#Just trying to get back in the swing of things

[kryptoclark]

better late than never.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: you decide to spend your summer between jobs back in your hometown, smallville. it comes to a surprise to both you and your childhood best friend, clark kent, that you're both visiting at the same time. there's nothing quite like the summertime air to help old memories resurface – and maybe stir some old feelings back to life.

wc: 7.1k

genre/tags: fluff, smut (they fuck in his childhood bedroom), childhood friends to lovers, a little inspired by the show smallville, p in v sex, fingering, oral (fem. receiving), size kink, slight praise kink, p w plot, protected sex (reader on bc), creampie.

smallville smells like childhood.

the kind of sticky warmth that clings to your skin and hums with the buzz of cicadas. you'd almost forgotten the sound – how different it was from the constant beeping of hospital monitors or the rush of sirens outside your apartment window.

here, everything is slower. simpler.

you shield your eyes against the sun as you step off the porch, a basket of wet laundry tucked against your hip. martha had insisted you didn't have to help and that you were a guest, but sitting around all day felt like a punishment. after three years in the er, even your burnout had a work ethic.

your sneakers crunch against the gavel path as you head to the clothesline held together by two wooden posts. the kent farm hasn't changed since high school. same creaky porch swing, the same barn, the same fresh-smelling grass. you half-expect to see clark come around the corner, tossing a football in the air, eyes too kind for his own good.

instead, it's the front door that creaks open behind you.

you don't turn around right away. the sound barely registers to you, not until martha calls out from the doorway, warm and surprised.

"clark, honey! we didn't expect you 'til lunch!"

you freeze.

clark kent.

you haven't heard his name out loud in... gosh, years. not since graduation. you've kept tabs of course. who hadn't? he's kind of famous now – a reporter for one of metropolis' biggest papers. the same one that always seems to get the exclusive with superman.

when you turn around, basket still perched on your hip, there he is.

and his eyes catch yours.

something in your chest does a funny thing.

he's broader now. older obviously, but it's more than that. he moves with quiet deliberate ease as he walks up the driveway, like he's always measuring his steps. he's wearing a long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing strong forearms,.

he pauses when he sees you. and for a second neither of you say a word.

"y/n?" he says finally, voice warm but uncertain.

martha's voice breaks out before you have a chance to respond. "clark, didn't i tell you we had some help with the farm this summer?"

clark slowly nods, remembering a vague phone call or two when martha gushed about the extra pair of hands helping out around the house. then an amused smile lifts his cheeks for a reason you don't quite understand.

"you never mentioned a name, ma," clark answers when he reaches her, voice low like the rumble of a car engine but still so sweet like honey. you watch him bend to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.

"oh, no? hm, must've slipped my mind," she muses, clearly pleased with herself as she pats his chest lovingly. you've spent enough time with martha to know when she was up to something.

you clear your throat, shifting the basket on your hip, and finally step forward, closer to the porch.

"hi, clark," you say, steady despite the flutter in your chest. "it's been a while."

his eyes soften, and for a moment, the years melt away. it's like you're both still those awkward teenagers from years ago.

clark sets his bag down on the porch, still glancing back at you like he's trying to make sense of something. you wonder if he's just surprised or if he also feels the shift in the air that you feel.

"i'll get lunch started," martha chirps, clearly thrilled. "clark, sweetie, help y/n hang that laundry before it wrinkles."

he huffs a soft laugh. "alright, ma."

you glance at him as he approaches, stepping down from the porch and feet crushes the grass beneath his feet. you hold out a clothespin. he takes it, pinching the wood between his fingers, but not before engulfing you in a warm hug. despite not having hugged him since you both graduated, it feels achingly familiar. his arms wrap around you with an ease that makes your breath catch, the scent of fresh soap and sun clinging to him.

"you got taller," you murmur against his chest.

he chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your ear. "you got shorter."

you pull back with a mock glare. "that's not how that works."

he grins, eyes crinkling at the corners and deep dimples showing. "still fits though."

you try not to read into it – the way he says it, the way his hands linger at your arms before he lets go.

"my ma got you roped into doing chores around here?" he asks, amusement in his tone as he pulls his arms away and takes a step back to start helping you.

"your mom didn't want me lifting a finger as soon as she saw me walking up the drive. i had to practically beg her to do work," you answer kindly, smile on your face.

"i'm surprised she let you," he hums to himself, sunlight hitting his dark curls.

"she's stubborn," you agree. "just like someone else i know."

that gets a quiet laugh out of him, low and familiar. the kind that used to echo across the bleachers during football games or between rows of corn on late summer nights.

for a while, neither of you say anything. you just fold laundry from a prior load you did while clark helps clip the rest to the line, working in sync like its muscle memory. at some point, he starts handing you clothespins without being asked.

"so," he says after a beat, "er nurse, huh?"

you nod, but don't question how he knows that. "yeah. burnt out enough that i ran away to the countryside for the summer. i needed it, especially considering i'll be in metropolis in september."

his demeanor shifts at that, shoulders straightening at your words. "metropolis, huh?"

"yeah," you reply, sliding a pillowcase onto the line. "got a position at the hospital downtown. figured i could use the summer to recharge before diving back in."

clark nods to himself, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a small smile. "that's... great. didn't know you were thinking of moving. you seemed pretty set on central city when you left."

you shrug, eyes flicking to his. "wasn't planning on it until a few months ago. it just felt like the right time. change of pace, y'know?"

he hums in acknowledgment, nodding again.

"you'll like metropolis," he says. "it's fast, sure, but there's something kind of special about it. the skyline. the way the city never sleeps." you watch the way he talks about it. you notice the way his eyes flicker, like he's picturing it already.

"i always thought you belonged in a big city," he continues softly, almost like he doesn't realize he's saying it out loud. "you were always bright. restless."

you blink, heart tugging in your chest slightly. "you used to say i was bossy," you point out.

"that, too," he says with a sheepish grin. "but in a good way."

you roll your eyes, but your smile stays planted on your face. you fall into a steady silence, the summer wind bristling against you as you continue hanging bedding up until the basket is empty.

the rest of the day passes in a rhythm that feels both productive and strangely peaceful. you and clark move from chore to chore (sweeping out the barn, scrubbing the porch chairs, picking tomatoes from the garden) while trading light conversations and shared glances as the hours pass you by. it's easy, falling back into step with him as if seven years hadn't gone by.

later that evening, martha's voice floats across the yard: "dinner's ready!"

inside, on the table, there are platters of roast chicken, mashed potatoes and fresh veggies from the garden that makes your stomach rumble.

you take your old spot across from clark – the same one you used to fill during sleepovers and sunday night dinners. jonathan is in his usual chair, nodding at you both with a smile.

during dinner, jonathan launches into stories clark’s probably heard a thousand times but you’re genuinely laughing and clark finds himself watching you instead of eating.

he catches your gaze once from across the table when martha asks him how work's been. his knee bumps yours from under the table and neither of you move away nor say a word about it.

after dinner, the sky turns a dull blue and martha announces that she and jonathan are heading to the neighbors' for a card game.

"we'll probably be back late," she adds casually, as if she hasn't orchestrated the perfect opportunity for the two of you to be alone.

and once they're gone, the house settles into a new quiet.

you lean against the kitchen counter, finishing your glass of fresh lemonade while clark rinses dishes, fingers slick with soap.

"i can dry," you offer.

with a toothless smile, clark tosses you a dish towel without looking. "you're only saying that because you hate washing."

"always have," you confirm simply, catching it.

he chuckles and for a moment, it really does feel like no time has passed. you think of the countless times you'd argued over which chores to do when you stayed over as teens.

after the last plate is stacked and the light over the sink is flicked off, leaving the kitchen in a soft glow from the outdoor lamp shining through the screen door, there's a beat of hesitation between you.

you're not quite ready to call it a night – and apparently, neither is he.

"you wanna..." clark scratches the back of his neck. "go up to my room? catch up?"

you nod.

he leads the way, up the same creaky stairs you've walked hundred times before. but it feels different now. his figure ahead of you is broader. his steps are heavier. you're not kids anymore.

on the contrary, his room still looks like it belongs to a teenage boy: high school trophies lined up on the dresser, old comics books stacked beside a nightstand, band posters lined up on the wall. everything is preserved like it's a time capsule.

you sit cross-legged on the floor, the smooth hardwood cool beneath your legs as clark pulls down an old dusty box from his closet. he flips it open with a small grunt, and inside are relics from his childhood.

you look into the box, smiling softly as flashes of memories happen behind your eyes. a faded baseball glove, a polaroid of him and pete at the county fair, and a bunch of old high school notebooks of his; one has ALGEBRA 2 scrawled in his handwriting on the front marble cover.

"can't believe you kept all of this," you muse softly.

"ma said she couldn't bear to throw it out." he shrugs. "i haven't seen this stuff since i left."

"really?" you ask, somewhat surprised at the thought. you can see the layer of dust along the surfaces of his dresser and desk, evidence that it'd been left untouched for a while, but you didn't expect he hadn't been home at all.

"yeah," he murmurs, trailing a finger over a dusty trophy as if reading your mind. he rubs the dust particles between his fingers before flicking it off. "just... went straight to college and then the internship at the planet and then... before i knew it i was just settled in metropolis."

"my mom would've killed me had i not visited," you chuckle to yourself.

"well, you know my ma," he says softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "she said as long as i called every sunday, she'd let it slide."

you glance up at him, the warm overhead light catching on the edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose. he's older, now, clearly, but in the soft light like this, his hair tousled and in an old flannel that no doubt had to be his father's, it's easy to remember the boy he used to be.

"how come you never came back?" you ask, head tilting aside.

his smile fades a little, not all the way, but enough for you to notice. he moves to sink down on the edge of his bed. he doesn't answer right away. he just sits there for a beat, fingers laced loosely between his knees.

"life's been..." he trails off, looking at a bulletin board above his desk – faded snapshots pinned beside old movie ticket stubs and postcards, tiny remnants of a simpler time. his eyes linger on a photo of the two of you from years ago, blurry from motion but unmistakably happy. he exhales slowly, like the weight of everything is pressing down on his shoulders.

you wait.

"complicated," he finishes softly, hands clasped over his knees as he leans forward, elbows resting there.

you hum noncommittally, taking another glance around his bedroom before standing from the floor and settling down beside him, the springs of his twin bed creaking under your weight.

"because you're superman," you muse softly, nodding to yourself. your tone is so casual, it's as if you're mumbling about something as demure as the weather.

"yeah," clark trails off with faraway look in his eyes before it's as if the words register and he whips his head aside to face you. "wait–"

you only meet his gaze with a small smile, a calm knowing gleam in your eyes.

"how long have you–" he starts, voice low.

"known?" you tip your head, pretending to think. "mm... years. i suspected something off about you in high school but couldn't name it. and then when i saw clark kent was the sole interviewer for the new superhero in metropolis, i put two and two together. that, and you've never worn glasses 'til you left smallville."

his brows knit together like he's thinking hard, then his expression softens. "you never said anything."

you shrug. "figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. didn't seem like my secret to name."

clark exhales a quiet laugh, something incredulous and fond all at once. "you're kind of amazing, you know that?"

you smile softly, a soft flush painting your cheeks. "you're literally a superhero and you're calling me amazing?"

"well..." he tilts his his, eyes lingering on you in that way that always made you chest feel too full, even when you were teenagers. "you saw through me. and never said a word. that's... rare."

you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of how close you're sitting. his bed isn't that bed, and the two of you, perched side by side with knees almost touching. it feels heavier now. warmer.

"wasn't hard to figure out," you murmur. "you always ran off when danger came around. and it was always toward the danger."

he winces, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "i wasn't exactly subtle, was i?"

you huff a laugh, leaning back on your palms as you gaze up at the ceiling. "not really. but i didn't care. i figured there had to be a good reason. and there was."

he watches you for a beat. there's something different in his eyes now. it's something soft. something quiet.

"i should've told you," he says softly.

you shrug again, playing it cool even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

a pause.

"was it lonely?" you ask, voice quiet.

"in the beginning, yeah." he nods solemnly. his voice is low, like he's afraid to say it too loud. "i was figuring it all out in real time – what i could do, what i should do. and it felt like if i let anyone in... it'd all fall apart."

you turn your head, eyes finding his.

"i would've kept your secret," you say, steady and sure.

"i know," he replies, like he's known it for years. like it's the one thing he's always been sure of. "but you didn't deserve the sort of danger it'd put you in."

"you didn't give me a chance to decide if it was a risk i wanted to take."

"i thought keeping you out of it was the way to protect you," he says after a moment.

you understand his way of thinking, truly. clark is nothing but selfless – always carrying the weight of the world like it's second nature. like it's his burden alone to bear.

but beneath, that strength, there's always been a vulnerability you've glimpsed only in rare moments. a question lingering just beneath the surface.

"does it scare you?" he asks, voice low. "knowing what i am?"

your gaze flickers to him and you don't hesitate.

"you could never scare me, clark," you murmur softly, your voice steady. "you've always been just... you. maybe with broader shoulders and a ridiculous jawline now, but you're still the same guy who used to sneak out at night to watch the stars with me on my roof."

clark lets out a breath, barely audible but you feel it more than you hear it. the kind of exhale someone release when they're holding too much in.

despite having his own telescope in the barn, he was always adamant on watching the stars on your rooftop.

"i liked the view better from there," he says, a little shy, a little teasing.

you smile, eyes looking up at the ceiling. "the stars?"

"you," he admits, and it’s barely more than a whisper. "it's why i kissed you the last night before i left for metropolis u."

your breath catches in your throat. it would be so easy to laugh it off, to make a joke, to deflect like you always used to. but you don’t. you turn your head slowly instead, and you find him already looking at you.

his eyes are so blue. painfully blue. they always were. but there’s something raw in them now. older. deeper.

"i thought maybe you forgot about that," you say softly.

