him.

Jungkook’s apartment still smelled like vanilla and something faintly citrus—probably his detergent. The scent had clung to her clothes a hundred times, but now it felt different. Louder. Warmer. Like it wrapped around her the moment she stepped through the door.

It was a Saturday night. Late spring. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly two weeks.

College, work, and life had gotten in the way—at least, that’s what they told each other.

But she knew the real reason.

Things had been… off.

Ever since winter break, when he nearly said something and she nearly answered. When their hands lingered too long on the armrest during a movie, and their goodbyes started to feel like maybe’s instead of see-you-soon’s.

Still, she came over because they’d promised they wouldn’t drift.

And because she missed him so much it made her chest ache.

“Hey,” he said when he opened the door, one hand still drying his hair with a towel. “You’re early.”

“I walked fast,” she said, trying to sound casual.

He grinned. “What, to avoid the cold or to see me faster?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.

He looked good. Stupidly good. A soft black t-shirt, sweatpants, and damp hair pushed off his forehead. There was something too intimate about the domesticity of it all. The fact that he let her in without a second thought. The way his presence always settled the noise in her mind.

The air buzzed with unspoken things.

They made dinner together like they always used to—ramyeon with extra egg, dumplings, and one of those pre-made strawberry milk cartons they both secretly loved.

Music played from his Bluetooth speaker, low and steady. Her favorite playlist, the one he made for her birthday last year. The same one she still listened to when she couldn’t sleep.

It all felt so normal.

Except it wasn’t.

Not really.

Not with the way her heart twisted every time their hands brushed. Not with the way he kept stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

Something was coming. She felt it in her bones.

And it terrified her.

After dinner, they collapsed on the couch in a comfortable silence.

She tucked her feet under her and hugged a pillow to her chest. Jungkook grabbed a blanket and threw it over both of them without asking.

Her heart leapt at the gesture. He didn’t even hesitate.

The movie playing on his screen was just noise. She wasn’t watching it. Not really. She could barely focus with how close he was—shoulder pressed to hers, knee resting just beside her thigh.

Every part of her was screaming.

Say something. Do something. Touch him.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t be the first to break.

Jungkook shifted beside her and let out a breath. “You ever think about how long we’ve known each other?”

She turned slightly, eyes on him. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Feels like… my whole life has you in it.”

Something fluttered in her stomach. She forced a small laugh. “That’s dramatic.”

He didn’t smile. He looked at her, really looked, his voice quiet. “I’m serious.”

Her fingers tightened around the pillow. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just… sometimes I wonder if you remember stuff the way I do. Like the plum tree. Or that dumb squid snack.”

“I remember everything,” she said before she could stop herself. “All of it.”

A pause.

“I never forgot either,” he said.

She looked at him—and her whole body tensed when she realized how close his face was to hers.

His eyes dropped to her lips for a second.

Just one second.

She stopped breathing.

“You know,” he whispered, “sometimes I think I should’ve said something a long time ago.”

“About what?”

He swallowed. His hand moved without thinking, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek.

“About this,” he said.

And then—he kissed her.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t slow, or dramatic, or choreographed like the ones in movies.

It was quiet. A breath between heartbeats.

Soft and sudden, like instinct taking over.

His lips were warm, familiar, and yet completely new. His hand cupped her cheek as if afraid she might pull away.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him back—shaky at first, then sure. Her hands found the fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

It felt like exhaling after holding in a breath for years.

When they finally pulled apart, she kept her forehead resting against his, eyes still closed.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “What… was that?”

He laughed under his breath, soft and breathless. “A really long time coming.”

She opened her eyes, and his were already on her.

“I didn’t want to ruin us,” he admitted. “But I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not after everything.”

“Me neither,” she said.

And just like that—the space between them was gone.

Neither of them moved at first.

The kiss had ended, but the moment hadn’t.

They sat there on Jungkook’s couch, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. His hand was still gently cradling her cheek. Her fingers remained twisted in the hem of his t-shirt, as if letting go might break whatever spell had just wrapped around them.

The TV buzzed in the background, completely forgotten.

Her heart was racing in that dizzy, quiet way that always came after something irreversible.

Eventually, Jungkook spoke. His voice was soft, and a little unsure.

“…Was that okay?”

She let out a breath. “It was more than okay.”

He pulled back just slightly so he could see her face, his hand falling to rest between them. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“I’m glad it did.”

He gave a shaky smile. “Me too.”

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. The world outside the window was still, lit by the orange haze of distant streetlights. Somewhere down the hall, his neighbor’s dog barked once and went silent again.

Then, slowly, she turned to him.

“Can I ask something?”

“Anything.”

“How long?” she whispered. “How long have you felt… this?”

Jungkook looked down at his lap. When he spoke, his voice had that quiet weight it always did when he was being completely honest.

“I think it started in middle school. I didn’t know what it was at first. Just that I always wanted you around. That everything felt better with you in it. And then you wore my hoodie home one night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how it looked on you.”

Her cheeks burned, but her heart swelled.

He continued, “In high school, I thought about telling you every time we said goodbye. But I kept thinking—what if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin everything?”

She looked at him carefully. “I thought the same thing.”

His gaze snapped back to hers.

She smiled, soft and a little sad. “Jungkook… I’ve loved you for so long. I just never thought you’d look at me that way.”

“Are you serious?”

“I kept a journal,” she admitted, cheeks warm. “It’s filled with entries about you. About how I felt. About how scared I was to lose what we had.”

He stared at her, stunned. “You’re telling me we could’ve had this years ago?”

“Maybe,” she laughed, “but… I think I like that it happened now.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because we’re not kids anymore. And we know who we are now. I think if we had rushed it, maybe we wouldn’t have lasted.”

Jungkook paused. Then, quietly: “I want to last.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—just sitting, holding hands, letting the stillness wrap around them like a blanket. The air between them had shifted, but it wasn’t strange. It felt natural. Like breathing in after a long-held breath.

Eventually, he turned toward her, smiling a little.

“You wanna stay over?”

She raised a brow. “Smooth.”

“I mean, you always stay late. But… if you want. You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

She hesitated. Not because she was unsure, but because she knew this was a line they were crossing—together, willingly.

“Can we just… fall asleep here?” she asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we can.”

Later that night, as they lay side by side under the same blanket, limbs barely touching, her eyes drifted shut with the sound of his breathing next to her.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic or fireworks-in-the-sky kind of love.

It was better.

It was quiet and steady. A love that grew in the small spaces—between laughter and silence, between shoulder bumps and shy glances. A love that waited. A love that stayed.

She smiled into the dark, the weight in her chest finally lifted.

The space between them had collapsed.

And in its place was something real.

Something that had always been there.

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stewpidcheescatarinabluu · 9 hours ago

Text

Synopsis: You were the golden boy with everything—cars, charm, and a future already paved. Liz was the quiet, mysterious transfer student who lived in her own fantasy world. You never meant to fall for her. But after one mall date, a photo booth kiss, and a whispered confession… you don’t want anything else.

Word Count: 9,952

Ive Liz X Male Reader

"In life, you're either born poor, or rich without having to struggle with anything. But if you're lucky enough? You'll be born as me. So for everyone else in the world? I'm sorry."

The afternoon heat was the sticky kind — not the "I can get over this" sticky, but the oppressive, soul-melting kind that made you question the point of school, life, and physical education altogether.

And of course, today had to start with P.E.

"Hey Y/N, tryna beat your record again?" your coach called out, wiping sweat off his brow.

"Not with this kind of heat," you replied, already half-limping toward the shade.

"Alright, alright! Everyone back to class!" he shouted. "Don’t forget to change or Ms. Eli will give me an earful."

Someone from the back muttered, "You like getting earfuls from Ms. Eli, though..."

Laughter erupted.

"Who said that?? I heard that!"

"Don’t mind them, Coach," you said, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Go chase her, tiger."

More laughter. You were good at that — defusing tension with a smile, earning chuckles and admiration without even trying.

But once the game was over, reality kicked back in.

Now you were stuck in Calculus for another two hours.

You tapped your pen against the desk, eyes drooping. The worksheet in front of you was supposed to be filled with formulas, derivatives, and God knows what, but instead it was just...

Stickmen.

And flames.

And a badly drawn dinosaur?

"First class P.E. sucks," you muttered in your head, doodling aggressively. "I’m already dead."

You were so lost in your masterpiece — a knight fighting a giant lizard — that you didn’t even notice the knock on the door.

“Excuse me, Miss?” a familiar voice came through. It was your homeroom teacher.

“Of course, go ahead,” the calculus teacher replied. “Take your time.”

The door opened wider.

"Okay everyone! Meet your new classmate. Kim Jiwon, go introduce yourself, honey."

A girl stepped forward.

Blonde hair that looked kissed by sunlight. Oversized sleeves. A face that wasn’t trying to impress anyone, but somehow did anyway.

She gave the room a polite smile, then said softly:

“Hello everyone, my name is Kim Jiwon. You can call me Liz.”

And just like that — your pen stopped scribbling.

"Be nice to her, everyone." "Go sit there beside Y/N, love."

And she did.

She walked without hesitation, her steps quiet but certain, and took the empty seat beside you. Her bag wasn’t packed to the brim like most honor students’ — just the basics. You could already tell: she wasn’t here to overachieve.

You tried not to stare, but it was pointless.

You’d seen beautiful girls before — the cheer captain, the girl from Class B, the exchange student last year — but this? Liz had something else. It wasn’t loud or polished. It was like… gravity. Soft, quiet gravity that pulled you in whether you liked it or not.

You never thought sitting beside a girl could make you feel this nervous. Like one wrong move, one awkward blink or misplaced breath, could ruin everything forever.

She pulled out a calculator, set it aside, and then — strangely — opened a sketchbook. A handful of colored pens spilled beside it.

She never touched the calculator again.

While the teacher rambled about limits and derivatives, Liz just… drew. Calmly. Confidently. Like the numbers didn’t matter and the world outside her paper didn’t exist.

Your eyes kept drifting to her. Just glances, quick ones. You couldn’t help it.

“Yo,” your seatmate whispered, nudging you with a grin. “Are you a creep?”

