#what if it was exactly the same but worse

[smolbeanie1221]

I’m lucky enough to live in one of the light blue states, and I have family and a friend in one of the dark blue states. But I have no idea where things are going, how long my state will be relatively safe and I’ll be able to access things for transitioning when I start. I’ve already decided that if things go bad in my state, I’m moving to the dark blue state where I have family and a friend. My friend and I had jokingly over the summer talked about if I moved back there, we could get an apartment together. So I have a rough back up plan in place if needed.

But this map makes me so sad and angry to look at. I have family in Florida that I want to go see this spring, and I know I still look like my agab, so I know I wouldn’t have to worry about people freaking out that I’m trans or something. But I still don’t want to go to Florida simply because I know how bad it is there for queer people and I’m worried that there’s a small chance, I’ll just give off too much of a queer vibe to someone, or something like that happening. I don’t think it would happen, for once the fact I haven’t started transitioning yet is good. But still… it’s just so exhausting to think about.

I still remember about a year ago when I worked retail, at least every other week a customer would say “you’d be great working as x job,” and the one time a customer said “you’d be great working at Disney!” And I just paused and tried to give them a funny smile but I probably looked like I was kinda grimacing and I said “probably… but I wouldn’t be safe in Florida…” I can’t remember if I said that exactly, but that was the gist of it. I can’t remember how the customer replied, but after that conversation, I remember being stunned. I, a young American citizen, had a fear based response to the idea of working somewhere in the state of Florida, I knew it was a simple fact that I would not be safe living in that state. And I was thinking about how fucked up it was that my immediate reaction to the customer’s comment couldn’t have been, oh that sounds like fun! or anything along those lines, but instead my reaction was, fuck no I couldn’t live there because I wouldn’t be safe.

I know obviously no country is perfect, plenty of people across the world live in dangerous places, and I know that’s true in America too. But that was the first time I experienced that feeling, and it almost felt magnified because America is so often praised by its citizens as being the best place in the world to live, all men are equal, protections for minorities, etc. And yet here I was, in America, the country I was born in and raised with those same thoughts, vividly experiencing the complete opposite thing from what I should’ve been able to.

Anyways just where my thoughts took me when I saw the map this time, especially now that person is in office (I don’t even want to say his name) and I’m scared things will get so much worse all over the country.

Adult Transgender Legislative Risk Map, November 2024

[steddieas-shegoes]

you and all of your new perspective

for @steddiesongfics using 'new perspective' by noah kahan

also on ao3

rated m | 3,513 words | no cw | tags: rock star eddie munson, good uncle wayne munson, mutual pining, yearning, post-vecna, love confessions, idiots in love, first kiss, implied sexual content, getting together

🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻🤘🏻

He’s looking down at the letter and wondering how the hell he’s supposed to be normal about Eddie visiting him.

In Hawkins.

Where Eddie swore he’d never come back to the moment he got his ticket out of here.

“Starin’ at it ain’t gonna make him not come,” Wayne says from across the counter. “Surprised he didn’t call ya to tell ya.”

“He…he left a few messages,” Steve explains, setting the letter down and resting his face in his hands. “I just figured he wouldn’t come if I didn’t call him back.”

Wayne raises a brow, gives him a look that Steve’s perfectly familiar with by now. Four years of weekly dinners with a man that’s well aware of your feelings for his nephew leads to some knowing looks and light teasing.

“Only reason he’d ever step foot in this town again is for you and you know that,” Wayne says as he opens another beer. He has three every Friday night, but no longer indulges during the week. Ain’t so young anymore, son, and I gotta stay active to keep up with all your chores, he’d told Steve when he asked. Steve thinks the doctor told him to take it easier. “I don’t think he even told the kids.”

“Don’t see why he would. They’re all over. He’s probably seen them on tour.”

Steve tries not to sound bitter. He woke up in his own bed or whatever the saying is. He can’t blame Eddie for doing exactly what he said he would, following his dreams, getting the hell out of Hawkins the moment he could. The kids did the same, but at least they visited.

“Well, they’ve been houndin’ him to come visit you.”

Steve lifts his head. “They what?”

“They just worry ‘bout ya,” Wayne shrugs. “So do I.”

“I went on a date last week! Robin visited two months ago! I see you every Friday!” Steve stands and starts pacing. “I’m gonna go visit Dustin at school in a month. And Will has his freshman exhibition that we’re all trying to meet up at. It’s not like I’m lonely.”

“Son, I think the only person lonelier than you is Eddie,” Wayne gives him that sad smile he gives whenever they talk about Steve’s social life. It’s like he knows it’s pitiful, and he knows Steve knows it’s pitiful, and he’s making sure Steve knows that he knows. “And he’s stubborn as a mule, but he cares too much about ya to let you suffer.”

“Who said anything about suffering?”

“It’s implied by the way the kids talk about you.”

“How’s that?”

“The word hermit has been used a bunch,” Wayne explains. “Now, I’m gonna finish this beer and you’re gonna stop workin’ yourself up over something that’s still days away.”

Steve rushes over to his calendar, holding up the letter, then checking the calendar.

“He’s gonna be here in three days!” Steve yells. “I can’t be ready by then!”

“What the hell do you need to be ready for? It’s just Eddie,” Wayne is smirking again and Steve’s tired of his teasing, but he’s not gonna say anything because it doesn’t do any good to draw more attention to it. “He ain’t expecting a welcome committee. Maybe a balloon or somethin’; You know he likes the show of it all.”

Steve groans.

He does know. Eddie loves dramatics, that’s what makes him such a good performer on stage. That’s what makes him a great DM.

That’s what made Steve fall in love with him.

“I don’t even know where to get balloons,” Steve says, resting his forehead against the wall.

“The new Wal-Mart should have some,” Wayne pats his shoulder. “We watchin’ the game or standing around havin’ a crisis in your kitchen?”

Steve breathes in. He breathes out.

“I’ll have a crisis tomorrow, I guess.”

“That’s my boy!”

++++

The crisis does come the next day, but this time Wayne isn’t there to make it worse or better. He considers calling Robin, but he knows she’ll just tell him to use his good cologne and try not to be weird. He even thinks about calling Dustin, but immediately shuts that down when he remembers that Dustin is the one who called him a hermit to Eddie’s face.

He finds balloons at the store, and adds streamers to the cart on a whim. He’s sure Eddie will love it. Eddie loves that kind of shit.

He also grabs a pie crust and apples because he remembers Eddie saying how much he loves apple pie with vanilla ice cream one time nearly five years ago.

Okay, maybe it’ll be weird that he remembered that.

He goes to put the apples back when Joyce bumps into him as she’s reaching for a bunch of bananas.

“Sorry honey!” She throws her hands out to catch him, even though she’s the one who almost falls. “I wasn’t paying attention. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, how’re you?” Steve gives her a small smile, trying not to show how panicked he is.

“Sweetie, you look stressed. Is something wrong?”

“No! No, just preparing for a guest,” Steve says, unsure if Eddie’s told anyone else in Hawkins he would be visiting and not wanting to ruin any surprises if he intended on doing that.

He doesn’t even know how long Eddie’s staying; He didn’t say in his letter or voicemails. Wayne hasn’t mentioned it either, which means he probably knows exactly how long he’s staying.

“Oh, is Eddie staying with you?” She asks, brows furrowing. “I assumed he was staying with Wayne. I helped him find an apple pie recipe for his visit.”

Steve looks down at the ingredients in the cart, the evidence of what he’s going to make even more obvious now. Joyce’s gaze follows his and she bites back a knowing smile.

“Ah.”

“Ah?” He asks.

“Uh huh,” she says, nodding. “I would make sure to get the green apples. He likes sour more than sweet when there’s ice cream.”

Steve looks over at the green apples and back at the red apples he was planning on buying. Joyce winks at him before she grabs the bananas and starts to walk away.

“Enjoy the visit!”

Steve doesn’t respond.

He grabs six green apples and shoves them in a plastic produce bag.

He’ll make the damn apple pie and Eddie will love it. Steve will pretend the apple pie isn’t filled with the love he can barely contain for the man, and maybe Eddie will enjoy it and leave as if he never came.

Maybe Steve can make it through this visit with dignity.

****

Eddie shows up at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Technically, it’s 3:03, but Steve wasn’t watching the clock or anything. That would be ridiculous.

He looks just like he always did, just like Steve expected. He’s smiling, and playing with the ends of his curls. Steve is never gonna make it through this visit with dignity.

“Stevie!” Eddie rushes in for a hug, and it should be more awkward than it is. Eddie didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms with Steve. They really only spoke a handful of times over the last few years, and most of those were forced by Wayne or Dustin. But it’s like he never left, like he’s been hugging Steve every day for years.

Steve soaks it up, falls into it and doesn’t care how it looks. If Eddie has a problem with it, he doesn’t say so. He holds Steve tighter, his breath warm against his neck.

Eventually, Steve invites him inside and it does start to feel awkward.

Eddie’s a rock star now, and despite how normal he looks, he’s different. He’s here to see Steve, but is he here out of guilt that it took him this long to visit or because he actually wants to?

Steve talks about work, and his dinners with Wayne, and spends more time than he should explaining Robin’s degree program even though he knows Robin already talked to Eddie when she got accepted. He goes on and on about what everyone else is up to because his life is pretty boring in comparison and he doesn’t want to bore Eddie away.

“Sounds like everyone’s doing good, but I already knew that,” Eddie eventually says when Steve’s rambled for much longer than he planned. “How are you?”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Steve says. “Kinda boring around here, honestly. How’s the tour been?”

Eddie laughs and Steve tries not to let it hurt. He doesn’t think he means it in the way Steve’s taking it and that’s a Steve problem, not an Eddie problem.

“I called you 37 times,” Eddie says instead of answering him. “Every city we had a show. The first few I figured you were just busy or asleep. I didn’t think about time zones. But then I started to realize you were avoiding me.”

He isn’t mad, or at least he doesn’t look mad, but Steve feels like he needs to apologize anyway.

“Yeah, sorry. After a while, it kinda…”

“Seemed worse to call since it was so long?” Eddie asks, small smile falling from his face when Steve nods. “It’s never a bad thing to hear from friends, though. You could’ve called the bus phone anytime. Left a message. We got an answering machine because Gareth’s mom always calls when we’re on stage.”

“Right. Good to know,” Steve says. Which, it is good to know, but he doesn’t plan on calling unless there’s an emergency. He can’t look as desperate as he feels and if he calls once, he’ll call twice, and then a hundred times. “What city was your favorite so far?”

Eddie tilts his head, looks him over for a moment before responding. “I liked Boston. All the kids were front row. Except El, she somehow got backstage. Still not sure how. Missed you, though.”

Steve feels his face heat up at the words. Eddie always said things in a flirty way, even though he doesn’t really mean it that way. Steve can’t let himself think that he means it that way.

“It’s a pretty big trip, so. I couldn’t miss work.”

It’s a shit excuse because he absolutely could miss work. It’s a grocery store in a small town, and he doesn’t care that much about it.

“They couldn’t find someone to cover a couple days for you?” Eddie sounds hurt now, and Steve can’t let him think that he’s the problem.

“I didn’t ask. I-” Steve has to be brave now. Wayne’s voice is in his head telling him to just tell Eddie why he’s been so distant, why he hasn’t been the one to reach out. “I was scared to go.”

This seems to throw Eddie off balance. His eyes squint and forehead wrinkles adorably as he tries to do mental gymnastics to find out why Steve of all people would be scared to visit him. Steve is known for throwing himself in the line of fire, being the first one to step in when everyone else is scared. Too bad this type of courage is different.

“Are you scared of flying? I didn’t know, maybe we could have figured out a hired car.”

“No, I don’t mind flying,” Steve admits.

“Then…why were you scared?”

“Because if I let you in, you’ll see how much I miss you and if you see how much I miss you, you’ll see how much I love you. And then you’d never wanna have me around and it would be just like everyone else I love who leaves because I’m not enough to keep them around,” Steve lays his head back against the couch. The Wayne voice in his head is suspiciously quiet.

So is Eddie.

Steve isn’t going to talk anymore; He’s said enough.

Eddie’s hand covers Steve’s. It’s warm and surprisingly soft, and bigger than Steve’s. He never realized that before, not even when he held his hand while he was in the hospital after Vecna or when he watched him play guitar for hours while he was trying to gain his confidence back.

“People don’t leave because you aren’t enough, Steve. They leave because the world is big and they want to be a part of it. Everyone wants you to do that, too,” Eddie says softly, carefully. “I think most of the kids hoped you’d leave Hawkins once they did. Dustin thought you’d come on tour with me.”

“Why would he think that?” Steve doesn’t remember ever having a conversation with Dustin that would make him think that, but his memory isn’t the best.

Eddie’s lips curl up into a smile and he leans forward.

“You know you’re incredibly obvious, right?” Eddie whispers even though they’re alone and there’s no need to be quiet. “You’ve always been easy to read.”

“What does that mean? Read what?”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve and it’s been right there with Eddie written across it since I was in the hospital, sweetheart.” Eddie points to Steve’s arm. He looks down as if he would be able to see the heart Eddie’s talking about. “You’re an open book.”

The timer in the kitchen goes off and Steve jumps up. He rushes to the oven, grateful for the distraction.

“Is that apple pie?” Eddie asks from a few feet away. Steve really should’ve known he would follow him.

“Yes, it’s gotta be perfect.”

“You made apple pie for me?”

Eddie’s right behind him now, and when he turns, there’s no space between them at all. Steve smells the airport on him, the rental car, the cologne he’s worn since Steve bought it for him before he left Hawkins.

He looks up and sees the years that have passed in smile lines on Eddie’s face, in a single gray hair that Eddie’s probably keeping because it makes him look cool. Steve hasn’t found any gray hairs yet, but he’s only 25. Eddie always said Wayne went completely gray by 30, so his genetics wouldn’t be as kind to him. Steve kinda hopes he’s right. Eddie would be beautiful with gray curls.

“Just like I said: heart on your sleeve,” Eddie whispers, leaning in until his lips are just barely brushing against Steve’s.

He’s waiting for Steve, to see if he’ll finally give in after years of near-silence, after whatever flirty and semi-codependent friendship they had before Eddie left to be a rock star.

Steve’s spent enough time waiting, and he thinks Eddie probably has, too.

His lips press against Eddie’s, sure of their movements despite the anxiety crawling through his chest and the unfamiliar taste of him on his tongue.

It’s full of hunger even though it only lasts a few seconds. Steve’s wanted this, wanted him, for so long, he puts everything he has into this moment. If it’s all he gets, he wants it to be perfect.

“You’re kissing me like you’re sending me off to war,” Eddie says when they’ve caught their breath.

“Feels like I am,” Steve admits, corner of his mouth turning up in a sad smile. “At least a little.”

“I think the odds of me dying on stage are probably extremely slim,” Eddie laughs. Steve doesn’t laugh with him. “Steve? What’s wrong?”

Steve pulls himself away, ignoring the way his chest aches at the separation. He’ll have to get used to that when Eddie leaves.

“You have a whole new life. You’re a rock star, Ed. I can’t force my feelings on you now.”

“Who said you forced anything on me?”

“I made you apple pie!” Steve exclaims, pulling away so he can breathe again. Having Eddie in his space alters his brain chemistry, maybe his DNA. “I bought all your favorite things so I could try to convince you I’m worth staying for, even though I can’t compare to going on a world tour with your band. I cleaned out the guest room and made sure I put your favorite shampoo in the shower as if you would even notice that. As if it would be enough to keep you around.”

Eddie steps closer, but Steve steps back.

“Your life is different now. It’s good. I wouldn’t add anything to it, and I don’t know why I even tried to make it seem like I would.”

Eddie steps closer, and there’s nowhere for Steve to go. He’s boxed in against the counter, and Eddie’s face is red with anger. He’s not scared– he could never be scared of Eddie– but he does swallow around a lump in his throat and try to take a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

“My life is different now, you’re right about that. My life doesn’t even feel like mine most days. I belong to fans, and the guys, and the record label. But you know what does feel like mine?” Eddie leans in close enough that his breath is hot against Steve’s face. “How much I love you. How much I have always loved you. You’ve always felt like mine, Steve.”

It’s a hell of a confession, and definitely not what Steve expected from this visit.

The Wayne voice in his head decides to speak again. Except this time, it’s something he’s said to Steve in person before.

He’s surrounded by people, but he seems pretty lonely. Kinda like he still needs a certain someone.

Steve’s brows crinkle as he thinks about the words Wayne said after a phone call with Eddie during the first part of his first tour nearly two years ago. The words were accompanied by a look that Steve has since come to recognize as his sad puppy look.

The same one Eddie’s giving him now.

Steve can’t help it; He laughs.

“You and Wayne could bottle that look and sell it to people who need someone to feel bad for ‘em,” Steve says. He cups Eddie’s cheek in his palm, rubs his thumb against the angry red that turns into a flushed pink. “I don’t know how you could love me-”

“Steve-”

“But!” Steve interrupts. “I know you wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it. And you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to be. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have taken the time to come back here at all, let alone stay with me. I won’t understand it, but I’ll believe it.”

“That was easier than Wayne said it would be,” Eddie’s smile grows slowly, lighting up his face and the room.

“He’s been buttering me up for years,” Steve shrugs.

“Doing all the hard work, more like,” Eddie leans forward, rests his forehead against Steve’s. “He must’ve been sick of hearing me yearn for your love.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know, you could have come back sooner. You didn’t have to wait until I was convinced I’d be alone forever.”

“And you could have called me to let me know I could visit sooner.” Eddie pokes the tip of his nose with his finger, smirking as he leans away to look back at the apple pie on the oven. “Especially if I could’ve been having apple pie on every break.”

“It might not even be good,” Steve says as he wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist.

“Is there vanilla ice cream?” Eddie pecks his lips.

“Mhm,” Steve kisses his cheek. “And you can have some if you promise to sit down and tell me everything about the band.”

“You wanna waste time hearing about Gareth drooling over every woman who looks his way? We could be making love on the couch.”

Steve raises a brow. “We won’t be making love anywhere but my bed. And it won’t be until we’ve talked more.”

“Fiiiine,” Eddie rolls his eyes, but grabs for the pie cutter on the counter. “Cut me a piece of pie and I’ll do my best to resist taking all your clothes off.”

“I never said you couldn’t do that,” Steve grabs the pie cutter.

“So I can take your clothes off?”

“Shirt only. And after pie…we’ll talk.”

“I thought after pie we’d be done talking.”

“How long are you staying?” Steve asks as he puts the slice of pie onto the plate and hands it to Eddie.

“Four days.”

Steve tilts his head side to side, considering what he can accomplish in four days.

In any other situation, he might be worried about how quickly he throws off his shirt. In any other situation, he would probably insist on talking to Robin before throwing his heart on the plate next to the scoop of ice cream Eddie just put next to his steaming slice of pie. In any other situation, he would take things slow and get to know rock star Eddie who left Hawkins to be someone.

But he’s finding that he’s okay with speed-running things.

He’s got a new perspective on Eddie’s visit, and maybe a new perspective on what their future will look like.

Steve drops his pants. Eddie’s eyes widen.

“Eat your pie. We’ll talk while we make love on the couch.”

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Cheshire behind the cut; “Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good!” (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Billy closes the cupboard and looks back into the living room. Lynn’s still watching the static intently, and Tawky’s still settled all neat and comfy in his lap, though Lynn’s eyes look a little–heavy, kinda? Like . . . maybe, anyway. 

Billy sneaks a peek at the clock and thinks–it is getting kinda late, probably. Like, not really for a teenager and not for him either, ‘cuz it’s not really safe to sleep on the street for too long–honestly it’s better to just take a couple naps during the day if he can, especially when the weather’s shitty–but definitely for a little kid who’s just gotten driven halfway across the Midwest to their brand-new foster home and met their new dad and uncle for the first time and also gotten their own room and been to a diner and a library and cooked dinner and all that stuff for the first time. 

Actually, yeah, probably that’d be a lot even for a teenager, Billy thinks. Not that he really knows, ‘cuz he doesn’t really know any teenagers all that well and hasn’t been one himself yet, but it seems like it would? 

He’d sleep for a week after all that if he could, he thinks. 

He definitely would. 

Billy doesn’t really know how to handle the idea of, um–bedtime, exactly? Like, with Lynn, he means. Billy has not actually had an actual “bedtime” since . . . uh . . . 

“Lights out” doesn’t really count, he can’t help feeling, so . . . yeah, it’s been . . . a while, definitely. 

. . . maybe he should’ve taken a minute to check those parenting books for bedtime tips earlier, he thinks. Like–newborn tips and teenager tips, and then just split the difference, maybe? 

That seems like it’d probably be a pain in the ass to figure out how to split, though. 

He guesses what he should do is just whatever works, which, like–yeah, obviously and all, but like . . . doing “whatever works” is kinda, like . . . well, kinda a trial and error thing? And Billy really doesn’t wanna accidentally wreck Lynn’s first night of sleep in the apartment, that just seems like a bad foot to start off on and all, but he doesn’t know if Lynn knows anything about how he sleeps yet–like, he’s four days old and Billy’s pretty sure the first night he was alive he just spent fighting his way out of Cadmus and everything, so how many times has he even slept at all yet? And did he even go to sleep on purpose anywhere or just, like, pass out ‘cuz he was exhausted? 

Billy probably should’ve asked Lynn about all that stuff before the other started getting sleepy. 

Shit. 

Lynn blinks a little heavier, his head nodding once. Stiffens his spine like a reflex, and then looks a little–confused, maybe, and blinks rapidly a couple of times. Tawky peers up at him in concern, then seems to realize it’s the sleepy thing and glances over to Billy, who isn’t sure what to do and bites his lip. Tawky tips his own head, and Billy thinks . . . well . . . okay, that’s probably a lot of questions for Lynn right now, when he’s already pretty sleepy, but– 

Lynn blinks again–twice–and then wobbles in his seat, kinda, and– 

A weird jolt of alarm and the speed of Mercury both happen at the exact same time, and half a second later Billy’s in the living room with Lynn all scooped up in his arms and Lynn’s breath hitching sharply, one of his arms pinning Tawky against his chest and the other pressed tight against Billy’s chest in, like–a really obvious startle reflex. 

. . . maybe that was a panic reaction, Billy thinks, wincing at himself. 

“Sorry,” he says, trying to repress a worse wince. “Um–reflex. Sorry.” 

“Uh,” Lynn says, his breath catching again and the hand he has against Billy’s chest tightening into a fist around the neckline of the nerdy try-hard button-down Mr. Rogers sweater the magic made for him. He’s staring kind of blankly at where his fist’s clutching the sweater. “. . . ‘reflex’?” 

“Oh,” Billy says, then reddens a little in embarrassment. Yeah. Definitely that was a panic reaction. “Um–you looked like you were gonna fall, maybe, so–um, I know you’re invulnerable so maybe that sounds dumb, just I thought, like–I didn’t want you to fall?” 

“. . . uh,” Lynn says, and blinks real slow again. 

“Sorry,” Billy apologizes, trying to figure out if it’s more awkward to keep holding Lynn or to put him down without making sure it was just that he was nodding off and not, like, anything actually serious or anything. He got punched a lot of times by a guy with berserker super-strength just a few days ago, and that’s probably long enough that Lynn’s fine, but also Lynn’s only been alive a few days, so maybe like–what if he’s not actually fine, or–“Um–were you falling asleep?” 

“. . . I don’t know,” Lynn says, still staring blankly at his fist, or maybe at Billy’s sweater, or . . . who knows, really. “I don’t know what it feels like.” 

“. . . have you slept yet?” Billy asks with a worried frown. 

“I slept for four months,” Lynn says stiffly. He doesn’t lift his head at all. . 

Billy can maybe understand Lynn not wanting to sleep after spending so much time kept asleep and getting lied to all the time and not feeling anything real–like, that might be really scary, trying to sleep after that kind of thing, because maybe you’d wake up and it wouldn’t have been real either and– 

Yeah, Billy can definitely understand not wanting to sleep after that.

[ch0llies]

KISS IT BETTER | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

oneshot - toxic!reader x toxic!chris

You and Chris have been trapped in a cycle for years. Fighting, breaking, making up, and doing it all over again. Every time you swear it’s the last, every time you tell yourself you’re done, he finds his way back to you and kisses it better.

story warnings: oral smut (fem receiving), fighting, pet names (ma, mama, baby), angst, toxic relationship (teetering on the edge of abusive), If any of these topics upset you...don't read!

word count: 5k

“Fuck you, Chris!”

The plate leaves your hand before you fully realize what you’re doing, shattering against the kitchen wall, ceramic shards exploding like fireworks. Your chest is heaving, your hands trembling, but it’s not fear that fuels you. It’s fury. It’s exhaustion. It’s the same goddamn argument, the same back-and-forth that neither of you knows how to stop.

Chris ducks just in time, eyes wild with rage. “Fucking leave then!” he yells, voice hoarse from all the screaming, all the wasted words. “Get out! No one’s stopping you.”

The laugh that rips from your throat is sharp and humorless. “Me?” You throw your arms out, gesturing around the apartment, the place where every fight, every reconciliation, every tangled mess of love and hate has played out. “This is my fucking apartment. You get out. You miserable, useless piece of shit- get out!”

You reach for another plate, yanking it from the open dishwasher, but he’s faster this time. His hands close around your wrist, rough and unyielding. “You crazy bitch,” he growls, shaking your arm until the plate slips from your grip, clattering to the floor.