"i think about it all the time."

the memory slips between you like smoke: the two of you sat side by side on the slabs of your roof, your knees pulled up and a blanket slung lazily over your shoulders. the stars were faint that night but clark stayed anyway, quiet and still, like he was trying to memorize everything. you'd been talking about school, about packing, about how weird it felt to leave.

and then, when the silence stretched long and uncertain, he stood to climb down the way he'd come, but he hesitated. you didn't have a chance to question what was wrong until he climbed back up, leaned in and kissed you. it was gentle and trembling and far too short, like it hurt him not to do it but it hurt more not to.

you hadn't talked about it after. neither of you knew what to say. you were leaving for different schools, different cities, different lives. it felt like the kind of kiss meant to stay tucked away in a quiet corner of the past.

but now he's here. and you're here. and that kiss doesn't feel like an ending anymore.

your voice is barely a whisper. "i tried not to read into it. figured it was just a goodbye thing."

"it wasn't," he says, so firmly it makes your chest ache. "not for me."

you sit up slowly, and he mirrors you, knees now brushing.

"clark," you say, almost like a question.

"i never stopped thinking about you," he answers. "even when we lost touch. even when i tried not to."

your heart beats like a drum in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. "i never stopped, either," you whisper.

he leans in like gravity’s pulling him. slow enough to stop. slow enough to make sure. but you don't stop him. you tilt forward, and when his lips touch yours, it feels like memory and future all at once.

it’s soft at first. tentative. like you’re both relearning the shape of each other, grown-up versions of the people who used to share secrets.

but then his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it gently, and the kiss deepens. you shift closer, thighs pressing against his, and the heat that simmers between you spikes.

he groans low in his throat when your hands fist in the front of his flannel. he’s so solid beneath it — broad chest, firm shoulders, heat radiating off of him in waves.

clark kisses with fervor, like he's starved for this – for you. his mouth hovers yours with a kind of ardor, but there's something hungry beneath it, too. like something years in the making.

his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist as he pulls you into his lap. you gasp a little at the feel of him beneath you, hard already and straining against his jeans, and it makes something warm pool low in your belly.

you pull back just barely, lips swollen and breath shallow. "we’re really about to do this in your childhood bedroom?"

his grin is boyish, a flush rising to his cheeks. "i mean… unless you have a better idea."

you laugh breathlessly and tug him back into another kiss.

"you sure?" he asks, open-mouthed kisses trailing downward against your throat, voice hoarse, before his lips brush just under your ear.

"so sure," you whisper, rocking against him. "been sure since i was sixteen."

his groan is ragged as he flips you gently onto your back, slotting himself between your thighs with a reverence that makes your head spin. he shrugs off the red flannel, tossing it behind him and leaving him in a white t-shirt.

"then let me make up for lost time." his hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing delicate paths beneath your ribs. the room is quiet except for the soft, uneven breaths you both share.

your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling as you tug it upward before he gets the hint and finishes yanking it off, throwing it somewhere behind him. your palms pressed to the hard planes of his chest and abs. his skin is warm under touch, as if a fire wakes following every trail of your fingers.

clark's lips find your neck, slow and devoted, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your pulse flutter. you tilt your head back, exposing more, shivering at the contact.

his hands travel lower, slipping beneath your shirt to feel the smooth skin of your waist. your shirt is already halfway off when he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it over your head with a breathless laugh. you giggle as it gets momentarily caught on your elbow, but he helps, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

then his gaze drops.

you're in your bra, the soft cotton modest, but the way his eyes darken makes your skin prickle. the look in his eye could suggest you're wearing something far sexier than a polka dot bra.

his voice is low when he asks, "can i?"

you nod, humming in confirmation because your throat can't find the words. "mhm."

clark leans in, kissing down the slope of your shoulder before trailing slowly to the swell of your breast. his big hands come up to cup you through the fabric first, thumbs brushing lightly until your back arches. with unhurried fingers, he unclasps your bra and lets it slides down your arms.

"wow," he murmurs, looking at you with utter admiration. "you're... you're perfect."

you flush under the praise and you smile shyly, but it doesn't stop the way your body reacts when he touches you again.

his hands are everywhere; they're gentle on your ribs, firm on your hips, grounding you as he kisses down your chest, reverent kisses trailing around the slope of your breasts. he kisses you like he's been waiting years to do this, a pent up passion restrained behind his actions.

his mouth wraps around your nipple, hot and wet, and you gasp at the feeling. your fingers thread through his curls, tugging just a little when his teeth scrape lightly before he soothes the ache with his tongue.

"clark," you whisper, body arching against him and thighs already shifting restlessly beneath him.

he lifts his head, lips slick and pupils blown. "yeah?"

you meet his eyes, your breath shivering out of you. "need more," you manage, hips bucking upward for emphasis.

something tenses in him at your words. a quiet, almost disbelieving sound leaves his throat, like he still can't believe this is real. it's like he's spent years imagining this exact moment.

"okay," he murmurs, nodding to himself. "yeah, 've got you."

his hands trail down to the denim of your shorts, fingers brushing against the brass metal button. his eyes flit to yours, searching for any hesitance in your eyes but you only meet his gaze with a steady stare and a nod of your head.

he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. with deft fingers, he unhooks the button from your shorts and pulls down the zipper. you swear his breath hitches at the sliver of the sight of what you would call your most mundane pair of panties – baby blue cotton with simple white lace hemmed across each edge.

you lift your hips when, with trembling hands, he pulls down the denim of your shorts, sliding them down your thighs as you lift your hips up to help. once they're down to your ankles, he throws them aside.

his hands are reverent as they glide up the skin of your legs, starting from your calves before meeting the flesh of your thighs. his hands settle there, gently nudging them open.

you shift instinctively, legs parting for him but the flush settled over your cheeks tells him how vulnerable your feel. he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee first, and then your thigh, being slow and steady. by the time he reaches the soft fabric of your underwear, you're practically shaking.

he presses his mouth over the damp spot, inhaling softly before groaning into your heat.

you whimper, hips twitching. the sound you make is soft and needy, and clark eats it up like it's the only thing he'd ever wanted to hear. his thumbs brush along the creases of your thighs as he settles between them.

his voice is low and ragged when he murmurs, "you're so wet, sweetheart."

your whole body flushes at the pet name and you feel the ache of need build in your gut. he presses a kiss just over the fabric, then another, and then another. you're gasping and it's not from the pressure. you're gasping from how slow he's going, how reverent he's being.

his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, tugging gently. "can i take these off?"

"please," you whisper.

clark doesn't make you beg again. his hands curl under your thighs and he hooks your panties down slow, watching every inch of you being revealed with a heavy-lidded gaze. when the fabric peels away, he lets out a shaky exhale.

"gosh," he mutters, almost to himself. his hands spread along your thighs as he looks down at your pussy, glistening, soft and aching for him. "you're... wow."

you blush but your thighs fall open for him anyway shamelessly.

he dips down, but instead of diving in, he places one soft kiss to your inner thigh. he presses another kiss, a little closer. and then he presses another, right beside your folds. it's close enough to feel his breath fan your core but it's not enough.

your hips lift off the mattress, springs creaking beneath your form.

"clark," you pant, almost scolding. "don't tease."

he laughs, but there's a tension in it now. his restraint is evidently thinning. "'m sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "just... been thinking about this for years. i wanna take my time."

clark leans in finally, pressing a soft, wet kiss to your folds. the first sweep of his tongue is slow, almost experimental, like he's savoring the taste of you. like he's imprinting the taste into his memory.

you gasp, fingers shooting down to thread through his hair, hips twitching helplessly under him.

he groans against you when he feels your reactions, the sound sending a buzz within you. his hands flex on your thighs to keep you spread open as he licks a broad, slow stripe form your entrance to your clit. you feel everything. you feel the heat of his mouth, the plush of his lips, the movement of his tongue, it all makes you see stars.

"god," you breathe, tugging on his hair instinctively. "clark."

"mmhmm," he hums against you, and the vibration go straight through you again. he's easing in now, more confident as he figures out exactly what makes you moan and sigh. his tongue circles your clit gently with a particular precision before pressing flat against it, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs tense around his head.

you're already dizzy when you feel the first touch of his fingers. they're big and warm, trailing up your thigh before they ghost along your slick entrance.

"you're so wet," he murmurs again, lifting his head for just a second to look up at you. his mouth is glistening, eyes dark with desire.

his fingers trail down until the pads are gliding through your slick folds. his ministrations are careful, almost curious, but you know damn well clark isn't naive. this is about intention. this is him wanting to feel every inch of you, to truly learn what your body responds to.

his thumb brushes up, just barely circling your clit. you shiver, hips trembling.

and then one finger begins to press inside your velvet walls.

he's careful. so careful. and thank god he is, because even one of his fingers stretches you more than any man ever has before. your walls flutter helplessly around the intrusion, slick and wanting. your breath hitches and he sinks it in slowly, letting you adjust to the stretch.

"you're already gripping me so tight, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, "y'have to relax for me."

you nod with a shaky breath, attempting to relax your tense walls.

clark helps, too. his mouth returns to your clit, tongue moving slowly and circling your center with intent. the combination of his tongue and finger has your head falling back against the pillow.

"there you go," he coos softly against your skin. "let me in."

you gasp when his finger crooks inside you, rubbing against your gummy walls. you moan softly, hands curling into the sheets as your hips rolls up instinctively against his touch. your walls flutter around him, wet and hot, clenching down as he starts a slow rhythm.

his finger is so thick. your body pulse around it, already stretched in a way that makes you whimper with anticipation.

"i want more," you whisper.

clark's brows lift slightly, concern flickering across his face even through the haze of arousal. "you sure?"

you nod eagerly. "mhm, wanna get used to you."

he understands what you mean. you want to get used to his fingers so that inevitably you could take the throbbing length straining against his jeans. he groans softly, slowly nodding his head.

his free hand slides up your thigh again, holding you open as he slowly adds a second finger. it's a stretch – a delicious, burning ache that has your thighs twitching – but he keeps his mouth on your clit the whole time, tongue soothing and lips gentle.

you do your best to relax. you try to breathe through it, focusing on the way his mouth works in tandem with his fingers, now curling and scissoring inside you to aid opening you up. your walls flutter around him, wet a needy, dripping onto his hand with every stroke.

you feel full. so full.

and he's not even inside you yet.

"fuck, clark... feels so good," you gasp, hips grinding down against his fingers.

"you're doing great, sweetheart," he praises, kissing your inner thigh. "you're taking my fingers so well."

you whimper, head thrown back, sweat prickling along your skin. your fingers find his hair again and they tighten around the locks, making him groan into your heat. it's as if he loves the way you react to him, like every moan and sigh a reward in of itself.

his two fingers continue to thrust deeper, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that has your legs shaking.

"clark," you murmur, need thick in your voice. "please."

he groans softly, gently withdrawing his fingers. you whine at the lose, but the sound dies in your throat when you watch him lean back on his knees and reach for the button of his jeans.

"want you so bad," you murmur softly.

his gaze is heavy when it meets yours, blue eyes dark and pupils blown out. "yeah?"

you nod, biting your bottom lip.

he unbuttons his jeans slowly, like he's still making sure you have time to change your mind. but you don't. you won't. not when he pulls them down along with his boxers and his cock springs free, flushed and thick and massive.

his cock stands proud and heavy in front of you, a hot pulse throbbing at the tip, flushed pink beneath the dim light of his childhood room. you swallow hard, eyes tracing every inch of him, breath hitching at the sheer intensity of the moment you're sharing.

clark reaches for you, hands warm as they glide up your thighs, steadying you as he positions himself at your entrance. his gaze flickers to yours, seeking permission.

you nod, breathless but sure. so sure.

he presses the head of his cock, already slick from pre-cum, between your folds, mixing your essence with his as he rubs himself up and down your slit to gather more slick.

you shudder when he presses against your entrance, slowly pushing inside you. the stretch is delicious, the head of his cock squeezing between the velvet walls of your pussy.

he doesn't rush. instead, he waits, holding still and giving you a moment to adjust. your fingers clutch at the sheets.

then, he nudges in, barely another inch, ensuring to be careful. you shiver at the stretch, the fullness you already feel, and the overwhelming heat pooling in your lower belly.

clark's breath is ragged and his voice strained as he looks into your eyes. "you okay?" he asks.

you nod, voice shaky. "yeah, y'can keep going."

with an agonizing slowness, he sinks deeper, inch by inch, each movement measured so intently. your walls stretch and open around him, tightening and relaxing as they try to accommodate his size.

he's big – you figured he was big from his massive frame but this... this is far bigger than you expected.

he pauses again when he's halfway in, savoring the moment as his hips still. "almost there," he breathes, his tone needy and full of awe.

you reach for him, fingers tangling in his curls to bring him closer, silently urging him on. he follows you, taking his hands from your thighs and placing them on either side of your head, head now just above yours, meeting your eyes. the eye contact is electric – raw and intense. your breaths mingle, shallow and fast and it's as if the world around you shrinks and it's just you two.

he groans, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as he eases in deeper. "you're so tight," he grits out. "been thinking about this forever."

your fingers dig into the muscles of his back as he inches further, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, trying to pull his closer even as your body adjusts to his size. he still hasn't bottomed, and yet he feels impossibly deep already.

"clark," you whimper, your voice wrecked. "you're not even all the way–"

"i know, sweetheart," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, "i know."

he withdraws a little, then rocks forward again. he's gentle, patient, coaxing you open with shallow rolls of his hips. each motion sinks him just a bit more. your walls flutter around him, trying to take more as your body clenches with every subtle thrust.

by the time his hips finally meet yours, you're trembling beneath him – panting, sweat-slick, overwhelmed and so full you don't know where he ends and you begin. he stills inside you, burying his face in your neck as you both gasp for breath.