“Tanga,” you muttered back. “I’m just eyeing her since she’s new.”

But it was more than that, and you knew it.

Halfway through the lesson, one of her pens rolled off the desk and landed under your chair.

She didn’t even react — just kept drawing.

You picked it up, hand brushing a little bit of her sketchbook on the way.

“Here,” you said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

She took it without looking. No smile. Just a quiet, almost robotic: “Thank you.”

That was it.

And yet?

In your head, it was a victory.

“Yes. One point for me,” you celebrated silently.

After class, you finally left her alone. For now.

“Yo, bro!”

Your friend jumped on your back, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy and not the school’s golden boy. You didn’t even react — your eyes were still locked ahead, watching Liz walk down the hallway.

She looked… lost. Not in the head-in-the-clouds way. Just slightly disoriented, like she wasn’t used to crowds or didn’t know where to go.

“Tryna get something to eat?” your friend asked. “Come on, man, I’m starving—”

You didn’t answer. Still focused.

“Bro?” “…She’s something,” you finally muttered.

“Come on, you were like this last year, remember Won—”

“Shut up.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay, lover boy. Watchu gonna do then?”

You adjusted your bag and cracked your knuckles. “Watch this.”

You caught up to her with slightly more nerves than you expected.

“Hey. L-Liz, right?”

She stopped walking and turned slowly. Her eyes squinted at you, like she was trying to figure out if you were serious or just stupid.

“The cafeteria,” you offered. “Lemme guide you? It's kinda hectic during lunch, so—”

“Library,” she cut in. “And I’m fine.”

Short. Cold. No hesitation.

You blinked.

Your friends were already cackling from behind.

“1-0! Y/N: zero. Transferee: one!” one of them whispered way too loudly.

You gave her a small nod and stepped back, defeated. “Alright… library it is.”

She walked away like nothing happened.

You returned to your crew, pretending it was nothing, too.

“Let’s go eat. And don’t expect me to treat you all again.”

“Wha—? Bro, I was just kidding!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Five minutes later, you were all seated, your so-called friends already stuffing their faces with the cafeteria’s premium lunch options.

“THANKS, Y/N!!!” they yelled in unison, mouths full, joy obvious.

You didn’t reply. You just stared off, stirring your drink absentmindedly, mind elsewhere.

Because as humiliating as that was...

You still couldn’t stop thinking about the girl who picked the library over you.

You pulled them all into an empty classroom after lunch.

They expected wisdom. Maybe drama. Possibly a heartfelt confession.

Instead, they got you pacing like a man on trial… and all they gave you back was bullshit.

“I’m so full, dude,” groaned one, leaning back in a chair. “Stop yapping. My stomach’s fighting for its life.”

“If I’m gonna be honest,” said another, picking his teeth with a straw wrapper, “you’ll just come crawling back to Won—”

“I said stop mentioning her.” Your voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Silence. Tense. A little awkward.

Then you sighed, hands in your pockets. “I’ll let you borrow designated cars for a week.”

Everything stopped.

“WHA—?!”

“You’ll seriously go that far?” one of them gasped, practically falling out of his seat.

“What, you guys don’t want it?” You shrugged, backing toward the door. “I’m an easy person to talk to. If not you, I’ll find someone else—”

“NO. No, no, no, no!” They all lunged forward like starved wolves. “We’ll help you. Of course we’ll help you.”

“Because we,” said one, dramatically placing a hand on his chest, “are love experts.”

“Didn’t your last relationship end because of how loud and smelly your fart was?” someone deadpanned.

“…Not cool.”

You leaned back against the chalkboard, watching them bicker and laugh like idiots.

Idiots who, unfortunately, might be your only chance at figuring out how to talk to a girl who’d rather sketch dragons than look at you.

“I call dibs on the Mustang!” someone shouted, already raising a fist.

“The Chevy’s all good with me!” another grinned.

“I’m taking the Porsche.”

“Dude—not my Porsche.”

“You want help or not?” That shut you up fast.

“Ugh, fine,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “But listen—do not scratch it. And most importantly, don’t go around using it to grab girls, got it?”

“No guarantees,” one of them said, grinning. “But sure.”

“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes.

“So you’ll help me now?”

“Yup!” they all answered in perfect chaotic harmony.

The dumbest one of the group stood and pointed dramatically like he just unlocked the secrets of the universe.

“What if you make her think... you’re the missing part of her life? Business 101! For demand to rise, you must create need.”

You stared at him like he’d just swallowed a calculator.

“What are you even saying?”

He smirked. “If you’re the solution, she has to realize there’s a problem.”

“Nonsense,” another chimed in, arms crossed. “She’s obviously not the type to waste her whole life looking for a missing piece — let alone love.”

You paused.

Your eyes dropped to the dusty floor tiles, then flicked up to the window where students passed, laughing and oblivious.

“…Guess I got my answer then.”

“…Guess I got my answer then,” you said quietly.

The room was quiet for a beat.

Until—

“What?”

Everyone turned.

It was him again — the dumbest one in the group. The same guy who once thought Mount Rushmore was in Korea. The same guy who swore his dog could see ghosts.

“What?” he repeated, blinking at you like you were the idiot.

“Why don’t you just… talk to her like a normal person? Jeez.”

Silence.

Everyone’s eyes widened.

Mouths dropped. Jaws slack.

“Bro…” one of them whispered. “Did he just… say something smart?”

“No way.”

“Is he possessed?”

“You good, man? You got a fever?”

He just shrugged, pulling out a juice box like it was any other Tuesday.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbled through the straw. “Girls are humans too. Not, like, puzzles or stocks or Pokémon cards.”

More silence.

You blinked, then sighed — loudly.

“…I hate that you’re right.”

“HE’S RIGHT?!” someone repeated in disbelief, nearly falling off their chair.

“Okay fine, okay,” you muttered. “I’ll try just… talking to her.”

He raised his juice box with a smug little grin. “That’s the spirit, Romeo.”

At first, it was subtle.

A glance during class. A shared seat during group work. A soft “Hey” in the hallway that she never responded to, but never rejected either.

You weren’t the kind of guy who had to try — things usually just gravitated toward you.

But with her?

You felt like a planet stuck in orbit, always moving around her, never close enough to land.

You tried again during lunch.

You sat a few tables down. Not next to her, but close enough that your voice could carry if you laughed loud enough. You did. Twice. Once naturally. The second time forced. You swore you saw her glance.

But maybe she just didn’t like noise.

The next day, she was on the rooftop again.

You acted like you didn’t know she’d be there, like your feet didn’t race up the stairs the second the bell rang.

She was sketching — again — head bent, sleeves loose, lost in a world only she understood. You sat a few feet away, pulling out your own notebook, pretending to study.

The wind blew a page of her sketchbook open. You caught a glimpse.

A forest made of stars. A boy holding a sword too big for him. A girl with sad eyes standing in a doorway of light.

You wanted to ask about it.

But all you said was: “Cool drawings.”

She didn’t look up. Just nodded.

Later that week, you passed by her locker.

A pen had fallen beside it. You picked it up and placed it on the top of her books.

She didn’t say thank you.

But the next day, when you passed by again, it was still there. Right where you left it.

You saw her in the library once. She sat in the corner, tucked between Philosophy and Sci-Fi. She had a cup of Yakult on the table. No books. Just her sketchpad.

You walked past her once. Then again. On the third round, she finally looked up.

“…Are you okay?”

You froze.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Just stretching my legs.”

She stared.

“…You’ve passed this aisle three times.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Caught me.”

And for the first time— Her lips curled. Just a little. Barely a smile. But it was real.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t mean.

She was just... distant.

Like someone who knew how to build walls that didn’t even look like walls. Pretty ones. Made of quiet drawings, and books, and invisible signs that said, Don’t come closer.

But you kept orbiting anyway.

Because every once in a while, her eyes would meet yours— And you swore there was something there. Not affection. Not interest. But recognition.

Like maybe— Just maybe— She saw you too.

“You what?!” one of them shouted, nearly choking on his bubble tea.

“I said I think she almost smiled,” you repeated, calmer than you felt.

“Almost?” “Bro,” another one leaned forward. “That’s like saying you almost won the lottery because you scratched the ticket.”

You stared blankly at them across the empty classroom, the familiar war room where nothing wise ever happened.

“Hey hey hey,” the loudest of the group said, raising a finger like he was about to solve world hunger, “but we gotta give him credit… he tried.”

“No.” “No, we don’t.” “He scored multiple airballs, dummy.”

“I was making an effort!”

“You gave her a pen.”

“It was her pen!”

“You stalked her in the library.”

“I was walking—”

“THREE TIMES?! Around the same aisle?!”

“Okay yeah maybe that was a bit much—”

“Bro,” your best friend leaned in dramatically. “You’re a golden boy. You’re not supposed to miss.”

You slumped into the chair like you’d been benched from the championship.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “I’ve done everything right. I didn’t force anything. I gave her space. I even complimented her art—”

“Wrong move.”

“Huh?”

“You complimented her passion. Girls like that?” one of them said, nodding like a wise sage. “They’re weird about it. You compliment it too directly? It’s like stepping into their brain without knocking. Freaks them out.”

“…That was weirdly insightful.”

“I saw it on TikTok.”

Another one leaned back, arms behind his head. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh no, do tell.”

“You’re trying to impress her.”

“And?”

“You’re not being you.”

Silence.

You blinked.

“…Did you just say something smart again?”

The room went quiet. Slowly, everyone turned to the dumbest guy in the squad.

He froze. “…Oh no. Not again.”

FEW WEEKS PASTS

It was the annual interschool games. The day when reputations were made, trophies were earned, and egos either skyrocketed or got buried six feet deep.

And like every year, there you were— The main event.

Your name echoed through the speakers as the final match began. The crowd roared. Banners waved. And on the sidelines, your dumbass friends screamed way too loud:

“LET’S GOOOOOOO GOLDEN BOYYYYY!!!”

You grinned and adjusted your jersey.

This was your world. And out here? You never missed.

The whistle blew.