Your breath is ragged. His is worse. For a second, neither of you move.

His grip tightens for a beat too long before he lets go, shoving your wrist away like even touching you is infuriating. You rip your arm back, rubbing the spot where his fingers left their mark, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

Chris runs a hand through his hair, pacing the small kitchen like he’s trying to hold himself together. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls, in the way his fingers flex like he wants to punch a hole in the wall. But he won’t. Not yet.

“You’re fucking insane,” he spits, shaking his head. “No wonder everyone leaves you.”

The words slice deep, but you don’t let them show. Instead, you smile. “Oh, everyone?” You tilt your head, voice saccharine. “Guess that makes you an idiot for still being here, huh?”

His eyes flash, and you know you’ve hit the mark. He hates when you do that. When you turn the knife back on him, make him feel like the fool for always coming back.

Because he does.

No matter how many times you fight, no matter how many times you scream and throw things and tell each other that this is it, that this is the last time, you know he’ll be back.

Even if he walks out that door right now, he’ll be back.

Maybe it’ll be tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be a week from now, when the silence becomes unbearable, when the ache of missing each other outweighs the resentment. Maybe it’ll be two in the morning, when you’re both drunk and angry and lonely, and he calls, and you answer, and suddenly you’re in your bed again, pretending you don’t know how it always ends.

You do know.

But knowing doesn’t stop you.

“Fuck this,” Chris mutters under his breath, storming past you, shoulder bumping yours as he moves toward the door.

And for some reason maybe out of spite, maybe out of habit, maybe just because you need him to hurt the way he hurts you, you push him again.

“That’s right, run away,” you taunt, voice dripping with mockery. “Just like you always do.”

He stops.

Slowly, he turns, and when his eyes meet yours, there’s something dangerous in them. Not physical. Chris has never hurt you like that. No, his violence is different. His is in the way he knows exactly what to say to tear you down.

“You act like I’m the only one who leaves,” he says, voice low, steady. “But tell me, where the fuck were you last week when I needed you?”

Your stomach clenches. “That’s different,” you snap.

Chris lets out a sharp laugh. “Right. Of course it is. Because when you do it, it’s different. When you disappear, it’s justified. But when I do it, I’m the fucking asshole.”

You cross your arms over your chest, jaw tight. “You are the fucking asshole.”

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Yeah? And what does that make you?”

You don’t answer. Because you know.

You’re just as bad as he is. Maybe worse. Because you’re the one who keeps letting him back in. You’re the one who keeps answering the phone, who keeps opening the door, who keeps pretending that this time, it’ll be different.

It never is.

Chris exhales, dragging a hand down his face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a split second, there’s something softer beneath all the anger.

But softness is dangerous. Softness means giving in.

So you glare at him, at his stupid freckled face, at the stupid bags under his blue eyes, at the stupid mess of his brown hair. You hate him. You love him. You don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.

“Don’t come back,” you say. It’s a lie. He knows it.

Chris studies you for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering across his expression. And then he turns, yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Your hands are shaking. Your pulse is racing.

You sink onto the kitchen floor, surrounded by shattered pieces of the life you swore you’d never let yourself fall into.

It’s no surprise that hours later as the sun is setting, and the world is going quiet that your phone buzzes. It was like clockwork.

You stare at it, the screen glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. You should ignore it.

But you don’t. You never do. You never have.

The first time you fought, it was over something stupid. It was years ago and you were drunk at a party, slurring your words as you accused him of something you don’t even remember now. Some girl. Some look he gave her. Something that, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t matter at all. But in the moment, it felt like the end of the world.

He had laughed, sharp and bitter, running a hand through his hair as he glared at you across the room. “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

You had shoved him, not hard, just enough to make him stumble back a step.

You hated him then. You hated the way he could make you feel so small with just a few words. Hated the way his anger was never loud, never reckless. It was always just controlled enough to make you feel like you were the problem.

And yet, later that night, you ended up in his bed. Your arms around his neck, his lips on your throat, moaning each other's names, both of you desperate to take back every cruel word without actually saying sorry.

That was how it always went.

Your phone buzzes again.

You don’t pick it up right away. Instead, you stare at the shattered plate on the floor, at the tiny fractures in the tile where it hit. At the reflection of yourself in the broken pieces.

You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

With a shaky breath, you reach for the phone.

You answer, pressing it to your ear without a word.

His breathing is heavy on the other end.

“Open the door,” he says.

Your eyes flicker to the door. Your fingers tighten around the phone.

“No.”

Chris exhales sharply. “Ma.” His voice is softer now. Worn out. Tired. “Don’t do this.”

You swallow hard. “You slammed the door first.”

“You told me to.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Because you did tell him to. You tell him to leave every time. And every time, he comes back.a

Just like you knew he would.

The fights got worse as the years went on.

They stopped being about stupid things like parties and jealousy and miscommunication. They became bigger. Real.

Chris had walked into the apartment one night, the smell of whiskey clinging to his clothes, his knuckles split open. You were already waiting, sitting on the couch with your arms crossed over your chest.

“You were supposed to pick me up,” you said flatly.

He had exhaled, running a tired hand over his face. “I got caught up.”

You stood up, shaking your head. “You forgot.”

“It’s not a big fucking deal, Y/N.”

You had laughed then, cold and bitter. “Right. Not a big deal. Just like every other time you’ve blown me off.”

Chris had rubbed his temples, exasperated. “Jesus Christ, are we really doing this right now?”

You had shoved him then, harder than before, enough to make him stumble back. “Yes, we’re doing this right now. Because this keeps happening, and you never fucking care.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m here now.”

And that was what made you snap. “Yeah, and that’s the fucking problem. You only show up when it’s too late.”

He had left that night. Slamming the door so hard the walls shook. You told yourself you wouldn’t let him back in. You swore, this time, you meant it.

And yet, a day later, he was at your door, his pretty eyes wet and tired, his voice rough. “I’m sorry.”

And, like always, that was enough.

You unlock the door and go back to sitting down in the kitchen.

Chris doesn’t come in right away. He hesitates in the doorway, looking at you on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of your latest disaster.

He steps over the broken pieces and crouches in front of you.

His hands find your knees. “You okay?”

You huff out a laugh. “Are you fucking serious?”

Chris sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate this,” he mutters. “I hate fighting with you.”

You scoff. “Then stop.”

He looks at you. Like really looks at you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression that he lost a long time ago.

His fingers brush your cheek. “Where were you last week?”

Your stomach clenches.

You shake your head. “Chris…”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “I needed you. And you weren’t fucking there.”

You close your eyes. Because you know. You know.

You had ignored his calls, turned your phone on silent, locked yourself in your apartment and pretended you didn’t hear him knocking and banging and nearly kicking down the door.

Because you were exhausted. Because you were sick of being the one who always stayed. Because you wanted to know if he’d break without you. He did.

And when you finally answered, two days later, his voice was cold but so sad. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

You remember the way your chest had ached at the sound of it. The way you had opened your mouth to apologize, but the words never came.

Now, he’s looking at you like that again. Like he’s still waiting for an answer.

You don’t have one.

Chris exhales, pressing his forehead against your knee. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Something in your chest tightens. Because neither do you. But you both know you will.

So you let him pull you into his arms, let him kiss the top of your head, let him whisper all the things you need to hear.

It had been a month.

Somehow, against all odds, things had actually been good.

After that last fight, after the broken plates and slammed doors and the inevitable collapse into each other’s arms, you both seemed to tread more carefully. There were fewer arguments, fewer nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering when the next disaster would hit.

Chris started coming home earlier. He made dinner for you sometimes, even if it was just burnt pasta. You stopped ignoring his calls. You let yourself believe, just for a little while, that maybe things were different this time.

And then came Boston.

Chris had been excited to take you home, to visit his parents, to spend time with his brothers. “They love you and miss you so much,” he had said, fingers threading through yours. “I just want them to see how good we’re doing.”

And for the first few hours, you were good.

His mom hugged you tight. His dad cracked jokes that made you laugh. Matt and Nick filled the house with their usual chaos, and for a little while, you let yourself forget about the way things used to be.

Until she walked in.

Madisyn.

His ex from high school. The one you had never met, the one he never really talked about, but the one whose name had always felt like a ghost in the back of your mind.

She looked good. You hated that she looked good.

“Oh my god,” she said, smiling wide as she wrapped her arms around Chris like she still belonged there. “It’s been forever.”

You didn’t move.

Chris laughed, squeezing her back before stepping away. “Yeah, it feels like forever, hasn’t it?”

You stared at them.

You hated that he hadn’t told you she’d be here. You hated the way she said his name like she still knew him.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just went quiet.

Chris noticed.

At dinner, after Madisyn left, when everyone was laughing, when you were talking to his parents and brothers but barely even looking at him, he noticed.

“Ma,” he murmured under his breath at one point, nudging you. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” you said.

Except it wasn’t nothing. Because when you talked to his mom, your voice was warm and full of life. When you joked with Nick and Matt, you were animated and laughing.

But with him?

Cold. Quiet. Distant.

And it was driving him crazy.

At one point, his hand found your thigh under the table, squeezing in warning. “Perk up,” he muttered. “You’re being weird.”

That made you seethe. You had every reason to be pissed, and he wanted you to just sit there and smile and pretend everything was fine?

So you ignored him. You smiled at his mom, at his dad, at his brothers. You talked to everyone but him.

And by the time you got in the car to drive home, the air was suffocating.

The second the doors shut, it exploded.

“What the fuck was that!?” Chris snapped, slamming his hands on the steering wheel before peeling out of the driveway way too fast.

You didn’t even look at him. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting.” His voice was sharp, furious. “You gave me the cold shoulder all fucking night, and for what?”

You scoffed, staring out the window. “Are you seriously that fucking dense?”

Chris let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ. Are you jealous right now?”

That made you snap. “Oh, fuck you, Chris.”

He barked out another laugh, gripping the wheel tight. “No, seriously. You’re pissed because Madisyn was there? That’s insane.”

Your hands curled into fists. “I’m pissed because you knew she was gonna be there and didn’t fucking tell me. I’m pissed because you spent all night pretending like I was the one acting crazy instead of acknowledging that maybe just maybe you should’ve fucking prepared me for that.”

Chris gritted his teeth. “I didn’t know she was gonna be there.”

You turned, finally looking at him, eyes burning with rage. “You think I fucking believe that? You weren’t even surprised to see her? Have you been seeing her??”

Chris’s grip on the wheel tightened. “You know what? I don’t fucking care if you believe it or not. You embarrassed me tonight.”

Your mouth fell open. “I embarrassed you?”

“Yes! You were so fucking weird the entire night! My parents asked me if we were fighting. You made it so fucking obvious that something was wrong, and you just, what? You thought that was fine?”

You laughed, sharp and cruel. “Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t perform for you, Chris. I’m so sorry I wasn’t your perfect little girlfriend, smiling and nodding and pretending like everything was fine.”

Chris’s jaw locked. “You were being a fucking brat.”

That did it. Without thinking, without processing, your hand shot out, grabbing the wheel and yanking it to the right.

The car swerved, jerking hard toward the shoulder, and Chris yelled, his hands fighting for control as he slammed on the brakes.

The car skidded to a stop. Silence. You were both breathing hard. Your heart was pounding. You were lucky you were the only ones on the road.

Chris turned to you, furious. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?!”

You yanked at the door handle, trying to get out, trying to escape the fire burning between you. But it didn’t budge. You tried again. And again.

Chris had child-locked the doors.

You turned, eyes wild. “Unlock the fucking car.”

“No.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Not until you calm the fuck down.”

You pounded a fist against the window. “Chris, I swear to God-”

“No.” His voice was sharp, commanding. “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

Your vision blurred with rage. “And you’re a fucking liar.”

Chris laughed again, bitter and cruel. “This is why we don’t work. This is exactly why. Because no matter what I do, no matter how much I try, you always find a way to turn me into the fucking villain.”

You ripped at the seatbelt, breathing hard. “Unlock the car.”

Chris leaned back, running a hand through his hair. He exhaled through his nose, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.

And then he whispered, “I don’t even fucking like you anymore.”

It felt like a slap. Your whole body tensed.

Chris swallowed, rubbing his hands over his face, like he wanted to take it back, like he knew how much that would hurt.

But the damage was already done.

You turned away, staring out the window, blinking back tears.

Chris’s grip on the wheel tightened so hard you thought he might snap it in half. And then-

BANG.

His fist slammed against it with a force so violent that the entire car jolted. You flinched, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at you. Just let out a sharp breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, jaw locked so tight you swore his teeth might break.

And then he sped off.

The tires screeched as he veered back onto the road, the speedometer climbing. The tension between you was suffocating, thick with regret, anger, and something else. Something even worse.

He had said it. He had fucking said it. “I don’t even fucking like you anymore.” And he hadn’t taken it back.

Neither of you spoke the whole drive home.

The only sounds were the engine, the wind against the windows, and the occasional sharp inhale from you, trying to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

Chris never reached for your hand. Never tried to fix it.

The car pulled into the parking lot of your apartment, jerking to a stop.

Chris didn’t turn off the ignition right away. His hands stayed on the wheel, fingers gripping and flexing like he was still holding onto something he had already lost.

You stared straight ahead, your eyes burning, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

Seconds passed.

And then-

Click.

He unlocked the doors.

The moment you heard it, you bolted.

The door flew open, and you were out, your sneakers pounding against the pavement as you sprinted toward the apartment entrance.

You knew what he had just done. You knew that saying those words out loud had fucking wrecked him, but you didn’t care about how he felt.

You didn’t care because he had let it happen. Because he had looked you in the eye and said something he could never take back.

And now, you were going to lock him out.

Just like you had that night last week. Just like you had done before, hoping and praying that maybe this time, he’d take the fucking hint and leave.

But Chris wasn’t stupid. He knew what you were about to do.

You heard his car door slam, the sound of his footsteps against the pavement as he chased after you.

You reached the door first, hands fumbling with the keys, but he was right there, his body closing in on yours as you shoved the key into the lock.

Just as you pushed the door shut, his hand slammed against it, shoving it back open.

You shoved with everything you had, every ounce of rage and heartbreak fueling you, but Chris was stronger.

You knew he was stronger.

And it fucking killed you.

He pushed forward, the door flying open as he stepped inside and slammed it behind him, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

You snapped. Your hands fisted in his shirt, and before you even realized what you were doing, you swung.

Your fists hit his chest, one after the other, a furious, broken rhythm of rage and despair.

“You! fucking! asshole!”

Chris just stood there.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t grab your wrists or shove you away.

He just took it.

Your punches weren’t hard enough to hurt him, but they were hard enough to shake through your whole body. Your vision blurred, your breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps.

And then the tears came.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You didn’t know where one feeling ended and the other began.

Chris swallowed, his hands twitching at his sides, like he wanted to touch you, to pull you into his chest, to fix this.

Your fists slowed, the fight draining out of you, leaving nothing but exhaustion and grief in its wake.

Your sobs were wrecked, broken, gasping for air between every sharp breath. “You can’t-” Your voice cracked. “You can’t just fucking say shit like that and then sit here and act like-”

You couldn’t even finish. The words got stuck in your throat, tangled with every time he had ever left, every time you had ever let him back in.

Your legs felt weak, unsteady beneath you, like the fight had taken too much, left you with nothing but trembling limbs and a heart that couldn’t take any more.

And then it happened.

Your body just gave in.

One second, you were standing, hitting, shaking with rage and crying.

The next, you were collapsing into him, sobbing so hard you could barely breathe.

Chris caught you instantly, arms wrapping around you without hesitation. His hold was tight, solid, like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

And maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.

Your hands fisted into his hoodie, your forehead pressing against his chest as the sobs wracked through you. “Take it back,” you whispered, voice shattered. “Take it the fuck back.”

Chris sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers pressing into your back, his grip almost desperate.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice rough, full of something wrecked, something you weren’t sure you wanted to name. “I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it.”

But it didn’t matter. Because he had said it.

And that meant, for at least one second, maybe longer, he had felt it.

You shook your head against his chest, gripping his hoodie tighter, like you could force him to undo it, to erase the moment completely.

“Just-” Your voice broke. “Just take it on back.”

Chris exhaled sharply, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair. “I swear to god, I take it back.”

“Do what you gotta do,” you whispered against him, your voice barely there. “Just- just fucking fix this.”

Chris held you tighter, like he could pull you into his chest and keep you there forever. “I don’t know how.” His voice cracked, something rare, something raw. “Tell me how.”

You didn’t have an answer.

Because if there was a way to fix this, you would have found it by now.

All you could do was cling to him, feel his breath against your temple, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

He was just holding you, letting it happen, letting you sob against his chest like he knew he deserved it.

But it wasn’t enough. His arms around you weren’t enough, his whispered apologies weren’t enough, the way he was pressing his forehead to yours like he could will this all away wasn’t enough.

It still hurt. It hurt inside when you looked at him, when you saw the guilt in his eyes, when you knew that no matter how much you hated him for saying it, a part of you believed it.

That was the worst part. That little voice in the back of your head that whispered what if?

What if he meant it? What if he didn’t like you anymore? What if all of this, every fight, every bruise left on your hearts, every time you clawed your way back to each other was just stalling the inevitable?

Chris cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop coming, his eyes dark, desperate. “Baby,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need.”

You let out a sharp, shaking breath, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. “What are you willing to do?”

His whole body tensed. He knew what you meant.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Because what was he willing to do?

Was he willing to stop fighting? Was he willing to fix this, to finally choose something that wasn’t self-destruction wrapped in a love story?

Or was he just willing to do the same thing you always did?

Fix it the only way you knew how.

Chris’s fingers traced down your jaw, then lower, ghosting over your throat, down to your collarbone. “Let me fix it,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched.

This was how it always went.

“Chris,” you whispered.

“I got you, ma,” he breathed, his lips brushing against your temple, then your cheek, then lower. “Let me kiss it better.”

It wasn’t real. You knew it wasn’t real. But fuck, you needed it.

You tilted your chin up, letting him press his lips to yours, slow at first, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Chris deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you flush against him. The tension between you hadn’t disappeared, it had just shifted, turning into something equally as dangerous, equally as intoxicating.

You were both still burning. But this time, you were burning together.

Chris hoisted you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you through the dark apartment.

Your lips never left his.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and then you were sinking down into it, pulling him with you, his weight pressing you into the sheets.

Within minutes his lips were everywhere.

On your mouth, your jaw, your throat. Pressing into every inch of skin like he could rewrite the last hour, like he could erase everything he had said and replace it with something softer, something sweeter.

His hands trembled as they slid over your body, gripping you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. Like he was terrified of losing you.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered against your collarbone, voice rough, wrecked. “I swear to fucking God, mama, I didn’t mean it.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, forcing him to keep going, to keep proving it. Because words meant nothing in this cycle you’d built.

But this. This you could believe in.

His lips moved lower, his hands slipping under your shirt, skimming over bare skin like it was something holy. “I like you,” he breathed, dragging his mouth back up to your jaw. “I fucking love you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your face away. “Don’t.”

Chris pulled back slightly, his breath heavy, his forehead pressing into yours. “I do,” he insisted. “You know I do.”

And you did know. But it didn’t change the fact that he had said it. That he had looked you in the eye and let the words leave his mouth in the first place.

Chris kissed you again, harder this time, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress. “I’m sorry,” he murmured between kisses. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You always are.”

His lips dragged over your pulse point, sucking just hard enough to make you gasp. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

That was the problem. You did believe him. Every single time, you believed him.

And that was why you were still here, tangled in him, letting him worship you with his hands, with his mouth, with every breath he had left.

He knew exactly how to undo you.

His hands slipped lower, gripping your thighs, pressing kisses down your stomach. “My poor hurting baby,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he looked you in your eyes. “I know it hurts inside. I fucking feel it.”

You bit your lip, staring up at the ceiling, willing yourself to hold on to the anger, to the hurt. But Chris was so good at making it disappear. So good at making you forget.

His hands slid up your legs, slow, reverent, fingers brushing over every place he had ever touched before. Like he was trying to carve himself into your skin.

Chris kissed his way back up your body, mouth tracing over your ribcage, your throat, your jaw. “I’ll do anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “Tell me what you need, ma. I’ll fucking do it.”

You knew that wasn’t true.

You knew that in a few days, maybe a few weeks, you’d be back here again. Shattered, screaming, tearing each other apart just to put the pieces back together.

But right now, it felt true. Right now, it was enough.

So you pulled him closer, legs tightening around his waist, nails digging into his back.

Chris’s hands were shaking as they pulled at your shirt, his fingers desperate, reverent- like he wasn’t just undressing you, but unraveling you. Like peeling away the layers of fabric would somehow undo the damage he had done.

His lips followed every movement, trailing soft, worshipful kisses down your body, as if he could replace every bruise on your heart with the heat of his mouth when he took your pants.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin, voice rough with desperation. “I don’t deserve you.”

You wanted to tell him he was right.

You wanted to tell him that sorry wasn’t enough.

But then his mouth was lower, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and fuck, this was how he always did it. How he always made you forget.

He kissed the inside of your thighs like they were something sacred, his fingers gripping you like he was afraid you’d disappear beneath him. “Let me make it better,” he breathed, lips dragging over every inch of bare skin he could find. “Please, mama.”

His voice cracked, raw with something wrecked before he showed you how sorry he really was.

His hands held you open, his mouth finding your core in the way he knew you needed. Like he was trying to earn back every ounce of your love, like he was starving for your forgiveness.

You gasped, your fingers threading into his hair, your back arching as he devoured you.

Chris groaned into you, like this was the only thing keeping him alive, like he couldn’t breathe without you, without this. His hands tightened on your thighs, his tongue moving in the way he knew would undo you, like he wanted you to break, like he needed you to.

You tugged at his hair, pulling him closer, forcing him deeper, and he whimpered at the way you used him.

“Kiss me better,” you whispered, breathless, trembling.

Chris was on his knees for you, his mouth relentless, his hands gripping you tighter like he was afraid you’d take this from him. Like he needed to prove himself with every flick of his tongue, every desperate gasp against your skin.

The apologies didn’t stop.

“I love you.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I’ll never say that shit again.”

He was starving for you, for your forgiveness, for something that felt like redemption even when he knew he didn’t deserve it. His mouth moved over your clit, his hands trembling as they held your thighs apart even further, pressing his lips to the places he knew made you gasp, made you shudder, made you forget just who you both were outside of this.

You tugged at his hair, yanking him closer, and he whimpered against you.

Chris had never been like this with anyone else. Never been this desperate, this willing, this completely wrecked for someone.

But as soon as he heard you moan for the first time tonight, he knew he had you.

His hands gripped you tighter, holding you there, keeping you from escaping even though you had no intention of going anywhere. He was everywhere, tasting, kissing, worshipping like he had something to prove. Like every movement of his tongue was another apology, another please don’t leave me, another way to say I love you without words.

Your back arched, your head falling back against the pillow, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as moans left your pretty parted lips.

Every time you tugged at his hair, he groaned like it physically hurt him. Every time your body tensed beneath him, he whimpered like he was the one unraveling.

Like this wasn’t just for you. Like he needed this just as much.

“Fuck, mama,” he murmured between kisses, pressing his lips to your inner thigh, his fingers tracing slow, dizzying patterns over your skin. “I’ll stay here all night. I don’t care- I don’t fucking care. Just- just let me make it better. Let me kiss it better.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your body trembling from the way he was pulling you under. “Chris…”

“I know,” he breathed, his voice completely and utterly wrecked. “I know, baby. I got you.”

And God, he did. You couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t remember why you had ever been angry, why you had ever thought you could walk away from this. Walk away from him.

Instead of apologizing with words, he was apologizing like this. With his hands gripping your hips, with his tongue moving in ways that made you gasp his name, with the soft, desperate I love yous pressed into your skin between every kiss.

Your body was on fire, your mind spinning, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

And maybe he was.

Because you knew love wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But you didn’t know anything else. You wanted it. You needed it.

And so you let him worship you.

You let him kiss it better.



for @mattsobvimyfav 🧡

[fictionyoubelieve]

This video is literally propaganda, of exactly the kind that you should expect to find on TikTok, and you just don't notice or care because it confirms things that you want to believe anyway. The app promotes videos like this, and suppresses those that are unfavorable to the Chinese state, because that is required of them under the Chinese censorship regime.

To claim that the US is "just as bad or worse" than China on things like worker protections and freedom of speech is profoundly ignorant. The person in that video does not know what they are talking about, and you should not be spreading this uncritically.

This much is true: - The US and Chinese governments both do some good things and many bad things. - The people in both countries have a lot in common, share many of the same struggles, and should push both governments to be better.

However, for nearly all the specific claims, it's dead wrong:

Mass surveillance (in China; in the US) Yes, the US has seen expansion of its surveillance apparatus and erosion of our right to privacy in recent years (especially since the Patriot Act), but China blows everyone else out of the water. They have an immense network of state-controlled CCTV—much of it incorporating computer vision and facial recognition—with the explicit goal of monitoring 100% of public space. They also impose controls on digital activity that make anonymous or private (encrypted) communication practically impossible.

Censorship (in China; in the US) This is just laughable. Efforts to gloss over the uglier parts of US history in some public school districts are reprehensible, but it does not compare to China's "Great Firewall" and nationwide suppression of certain kinds of speech. The fact that you can openly discuss this in news and social media is its own proof. Good journalism being difficult to monetize is a bigger problem, but it's not like it's made easier by additionally having to get government approval for everything you publish and risking imprisonment if you don't.