"hah," he huffs against you. "you feel... gosh, you feel like heaven."

your fingers tighten in his curls, pulling him up to your lips for a desperate kiss that tastes like relief.

slowly, he begins to move – gentle, deliberate thrusts that build from tender to urgent. you gasp as his hands move back down to grip your hips, anchoring himself as he sets a steady rhythm.

the heat between you grows immensely and you arch up into him, meeting ever push of his hips against you, your walls fluttering around him as if they were made to fit only him.

and in this moment, you think they were.

"clark," you breathe, your voice a breathy moan.

he hums lowly in response, eyes dark and glazed over, completely and utter lost in you.

time blurs. you don't know if it's been hours or minutes. all you feel is him inside you, your bodies moving in perfect sync and the weight of everything unsaid over the course of the past seven years that's not being spoken in gasps and touches.

your dig your nails into his shoulders as his thrusts grow more insistent and you feel the pressure build deep inside you.

clark's breath hitches, ragged and uneven against your throat. his hands squeeze your hips like he never wants to let go, grounding himself as he drives in deeper, harder. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the quiet room, with exception to your mingling pants and groans.

"you're incredible," he groans, voice thick with need and his lips brushing your ear. "so beautiful... so perfect."

you shiver under the praise, the heat pooling low and rising fast as your body responds to him. your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

he kisses down you neck again, teeth grazing your earlobe lightly as he whisper, "you feel so good... god, i missed you."

your heart stutters in your chest. "i missed you, too. more than i ever admitted to myself."

his hips stutter and then pick up, thrusting with growing urgency. your vision gets hazy as the pleasure coil tight in your belly. you lose yourself to the way he moves, the way your bodies fit together like they were made for it.

his voice breaks as he nears his own release, the tension building between you to an unbearable peak.

"cum for me," he rasps, eyes burning into yours.

you cry out, voice trembling with the force of your own climax, muscles clenching around him in waves. you feel him begin to pull away but that makes your legs tighten around his waist.

"sweetheart, i'm about to–" he stammers, brows pinching in restraint.

"i know... want it inside," you murmur, eyes boring into his.

that makes his eyes widen to saucers but you can't deny the heat brimming behind his eyes.

"i'm on birth control," you say, barely above a whisper.

"are you sure?" he asks, hid voice low and already breathless. "because i'm trying really hard to hold back right now.

you don't hesitate. "i don't want you to."

that's all it takes.

clark starts thrusting again – deeper, more urgent now, the rhythm stuttering as he chases his high. it's only a matter of moments before his pace falters. he lets out a strangled groan, burying himself to the hilt one final time and you gasp at the feeling.

his cock twitches as he spills inside you, thick ropes of white filling you up until you swear you can feel it dripping out around the base of him. you croon at the sensation, you arms wrapped tight around his back, holding him close through it.

clark groans into your neck again, like he's falling apart in the safety of your arms. you feel him press kisses into your skin, humming softly against you.

"you don't know how long i've wanted that," he murmurs, voice slightly ragged.

you're still catching your breath, but you manage a soft laugh, your voice thick with affection. "worth the wait?"

he lifts his head just long enough to look at you, his eyes slightly crinkled as he smiles down at you. "more than you'll ever know."

you smile, your hand brushing damp curls from his forehead. he's so close like this – still inside you, panting softly against your skin. the air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat and something sweeter.

you tilt your head, lips brushing against his jaw. "we really just had sex in your childhood bedroom," you whisper, teasing but breathless.

he chuckles, low and rough, his nose brushing yours. "yes, we did."

"guess it's convenient i've been relocated to metropolis then," you murmur softly, fingers digging into his scalp, gently scratching his skin.

he hums in response – to your words or ministrations, you can't tell – and adds, "'m pretty lucky then." he presses a kiss to your cheek. "when you get all settled in, can i take you out?"

your brow lifts and you pause your scratching. "well, i'd sure hope so since you just came inside me."

he chuckles through his nose, blinking at you. "fair point," he says, his smile crooked. "i guess we kind of skipped a few steps, huh?"

you grin, dragging your nails lightly along the hair at the back of his neck. "just a few. like... coffee. or dinner."

he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft and sincere. "seriously, i want to do this right. all of it. you and me."

something in your chest tightens at that, a bloom of warmth filling you. "good," you whisper. "because i want that, too."

he kisses you again, slower now. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him and keeping you closer, his arms still wrapped around your waist and cock slowly softening inside you. you sigh softly, settling into the warmth of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. outside, the sounds of nature hum quietly, but here, in this small room full of memories of your past, everything feels right.

ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

[arinapop]

Ultraviolette

LE SSERAFIM Chaewon x M Reader

Tags: Smut

9k words

People don't come to parties like this to be themselves.

Not to be anyone, really.

The point—or the lack of one—is to let loose. To give in to feelings they'd swear don’t exist. Get stupid drunk and high. Make out with strangers in random hallways. In short: act like they've never heard the word "decency.” And the next morning? Drop it off like a temporary persona, head to work, and pretend nothing ever happened.

Heejin's taken it to heart, evidently.

“That girl definitely likes it rough,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Y’know—on her knees, mouth fucked senseless, head against the wall. Till she can’t feel her throat. Or anything.” She takes a sip from her straw—you don’t even want to know what’s in the drink. “And finish with slick dripping all over her.”

You stare at the speakers, bass thumping through the floor. “God, I wish they’d turn up the music just a bit. So I could go deaf. Permanently.”

Apparently, she’s already deaf, because: “Probably likes being called fuckslut when you fuck her up. Fuckslut or cumslut? Can’t decide which fits better.”

(Oh, and about forgetting nights like this. By morning—you'll be praying for that kind of luck.)

“Does the first thing you say about a stranger always have to be how they’re in bed?”

“Don’t be mistaken—there’s no bed involved. Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.” She drains her glass, swirling the straw around. “I've never been wrong. Go ask her if you want.”

“Gee, and here I was thinking I’d start with a ‘What’s your name?’ sorta thing.” The blue lights swing around, catching you right in the eye. You flinch and raise a hand, squinting.

“Bow and call her queen while you’re at it,” Heejin mutters and drifts off towards the drinks table.

You exhale, shoulders sagging. Your fault for pointing the girl out to her in the first place. Should’ve known better.

Lonely Friday nights drive a man to dark places. In your case: a shitty party, where the only person you know is Heejin? That’s about as dark as it gets.

You came here begrudgingly, Heejin doesn’t hear “no” when it comes from you. And you were right: you were enjoying yourself exactly as much as expected. Not at all.

Until you saw her.

The girl.

You weren’t trying to notice her; she just kept appearing in your line of sight. A constant. And you’ll admit she’s nice to look at. Like now, the way she leans against the wall—glass dangling loose between her fingers, head tipped just right for the light to trace the curve of her throat.

She lifts the glass. The light follows—up, towards her face. A jolt: her hand trembles, nearly drops the glass. A faint pop, a subtle crack in the air, but she recovers quickly. As the light shifts away, so does the tension. And you're back in your head again:

Those lips, parted beneath your teeth. Her body, pinned and pliant against the wall—

Fingers tap your shoulder. You turn, Heejin’s back, a fresh refill of her poison in hand.

Ugh.

Sober Heejin is unbearable. A few glasses in? There’s a reason no one but you ever sticks around.

“No one ever told you staring's rude?” She sips through a new straw that takes several unnecessary detours on the path to her mouth.

“I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh. And I’ve been drinking tea all night,” she bites. “You sure you don’t wanna drink tonight?”

“No. I’m driving us home.”

“One glass won’t kill you. Here—I’ll ask AI if you like.” She pulls up her phone, holding the power button. “Hey Google, how many glasses before you can’t—”

You snatch it, switch it off, and shove it back in her purse. “I’m good.” You couldn’t care less about Heejin, or the drive home, or anything else she’s whining about. Your focus is elsewhere entirely.

A look back confirms it: the girl’s still there.

“I think she’s alone,” Heejin says, peeking over your shoulder. “Name’s Chaewon, by the way. A little birdie told me. Come on, let’s go talk. Maybe she’ll—”

You cut in: “Forget her. Wanna go dance?”

Why you asked is anyone's guess.

Maybe because you don’t want to keep imagining things you shouldn’t; shut down the reel playing in your head.

Maybe because even if you did talk up the girl—Chaewon, it wouldn’t be with Ms. No-filter, 5 drinks deep, as your wing-woman. Or anywhere in the same zip code, for that matter.

And when’s she ever taken no for an answer.

Heejin snorts, raising a brow. “I didn’t come here to dance with you.”

“I know, but I don’t see anyone hitting you up. And me, well.” You shrug. Needs no explanation.

“Didn’t think you’d like flailing around in that sweaty mess. But sure, if it floats your boat.”

She heads toward the crowd, and you trail behind. Chaewon’s disappeared now, nowhere in sight.

First order of business: ditch Heejin in the crowd.

The crowd swells as you step in. Bodies press in, the bass rattling in your chest. You lose track of where Heejin is in the mess. She was ahead of you, but now you think she’s somewhere behind?

On track so far.

You scan the edges, trying to spot Chaewon—but no luck. Just a swirl of backs and raised arms. Party lights slice through the dark, leaving flickers of blue and white on damp skin.

“Your moves suck,” a voice cuts in behind you. Heejin, unmistakable even over the thrum of the speakers.

Can’t catch a break tonight.

“Never claimed to be a dancer.” You turn to spot her shaking her hips, lifting her glass high like a trophy.

“Everyone’s got one in them. Just need a little encouragement.”

Before you can react, she tilts your chin up—her fingers cool against your sweat-warm skin—and brings her glass to your lips. She pours what’s left of it into your mouth in one swift motion.

The drink hits fast and sharp. Sharp, burning, with a hint of sweet. You burst out coughing, nearly stumbling as someone brushes past you. But you’ve swallowed most of it. Your throat’s on fire.

She grins, patting your back. “The shit I threw in it should give you a spine now.” Among other things, you'd fucking think.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

Just when you think the night’s tapped out on ways to fuck with you, a bead of sweat rolls down your neck when you see who’s right behind her.

Chaewon. Dancing. Alone.

Just hope to god she disappears before Heejin spots her. You throw your arms in the air and move, swaying to the pounding music.

“There we go,” Heejin says, amused. “Alcohol finally gave you a dancing bone.”

You keep your eyes locked on her. Try your best to hold her attention. Keep her gaze from drifting where it’s not needed. She holds your stare without looking away—surprisingly long.

Strange.

Then it hits you: she isn’t looking at you. She’s looking just over your shoulder. Small, but crucial difference.

You glance back, heart skipping.

See, the thing about crowds at parties is they’re never still: bodies shift, swirl, rotate—and the flow has just turned, perfectly, to line you up with her. The light spins around to land on her, and there she is: Chaewon, now right behind you. The blue light slides across her face, casting her features sharply.

Fuck.

Something else’s off, too. Her eyes quiver—not a blink, more a microquake—under the light, with a look on her face you can't quite attribute to any emotion you've known. A glitch is the only way you can put it. But that thought quickly drops in priority because—

Amusement slips into Heejin’s eyes as she pushes past you, heading straight towards her. To utter something totally fucked, no doubt.

“Heyyyy, beautiful.” Drags the y out like it’s for show. “I was just telling him. Do you prefer fuckslu—”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” You don’t even remember deciding to push Heejin; your hands moved before you could think. The last thing you see before the crowd swallows her up is her body tilting, on a collision course with the floor.

Good thing the tiles are hard.

The press of bodies returns, but there’s an opening now.

Chaewon, standing there in an expensive dress, looking at you with an expression that says both curious and you’re-fucked-in-the-head. Which, okay. Fair.

The light hangs on her longer than it should.

“Why are you wearing a dress like that? You’re classing this shithole up.”

“I was expecting a…” She looks around, lips parted, searching for the right phrase. “Different kind of party.”

“One with less physical violence?”

“You could say that.” Her lips curl slightly. “Not that I’m particularly averse to it.”

She says it casually—like a throwaway line, an obvious extension, an aside of no particular importance.

You should walk away. You know how this night ends—with you passing out in the middle of nowhere. And you know what this girl is: nothing but trouble, wrapped tight in a 5’4” package.

But—seeing her now. All dolled up, perfect makeup, a pretty one-shoulder dress. Hair pulled back neat with a band. Sticks out in the middle of a dirty party like a flame flickering in smoke. The dress hangs criminally low off the other shoulder, showing off smooth collarbones—delicate, catch-the-light sharp. It ends right where it should, too, exposing pale thighs you can already imagine your fingers sinking into.

Goddamn if that isn’t an attractive fucking package.

“She was insane, by the way. Batshit crazy. Had it coming for a while.” You wave a hand vaguely in the direction of where you sent Heejin spiraling.

Her shoulders drop in a shrug. “I didn’t say a thing. Are you convincing me or yourself?”

“You gave me a look.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t the only one giving looks.”

It feels like another unholy cocktail was just poured down your throat; something sour twists in your gut. Oh, she’s got you. In the palm of her hand. In under a minute.

She’s a killer, that one.

“Shouldn't we find a better place to talk than dead center of the dance floor?”

She tilts her head, leaning in close. “Talking, is that what we're calling this?”

Honest hand to god, you don't even know what else this is.

Okay, maybe you’ve got some idea. Promises don’t count at parties. Not when the girl in front of you looks like that. Or something.

“Whatever it is.” You catch her wrist, pull her close—a sharp elbow slices through where she just stood. “Not the place.”

See, humans have definitions: a set of principles, rules. Little lines in the sand that make each identity (or the illusion of one) unique. Without those, people blur into each other. Everyone becomes one.

These definitions change, evolve over time. You're not who you were a year ago, or even yesterday, before you walked into Heejin’s room without knocking. (That’s one you’ll remember alright: always knock.)

One such definition you've carved from experience: nights like this—shady party, girl you’ve never talked to before and probably never will again—are never a good idea. It's a drink; alcohol, a numbing of something deeper. And when the high fades, the weight inside just settles heavier.

So you swear it off. No more drinks. Not a drop.