Speed. Precision. Swagger. You moved like someone born for this — all reflexes and fire. Opponents couldn’t touch you. The court bent to your rhythm. Every shot? Clean. Every assist? Flawless. The scoreboard climbed like it had a crush on you.

And when the final buzzer blared?

You had the game ball in your hand. Scoreboard: 89 - 67. Victory.

The gym exploded.

Teachers were clapping. Your classmates were screaming. Even the principal stood up.

You were swarmed by teammates, lifted slightly off the ground like some kind of royalty.

“Bro,” your friend said, breathless beside you. “You’re insane. I think I saw three girls faint.”

“Four,” another corrected. “One was crying.”

You laughed, wiping sweat from your brow, heartbeat still racing — but not from the game.

Because in the crowd, near the far wall, leaning quietly against the bleachers—

There she was.

Liz.

No banner. No screams. Just her.

Watching.

You didn’t know how long she’d been there. But you knew she saw.

After the crowd cleared and the noise faded, you walked into the locker room, towel over your head, ears still ringing.

Someone shoved a bouquet into your hands.

“For MVP,” the coach said. “Go show the school you’re more than a pretty face.”

You grinned.

Finally.

A win you could hold.

The locker room was emptying out — voices fading, sneakers squeaking down the hall, towels slung over shoulders like victory flags.

You ran water through your hair one last time, pulled on your jacket, and stepped into the cool hallway.

Quiet.

Finally.

Your muscles ached — not from strain, but from release. The kind you only get after giving everything and still walking away with a win.

As you rounded the corner, you saw her.

Liz.

Standing near the vending machine. Alone.

She was staring at the buttons like they were a puzzle. You slowed, footsteps echoing on tile. She noticed — turned slightly — and for the first time?

She didn’t tense up.

You walked toward her.

No smirk. No one-liner. No dumbass friends watching from behind trash cans.

Just you. Quiet. Real.

“Hey,” you said, casually drying your hair with the towel.

She looked at you.

And something shifted.

Her guard — the one that always stood between you like glass — it flickered. Briefly. Barely. But enough.

“…Hey,” she said back. Soft. Unscripted.

She pressed the vending button without looking. Out dropped a Yakult.

You blinked. “You always drink that?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s familiar.”

You nodded. “Makes sense.”

A pause.

She stared at you for a second longer this time. Not like she was trying to figure you out, but like maybe… she already had an answer.

“You’re different,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “In a good way?”

She didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her eyes softened — just enough to make you feel like the floor had gone slightly uneven.

“…You’re not trying so hard anymore.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I finally figured out it’s not a game.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she took a sip of her Yakult, then reached into her bag.

Pulled something out.

A small piece of paper — folded carefully. She handed it to you, her fingers brushing yours for a fraction of a second.

You unfolded it.

A sketch.

Of you.

Standing on the court. Arm raised mid-shot. Light catching your hair. Not flawless, not dramatic — but real. Drawn in a way that only someone watching carefully would ever be able to capture.

Your eyes flicked back up to hers, speechless.

“…Don’t read into it,” she said quickly. “It was just… the lighting was good.”

She walked away before you could say anything else.

But her steps were slower this time. No rush. No escape.

And for the first time… You weren’t chasing.

“The next day, meeting at the council of idiots, old audio room 307"

“I think…”

You paused, wide-eyed, hair still messy from rushing into the classroom.

“I think she likes me now.”

Dead silence.

Your friends all looked up from their breakfast, chewing like raccoons caught mid-crime.

“…Come again?” one of them asked, mouth full of bread.

“I said I think she likes me.” You sat down, dramatically tossing your bag aside like it personally betrayed you. “I’m not saying she confessed or anything, but the way she said ‘hey’ yesterday? Bro. It had gravity. Like—like emotionally weighted punctuation.”

“Bro,” your best friend leaned in, “are you overheating?”

“She sketched me.”

“WHAT?”

You slammed the folded drawing on the table like it was a signed treaty.

“She gave me this. After the game. By the vending machine. She said ‘Don’t read into it’ but guess what?”

You pointed at yourself.

“I’m reading into it.”

The boys crowded around the sketch like it was evidence in a murder trial.

One gasped. “Damn. This is detailed.”

“Bro, she even got your stupid hair right.”

“She drew your jawline sharp. She wants you.”

“No no no—she respects me now. That’s what this is.” You leaned back, arms crossed, towel still around your neck like a badge of war. “I’ve transcended.”

“Shut the hell up,” one of them snorted. “You got one drawing and now you think you're emotionally married.”

You pointed a dramatic finger at him. “She held my soul in 4B pencil.”

The dumbest one in the group, who somehow had a nosebleed from just looking at the sketch, chimed in: “This is it. This is how it starts. The main girl finally seeing the main guy for who he is…”

“…and the main guy promptly loses his damn mind,” another muttered.

You ignored them all.

“I’m gonna frame it,” you whispered. “Not the sketch. The moment.”

It was Art class

It was always supposed to be your safe zone. A place where you could doodle trash-tier sketches and pass them off as “symbolism” without being judged.

Until today.

“Alright, class,” your art teacher announced. “Next week is our midterm showcase — you’ll pair up and present a collaborative piece for show and tell.”

The word collaborative echoed in your ears like a threat.

You barely looked up from your doodle of a potato with arms until—

“Kim Jiwon. Y/N.”

The pen slipped right out of your hand.

You looked up. So did she.

You swore the classroom tilted.

“…We’ll be working together?” you asked slowly, as if clarifying would reverse it.

She blinked. “Looks like it.”

Your friends in the back—The Council of Idiots™—were already losing their minds.

“LET’S GOOOOOOO”

“THIS IS IT—ARC DEVELOPMENT!!”

“₱200 says he stutters in the first five minutes.”

You sat beside her like a man walking into war.

She pulled out her sketchbook. You pulled out your will to live.

She didn’t look at you. Just flipped to a blank page and started scribbling ideas.

You pretended to focus, nodding seriously, like you weren’t dying inside just from the fact that her elbow was almost touching yours.

“I was thinking…” she started, eyes still on the paper, “maybe we do something layered. You do realism, right?”

You blinked. “I—I mean, technically, yeah. I draw some stuff. You know, shapes. Concepts. Deep metaphorical emotion—”

She looked up, unimpressed.

“…You drew a potato with arms last week.”

You coughed. “He had a sad backstory.”

She snorted.

Not a laugh. A snort. Like a real, involuntary, nose-exit-of-air snort.

You froze. Did that just— Did she actually—

“Wait.” You pointed. “Was that a laugh?”

She blinked again, then rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“But it was! That counts!”

“It doesn’t.”

“It SO does—”

“Focus, golden boy.”

Your brain short-circuited a little at the nickname. You almost spilled your pencil case.

She tapped her sketchbook, calmly. “We’ll combine techniques. Your structure, my details. Balance.”

You nodded.

Trying really, really hard to balance yourself.

Later that day, as class ended, she packed up her things and stood.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “You’re… not what I expected.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re worse.”

She walked off, leaving you stunned and very confused if you were just insulted or gently flirted with.

Your best friend appeared behind you seconds later.

“₱200. Pay up. You totally stuttered.”

“whatever” slapping the 200 pesos on his hand.

The Council of Idiots™ was still being shoved out by the art teacher when she stood, brushing off her skirt, sketchbook in hand.

You were fixing the chaos — gathering scattered pencils, trying to act normal — when she looked at you again.

No hesitation. No teasing.

“Let’s go work on this tomorrow noon,” she said. “At the art class.”

That’s all.

No smile. No extra words.

Just quiet certainty.

But those ten words—

They lived rent-free in your brain for the next 24 hours.

The next day.

You were off. Like, way off.

“Bro… what you eating?” one of them asked, eyeing your tray in the cafeteria.

You blinked. Looked down.

You were chewing the plastic wrapper of your straw.

“…I’m sorry what?” you mumbled.

“WHAT THE—he’s eating the plastic??”

“Is this the effect of love?? He’s malfunctioning???”

You spat it out like it betrayed you.

“I didn’t even notice…”

“That’s it. He’s gone.”

“Bro’s physically present but spiritually inside a coming-of-age indie movie.”

You didn’t argue. You were too deep in your own head. The whole day was a blur of ticking clocks and skipped heartbeats.

You weren’t nervous. Not exactly.

You just… cared. Too much.

About showing up. About being real. About whatever this thing was turning into.

The worst part?

You were starting to think she might care too.

The art room was quieter after class.

No loud chairs dragging. No chaos. Just soft lo-fi playing from someone’s forgotten speaker and the low hum of an electric fan that squeaked every 7.5 seconds.

You showed up on time — maybe too on time — with your sketchpad, pencils, and five rehearsed opening lines you planned to definitely not use.

She was already there.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the giant cork board, hair tied up, sleeves rolled, sketchbook open.

She looked peaceful.

You walked in slowly, like any sudden movement would break the scene.

“You’re early,” she said, not looking up.

“So are you.”

“I live here,” she replied flatly, but her voice wasn’t cold this time. Just dry. Comfortable.

You sat beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

She passed you a brush without saying anything, like it was normal now.

Like this… thing between you wasn’t weird anymore.

Meanwhile. Outside. Behind a cracked door and two stacked chairs—

“₱100 says he fumbles the brush and apologizes 12 times.”

“No way. ₱200 says she smiles for real this time.”

“I bet ₱50 they touch fingers and he combusts.”

“Shhh!!! I’m trying to hear feelings!!!”

Inside, you started sketching light lines across the canvas. Something abstract — circular. Balanced.

“Do you really like it?” she asked suddenly, still drawing.

You looked at her. “Like what?”

“This. Drawing. Creating worlds.”

She didn’t look up. Her voice was quieter now. Sincere.

You nodded. “I do.”

“I used to make stories. Like, full worlds. With rules and cities and made-up languages. My mom said I’d grow out of it.”

You blinked. “Did you?”

She paused.

“No,” she said simply.

Then turned the sketchpad toward you.

It was a new piece — two figures standing on opposite cliffs, reaching toward a glowing thread that floated between them.

Your chest tightened.

It was beautiful. And quiet. And impossibly sad.

You looked at her again. She finally met your gaze.

“Sometimes I draw things I can’t say,” she whispered.