Freedom of Speech/"You're trying to ban this app right now" The issue with TikTok is not about speech; the same videos and comments can be uploaded anywhere else. But since you mention it, we should note that TikTok was never available in China—they have their own version of the app, Douyin, which complies with their digital censorship and surveillance laws. Because, again, those are far more strict than what we have in the US.

Human Rights Violations Abortion access is a genuine W for China, I'll give you that one. But holy shit do they have some awful things going on too. Honestly it's too depressing for me to dig too far into this, or the Native American and Uyghur situations. It's all terrible.

Working Conditions You cannot be serious with this. You know about sweatshops. Working conditions in China are generally bad. Their lowest minimum wage nationally is less than $1.50/hr. The US has the fifth highest median income worldwide. Get real.

Healthcare Universal healthcare is enviable, and the US really needs to stop artificially restricting its supply of doctors. There's so many factors here that I don't know if comparison is meaningful, but as one point in our defense, healthcare outcomes are still generally better in the US than in China. We spend more for it, but we also earn more to begin with.

Gun Control Yeah, this one is obviously an L for the US. Some people care more about gun ownership; I'm not one of them.

Homelessness (in China; in the US) Homelessness rates per capita seem pretty similar between the two countries, and both are working to address it with government programs, to varying degrees of success. There are people sleeping on streets and under bridges in China, and they have their own anti-homeless architecture, too.

Democracy/Authoritarianism Weird, the video didn't mention this one. You can probably guess why.

you have more in common with the average citizen in china than any us politician

[batfansa]

The more I thought about it, the more I realized just how fucked up the whole situation with Cobigail really was. And to me, personally, I feel she was done the most dirty through Inspekta's actions.

Like, not to diminish what he did to the other gods or anything, but... at most he broke Mitternacht's heart, almost broke Thespius' heart, tricked Click Clack and made him feel guilty for almost ruining their show and hurting Thespi, tricked Bauhauzzo and made him feel guilty and upset for hurting Huzzle, Huzzle Mug was more so pissed and felt betrayed, all while framing and imprisoning King after taking Megapon away.

And none of the followers were in any real danger aside for Mitternacht's crying possibly flooding the Grove. But nobody seemed too concerned with that, more concerned with her being upset and having to deal with the rain. All of which was still bad, obviously, but none of it felt too terrible.

Meanwhile, with Cobigail, he outright tarnished her reputation and painted her as this dangerous god willing to devour her own people. He took direct advantage of the fact that Milldread hasn't had a harvest in a while and decided to directly blame Cobi for it. Literally accused her of starving her own people, all while she's starving too!

This is made worse by the fact that this poor corn lady hadn't even been visited by anyone in twenty years and was starting to forget herself and her memories. She couldn't even speak up for herself 'cause everyone was afraid of her, and she was unable to even recall things so would have been unreliable anyways.

But the thing that really makes this whole situation worse, is that because of Inspekta's letter, someone decided that the best course of action to take was to slaughter an innocent person in front of the entire town, children included. And that this same person also so happened to be someone Cobigail knew back when she was human.

Someone she knew as a child. A child she taught and had fond memories of. She watched that little boy grow up and build that town and community. He's also quite possibly the only remaining person from her time as a human still alive. He hasn't visited her in forever either and feels real bad about it, knows she's not a blood cobbler gobbler. That's his old music teacher after all. He knows she'd never hurt nobody. She's the same teacher who loves his milldreadberry jam and loved being able to eat it during the Harvest.

And now, he's about to be sacrificed to that same teacher-turned-god, without even being able to give her a proper goodbye or apology for not seeing her for those twenty years. And she, in turn, can't do anything about it. Can't stop it. And is forced to watch as he's bashed and cut into mush. His blood splattered onto her alter, in her name.

And I also think people seem to forget that Cobigail was this close to being forced to drink her own ex-student's blood. Like, she would have been slurping up Bloom's blood through her roots unwillingly. Would have been forced to taste it and know exactly who it was she was eating.

And that little detail alone just fucks with me so much, because it is so dark and so sad at the same time.

But while all this was happening, while Saul was yelling about cutting up an innocent man, Inspekta just sat idly in his domain and did nothing. Didn't seem to realize the gravity of the situation (or just didn't care, too busy self-rotting) to tell Cappy or his other Bizzyboys to interfere. Was totally fine with somebody getting killed and his fellow god taking all the blame and being forced to watch.

Like, Cobigail is just the sweetest and is so forgiving, literally welcoming back 'Speks into the family despite everything. Literally had no hard feelings and made it clear she was there for him. So supportive too. Just wants to see everyone safe and happy. Spook some folks. Be silly.

Just, somebody get this sweet corn lady some jam and company.

[mssishipi]

THE PURGE SERIES #1: Kiss Me - enhypen! jay PAIRING:purger reader x privileged jay

SYNOPSIS: You hate the Purge. You hate the monster they create, the cruelty, and the way it's broken you down year after year. You hate the rich most of all—the people who don't have to fight to survive. People like Park Jongseong. And now, somehow, he's sitting next to you. The boy who's always smiling, always comfortable, as if the world hasn't burned down around him. The boy who lives in safety, behind barricades his father's company builds, while you've spent years starving, hiding, and praying. Jongseong keeps smiling at you, oblivious to the weight of your hatred. He doesn't care about you, not really. To him, life is simple. And maybe that's why you can't stand him. Because while he laughs, you're trying to figure out how to make sure people like him never smile again.

warning: contains dark sensitive topics, mentions of murder, sexual assault, violence, and ptsd behavior, different perspectives of the purge, one sided hatred, reader is kinda difficult to handle but it's a trauma response, messy ending, jay is a supportive boyfie (in a good and bad ways), reader is unhinged, explicit content (3 diff scenes smut), fingering, nipple play, pussy eating, unprotected sex, doggy style, purge fucking, MDNI, reader discretion is advised

WC: 21.8K

You hate March 21. God, how you loathe it—the day that strips away any pretense of humanity.

It always starts the same way: the wailing sirens, cold and mechanical, ripping through the air.

Not even sixty seconds pass after the announcement before the streets erupt. Gunshots. Screams. The unmistakable, animalistic sounds of survival. The world falls apart faster than you can blink, faster than you can even take a breath. And every year, you sit in that darkness, trembling, hating.

You hate how they made this—how society carved out one single night to let its ugliest urges spill over.

You hate the twisted smiles on people's faces, the gleeful violence, the merciless slaughter. You hate everything about it.

You hate how weak you are. How poor you are. How your "barricade" is nothing but a creaky door and a pile of junk you've pushed in front of it. Heavy chairs, the couch, a dresser you could barely move—what is that supposed to do against the monsters outside?

They'll break through it in minutes, seconds even, if they choose you this year.

And there's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

So you crawl inside the closet, knees tucked into your chest, hands pressing hard over your ears as the chaos outside creeps closer and closer. You rock back and forth, whispering to yourself, "Just twelve hours. You just have to survive twelve hours."

You hate how your morals hold you hostage.

You're too much of a coward, aren't you? Or maybe you're too human, too stupidly tied to the idea of right and wrong.

Either way, you've sentenced yourself to this endless nightmare.

You hate how they have no mercy. How people don't even hesitate.

The second those sirens stop, the masks go on, the knives come out, and the laughter—the laughter—starts echoing down the streets like some kind of hellish symphony.

You hate the way your mind races, picturing your own end over and over again. Would it be quick? A bullet to the head? Or would it be slow? Something worse?

You hate how poor you are. How people like you—people who can't afford high-tech barricades, bulletproof shelters, or private security.

You're the bottom rung of society, the lambs to the slaughter. And that's exactly how they see you. Nothing more than sport for the rich.

You've been their prey before—dragged into one of their "games." Their sick, twisted hunting expeditions where they wear masks and hunt you down like animals, laughing all the while.

Somehow, you survived that night. Somehow, you ran fast enough, hid well enough. But you didn't leave unscathed.

No, you left something behind that night: your sanity.

You can still feel their eyes on you, their jeers echoing in your ears, their mocking laughter as they cornered you over and over, just to let you escape so the game could continue.

You see their faces—those masks—every time you close your eyes.

And no matter where you go, it's always the same.

You transfer to a new town, a new neighborhood, hoping to disappear, but you always end up right back here.

They smile too wide, your neighbors. They're too friendly. Too eager to see you. And every time they stare at you, every time their grins linger a little too long, you feel the bile rise in your throat.

You hate everything about the Purge.

You hate the people who participate in it, the government that allows it, the sick, twisted minds that relish in it.

You hate the monsters you've seen outside, but you hate the monster you're becoming even more.

Because every year, it gets harder. Harder to keep your sanity intact. Harder to resist. Harder to keep your morals from shattering under the weight of it all. And every year, the hatred inside you grows like a poison, rotting you from the inside out.

You hate how you're always waiting. Waiting for another March 21.

Waiting for the next time you'll have to endure this torment. Waiting for the day you finally snap, when you stop running, when you stop hiding, and when you start fighting back.

You hate the waiting more than anything because you know that day is coming. You know it's only a matter of time before something inside you finally breaks.

And when it does, you'll hunt them down. Every last one of them. The rich who preyed on you. The neighbors who smiled too wide while undressing you. The government officials who allowed this nightmare to persist.

You hate March 21.

But more than that, you hate how much you're starting to look forward to it.

"I see you survived the Purge," you muttered, your eyes narrowing as they landed on the group of seven boys in the hallway.

They were laughing softly, their voices laced with relief as they exchanged hugs and pats on the back.

"Thank God," one of them said, gripping the others in a tight embrace, his shoulders sagging like he'd been holding his breath for the last twelve hours.

"I already told you guys," another voice chimed in—smooth, Park Jongseong. Of course.

"Next year, you should all come to our house. Our lockdown is solid. Our barricades are strong enough to keep anyone out. You'll be safe there, trust me."

You scoffed, the sound low and bitter, but loud enough to be heard if anyone was paying attention. Of course, they weren't. They never noticed you. Not people like them.

Park Jongseong— the golden boy. His father owned one of the biggest barricade companies in the country, making a fortune off other people's desperation and fear.

He didn't just survive the Purge; he thrived in it. His family's state-of-the-art lockdown system probably made their house into a fortress.

And now here he was, standing in the middle of the school hallway, flashing that perfect smile and talking about how his family had been "safe and sound" while people like you hid under a bed, praying not to die.

You bit the inside of your cheek, tasting blood, and turned away. Of course Jongseong had survived. People like him always did.

You were miserable. Miserable every single day for the past seven years since the Purge began.

Seven years since the night your parents were taken from you on that first Purge.

Seven years of surviving on your own, scrabbling through life like a rat in a never-ending maze.

An irregular college student balancing four jobs just to afford rent, tuition, and scraps of food that barely kept you standing.

And some nights, when you're too tired to even close your eyes, the same thought creeps in, like a whisper you can't shut out.

Why can't you just die already?

Was this what God wanted for you? Was your suffering some part of His great plan? If it was, you hated Him for it. You hated everything—for putting you here, for making you live like this, for keeping you alive while everyone else you cared about was gone.

Then came August. Seven months before the next Purge, You took your entire month's pay—every single cent you'd earned and bought a handgun from a retired Russian police man who didn't ask questions.

You didn't eat for weeks after that, barely managing to survive on water and scraps you could steal from work.

Hunger clawed at your stomach, but you didn't care. Every second of discomfort was worth it as you cradled the gun in your hands at night, running your fingers over the cold steel.

At college, exhaustion weighed on you like a heavy coat. Your mind was foggy, your body barely cooperating as you tried to focus in class. You were too tired to care about anything anymore. That's why, when you heard the voice, you didn't even look up at first.

"Hey, are you Y/N?"

You blinked, sluggishly dragging your tired eyes up to meet the man.

Park Jongseong. He was standing there, his usual easy smile on his face, holding a lab manual in one hand.

Your brows furrowed as he sat down next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You raised an eyebrow at him, watching in silent disbelief as he got comfortable.

"We're partners in laboratory," he announced with that same friendly grin, his tone light and conversational.

You stared at him, your eyebrow twitching slightly. Of course, we are. Just my fucking luck.

You hated him. You hated everything about him.

You hated how he could walk into a room and light it up, how he always smiled like life was some perfect little gift wrapped up in a bow.

You hated how easy everything seemed for him, how he floated through life without ever seeming to care about the world around him.

Jongseong keeps smiling at you, oblivious to the weight of your hatred. He doesn't care about you, not really. To him, life is simple. And maybe that's why you can't stand him.

Because while he laughs, you're trying to figure out how to make sure people like him never smile again.

"I'm Park Jongseong," he says brightly, "You can call me Jay, if you don't know me."

You stare at him with your tired eyes, barely masking your irritation. His enthusiasm is exhausting, like a candle burning too brightly, too close to your already frayed nerves.

But he doesn't seem to notice. Of course, he doesn't. He keeps talking.

"I'm planning to start our experimental research maybe in like three days? I don't really like cramming," Jay continues, flashing you another one of his easy smiles.

"Are you available on Saturday?" he asks, finally looking at you. "Do you want to do it at my place or yours?"

His smile falters for the first time when you just stare at him, bored and uninterested, like he's wasting your time—which he is.

He must be so used to people hanging on his every word, eating up his charm. You, on the other hand, are trying to figure out how long you have to tolerate him before he leaves.

"I have a morning shift at the ice cream shop. Probably the afternoon, but I'll leave at 7 PM," you reply flatly, spinning your pen lazily between your fingers. You're not trying to be rude.

You're just tired—tired of him, tired of everything. "Then I have another shift at the restaurant."

Jay nods, and for a moment, you think he's about to say something stupid, like you work too hard or you should take it easy. But he doesn't. Instead, he watches you for a second too long before his smile returns, a little dimmer than before.

"And your place," you add, cutting off whatever he was going to say. The idea of being in his house, surrounded by whatever rich-boy luxuries he has, makes your stomach churn.

Jay blinks, then nods again. "Alright, my place it is," he says, his tone softer, as if he's trying to figure you out.

You hate it—hate the way his gaze lingers on you.

You turn your attention back to your notebook, letting the silence hang between you until he finally shifts in his seat and looks away. At least he knows when to stop talking. For now.

You observe people every shift. At the ice cream shop, kids cry and tug at their parents, pointing at a flavor they desperately want. At the fast food chain, students laugh, stuffing fries into each other's mouths, their joy spilling out into the air.

You watch them. You clean up after them. And when no one's looking, you pick at their scraps—half-eaten burgers, fries left behind—anything to stave off the hunger that gnaws at you day and night.

When you sneak into the back to wash your hands, you catch your reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror. It almost shocks you, the hollow-cheeked girl staring back.

Your dark eye bags seem to sink into your face like bruises, your cheekbones sharp enough to look dangerous. Your lips are pale, chapped from thirst, and your hoodie swallows what little remains of you.

Even when you do sleep, it's never peaceful.

The nightmares always find you, pulling you back to that night—hands grabbing, voices laughing, the cold press of a mask against your skin.

Not even the sleeping pills you've wasted money on help anymore. You've tried. God knows you've tried. But the fear is something you can't escape.

And then Saturday comes.

Jay welcomes you at his house with his usual easy smile.

You stand awkwardly at the entrance, your eyes immediately drawn to the luxurious details surrounding you.

Expensive vases line the walls. A cabinet full of fine liquor gleams under the lights. Everything in the house feels deliberate, pristine, and just looking at it makes you feel like you don't belong.

"This way," Jay says cheerfully, leading you to his room.

The moment you step inside, you're greeted with more of the same—displays of wealth that feel almost obscene to you. A collection of guitars lined up like trophies. A cabinet stuffed with fancy perfumes. Everything here screams a life of comfort, of privilege, of a world you'll never touch.

"Are you always cold? Want me to lower the aircon?" Jay asks suddenly, his gaze flicking to your oversized hoodie.

You almost punch him for the question. The audacity of it. 

Are rich people really this clueless?

The irritation bubbles up. You almost imagine your hands around his neck, squeezing some sense into him.

"No, thanks," you say curtly, not bothering to hide your annoyance. You drop to the floor, pulling out your notebook and pen, ignoring the uncomfortable tension forming between you.

"You can sit on my bed," Jay offers, reaching out to touch your arm like it's no big deal.

But the moment his hand brushes your sleeve, your mind snaps. You're not in his room anymore. You're back there—on that night—being grabbed, pulled, restrained. Masked faces loom in your vision, their laughter ringing in your ears like a sick melody.

Before you even realize it, you've slapped his hand away, standing so fast you almost knock your notebook over.

"I—I'm sorry," you stammer, your voice shaky as you rub your arm. Jay just stands there, his hand hovering in the air, confusion written all over his face.

"It's fine," he says quickly. His smile is gone now, replaced by something softer.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to sit down again—this time on the bed, even though you'd rather be anywhere else. You pull your notebook back into your lap, flipping it open as if nothing happened, your hands trembling slightly.

The two of you work in near silence, researching for your lab project. Jay tries to engage you now and then, asking for your thoughts, but you keep your answers brief. You don't want to talk. You don't want to share. You just want to get through this.

After a while, Jay breaks the silence again. "How many jobs do you have?" he asks, his voice almost hesitant. "How do you manage school and work?"

You huff, irritated by his questions. What does he know about working to survive? What does he know about balancing your life on a thread?

"I don't manage," you reply bluntly. "I'm already planning to stop after this semester."

Jay straightens in his seat, frowning slightly. "Why?"

"Because I can't afford it anymore," you snap, your patience wearing thin. Your voice is sharper than you intend, but you don't care. You glare at him, daring him to argue, to say something stupid like, You should keep trying.

But Jay just looks down, his gaze softening. "I'm sorry," he whispers, almost too quiet to hear.

Before you can respond, a knock interrupts the moment. A head peeks into the room—a woman with wavy hair and a face so similar to Jay's that it's clear she's his mother.

"Heard you had a classmate over," she says warmly. "Come down and eat."

Jay stands immediately, glancing at you as if waiting to see if you'll follow. You nod stiffly, clutching your notebook to your chest as you trail behind him, feeling awkward in a house like this.

When you reach the dining room, your stomach grumbles embarrassingly loud at the sight of the food. A table full of steaming dishes spreads out before you, prepared by maids who move around effortlessly. You've never seen this much food at once before, not even during the holidays.

"Come, sit, sweetheart," Jay's mom says, pulling a chair out for you. Her voice is so kind, so gentle, that it makes your chest ache.

You sit down slowly, staring at the food like it's a mirage. Jay's mom piles your plate high with food, her warm smile reminding you so much of your own mother that your throat tightens.

"Eat, don't be shy," she says, her voice light and encouraging.

Your hands shake as you pick up the spoon, the first bite warming your tongue. 

The taste is overwhelming, rich and filling, and it's so good that tears prick at the corners of your eyes. 

You quickly take another bite, and another, ignoring the lump in your throat.

Jay watches you quietly, his gaze flicking to your small, trembling hands. His eyes catch on the scars peeking out from your sleeves as your sweater rides up.

"So, where are you from? It's my first time seeing you here! Jay's always bringing friends over—so many faces!" His mother's voice was cheerful, her smile warm and inviting.

"I'm from Las Vegas," you replied, keeping your eyes on your empty plate. You didn't want to talk, but her energy made it hard to ignore her.

Your gaze shifted to Jay as he leaned over, silently placing more food onto your plate.

"Oh, Las Vegas!" His mom exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. "What made you settle here in Seattle? Life is so exciting over there! So bright and lively!"

"Not really," you said, inhaling sharply as you tried to keep your tone even. The last thing you wanted was to go deeper into that conversation.

She didn't seem to notice your discomfort. "Oh, I see. Well, what do your parents do for a living?"

You froze. The fork in your hand stilled as memories rushed back like a tidal wave.

The screams. The blood. The way your parents looked at you, their faces twisted in pain as you hid, trembling in the cabinet.

"They're dead," you said bluntly, gripping your fork so tightly your knuckles turned white.

The room seemed to grow quieter. His mother's cheerful expression faltered. "Pardon?"

"They're de—" you started, but the words caught in your throat. Your pulse quickened, your chest tightening, and before you could finish, Jay cut in.

"It's already almost 7:00," he said quickly, "Didn't you say you have a shift?"

You looked at him, startled. His gaze met yours, and for the first time, his ever-present smile was gone. Instead, his eyes were steady, watching you carefully, like he knew you were unraveling and didn't want to make it worse.

You took the excuse without hesitation. "Yeah," you muttered, shoving your chair back as you stood. "I should go."

His mom looked like she wanted to say something, but Jay rose from his seat, cutting her off with a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'll walk her out," he said softly.

"Thank you for the food, Mrs. Park," you smiled, trying to look natural, bowing at her. You grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder, refusing to look back at the table, at the food, at his mother's concerned face. Your throat burned as you fought the tears threatening to spill over.

Jay followed you silently as you stepped into the hallway. Once you were out of earshot, he finally spoke.

"You didn't have to answer her," he said gently.

You stopped in your tracks, gripping the strap of your bag tightly. "I didn't want to," you said flatly, your voice trembling just a little. "But people always ask. Like they have the right to know."

Jay didn't respond immediately. When you glanced at him, he looked... softer, his usual brightness dimmed with something quieter. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and careful. "She didn't mean anything by it. My mom's just... the type to ask questions. She doesn't think it'll hurt anyone."

"Yeah, well, it does," you snapped, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself. Your voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet hallway. But Jay didn't flinch. He just nodded, that same calm expression on his face, like he understood.

And for some reason, that made you angrier.

Your bag strap digging into your shoulder as you stared at him. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. Your chest burned with frustration, your hands curling into fists at your sides. You weren't sure what you were mad at—his mom's question, his calm demeanor, or the fact that he kept pretending to get you when he didn't.

The words tumbled out. "What are your thoughts about the Purge, Jay?"

Jay's eyes widened, caught off guard by the sudden question. He hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like he was carefully picking his words.

"I—I don't agree with it," he said finally, his voice quiet..

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. "You don't agree with it?" you repeated, mocking his tone.

"That's rich. The Purge is the reason why you're making money, Jay. It's why your family's living in that giant house with your shiny vases and fancy barricades."

Jay blinked, visibly taken aback. "That's not fair," he said, his voice soft but firm.

"Isn't it?" you shot back, your voice rising.

"Your dad's company makes barricades, doesn't it? Every year, people like you get richer while people like me..." You trailed off, shaking your head as your throat tightened. "You don't get to sit there and say you don't agree with it. Not when your family profits from it."

Jay's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

"And you know what's funny?" you continued, the bitterness spilling out of you now. "You probably spend Purge night in your fortress of a house, watching movies or playing board games with your family while the rest of us are out there dying. You don't even have to think about it, do you?"

"That's not true," Jay said quietly, his hands clenching at his sides. "I do think about it."

"Oh, do you?" you snapped, glaring at him. "What, do you spend a whole five minutes feeling bad for people like me before you go back to your perfect little life?"

"That's not what I—" Jay started, but you cut him off.

"You don't get it, Jay," you said, your voice trembling now, anger and exhaustion mixing into a volatile cocktail. "You'll never get it. You don't know what it's like to be hunted like an animal while people laugh. So don't stand there and tell me you 'don't agree with it,' because that doesn't mean anything coming from you."

Jay looked like he wanted to say something—his mouth opened, but no words came out. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw guilt flash across his face.

"I'm sorry," Jay said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You froze, your anger faltering for a moment as his words sunk in. Your chest tightened, and your eyes softened just slightly, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind. What were you even doing?

But the shame and bitterness were too much to face. You turned away quickly, your voice small and strained. "I'm sorry... I should go," you murmured, gripping the strap of your bag as you hurried to leave.

Jay didn't stop you. He just watched your retreating figure, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. As the door clicked shut behind you, he sat down heavily, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to help, but he didn't know how. And the way you looked at him, like he was the problem, made it feel impossible.

The weeks passed in a blur of survival and self-destruction. Bullets were fucking expensive. Even knives cost more than you expected, and every penny you earned disappeared the moment it hit your hands. Life was getting harder.

The monster inside you—was growing louder, feeding off your exhaustion and anger.

At night, when you weren't working, you trained yourself obsessively. Watching documentaries on how to kill someone. Studying anatomy. Practicing with your weapons until your hands were blistered and shaking. 

You didn't care if your body couldn't take it anymore. Pain didn't matter. Hunger didn't matter. Nothing mattered except being ready.

But as the weeks dragged on, it became harder to keep going.

Your hoodie, the one you wore every day like a second skin, was filthy and smelled of sweat and exhaustion. Your body was sore in every possible way.

Your reflection in the mirror was worse than before—hollow eyes, sallow skin, dark circles so deep. And every time you saw yourself, you thought the same thing.

You just want to die already.

One night, your phone buzzed. It was a message from Jay.

"Y/N, I'm sorry to bother you, but you haven't been coming to class. I can handle most of the project on my own, but for this reporting, I really need your presence."

You stared at the message for a long time, debating whether to ignore it. But something in you caved. Maybe it was guilt. You replied: "Okay. I'll come."

Jay welcomed you into his house again, you ended up on his bed, laptop in your lap as you both worked on the PowerPoint for your report. The room was quiet except for the sound of typing, but every movement felt like a struggle. Your body ached. Your head throbbed. You could barely focus, and every second felt like a fight to stay upright.