But what if a glass of scotch worth more than you'll make in a year—the kind you'd ruin just by holding—shows up? Yours to do with as you wish.

Oh, ruin it, you will.

Scene cuts. Fast-forward a few minutes. A secluded, dark corner; somehow, there's still one left that doesn’t reek of sex layered over alcohol and sweat. You're on your way to fix that problem.

The reel plays again, bolder now: your hands in her hair, hers all over your body. Lips sealed, your mouth tugging at her bottom lip, tongue teasing, teeth hovering just close enough to threaten a bite.

Except it’s not in your head anymore.

The scent of alcohol is sharp on her breath, but it only adds to her charm; luxure, if you will. Besides, with whatever toxins Heejin force-fed you, you’re probably not doing much better. Not that Chaewon seems to care, not when her dainty fingers are skating across your crotch, feeling your hardening response in real time.

Which is why it’s so jarring when she pulls back to ask, soft and almost playful: “What was she going to tell me?”

You shake your head, clear the static. “What?”

“Your friend?” She raises a brow; you give a reluctant nod. “Was telling me something before you football-tackled her. Just curious what it was.”

“You don't wanna know,” is all you manage.

“Quite the opposite, actually. I'm asking because I do wanna know.”

“And I'm telling you that you don't.”

She grabs your hand and presses your palm to the inside of her thigh, her skin cold against your fingers. Then she slides it up her curve, squeezing tighter with each inch.

“Look, we don’t even know each other’s names,” she reasons. You can find a better time to tell her that’s not completely true. “Just thought I heard something I liked.”

She squeezes again, like that’s supposed to make you more likely to give in. Which, okay. Fair.

“She was narrating a porn script. About how you’d be in bed.”

Chaewon raises her fingers in a little camera-cut rectangle, framing her own face in the center.

“Huh, interesting.” Her lips quirk. “Give me the screenplay.”

You didn't think it was possible to meet someone more fucked in the head than Heejin, but clearly, you were wrong.

“Starts with you on your knees,” you begin.

“Classic,” she says.

And you go on: ”You’re looking up at me with those pretty doe eyes, in nothing but a black bra and panties. Drool at the corner of your mouth, begging for my cock.”

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Begging, how?”

“Well, you know… all desperate, maybe,” you offer.

“Please,” Chaewon murmurs in the filthiest tone she can manage, “stuff your thick cock in my mouth. I can’t live without it.” Her eyelashes flutter a faux pout. “Something like that?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”

“Continue.”

“Faced with begging that persuasive, I’d have to give in, right?”

Her palm presses firm against your crotch. “Obviously. Suspension of disbelief can only go so far.”

“So I wrap my hand around the back of your head, clutching your hair. In the movie, you like it rough. I push your mouth onto my cock in one go, make you swallow all of it.”

She bites her lip. “In the movie?”

“Uh-huh.” You gulp, flicking through your mind for more. “In the movie.”

She helps: “What about the camerawork? A nice angle of the spit dripping down to my tits would add texture.”

“A visual of said tits would help first.” Your hands snake back to her dress's zipper. “Bathroom? Anyone could walk in on the shoot here.”

Chaewon shrugs, lazy and amused. “Wherever you want. I don't care.”

One more cut. This one runs longer. Finding a bathroom at a party without puke all over it is about as hard as you’d expect, but you manage.

“Like I was saying—visual.” You bring down the zipper in one smooth go, and her dress falls to a puddle at her feet. There’s something ironic about a classy dress crumpled on a grimy bathroom floor, but no one’s here for the symbolism. Not your department.

Her boobs present themselves, perky and tight. The soft, creamy bits spilling from her bra make you want to lean in, nibble already. Her nipples are taut, showing faintly through the red fabric. You slide a lazy finger over one, brushing the nub.

“Good enough?” She tilts your chin up to meet her eyes.

“That works. More than, actually.”

Let your palm wrap around her boob, a mere thin cloth preventing skin contact, and squeeze—a soft moan escapes her lips.

“So, what's next?” Her tongue slips out and runs over her lip.

“Where were we? Oh yeah, the angle of spit dripping down onto your red bra—”

“Wasn't it black?” she cuts in, impatiently tapping her fingers on her thigh.

“Was it?”

“Last you said, yeah. Can't have continuity errors.”

“Definitely not. Post-production’ll have to take care of that.”

A flick of movement draws your eyes downwards—her fingers already slipped under her panties, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Soft, wet sounds rise as her fingers slide against her pussy.

“What? Couldn't wait for the scene where we fuck?”

“You're stuck on the blowjob intro for half a fucking hour,” Chaewon snaps. “God forbid a girl gets herself off.”

“I wasn't the one pointing out continuity errors in a porno.” You blink.

“Can't we skip to a part where you eat me out or something?”

“No can do. Script says blowjob, then fucking.”

She sighs. “Of course, made for a specific gaze.”

“Maybe. But the director's strict on the vision. No going off-script.”

“Sounds very pretentious. Nobody likes pretentious movies.”

“Only if they don’t pull it off. And, well, after a while—when you see the filth people clap for, it's hard to take their opinions seriously.”

She exhales, amused. “Then at least get a move on.” With a quick twist of her hair, she drops to the floor.

“It was very specific about having you against a wall.” You take her wrist and guide her to the sink, pressing her down to her knees.

Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.

First, she gets your zip undone, and you help her slide your pants and underwear down.

She spends a couple of seconds just looking. Not stroking, licking, slurping—all that will come in due time. For a few moments, her eyes stay locked on your cock like it’s the prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

Her fingers wrap around your base. She spits—a sharp, wet sound—then uses her palm to smear it over your length, slow, firm strokes from tip to base, then back again.

Not wanting to miss out, her other palm slides up your thigh, grazing your balls. It’s gentle; massaging softly as she continues stroking you up and down.

Chaewon—her dress crumpled beside, in underwear too expensive for a setting like this—is someone who shouldn’t be sucking you off in a dimly lit party restroom, blown speakers pounding stupid bass through the walls.

But that’s exactly what she does next: parts her glossy lips, swallowing your tip first, her tongue flicking out to lap along your length. You trail a finger down her cheek, down the delicate line of her throat.

She’s one of those modern artworks—the kind that actually looks like art—marked Do Not Touch. But you’ll touch anyway. You let your fingers rest right at the hollow of her throat, cradling it between your index and middle fingers.

You tug her upward slightly, and her pupils dart up at you as she slobbers around your tip. She’s agonizingly slow, dragging her tongue in lazy licks, lathering you up even more. She keeps her gaze locked on yours, mouth working leisurely, her plush, pillowy lips rubbing all over your head.

Agonizingly slow. You’ve waited long enough. Your hand tightens in her hair, and you push her mouth down onto your cock. She’s the one who wanted to get a move on—it’s alright.

Chaewon’s mouth is soft and warm. Wetter than you could ever imagine. Drool spills down the corners, streaking her chin, smudging her makeup. Her tongue flattens and swirls around you. Eager. Precise.

You grip the sides of her head and press her upright against the wall, angling just right to thrust into that warm, tight hole.

It’s hard to tell with how busy they are multitasking right now, but you swear you catch the faintest curl of a smile on those spit-slicked lips. Oh, she’s planned this alright. Planned to get that cute little mouth fucked senseless. And who are you to deny her?

Her eyes flutter shut the first time you push, your tip pressing into the back of her throat. A sharp gag—but she steadies herself with one hand on your thigh.

She tilts her head back slightly, sinking deeper and deeper into the feeling of having her mouth fucked. Her fingers slip back below, a trail of slick stretching all the way to where the dress lies on the floor. How’s that for recurring symbolism.

Oh, it’s distinctly pornographic how she rubs circles under her panties while her mouth is getting thoroughly used. Those eyes tightly shut as she gives you moans that only grow louder—vibrating all over your cock. You'll give her artistic credit for that one.

There's already slick dripping down from your cock to your balls, but she's not satisfied with it. Not when she uses a free hand to catch the spit spilling from her chin and uses it to rub your balls, all soft and fondling. Like it’s the most important thing right now that you're properly pleasured.

You’ll give her credit for all of that.

Her knees shuffle around on the cold floor, one hand bracing against the sink, adjusting her height so that it's convenient for your cock to keep thrusting into her mouth.

An interruption: the set lighting gets dodgy. The yellow bulb behind you dims further—then stutters. Chaewon’s eyes glaze, a thin film rolls over her pupils as her face freezes momentarily.

You pause, getting on the floor beside her to ask what’s wrong. She blinks twice, says she’s okay, and once the light steadies, she’s back to leaning against the wall like nothing happened. And asks you to fuck her again. That, you'll do.

You’re lucky the thrum of the speakers makes it impossible to hear anything, with the rising sounds of a number of things—moans from the pair of you, wet, filthy gargles of your cock in her mouth, and the slick noise of her fingers on cunt.

You find your rhythm—faster pumps—and Chaewon matches it.

“You wanted this all along, didn’t you?” You tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes on you again. “Wanted to get your—”

Another push deep inside, her nose brushing against your waist, before you pull back to thrust again. “—mouth fucked by me till my cum is all over you.”

All she can give in response is a moan tinged with indignation—it’s crystal clear what the accusation is: as if you didn’t.

Her fingers rub faster, leaving you with no option but to match her pace. By now, she's basically using her pussy as throttle; speed control for how fast she wants to be fucked, knowing you'll follow without hesitation.

And when she drives it up to 11, there's no way you're lasting much longer.

“Fuck—Chaewon, I'm going to cum,” you tell, and she nods with a vigor that can only mean that she’s right there with you.

A soft pop, and she pulls her mouth off, lips glistening. Her palm takes over, stroking you with the same relentless pace, the tip hovering just over her face. Driving you closer to your edge—“do it on me,” she says, breathless, and you're not about to argue.

Those soft thighs clench—a trembling mess—on the floor, lips curling into an ‘O’ as she moans, louder than you thought was humanly possible. It gets completely drenched, her panties leak and spill a visible wetness on the tiles. That's when you release too.

Thick streaks land all across her face—cheeks, lips, hair. Her mouth, open and waiting, catches a good few too.

She smiles, panting, as her tongue flicks out to taste more from her cheeks. You collapse next to her on the ground, leaning against the wall. Spent.

“Tell Heejin the script feels screen ready,” she breathes.

The dim yellow light spreads softly across her hair, casting long shadows on her face—hiding, blurring her features—as she leans back with you, dazed. Cock-drunk dazed.

You can mark “getting a room to smell like sex” as done.

Another cut: the cleanup is of little interest. You also dumped your thoughts about definitions on her while helping wash her hair off. It was kind of an accident; you don't really want to talk about it.

Once you're done and the tap’s turned off, the bathroom settles into an eerie quiet. Sure, the party music still thumps faintly in the background. But it’s just that: background. Second nature now. What matters are the layers above it. And those are gone—until her dress, crumpled in the corner, starts buzzing like her juices just brought it to life.

“Look,” you say, “I thought we had a symbolism thing going on with the dress, but this is taking it too far.”

She brings her dress over to where you're sitting—a couch make-shifted out of a bathroom tub: you on the corner, her on the floor. You weren't the one who suggested this particular seating arrangement, but you’ll surely accept it.

“Relax. There’s a phone in it. Thought it was dead already, though. Dress with pockets—greatest invention of the 21st century.”

“Think the 20th century already got there. Probably even earlier.”

“You’ll be fun at parties.” Her eyes flick through her screen.

“I’d actually be a little offended if you don’t think that after all this.”

She closes her phone and puts it back in, shaking her head. “It’s a news notification.”

“Why don’t you turn those off?”

“Never bothered learning how to. Staying away from the settings app is one of my definitions.” The last word she says in a cheeky tone you're not sure you're a fan of.

“You don't have to use that word,” you offer, sheepish.

“I like it. I want to say it.” There's a twinkle in her eyes—sarcasm dressed up as something nice, you’d guess. “What's the story behind it?”

“Don't know. Found it gives me some semblance of a structure,” is what you'll say, and she'll believe you.

“That's no fun.” Maybe not agree, but she'll believe you.

You nod to the phone. “What breaking news was so important it had to interrupt our post-sex-pre-aftercare session?”

“Guess. If you get it in 2 tries, you can have my dress.”

“Why in the hell would I want your dress?” Never mind the part where she’d have to walk home naked. That's her problem.

“You were practically worshipping it earlier.”

“Doesn't mean I wanna keep it.”

Chaewon sharply taps her wrist. “Time's ticking.”

“I dunno. Two politicians having a dick measuring contest? Planet’s still on fire?”

“Our grandchildren will be married to…” She pauses, hoping for some show of interest. When it’s clear she's not getting any, she continues: “AI, apparently.”

“Like bots with AI?”

“The whole shtick. Marriage licenses and all.”

You scoff. “Yours won’t have to, with those genes. Mine might.”

“Not if I have any say in it,” she blurts, then looks down immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing. Would you marry an AI?”

“I’m not clinically insane, so no.”

“Why not? Imagine your favorite food cooked fresh, anytime you want. Can do a lot of things girls can’t.” It’s kind of hilarious the first thing she wants from a partner is instant food. Or worse: that she thinks you would.

“And girls can do a lot of things AI can’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like being able to kiss me without tasting like silicon.”

“Depends on what she’s been drinking.”

“Or not collapsing when she runs out of compute.”

“Humans need sleep, too.” Her hands pick up the rubber ducky next to you. “For what it's worth, I'd marry a bot. AI-powered fucking would go so hard.”

“What��I wasn't good enough?”

“You were. But not AI-optimized.” She squeezes the ducky on your face—squeak. The image is ridiculous.

“You're like, disqualified to be a human being.” You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Do you even think before saying stuff?”

“All my decisions are well thought out.”

“Like wearing that dress to this shithole?”

“Probably made it so hot for you.”

“Fluke,” you wave it off.

“I stick to it,” she volleys back. “What if I’m a bot? You wouldn’t even know.”