You nodded.

“…Then you should keep drawing.”

Silence. Not heavy. Just… honest.

And then—

“BROOOOO THEY’RE LOOKING AT EACH OTHER”

The door flew open.

Three bodies crashed into the floor like a stack of broken brooms.

“—I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAN ON THE CHAIR YOU IDIOT—”

Liz blinked. You blinked. The moment shattered.

You turned to the clowns on the ground, all of them looking up like raccoons caught stealing food.

“…Please ignore them,” you muttered.

Liz sighed, rubbing her temples. “Are they always like this?”

You paused. “This is actually one of their better days.”

She snorted again. Louder this time.

And in the chaos, that sound? It was the only thing that mattered.

The door clicked shut.

The boys were finally gone.

No more shouts. No more bets. No more falling over each other like emotional toddlers.

Just the two of you.

Back in the art room. The fan squeaked every 7.5 seconds again. The late afternoon sun filtered through the dusty windows, coating everything in a quiet kind of gold.

You sat side by side on the floor, the unfinished canvas between you.

No one spoke for a while.

And it wasn’t weird.

She broke the silence first.

“Remember yesterday?” she said, eyes fixed on her sketchpad. “When I said I used to make stories?”

You nodded.

“I never stopped,” she whispered.

Then she turned the page — revealing a map. Hand-drawn. Detailed. A fantasy continent filled with forests, floating cities, mountain ranges labeled in delicate script.

“I’ve been building this since I was nine,” she said. “There are cultures, languages, even politics. I’ve written 14 notebooks of lore.”

You stared, stunned.

“You… made all this?”

She nodded. “It’s dumb.”

“No, it’s—” You blinked. “It’s beautiful.”

She finally looked at you then.

Not defensive. Not guarded.

Just a little scared.

“…It’s the only place where I feel like I don’t have to explain myself.”

You didn’t mean to say it, but you did.

“…I wish I had a world like that.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t you? I mean, your life seems like a world. You’re good at everything. Everyone likes you.”

You let out a soft laugh. Not the cool kind. The kind that sounds a little like giving up.

“That’s the thing,” you said, leaning your head back against the wall. “Everyone thinks I shine. But being golden…”

You paused. Chewed your bottom lip. Then spoke:

“…Being golden means I have to shine all the time.”

She turned to you, really listening.

“Like I have to smile. Be funny. Be the leader. Always have the answers. Always perform. Because if I stop being golden…”

You looked at her.

“…then I’m just yellow. You know? Dull. Faded. Nothing special.”

You swallowed hard. No one else knew that. You never even said it out loud before.

She blinked slowly. Then whispered:

“Being yellow isn’t bad....”

You looked up.

She was sketching again. Quiet. Focused.

After a moment, she turned the pad toward you.

A drawing of you. But not on the court. Not smiling. Not performing.

Just you — sitting cross-legged, tired eyes, hair falling slightly over your forehead. A version of you no one else bothered to see.

“I think,” she said softly, “being yellow is a different kind of shine, its like being yourself but still shine not the same way as gold but the way yourself agrees”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

But your hand inched slightly closer to hers on the floor.

Not touching. Just… close enough.

She didn’t move away.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

You didn’t feel like you had to shine.

You weren’t okay today.

Nothing dramatic. No breakdown. Just… tired. Off. One of those days where the sun felt too bright and your skin didn’t fit right.

You still showed up, of course. You always did.

Golden boys don’t get to take personal days.

So you smiled. Nodded. Cracked your jokes. Let the guys drag you around.

But everything sounded distant. Like laughter underwater.

You were slumped at your desk during last period, head against your arms, staring at nothing.

And that’s when you heard it.

The faint shuffle of someone pulling out the chair next to you. Sitting down.

You didn’t look.

Then— a quiet voice, barely above a whisper:

“…You okay?”

You lifted your head.

Liz.

Hair in a loose braid. Oversized jacket. Her sketchbook tucked under her arm like always.

You blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked at you, then shrugged. “Art room’s locked. Came here instead.”

But she didn’t sketch. Didn’t open her notebook. She just sat beside you.

Close.

Too close for it to be accidental.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine,” she said.

Silence.

You sighed. “Just one of those days.”

She nodded slowly. Then leaned back against the chair, arms crossed.

“I get those too.”

You looked at her. “You? The ice queen herself?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

Then — without warning — she reached into her bag. Pulled something out. A small carton of Yakult. The one she always buys.

She placed it gently on your desk.

“…It’s familiar,” she said, repeating what she told you the first time. “Figured you might need that today.”

You stared at it. And then at her.

She didn’t meet your eyes. Just tapped the table twice and stood.

“Get some rest, golden boy.”

Then walked off.

You sat there for five minutes, still staring at the tiny carton.

Your friends peeked in later, loud and laughing, and immediately froze.

“…Yo. Is that her Yakult?”

“She gave you the holy grail?”

“He’s gonna cry.”

You didn’t.

But later that night, you opened your sketchpad for the first time in days.

And drew a girl. Loose braid. Oversized jacket. Holding out a tiny, familiar drink to a tired boy who didn’t know how to ask for help.

No labels. No titles. Just lines. Just you. Just her.

And a soft caption in the corner:

“Some people notice.”

Show and Tell day.

The room was filled with nervous energy, last-minute retouches, and the familiar sound of overcompensating groupmates trying to act like they all equally contributed.

You stood near the back wall, fingers twitching at your side.

The canvas was done.

You and Liz stood in front of it now. Side by side. Not touching. But close enough.

Your teacher nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Liz glanced at you. You gave a small nod.

And she began.

“Our piece is titled: ‘Gravity and Glass.’” She said it calmly. Softly.

You followed her lead.

“It’s a study on contrast,” you added. “On push and pull. On how things look when they’re seen from two different lenses.”

Behind you, the painting looked simple — grounded.

At first glance: Two figures. Not fully drawn. Not in color. One is reaching. The other is still. A line of broken glass divides them, but only faintly. Like a memory.

Around them, the space is soft — heavy brush strokes in greys and pale orange. One side has gold flecks. The other, quiet silver.

But no one can tell who’s who.

You continued, trying to sound casual.

“The figure on the left—" You pointed. "—represents structure. Something consistent. Predictable. It tries to shine. It believes it has to.”

“While the one on the right…” Liz’s voice was lower now. “…prefers to stay unseen. It builds worlds in silence. It doesn’t need to be known — just understood.”

The class listened, nodding, jotting notes like it was just another presentation.

No one knew.

Not even fully you two knew.

That the painting was… you.

And her.

You — all bright lines and pressure and the need to be golden.

Her — all quiet shades and walls built from years of not being heard.

You reaching. Her hesitating. But both of you — drawn into the same space anyway.

And the glass? Not really broken. Just… waiting.

You ended it the way you always did when you didn’t want to say too much:

“It’s not perfect. But it’s honest.”

The teacher smiled, scribbling something. “Very thoughtful. Thank you.”

You and Liz stepped down. The painting stayed.

You didn’t look at each other.

You didn’t have to.

Later that day, one of your friends caught up with you at lunch.

“Hey… what was that painting about?”

You shrugged. “Dunno. Ask Liz.”

They turned to her. She was mid-bite into her sandwich.

“What was it really about?”

She looked up, blinked once.

Then quietly replied:

“…Just gravity and glass.”

“AND WHY IS SHE SEATING HERE NOW?!” one of your friends finally blurted, borderline dramatic.

“Wha?” Liz asked, confused, blinking between you all.

“Nothing! Nothing!” you said quickly, waving it off. “Don’t mind the Council of Idiots.”

She paused.

“…That’s their name?”

“Yeah!” you grinned.

One of them gasped. “You told her?!”

“She earned it,” another muttered.

“Wait, wait. Do we have to… like… initiate her or something?”

“She just presented a metaphorical painting about mutual emotional codependence with him. She’s in.”

Liz blinked. “…This happens every lunch?”

“Every day,” you whispered apologetically.

And then — the weirdest part.

She stayed. She didn’t bolt. She didn’t flinch when someone accidentally knocked their juice into your tray. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow when the dumbest one started debating if fish can drown.

She just… stayed.

Even leaned toward you at one point to whisper, “You weren’t kidding.”

“Nope.”

You caught her hiding a small smile. Then she started eating like it was nothing.

One of your boys leaned in, fake-whispering behind his hand:

“She’s gone native.”

“Stockholm Syndrome.”

“She’s too far gone. Can’t be saved.”

You didn’t say anything. Just looked beside you.

She was still here.

Still sitting beside you.

And for the first time… it felt like maybe she didn’t mind the chaos.

Maybe she even liked it.

It was after school.

You were waiting just outside the gate, pretending you weren’t waiting. Just standing there. Looking casual.

Which meant: You checked your phone four times. Retied your shoelace twice even though it was perfectly fine. And practiced the line in your head:

“Hey, wanna walk home together?”

Simple. Cool. Friendly.

You saw her.

She was adjusting her bag, sketchbook tucked under one arm, earbuds in. She looked calm — but not happy. Not sad either. Just… thoughtful.

You took one deep breath.

And as she passed—

“H-hey! Uh—Liz!”

She stopped. Pulled out one earbud.

“…Yeah?”

You tried not to panic. Failed.

“So I—I was thinking, like—if you’re not too busy or like if you don’t mind— I mean, you probably have things to do but if you don’t—uh, I was just—”

Her eyebrows slowly rose.

“…Are you asking to walk me home?”

You shut your eyes in shame. “…Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just stared at you.

Then softly: “You’re really bad at this.”

“I know.”

That made her smile. Just a little.

You kicked the sidewalk lightly, nervous. “So…?”

She looked down at her shoes.

Then back at you.

“I’m not ready,” she said.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“For anything serious. Or even halfway serious.”

She held the sketchbook tighter.

“I’m just… used to people not staying,” she said. “So I don’t really know how to let them start.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“I wasn’t asking you to date me,” you finally said. “I just wanted to walk you home.”

She looked at you. Quiet.

“…Even that scares me a little.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not really.

So you nodded.

“I get it.”

You didn’t. Not fully. But you wanted to.