It wasn't long before your body gave up.

The laptop slipped from your lap, crashing to the floor as your vision blurred. The last thing you heard before everything went dark was Jay's panicked voice calling your name.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was a white ceiling. 

The faint smell of alcohol and disinfectant filled the air, and the sharp tug of a needle in your arm made you realize you were hooked up to an IV. An oxygen tube rested under your nose, and your body felt impossibly heavy, as if all the exhaustion you'd been ignoring had finally caught up with you.

Your gaze drifted down to your body—and then you saw it.

You were wearing a hospital gown.

Panic gripped you instantly. Your chest tightened, your breathing quickening as your hands clawed at the fabric.

"No, no, no," you whispered, your voice trembling as your heart pounded in your ears.

Memories of hands grabbing at you, tearing at your clothes, flashed through your mind like lightning. You gasped for air, a faint scream slipping from your lips.

Jay jolted awake from the chair beside you, his eyes wide with alarm.

"W-what's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft but laced with panic. He moved closer, his hands hovering uncertainly like he wasn't sure if he should touch you.

"H-hoodie," you stammered, gripping his arm with weak, trembling hands. Your nails dug into his skin. "Need to cover. Ugly. Ugly."

Jay winced at the pain but didn't pull away. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he said gently, his voice calm and soothing. "You're okay. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

"No," you whimpered, shaking your head as tears streamed down your face. "I'm ugly. Don't look." Your hands fumbled to pull the gown tighter around you, but it didn't help. You could feel the scars beneath it—the raised lines.

Jay hesitated for a moment before slowly reaching out to cover your hands with his. His touch was warm, steady, and he squeezed your fingers just enough to ground you.

"You're not ugly," he said softly, his tone so sincere it made your chest ache.

You shook your head again, your voice breaking as panic surged through you. "You don't understand. You don't know what they did to me. What I look like—"

"Calm down," Jay interrupted, his voice steady but still gentle, as if he were trying to anchor you to the moment.

He closed his eyes and turned his head slightly to the side, a gesture meant to reassure you. "I'm not looking, okay? I'm not looking."

His words made you pause, your breathing still uneven but slowing just a little as you clung to his arm. The panic was still there, buzzing under your skin, but his calmness was starting to chip away at it, little by little.

"You're safe now," Jay said, his tone softer this time, "and you're not alone, okay? I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Just calm down, breathe in, breathe out. You can do this."

You tried to follow his instructions, inhaling shakily and letting the air out in uneven bursts. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to keep you grounded, enough to stop the tears blurring your vision completely.

Jay's hand was warm against yours, his fingers gentle but firm as he held on. "What do you want me to get?" he asked softly, his voice careful, his head still turned slightly away so you wouldn't feel watched.

"My hoodie," you whispered, your voice weak and pleading. "I need it. Please."

Jay glanced at the IV in your arm, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You have an IV in your skin," he said quietly. "It's still not okay for you to wear your hoodie yet. If you pull at it, you could hurt yourself."

You looked away, shame and frustration boiling under your skin, your fingers gripping the hospital blanket tightly. "I don't care," you mumbled, your voice trembling.

Jay sighed softly, squeezing your hand again to ground you. "I know you don't feel comfortable," he said, his tone gentle but firm, "but if it's too hot or heavy right now, I don't want you to hurt yourself trying to put it on."

You clenched your jaw, swallowing back another wave of tears. "I just—I need to cover up," you said, your voice breaking again.

Jay hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay," he said carefully, "if you're not comfortable in the gown, I can get you a long-sleeve nightgown instead. Something softer. Something that'll cover your arms. Is that what you want?"

You glanced at him, your lip trembling, and nodded weakly. "Yeah," you whispered, barely audible.

Jay gave your hand one last gentle squeeze before slowly standing up. "I'll go ask the nurses," he said softly.

Days had passed, and Jay had stayed by your side, refusing to leave, despite how much of a burden you felt like.

He wasn't overbearing or hovering—just quietly there, helping you in any way he could.

He brought you meals, water, even helped you comb through your disheveled hair when your strength failed you. He didn't ask questions about what happened, didn't demand explanations.

His mother visited often, sweeping into the room with an energy that made your chest ache. She came with baskets of fruit, flowers, and small gifts, her arms overflowing like she was trying to smother you with kindness.

On one visit, she hugged you tightly, tears in her eyes, and said, "You need to take better care of yourself, sweetheart. Your life is precious."

Her words pierced through you, bringing a lump to your throat. You didn't have the heart to respond, just nodded, even though deep down you still didn't believe her.

Jay's friends, Sunoo and Ni-ki, had even come to visit. Despite the fact that they didn't know you at all, they acted like you were an old friend.

They brought a snake and ladder board game, and before you knew it, they were sitting cross-legged on your hospital bed, loudly cheering, groaning, and playfully arguing over the dice rolls. Their laughter filled the room, echoing against the sterile walls and spilling over the edges of your heart.

At first, you just watched them silently, your hands resting in your lap, unsure of how to react. But as the game went on, you found yourself drawn in—your dead eyes softening as you watched them bicker like kids, a faint half-smile tugging at your lips.

For the first time in what felt like years, you felt something other than pain. Just a flicker, but it was there. A tiny seed of happiness.

"What do you want to eat today?" Jay asked, smiling as he sat at the edge of your bed, peeling an apple with practiced ease.

"I want rice cakes!" Ni-ki chimed in, raising his hand like an excited child.

Sunoo rolled his eyes dramatically, crossing his arms. "Yuck! We had rice cakes yesterday!"

Their back-and-forth made you chuckle softly, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in a long time.

But later, when the room grew quiet again, and it was just you and Jay, that flicker of happiness gave way to something heavier. Guilt.

You glanced at Jay as he sat by the window, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly. His face was relaxed, the sunlight catching the soft angles of his features. He had done so much for you—things he didn't have to do. And all this time, you had hated him. Misunderstood him.

You had assumed the worst of him, just because he was rich.

You had lumped him in with the monsters who had ruined your life, convinced yourself that he was just another spoiled, privileged kid who wouldn't understand what suffering felt like. But the truth was... he wasn't.

He wasn't the people who had hunted you, mocked you, stripped you of your humanity. He wasn't the people who laughed behind masks, thriving on fear and violence.

Jay had done nothing but help you, even when you were rude to him, even when you pushed him away.

And yet, the guilt didn't erase your pain. It didn't undo your trauma or silence the nightmares that still haunted you.

You still hated the world that allowed the Purge to exist. You still hated the memories that burned like fire in your veins. You still hated yourself for being weak, for surviving when your parents hadn't.

But you didn't hate Jay anymore.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, breaking the silence.

Jay looked up, tilting his head in confusion. "For what?"

"For... for how I treated you," you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. "For assuming things about you just because of where you come from. I thought you wouldn't care. That you couldn't understand. But... you're not like them."

Jay's expression softened, a small, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. "You don't have to apologize for that," he said gently. "You've been through hell. I get why you'd feel that way."

You shook your head, gripping the blanket tightly in your hands. "No, you don't get it. I was cruel to you. I blamed you for things that weren't your fault."

Jay was quiet for a moment, then reached out, resting a hand over yours.

His touch was warm, steady, grounding. "I'm not perfect," he said softly, his tone sincere. "I won't pretend to know what you've been through. But I want to help."

Your throat tightened, tears threatening to spill over again. You didn't know how to respond, so you just nodded, gripping his hand. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to trust someone. Even if it was just a little.

"The doctor said you have anemia and osteoporosis," Jay's mother said gently, setting her bag down on the small table beside your hospital bed.

"That's why your bones are weak! You'll need to eat more foods with calcium and iron to build your strength and get your blood count higher. We'll make sure you have everything you need."

You stared at her, unsure how to respond. Guilt curled in your stomach, gnawing at you. You weren't her child. You weren't even close to being part of her world. And yet, here she was, treating you so good.

"The hospital bill is covered," she continued, her voice casual, like it wasn't a big deal. But to you, it was.

It was a huge deal. The cost of staying in a place like this was something you couldn't even fathom. You'd spent years scraping by, eating leftovers just to save a few bucks, and here she was, brushing off what could've been months—maybe years—of your income.

"You don't need to worry about it," she added, her smile soft and reassuring. "Just focus on getting better. Jay's friend is also my priority."

Jay's friend.

The words hit you harder than you expected. You weren't his friend. You didn't deserve to be called that, not after the way you'd treated him.

"Thank you," you murmured finally, your voice barely audible. It was all you could manage without breaking down entirely.

Jay's mom smiled wider, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," she said, reaching out to gently pat your hand. "Now, tell me—what's your favorite food? I'll have the kitchen prepare something special for you."

You blinked, caught off guard by her kindness. "I... I don't really have one," you admitted quietly, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

It wasn't a lie. You hadn't thought about things like "favorite food" in years. Food, for you, had been about survival, not enjoyment.

"Well, then we'll just have to find one for you," she said, her tone cheerful and determined. "I'll have the staff make a variety of dishes for you to try. And don't worry—if there's anything you don't like, we'll keep trying until we find something you love."

Her words left you speechless. All you could do was nod, the weight of her generosity pressing down on you. It felt so foreign, so undeserved, and yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt... cared for.

Jay, who had been quietly peeling an orange in the corner, finally spoke up. "Mom, don't overwhelm her," he said softly, his eyes flicking to yours. "She's still recovering."

You glanced at him, your gaze lingering for a moment longer than you intended.

His mother waved him off with a laugh. "Oh, hush, Jay. I'm just trying to help." She turned back to you, her smile never faltering. "You're part of our family now, okay? At least while you're here. So don't be shy about asking for anything."

Her words made something in your chest tighten. You nodded again, unable to trust your voice.

Jay's mother spent hours at your bedside, chatting away. She told you stories about Jay's childhood—how he once tried to "fix" a birdhouse with peanut butter, or how he dressed up as a firefighter for three Halloweens in a row because he was so obsessed with the uniform.

Jay groaned beside her, his face flushed as he waved her off. "Mom, stop! She doesn't need to know all of that!" he whined, his voice high with embarrassment.

But his mother only laughed, brushing him off with a playful wave. "Oh, hush, Jay. She needs to know how adorable you used to be!"

You couldn't help but chuckle softly, your lips curving into a small, almost shy smile.

Eventually, Jay's mother had to leave, something about a business emergency pulling her away. She hugged you gently before she left, squeezing your hands and promising to visit again soon.

"Take care of yourself, sweetheart," she said with a warm smile. "And if Jay gives you any trouble, let me know."

"I'm right here," Jay muttered, rolling his eyes but grinning all the same.

As the door clicked shut behind her, the room fell quiet again. You and Jay were alone, the silence settling between you like a soft blanket.

"Have you showered?" Jay asked suddenly, breaking the stillness.

You shook your head, feeling a little self-conscious. It had been days since you'd had the energy to even think about something like that.

"Do you want to?" he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded hesitantly.

Jay smiled, standing up to grab a towel from his bag. He returned a moment later, his hand extended to you. "Come on," he said softly, his voice warm and encouraging.

You placed your hand in his, and he guided you carefully out of the bed. But as soon as your feet touched the ground, your knees buckled beneath you, the strength in your legs giving out entirely.

"Whoa!" Jay exclaimed, catching you before you could fall. Without hesitation, he slipped your arm around his neck, his other arm sliding under your legs.

"I've got you," he murmured as he lifted you effortlessly.

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn't protest as he carried you to the bathroom. His touch was steady, his arms warm and reassuring as he placed you gently into the tub.

"Do you want me to call a nurse to help you?" Jay asked, crouching in front of you. His voice was careful, like he was trying not to overstep.

You shook your head quickly. The idea of a stranger cleaning you—seeing you—made your stomach churn with discomfort. "I'm not comfortable," you said quietly, looking away.

Jay nodded, his brows furrowed slightly in thought. He didn't push or suggest anything else. He just waited, watching you carefully.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you looked up and met his gaze. "Can you?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jay's eyes widened in surprise, his ears turning red as your words sunk in. "Are you sure?" he asked, his tone soft but serious. "Are you comfortable with me?"

You nodded, swallowing hard. You didn't know why you asked him. Maybe it was because he was the only one who had seen your broken pieces and didn't turn away. Maybe it was because, despite everything, you trusted him.

Jay hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Okay," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the redness creeping up his neck.

Your hands trembled slightly as you began to strip off the hospital gown, letting it fall away from your shoulders.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at him, your chest tightening as the scars on your body were laid bare—scars from knives, from bullets, from cigarette burns that had long since healed but never truly faded.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

You finally glanced up at Jay, only to see his face frozen in a mixture of sadness and anger. His jaw clenched, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. His eyes weren't looking at you with disgust or pity—just pain. Pain that you couldn't quite understand.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice cracking. You quickly crossed your arms over your chest, trying to cover yourself, to hide the ugly truth of what had been done to you.

"Don't apologize," Jay said softly, his voice strained but firm. He crouched lower, his gaze meeting yours. "You don't have to apologize for this. None of this is your fault."

You bit your lip, tears welling in your eyes as you looked away. "It's ugly," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm ugly."

"No, you're not," Jay said immediately. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that."

Jay begins to open the faucet, filling the tub. You felt his hand gently rest on your shoulder, his touch so light it was almost like a question. "These scars," he continued, his voice softening, "they're not ugly. They're proof that you survived."

You turned back to him, tears spilling over as his words sank in. His gaze didn't waver, didn't falter. There was no judgment in his eyes, only sincerity.

His hands were gentle as he worked, brushing over your skin with careful precision, the towel soaking up water from your arms, your back, every part of you. Each movement was measured, respectful, almost as though he was afraid of breaking you.

The silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. Still, the question burned on your tongue, and before you could stop yourself, you asked, "Why are you helping me?"

Jay froze for the briefest of moments, his hands stilling as he rinsed the washcloth. Then he gently reached for your hair, lathering shampoo between his fingers before carefully massaging it into your scalp.

"Why wouldn't I?" he asked softly, his tone calm, but you could hear the edge of emotion beneath it.

You tilted your head slightly, his fingers never missing a beat as they worked through your tangled hair. 

"Because... people don't just help without a reason," you muttered, your voice barely audible. "Are you pitying me?"

Jay's hands stilled again, his fingers pausing in your hair. For a moment, you regretted asking, but then he sighed softly, his hands resuming their slow, soothing motions.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm not helping you because I pity you."

"Then why?" you pressed, your voice cracking as the question spilled out of you. "Why are you doing all this? Why do you care?"

Jay rinsed the shampoo from your hair, his hands tilting your head back slightly so the water wouldn't get in your eyes. He stayed silent for a moment, as if he was choosing his words carefully.

"Because you deserve to be cared for," he said finally, his voice almost a whisper.

His words hit you like a punch to the chest. You stared at the tiled wall, unable to respond as your throat tightened and your eyes began to sting.

"I'm not doing this out of pity," Jay continued, his voice soft but insistent. "I'm doing this because I want to."

You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. His words felt foreign, like they didn't belong to you. Like they were meant for someone else, someone who deserved kindness.

"But I'm broken," you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. "You don't understand. I'm not... I'm not normal."

Jay's hands paused again, and for a moment, you thought he might agree with you. But instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice so soft it almost didn't reach you.

"Who cares about 'normal'?" he asked gently, smiling at you.

His words made your chest ache, a strange, unfamiliar warmth blooming beneath the pain. You didn't know what to say, so you didn't say anything. Instead, you let him finish rinsing your hair, his touch as careful as ever.

Jay stayed quiet for a moment, his hand gripping the soap, before his soft voice broke the silence. "Let me brush your body, hmm? Are you okay with that?"

You looked up at him, your eyes still glossy from earlier tears. He was smiling, It was softer, almost hesitant, like he was giving you all the space in the world to say no.

For a second, your chest tightened again. But then you wiped at your tears, nodding, a small, watery laugh slipping from your lips. "Yeah, okay."

Jay let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he dipped the soap into the water, creating a soft lather. "You don't need to apologize," he said after a moment.

But you shook your head, tears spilling over again as the words tumbled out. "I'm sorry," you whispered. "For being a burden. For being weak."

But Jay stopped what he was doing, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. "Showing vulnerability isn't weakness," he said softly, his voice steady but warm. "Don't say you're a burden when you're not."

You finally looked at him, your breath hitching at the sincerity in his gaze.

You spent almost a month in the hospital, longer than you ever thought you'd stay. There were stretches of time when you were alone, the quiet pressing against you like a heavy blanket.

Jay still had to attend his classes during the day, and you hated how much that relieved you. Being around him, around his patience and kindness, was almost too much to bear. It made the guilt twist deeper into your chest.

But every night, without fail, Jay came back. He'd shuffle in, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his shirt slightly wrinkled, and his face drawn with exhaustion.

No matter how tired he was, he'd sit beside you for a while, asking how your day had been, what you'd eaten, or if you needed anything.

Then, when he couldn't fight the fatigue anymore, he'd curl up on the couch, a thin blanket thrown over him, and fall asleep with his phone still clutched in his hand.

You'd watch him sometimes, your chest tightening at the sight of him.

Jay's mother visited often, breezing into the room with her warm smile and bags full of food. "You need to eat this," she'd say, setting down a steaming dish in front of you. "It'll help your bones."

The next day, it was something new: "This will boost your blood count!" she'd exclaim, watching eagerly as you took hesitant bites.

At first, you forced yourself to eat out of politeness, but slowly, you began to notice things.

You realized you liked gimbap—the way the rice was soft and slightly sweet, the seaweed wrapping it all together. You discovered new juices and found yourself craving strawberry milkshake more than anything else.

Jay's mom always noticed. "Strawberry milkshake, hmm?" she teased one afternoon, her smile playful. "I'll make sure to bring more tomorrow."

The warmth of her attention and care settled uncomfortably in your chest. You didn't know how to handle it, didn't know what to do with the kindness she gave so freely. It was foreign, and it made the guilt inside you grow.

After weeks of lying in bed, your body weak and fragile, the day finally came when you managed to stand on your own two feet. It wasn't easy. Your legs shook, your grip on the metal IV stand so tight your knuckles turned white, but you did it. For a brief moment, you felt a flicker of pride.

But then you looked down at yourself. Your pale, almost sickly skin stretched over your bony frame. Faint bruises marred your knees and legs.

You hated looking at yourself like this—so helpless, so exposed.

Your fingers trembled as you tightened your grip on the IV stand, leaning against it for support. Every movement felt slow and deliberate, like your body was relearning how to move after months of stillness. You shuffled to the calendar pinned on the wall, each step sending a dull ache through your legs, but you pushed through it.

December 13.

You stared at the date, your chest tightening as the weight of it settled on you. Three months. Three months until the Purge.

Your hand instinctively went to your stomach, as if trying to steady the rising wave of anxiety building inside you. You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. The memories began creeping in, uninvited, flashing behind your eyes like fragments of a nightmare you could never escape.

You shook your head, closing your eyes to block it out, but it didn't help. The thought was already there, rooting itself firmly in your mind.

You couldn't go back to the same cycle of fear, of waiting for someone to find you, to break you all over again.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you tried to steady your breathing, gripping the IV stand as it was the only thing keeping you upright. You felt caught in between two versions of yourself—the girl who cowered in fear, and the one who had spent months preparing to become something worse.

"You're standing."

The voice startled you, and you turned your head sharply, your grip tightening on the IV stand.

Jay was standing at the doorway, his hand on the handle, staring at you with that familiar wide smile that somehow made the heaviness in the room feel a little lighter.

"My mother said you like strawberry milkshake, so I brought you one," he said, stepping inside and walking toward you, his eyes soft with pride as he glanced at your trembling legs. "Here, let me help."

Before you could say anything, Jay gently took your hand and guided you back to the bed,

"I think I should discharge," you said quietly, the words barely escaping your lips.

Jay blinked, his smile fading slightly. "Why? You're not well yet. Are you thinking about the bills? You shouldn't. I told you, that's already taken care of."

You shook your head, staring at the strawberry milkshake in his hand as he popped the straw into the cup. He handed it to you, the smell of sweet strawberries wafting up and tempting your senses, but you couldn't focus on it.

"The Purge," you said finally, your voice trembling as you gripped the cup tightly, your knuckles turning white. "It's coming again."

Jay froze for a moment, his expression softening as he crouched down in front of you, his eyes level with yours. You could feel his gaze searching your face, waiting for you to continue.

"They... they're coming," you mumbled, your voice breaking. Your chest started to rise and fall rapidly, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. "I don't know what they'll do this time."

Jay reached out instinctively, his hand resting gently on top of yours, steadying the trembling that had begun to spread through your fingers.

"They always find me. No matter where I go. They... they enjoy it. It's a game to them." Jay's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he listened.

"They won't find you this time," he said firmly, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "I won't let them."

You stared at him, your chest tightening as you tried to find the words to respond. Instead, you looked down at the strawberry milkshake in your hand, the straw still untouched. Slowly, you brought it to your lips, taking a small sip. The sweet, familiar taste spread across your tongue, and for just a moment.

Jay stayed crouched in front of you, his hand still resting lightly on yours as he watched your expression soften just slightly after taking a sip of the strawberry milkshake.

"Y/N," Jay said after a pause, his voice careful.

You glanced at him, your grip tightening slightly around the cup in your hands. "What is it?"

Jay shifted, sitting back on his heels but keeping his gaze level with yours. "Have you ever thought about talking to someone? You know, a therapist? Someone who might be able to help with... everything you've been through."

Your breath hitched, and you stiffened slightly, your shoulders tensing as the words sank in. "I don't need that," you muttered quickly, looking away from him. "I'm fine."

Jay tilted his head slightly, his expression soft but unconvinced. "I don't think you're fine," he said gently, his tone lacking any hint of judgment. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine. After what you've been through... no one would expect you to be."

Your chest tightened, your fingers digging into the cup as you tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat. "I don't want to talk about it," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "Talking won't change anything. It won't make the memories go away."

"I know," Jay said softly. "It won't erase what happened. But maybe it could help you carry it. You've been carrying all of this alone for so long, Y/N. Maybe it's time to let someone else help."

"I can't," you whispered, shaking your head. "I don't know how to... to say it out loud. I don't even know where I'd start."

Jay's hand tightened slightly on yours, grounding you as he leaned closer. "You don't have to start anywhere specific," he said quietly.

"You just have to take it one step at a time. They won't push you to talk about anything you're not ready for. It's not about fixing everything all at once—it's about helping you find a way to live with it."

You looked at him, your vision blurred by unshed tears, and for a moment, you hated how much his words made sense. You hated how right he was, how kind he was being, how much he cared when you weren't sure you deserved it.

"I don't know," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I can do it."

Jay nodded, his eyes warm and understanding. "That's okay," he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring.

"You don't have to decide right now," he continued, his hand lightly squeezing yours. "I just want you to know it's an option. And if you ever want to try, I'll be there with you. I'll help you find someone. You don't have to do it alone."

You stared at him, his words settling in your heart like a soft weight. Slowly, you nodded, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you whispered,

January came, and you were finally discharged from the hospital. It felt strange being back in the world after so much time spent in bed, but Jay made it easier.

In the weeks after your release, you returned to your small apartment, but more often than not, you found yourself spending your nights at Jay's home.

His mother insisted, always greeting you with a warm smile and asking how you were feeling. "It's better to keep an eye on you," she'd say, ushering you to the dinner table, where she'd pile your plate with food.

You had stopped studying, deciding to focus on working full-time instead. Jay had suggested a restaurant he knew, and before long, you found yourself settling into a routine. The work was tiring, but it kept your mind busy, and slowly, the spark in your eyes began to return.

Your nightmares didn't disappear, but they became easier to bear with Jay by your side. Whenever you woke up crying, shaking from the images that haunted you, he was always there.

"Shhh, it's okay," he'd whisper, pulling you into his arms and holding you close. His chest was warm and steady against your cheek, and his hand would rub soothing circles on your back as he whispered, "I'm here, love. I've got you."

You didn't know where he got his patience. No matter how many times you woke him in the middle of the night, trembling and crying, he never got frustrated. He never made you feel like a burden.

And maybe that's why, before you even realized it, you fell in love with him.

It wasn't a dramatic realization—no grand moment or spark. It was slow and steady, like the warmth he gave you every day. It was in the way he smiled at you, in the way he stayed even when he didn't have to.

You wanted to be better for him. You wanted to be strong—not just for yourself, but for him, too. That's when you decided to take his advice. You were going to try and talk to a therapist.

One evening, you were lying on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear. His hand played idly with your hair, his fingers brushing through the strands like it was second nature. The room was quiet, the only sound coming from the soft hum of the heater, and you felt so at ease it was almost strange.

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes were closed, his lips relaxed in a small, peaceful smile. Something about the moment felt so natural, so intimate, that it made your heart swell.

Without really thinking, you leaned closer, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. You felt him shift slightly beneath you, but he didn't stop you. The warmth of his skin was comforting, and before you could second-guess yourself, you pressed a soft kiss to his neck.

You felt his body tense under you, his breath hitching ever so slightly. His fingers froze in your hair, and for a moment, you thought you'd made a mistake.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice low and shaky, like he wasn't sure what to say.

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his wide eyes, your cheeks burning. "I—" you started, but the words caught in your throat.

Jay's lips parted, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips.

You bit your lip, "I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His expression softened immediately, his fingers brushing your cheek. "Don't be," he said gently. "Just... tell me. Is this what you want?"

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding again. "Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling.