Your hand brushes the line of her neck—soft, sharp. As your finger drifts lower, she reaches behind and unhooks her bra with a snap. It slips off and lands on the tub floor. She takes your hands and presses against herself, filling both palms with her boobs.

“Well?” she asks. “What’s the conclusion?”

“If you’re a bot, whoever made you deserves a hell of a raise.”

She laughs. “All me, darling. Self-replicating AI.”

“Some human would have had to start you.”

“After enough copies, does that matter? For all practical purposes, I'm the maker of myself,” she says, indignant. Like you're robbing her of credit she's earned fair and square.

“That's like saying the mom's the only parent because it's been nine months since the dad was involved.” You grab the ducky from her hand and squeeze it in her face. It makes a different sound for you. Deeper, a little ragged.

“No, it's like saying your great-great-grandfather doesn't count—because you probably don't even know his name.” She snatches the ducky back and presses it again; her old sound returns. Her head tilts, trying to make sense of it.

“So somewhere along the way, the start stops mattering.”

“Like somewhere along tonight, you stopped resisting and gave in. After that, didn't matter what you were before.” Her hands shift grip, closer to how you held it. Your version of the sound comes out.

“You didn't have to point that out.”

“I know.” Her lips curl into a smile, little puzzle solved. “I just wanted to, it's like a modern version of Ship of Theseus.”

“How so?”

“I mean, how far can you replace and reinvent until the original just doesn’t matter? Same dilemma, new packaging.” She tosses the ducky aside, irrelevant now.

You squint an eye. “I can kinda see it.”

“Maybe I’m reaching,” she adds, softer.

“This whole night's been reaching.” You throw your head back against the wall.

“Cheers to that.” She lifts an imaginary glass and clinks it gently against yours, just as invisible. “I could go for a drink.”

“Drink me.”

“Any more and I'll be less me and more you.” A flicker in her tone; something undiscernible.

“What's even you?”

Her voice tightens. “What do you mean?”

“We've been talking a while, and all you've done is play one role or the other. Porn muse. AI evangelist.”

“Isn't that what everyone does, play roles?” She forms a little circle with her thumb and index finger, spinning it through the air in slow motion.

“Maybe. But I think I know less of you now than before we met. And what gang signs are you throwing?”

“You've not been paying attention. I’m swirling my glass,” she says, mock-offended. “It’s almost empty—go fetch me a refill.”

“Enough pussyfooting. I want to know the real you.” You mime grabbing her glass and smashing it against the tub. “Surely you don’t talk in riddles 24/7.”

“Ouch.” She rubs her hand, as if something stung her. “Seriously, I’ve been real all night. I'm an open book, ask whatever you want.”

You pause for a second, thinking. “What do you… do for work?”

She snorts, like that question personally insulted her. “Come on. That’s like, the worst way to get to know someone.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You used a nice word earlier: definitions. You think the least interesting part of someone's day is one of those?”

“That's the part that keeps you alive.”

“But the rest is what you stay alive for.”

“Not everyone hates their job.”

“Not the point.” She crosses her legs, resting her hand on her knee. “It’s an obligation; would you do those eight hours if there wasn’t a paycheck waiting?”

“No,” you admit. “I have to meet metrics at my job.”

Her shoulders rise in a shrug. “These metrics, would anyone give a shit about them in a vacuum?”

“Maybe it’s not a definition, more of a side effect.”

“Yeah. And even if the passion’s there—buried under all that overhead—there's better ways to reach it than that question.”

“Try this on for size: you like parties?”

She smiles. “Do you?”

“You said I could ask anything.”

“You can—and I’ll answer. But you first.”

“Not really,” you tell. “People act like decency’s optional the second the lights go out.”

“That much was clear the moment I saw you.”

Unnecessary pretense, you think. “Then why ask?”

“Curious how you’d frame it. You chose to put the blame outside. And if I may, we're not being so decent ourselves.” Chaewon dramatically motions to the various states of undress you two are in.

“My bad for asking.”

“Not a dig. Just saying—this actually says something.”

“Point taken. So I asked, and I haven't gotten anything out of you yet.”

“Parties are okay.” She unhooks the handshower from the handle and points it at her wrist, thoughtful. “But I could do without the striking lights.”

“Really? You seemed fine out there.”

A soft breath. “Not paying attention isn’t new to you, is it?”

“That one’s a dig.”

“Not really. Not being hyper-aware isn't a character flaw. Most people aren't.”

“Yeah, not everyone’s wired like you, huh?” Your case is only helped by the way she's fixated with the shower head streaming water at her wrist.

“You can put it that way, but I'm not sure you're anyone’s poster child for normal either.” Her other hand lands on your thigh, as if to ground you from any delusions.

You’ll kick yourself in the shin every time you remember you told her about definitions.

She poses: “My turn. You like your friend?”

“What do you mean—like?” You raise a brow, suspicious.

“As in, like them as a person. Not in a funny way—just, you think they're cool. Sort of.”

“Heejin’s fucking intolerable. At times. Most of the time.”

“Why hang out with her then?”

“Dunno. She's my friend. You don't ditch your friends just because they're annoying.”

“You totally can, actually,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have, plenty of times.”

“Yeah, who am I kidding—I probably have too.” You point the shower down, and water spills onto her legs, sliding past her ankles on the way out. Somewhat of a ritual. Just not a clean one. Chaewon’s probably the kind to think none of them are.

A ritual needs some truths too, and you'll supply them: “But it’s not all bad. She dragged me out to this party, and now I'm here. Would probably be holed up with a movie otherwise.”

“Doesn't sound too bad. That's my preferred way of spending Friday nights, too.”

“Why here, then?”

“Active effort to put myself out there—whatever that's supposed to mean.” She exhales sharply. “Thought I’d done enough of that in college.”

“If you did, you wouldn't have to now.”

“Well, enough for me. Couldn't be arsed to do more.”

“Fair,” you offer, soft. “Was expecting your question to be how I knew your name.”

“Saw Heejin talking to the only person I knew here earlier. Wasn't too hard to figure out.” She flips through the shower settings, going through her post-sex-pre-aftercare-waterplay-ritual in different flavors. “Besides, would've been a little hypocritical of me. After that whole rant on bad questions.”

“Don't like getting caught being two-faced?”

She shifts on the floor slightly. “Nobody does. I'd like to think I'm consistent.”

“Sure. Though you can never know that for a fact.”

“Says who?”

“God—”

Chaewon cuts in: “He isn't telling me anything.“

“Gödel.”

“Who? Actually—scratch that, don't wanna know.” She raises her palm at you, like a stop sign.

“That won’t make it any less applicable to you.”

“Uh-huh,” she says and squints her eyes at you, considering if your next words are worth the trouble. “Fine, I'll bite. Who is it?”

“A math—guy. Proved no system can show itself to be consistent (among other tragic facts about math; they hated him). If math can't know it’s consistent, what luck do you have?”

“Shoot for the stars, land on the moon. Yada yada.”

“Wasn't it the other way around?” You glance at the wall—squiggly green patterns ripple across a blue background. “Shoot for the moon, land on the stars.”

She shakes her head. “That doesn't even make sense—the moon’s closer.”

“A lot of sayings don't make sense.” You point the water towards your own feet. The soft flow on skin feels quite relaxing.

“Like what?”

“Like… rules were meant to be broken. I think that's the last thing the folks making the rules had in mind.”

Her lips curl into a half-smile. “You're breaking your own rules by being here.”

The water suddenly turns harsh. “Thanks for the second reminder.”

“Your turn—go.” She flicks the nozzle, switching it to a concentrated burst—no warning.

You flinch, fling the head away, and kill the tap. “You know what? I think we should get going.” You don't think that—not yet—but two can play the game of saying things just for the reaction.

“It was just starting to get fun.” Her lips pull into a fake pout.

“You'd say that.”

“You’re dying to ask something,” she clocks. “Go on.”

You grip the tub edge, moving around a bit. “Did you actually, uh, mean what you said earlier?” you mumble.

“Darling, I said a lot of things tonight.”

“About being into physical violence.”

“Oh god, no,” she says. “That was a little two-for-one special: say something clever and fuck with you a little. Couldn't pass it up.” That twinkle in her eye is back again; you hate it.

“You should be careful going around saying stuff like that,” you warn.

“I know who to say it to. The kind that’d flinch harder than myself.”

As if right on cue, the light behind you flickers again—hitting her right in the eye. She flinches—barely. A jerk you can miss if you blink. Her eyes quiver for a split second, teetering between shut and just open.

You raise a hand, shielding her eyes. She freezes. Only when the light settles do you lower it.

“Could barely tell it affected you, to be honest,” you admit.

“I've had practice. Only changed my reaction on the outside, though.”

“Let’s switch places.” You get up and offer her a hand. “It’s worse on your side, when it happens.”

“We don’t need to.”

“Just come here.” You grab her hand, palm and fingers smooth against yours—cold to the touch—and she stands up. After helping her to the tub's edge, you drop to the floor. “You could raise a hand, block it, y’know?”

“How would I have practice then?” Chaewon pauses for a second. “It’s not worth it.”

“Lights always do that to you?”

The tub floor is gross, you think about pointing it out—but she's been sitting on it for the better part of the night without any complaints. So you keep it to yourself.

“Ever since I remember.” Her gaze wanders up behind you. “Went to a doctor once. Got some tests done. Said it’s inherent and just something I should avoid,” she says without missing a beat. Like a script, rehearsed—an actress playing her part. Not too well, not too convincing; you can’t buy in totally yet. It’s a written line, meant to be heard, maybe even pitied. But to be believed, it needs more practice. Or less.

“None of that’s true, is it?”

“It's partly true. That’s the trick.”

“Which part?”

“I did go to a doctor. And they did say there’s nothing they can do about it.” A darkness pools in her eyes.

“So it wasn't always there.”

“No.”

“Since when?” you press.

For the first time all night, her replies aren’t so quickfire. “It’s not that interesting,” just doesn’t have the same wit; the cleverness you’ve gotten used to.

“You wanted good questions. This feels like a definition; the making of one.”

“It’s really not,” she insists.

You'll try a hail-mary: “You know another, timeless packaging of Ship of Theseus? Lying about yourself—so well, so long—you forget who you were to begin with.” You lean back, giving her space to think. “When do you reach that point?”

She stares at you blankly. A pause, a sigh, and then:

“You know you’re kind of an asshole, right? I used to like them, actually. The lights. My family thought I was nuts.” She laughs, dry—there’s no humor in it. “But they didn't mind it too much; it helped me sleep. At our old place, when I was young. I used to lie on my bed at night, watching the lights flickering from sirens through the window.

The sirens used to zoom past, lights entering one way—draping my room in a faint blue—and leaving from the other, as fast as they came. Used to have the best fun counting them, too. See, life was just that simple back then. But I could never get past 40 without falling asleep.”

“Of course,” she adds, quieter, “that was before that night. When the blue sirens just kept going. Crossed 40, and I got so excited. Clutched the pillow so hard it almost tore—I’d never made it that far. It kept going. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. My heart picked up with the numbers.”

A small, uneasy shock crawls up her legs—they start shaking.

“Then I realized they’d stopped at our house.”

A piercing banging on the door interrupts whatever she was going to say next.

“Occupied?” shouts a sharp, annoying voice. “Ugh. Just puke and fucking weirdos jacking off in here, I swear.”

“Is that—” Chaewon starts.

You finish: “Yeah. Heejin herself, in the flesh. Who else could it be?”

She presses her palm to her forehead. “My head's spinning. I’m getting dizzy.”

“You okay? Need some water?” The pupils in her eyes go grey, and slowly go deeper in the white. “Or meds?” you add, concerned.

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” Her voice says otherwise—faint, fraying. Like she’s losing control of herself. “I just thought—the headaches were quiet for a while.”

“You’ve had them before?”

She nods, slow. “Headaches—noises—visions. I need to leave.”

“I'll come with you,” you say, and her eyes dart up at you, an uneasy look surfacing. “Till you're okay, if you'd like.”

A soft breath escapes her lips. “Alright… thanks.”

“If I don’t hear a response, I’m kicking the door down,” Heejin barks from outside.

“Is she gonna be a problem?” Chaewon picks up her dress from the floor, trying to straighten it out.

You grip her shoulder, steadying. “Get dressed, okay? I’ll deal with her.”

Your fingers graze the doorknob. One last look behind.

Her hands are gripping her head tightly, knees drawn in. Curling inward, like she wants to disappear. Unfortunately for her, she’s still here…

Closing the door behind you, you step back into the filth of the party on its last few breaths. The bathroom, somehow, felt cleaner. Music’s back to head-pounding loud; you miss the softer hum inside.

Heejin’s eyes widen on seeing you. “Thank fuck. I was looking—”

“What do you want?” you ask, words rushing out.

“What were you doing in there?” She squints, suspicious.

You let out a long sigh. “I was with her.”

“So I was right all along—bathroom floor, knees, everything—”

“Whatever you want, make it quick.”

“Someone fucking smashed my car’s rear view mirror. We need to leave.”

“Then go, take the car and go. What the hell are you calling me for?”

She takes a step back. “You’re a dick. I came with you. Figured I should be the one getting you back.”

“No. Tell the truth: you’re too fucking drunk to drive.”

Heejin presses her lips together, frowning. “What are you being such a dick for?”

“Because Chaewon’s—sick. In there.” You jab a finger over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”

“In where?” She leans in to look past you, brows furrowing.

“In…” You turn around to find—

The bathroom door hangs wide open, creaking. Your eyes sweep the room—tub, sink, toilet, floor—there’s nobody inside.

There’s nobody inside.

One last cut: It's something you’d rather forget. (You can't.) You roam the dance floor, hallways, drinks tables; they’re all dead—of what, you're not quite sure. Searching.

Music's replaced by a high, unbearable ringing. Lights burn brighter, sharper, piercing—you can feel them enter your eyes. Yes, they enter from your eyes, boring through the soft flesh of your brain, then drilling a hole through your skull on the way out. If you place a hand behind you, you swear you can catch it in your palm and stop the light—but you're wrong; it cuts through your hand, too. 