“I’ll just…” you said, pointing back, “head that way.”

You took a few steps away. Didn’t expect her voice behind you.

“Y/N.”

You turned.

“…If you wanna walk me halfway,” she said, “that’s okay.”

Your heart tripped. But you kept it cool. Or tried to.

“Halfway’s good,” you said softly.

You two walked in silence for the most part.

Not awkward. Not loud. Just footsteps and fading sunlight.

She didn’t say much.

But halfway to her place, she turned and gently said, “This is far enough.”

You stopped.

She didn’t smile. But her voice was kind.

“Thanks for not pushing.”

“Thanks for letting me walk.”

She nodded.

Then left.

And you stood there. Halfway home. Halfway in love. And fully willing to wait.

The next morning.

You barely stepped into homeroom when it happened.

“HE’S HERE!”

“HE LIVES!”

“Did she hold your hand or what?! Did you guys breathe the same air?! Did you share earphones like it’s 2010?!”

You tossed your bag on the chair. “Can I sit first—?”

“No. You forfeited your sitting rights the moment you walked a girl halfway home and came back looking like an anime protagonist with a tragic past.”

You sighed.

But you were smiling. Kinda. Sorta.

Until one of them went quiet.

And that’s when you felt it shift.

“…You okay, bro?”

You looked up.

It was the loudest one — the same guy who once cried during a dodgeball game and called it a ‘near-death experience.’ But this time, he wasn’t joking.

You paused. Took a breath.

“…She said she wasn’t ready.”

The group got quieter.

You scratched the back of your neck.

“Not like, rejection-rejection. Just… guarded. Like she’s used to people leaving, so even the idea of starting something feels scary.”

Another one nodded slowly.

“Sounds like she’s been through some stuff.”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other. Then at you.

And then — surprisingly — the fart joke guy said something honest.

“Y’know… maybe this isn’t about you making her like you. Maybe it’s just about showing her that not everyone walks away.”

The others blinked.

You blinked.

He looked around, shrugged.

“What? I have feelings too, assholes.”

“WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DID YOU DO TO RYAN—”

But then another one added, more softly:

“…You’re not trying to fix her, right?”

You turned. “What?”

“Just saying. People like her… they don’t need fixing. They just need time. And maybe someone willing to stand still for once.”

You didn’t answer.

But the thought stayed with you all day.

After class, they circled around you again.

“What now?”

They all smiled.

“We got your back, dumbass.”

You rolled your eyes.

“…Thanks, idiots.”

They grinned.

“We love you too.”

Then immediately:

“Anyway, can we talk about how your shirt yesterday made your shoulders look criminally wide?”

“OBJECTIFY HIM!”

“HE’S BLUSHING—”

“COUNCIL MEETING ADJOURNED!”

It started like before.

You were just about to head out when you spotted her near the campus gate, sketchbook clutched to her chest like armor. She saw you before you could wave.

And for a second, you thought she’d walk past. Like nothing happened.

But she didn’t.

She walked up.

No earbuds. No wall.

Just her.

“…You free?” she asked.

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“Walk me home.”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. So you just nodded. “Okay.”

This time, there was no halfway pause. No goodbye at the corner. No line drawn between you.

You walked side by side, and though the space between you stayed intact— the air felt different. Softer. Realer.

She glanced at you a few times. Like she was studying you.

You didn’t ask questions.

But halfway through the walk, she suddenly said:

“I used to wait by my door at night.”

You turned your head.

“…What?”

She didn’t stop walking. Just stared straight ahead.

“When I was a kid. I’d sit by the door. Because sometimes he’d come back.”

You didn’t need to ask who he was.

She held her sketchbook tighter.

“And most nights, he didn’t. So I learned to stop waiting. Learned to stop… expecting people to stay.”

You said nothing.

Because you knew silence was safer than pity.

“…So I don’t really do the whole ‘open up’ thing,” she added, quieter now. “I’m always bracing for the exit.”

A breeze passed between you.

She kept walking, but her voice cracked just slightly.

“I transferred here because… I didn’t want to be remembered where it happened.”

You looked at her. She was still facing forward.

“Where what happened?” you asked, gently.

“I loved someone,” she said. “Fully. Stupidly. I gave him everything.”

You waited.

“And when he left… he made sure I’d be the punchline.”

She gave a bitter smile.

“It spread. The screenshots. The jokes. The whispers. I could hear people laughing before I even walked into a room.”

You blinked hard, the weight of it hitting you like a stone.

“I didn’t just leave that school,” she said. “I ran from it.”

The streets were nearly empty now. Sun beginning to set. Her building just up ahead.

But she stopped walking.

You stopped too.

She looked at you — not guarded this time. Just tired.

“But you walked me home,” she said. “Twice.”

You nodded once. “I’d do it again.”

She laughed softly, like it surprised her.

Then, barely audible:

“…Then maybe I don’t have to brace so much.”

A beat.

She looked down.

“…I’m not good at trusting.”

You didn’t reach for her. You didn’t try to fix it.

You just said:

“You don’t have to be good at it. I’ll wait.”

The next day.

You walked into the empty classroom where your so-called "council" held their top-secret meetings—if “top-secret” meant open doors, snacks everywhere, and at least one guy sleeping under a desk.

They turned as you walked in.

And the moment they saw your face?

“HE SMILED!”

“OH MY GOD. HE SMILED AND HE MEANT IT!”

“NO FAKE GOLDEN BOY SMILE. THIS WAS—THIS WAS REAL!!”

You dropped your bag with a thud.

“Guys—”

“—Wait, wait, let me guess,” one said, dramatically throwing on his fake glasses. “She said, ‘I’ve never met anyone like you’ and then you kissed under the stars while your favorite indie band played in the background—”

“No,” you muttered, grabbing a chair.

Everyone froze.

“…No?” another asked, more cautious now.

“No kiss. No dramatic moment,” you said. “Just…” You leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “…she told me the truth.”

Silence.

Then someone whispered, “Oh.”

“Like real real truth?” one asked, mouth half-full of SkyFlakes.

You nodded. “Yeah. The kind people don’t tell unless they’re scared.”

They all looked at each other.

The fart-joke guy raised his hand slowly.

“Bro,” he said, unusually sincere. “You okay?”

You blinked.

Then smiled.

“Yeah. I am.”

A short silence passed before one idiot muttered:

“…so is she, like, your girlfriend now?”

You groaned.

“God, you guys suck.”

“WE’RE JUST ASKING!”

“CAN WE HAVE A NAME? ‘TEAM GOLDENLIZ’? ‘THE LIZARDS’?—”

“—Absolutely not.”

“But wait,” one said, sitting upright, “so if she’s opening up now… what’s next?”

You leaned forward, arms on your knees.

And with a small grin:

“I think she’s letting me in.”

Weeks Passed.

Not in big, dramatic ways. But in the kind you only notice when you slow down.

It was mutual now.

You could talk to Liz without stuttering. She replied without flinching. You smiled first — and she smiled back.

And in this quiet rhythm… something bloomed.

No confessions. No labels. Just a soft, building familiarity.

She didn’t walk with her earbuds in anymore. She let you sit beside her during breaks. She even waited for you once — near the vending machine — and tried not to look like she meant to.

You knew this kind of closeness. But with her, it felt different.

Lighter. Sharper. Like any wrong move could shatter it.

Because no matter how easy things felt now, there was still one truth that sat heavy in your chest:

“I’m not ready for something serious.”

She said it once. And she hadn’t said it again. But it never really left.

It echoed sometimes — in the pauses between your conversations, in the way she still clutched her sketchbook like a shield, in the way her eyes sometimes flicked to exits like she was still halfway out the door.

You didn’t push.

You didn’t ask for more.

But sometimes… when you walked home alone, you’d wonder what it’d be like if she ever said she was ready.

You sat in your usual spot in the empty classroom, half-expecting peace.

You were wrong.

The council was already assembled — chips open, feet on desks, and absolutely no sense of subtlety.

“She let you walk her home again?” one of them asked, already leaning forward like a nosy aunt at a family reunion.

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

“And?” another chimed in. “What now? You gonna keep walking her back and forth like a Grab driver or are you gonna ask her out?”

You sighed. “It’s not that simple.”

“She let you in,” one pointed out. “You’re in the inner Liz circle. You got the sacred nod. The micro-smile. The ‘I trust you enough to walk beside me in silence’ privilege!”

“She’s not ready for anything big.”

“And you’re not planning anything big,” someone said. “But meaningful? That’s different.”

You blinked. “Like what, a café? A picnic?”

They all groaned.

One stood up dramatically. “No. Something that means something to you. If you want her to trust you, you gotta show her you’re not just the golden boy in uniform.”

“…Like what, my locker?”

“Your house, idiot.”

You stared.

“Dude. Seriously.”

“You cook, right? You’ve got a mom-approved kitchen. A soft dog. Shelves filled with trophies and zero personality. Invite her in. Let her see the real you.”

“And—don’t fake anything,” the quieter one added. “Don’t try to impress her. Just be... calm. Honest.”

You frowned. “Isn’t that too much?”

They shook their heads.

“No. You’ve been the best at everything for so long—people forget you’re a person. Let her remember that. Let her see that golden doesn’t mean untouchable.”

Silence settled.

You looked down at your hands.

“…Alright,” you said. “Dinner at my place.”

The room erupted.

“WE’RE MAKING HISTORY—”

“HE’S GONNA COOK—”

“YOU’RE GONNA BURN THE RICE, DUMBASS—”

“SHUT UP—he’s serious!”

One patted your shoulder. “We’ll help you prep. Set the mood. Clean the damn house. Get the dog a bath. No weird anime posters—”

“I don’t have those—”

“Yet.”

You cracked a grin.

THE DAY

You were already by the front gate when she arrived — Hoodie over her sketchbook, eyes wandering up the ridiculous height of your house like she was prepping herself to enter a final boss level.

She blinked. “This… is your house?”

You scratched the back of your head. “Yeah, it’s, uh… inherited. Not really mine-mine.”

Her eyes traced the multiple garages, the manicured lawn, the motion-sensor fountains for no actual reason. It looked less like a home and more like an ad for quiet wealth.