Jay's hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your lips were just a breath apart. "Me too," he whispered, and then he kissed you.

It was soft, tentative at first, like he was afraid of breaking the moment, but when you kissed him back, his grip on you tightened slightly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling the back of your head.

Your tongue traced a slow, deliberate line down to his neck, and when you sucked gently at the sensitive skin there, he groaned, low and deep, the sound sending a rush of heat through you.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice shaky as his hands found their way to your waist. You grabbed them, guiding them more firmly against your body as you shifted, straddling his lap.

Jay's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his gaze darkened, his lips parting slightly as you leaned down to kiss him again. This time, the kiss wasn't soft —it was full of need, your lips moving hungrily against his as your hips rolled against him.

You gasped into his mouth, the heat pooling low in your stomach as you felt the tension building between you. Your breath came in heavy pants as you pulled back just enough to whisper, "I love you."

Jay's hands slid under your clothes, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your waist. His touch was warm.

"I love you," he said back, his voice low and full of something raw, his head tilting back slightly as your movements sent a shiver through him.

You didn't stop. Your hips pressed into him again, a slow, deliberate grind that made him bite back a groan, his head falling back further as his grip on your waist tightened. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his breath coming out in a shaky exhale.

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, pausing as his eyes met yours again. "Can I?" he asked softly, his voice laced with tenderness.

You nodded, your heart racing as he carefully lifted the shirt over your head. His eyes roamed over you, taking in every inch of exposed skin, and you felt a familiar pang of self-consciousness.

You instinctively moved to cover yourself, your arms wrapping around your torso, but Jay stopped you gently, his hands warm and steady as they held yours.

"Don't hide," he whispered, his voice so soft it made your chest ache. "Please don't hide from me."

Your breath hitched as his hands released yours, moving slowly to trace the lines of one of the scars on your shoulder. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the scar on your shoulder, the gesture so tender it sent a jolt through your entire body.

 He kissed it again, slower this time, before moving to another scar on your arm, his lips lingering as if to erase the pain it carried.

You couldn't stop the tears that spilled over, your hands trembling as they clutched at his shoulders. "Jay..." you whispered, your voice cracking.

"I see you," he murmured against your skin, his hands steady as they held your waist. "I see all of you, and I love every part of you."

His lips brushed against the scar on your collarbone, then another on your ribs, each kiss more deliberate than the last.

Jay's eyes softened as he whispered, "You're so beautiful, I love you."

The sincerity in his words made your heart race, your breath catching in your throat. You didn't know how to respond, your chest tightening with emotions too overwhelming to name. Instead, you leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss that spoke all the words you couldn't say.

His hands slid up your back, his touch firm yet tender as he pulled you closer, your bodies pressing together. The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, his lips moving against yours with a passion that sent heat coursing through your veins.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, you felt the clasp of your bra come undone. The cool air brushed against your skin.

A soft moan escaped your lips as his hand cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, teasing and flicking it in a way that made your back arch involuntarily. Jay groaned against your mouth, the sound low and deep, sending a wave of desire pooling low in your stomach.

He gently guided you to lay down, his lips never leaving yours until he moved to your jawline, then your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses in his wake. 

He stopped at your left breast, his warm breath ghosting over your skin before he wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking gently.

The sensation made you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as you arched into him. His tongue flicked over the sensitive peak, sending jolts of pleasure through your body, while his right hand gripped your other breast, kneading it with just the right amount of pressure.

You let your head fall back, lost in the feeling, soft moans spilling from your lips as your body responded to his every touch. His name escaped your lips like a prayer, and he hummed against your skin, the vibrations adding to the heat building within you.

Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, his right hand began to travel lower. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, and you felt his touch move in slow, deliberate circles.

A gasp tore from your throat as his fingers teased you, his touch light but enough to make your hips lift in desperation. "Jay," you breathed, your voice trembling with need, your body aching for more.

"You're so perfect," he murmured, his voice rough and heavy with desire. His lips returned to yours, as his fingers continued their slow, torturous motion, building a fire within you that you couldn't extinguish.

When his finger slowly slid inside you, your breath hitched, your chest pressing into his as you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve in your body alive with heat as he moved inside you, testing your limits.

Jay's forehead rested against yours, his breath heavy and warm against your lips. "I'm going to add another one, baby," he said, his voice low and filled with lust. "Can you take it?"

You nodded quickly, your hands clutching at him, your voice trembling as you whispered, "I can take it for you."

He groaned at your words, his jaw tightening as he stared at you with darkened eyes. "Fuck, don't say stuff like that," he muttered, his voice almost a growl.

Without wasting another second, he slid a second finger inside you, stretching you in a way that made your back arch. The pace of his movements quickened, the slick sound of his fingers filling the room as your walls clenched around him. The pleasure built fast, sharp and electric, making your breath come out in broken gasps.

Jay leaned down, his lips trailing along your collarbone, then down to your chest again. His mouth latched onto your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple, adding another layer of sensation that made your head spin.

"Jay," you whimpered, your hips moving on their own, grinding into his hand as his fingers curled inside you, hitting a spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

"You're so good," he murmured against your skin, his free hand gripping your waist to keep you steady as his mouth moved between your breasts, leaving heated kisses in his wake.

"I'm gonna cum," you whined, your voice high and desperate as the pressure in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter.

Jay didn't let up. His tongue teased your nipple, licking it in slow, deliberate strokes that made you shudder, while his thumb suddenly found your clit, pressing and rubbing it in perfect rhythm with his fingers.

The combination was too much. Your body shaking uncontrollably as the pleasure crashed over you in waves. "Jay!" you sobbed, your hips lifting off the bed as your orgasm hit, leaving you trembling and breathless beneath him.

He didn't stop right away, his fingers and thumb slowing just enough to help you ride out the high, his lips never leaving your skin. "That's it," he whispered, his voice full of pride and adoration. "You're so beautiful like this."

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. When his fingers finally slipped out of you, you whimpered softly, feeling the loss of his touch.

Jay kissed your forehead gently, his hands soothing over your sides as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close against his chest. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice soft again, filled with affection. "I've got you."

"I was preparing for the Purge this year," you said quietly, staring at your hands instead of your therapist, Ms. Jisoo.

"A self-defense plan, or something more?" she asked gently. There was no judgment in her voice, just calm curiosity.

"Something more," you admitted, biting your lip as your fingers fidgeted in your lap.

Ms. Jisoo nodded softly, giving you space to speak. "Do you still think about it now, after falling in love?"

You paused, her question lingering in your mind. "I don't know," you said after a moment. "I've been so focused on him... on how he makes me feel. The only thing I know for sure is I want to be a better person for him. Not... this."

You hesitated, your voice trembling. "Not some mentally unstable girl who can't even sleep through the night without waking up screaming."

Your chest tightened as the words left you, the guilt clawing at your throat.

Ms. Jisoo leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle and steady. "Wanting to heal for someone you love is a wonderful thing, Y/N. But it's okay to want to heal for yourself too. That doesn't make you weak, and it doesn't mean there's something wrong with you."

Her words softened something in your chest, but the guilt was still there, heavy and sharp. You bit your lip harder, tears welling in your eyes.

"D-Do you think I'm a monster?" you asked suddenly, your voice breaking. "For thinking about purging this year? For even wanting it?" You finally looked up at her, tears spilling as you waited for the answer you feared most.

Ms. Jisoo's expression stayed calm, warm, and understanding. "You're not a monster," she said gently, her voice soft as she stares at you.

"You're someone who's been hurt. Someone who's been through things no one should ever have to experience. It's okay to feel angry. It's okay to feel hate. Those feelings don't make you a monster. They make you human."

"But they feel so wrong," you whispered, tears streaming down your face. "Wanting it feels wrong."

"They're not wrong or right," she said softly. "They're just feelings."

You sniffled, wiping at your face with trembling hands, but her words didn't fully settle the storm inside you. After a moment, you looked back at her, hesitating before asking the question that had been on your mind for so long.

"Do you... agree with the Purge?"

Ms. Jisoo blinked, caught off guard by the question. She leaned back slightly, her hands folding in her lap as she thought about her answer.

"No," she said after a moment, "I don't. I don't think violence solves anything. And I don't think people should have the right to hurt others, no matter what the law says. The Purge... it brings out the worst in people. It allows fear and hate to fester. And I've seen how much it hurts people—people like you."

Her gaze softened, and she leaned forward slightly, her tone quiet. "But I also understand why you feel the way you do. The Purge forces people to live in fear, to carry anger and pain that they shouldn't have to carry. It's normal to feel conflicted. It's normal to feel angry."

You swallowed hard, her words sinking into you like drops of water on dry ground. "So... I'm not wrong for feeling like this?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"No," she said firmly. "You're not wrong. You're human, Y/N. And humans feel messy, complicated things. There's no shame in that."

You nodded slowly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know what to do with myself. I keep thinking and thinking about what I should do to live freely... but nothing feels right."

Ms. Jisoo smiled gently, her expression steady and reassuring. "It's okay to feel lost, Y/N. Healing doesn't come with a map or a timeline. But you're taking steps forward, even if they're small. Just keep going. You'll find your way."

By the middle of February, your days had settled into a rhythm. You managed your job at the restaurant, worked through your therapy sessions every week, and spent most of your free time with Jay and his mother.

Their home felt warm, almost like a haven, and you found yourself doing small things to show your gratitude—buying Jay his favorite snacks, surprising his mom with flowers or something she'd mentioned in passing.

They never expected anything in return for their kindness, but doing those little things made you feel like you were giving back in some small way.

One evening, the restaurant was hosting a group of high-class businesspeople who had reserved the entire dining area. The room buzzed with laughter and chatter, the expensive suits and gleaming jewelry making you feel out of place as you carried trays of food to their table.

As you placed the dishes on the table, your eyes drifted to a middle-aged blonde woman sitting at the center. Her hair was perfectly styled, her tailored suit fitting her like it had been made just for her. She held a glass of wine delicately, twirling it in her hand as she laughed with the others.

Your breath hitched.

A memory slammed into you with the force of a freight train.

Gunshots. Screams. Blood splattered across the ground. You could see the flash of a machete. Hear the sound of a head rolling across the dirt. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your throat tightening as the room spun around you. The scar on your arm felt like it was burning.

"Excuse me?" a man's voice pulled you back to reality, his tone polite but firm. "Do you need anything else?"

You blinked, your breath still shaky as you tried to steady yourself. The blonde woman's laughter had faded, and now she was looking at you, her piercing eyes sharp and almost bored, like she was trying to place where she'd seen you before.

You struggled to keep your hands from trembling as you clutched the tray tighter. "I-I'm fine," you stammered, inhaling deeply to keep your composure.

But it didn't help when one of the other women at the table—a brunette with diamond earrings—reached for your arm, pushing up your sleeve to reveal the long scar that ran down the length of it.

"God," the woman said, her voice dripping with disgust. "What a nasty scar you have." Her fingers brushed the raised tissue, making you flinch involuntarily. "How'd you even get this?"

You froze, the room seeming to go quiet as her words echoed in your ears. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think. You wanted to rip your arm away, but your body felt paralyzed, like you were trapped in that night all over again.

And then, you heard yourself asking, "Are you Ms. Wilson?"

The words felt foreign on your tongue, your voice shaky as you stared at the blonde woman.

She raised an eyebrow at you, her expression amused. "Yes, why?" she asked, taking another sip of her wine. "Do I know you?"

You almost laughed. Of course, she didn't remember. People like her never did.

Your grip on the tray tightened, your knuckles white as your mind raced. You remembered her now—her face, her voice, the way she had smiled behind the mask as she watched you and the others run for your lives.

And she didn't even remember you.

"No," you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "You don't."

Her head tilted slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing as if she were trying to place you, but after a moment, she simply shrugged and turned back to her companions, already dismissing you from her mind.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your nails digging into the tray as you tried to contain the rage bubbling up inside you.

You turned on your heel, your legs trembling with each step as you left the dining area. The walls of the restaurant seemed to close in, the air thick and suffocating. 

Your breaths came in short, shallow gasps as you pushed through the kitchen doors, your tray clattering loudly onto the counter.

Gripping the edge of the counter, your knuckles turned white as you stared down at the cold, stainless steel surface. You willed yourself to calm down, to pull it together, but your heart was racing, your chest heaving as the memories refused to let you go.

You muttered something about not feeling well to your manager, barely hearing his reply as you left the restaurant. 

You didn't go to Jay's home like you usually did. Instead, you walked to your own apartment, your feet moving automatically, your head swirling with thoughts you couldn't control.

When you finally closed the door behind you, something inside you broke. You let out a scream, raw and primal, nails digging into your throat as if you could claw the pain away. Tears streamed down your face, hot and endless, blurring your vision as sob after sob wracked your body.

You stumbled to the target board you had set up on the wall—the one you used for practice, for preparation—and grabbed a knife. With a sharp, angry cry, you hurled it at the board. It hit the target right in the head.

You screamed again, louder this time, grabbing anything within reach and throwing it across the room. A glass shattered against the wall. A stack of books tumbled to the floor. You didn't care.

When you finally collapsed onto your bed, your body was trembling, your chest heaving as you cried into the pillow. The tears wouldn't stop, your sobs loud and broken as you curled into yourself, trying to escape the weight pressing down on you.

At some point, exhaustion took over, and you fell asleep, your face damp with tears.

You jolted awake when the bed shifted beneath you. Your heart leapt into your throat, your body tensing instinctively, but then you saw him—Jay, sitting beside you, his worried eyes scanning your face.

"You didn't come home," he said softly, his voice full of concern. 

"I was worried. Your manager said you took an early leave." He reached for your hand, holding it gently as his thumb brushed over your knuckles. "Did something happen?"

His voice was so calm, so steady, and it only made your tears resurface. You watched him lift your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your fingertips. The tenderness in his actions broke you all over again.

Your eyes watered, and before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as you cried. Your sobs were muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but he didn't say anything—he just held you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, protectively.

"It will never go away," you choked out between sobs, your voice muffled against his chest. "I don't know how to heal when this Purge still fucking exists."

Jay tightened his hold on you, his hand moving to the back of your head as he gently stroked your hair. 

"I'm so sorry," you cried, your voice breaking. "For always being like this."

"Shh," he murmured softly, pulling you into his lap. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. "You don't have to apologize, love. Don't ever apologize for how you feel."

You buried your face in his shoulder, shaking your head. The words of comfort should've helped, but all they did was amplify the storm inside you.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Jay asked, his voice low and patient.

You shook your head, gripping him tighter. You couldn't bring yourself to say it. Not now. Not yet.

He didn't push. He just held you, his hand running up and down your back as you cried into him.

And then, as the room grew quieter, your emotions spilled into something else. The ache in your chest shifted, giving way to a deeper, more desperate need—the need to feel alive, to feel connected, to escape the weight of your mind, even if only for a moment.

Your lips found his, and he kissed you back without hesitation, his hands tightening around your waist. The kiss was slow at first, gentle, but soon it grew hungry, fueled by the raw emotion lingering in the air.

It wasn't long before your knees dug into the mattress, your body arching beneath him as he moved inside you. The pain and weight of your emotions blurred into the pleasure of his touch, every thrust sending a wave of heat through your body.

"A-ah! Fuck, slow down!" you gasped as he hit a spot inside you that made your toes curl.

"Felt so good," Jay groaned, his breath hot against your ear as his body pressed flush against yours. His lips found the nape of your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses as his fingers kneaded your breasts, sending sparks of sensation through you.

You threw your head back, your arms giving out beneath you as he pressed deeper. "Jay," you whimpered, his name tumbling from your lips as your body trembled with every movement.

"Love you," he groaned, his voice rough with desperation. "Fuck, a-ah, I'm gonna cum."

"Inside me, please," you begged, your voice barely above a whisper, but he heard you.

Jay's body fell against yours as he pushed deeper, his breath hitching as his release overtook him. The feeling of him filling you pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing into you so intensely that tears pricked your eyes.

Your cries of overstimulation mixed with his groans, his hips moving in small, desperate thrusts as he fill inside you. Finally, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

His lips pressed soft kisses along your forehead and temple, his hand trailing to your stomach, where his fingers traced gentle patterns on your skin.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice so full of sincerity that it made your chest ache.

You turned your head, catching his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. He kissed you back, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

"Spend the Purge at our house," he said after a moment, his forehead resting against yours. "You'll be safe there. I'll protect you. I promise."

His words should have comforted you. They should have been enough. But as you stared into his eyes, full of love and hope, you felt your chest tighten.

Because no matter what Jay did to protect you, no matter how much healing you tried to find, there was one truth you couldn't ignore.

No matter how hard you fought it, no matter how much you loved him, you're still broken, and lost.

March 21, 3:00 PM

You wiped the tables methodically, trying to focus on the task, but the air in the restaurant was tense. All eyes were glued to the TV mounted on the wall, where the announcement of the Annual Purge was being broadcast. The monotone voice of the announcer echoed through the room, describing the rules and restrictions for the night.

Your manager came up to you, his voice urgent. "Hey, take an early leave. Go home and get ready. You shouldn't be out when the sirens start."

You nodded, offering him a faint smile. "Thanks, I'll head out soon."

After finishing up and helping close the restaurant, you walked back to your apartment. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the streets. As you set up a small barricade in your apartment—nothing fancy, just furniture pressed against the windows and doors—you heard a car honk outside.

Peeking out, you saw Jay leaning casually against his car, waiting for you with that familiar warm smile.

You felt a wave of comfort wash over you at the sight of him. Smiling back, you hurried outside, throwing your arms around his neck and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

"Let's go home?" he asked, his voice calm and full of care.

You hesitated, glancing back at your apartment. "I need to grab a few things first," you said.

Jay nodded easily. "Of course. Take your time."

After changing out of your work uniform, you slipped into a white off-shoulder dress that reached your knees—something simple yet elegant. You'd never worn it before, and even the soft fabric against your skin felt foreign. Paired with Mary Jane shoes and a pair of cute white socks.

When you stepped into Jay's car, he looked up at you, his eyes widening slightly. "Wow," he murmured, his gaze softening. "You look beautiful."

You felt your cheeks warm as he leaned in, holding your jaw gently and pecking your lips. "What's with the outfit today?" he teased, laughing lightly.

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I just thought... maybe I'd wear something different. Something nice."

Jay laughed again, his hand reaching out toward your thigh, but you subtly redirected it, placing it over yours instead. He didn't seem to mind, intertwining his fingers with yours as his other hand rested on the steering wheel.

March 21, 4:30 PM

The house was buzzing with noise by the time you arrived. From the top of the stairs, you peeked down and saw six boys piling in through the entrance, bags slung over their shoulders as they greeted Jay's mother.

"Oh, it's Jay's friends!" his mother exclaimed warmly, hugging them one by one.

You recognized Ni-ki and Sunoo, the only ones you'd met before. The rest were strangers to you, their confident voices filling the house as they exchanged jokes and pleasantries.

"Hi, Mrs. Park! I hope you don't mind if we spend the Purge here at your house!" said a tall man with an easy smile.

"No problem, Heesung," Jay's mother replied, her voice full of affection. "What about your parents and sisters?"

"They're at a party," another boy replied casually. "Some politician's mansion. They love that kind of thing."

Your breath hitched, the words hitting a nerve.

What a nice life to be rich, you thought bitterly.

"Hey," Jay's voice pulled you from your thoughts. You turned to see him standing beside you, his brow furrowed slightly. "Are you okay?"

You forced a smile, one you'd perfected over the years. "Yeah, I'm fine. Your friends are downstairs."

Jay studied you for a moment longer, but then he smiled, intertwining his hand with yours as he led you down the stairs.

The boys were loud and full of energy, laughing and teasing each other as they set their bags down and unpacked their things. Jay's mother fussed over them, offering snacks and asking about their families.

"This is Y/N, my girlfriend," Jay announced proudly, pulling you close by your waist.

The room fell quiet for a brief moment, and you could feel their gazes on you.

"Oh my God, you're a thing now?" Jay's mother gasped, her hands clasped over her mouth.

"Isn't it obvious?" Jay replied with a laugh.

One of the boys stepped forward, introducing himself. "Hi, Y/N! I'm Heesung. This is Jake, Sunghoon, and Jungwon. I guess you already know Ni-ki and Sunoo."

You offered a polite smile, nodding as they all greeted you.

As the evening went on, you stayed mostly quiet, helping Jay's mother prepare food while the boys joked around. Jay noticed your silence, slipping his arms around your waist from behind as you worked in the kitchen.

"Hey," he murmured against your ear. "You're safe, okay? You don't need to worry."

You turned to look at him, your heart heavy with emotions you couldn't express. "I love you," you said softly, staring into his eyes.

Jay smiled, pressing a kiss to your lips. "I love you more," he replied, glancing at his watch. "It's already 6:30. I need to barricade the house."

You nodded, watching as he started to walk away. Then, impulsively, you called out, "Jay."

He turned back, his eyes soft. "Hmm?"

Walking up to him, you wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. His hands found your face, gently brushing his thumb across your cheek as he looked at you with worry. "Are you anxious, baby?" he asked softly.

"No," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. "I just wanted to say I love you again."

Jay let out a soft laugh, leaning down to kiss you. "Love, I'm just barricading the house, not purging." He kissed your forehead tenderly, his lips lingering for a moment. "Now, let me lock everything down so we'll be safe, okay?"

You nodded, stepping back reluctantly as he disappeared toward the storage room.

Jay walked through the dim hallway leading to the storage room when he heard footsteps behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sunghoon catching up to him, a casual smirk on his face as he slung an arm around Jay's shoulder.

"Yo, bro," Sunghoon said casually, falling into step beside him. "No offense but, you sure about that girl?"

Jay frowned, shrugging off Sunghoon's arm. "Why? What are you talking about?"

Sunghoon shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "She just... seems like a lot. I mean, no offense, but she looks like she's difficult to handle."

Jay's brows furrowed deeper, his steps slowing as he turned to face Sunghoon. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Look, we care about you," Sunghoon said, raising his hands as if to calm him. "Have you seen her scars? Her face? She's clearly been through some shit. Is she even healed from all that?"

Jay's jaw tightened, his teeth clenching as anger flared in his chest. He stepped closer to Sunghoon, his voice low and dangerous. "Watch your mouth."

"Chill, man, I'm just saying." Sunghoon grabbed Jay's arm in an attempt to reason with him. "That girl's got baggage, and I'm telling you, she's going to be a lot of problems for you. She's not stable, bro. You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

Jay didn't let him finish. His hand shot out, grabbing Sunghoon by the collar and shoving him back against the wall. "Say another word, and I swear I'll make you regret it," he growled, his voice dripping with rage.

Sunghoon's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't back down. "I'm trying to look out for you, Jay," he said, his tone firm. "You're my friend. I don't want you getting hurt."

Jay released him with a sharp shove, his chest heaving as he tried to control his temper. "Don't ever talk about her like that again," he said coldly, his eyes burning with anger. "You don't know a damn thing about her."

He turned on his heel, ignoring Sunghoon as he walked into the storage room. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed the button to activate the lockdown. The sound of metal walls sliding into place filled the air, sealing the house and cutting off the world outside.

"Jay, listen to me," Sunghoon said, his voice following him into the room. "I'm serious. There's something off about her. Just think about it, man."

Jay didn't respond. He slammed the door shut behind him, shutting Sunghoon out both literally and figuratively.

Returning to the living room, Jay found the rest of his friends lounging on the couches, laughing and exchanging stories. His mother was tidying up nearby, a small smile on her face as she listened to their chatter.

"Where's Y/N?" Jay asked, his eyes scanning the room.

"I think she went to your room," Ni-ki said, glancing up from his phone. "She said she wanted to sleep early."

Jay nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. But before he could take another step, Sunghoon appeared at his side again.

"Man, I'm trying to talk to you," Sunghoon said, his voice laced with frustration.

Jay's patience snapped. Without thinking, he turned and landed a punch squarely on Sunghoon's jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

The room fell silent as the others jumped to their feet.

"Jay! What the hell are you doing?!" Jake shouted, stepping between them.

"I'm just trying to give him advice about his girlfriend!" Sunghoon snapped, holding his jaw as he glared at Jay.

"Are you seriously saying that fucking nonsense while my girlfriend is in this house?!" he shouted. "How dare you even say that shit in front of me?!"

Sunghoon raised his hands in defense, but Jay wasn't done. He stepped closer, pointing a finger at him. "You've known her for, what, an hour? And you think you have the right to judge her? To judge us? Fuck you, Sunghoon!"

"Jay, calm down," Heesung said cautiously, stepping between the two of them with his hands outstretched, but Jay wasn't having it.

"You don't get to judge her just because of what you think you see!" Jay growled, his voice trembling with anger. He shoved Heesung and Jake off as they tried to hold him back.

"Get the fuck off me!" he barked, storming out of the living room. His footsteps pounded against the floor as he made his way up the stairs, leaving everyone behind in stunned silence.

Jay climbed the stairs two at a time, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. He pulled out his phone, swiping through his notifications until he found a message from Dr. Jisoo that he had missed earlier.

Dr. Jisoo: Good afternoon, Mr. Park. I just wanted to check in on Y/N since she's missed her last three sessions. Please keep an eye on her, especially today—it's a particularly triggering event for her. Thank you.

Jay felt a wave of dread wash over him, his heart sinking into his stomach. He quickened his pace, practically sprinting to his bedroom.

"Y/N?" he called, pushing the door open.