You can't stop it.

People look different, look like nobody. Faces—aren't. Faces aren't—anything. The lights turn every expression into the same; everyone looks like everybody. But none of them are the one you're searching for: hers.

The only one you wanna see. The only one missing.

This is the longest cut of them all. Time stretches, snaps, folds. You couldn’t put a number to it if you tried. All you know is: it’s long.

It ends out on the lawn, between wet, scrunching blades of grass.

Sit down and look up. There are no lights here; not for others, that is. But in your eyes, they're more striking than ever. Dancing in the front of your eyes when open, etching themselves in the back of your eyelids when closed—you have no escape, no solace. They’ve made themselves home, manifesting vivid shades of the feelings curled deep in the folds of your mind. If anything, the visions have to be them. If anything.

Someone did say the color of dread is blue.

They’ll be your stars tonight; they’ll be your muse—what you look at to feel things you can’t elsewhere. A cocktail of emotions—mostly dark, base being a stunning flavor of regret.

If you did a post-mortem, you’d trace it back to the first mistake: coming to this party. You'll need to do some re-defining—stop listening to Heejin’s suggestions. Fuck it, maybe push her out of your life once and for all. You knew this night was a bad idea.

Ask her and she'll say you're living life like a lunatic, chained to your concepts. (About that? She might be right.)

The second misstep: breaking your own rule. Maybe it was the drink forced on you; maybe she was so magnetic that man-made barriers stopped mattering. But something, something, made you lose control. Like Chaewon said. She was right: she said a lot of things. Deflections, quick wit, smoke and mirrors. Until the first time she said something strange.

She'll be less her and more you. What if the reverse was true, too?

The excuses can go on. So, when you wake up tomorrow, cut out the part that said it's okay to break your definitions, because that's what started this. Make that a definition.

But—if you were willing to break one definition… there's nothing stopping you from breaking another.

Then what? Make a new one? Swear it'll hold? Swear you will?

You can draw one more line in the sand. You'll end up watching yourself step over it.

If you can break one, you can break them all. The underlying assumption doesn't hold.

It's not consistent. Not anymore.

It has collapsed.

And whatever you’ll face is punishment for the same.

—

“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

To be continued.

Part 1 of definitions - Ultraviolette

—

Heejin’s bloodshot eyes stay locked ahead, her palm clenched around the top of the steering wheel. A glance at the cracked rearview mirror—there’s a police car tailing, signaling her to pull over. She groans loud, annoyed, and steers to the side.

The cruiser stops behind her. A cop steps out, mutters something under his breath, and trudges up to her car.

“I swear I’m not drunk,” she protests as she rolls the window down. “I wasn’t even supposed to be driving. I had a partner—he just disappeared. And I spent a fucking fortune financing this car. I’m not leaving it at a party where it'll get trashed six ways to hell by tomorrow morning,” she finishes, flippant.

The officer reaches into his bag to pull out a breathalyzer. “Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to blow into this.”

It takes roughly three warnings. Each one a little sharper: “Last chance. Refusal to take the test will result in arrest and license suspension—I need you to breathe into this now.”

Only then does she sigh, roll her eyes, and finally blow into the device.

Nothing is said when the machine blinks with the result; he just flashes her the screen. She doesn't understand the numbers, but the implication’s obvious. So she sighs again, and steps out of the car.

A cold breeze stirs her hair. She turns—nearby, a woman hurries past, head low. Deliberately hidden, like she's trying not to be there. Which, of course, only draws Heejin’s attention more. The way she's dressed doesn't help.

A soft, elegant—though slightly crumpled—dress hangs off one shoulder, flowing down to her knees. It looks familiar. Heejin’s definitely seen it before. Where exactly? She’s too drunk to recall.

Tucked in the dark corner of the street, a phone booth sits waiting. Behind it, a shop. Or at least, what she thinks is a shop. A sign reads Sweet Decorations.

But there’s no cashier. No counter. In fact, there's only one shelf standing between the place being a shop—or just an empty room. All the walls are glass, the door too—like it’s saying: look at me, I’ve got nothing to hide.

The light inside is a dim, sterile white. It's not flickering; steady, actually—but it feels like it might go out any second and take the shop with it. It's been on too long. Far too long.

The shelf is clear, like everything else. Just big enough for two teddy bears. Still in plastic. Unused.

Her eyes dart back to the phone booth. It’s occupied now. The woman slips a coin into the receiver, dials a number, and presses the phone to her cheek—gripping it like she’d die if she let go.

One ring, two.

Two slim fingers lift from the receiver, brushing her hair back. For a moment, a sliver of her face is visible—before the strands fall forward again.

Heejin catches a glimpse—and lurches forward. She tries to run to her, but the cop’s hand clamps down hard on her shoulder, locking her in place.

“Hey—you,” she shouts into the wind.

Three, four.

The next motion unfolds in three acts, but feels like one, really:

Chaewon’s grip on the phone slowly loosens, till it slips from her grasp and is en route to a free fall to the floor. The cord is too long to matter.

Her eyelids flutter, and she collapses into a heap on the floor, cheek pressed flush against the cold concrete.

The phone hits the ground—a blunt thud. It rattles once, twice, then settles right beside her ear. She stares into the distance; eyes—lifeless.

Five, six.

An ambulance has been dispatched to your approximate location. Please look for the blue sirens.

—

[4barbatos]

✦ oops, didn't knock

a collection of genshin men reacting to walking in while you’re changing .ᐟ.ᐟ

you’ve just slipped your shirt over your head, arms still tangled in the fabric, when the door creaks open behind you.

“hey, i was just gonna ask if you—”

he stops. mid-sentence. mid-breath.

the air freezes.

your shirt is halfway on, exposing your back, bra strap still unhooked. your eyes widen, and so do his.

he slams the door shut like it bit him.

“I’M SORRY—i didn’t mean to—i thought you weren’t in here—fuck—”

you hear him stumble into the hallway, muttering curses at himself as his voice cracks twice and his footsteps fade.

when you step out a few minutes later, he can’t look you in the eye.

his ears are still glowing red.

he keeps fiddling with his sleeves.

“…didn’t see anything, swear,” he mumbles. “okay. maybe just your shoulder. maybe two seconds. that’s it.”

his hands are shaking.

KINICH, tighnari, kaveh, XIAO, WANDERER

you’re reaching for your pants when the door swings open, and he steps inside like he owns the place.

“hey, have you seen my—oh.”

his voice dips. his eyes rake down, slow.

“well… you’re definitely not wearing them.”

you grab the nearest pillow and throw it at him. he catches it midair, cocky smirk blooming across his face.

“relax,” he drawls, leaning on the doorframe like he’s posing for a damn magazine. “not like it’s the first time i’ve seen a little skin.”

you glare. he raises his hands in mock surrender — not before giving you one last once-over.

“cute underwear, by the way.” “GET OUT.” “okay, okay! but seriously, we should talk about that color on you.”

he’s laughing as the door closes. your face is on fire. your heart’s racing. and he knows it.

wriothesley, CHILDE, kaeya, LYNEY, ifa

you’re changing shirts, arms above your head, when the door creaks open. there’s a shuffle of feet, a murmur of your name,

then silence.

you turn slightly.

he’s standing there, frozen in the doorway, mouth parted mid-word.

his eyes are locked on your bare shoulder.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. like he’s forgotten how.

“…hello?” you say, unsure.

he blinks — finally — and stammers out something that might’ve started as a question. he’s not even sure anymore. he’s still staring.

“i—uh—was gonna ask you—about—the—thing. with. uh.” “…breakfast?” “…yeah. that.”

you raise a brow. your hand goes to the hem of the shirt draped over your arm. he watches it move like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

eventually he clears his throat, steps back, and closes the door like it takes every ounce of control to do so.

he doesn’t speak to you for 3 hours.

then sends you a text that just says: “…you looked nice.”

FREMINET, alhaitham, KAZUHA, gorou, gaming

you’re topless, rifling through drawers for a clean shirt, when the door swings open and he strolls in without a care.

“hey, have you seen my—”

he pauses. you freeze. he doesn’t.

his gaze drags down your bare spine. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look away. just hums.

“…don’t let me interrupt you.” “are you kidding me?” “i could be.”

you throw a shirt on, flustered. he watches the whole process without blinking.

“you could’ve knocked.” “you could’ve locked it.”

he shrugs, still watching you. something dark flickers in his eyes before he turns to leave.

“next time,” he says, voice low, “you should try on my shirt.”

he leaves you speechless. and way too hot under the collar.

ITTO, cyno, VENTI, sethos, ororon

you’re halfway through pulling your shirt over your head when the door creaks open.

“hey, did you—”

his voice fades. he pauses mid-step, eyes meeting yours in the mirror.

you freeze, caught in the moment — bare skin, vulnerable silence.

he doesn’t panic. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t leave.

his gaze is steady, soft.

“…you look beautiful.”

your breath catches. his tone wasn’t teasing. it wasn’t flirty.

it was honest. quiet. real.

he steps back, gently closing the door behind him. no rush, no drama.

“i’ll wait outside. take your time.”

and just like that, he’s gone — leaving your chest warm and your mind spinning.

neuvillette, ZHONGLI, baizhu, ALBEDO

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines!

[imhalfplastic]

team building (and other questionable choices)

⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader genre: frenemies to lovers · office romance · slice of life · fluff themes: trying to play cupid (and failing), witty banter, accidental intimacy, one bed trope, mutual pining, clichés. a lot. cw: mild sexual content (MDNI), workplace setting, suggestive humor.

summary: when two overworked assistants team up to secretly play matchmaker for their clueless bosses, the plan is simple: coordinate schedules, fake a little chemistry, and absolutely not fall for each other.

minors do not interact!

from kai: i can't stop writing about mingyu. i need help. this one's loosely based on set it up (2018), but a little more chaotic? enjoy.

now playing: my type - saint motel

you’ve met kim mingyu four times.

the first: when your bosses scheduled two meetings at the exact same time in the same conference room and you both had to play rock-paper-scissors in front of the ceo to decide who got it. (he won. with scissors. a rookie mistake. you never forgave yourself.)

the second: in the elevator. he spilled half a latte on your shoes and said “at least they’re not suede...” like that was helpful.

the third: when you accidentally replied-all to an internal memo about performance evaluations, calling your boss “a capitalist goblin with a caffeine addiction.” he just replied "bold of you to speak truth in this economy. solidarity."

the fourth: now. every day. too often. always.

the thing is: you don’t work together. not really. you work adjacent. which is worse.

he’s the assistant to ms. seo, who runs strategy like she’s planning war. sharp heels, sharper tone, and a calendar color-coded within an inch of its life. mingyu walks two steps behind her like a loyal retriever, clipboard in one hand, existential dread in the other. he smiles too much for someone who gets cc’d on every meltdown in the building.

you, on the other hand, work for mr. yoon. a man with a god complex, a phobia of silence, and a diet that consists almost exclusively of espresso and the souls of junior staff. he once called your lunch “visually distracting” because it had “too much sauce”. you haven’t forgiven him either.

and because the two of them (ms. seo and mr. yoon) are in constant, competitive collaboration, it means you and mingyu are stuck in a never-ending tug-of-war of email threads, late-night reschedules, and passive-aggressive calendar invites.

the dynamic?

you’re the ghostwriter of your boss’s bad ideas. he’s the translator of his boss’s mood swings.

you text each other more than you text your actual friends. and you’re not sure if you hate him or if he just reminds you of your own job too much.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just moved lunch to 1 mine is fasting for "clarity of mind" so i'll be dying quietly in the corner

you clarity of mind is wild for someone who screamed at a stapler last tuesday

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] she said it was "threatening her aura"

you i'm scared it might've been right

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] justice for the stapler

by week three of back-to-back “urgent” requests, you’ve memorized the way he sighs through his nose when ms. seo cancels a meeting thirty seconds before it starts. you’ve also learned that he eats lunch in exactly four minutes and always forgets a fork. you’ve stopped offering him one. mostly out of principle.

“you’re not a real person.” you tell him one thursday. “you’re like a mirage. a corporate hallucination.”

he blinks. “thanks?”

“not a compliment.”

but he’s already scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed.

“you realize we’ve been yelled at by our bosses for the exact same meeting reschedule like, four times now.” he says. “at some point they’re gonna think we’re doing this on purpose.”

you sigh. “i wish we were. at least then it’d be satisfying.”

he throws his head back dramatically, groaning. “i’m too pretty to get fired.”

"you’re too clumsy,” you correct. “and you owe me a new pair of shoes.”

the idea comes after the fifth minor disaster of the week: a double-booked call, a vegan lunch delivery sent to a man who once called kale “a scam”, and a particularly pointed all-caps message from ms. seo.

you’re both slumped in the break room. the vending machine, as usual, has betrayed him. again.

he’s chewing your emergency chocolate like it’s keeping him alive.

“i’m just saying...” he starts, mouth half full. “if they were hooking up, maybe they’d stop using us as pawns in their weird power game.”

you blink at him.

“you’re not saying that.” you say. “you’re not actually suggesting this.”

“yoon and seo.” he says, nodding. “they have tension. it’s weird. disgusting. undeniable.”

“no.”

“hear me out.”

“no!” you repeat, louder this time. “are you insane? what part of this place makes you think romance is the solution?”

he blinks, caught off guard.

“do you even understand where we work?“ you go on. “we work for emotionally repressed narcissists with god complexes and matching calendars. this isn’t a rom-com, mingyu. this is hell.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off again.

“and you...” you say, jabbing a finger in his direction, “you think you're clever because you smile through the misery, but you’re just as trapped as me. stop pretending this is some cute little team-up.”

he’s quiet for a moment. you expect him to bite back, but he just tilts his head a little, watching you with something unreadable in his face.