“Are we—are we holding a business meeting or eating lunch?” she asked, arms still stiff around her sketchbook.

You opened the gate wider, smiling. “Relax. We’re here for carbs, not contracts.”

Inside, the villa was just as intimidating. High ceilings. Marble floors. Enough windows to make a small planet nervous.

“My mom used to say it’s ‘modern minimalist,’” you said. “I think it’s just ‘cold hotel lobby.’”

She didn’t laugh out loud. But you swore you caught the ghost of a grin.

You guided her to the kitchen.

She stopped at the doorway like she wasn’t sure she was allowed in.

“…How is this kitchen bigger than the library?”

You were already rolling up your sleeves, prepped for cooking.

“Under those, Liz,” you nodded toward a cabinet. “Plates, bowls, cutting boards—feel free to judge my spice rack too.”

She crouched down quietly, still clearly unsure about touching anything.

And when you opened the fridge, you offered:

“Hey, you can grab whatever you want. Drinks, snacks, desserts, sketchbook fuel—go for it.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then she quietly picked out a new, untouched sketchpad from the countertop stack near the pantry — probably a gift from one of your titas.

“…Thanks,” she said, barely audible.

You turned around. “What was that?”

“I said thanks,” she repeated, louder this time. “For… this. All of it.”

You just smiled.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” you said, gently. “I invited you because I want you here.”

She looked at you for a moment too long.

Then glanced away like she had to physically dodge what that meant.

While you cooked, she sat at the island counter.

She didn’t sketch at first — just watched you.

Silently.

Her fingers played with the spiral binding of the pad, occasionally glancing around at the unfamiliar domestic warmth. You chopping garlic with your sleeves rolled up. The radio playing something soft in the background. A little golden retriever puppy peeking from the hallway.

You noticed her stillness.

“You okay?” you asked.

She blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re being quiet.”

“I’m processing the fact that your stove has four burners and an induction panel,” she deadpanned.

You laughed. She liked that, even if she didn’t say it.

Lunch was surprisingly quiet — no over-the-top conversations, no big revelations.

But the atmosphere was… nice.

She sat across from you, sketchpad open but untouched. You pretended not to notice she was drawing you in quick little glances.

She caught you looking once. Froze. Then slammed the sketchpad shut like she was protecting state secrets.

You smiled, didn’t push.

Instead, you asked: “Wanna see the garden?”

You ended up outside. Under the shade of a massive tree. No noise except birds and breeze.

She sat cross-legged on the stone bench. You sat beside her, enough space between you to stay safe — close enough to share the silence.

She finally opened her sketchpad again.

And drew.

Not fast. Not to impress.

Just… peacefully.

Her hand brushed yours once. She didn’t flinch this time.

You didn’t speak. Because some things didn’t need words.

Like the way she glanced up at you more now. Like the way her eyes softened when you offered her another cookie. Like the way her shoulders weren't hunched anymore — like she’d taken off some invisible weight she always carried with her.

She didn’t say she was having a good time.

But you knew.

Because when she finally packed up her sketchpad and stood to go…

She looked at you—

And said, “Let’s do this again sometime.”

and little did you know, that “sometime” will be all the time.

“Want to hang out today?”

And now, here you were. Walking beside Liz under the soft hum of air-conditioned mall lights, the scent of cinnamon pretzels and new clothes trailing behind you.

She wore a hoodie two sizes too big—yours. The sleeves covered her fingers, and she tugged on them absentmindedly as she walked. Her other hand held onto the edge of her sketchbook, never too far from her fantasy world, even here.

“Where do you want to go first?” you asked, slowing your pace so she wouldn’t have to keep up. “I don’t know... I like just walking,” she said softly. “This mall feels like it could be a city in one of my maps.”

You smiled. You loved the way she talked about things—how everything connected back to the world in her head. It made you want to know every detail of it, just so you could build a bridge between your world and hers.

You pointed at a nearby boutique. “Want to try on some clothes?”

Her brows furrowed. “Eh? No, it’s too expensive here.” “It’s fine. I just want to see what you like. That’s all.”

You didn’t say it to impress her. You didn’t care if she picked a thousand things or just one. You wanted to learn her—her colors, her shapes, her fabric preferences. So you could know her a little deeper.

And somehow, that translated to three outfits, a hair clip, and a dress that made her twirl slowly in front of the fitting room mirror. When she stepped out in it, you blinked.

“What?” she asked, gently tugging at the hem. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “No... it’s just... I’ve never seen someone look like that before. You’re like... something from your own fantasy book.”

Liz blushed, gripping her sketchbook tighter. “Stop saying things like that. I’ll add you to the lore as a cursed prince or something.” “Do it. As long as I’m somewhere in there,” you said.

Later, you passed by a photo booth. The kind covered in neon pink stickers and cartoon hearts. You saw her hesitate, biting her bottom lip. "Come on," you said. "It'll be our first memory saved in JPEG form."

She giggled and stepped inside.

First photo: she was stiff, unsure. Second: she made a weird face, and you copied it. Third: she laughed for real. Fourth: you looked at her instead of the camera—eyes full of something you'd never say aloud just yet.

When the photos printed out, she studied them quietly, then tore the strip in half and gave you your side.

“You’re keeping it?” you asked. “Of course,” she said, slipping hers in between the pages of her sketchbook. “I’ll draw this later.”

wanna try that? you said to her while pointing at the shiny photobooth stand, “sure I don’t see why now.” The two of you squeezed into the cramped pink photo booth tucked between the arcade and the claw machines. Liz sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours, eyes wide at the array of ridiculous filters on the screen.

“Wait—this one’s got sparkles and bunny ears,” she said, poking the touchscreen with childlike curiosity.

“I’m down for whatever,” you said. “As long as I’m in frame with you.”

That made her blush a little, but she didn’t look away.

You both leaned in as the countdown began.

3... 2... 1—click. First shot: Bunny ears. Liz smiled nervously, eyes shifting toward the screen. You grinned like a fool.

3... 2... 1—click. Second shot: You stuck your tongue out. Liz was caught mid-laugh, nose scrunched, eyes closed. It was beautiful.

3... 2... 1—click. Third shot: You both held up peace signs. Her fingers bumped against yours, and neither of you moved them away.

3... 2... 1—click. Fourth shot: Liz suddenly turned her head, and—

kiss

It was soft. Quick. Barely even there. But it landed—right on your cheek.

Your eyes widened. You turned to her slowly.

She looked at the screen like nothing happened. “Oops. Ran out of pose ideas,” she muttered.

You blinked. “You… kissed me.”

“Huh? Oh.” She fiddled with her sleeves. “That was... the bunny ears made me do it.”

You stared at her in stunned silence, cheeks burning. She refused to meet your gaze.

When the photo strip printed, she took it quickly, cut it neatly down the middle again, and handed you your half. Not a word about the kiss.

Not then. Not after. Not ever.

Even now, the photo sits in your wallet—her lips a centimeter from your cheek, frozen in frame forever. A moment suspended in time that meant everything… and yet, she never brought it up again.

Maybe she was embarrassed. Maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe she meant all of it.

But you kept that photo like it was sacred. And sometimes, when she’s talking about dragons and lost kingdoms and fairies with broken wings— You wonder if she knows… You’re still stuck in that fourth frame.

The sky outside had gone a soft orange. The mall lights buzzed behind you, and the air smelled like gasoline and roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor.

You walked her to the taxi line like always, one step behind her, arms filled with the things she swore she didn’t need—but accepted anyway. A small paper bag crinkled between her fingers, filled with strawberries you insisted on buying.

She looked unusually quiet.

“I had fun,” she said softly, kicking at the edge of the pavement. “Too much fun, actually. Makes it hard to go home.”

You gave a small smile. “Then let’s do it again. Tomorrow, the next day... whenever.”

Liz didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looked up at you—and for once, really looked. No shy deflections. No daydreaming. Just her gaze, steady and full of something she had never let out before.

“I’m falling in love with you,” she said.

Just like that.

No trembling voice. No dramatic pause. Just the truth, like it had been sitting on the tip of her tongue all day, waiting for the right breath to carry it out.

You blinked.

She hugged the strawberry bag to her chest. “I like you, Y/N. Like, really like you. And I don’t want to pretend I don’t.”

A car pulled up beside her. The driver rolled down the window and called her name softly, but Liz didn’t move.

“I just wanted you to know before I go,” she whispered. “In case I chicken out later and never say it again.”

You took a step forward—speechless, stunned—but she was already climbing into the backseat. The door shut with a soft click, and the window rolled down halfway.

She peeked through, cheeks pink. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide anymore.”

#ive x reader #spotify #kpop #liz ive #kim jiwon #ive x male reader #male reader #ive x you #kim jiwon x male reader #ive kim jiwon #Spotify

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bunnycooky · 3 days ago

Text

Title: Even If the World Ends

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x Y/N

Genre: Zombie Apocalypse • Romance • Thriller • Drama •

Crossover Fanfiction (Weak Hero Class 1 × All of Us Are Dead)

Story Description:

One second, they were just students. The next, they were survivors.

What began as an ordinary school day turns into a nightmare of blood, chaos, and choices no teenager should ever have to make. As the outbreak consumes everything familiar, two hearts beat louder than the terror outside.

Love wasn’t supposed to be a weapon—but maybe it’s the only thing keeping them alive.

CH. 1, CH.2, CH. 3

CHAPTER 1: "Ordinary Morning, Unholy Noon"

THIRD PERSON'S POV

---

The morning began like any other-dull, uneventful, quietly laced with the kind of peace people never realize they'll miss until it's gone.

The sun peeked past the edge of Hyosan's rooftops, casting a warm golden hue across the sleepy town. Students in pressed uniforms trudged through crosswalks, eyes glued to their phones, headphones in, yawns hidden behind sleeves.

Yeon Si-eun waited at the same corner he always did. Bag slung over his shoulders, spine straight as a ruler, eyes scanning the street like a silent sentry. To anyone else, he looked like he was just standing still. To those who knew him, it was obvious he was mentally calculating everything-bus intervals, noise levels, body language of strangers. He never stood without a reason.