But the room was empty.

Panic set in as he checked the bathroom, the closet, all of the room, even under the bed, but you were nowhere to be found.

He bolted back down the stairs, his voice frantic as he called out for you. "Y/N?! Where are you?!"

His mother stepped into the hallway, her face pale with worry. "What's wrong, Jay?"

"She's gone," he said, his voice shaking. "Did anyone see her leave?!"

Everyone in the living room exchanged confused looks, shrugging helplessly.

"Y/N?!" Jay shouted again, his voice echoing through the house.

Jay froze as the broadcast echoed through the house, the robotic voice chilling him to the bone.

"This is not a test. This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S Government.

Weapons of class 4 and lower have been authorized for use during the Purge. All other weapons are restricted. Government officials of ranking 10 have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed.

Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning, until 7 a.m., when the Purge concludes.

Blessed by our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn. May God be with you all."

The final words echoed in his ears as the sirens blared, signaling the start of the Purge.

His heart pounded, his chest tight as he pieced everything together. The missed therapy sessions, how quiet you had been all day, the way you hugged him like it might be the last time.

You weren't in the house.

You were out there.

Jay turned on his heel and sprinted to the storage room, his mind racing as panic surged through him.

He yanked open his closet, grabbing the bag he had packed weeks ago—just in case. Inside were the essentials: a shotgun, a pistol, extra ammunition, and a knife. He tossed the bag over his shoulder, his hands trembling as he loaded the pistol, cocking it with precision.

"Jay, what are you doing?!" his mother cried, standing at the door with tears streaming down her face.

"Unlock the barricade and lock it again after I leave," he said coldly, his voice devoid of the warmth she was used to.

"Jay, you can't! It's dangerous out there!" she pleaded, stepping closer.

"Unlock it!" he snapped, his voice sharp, though his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil. "Please, Mom. I have to go."

"No," Sunghoon interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing Jay's arm. "You're not thinking straight. She left, Jay. She chose to go out there—"

Jay swatted his hand away, pointing the pistol directly at Sunghoon's head. The room went silent.

"Jay!" Heesung shouted, stepping forward.

"Come any closer, and I'll blow his fucking head off," Jay growled, his jaw tightening as his finger hovered near the trigger. "You don't get to stop me. None of you do."

Sunghoon raised his hands slowly, his expression shifting to one of caution. "Alright, man. Just... relax, okay? I'm just trying to—"

"Shut up," Jay hissed, the tension in his body radiating outward. His voice lowered, trembling slightly. "I told you to stay out of this. She's out there, and I'm going to find her."

He turned his gaze to Ni-ki, who was frozen near the security console. "Ni-ki," Jay said firmly. "Unlock the barricade. Now."

Ni-ki hesitated, looking at Jungwon and Jake for guidance, but neither said anything. With a shaky hand, Ni-ki pressed the button, and the sound of the metal walls lifting reverberated through the house.

"Jay, please," his mother sobbed, grabbing his arm as he stepped toward the door.

Jay paused, his resolve faltering for just a moment as he looked at her. "I'm sorry," he said softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "But I can't stay here knowing she's out there."

Tears streamed down her face as she nodded, her voice trembling. "I understand, be safe. Please."

"I will," Jay said, stepping out the door. "Lock it the second I'm gone."

The metal walls began to descend behind him as he walked to his car, his mind racing with questions. Where could you have gone? Why didn't you tell him? Were you safe? Were you scared?

Sliding into the driver's seat, he tossed the bag into the passenger side and gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. His eyes scanned the darkened streets, the occasional scream or gunshot in the distance reminding him of the stakes.

Without hesitation, he pressed the gas pedal.

You walk slowly down an unfamiliar road, your steps unsteady. You just keep walking and walking, unsure of where you're going or why. You don't understand yourself anymore. You thought everything was finally okay. What more could you ask for?

You have a loving boyfriend who always tries to make you smile. His mother cares for you like her own. You eat three meals a day. You're seeing a therapist. And you even have a safe place to hide on Purge Night.

So why do you feel like this?

Why do you feel so broken when you should feel whole?

Why are you out here, in the middle of the street, on the most dangerous night of the year, with just a knife strapped under your dress?

You wonder if Jay has noticed you're gone. He probably has by now. Your chest tightens at the thought of him pacing back and forth, calling your name.

Your lifeless eyes stare ahead as you walk deeper into the quiet street. It's so still, unnaturally still. No trucks rumbling down the road. No gangs or masked figures in sight.

"Kill me already!" you scream into the emptiness. Your voice echoes down the road, but there's no answer. Not a single sniper or purger takes the bait.

Then, a distant cry catches your ear—a plea for help. You turn toward the sound and walk toward it, your grip tightening on the handle of the knife hidden beneath your dress.

As you approach, you see a young girl sprinting toward you, clutching her bleeding waist. Four people in masks are chasing her, laughing like it's some sick game.

"Man, we just want to purge!" one of them—a woman—cackles. That laugh—it burrows into your memory like a needle.

The girl stumbles, and when her eyes meet yours, there's desperation written all over them. She collapses at your feet, her blood soaking through your white dress as she clings to you.

"Please... help me," she gasps.

Her words are cut off by a gunshot. Blood splatters across your face as a hole appears in her forehead. Her body falls limp, her grip on your dress loosening.

"My fucking soul feels cleansed!" the woman says with a twisted laugh. The others laugh with her, like a pack of hyenas.

"Up next—" the woman starts, raising her pistol toward you.

But you're faster.

In one fluid motion, you pull out your knife and hurl it at her. It pierces through her mask and into her skull. She drops instantly, blood dripping from the blade.

The remaining three hesitate, stunned. That's all the time you need. You yank the knife from the dead woman's head and dash toward the others, slicing the nearest one's throat in a clean arc.

The man in the joker mask fumbles for his gun, but you grab the dead body beside you, using it as a shield. Then, you throw the knife again, this time hitting his chest.

He stumbles back, gasping for air, as you snatch his gun from his weakening grip. Before he can even hit the ground, you fire a shot straight into his skull.

Now, there's only one left.

The last purger, wearing a cat mask, drops to his knees and pulls the mask off, revealing a trembling man. He raises his hands in surrender, tears streaming down his face.

"P-please... spare me. I-I just wanted to purge this year," he stammers, his voice cracking.

You glare at him, the weight of your actions and emotions swirling inside you.

"How many innocent people have you killed in all the purges you've been a part of?" you ask, your tone icy.

His lip quivers. "P-probably 70—"

Before he can finish, you pull the trigger.

The gunshot echoes through the street as he collapses, lifeless.

Silence fills the street once more as you stand there, your white dress soaked in blood, surrounded by bodies. You don't know how long you've been standing there, staring at the carnage.

Then, it happens.

A soft laugh escapes your lips. It bubbles up from your throat, quiet at first, but it grows louder, sharper, until it echoes down the empty street. It's not a happy laugh. It's hollow, bitter, unhinged.

You bring a hand to your face, your fingers brushing against the blood splattered across your skin.

You really have lost yourself, haven't you? Or, did you found it now?

You hate the Purge. You hate the monsters it creates. You hate the people who thrive on it, the ones who laugh, who kill, who hurt.

So why are you here, in the middle of the night, doing the exact same thing?

Tears prick at your eyes, but they don't fall. You just stand there, your shoulders trembling as the weight of everything presses down on you. You feel nothing. And that terrifies you most of all.

You crouch down, wiping your knife on the dead woman's clothes, smearing blood across the fabric.

Your hands tremble slightly, it's not fear—it's something else. A quiet storm you can't name.

Once the blade gleams clean, you tuck it back into the thigh strap beneath your dress. Grabbing the fallen gun, you check the chamber and reload it. The satisfying click of the cocked weapon echoes as you straighten up and continue walking.

The street stretches ahead, eerily quiet except for the distant sounds of chaos—gunshots, screams, and the occasional rumble of an engine.

Three figures suddenly sprint toward you from the shadows. They glance at you, wide-eyed, as they pass by, their faces pale with fear.

Ahead of you, three figures suddenly appear from the shadows. Their faces are pale with fear as they sprint past you. One of them—a panicked old man—stumbles and grabs your arm, his grip shaky.

"Miss, don't go that way!" he says, his voice hoarse and desperate. "That group's rounding people up—they're psychos!"

His words barely register. Your gaze drifts past him, toward the direction he came from. A cold calm washes over you as he keeps tugging at your arm, pleading.

A large truck screeches to a halt in front of you, its headlights blinding. The old man panics, letting go of your arm and bolting down the road. He doesn't get far. A sharp crack rings out, and he collapses mid-stride, a bullet tearing through his back.

You don't flinch.

The truck door swings open, and several masked figures step out.

One of them grabs your arm, yanking it behind your back as another snatches the gun from your hand.

"Blessed be the New Founding Fathers of America," one of them says, leaning close to your face.

You smile. Not a kind smile—a bitter one. "Blessed be them," you whisper back.

Then, without warning, you jerk your head forward, slamming it into the man's nose. He stumbles back with a grunt of pain, clutching his face as blood pours through his fingers.

Before the others can react, you twist your arm free and yank your knife from its strap. The blade flashes in the dim light as you slice upward, catching one of them in the throat. They gargle and drop to their knees, clutching at the wound.

Another lunges at you, swinging a metal pipe. You duck under the blow, driving the knife into his ribs. He gasps, his body jolting as you twist the blade, blood spraying onto your dress.

You scream—whether it's from rage or something deeper, you're not sure.

The sound rips from your throat as you yank the knife free and stab again, and again, and again, until his body goes limp.

Behind you, the first man—the one whose nose you broke—recovers quickly. He raises his gun, aiming it directly at your back.

You're too focused, too lost in the heat of the moment to notice him.

The loud crack of gunfire fills the air, but it doesn't come from his weapon.

The man's body jerks violently as a burst of bullets tears through him, and he collapses to the ground, lifeless.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you spin around.

Your wide eyes locking onto the figure standing behind him.

"Jay," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He steps forward slowly, his shotgun still in hand. His expression is unreadable, his eyes flicking over the bodies surrounding you before settling on you.

You brace yourself for the anger you expect to see in his face. For him to yell at you, demand answers, maybe even tell you he's done with you.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he stops in front of you, his gaze softening as he raises a hand to your face. His thumb brushes gently across your cheek, wiping away the streaks of blood smeared there.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice full of worry. "Are you hurt?"

You can't speak. Your lips tremble as tears blur your vision. Slowly, your hand rises to hold his against your cheek.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, his voice heavy with guilt. "I'm sorry for not noticing sooner that you weren't okay. I should've known."

His words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you shake your head, your tears spilling over. "W-what are you doing here?" you manage to say, your voice shaking. "It's dangerous."

Jay smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I could say the same thing to you, love," he murmurs, pulling you into a warm, protective embrace.

His arms wrap around you tightly, holding you like he's afraid to let go. You bury your face in his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt.

"I can't let my girl be out here alone on Purge Night," he whispers into your hair.

You pull back slightly, looking up at him, your smile shaky and uncertain. "Y-you're not angry?"

Jay shakes his head slowly, his warm hand cupping your face as if to anchor you. "No, baby. I'm not angry," he says softly.

Your lips tremble, the guilt clawing its way up your throat as you look into his eyes. "I... I'm a monster, Jay. Look at what I did," you whisper, your voice cracking.

His thumb gently strokes your cheek, his gaze never leaving yours. There's no judgment there, no fear—just a quiet understanding that makes your chest ache.

"I don't think I'm normal anymore, Jay," you say, your voice barely audible as tears spill freely down your face. "I don't even know what I'm feeling right now. I don't know who I am anymore."

You start to sob, the raw emotion pouring out of you like a dam breaking. Jay leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his other hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you steady.

"I love you," he whispers into the space between you. "No matter what. No matter what you've done, no matter what you want to do... I love you."

His words hit you like a wave, and your sobs come harder, your body trembling in his arms.

"You always ask if you're normal," he continues, his tone soothing as he brushes a stray tear from your cheek. "But I already told you, love. Who cares about normal? Normal doesn't matter to me. You matter to me."

His arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you against his chest.

"If this is what you need to do to heal, then I'll be here," he whispers into your ear. "And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn't say this to me. I'll always understand, love. Always. Just... don't do this again without me knowing, okay?"

You nod against his chest, your sobs muffling into his shirt.

"I'm such a—" you try to speak, but the words get caught in your throat, your cries making it impossible to finish the sentence.

Jay shushes you softly, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "You're not. You're not anything bad, baby. You're just... hurting."

You pull back slightly, your hands clutching his shirt as you look up at him, your voice trembling. "I hate it, Jay. I hate what I've become. I'm not me anymore. It terrifies me."

His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, and he presses a soft kiss to your hair. "I know," he whispers. "But I'll be here. I'll be with you through every terrifying moment, love."

For a long moment, the two of you just stay like that—his arms holding you close, your head resting against his chest as your breathing slowly evens out. The tension in your body begins to ease, though the storm in your mind still churns.

Jay pulls back slightly, tilting his head to meet your gaze, his smile growing softer but never losing its warmth.

"Are you enjoying yourself right now?" he asks, his voice light and genuine, almost teasing.

You blink at him, surprised by the question, but the answer bubbles up inside you before you can stop it. A faint smile begins to form on your lips, something that feels both wrong and inexplicably right.

"Yes," you admit quietly, your voice steadier than before. "I think I am."

Jay's smile widens just a little, his thumb brushing against your cheek again as if to ground you.

"That's all that matters," he says softly, his voice filled with a calm acceptance that makes the tension in your chest ease.

Then, his eyes flicker toward the carnage surrounding you—the lifeless bodies, the blood that stains the street, and your hands, still trembling but steady enough to hold the knife.

"What do you want to do? Hmm?" he asks, his tone curious yet understanding, as if ready to follow wherever your answer leads.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the gun in your hands and the heat of the night pressing against your skin. Your lips curve into a determined smile, and your answer comes without hesitation.

"I want to kill purgers," you say, your voice clear and sharp, your eyes shining with a fire that you hadn't felt in years.

Jay doesn't flinch or waver at your words. Instead, he nods, stepping closer to you and holding out his shotgun. "Here," he says, his voice calm as he hands it over.

You take it, your hands steady now, and your eyes glint as you examine the weapon.

"Is this a SPAS-12?" you ask, running your fingers along the smooth barrel.

Jay chuckles softly, watching the way your gaze flickers with excitement.

"Yeah. My dad gave it to me," he replies as he takes your free hand in his.

"Come on," he says, tugging you gently toward his car. "Let's get out of here. It's dangerous to stay in one spot too long."

You follow him, practically bouncing on your heels as you intertwine your fingers with his. As the two of you approach the car, a question bubbles up, one you hadn't thought to ask before.

"Where's your dad, anyway? I've never met him," you say, glancing at him as he unlocks the driver's side door.

Jay shrugs lightly, opening the door for you.

"He's overseas," he explains as you climb in. "He's been busy. A lot of countries are starting to plan their own versions of the Purge, and he's consulting on security systems for them."

"Wow," you mutter, settling into the passenger seat as Jay slides in beside you.

He starts the car, the engine rumbling to life as he glances over at you. "You ready?"

"Is this car bulletproof?" you ask, running your hand along the interior with a raised eyebrow.

Jay smirks, shrugging. "I don't think so, but who needs bulletproof when we've got each other?"

You giggle, the sound light and unexpected, even to yourself.

As he presses the gas pedal hard, the car lurches forward, and the thrill of speed courses through you.

The windows are down, and the cool night air rushes past you as you cock the shotgun, the familiar click of the weapon sending a chill down your spine.

You lean halfway out the window, scanning the streets for purgers, your eyes narrowing when you spot a group down the road.

"Hey, fuckers!" you shout, your voice carrying across the night.

Jay glances over at you, his grin widening as he watches you. "Careful with my car, love," he teases, though there's nothing but pride in his tone.

You don't respond, too focused on your target. Raising the shotgun, you take aim and fire. The blast rings out, and one of the masked figures crumples to the ground.

Jay chuckles, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he drifts the car in a sharp circle, giving you a clear view of the rest of the group.

You take the opportunity, cocking the shotgun again and pulling the trigger, your laughter bubbling up as another purger falls.

Jay's eyes are on you the whole time.

There's a softness in his gaze, even amid the violence. A quiet love that seems to radiate from him as he smiles, the chaos of the night fading away for him.

There's just you, him, and the shared thrill of the hunt.

March 22, 4:00 AM

The two of you stand on the rooftop of an abandoned building, the city stretched out before you in ruins. Fires burn in the distance, their orange glow painting the night in an eerie light. Screams and gunshots echo faintly through the air, but up here, it almost feels quiet.

Jay's arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you against him as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

"When I first saw you, I thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen," he says softly, his voice low in your ear.

You snort, your lips twitching into a faint smile. "I smelled like shit, Jay. I looked like skin and bones. Where's the 'pretty' in that?" you ask, a chuckle escaping you.

Jay presses his lips to your neck, his voice a murmur against your skin. "You were pretty then. You're pretty now. You've always been pretty."

"You should hate me," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant crackling of fires below. "For leaving. For running away."

Jay's grip tightened, his hands pulling you closer as his forehead pressed against the back of your head. "I could never hate you," he murmured. "Not when I know what you've been carrying."

You opened your mouth to argue, to push back

"I don't deserve you," you admitted, your voice cracking as the weight of the night caught up with you.

Jay let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and reassuring. "You don't get to decide that," he said, his tone teasing but full of affection. "That's my call, and I'm not going anywhere.

You tilt your head slightly, giving him more access, your breath hitching as he kisses the sensitive spot just below your ear. His lips linger, soft and warm, before his tongue flicks against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

A quiet moan escapes you as he nips at your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he soothes the bite with a kiss. "Jay..."

His hands begin to roam, one sliding up to cup your breast, squeezing gently, while the other dips beneath your dress. His fingers brush over the fabric of your panties, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves there.

"You're really doing this?" you sigh, half-laughing even as your body arches into his touch.  "In the middle of the purge?"

Jay chuckles softly, his lips still pressed against your neck. "We're standing on a rooftop, watching the world burn," he murmurs. "Seems like the perfect time to me."

His fingers move with more purpose now, slipping past the fabric of your panties and brushing against your wet folds. You gasp, your body trembling against him as he slides one finger inside you, curling it just enough to make you bite down on your lip.

"You know," Jay whispers, his voice low and rough as his free hand kneads your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. "I'm not normal either."

You barely manage to form a response, your mind clouded by the pleasure building inside you. "W-what do you mean?"

Jay bites gently at your neck again, his lips curling into a grin. "Watching you out there... gunning down those purgers... smearing blood all over that cute little dress..." He groans, his hips pressing into you so you can feel just how hard he is. 

"Fuck, it turns me on so much. You looked so beautiful. So fucking dangerous."

His confession sends a jolt of heat straight through you, and your legs almost buckle as he slides another finger inside you, his pace increasing. His other hand slips beneath the neckline of your dress, tugging it down just enough to expose your chest as he palms your bare skin.

"Jay..." you gasp, your head falling back against his shoulder as his fingers work you over, pushing deeper and curling just right.

"You're so perfect like this," he whispers, his voice breathy and filled with adoration as he watches your face twist with pleasure. 

"The way your body moves, the way you moan for me... I'll never get enough of you."

His thumb brushes over your clit, sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. You grip his arms, your nails digging into his skin as your body starts to shake.

"F-fuck, Jay," you cry out, your voice muffled as he kisses your temple.

"That's it, baby," he encourages. "Let go for me. Let me see you lose yourself."

You're barely holding on, your body trembling as he picks up the pace, his fingers sliding in and out of you relentlessly. 

The pressure inside you builds and builds until it snaps, a wave of heat and pleasure crashing over you as your orgasm takes hold.

You cry out, your hips bucking against his hand as you ride out the high, your walls clenching around his fingers. Jay doesn't stop, his movements gentle now as he works you through it, his lips pressing soft kisses to your neck and shoulder.

When the aftershocks finally subside, you collapse back against him, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. Jay wraps his arms around you tightly, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your temple.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice soft and sincere.  "Now, let me eat."

Before you can respond, he gently turns you, guiding your back to the cool metal railing. His hands are steady on your waist

"Park Jongseong!"

He crouched, his teeth hooking the edge of your panties and dragging them down, baring you inch by inch. The fabric pooled at your knees before his face dove between your thighs, his tongue parting you

He worked his way up to your clit, licking slow, teasing circles that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His grip tightened on your waist, firm hands pulling you closer, urging your hips to rock against his face.

Your right leg lifted, hooking over his shoulder for balance, your fingers threading into his hair to anchor yourself. You tugged, hard, grinding yourself against him. His groan reverberated through you, the vibrations sending shockwaves straight to your core.

"Jongseong!" you sobbed, your voice breaking as the intensity overwhelmed you. Your grip on his hair tightened, your body trembling.

Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving you breathless and desperate. 

Before you could protest, his hands were on your shoulders, pushing you down. You hit the rough ground with a muted thud, your palms scraping against the coarse surface.

You barely had time to process the sensation before his hands were on your hips, lifting you up.

"Need to be inside you, baby."

You heard him groan softly, the sound of him stroking himself before he pressed against your entrance.

The stretch as he slid inside you was slow, deliberate, every inch a sensation that left you gasping. You clenched around him instinctively, earning a hiss from him as he threw his head back, savoring the feeling.

"Faster," you whimpered, your voice trembling with need. Your hands scrambled to reach his, gripping the one on your waist.

"My baby wants more?" he laughed, a dark, almost mocking edge to his tone.

Before you could answer, he gathered your wrists in one hand, pulling them behind your back and holding them there. His pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force.

You screamed, your voice raw, your body pliant in his grasp.

He didn't stop, didn't relent, even as your cries turned to desperate whines. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body trembling violently. But just as you were about to fall over, his movements faltered.

"No!" you cried out, shaking in his hold, trying to move, to chase the release that hovered just out of reach. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pressing you down firmly.

"Don't move," Jay ordered, his voice low and commanding. "I'm still enjoying the view."

You sobbed, your body trembling, your desperation mounting. "Please! I'll be good, I swear, please!"

He growled low in his throat, his hips slamming forward again, harder, rougher, making you cry out.

Gunshots echoed faintly in the background, but they felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered was the man above you, his hands pinning you down, his movements relentless.

Your mouth fell open as you felt him twitch inside you, his pace faltering before he suddenly flipped you onto your back. Your legs went limp, draped over his shoulders as he sank into you again, his face hovering inches from yours.

Your focus locked on him, the way his brows knit together, the way his jaw clenched, the way his sweat-dampened hair clung to his forehead. He was beautiful in his rawness, primal and consuming.

"I wanna cum," you whimpered, your hand reaching for your clit, desperate for release, but he slapped it away with a sharp look.

"Hold it, love," he commanded, his breath ragged. He leaned down, his mouth latching onto your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he bit down, hard.

You screamed, tears streaming down your face as your body writhed beneath him.

"Can't hold it anymore," you sobbed, shaking your head, your pleas growing more desperate.

"Just a little longer," he whispered, his voice a strained plea of his own. His thumb found your clit, pressing down in firm, maddening circles, even as his hips drove into you faster, harder.

The moment came like a tidal wave, crashing through you with a force that left you breathless, your body spasming around him.

"A-ah fuck!" you screamed, your voice breaking.

His rhythm faltered as you tightened around him, pulling him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep, his groan low and guttural as he came, filling you completely.

"Jay, can't!" you whimpered, your body oversensitive, trembling as he continued to move, chasing the last echoes of his high.

"Fuck, I love you," he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion

Finally, he stilled, collapsing beside you. His arm looped around your waist, pulling you close.

"You're not falling asleep on me, are you?" he teased, his voice soft.

"Tired," you mumbled, pouting with your eyes half-closed.

"What happened to killing purgers all night?" he asked, his tone light, teasing.

You cracked one eye open to glare at him. "It's morning," you grumbled.

Jay chuckled, his fingers gently smoothing down your dress as best as he could. His eyes lingered on you, softening as you murmured sleepily against his ear.

"I wanna kill Ms. Wilson next year," you whispered, your voice faint.

His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He kissed your forehead softly, his breath warm against your skin. "Anything for you, love."

You hummed in response, your body melting further into his hold. "I hate how the Purge is so right," you mumbled, your words fading into the quiet dawn. "It really did cleanse my soul."

March 22, 6:45 AM

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a pale golden glow over the city. The streets were eerily still, a grim quiet settling over the aftermath of the Purge.

Jay carried you carefully to his car, his movements slow and deliberate as he set you down in the passenger seat. For a moment, he lingered, crouching beside you. His hand brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers ghosting over your peaceful expression.

You had found yourself, hadn’t you? Maybe not in the way most people would expect, but in a way that felt undeniably true to you.

Your eyelashes fluttered, your eyes opening just enough to glance at him groggily. "What time is it?"

"6:45," Jay replied softly, his voice low. "The Purge is almost over."

You nodded weakly, your head tilting back against the seat as your eyes drifted closed again. But before sleep could take you, they snapped open once more, and you turned your head to him.

"Why? What’s wrong?" Jay asked, his voice laced with gentle concern.

You smiled sweetly, your lips curving in a way that made his heart skip.

"Kiss me."

His lips twitched into a chuckle, but he leaned down without hesitation, pressing his lips to yours. 

"I love you," you whispered as your eyes closed again, this time surrendering completely to sleep.