“okay.” he says softly. “message received.”

you leave before you say something worse.

twelve minutes later, your phone rings. your boss's name lights up your screen.

“my office. now.”

you barely have time to close your tabs before you're in his doorway, arms crossed.

he doesn't look up from his monitor.

"you sent this?” he asks, pointing to a printed email. yes. printed.

“yes, sir.”

he reads a sentence aloud like it personally offended him. “‘apologies for the mix-up — i’ve reattached the correct file for your convenience.’”

“yes,” you say again. “because the original pdf had a broken...”

“this.” he interrupts, stabbing the paper with his finger. “is passive-aggressive.”

you blink. “it’s standard wording.”

“your tone” he says, “undermines my authority. and by extension, yours. if you ever want to be taken seriously in this industry, you need to learn how to communicate without sounding like you’re rolling your eyes.”

he leans back in his chair.

“do you think you’re indispensable?”

you don’t answer.

“because you’re not. you’re efficient, but so is every other assistant here. i could replace you by monday.”

he lets that sit for a beat.

then gestures to the door. “that’s all.”

you walk out of the office with a tight jaw and something sharp curling in your chest.

you sit back at your desk. your screen is full of open tabs, blinking messages, a reminder to pick up dry cleaning you can’t afford and a google search for “can stress cause actual brain damage.”

your phone buzzes.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] so the plan's back on, yeah? just checking.

you don’t look up. not right away. you type slowly.

you if i say yes it's not because i believe in it it's because i want peace

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] peace is valid so is revenge

you i still think it's a terrible idea

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] perfect now it feels balanced again

the plan doesn’t take shape immediately. it starts as a joke.

you’re both in the supply closet, pretending to look for toner while avoiding being assigned yet another last-minute revision to the joint quarterly review deck.

he leans against the shelf like it’s a bar counter.

“okay, hypothetically...” he starts, “if we were to interfere with the romantic fates of our bosses, how would we do it?”

you snort. “we wouldn’t.”

“but if.”

you sigh, and, against your better judgment, answer.

“it’d have to feel natural. like a coincidence. accidental. you know. a narrative beat.”

he raises an eyebrow. “you’re disturbingly good at this.”

you ignore him. “it can’t be too obvious. no weird setups. no ‘i booked the same table for two’ bullshit.”

“agreed.” he says. “they’d see through that.”

there’s a pause.

then, you both say it at the same time:

“coffee.”

you blink.

“no way.”

“you said coffee too.” he says, pointing.

you groan. “i hate this...”

he’s already typing into his phone. “they both get coffee, right?”

“dude, we can’t make them run into each other...” you say. “it has to be a cliché.”

he grins like that’s the best thing he’s heard all week. “a cliché.”

you nod. “every great romance starts with one.”

“so what?” he says. “we drop a folder? one of them bends down to pick it up? brushes hands? instant chemistry?”

“too forced.”

“they reach for the same croissant?”

“getting warmer.”

“they both complain about us at the same time in the same line and bond over how ungrateful we are?”

you raise your eyebrows. “you think they’d do that?”

“they already do…” he mutters.

you roll your eyes. “okay. listen. we know their orders. their schedules. their routes. if we can time it just right…”

he finishes your sentence: “...they’ll think it’s fate.”

later that day, you’re back at your desk, scrolling through mr. yoon’s calendar like a bored private investigator.

he’s consistent. pathologically so.

coffee at 10:15. always the same place. same corner seat. same cappuccino. sometimes with extra foam. depending on his mood.

you open the app and look up ms. seo’s location history. mingyu already gave you access. you're not sure how. you don’t ask.

“they’ve been in the same place five times in the last two weeks” he whispers from behind your chair.

you jump. “jesus. do you materialize now?”

“only for dramatic effect.”

you look back at the screen. “five times.”

“and they didn’t notice each other once.”

“so what we’re saying is... we know them better than they know themselves.”

“yup.”

“that’s bleak.”

“deeply.”

he leans over your shoulder. “so. next tuesday. 10:15. table near the window.”

“you handle ms. seo.”

“you handle yoon.”

“if this backfires...”

“we were never here.”

you shake your head and open a new tab.

you’re not proud of it.

but you google “best pastries for accidental eye contact.”

tuesday arrives like a slow-moving disaster. you wake up late, spill coffee on your shirt, and have to switch to your “i’m pretending to be calm” blouse. the one that’s too stiff at the collar and makes you look like a very tired lawyer. 

but none of that matters, because today is operation cliché. 

phase one: coffee collision. 

the location? a minimalistic café on the first floor of the neighboring building, where all the tables are identical and everything smells like lavender and oat milk. it’s the kind of place that sells banana bread for twelve dollars and calls it “seasonal.”

you arrive at the café twelve minutes early. mingyu's already there, sitting in the corner like he’s a spy. you slide into the seat across from him. “what's the plan again?”

he doesn’t look up right away. just nods once like he’s been waiting for this briefing all his life.

“simple.” he says. “they both come here every tuesday. always between ten and ten fifteen. always order the same thing. they never notice each other because they’re too busy speed-reading emails and being vaguely terrifying.”

you raise an eyebrow. “go on.”

“so,” he continues, “i called ahead. asked the barista to delay both orders until exactly ten seventeen. give or take thirty seconds.”

“and then?”

“and then,” he says, leaning in slightly, “they both get called up at the same time. same tray. same awkward pause. eye contact. emotional disarmament. destiny.”

you blink. “you’ve really thought this through.”

“of course i have” he says. “i’m deeply invested in my own survival.”

“and you think this will work?”

he shrugs. “every great romance starts with an inconvenient beverage.”

you snort into your cup. you hate how much sense that makes.

ms. seo arrives exactly on time. she doesn’t wait in line, she orders like she owns the place and claims her table with one glance. mr. yoon enters two minutes later, slightly out of breath and already annoyed by the background music. he hates piano jazz. you know this. 

you both sink lower in your seats. 

“this is so dumb...” you whisper. “they’re not even-”

“wait for it.” he mutters. 

there’s a pause. 

a blink. 

the barista calls both names at once. 

they reach for the same tray. 

your breath catches. 

and then:

“oh...” mr. yoon says, taking a step back. “didn’t see you there.” 

ms. seo raises an eyebrow. “you never do.” 

and for one moment the tiniest moment they smile. 

smile. 

mingyu looks at you like he just saw god. 

“we’re geniuses” he whispers. 

“don’t jinx it.” 

you watch them sit. not together, but closer than usual. angled slightly toward each other. enough to talk, if they want to. enough to notice. 

“they’re talking...” mingyu says. 

“this is happening.” you nod, stunned. 

you don't say it out loud, but it does feel like a movie. you don't believe in fate. but maybe you believe in timing. and coffee. and croissants that carry plot.

they leave separately.

she goes first. phone in hand, shoulders back, the way she always walks when she’s thinking. he waits thirty seconds, then follows, not too close. but closer than usual.

you and mingyu don’t move.

you just sit there, two overcaffeinated employees hiding behind an aggressive fern, watching your bosses walk away like characters from the end of act one.

“okay." you say. “that was... weirdly successful.”

“i’m scared” he says.

“same.”

you finally stand. his drink is empty. your croissant is gone. neither of you remember eating it.

outside, the air smells like too much perfume and half a dozen corporate regrets. you stop at the corner.

“so what now?” you ask.

he grins. “phase two.”

you roll your eyes. “of course there’s a phase two.”

“come on” he says, already walking backward toward the building. “we made them smile. that’s practically engagement.”

“don’t say engagement.”

“too late.”

you don’t see him again until after lunch.

mr. yoon pulls you into three back-to-back meetings, one of which is just him ranting about fonts. you think he’s in a good mood. or at least a neutral one. it’s hard to tell.

by the time you get back to your desk, your phone buzzes.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] you owe me a thank you croissant that was art they both reached for the tray like it was scripted

you you ate my croissant i'm the one who deserves a thank you

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] fine i'll meet you halfway supply closet in 15 bring no expectations, only snacks and your most chaotic ideas

you you're unbelievable

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] and yet deeply necessary

you stare at the screen for a beat too long. and then, before you can stop yourself, you type:

you make it 10 minutes i have a very dumb idea

the supply closet is barely a closet.

more of a broom-sized purgatory. it smells like dry erase markers. someone left a sad motivational sticker on the inside of the door that says you’ve got this! and it feels like a threat.

you’re already there when he arrives.

he knocks twice, unnecessarily, before slipping in and closing the door behind him with too much ceremony.

“you’re late” you say.

“you said ten minutes. i gave you eleven. that’s generosity.”

“that’s procrastination.”

he holds up a granola bar like it’s a peace treaty. “i come bearing carbs.”

you take it, mostly because you’re hungry, but also because the wrapper says crunchy with a hint of sea salt and you feel vaguely called out.

“so...” he says, leaning against a shelf of printer paper like he’s hosting a TED talk. “what’s your dumb idea?”

“you go first” you say.

“you told me to come because you had the idea.”

“and now i don’t trust it.”

“why not?”

“because you’re looking at me like you already love it.”

“i do love it. i just don’t know what it is yet.”

you sigh and break the granola bar in half, handing him a piece.

“okay.” you start, mouth full. “we can’t do another run-in. it’ll look too convenient.”

“agreed.” he says, through granola. “we need escalation.”

“we need... a shared cause.”

he blinks. “like... activism?”

“like fake activism” you clarify. “a team-building initiative. professional development. something they can co-lead.”

he nods slowly. “a task that forces prolonged contact. good. close proximity. subtle emotional vulnerability.”

“something high-pressure, low-stakes.”

“something where they think they’re in control.”

you both pause.

and then, at the exact same time:

“leadership retreat.”

you stare at each other in horror.

“that’s...”

“terrible.” he finishes. “dangerous. complicated.”

“they’ll kill us.”

“...we have to do it.”

you groan and slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor between two boxes of branded mugs.

he lowers himself beside you.

“okay.” he says. “if we pitch it right... this can work.”

“how do we pitch it?”

he pulls out his phone, opens a notes app already titled operation chicle, and starts typing.

you lean in without realizing.

your shoulders brush. neither of you move.

mingyu taps at his phone, brow furrowed in mock concentration.

“okay, proposal: joint leadership off-site to boost collaboration. location… somewhere with bad wifi and strong coffee. schedule: two-hour brainstorm, four-hour tension.”

you tilt your head. “you mean four hours of suppressed resentment disguised as productivity.”

“exactly!” he says, not looking up. “it’s authentic.”

you lean in slightly, peeking at his screen. “add ‘quiet team bonding’ and ‘organic interpersonal growth’. make it sound like we read a book about it.”

he types obediently, nodding. “love that. very linkedin-core.”

then he pauses. “should we make a deck?”

you snap your head toward him.

“if you make a deck” you say, deadly calm, “i’ll kill you.”

he grins, not even pretending to be sorry. “you say the sweetest things.”

you try not to smile. you fail. just a little.

you don’t leave the closet together.

but as you step back into the hallway, you realize your hand still smells like granola and printer ink. and that he didn’t mock your idea. and that, somehow, sitting on a dusty floor with him felt more peaceful than your own desk.

thursday morning.

you’re in the small conference room, the one with flickering lights and a very aggressive print of a lighthouse on the wall, watching mingyu adjust the brightness on his laptop for the sixth time.

“stop it.” you mutter. “it’s fine.”

“it’s washed out.” he says. “the slides have to pop. we’re selling transformation.”

“we’re selling emotional manipulation in a power suit.” you correct. “no one’s buying.”

“not with that attitude.”

he clicks through the deck one last time. every slide is a masterpiece of corporate nonsense: gradient backgrounds, buzzwords in bold, and fake statistics like “teams who bond off-site are 63% less likely to initiate passive-aggressive email chains.”

you sigh. “we’re going to hell for this.”

“it’s fine” he grins. “we’ll carpool.”

the pitch goes disturbingly well.

ms. seo barely blinks. she nods halfway through slide two and says, “this could be efficient.” which, from her, is basically a standing ovation.

mr. yoon interrupts twice to talk about thought leadership and uses the phrase “executive synergy” like it’s a personality trait.

when you finish, there’s a pause.

then:

“you two will run it.” ms. seo says.

“what?” you blink.

“i’ll be in singapore next week,” she says, already opening her phone. “you’ll facilitate on our behalf.”

you turn to mr. yoon, desperate. “sir?”

he waves a hand. “sounds like a perfect opportunity for growth. report back with a summary. keep the receipts.”

you open your mouth.

close it.

then open it again, for good measure.

mingyu says nothing. absolutely nothing.

you both leave the room in silence. outside the conference room, you stop walking.

he stops too.

you stare at him.

“you ruined my life.” you say calmly.

“technically, they approved the plan.”

“technically, you were the one who said leadership retreat like it was a good thing.”

“you said it at the same time!”

“and i regret it.”

he lifts both hands, grinning. “look, it’s fine. we’ll run a few workshops, do some trust falls, eat a buffet dinner, and be back in three days.”

“do not say trust falls like it’s a fun concept.”

“do you want me to start a shared document?”

“i want you to get hit by a metaphorical bus.”

“great” he says. “i’ll add that to the parking lot.”

you walk away before you start laughing.

later that afternoon, your phone buzzes.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] new plan: we fake food poisoning or burn down the lodge or both

you i knew this was a bad idea i KNEW mingyu you've doomed us you've condemned us to team-building hell there will be icebreakers there will be name tags we will be forced to share feelings

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] can’t wait to see you cry during trust circle

you if i disappear tell people i died doing what i hated: corporate bonding

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] should i pack snacks?

you pack dignity you’ll need it

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] never had it to begin with

you close the chat with a groan.

three days to the retreat. no bosses. no escape. just you. him. and four hours of scheduled “guided reflection.”

god help you both.

the corporate retreat center looks exactly like you imagined it would.

a beige lodge in the middle of nowhere, flanked by pine trees and suspiciously cheerful signage. there's a wooden welcome board near the entrance that says “unlock your inner leader!” in three fonts too many.