But then he saw her.

Y/N jogged slightly, bag bouncing behind her, hair hastily tied, lips parted in breathless apology even before she reached him.

"There you are," Si-eun said, calm as ever.

"You didn't text!" Y/N puffed, poking a finger into his chest-not hard, but enough to draw a tiny huff from his nose.

"How do I know you're not dead in a ditch somewhere if you don't even send a 'gm 😎' like a normal boyfriend?"

He blinked. "Statistically, the odds of me being dead in a ditch between 7:00 and 7:10 a.m. are less than 0.001%."

She squinted at him. "Wow. Romance is alive and well."

He gave a small nod, lips twitching. "Because I am."

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. Si-eun wasn't exactly the affectionate type in public. He didn't do back hugs or cheesy couple keychains.

But he walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He held her wrist when the light turned red too fast. He waited. That was love, in his language.

And Y/N spoke it fluently.

---

The school day started with yawns, hallway gossip, and a few thrown crumpled papers. Students from both Hyosan High and Eunjang Technical High had been temporarily merged due to building repairs-much to everyone's irritation.

It was chaos: clashing uniforms, unassigned classrooms, and more fights than the teachers could manage.

Still, in the middle of it all, Y/N and Si-eun managed to carve out a sliver of calm. They sat beside each other in the second-floor classroom near the windows.

She passed him notes with doodles of grumpy cats during boring lectures. He corrected her math problems without being asked.

The world outside was still quiet.

But the first crack came during third period.

A scream-sharp, short, then suddenly cut off-echoed from the hallway. Everyone went still.

The teacher, Mr. Jang, furrowed his brows. "Must be another fight," he muttered, annoyed.

"These Eunjang kids-"

Then another scream, this time louder. Then a thud. Then silence.

"Stay here," Mr. Jang ordered, already moving toward the door. "I'll handle this."

He didn't come back.

---

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

And that was when Gyeong-su barged into the room, panting, blood on his collar. "LOCK THE DOOR!" he screamed. "NOW!"

Students froze.

"What the hell happened to you?" someone shouted.

But he wasn't answering. He was dragging desks to the door, pushing chairs into place with trembling hands. Si-eun stood slowly, assessing the panic. Y/N's eyes flicked from the blood to the hallway.

"What's going on?" she whispered, gripping her desk.

Then she heard it-footsteps. No, not footsteps. Thudding. Shuffling. The kind of sound that made the hair on your neck rise even though you didn't know why.

Then the door handle rattled.

Then it slammed.

Again.

And again.

A girl at the back started sobbing.

That was when they saw it.

Through the glass panel of the classroom door, a boy from Class 3-A slammed his face into the glass-again and again-leaving thick red smears behind. His eyes were pale. Dead. Blood foamed at his mouth.

"...Jin-ho?" someone whispered in disbelief. "What the hell-?"

Then the glass cracked.

Then it shattered.

---

What followed wasn't order. It wasn't even chaos. It was raw panic.

Students screamed. Someone threw a chair. The infected student lunged forward, tackled a boy near the door, and bit into his neck with a sickening crunch.

"No-NO-!"

People scrambled back, knocking over desks. Blood sprayed. A girl slipped and screamed as she tried to crawl away. Si-eun's mind moved faster than his body. He grabbed Y/N by the wrist and ran.

"SI-EUN!" she screamed. "WAIT-WAIT!"

He didn't answer. His grip was tight-too tight-but he didn't let go. Not even when they sprinted down the stairs. Not even when more infected appeared at the end of the corridor.

He pulled her into a science lab and slammed the door shut behind them, pushing a metal table in front of it.

Then silence again.

Only their heavy breathing filled the room.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Y/N gasped, back against the wall.

Si-eun's chest rose and fell quickly. "It's a virus," he muttered. "Like rabies. Fast-acting. Transmitted through bites."

"How do you know that?!"

He looked at her then, and for the first time since she met him, he looked... scared.

"I've been tracking news from China," he said quietly. "Similar symptoms. Quarantined cities. Covered up. And now it's here."

She blinked. "You knew this might happen and didn't say anything?"

"I didn't think it would spread here this quickly."

Y/N wanted to yell, but she didn't. Instead, she took a shaky breath and stepped closer to him. "Okay. Okay. So what now?"

Si-eun's gaze darted around the lab. Windows. Locked supply cabinets. Fire extinguisher. Chemicals. One emergency exit.

"We stay alive," he said. "And we find the others."

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of campus, chaos reigned.

On-jo held Nam-ra's hand as they sprinted through the music room corridor. "I don't understand! They were-our friends-and now they're... they're monsters!"

"I don't think they're human anymore," Nam-ra said quietly, blood dripping from her sleeve. She wasn't bitten, just grazed by glass, but it was enough to stain her pristine uniform.

Cheong-san slammed a door shut behind them. "We need to find a better place to hide. This won't hold for long!"

But even as they spoke, more survivors were trying to fight back.

Ahn Su-ho from Eunjang threw punches that shattered bones, but even he looked pale when the person he knocked out stood up again. Beom-seok, bloody and trembling, followed behind with a baseball bat he found near the gym.

"Where's Si-eun?" Su-ho demanded.

No one had seen him.

---

Back in the science lab, Y/N sat on the floor while Si-eun worked on tying makeshift weapons with mop handles and dissecting scissors.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held her phone. No signal. No texts. Just the last selfie she took with Si-eun from last week-him looking annoyed, her grinning like an idiot.

It didn't feel real.

"I don't get it," she whispered.

"This morning, I was yelling at you for not texting. And now..."

Si-eun paused. He didn't look at her, but his voice softened. "I know."

Silence.

Then she said, "You're not allowed to die, okay?"

He turned then, face serious. "I wasn't planning to."

"But promise me anyway."

His jaw tightened. Then he crouched in front of her and said, "Only if you do the same."

A small smile touched her lips despite everything. "Fine. Deal."

Then the emergency exit creaked open.

They froze.

---

NOTE: End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2 uploaded!!

#weak hero sieun #sieun x reader #fanfic #yeon sieun #x y/n #all of us are dead #zombie apocalypse #romance #drama #thriller #school life #fluff #park jihoon #ahn suho #nam onjo #choi namra

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bucketsofmonsters · 1 day ago

Text

A Matter of Time - Chapter 8

Timothy Timepice x Reader, Timmy x Reader

Slow burn, Gender neutral reader, Afab reader, Anxiety, isolation, self-esteem issues

word count - 3k

Masterlist

The next time you summoned Timothy, it was done with a newfound confidence and a note written in frankly awful handwriting with silly drawings all over it in hand.

Timothy looked more excited than you’d even seen him, his chest puffed up smugly and his eyes gleaming. “Isn’t it a relief that you’ll never have to see that awful creature again?” Timothy asked with a smile.

You shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.” And then you reached out and handed him the folded paper.

He looked down at it like it might try and bite him. “What is that supposed to be?”

“An explanation,” you said.

“Are you sure it’s not just veiled insults?”

You winced a little. “Not so veiled. But it’s an explanation nonetheless. Just read it,” you said, gesturing for him to open it.

“I didn’t know the little beast knew how to write,” he muttered as he unfolded the note. He stared down at it for a moment before declaring, “Oh, it seems he doesn’t.”

“Don’t be mean,” you hissed. “He tried really hard.”

“I mean, it’s practically illegible,” he declared, tilting the paper as if the text might be easier to read on its side.

It was, admittedly, difficult to read. You were hard pressed to think of anyone who had worse handwriting, and the whole paper was covered in scribbled out lines of text you’d deemed to be too mean and practically incomprehensible doodles that Timmy kept making whenever he got bored of writing. There were even pawprints across the whole thing like a cat had stepped in an inkwell and walked across it, which was odd considering both people here knew that Timmy had two regular human hands and there were no other cats to be found anywhere near here.

You watched him struggle to get through the note, one that you had practically memorized from the long process of forcing Timmy to write it, taking it up yourself to remove some of the crueler parts.

It read:

Dear Timothy,

Timmy is sorry that Timothy is stupid and that he hates waking up in bed with his crush while they have no clothes on. This was a massive oversight for Timmy. Timmy will not try and help Timothy ever again. Timmy thinks Timothy should get a grip

If Timothy had liked it, Timmy would have said you’re welcome, and also that Timothy doesn’t have to hate Timmy so much. Timmy can be useful and helpful, even to stupid old cats who hate fun. Timothy does not have to make Timmy be alone any more, Timmy promises he can behave. He is tired of being hated and tired of being lonely and Timmy thinks Timothy should let him out, even though Timmy messed up his big gesture because Timothy wouldn’t know a good think if it hit him in the face

Timmy is willing to share master, if master can still stand Timothy somehow. Timmy thinks it is good that master is good in bed because Timothy needs to relax.

In a show of good faith, Timmy will let Timothy make 5 rules for when Timmy is out, and Timmy will choose 3 of them to listen to unless the rules are bad or annoying. Timmy will wait for your counteroffer.

From, your better half

PS if Timothy tries to make Timmy be alone again, Timmy will smash all his pocket watches into tiny little pieces

Sometime while reading it, Timothy had gone bright red. “He does have a way with words, doesn’t he?”

“He certainly isn’t best received in written form, but the two of you don’t have any other option. If you wanted to write him something, he’d be more than happy to hear it. I’ll make sure he fully understands whatever you have to say, I promise.”

He considered the paper carefully, clearly deep in thought. “What is this bit at the bottom?” he asked, head tilted to the side.

“It’s both of you hugging me. He insisted it was vital to the message.”

“Do you really believe what he said? That he thought I would like waking up like that, confused and exposed?”

You nodded. “I don’t think it was a good idea, but I really do believe his intentions were pure. Or, at least as pure as Timmy’s intentions can be, I suppose. He told me that the only reason he pursued me at all in the first place was to try and win your favor. And you didn’t see him, Timothy, he looked terrified at the idea that he might be left alone again. You were right about it being on purpose, but I think that it really was for you.”

“The other bits are, of course, completely out of line.”

“I tried to make him keep the insults down, but he is hard to contain at times.”