"I love you too," Jay echoed, his voice just above a whisper. His hand lingered on your cheek for a moment longer before he straightened up, gripping the steering wheel as he started the car.

The streets stretched out before him, empty and silent now, save for the faint echoes of distant sirens. The Purge had ended.

Jay chuckled softly to himself, glancing over at your sleeping form in the passenger seat. You looked so peaceful now, your lips slightly parted, your head resting against the window. It was hard to believe that just hours ago, the two of you had been surrounded by blood.

"Next year, huh?" he murmured under his breath, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Jay definitely needed to watch his back next year.

But with you by his side, what could any purger do?

There was no telling what the two of you were capable of.

taglist: @fancypeacepersona, @tunafishyfishylike

[hoiststowline]

Heloooooo

I see your reqs are open

I'd love to see reader using hotrod/rodimus as a heater and Roddy being like sorry I can't get up their asleep.

rodimus x reader

[a/n: hello!! & thank you, this was sm fun to write!]

He swears he has it down to a perfect science, but he’d rather keep that to himself than try to justify his second grade equation at best to Perceptor who rolled his eyes four times during the explanation. It benefits you first, the most important part- and at the very least the other two things that follow after are just collateral he was willing to accept.

Rodimus should not have access to the thermostat. That is evident when the temperature always seems to fluctuate dramatically about an hour before he’s needed to appear for something, whether it be a meeting or a routine sweep to ensure everything was in working order.

It’s always the thermostat right within your wing of the ship, locked but always broken into. The bottom button almost appears damaged, as if the offender had clicked it so many times it had begun to become worn-down and unusable.

As if on cue, roughly about fifteen minutes after the crime occurs, you’re shuffling into his room with a blanket wrapped around your shivering form. Rodimus can’t entirely feel the drastic change, he can sense it’s colder than normal, but the dipping temperature always sends you into an adorable pout.

“It’s broken again?” You murmur, each syllable accompanied by a visible breath. “That’s the third time this week,”

“I don’t think it was ever really fixed from last time,” It’s almost pitiful, the way he can’t even try to contain his smile. “Just got worse, I guess.”

He observes you, finding patience for about two seconds before he’s on his feet, being selfish for just another moment. He loves you, and wants nothing more in this instance than to give you undivided attention and sloppy kisses.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. “I came here to complain, I didn’t-“

But both he and you knew that was a lie. You’d walked perfectly into Rodimus’ trap, perhaps subconsciously seeking his warmth that you knew he radiated. The Prime was a walking heater, and he had ensured early on that you were well aware of it.

Somehow, he’d coaxed you to his side. You couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment exactly, but it was most likely when your hands began to tremble from the cold. No amount of blankets could save you, especially within a metal ship where every surface ran about thirty degrees cold on average.

Rodimus always says the same thing every time, about how you slot so perfectly between his shoulder and helm. The most important spot, where he can rub his cheek along your stomach and keep you safely positioned there with his right servo. It’s effective, as the first time you’d actually found his chassis ran so hot you almost couldn’t bear it.

“Don’t you have a meeting in like thirty minutes?” You mumble, impossibly tiny fingers tracing random lines along his helm.

“So you’ve got thirty minutes. Take it or leave it,” He’ll never let you leave, because he enjoys this far too much. Like he said, he’s helping to solve your immediate problem, but the bonus is that he gets this time with you, alone, and the small hiccup was just that.

It isn’t very long before you’re asleep, entirely still as your breathing evens out. It’s perfect, and how you haven’t caught on yet is a mystery for another time, though he has his own suspicions you’re far wiser to this than you display. It wouldn’t matter, even if he didn’t have to break the thermostat every other day or so, because it was all part of the fun.

Right on time, the door to his room slides over, and there stands a certain bot he’d been precariously avoiding. “You cannot be serious.” Magnus whispers, only being compliant because it was you, not so much for Rodimus’ sake. “This is the third time this week. You can’t get out of your responsibilities because you’ve tricked y/n into your schemes.”

“Sorry,” That ever sincere smile appears, gesturing to his company with a hushed tone. “Can’t do anything about it until they wake up. You’ll have to carry on without me,”

And like always, Magnus departs, mildly frustrated, but he can’t ever find the sense in waking you up. For a while, it keeps Rodimus appeased, and if he has to sacrifice some broken thermostats and delayed meetings to achieve it, then it’s worth it.

[yeonmuse]

21 QUESTIONS | Day 17

PAIRING bass player Hwa x interviewer reader

WORD COUNT | 1.7k

GENRE Smut

WARNING 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ‼️

SUMMARY you went in praying for a smooth interview, but by the end of it Seonghwa seemed a lot more interested in interviewing you

MORE | Day 17 of the Groupie Love Series

Interviews with the press, the one thing that their group absolutely dreaded more than anything else. The reporters were always far too deep in your business and always asked questions that never seemed to draw a line between personal and professionalism. So Seonghwa had been quite surprised to see you walk in far more sophisticated and elegant than the past reporters they’d talk to. He honestly found it amusing that you were taking it this serious, after all to him all you reporters were to him were grown adults with gossiping issues.

The moment you took a seat his eyes shifted to you from the couch he sat across from you. Taking in your frame from head to toe, he didn’t know if it was the fact that you showed no interest in him personally or the fact that you dressed the complete opposite of the man that sat before you and the rest of the band, but there was something about you he looked. You looked like a forbidden fruit desperate to meet someone’s lips, his of course.

“You don’t look like the type to be into rock bands.”

“And exactly what is that supposed to mean?” He leans in resting his arms on his thighs, seemingly observing you through lidded eyes.

“Just that you simply don’t look like the type that’d be into our music, in all honesty you don’t even look like the gossiping type.” His eyebrows quirk up with intrigue as you scoff and roll your eyes at him, giving him a subtle attitude.

“We just met each other today and you think you’ve read me like some book?”

“Just simply making an observation, though if you’d like me to read you I wouldn’t mind that.” Seonghwa chuckles as you roll your eyes at him once more, your conversation getting cut short as the rest of the band joins the two of you forcing you to stay the interview rather than completely give it to him for his narcissistic observations.

By the end of the interview all of them had cleared out of the room except for Seonghwa of course, having been too hung up on wanting to fix the earlier conversation he’d had with you.

“You know my offer still stands.”

“And what is that offer exactly?” He simply grins as you respond to him with your back still facing him, your focus seemingly on your questions and notes you had jotted down during the interview.

“To read you.”

“If you’re so sure you’ve got me all the way figured out then read me, because I can assure you you know nothing about me I can say far more about you or your little band than you could ever get right about me.”

“Is that right?”

“You all have made it this far simply because of your sex appeal, the music was good at ghost but now all of you rely on the sex, drugs and afterparties. You’re no longer legends because of the music but because of the good time you provide.” He slowly creeps in closer, caging you in between arms, his breath not on your neck.

“Continue, since you know so much.” It was obvious by the tone of voice that he was now annoyed with you, though what was worse for him was that he didn’t know if he was annoyed because you had struck a nerve or because you simply hit the nail on the head. You on the other hand felt a heat consuming your body as he locked you in place against the table before you, his body a little too close for comfort, yet you couldn’t get yourself to push him away.

“And you specifically, you’ve been drowning yourself in alcohol, women, men. Ever since…” you trailed off yet he knew all too well what you had been preventing yourself from saying. His hands squeezed your waist, nails piercing your skin as his grip tightened.

“You know what maybe I was wrong, all you reporters are the same, you talk too damn much.” He presses you against the table, bending you over and shoving your face and chest against the table.

“I think it’s about time someone shut one of you up.”

His fingers traced the arch of your back until they were wrapped around your neck.

“Always speaking on shit none of you know anything about.” You opened your mouth to speak but your ass being met by a harsh slap made a loud cry spill from them instead.

“Wait-“

“Wait what? Not done talking? After all that running your mouth you still have more talking to do?” He lands another harsh smack, then another.

“Speak then, since that’s your job. To run that pretty fucking mouth until ups tired of talking. Speak.” He was doing this on purpose, every one of his harsh spanks syncing perfectly with every time you’ve tried to open up your mouth and speak.

“So annoying, all of you. If you want to put your mouth to good use I’ll give you the perfect way to use it. You try to cover your mouth and ill call everyone back in here just to watch me fuck you, understand?” To his dissatisfaction you nod your head in response making him force your head back by your hair.

“Speak.”

“I understand..” Though your voice was faint and far more soft spoken compared to before when you were reading him for filth, he didn’t mind in fact he liked it that way.

his hands were now roaming your body while his mouth latched onto your neck. his fingers tracing every outline of your shoulders, back, arms, waist, and up to tangle into your beautiful hair. you breathed quietly; the pace of your breath picking up with heaves as his fingers traced your skin.

the warm, wet, heat in between your legs starts to pulse against your better judgement. Everything about this was wrong and made you feel desperate, yet you couldn’t pull yourself away. You could hear the rustling behind you as he tugs at the waist of his pants. With one hand wrapped around your hair and the other on his belt he managed to free his cock from his pants. Despite yourself being covered you melted at the way it pressed against your clothed bottom.

his hands slip around your waist to find the bottom of your white button up, unbuttoning every one of them with ease as if it had been something he’d done time and time again. His hangs then slip to your waist, untying the ribbon that has kept your pants tight and snug on your waist, wasting no time shoving your pants and panties down to your knees.

“All that talk about me and the women or men I’ve slept around with when you get this wet from me spanking you and bending you over.” He presses his tip against your core, sliding it around the wetness that was left from the mess in your panties.

“An absolute whore.”

Seonghwa impales himself into you without warning. your hands quickly grasp at the table beneath you, nails digging and scraping against the hard oakwood. your body betrays you , giving into his satisfaction you let out a lewd moan. The sudden intrusion makes you cry out at the way he stretched you out.

Grabbing your wrists he forces both your hands behind your back, bonding them together in his own hands.

his hips pull back to snap back into you causing your body to jolt. He groans at the feeling of your warm cunt wrapped around him. you squeeze him just right, far better than any of the othe groupies or needy pick me’s he’d had previously. You hugged him just right, squeezed him tight enough to make him cum on the spot. He rolls his hips around, pushing his cock as far as he can into you until he’s completely bottomed out. His eyes rolling back each time he feels his tip kissing your cervix. The whimpers and pornographic moans spilling from your lips making his hunger for you more primal.

“you’re so tight fuck,” he groans, his thrusts picking up. loud smacks of skin and the evident sounds of pleasure that spilled from your lips filling the room.

You let out small gasps of his name between each of your desperate cries of pleasure.

He yanks your head back staring down at your contorted face while his cock bullies into you with no resolve. your sobs and moans ring through his ears in a haunting melody that he knew he’d be thinking about again later on tonight. For a moment he heard you fall silent and a loud smack rang through the room as he smacked your ass.

“What did I tell you sweetheart?” in your silence, he makes a particular rough movement, shoving himself deeper than he had previously gone, enough to bruise your cervix and leave behind evidence that he had fucked you to the point of no return. you instantly let out a high pitched moan, mouth falling open and putting a smile on his face.

“Good girl.” his cock is pistoning in and out of your pussy over and over. his thrusts growing more erratic and desperate.

“Fuck i’m so close. What exactly should I do huh? Should I fill you with my cum, sweetheart. fuck a baby into you.” you moan out, your nails digging into the desk and clawing at it hard enough to leave scratch marks.

“You’d like that hm? Wouldn’t you princess after all the only reason you got this job was so you could be close to people like me hm? Work your way to the top.” He chuckles and yanks your head back.

“Fuck,” he moans, his thrusts are getting sloppy, simply chasing the feeling of being in climax.

“ fuck, you’re going to have to take this” he moans loudly, his body pressing against your own. You almost instantaneously feel the warm, sticky liquid fill you up. The fullness of it all makes you hum in satisfaction, even if you knew there was a 50/50 chance you’d be regretting it all later.

The room falls silent other than the sound of both of your heavy breathing and him rustling to fix his clothes.

“Add yourself to the list of people I’ve fucked since you’re so caught up on my count.”

His fingers gently trace over your waist as you fix your clothes and tie your ribbon back around your waist.

[unacknowledgeable]

For the SK reader series, will the reader get a love interest?? Because there's something so dark yet hypnotic when u find someone who doesn't want you to change, they accept you as you are, worms and all. Something akin to Hannibal and Will Graham if you get me.

Anyways, just wanted to say your series is so addictive and I can't wait to read more!

Y’know, I've thought about love interests so much this week, because ppl seem very interested in me introducing one and I genuinely can't decide which one I like the most, because I find them all utterly hilarious. 

For the “so what are we” Gothamite, think Mikasa from DeathNote lol. Those are the major vibes I'm getting from them, and I just jotted down some conversations I imagined. I'll just call them the ‘Near Victim Interest’ lol. 

SK!Reader: “I will rip your intestines out through your mouth and dance the night away with them lining my neck”

NV!Interest: “Oh dear god…Baby you promise?”

SK!Reader: “...What?” NV!Interest: “What?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NV!Interest: “That is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

SK!Reader: “I literally said I was going to split your head in half starting at the throat.”

NV!Interest: “Yeah, exactly.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NV!Interest: “Haha, sweetie is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see- oh i've been impaled.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NV!Interest: (Laid out on the embalming table, having gotten into readers work place) “paint me like one of your crime scenes”

SK!Reader: “How… did you get in here?”

NV!Interest: “Oh the commissioner let me in once I told him we’re dating! Gordy’s so nice, right?”

SK!Reader: “Wha- Gordy?? Wait- we’re NOT dating! I don't even know you!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anyway, one of the other “love interests” I've thought about was someone within the same Elite circles as SK!Readers “Mini-Brucie” persona. 

They’ll probably end up looking at this ditzy, airheaded, charismatic moron and, for just a second, catches a glimpse of how truly calculated the twitch of your lips are, how your eyes flash in cold fury at the touch of hands dragging you around the room, how the precise snap of your words works the room in your favor, intricately crafting every conversion you’ve been dragged into under your control, but never to the center stage.  In the blink of an eye, it’s all gone and they’re left thinking, ‘oh I could make you so much worse.’

 This person basically wants to groom the reader into the next “big bad” of Gotham, or maybe into joining The Court, without realizing just how far off the deep end SK!Reader already is. It’s like trying to teach someone the alphabet, while not knowing they can already read at a college level. 

They want to mold you into the perfect mastermind, able to rival the likes of Batman on wits alone, and wish to chisel at your marbled potential so that they may unleash their magnum opus upon the unwitting populace of Gotham. 

But… you just aren't interested in using your intellect for more than what you are now. You're quite content with operating as you have been, thank you very much. You have no intention of disrupting your meticulously maintained status quo. So, it's safe to say that this is getting proceedingly more frustrating on both sides. This person thinks you're putting all your potential to waste, unaware just how capable you really are, meanwhile you're trying to get this pompous asshole off your back so you can continue business as usual.

And my last love interest idea was diving more into the Jinx aspects of SK!Reader and going full TimeBomb lmaooo 

~Masterlist~

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

ANGST SHADOWXREADER IDE BC I CRAVE FOR ANGST LIKE A B★TCH

Hey I was wondering if you could do a shadow the hedgehog x reader fanfic where Reader gets corrupted by black doom (not possessed)

(Side note: I got this idea for the fact we know shadow HATES black doom and the black arms and was really shown in sxsg)

Reader acts more cold,apathy,untruthful and cruel

their fur now with a notice able fade of black,dark red and red, Their pupils now the same as black doom, they wear the same golden chains with a set of gold-spiked medallions possessing a gem, and a double black cord necklace with red, blue, yellow, and purple ornaments on one and golden and silver pendants on the other that resemble the Black Arms' insignia,their fingers? More like demonic claws, Voice? Cold and uninterested., rest of their outfit? Robe like Just like black doom’s and shows of uneasy aura and power

“Where it Hurts Most”

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Corrupted Mobian Reader

Requested: Yes (by an anon).

Description: Never did he think Black Doom would be back. And never did he think would he use the person that he loves most to hurt him–you.

Notes: I decided to set this during Shadow Generations so I hope you don’t mind! Hope you enjoy it regardless!

(Reader will be gender-neutral.)

(Not proof-read/beta-read.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

“(This white space is weird,)” you thought to yourself. “(I haven’t seen anyone in here!)”

You had been transported here suddenly on your way to Sonic’s birthday party, and you hadn’t even seen any sign of Sonic.

Or Shadow, for that matter.

Or…anyone.

It was beginning to worry you.

When you next take a step, something wraps around your foot, causing you to yelp out of surprise.

It…seems to be this black-colored goop.

When you take a step back, the goop attaches itself to the ground and pulls you further.

“Nononono, I’m not dying like this!” you yell, trying to pull yourself free.

“FOOLISH FLESH,” you hear a voice say. “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DIE. NO, IT’LL BE MUCH, MUCH WORSE.”

You let out a loud scream as you’re dragged into the goop, it surrounding your body, a burning sensation covering you until your vision goes black.

When you next awake, you feel…better.

Stronger.

Perfect.

Looking down at your body, it seems you’ve undergone some fantastic transformations.

Your fur is now black and red, with gold chains littering your body, with a gold medallion placed near your neck, like a better necklace.

Different colored ornaments are strewn about the chains, and oh my Doom, your claws.

They seem to gradient into a black on your fingers, with your claws being ever-so-slightly red.

You also appear to be wearing a robe similar to your new overlord.

Black Doom.

Before you can admire your new form any longer, a set of footsteps causes your now dark-red-tipped ears to flick.

You turn around, looking at the mobian responsible for these footsteps, only to find fear in his eyes.

Shadow’s eyes.

…

Good.

“[Name]? What the hell happened to you?!” Shadow asks.

You let out a chuckle, an echo in your voice.

“I became better, Shadow,” you tell him. “And you can become better, too. Join me on the side of the Black Arms, and we’ll never be apart again.”

Shadow lets out a growl, getting into a defensive stance.

“I don’t want to fight you, [Name],” Shadow says. “Just snap out of it.”

“Snap out of what, exactly?” you ask him. “My glorious new overlord’s control?”

“Let them go, Black Doom! Right this instant!” Shadow demands.

“I’M AFRAID I WON’T BE DOING THAT, SHADOW,” you and Black Doom say at the same time. “THEY’VE BECOME BETTER, STRONGER, DON’T YOU SEE? YOU CAN BECOME JUST. LIKE. THEM.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…I’d NEVER join you!” Shadow states.

“THEN HAVE FUN GETTING YOUR PRECIOUS [NAME] BACK,” Black Doom spats. “YOU MAY NOT BE ABLE TO BREAK THEM OUT OF THEIR CORRUPTION.”

“Go on then, Shadow,” you start with a mocking voice. “Attack me.”

“I’m sorry for this, [Name],” Shadow mutters to himself. “But I’ll get you back. I promise.”

[leviathan-supersystem]

i've noticed democrats want to be perceived both as moderate centrists, *and*, at the same time, perceived as the farthest left the overton window can go, with no one further to the left of them.

these goals are incompatible. if they successfully frame themselves as moderate centrists, there's going to be people to the left of them who don't vote for them.

if these people on the left (such as myself) *were* to vote for them and support them, they would be perceived as a left-wing, even far-left party.

this is true even if they, somehow, managed to get us to vote for their party without making any concessions to the far left whatsoever, even if every one of us truly was convinced by "well the other guy's worse" style arguments and the policy remained exactly the same. just fundamentally there is no way for them to get every far left radical to vote for and endorse their party without being perceived as the kind of party that left-wing radicals would vote for.

despite what they'll claim this wouldn't be an obstacle to winning at all, they could absolutely make the case that radical leftism is exactly what is needed in this time (since that's true) and like, obama was widely (incorrectly, but widely) perceived as being on the far left and won two terms. but since democrats would rather die (and/or lose perpetually) than even pretend to cede any ground to the left, here we are ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[larluce]

First I wanted to say hello and tell you that I love your works. They really have me on the edge of my seat every time I read them.

Second. Can you imagine that Merlin, in some new alternative universe, for some reason, upon arriving in Camelot, arrives with a baby? It's all still a Merthur ending, it should be noted.

Like, we know that Merlin was already a bit of an outcast in the village for the reason that nobody knew who his father was and even more so because strange things were always happening around him.

The situation gets much worse when he finds a crying baby in the middle of a burnt tent near the village.

Will and his mother try to help him for a while, but with the visits of the evildoers to the village becoming more and more frequent, Merlin and the baby have no choice but to go to Camelot.

And so the adventures begin!

Only now Arthur wonders if they can make crowns for babies, because he is willing to marry Merlin and legally adopt the baby as his own.

And Morgana… well, she and Gwen enjoy dressing up the baby in all the clothes from her old dolls. Not to mention that she notices that by taking naps with the baby she no longer has nightmares.

The knights become, in some way or another, glorified nannies. The servants and maids must chase after a baby who never stops causing mischief in the castle.

And Merlin just wants to survive colic season and potty train his baby… and everything would be easier if there weren't a murderer or a resentful wizard trying to kill Arthur every 3 minutes.

First, thank you so much for the compliments! 🥹🤧❤️

About the concept. I love it! I don't think going to Camelot to live would be Merlin or Hunith's first option for a baby that can't control their magic at all. So I firmly believe Hunith would send Merlin with the baby there so Gaius can take them to a druid camp so they could take refuge there.

The problem is, before Gaius can do so, Merlin is made the prince's personal manservant. Merlin can't exactly deny the king and he does need the money to take care of his baby so he decides to stay to Gaius dismay. Gaius and Merlin try to keep the baby hided at first so they take turns taking care of her (in my mind is a her) in Gaius' tower in secret. It works out for some weeks but then the plague (Nimueh's Afanc) happens and Arthur searches Gaius' tower.

Arthur: (enters Merlin's room) Merlin: (running inside) Arthur, wait! Baby: (sitting on the bed, looks up at Arthur and gives a cute giggle) Arthur: (Turns to Merlin slowly) Merlin? Merlin: Yeah? 😅 Arthur: Why is there a baby in your bed? Merlin: (in panic, shouts the first thing that comes to his mind) She is mine! Arthur: ... Arthur: What? 😧 Merlin: (repeats more quietly but more firmly) She is mine. (runs to hold her up and embraces her) She is my daugther. Arthur: (thinking) But... but he is so young. (says) Where's the mother? Merlin: (with pain as he remembers the burnt tent) She passed away. Arthur: (his heart hurting for Merlin) I'm so sorry. But Gods Merlin, why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have given you so many chores if I knew... (thinking) And I almost sacked you. I almost sacked a single father with a baby in arms! (says) And why the hell are you hiding her? Merlin: I... wasn't sure if I could keep her. Arthur: Of course you can keep her! What kind of master do you think I am? Knight x: (from outside) Sire? Arthur: (shouts back) In a minute! (to Merlin) What's her name? Merlin: Brigitta. Arthur: (repeats softly and smiles) Brigitta.

From then on, Arthur doesn't give Merlin as many chores and raises his salary considerably. And then everybody else finds out about Briggitta and go "I've only met Brigitta for a day and a half, but if anything happened to her, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself".

Some events would change, obviously, and some would remain the same but with a new perspective. I don't think Merlin would have time to make Lancelot a fake seal, for example, having to look after Brigitta and all. I can imagine Lancelot becoming Brigitta's first unnofficial babysiter, then Arthur makes it official so poor Lancelot has a salary and a place to stay in Camelot. The Poisoned Chalice episode would remain the same, except Arthur would be more in panic mode and desperate because MERLIN HAS A DAUGHTER! BRIGITTA CAN'T LOSE HER FATHER TOO!

I think it would be The Beginning of the End where Arthur and Morgana find out about Brigitta's magic and Merlin's magic. Not because they discovered her, surprisingly, but Merlin decided to tell them all the truth about her and himself after seeing how they saved Mordred. Also, since Merlin saw Brigitta's possible future in Mordred, he wants to leave Camelot too to keep her safe. Screw all what the dragon told him about destiny, his daugther comes first.

So Merlin and Brigitta are about to leave with Mordred with the druids. They are having a heartfelt goodbye with Arthur, who scorted them there, but then...

Brigitta: (cries very loudly in Merlin's arms and the earth starts shaking a bit) Merlin: I know, I know, baby, but we have to go. Brigitta: (cries more loudly and extends her little arms to Arthur) Arthur: (barely containing his tears) I'll miss you too, Biddy. But this is the best for you- Brigitta: ATHU! 😭 Arthur: (open his eyes wide) What did she just said? Brigitta: (still crying and making grabby hands at him) ATHU, ATHU, ATHU! 😭 Arthur: (tears roll down his eyes) She said my name... Merlin, she said my name! (grinning widely) Let me hold her one more time, please! Merlin: (gives Brigitta to Arthur) Druid leader: (urgently) We need to leave now! Merlin: (looking at Arthur and Brigitta tenderly and smiles) Leave, we'll stay.

I also can imagine Nimueh going after Brigitta's life instead of Hunith, and having to confront not only a very furious Merlin, but a feral protective prince.

That's how far my imagination can go. If you have any ideas of how Merlin and Arthur or other character would act in other episodes now with Brigitta in the equation, share it in the comments or reblogs. I'll be happy to read you 🥰

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (6)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Reader x agust d, Bts x reader,

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, enemies to friends to lovers, Healing & Themes of trauma,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 4.7k

—  Warnings: Suspense, Death, Murder, Poisoning, Angst, Organized crime, Brief body horror, References to violence

—  Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! — 

Apparently, they’d been found together in the house. Both of them dead side by side.

The Don had passed first and the beta second. Mumbling something, brain scrambled from an aneurism or worse. Their deaths too close together to not be suspicious. Not to be caused.

But then again, the Beta and the Don had always been close. Close enough to die on the same day.

It’s strange for many of them to think of a beta loving someone so much that they’d stay in one place for a year- let alone the 40 that the last Don’s partner had stayed. Being romantically involved with the Don isn’t a requirement of the beta (and thank God for that) their romance although fruitless and without children, had been a natural progression of spending countless hours together.

Yoongi can only hope that the next Don he’ll choose will not require as much attention from him. 

Yoongi knows exactly what it feels like to love someone enough that society’s expectations are only a backdrop. Yoongi knew the beta well, and that weekend- he mourns her just as much as he mourned his parents.

Many in the family think them dying so close to each other is a little bit too fortuitous to be entirely accidental or age. The shadow of an unseen threat hangs in the balance. Murdered or dead, what does it matter? The effect is the same.

There is no Don right now. There is only Yoongi. And the decision of who will inherit the criminal empire lies solely on his shoulders. 

The rules of secession are simple and laid out in terms that the families do not argue with; to be eligible a contender must have direct lineage from one of the founding families.

A head of house is preferred for the role but not required. No adopted members or outsiders. Older than 20 but younger than 55 because the fewer changes of power the better. If they kept merely picking the eldest, the Don would die and change once or twice every decade and that’s too often for the kind of stability required by the family.

No Omegas or Betas either. The Don can only be an Alpha. 

Yoongi will choose the successor by himself. There will be no changing and recanting once he’s made his choice. Although bribery and bargaining are still on the table. He’ll have 120 days from the funeral to make his choice and during that time a moratorium is placed on all major decisions in regard to marriage, deaths, engagement, and alliances. None of the families’ assassins will be called for hits and there will be no naming of any newborn pups in the time being.

And if by chance Yoongi dies before the next Don is chosen, it would come down to a vote between the 12 heads of house.

~-~

(You and Yoongi. 115 days before).

Yoongi doesn’t meet you at the funeral, although he’s sure you must have been there.

Months later he’ll think back to if he saw you and decide that he didn’t because you hadn’t wanted to be noticed. You’d have probably made yourself small for it- sunk into the shadows where you’d avoid detection and suspicion to watch the masses like a teeming anthill. Perhaps you’d turned your gaze skyward towards the end just as he had, to beg for a savior in the vaulted ceiling above.

He doesn’t meet you at the funeral- but at the next family dinner the following Saturday. The meal offers no salvation or satiation. Nothing that either of you are looking for.

Both of you meet hungry.

The family has given him his own personal driver to ferry Yoongi in between his hotel and the various family meetings in the week following the funeral. He’ll only be staying at the hotel for a few more nights until the beta’s residence has been cleared out for him.

During that week Yoongi meets with each of the heads of house personally and privately to re-learn the names of their eligible alphas. He leaves his own brother for last. To make him nervous- or to save the best. Geumjae can choose what narrative he wants.

All he can think about during the drive to the Don’s house is that it’s all terribly predictable that Geumjae wants this. That he wants the throne.

Thinking back on it- what didn’t he want growing up? More candy and the more desert. More toys and more presents on his birthday. More and more and more. The fastest car and the most lethal gun. What wasn’t he entitled too as his father’s heir and the default favorite?

Just like back then- Geumjae is the default here. Choosing him wouldn’t alarm anyone- he might not even be the worst choice in the eyes of the heads of house. Few have shown themselves to be as ruthless and even fewer have taken the family to greater heights than Geumjae has taken the Min family too.

Geumjae isn’t just a good pick, he’s the expected one.

Yoongi doesn’t like the way that the expectations feel, how they worm their way under his skin. Geumjae is an eligible alpha, it’s only natural that he’d want the power and money awarded to the Don’s position.  

His threats from the other night bounce around the inside of Yoongi’s head. He can’t forget them; what Geumjae insinuated.

The idea of his pack getting caught up in all of this makes his blood run cold. Survival is a particular drug, and Yoongi feels it block out all of his love for them- the memory of them, all his little wants and concerns boiling down to abject horror at what Geumjae insinuated the other night. The pack’s survival is the one thing Yoongi cares about, it falls even above his own.

If Yoongi has to make the choice, it will be easy.

The next Don won’t be chosen for the next 120 days as is tradition. What he should do is live out the 120 days, name Geumjae Don and then high tail it out of here. Geumjae might be so thankful that he lets Yoongi go without comment. Maybe he could barter the position with the condition that Yoongi was allowed to go and leave this all behind. A life for an empire. It seems like a fair trade.

Maybe then he could get back to the pack before Christmas.

He checks his phone again for the dozenth time this week. The packs texts have grown more and more worried. Yoongi spends so much of his time looking down at his phone, finger hovering over the call button. Unable to pull the trigger. It’s too much of a risk, even texting them could turn curious eyes in their direction.

Jimin (5:34pm): Do you need help? Just say yes and I’ll find you. Hyung please, just let us know if you’re alright.

He has to act carefully- deliberate. Maybe he’ll call Namjoon and tell him he’d be gone for a few more weeks than he thought, maybe he shouldn’t risk even that. Even that might put them at risk.

Yoongi has 120 days to make sure that the pack don’t get caught up in this, 120 days before he can text them, before he can go home and hope that they’ll forgive him. He doesn’t know what story he’ll tell them or how he’ll justify it. I was hurt, I was in a coma, I couldn’t text you, I was stuck halfway in a ditch. I just lost track of time.

But the real justification, the truth, is something he’ll need to take to his grave.

Until the Don is decided, Yoongi’s the one who will govern the affairs of the family.

There will be no death and no punishments, A time for everyone to gather and mourn and talk about what needs to be done, each voice heard in equal measure. It’s his job as the only beta left to make sure the family doesn’t fall prey to infighting while the next leader is being chosen.

Although the past Don’s house will sit vacant until the next is chosen, they still have family dinners there.

The general rule is that one member of each house should be in attendance every week, there could be more- but there are rarely more than 40 people at the table. Not many of them are in possession of large enough houses to fit their group though Yoongi’s sure half of them are preparing their mansions. To have these meetings on their own turf might give them an advantage. They’re willing to try anything that might give them an edge.

The Don’s compound is neutral ground and yet, a reminder with its sprawling decadent expanse and gardens of what they all stand to gain if they convince Yoongi to choose their sons or daughters.

With its many tiers built into a hill and hidden by high walls, the expansive rooftop gardens guard well-lit doorways and ample balconies of the Don’s residence. The roses at the front have few blooms, mostly just sharp green leaves, this late in the year most things are dying and few are growing.

A Jacko lanterns sits at the bottom of the stairs, carved with a gruesome grimace. The long marble steps are wide enough that a dozen people could ascend at the same time. But Yoongi still hears the hissed protest from one of the elders. They shrivel their nose at it, their scent is so dull with age that Yoongi can’t tell if they used to be an alpha or an omega. 

“American traditions should have no place at our table.”

Yoongi wishes they’d give it a rest. Or at least speak in English, his Korean is rusty.

The heads of the family are done up in their finest suits and gowns, all black. But the logos that glimmer and fine tailoring betray the price of their adornments. It will be a little while before anyone feels comfortable wearing any color. He makes his rounds, saying hello and embracing people whose names he can hardly remember. Wishing condolences and congratulations with equal fervor. And endlessly repeating “I’ve made no decision yet” to anyone who dares even hint at wondering who he’s going to name Don.  

Yoongi almost forgot what the mansion looked like it’s been years since he last set foot here. The roman columns glitter in candlelight. The candied persimmons from last season lie in heaps around an altar with the Don and Betas face displayed large. Hundreds of candles dance in the breeze as each house pays their respect and passes. The incense stings Yoongi’s nose but the cold marble floors and sparce decorations are the same as he remembers. The usually fragrant trees in the entryway sit barren of both fruit and blooms.

But there is one person who lingers at the altar, more still than a statue and avoided like the plague.

Yoongi falls into step next to the women and stays quiet.

Mating marks are a dangerous game, a dangerous promise that thankfully Yoongi will be omitted from- because beta’s don’t mate. A bite to the scent gland on the throat- a bite anywhere really, that binds your life to another person’s for eternity.

Yoongi smiles at Mrs. Zhang, the omega of the late head of the house for that same family name. She has glassy eyes but a kind face, and before her husband died, she was one of the omega’s who regardless of family or status, would always drag the pups in for a treat in exchange for a bit of obedience and help folding dumplings.

But she gives no response to him now. Nothing at all that shows she’s reciprocated his kindness or even realized there is another human being beside her. Yoongi knows that her son has taken to bringing her to these family dinners because he feels like it reminds her of better times. Brings her closer to the surface. But part of Mrs. Zhang will always remain with her mate, part of her will always remain dead and there’s no bringing it back.

To lose your mate is to become a ghost- that’s what they’re called, both with insult and with ignobility. The alpha’s and omega’s who lose their bonded partners either die or turn into these specters.  Around 75% of living mates die after their partner passes, it’s not always instant. They’re not really in the clear until a year or so after.

And then there’s the mating marks, and what happens to them.

Yoongi knows he’s staring at it but honestly, he doesn’t think Mrs. Zhang even notices he’s looking. The mark on the side of her throat is pitch black, the skin the color of charcoal or poison. Two small circles that have branded themselves into the side of her throat forever. Thin black tracery stains everywhere, following her veins. Tracing all the way up her neck and across part of her face. Even touching her eye, staining the whites of it dark and hazy.

The color changed associated with ones mate dying has always creeped Yoongi out. The marks, usually silvery or small and pink when fresh, go black as death once it’s happened. It always reminded Yoongi of a cheesy zombie movie (that’s where zombie movies came from after all).

Yoongi alerts one of his cousins on the Zhang side of the family tree, and heads inside without making sure that Mrs. Zhang has been properly cajoled back into her wheelchair.

Even back when he still lived in this city- he was still much more used to the beta’s headquarters than this limestone monstrosity. He knows that the Don rarely slept in this house. It exists for one reason and one reason only.

Appearances.

Appearances are important. It’s evident in the decadent spread on the table. Family dinners are usually prepared by one of the aunties or elders, always an omega. Cooking for everyone is not something the younger family members are usually allowed to do- a point of pride and so terribly sexist that Yoongi can feel Seokjin roll his eyes from a world away.

He can almost hear Seokjin’s voice. He’d certainly have more indelicate things to say about the omega’s sitting around the long table. Each one is perfectly poised at their alpha’s side- but near uniform. Black dresses, red lipstick, hair pulled back into a low bun or ponytail. Not a hair out of place.

All but one. One omega does not have their hair pulled back. At least not entirely, shorter face framing pieces hide your cheekbones.

Yoongi’s eyes do not hover on you.

Although this dinner might have been cooked by the grannies and other trusted omegas, this one is catered by a small staff. Yoongi takes distant note of which family members thank the butlers in their suit coats and which ones make them spill their punch for a laugh.

Your hair falls loose around your face, hiding the way your eyes dart from person to person and Yoongi spies more than one of the elders eyeing you with distaste. It’s hard to find an excuse to look at you, a few people to his left.

You’re at Geumjae’s side, carefully poised, not a finger out of place as you smile and answer the questions asked to you politely- never instigating a conversation with another soul at the table. Picking at your food.

You’re his brother’s new omega wife. The fact that Yoongi never attended the wedding is something he’s teased about but no one really minds. It’s chalked up to his flightiness as a beta. You know how they are- said sagely with a smile, chagrined understanding that does not comfort Yoongi.

He’d always wondered which woman his brother had married, and now confronted with you. He finds himself curious.

It’s dangerous to be curious.

You might be married to Geumjae, but that doesn’t mean you’re a head of house like the other wives. You’re an outsider. Married in. A generation ago, it would have been a scandal. You’ll always be treated with a little bit of reluctance and a little bit of spite. You’re not related to any of them by blood, and that makes you a liability. A risk not all of them are willing to take. 

It doesn’t help that you’re the youngest omega at the table by a few years. You look a little too young- both to be here and by Geumjae’s side. You can’t be much older than Jongho. The wolves at the table eye you like you could be easy prey. 

Yoongi knows you are easy prey.

At first, you’re unremarkable- if not for the gentle sweet scent that flicks across Yoongi’s nose, something refreshing that Yoongi can’t place. It’s something that makes him instantly miss his Seokjin and Jungkook back home. The yearning for them lighting little sparks of heat on his cheeks. Yoongi tells himself that’s the only reason why he finds his eyes hovering on you.

Throughout the whole evening, you stick close to your husband’s side as a good omega should. One of the grannies praises you for knowing your place. Yoongi rolls his eyes internally at that. Gender roles are more strictly enforced within older packs and Yoongi grew up with this, but it’s still nauseating.  

Not all couples wear mating marks and neither do either of you yet. Yoongi notices that there is little on your neck besides a gaudy diamond necklace. So thick it almost looks like a collar. A little tacky. He wonders if you chose it or if Geumjae did.

Geumjae takes it off when one of the grannies asks to look at your unmarked neck, teasing, making sure you’re not hiding a mating mark under there. “The grannies like to look,” someone giggles, In Korean.

Yoongi doesn’t have to wonder if you know Korean because you hardly have any response when someone else replies. “Why? She’s hardly pretty. I don’t get what all the fuss is. It’s a shame really, that Jae ended up with such a wife.”

Moonbyul and her omega is here, her hair pinned back, short enough that she can’t put it in a bun but still tamed. It takes Yoongi a second to remember her name- Hyejin. 

Hyejin snaps at the other omega, “That reeks strongly of jealousy.”

“Your crow’s feet are showing.”

Hyejin scoffs, “You wish.” She answers, in English. Yoongi watches you turn, watches as Moonbyul’s omega looks at you blatantly and you exchange a look.  Your eyes dart back to your plate just as quickly.

Yoongi almost says something. Almost.

You stay utterly still when Geumjae leans to peck at your throat. But Yoongi catches your nostrils flaring ever so slightly.

Getting marked is more binding than a marriage pact- it’s agreeing to share your soul with someone. To intertwine your life with theirs’s. Which is why most people in the family choose to have mating marks- especially if they commit to bringing in an outsider. You can’t snitch on someone who can smell when you’re lying; you can’t kill someone who dies if you do. One of Yoongi’s female cousins asks you when you’ll do it, and you admit- sounding a little too relieved to escape notice- that you’ve decided to wait until your next heat to solidify the mating.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything but eat his meal and observe the way that Geumjae sets your diamond necklace across his thigh. Jongho sits at the other end of the table. And he’s distracted momentarily by the same elder from earlier who complained about the carved pumpkins telling off one of the staff for serving steak that’s medium rare and not rare.

Jongho cringes, and then their voices raise, alerting Yoongi to his plight.

“Don’t you know real alphas eat their meat raw,” she hisses, the youthful waiter apologizes. Holding a tray Infront of his midriff like it might guard his internal organs from her ire. “In my day we’d have taken your fingers for this.”

Geumjae grins next to Yoongi, laughing at how the waiter looks like he’s close to pissing his pants.

“They would not have.”

Yoongi ignores the way that the conversation quiets and the table falls silent. The same way he ignores the way that every face turns to look at him.

The elder splutters. They’re clearly not used to being interrupted, not used to being told off. And why would they be? Only Yoongi would dare, only Yoongi has the right to cajole and corral all of these people here.

Yoongi takes another bite. You put down your glass of wine, the red liquid in the glass sloshing. He watches you from the corner of his eye.  

“Yes, they would have.” It feels like bickering with a child so Yoongi chews slow, letting the table grow more and more quiet. More and more anxious.

“Do you really want to disagree with me?” he keeps his voice flat, lets the threat of the unknown linger. They can interpret his mask as they want, the level way he speaks, and interpret it as a threat without it actually being one. Yoongi takes great pains to gesture with his fork and not his knife. “You’re always going on about how the younger generation has no manners, why don’t you give us a demonstration and apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing to a fucking omega.”

Yoongi puts his fork down. And raises his eyebrow.

Jongho puts a hand on the table. “I agree with hyung, you should apologize.”

The hyung rings out, and suddenly the rest of the table is clambering to agree with Yoongi, following in Jongho’s footsteps. Calling Yoongi hyung sends a very particular message. Yoongi knows better, Jongho is just as cunning as Yoongi suspected.

The apology falls from the elder’s mouth after another breath. The waiter bows, accepts it, and walks back to the kitchen. Yoongi doesn’t see him for the rest of the evening. Yoongi goes back to observing the table. Dragged into meaningless conversation after meaningless conversation and the moment dissipates.

Yoongi doesn’t miss the way that Geumjae’s fingers dig into your neck, arm around your shoulder. Or the way that he can see faint bruises on your wrists when your sleeve falls down. Hidden partially by a set of thick gold bracelets. A gift from Geumjae you say when Yoongi compliments them.

Yoongi doesn’t say that they look more like shackles than anything else.

You meet his eyes over the table and your gaze quickly flickers away. Your attention is as fickle as a butterfly in a garden full of thorned roses. Prey animals have attention that goes all the way around- to keep an eye out for predators.

Your eyes hover on him longest. And Yoongi cannot help but feel like you’re assessing a new potential threat.

Yoongi has his suspicions already- and he’s only had one meal with you.

Which is why he compliments the bracelets. Yoongi knows how to be delicate. “Maybe you could show me where to find something like them,” he comments idly, talking to omegas about trinkets isn’t suspicious.

The other omegas sat at the table are dressed like a bunch of haughty crows, bespeckled with enough diamonds to put a jewelry store out of business. They eye Yoongi like he might be something shiny.  

“I think my omegas might like them something like that.”

They all know he has a pack, why should he hide it? Why shouldn’t he say it? Maybe it will stop the haughty omega across the table from preening, from looking at him like Yoongi’s his next meal. His fingers tap against the low v of his neckline, showing more with every twitch of his fingers. Tilting his neck to show his scent gland, his unmarked neck, His Delicately curly hair and a blotted lip is pretty, all but Simpering in his direction.

It’s a lie- both Jungkook and Seokjin hate heavy jewelry. Beyond the occasional studs or the hoops that Jungkook rarely ever takes out. Yoongi’s not really sure why he asks, why he offers to get you alone, why you look at him warily.

Maybe you suspect that Yoongi is like his brother. They look similar enough- almost twins in the right light. The only thing that really makes them look different is the scar that crosses Geumjae’s eye. You glance over at Geumjae and wait for his small nod of approval before you agree to his invitation.

You’re his sister-in-law for Christ’s sake. He should get to know you a little especially since you’re a part of the family now. Yoongi knows from experience how daunting this can be.  How overwhelming the family is.

Reluctantly, he has to admit that there are things about Geumjae that he wants to figure out.

Yoongi wonders why he feels like he’s justifying it.

~-~

The end of the dinner does not go entirely without conquest.

The family is fat and happy and tired from the meal, dotting mouths and taking mints and cocaine lines in the drawing room after tea and coffee. Yoongi declines some but Geumjae doesn’t. He watches as your husband leans in, pecks you on your still bare throat.

“Wait for me at home. Don’t sleep.”

You nod and exit with barely more than a look in his direction. Your eyes slide over Yoongi and everyone else like water sliding over glass.

Yoongi aims to follow. Aims to officially meet you but gets dragged into another conversation just before the stairs. You are down the steps already, waiting two steps from the bottom for the valet to bring your car around. Your breath mists in the cold fall air, a thick dark fur wrapped around your shoulders, but you shiver anyway. Yoongi bids his farewell to the others and goes after you.

Yoongi spends his descent observing you.

Yoongi watches as you reach up and tug your hair out of the bun and let it fall around your shoulders. Slowing when he descends to spend another second looking. The woman was definitely lying earlier when they called her ugly, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Seokjin says in his ear.

Jungkook’s chimes in too, if I’m model pretty and Jinnie is statue pretty then she’s like, fairy pretty or something.

Yoongi wonders if you’d have dared to do that if Geumjae was next to you. The breeze tickles your loose locks, picked up by the wind. His expensive shoes clack against the stairs. But no sooner is he nearing you than a commotion begins behind him and Yoongi turns.

It’s Jongho, it happens so quickly that Yoongi can hardly piece together what he’s seeing.

His father is trying to hold him up, but he can’t quite as he starts to teeter and fall. Jongho’s knees hit the marble steps with a loud crack, and he collapses clutching at his throat and spluttering for breath. His face goes red then purple, eyes bloodshot and bulging. Foam frothing at his mouth. It only takes a few seconds, and Yoongi finds himself jerking forward in his direction. But it’s too late.

Choi senior howls from the steps clutching at his son while he dies.

Yoongi’s heart thuds in his ears as the family surrounds the two of them, calling for the staff, for the doctor but it’s too late. By the end of it Jongho is sprawled on the steps looking up at the cloudy sky. There is blood vessels burst in his eyes red bleeds from the iris out. Yoongi is holding his shoulders but there’s nothing really that he can do.

The staff rush forward but there’s nothing to be done he twitches and falls still. “My son! Someone help my son!” Yoongi tries not to vomit all over the steps as Choi Senior pushes the rest away, nocking someone back into him.

The omegas are off to the side in a gaggle, gasping and clinging to each other, one of them leans close to the other.

“Isn’t it against family laws to take out a hit on someone during the morning period?”

“It is, do you think someone will be punished?”

“I hope it’s not my alpha.”

“Same.”  

I’m being punished Yoongi thinks, letting Choi senior clutch at him. Letting him sob into the beta’s arms under the indifferent eyes of everyone around, their muttering. Someone asks what they should do with the body. “We must find who did this we must-” Yoongi nods and grips his hand. Trying not to spill his dinner.

When Yoongi turns to look back at you. Your car has already started to pull away from the steps. Your face hidden from view by the tinted window.

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

-I went back and added the section so that we see someone with a dead mating mark so that we have CONTEXT honestly a god tier level thought. I feel like this rounds out that part of the story so well.

- Once again I’m hoping that people understand my weird formatting. If something is said in italics that means it’s in Korean! If it’s not mentioned over the phone or in a text message. Basically, my thought process is that things that are said out of the normal guise of conversation- or communicated in a way that is atypical, as a thought or apart of someone’s internal monologue then it should be italicized.

- SPOILERS- there’s something about reading this section where she’s sat at the table with the knowledge that she killed the last don and the beta, that makes all the things the others are saying/thinking about her so fucking funny like she really played them all! She did that! like fuck! reading Yoongi call her easy prey and knowing that he’s severely underestimating her is so- wow I really wrote this!

- Yoongi is lowkey really funny when he’s like ‘I’m being punished’ listening to the people be calloused about the death.

[chaifootsteps]

Not viv trying to act like a social activist with HB, lol. “A show about rising from the world wants you to be” It’s a show about a shitty toxic relationship where the lower class is coerced by the rich elitist into sex so his and the employees livelihood isn’t fucked with. Even that speech where blitz is the court yelling about a hierarchy that doesn’t matter because in the end it’s all about stolas. He’s saved because the rich owl man saved his life and they try to portray stolas as a tragic hero instead of the rapist who’s getting his comeuppance

side note but this is why alot of SA survivors don’t like the rep in HH/HB because of characters like stolas. coercion is rape especially when someone is in control of a persons livelihood how they make their money and if you don’t do this you won’t get this, that’s blackmail. Brandon acknowledges and even lets his tongue slip that it was coercion and stolas objectified blitz. However viv doesn’t wanna address it but gets hostile and angry when SA survivors point this out.

They turned striker a working class into a villain and an idiot because he wants to kill the higher class but also works for them and is called a supremacist and worse than them. As if IMP and fizz weren’t doing the exact same shit, they ALL depend on the higher class for survival. If anything the show is trying to conform the lower class into believing as long as the rich are “the good ones” it’s ok to be in their servitude. Mammon wasn’t a “good one” because he was mean and fat.

It's a show about becoming exactly what the world wants you to be and how you're a bad person for not literally sucking off the rich. No wonder HH runs on Amazon Prime, Bezos probably took one look at Viv's stuff and his chair got wet.

[shezzabee]

I keep seeing people suggest that In-ho must feel bad about deceiving Gi-hun—like he’s sitting there thinking, "I’m sorry I did it, I wish I hadn’t."

Honestly, I don’t think In-ho feels any remorse at all. This is the same man who shot his own brother and (supposedly) left him to die in the ocean without a second thought. The same man who killed Jung-bae simply because he became too big of an inconvenience to their little private game.

Pretending to be someone he’s not anymore—because I firmly believe the Young-il persona died with his wife and unborn child—was nothing more than a slap on the wrist for him.

I’m not applauding his actions, but let’s be real: In-ho could’ve been so much worse. He could’ve sided with Player 100 and his band of thugs, could’ve easily turned the entire player base against Gi-hun and his group of misfits right from the start. If he’d wanted, he could’ve ensured that none of Gi-hun’s friends made it past the Mingle game.

Deceiving Gi-hun was nothing to In-ho. Just another move in the game.

For Gi-hun though, this betrayal is going to cut deep. He’s inherently good—he believes in people, believes there’s goodness in everyone, even Young-il who initially voted to stay. And that belief is exactly why this will sting in ways he isn’t ready for. Because in the end, he’s going to realize that In-ho isn’t some irredeemable monster. He’s just a reflection of what Gi-hun might’ve become, given the right—or wrong—circumstances.