“No, that much is expected from the creature. But the bits about… you. They are presumptuous, and besides, I would never…”

You could hear the nerves building in his voice, and you weren’t sure what made him more anxious, the insinuation that he had romantic feelings about you, the idea that the two of them might share you, or the mention of the fact that the two of you might have sex. “Hey, it’s alright. I won’t take anything Timmy said about your feelings as truth, I know how deeply the two of you can misunderstand each other. But if any of the things he said were true, I wouldn’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Timothy groaned, looking at the paper like it had wounded him somehow. “I can’t believe he’s exposed me like this. He is a little scoundrel, a vermin!”

You giggled, half disappointed him and Timmy could never actually meet. It would certainly be an argument for the ages.

He looked up at you cautiously. “And when you say you wouldn’t mind…”

“I mean, I already have a well established weakness for cute cat boys.”

He glanced between you and the paper as if trying to decode something before finally asking, “Because I look like him?”

Your attempt as a flirty expression immediately crumpled. “No, because you look like you. For the record, I thought you were cute long before I met Timmy. Not that I thought it would go anywhere, but I did think you hated me at the time so there was that. I’ve always thought you were cute, the way you obsess over your schedule, the insistence on being helpful even when you think I’m being ridiculous. The way your nose scrunches up when you’re upset at something I’ve done. I love the way your ears flatten when I say something you think is stupid and I’m inexplicably obsessed with how we argue, despite how much I might seem to hate it. Timmy doesn’t do any of that, at least not the way you do. When I upset the other objects, I avoid them. And yet, every time we argued, I came back and apologized, made sure I made it right. Despite how much I tried not to think about it, I never did that for anyone else. You were irritating and frustrating and you never answered a single question I asked you in a helpful way and yet I couldn’t help but keep coming back, to bicker and get help and drink tea that apparently you hate because you like to be proper, which is horribly endearing, by the way. And, I don’t know, I think that if you really do like me, I could help. Help with Timmy and help you get adjusted to personhood and help you relax a little, enjoy things more. If you wanted me to, that is.”

He gulped, clearly overwhelmed. “Right. I… yes. So not because I look like Timmy, then.”

“No,” you said softly. “Not because you look like Timmy.”

He nodded, eyes now locked on the note, refusing to look you in the eyes. “If you would like, I would be amiable to going on a date. I think I could… share, with Timmy, as he propositioned. If you are not opposed. Which it sounds like you are not.”

“No,” you said with a smile. “Far from opposed. If you’d like, I can…”

“No,” he said quickly. “I can plan everything. If you’d be so kind as to activate me at 6 PM tonight and give me an hour to prepare, I would like to plan the date. I swear to you, it will be the most finely scheduled date you have ever had the pleasure of attending.”

You laughed. “That can be arranged.”

He nodded. “Good, I will add it to my schedule. And if you would be so kind as to leave a notepad behind, I would like to leave some messages for Timmy.”

You nodded hesitantly. “Promise not to be too mean?”

He harumphed. “I will not stoop to his level and be nearly so crude. At the very least, I will be no ruder than he was.”

You made a mental note to come out and check the note before you summoned Timmy next. “Of course, that can be arranged.”

And then you left him, mulling about aimlessly, eagerly awaiting the arrival of 6 o’clock.

When 6:00 arrived, you were rewarded with more waiting, summoning Timothy into the house before scurrying into your bedroom to wait, just like you’d promised you would.

About fifteen minutes before your date was supposed to begin, the smoke alarm began going off.

It wasn’t the best sign.

“Do you need help?” you asked, deciding that he had about five seconds to respond before you went running out there, regardless of what he wanted.

“No,” Timothy called back immediately. “I’m fine. I’m going to put the smoke alarm in the bathroom.”

“Don’t put it in the bathroom,” you called out, your voice sounding a little shrill with building panic. “Just turn it off and make it less smoky.”

By now, you could smell the scent of smoke creeping through the crack in your door.

You heard the distinct noise of your bathroom door opening and something being set in there before he once again yelled, “Everything is fine!”

You weren’t sure if you believed him, but there were only 15 minutes left. Surely he couldn’t do anything that bad in 15 minutes.

One thing was certain, you had never been more prompt in your life. The second it hit 7:00, you were out the door.

As soon as you opened your door, you were hit with the smell of smoke, coughing as it entered your lungs. The air was a little cloudy with it still, but at least it did not seem like your house was burning down, so things could be worse.

You hurried into the kitchen, eager to assess the extent of whatever had gone down.

The kitchen looked smoky, but largely unharmed. There were two plates on the table, covered in something that looked charred, with two glasses of red wine beside them. In the center of the table were freshly cut flowers, ones that you recognized from your own back garden.

Timothy, for his part, looked completely panicked, ears flattened to his head, moving around rapidly but with no real purpose behind his actions.

“You okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice low to make sure you didn’t startle him.

It did not work, with him practically jumping out of his skin at the sight of you. “Oh, is it time already?” he asked, the panic clear in his voice.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, wondering how flustered he must be to lose track of time. “It looks nice in here. Minus the smoke, that is. Am I to assume I will find my smoke alarm in the bathroom?”

He deflated a little at the mention of the smoke. “The recipes in your books are not scheduled properly.”

You winced. “I should have warned you, my stove runs really hot, you have to cut a few minutes off recipes.”

He harumphed. “That is unacceptable. You should get your stove recalibrated.”

“Of course,” you said with a laugh. “Because you could never just cook it for a few minutes less.”

He scoffed. “Of course not. I saw it burning and had to just let it burn for the remaining four minutes that the recipe dictated.”

That explained just how smoky it had become. You were unsure what the food was underneath the thick charr it had acquired, but you were fairly sure it was inedible.

“It was sweet of you to cook for me,” you said, hoping he wasn’t too discouraged by this turn of events. “Faulty stovetop aside.”

He sniffed. “Yes, well, it is only proper. Would you like to sit?” He pulled out the chair for you, clearly trying to look confident but failing to hide his anxiety.

You took a seat, unsure of where this was going but not wanting to disrupt whatever Timothy had planned any more than it had already been disrupted.

He sat across from you, the tension in his face clear despite his attempt to hide it.

You looked down at the plated, deeply inedible food and then back up at Timothy, steeling yourself to follow his lead in regards to what to do next.

He clearly saw your hesitation in your face. “God, this is a mess,” he said, burying his head in his hands. “How did it end up like this? I planned everything perfectly.”

“It didn't go that badly,” you tried to reassure him.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Didn’t go that badly? Have you not been present? I almost set your house on fire.”

“That was not so good,” you conceded. “Maybe next time I can cook.”

“It’s not just that,” he continued, voice growing increasingly frantic. “I didn’t even know what foods or wine you would like. Even if it wasn’t burned, you probably wouldn’t even have liked it.”

“So? You didn’t like the tea. It’s the thought that counts, I think.”

“For tea, maybe. With that, it’s the ritual of it all that really counts. But not for this, not when it’s you.”

“Is it a bad time to tell you I didn’t like the tea either?” You asked, hoping it might serve to lighten the mood. It did no such thing.

“Perfect,” he cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Why are we even here? Have we had one, singular positive interaction since we met?”

You wanted to reassure him. You really, really did. “Like, the whole interaction?” you asked hesitantly. “Because we had a few moments, here and there.”

He looked like he might strangle you, which would be a new low, even for this date. “Is that what this is based on? A few moments? Why are you here? What can I provide you with? Burnt food and bad taste in tea and we’re stuck in this stupid kitchen and I can’t even take you anywhere so why are you here?”

Oh. That was what this was about, you were sure of it. “Timothy, I don’t need you to take me anywhere for it to be a good date. I know it must be frustrating, being stuck in here like this, but I promise I don’t mind.”

“How could you not?” he asked. “I mind. Anyone would mind. There is no way that you just don’t care, no way it is that easy.”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, I like it here. It would be nice to get out, sure, let you stretch your legs. But here is nice too. Here is where you are.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You care about that? About me being here?”

Your brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“I will remind you again, we still have not had a single positive interaction.”

You laughed. “To be honest, I think that might just be how we are. If it counts for anything, I kind of like bickering with you. It’s very funny.”

He scoffed. “My anger is funny?”

“A little,” you admitted with a smile. “You get all righteous fury over the silliest things, I can’t help but find it endearing.”

He harumphed, but didn’t seem quite so upset as he had moments before.

“Besides,” you continued. “Have you ever even had a conversation with someone where you didn’t fight like this?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” he said, a bit of sheepishness seeping out of him despite his lifted chin and indignant face.

“See, I thought so. At least I’m amused by it. What else could you ask for?”

“Quite a bit more, I think.”

You gasped in faux offense. “More than me?”

“Well…” he said, looking cornered. “I didn’t mean…”

You laughed again. “You don’t have to answer that either. At least, as long as you’re not upset anymore. I’m perfectly happy to goad you on some more if you need it.”

His hand shifted to the table, fidgeting absentmindedly with the perfectly set up and unused fork sitting in front of him. “You really don’t mind?”

You shook your head resolutely. “Frankly, if I minded our bickering, I would not be here. I’m not expecting miracles. Just expecting you.”

“So is that it then?” he asked tentatively. “Are we courting now?”

You laughed. “Yeah, sure, we’re courting now. That sounds lovely.”

“Right,” he said, a content smile gracing his face. “Good. Exactly as I intended then. All according to plan.”

And then, sensing it would do more to reassure him than any more words could, you got up from your seat and kissed him.

It took a few seconds for him to kiss you back, a few moments where his brain seemed frozen, working on catching up with what was going on. You were more than happy to wait.

You could feel him register what was happening, his whole body softening, leaning into you, giving into the kiss completely.

It was a chaste thing, soft and gentle in a way Timmy could never be. It was slow and unhurried, any idea of schedules fleeing his mind as you kissed.

He looked stunned as you pulled away, eyes widening as soon as they opened and his tail lifting high behind him.

You just smiled at the sight. “See? There was no need to worry so much,” you assured him. “It all worked out in the end.”

#timothy timepiece #timothy timepiece x reader #timothy timepiece date everything #date everything #There’s something special to me about Timothy being seen at his worst and still being loved

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