“i already hate it.” you mutter, dragging your suitcase over a gravel path that definitely wasn’t meant for heels.

“look on the bright side,” mingyu says, way too cheerful for someone carrying a duffel bag that looks like it holds gym trauma. “bad wi-fi. no bosses. and apparently a breakfast buffet.”

“if you make this sound fun one more time i’m leaving you in the woods.”

he grins. “you say that now, but wait till you see the lanyards.”

you check in at the front desk.

the woman behind the counter gives you your room key and a chirpy, “we went ahead and upgraded you two to the executive suite! hope that’s alright!”

you blink. “we’re not...”

“thanks!” mingyu cuts in, snatching the key. “very alright. super alright.”

you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”

“nothing.” he says. “probably.”

the room is… cozy.

too cozy.

small fireplace. two mugs on a tray. mood lighting that tries too hard. and one large bed in the center of the room.

you stop in the doorway.

mingyu walks in, drops his bag, looks around once, then turns to you.

“what?” he says innocently. “you said it yourself.”

you stare at him.

“every great romance...” he quotes, smug. “starts with a cliché.”

you blink. once. twice.

“i hope you die.”

“listen, it’s fine. we’ll pillow-wall it.”

“we’re not pillow-walling anything.”

he flops onto the bed with too much confidence. “you can have the blanket majority. i’ll sleep on the floor like a gentleman.”

“you’ll sleep on the floor because you brought this on yourself.”

you find a yoga mat in the closet and throw it at his head. he catches it midair like a reflex, then sighs dramatically.

“pray for me.” he says. “i have fragile joints.”

later that night, you sit side by side on the bed, legs barely touching, a bag of overpriced mini bar chips open between you. the room smells like lavender pillow spray and artificial air freshener, and the fireplace crackles in the most suspiciously cozy way imaginable.

mingyu has the printed retreat schedule unfolded across his lap like it’s a classified document.

he clears his throat.

“7 a.m. sunrise meditation,” he reads aloud. “8 a.m. partner walk. 9 a.m. circle of trust. 10 a.m...” he pauses for dramatic effect. “feelings breakout.”

you make a noise of pure disbelief. “are they trying to kill us? circle of trust sounds like a cult.”

“circle of trust is a cult.” he says. “i’ve seen documentaries.”

you take a chip. crunch thoughtfully. 

“do you think if we hold hands and run, we can make it to the road before they catch us?” he says, head tipping toward you just slightly.

“only if you leave the yoga mat behind.” you add. “it’ll slow you down.”

he sighs, deeply. “cruel. but fair.”

the chips rustle between you. somewhere outside, a tree creaks. inside, it’s quiet enough that you can hear the soft shift of his sleeve when he leans back against the headboard.

you don’t say anything for a while. neither does he.

but you don’t move apart, either.

and that, somehow, says enough.

the next day feels like a slow-motion trial.

you wake up to the faint sound of birds and the less-faint sound of mingyu already moving around, getting ready like he’s preparing for some kind of emotional boot camp.

breakfast is painfully organized. you share a table, not by design but because every other seat is taken. he slides you the salt shaker without looking, and you catch his fingers brushing yours for a split second.

the morning starts with the sunrise meditation. you try to focus on your breath, but mingyu is the only one who manages to stay still. mostly because he fell asleep sitting up, chin resting on his chest, looking like an angel who didn’t get the memo.

later, during the partner walk, you find yourselves naturally walking side by side, matching pace without planning it. the trail winds through pines and sun-dappled clearings, the air fresh and cool.

he makes a dumb joke about how this is “nature’s way of making us confess our feelings,” and you pretend not to laugh. but you do.

the circle of trust comes next, exactly as terrifying as it sounds. when it’s your turn, he looks at you like you’re both in on the joke, and you mumble something about “trust falls being a trap.”

he catches your eye and shrugs. “at least we don’t have to actually fall.”

the afternoon is a blur of workshops, icebreakers, and group exercises where everyone is trying (and failing) not to make it awkward.

when the sun starts to set and the temperature drops, mingyu notices you shivering and without a word, pulls his hoodie off and drapes it over your shoulders.

you don’t say anything. you just let it hang there, the fabric warm between you, the silence saying everything.

it’s ridiculous. it’s perfect. and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

the evening settles in with the kind of hush that only happens after a day of mandatory bonding and dried-out protein bars. everyone else has disappeared to their rooms, leaving behind half-finished mugs of herbal tea and the lingering scent of essential oils.

you and mingyu are still awake.

he’s on the floor, stretching like someone who read about mindfulness once and committed to the bit. you’re on the edge of the bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him try (and fail) to touch his toes.

“you’re gonna pull something.” you say.

“i’m increasing my hip mobility” he replies, completely serious. “for leadership.”

“of course.”

he glances up at you, grinning. “jealous?”

“of your hamstrings? wildly.”

he pushes himself upright with a groan and collapses onto the bed beside you, dramatically boneless.

“okay...” he sighs, “real talk. are we actually gonna sleep at a normal time or…”

you glance at the clock. 10:12 p.m.

“...or what?” you ask.

he shrugs. “i don’t know. talk about our feelings. play two truths and a lie. make a series of increasingly bad decisions.”

“tempting” you say. “but i think i’m out of feelings.”

“you sure?” he asks, turning toward you, head propped on his hand. “because earlier, during the circle of trust, i definitely saw emotion in your eyes.”

“that was rage.”

“i find rage very sexy.”

you roll your eyes. “you find everything sexy.”

he pauses. “not true. powerpoint presentations. deeply unsexy.”

you laugh. a real one, loud and sudden and he looks pleased with himself.

“what?” you say, noticing.

“nothing,” he says. “just thinking.”

“about?”

“how weird it is that we ended up here.”

you raise a brow. “in a romantic cult lodge?”

“in the same room. same bed. same… whatever this is.”

he’s closer now. not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his skin. your knees bump. neither of you pulls away.

“well, you set this up.”

“yeah, i know. but still...”

you tilt your head. “do you regret it?”

“not even a little.”

he looks at you for a long second, like he’s trying to decide something. then his eyes drop.

“you’re in my hoodie.” he says.

“wow. thank you for the update, captain obvious.”

“no, i mean…” he pauses. “you’re still in my hoodie.”

you glance down at the sleeves, bunched around your hands. “is this a problem?”

he shakes his head. “no. just… you should probably know it looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

your mouth opens, ready to hit back with some flirty insult but the words don’t come. instead, you look at him a beat too long.

“you always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you say finally, voice quieter now.

“only when i think i’m about to do something stupid.”

“like?”

he doesn’t answer. just keeps looking at you like the answer’s obvious.

your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. his knee presses into yours again, this time deliberate.

“like kiss you.” he says.

you go still. “are you going to?”

his smile flickers, slower this time. “i’d like to.”

“then maybe stop talking and do it.”

so he does.

it’s not rushed. not urgent. just intentional. like he’s been thinking about this since the first time you told him off in a staff meeting, and now that it’s happening, he wants to get it exactly right.

he kisses like he speaks. confident, a little playful, always testing the edges. his hand finds your waist. yours fists in the front of his sweatshirt. there’s no hesitation in the way your mouths move, just heat and muscle memory that shouldn’t exist, but does.

after a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glinting with something playful.

“you know,” you say, voice low and teasing, “i’ve always wanted to do this.”

he grins, a slow, knowing smile. “really? all this time, i thought that cold shoulder, the eye rolls, the ‘i’m-so-over-you’ attitude was just you being tough.”

“oh please...” you scoff, but you’re smiling. “that was all hate.”

“hate?” he raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “i always suspected it was just repressed attraction.”

“yeah, sure.” you say, nudging him with your knee. “keep telling yourself that.”

he leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “honestly? i think you’ve been into me since day one. all that ‘hate’ was just a cover-up for the fact that you thought i was too cool for you.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “too cool for me? i was the one who threw the first punch.”

“exactly” he says, “which is code for ‘i’m interested, but i’m also awkward.’”

you bite your lip, thinking how ridiculous yet kind of cute this all feels.

then your fingers find the hem of his hoodie, tugging gently.

“off” you say, barely a whisper.

he looks down at your hand, then back up at you, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. “was that an order?”

“definitely.”

he smirks, sitting up a bit. “well, then… say please.”

you roll your eyes, but the smile never leaves your face. “please.”

he laughs quietly, pulling the hoodie off over his head like a trophy.

you sit up just enough to look at him in the low firelight. his hair’s a little messy, his chest rising and falling, eyes bright.

you touch his chest. lightly, tracing a line from his collarbone to just below his ribs. he twitches under your hand.

“ticklish?” you tease.

“no” he lies. “i’m just emotionally overwhelmed.”

you laugh again, but it catches in your throat when he leans down and kisses your neck. not soft, not featherlight, but with purpose. like he wants to leave a thought behind.

his hands are everywhere. exploring. mapping. learning. he touches you like a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve, like every button undone is a secret, every sigh a new language.

when your shirt’s gone and his jeans are halfway off and you’re both out of breath, you look up at him. flushed, disheveled, ridiculous. and say, “this is a terrible idea.”

“yeah” he breathes, eyes dark. “do you want to stop?”

you pull him down by the front of his waistband.

“that’s what i thought.”

what happens next is messy and slow and fun. it’s not cinematic. it’s not even that graceful. he accidentally knees you in the thigh. you tug his sock off too hard and it hits the wall. at one point he tries to say something sexy and chokes on his own breath.

but it’s good. so good.

he kisses like he’s memorizing you. like he wants to make you laugh and make you beg. your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders. not from pain, but from surprise.

he touches your thigh, then higher, watching your face the whole time. you arch into him, your name falling from his mouth like a promise.

and when it finally happens, when all the ridiculous tension finally snaps, it’s not explosive.

it’s intimate.

his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, still smiling even as you fall apart together.

after, you lie tangled in the sheets, his hoodie now lost somewhere under the bed, your leg over his hip and his fingers drawing circles on your stomach like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

you stare at the ceiling.

“we are absolutely not talking about this at work” you say.

“agreed.”

“no weird glances across the copy machine.”

“never.”

a pause.

“but” he adds, “we can maybe do it again sometime?”

you glance at him.

he’s grinning.

“i’ll think about it.” you say.

but you’re already smiling too.

day three begins with the kind of awkward optimism only a mandatory leadership retreat can inspire.

you wake up tangled in mingyu’s hoodie, which now smells like campfire and him. it’s too warm, slightly bunched around your hips, but you don’t take it off.

you find him in the kitchenette, making coffee like it’s a lab experiment. precise measurements, silent concentration, a grim kind of determination.

“morning” you say, sliding in beside him, pretending this is normal.

he hands you a mug without looking. “you look like you slept on a bed of spreadsheets.”

“i feel like i did” you mutter, taking a sip. “you?”

“dreamt i was being chased by performance reviews” he says. “woke up in a cold sweat.”

“how corporate trauma of you.”

he snorts into his mug. “don’t diagnose me before coffee.”

you both sip in silence for a few seconds. his arm brushes yours when he lowers the mug, and he doesn’t move away.

you nudge his hip with yours. “so, uh… about last night.”

he raises a brow. “which part? the part where you insulted my hamstrings? or the part where you kissed me first?”

“okay, bold of you to rewrite history like that.”

“what can i say...” he grins. “i’m a storyteller.”

you shake your head, laughing into your coffee.

later, on the partner walk, you fall into step without thinking. the trail winds through pine trees and patches of sunlight, and every now and then he reaches out to steady you. like when you nearly trip on a root, or when a bee flies too close and you squeal louder than you'd like to admit.

“you know” he says, “for someone who claims to be outdoorsy on their dating profile, you’re doing a lot of swatting and stumbling.”

“for someone who can’t touch his toes, you’re awfully smug.”

he grins. “that’s because you find it charming.”

you open your mouth to argue but... fine. maybe you do.

he points at a squirrel making off with someone’s granola bar and mutters, “even the wildlife here is stressed.”

“at least it’s honest,” you say.

he glances over at you, and this time when your shoulders bump, he leans just a little closer. not obviously. just enough that it feels like a secret.

you keep walking.

the workshops in the afternoon feel less painful than usual. maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. maybe it’s mingyu passing you a sticky note with a terrible drawing of your retreat leader mid-lecture. maybe it’s the way you keep catching each other’s eyes and trying not to laugh.

he offers to be your “accountability buddy” during the trust-building activity and then immediately betrays you in a group exercise. you pretend to be outraged. he apologizes with gummy bears and a dramatic bow.

when your hands brush reaching for the same marker, he says, “careful. i bite.”

you roll your eyes and say “noted” but don’t move away.

by the time evening rolls around, it’s cold enough that sharing a blanket on the couch feels justifiable. he drapes it over your laps casually and doesn’t say a word when you lean against his side.

the fire flickers, casting golden shadows over his profile.

“did you know that i can’t actually sing ‘kumbaya’?”

you grin. “i was hoping you couldn’t.”

a pause.

your eyes lock. again.

he kisses you. again.

slower this time. a little longer. like he’s learning the shape of you, one brush of lips at a time.

you smile into it. and when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“still team-building” he murmurs.

“i’ll allow it.”

on the last day of the retreat, there’s a closing circle.

the room smells like whiteboard markers and lemon disinfectant. someone’s playing a spotify playlist called reflect & renew. the volume is too low to be inspiring, but just loud enough to be annoying.

everyone’s handed a blank feedback form and a final question:

what did you learn about yourself this week?

you write: i can survive on granola bars and passive aggression and turn it in without a second thought.

mingyu doesn’t.

he stays behind, pen tapping against his clipboard, brows furrowed in concentration like the question matters more than it should.

you don’t ask, not right away.

but later, on the shuttle ride home, when the trees blur past and the windows fog with soft breath and leftover heat, he says it.

softly. like he’s not sure he means to say it out loud.

“i wrote your name.”

you turn to him.

he’s looking straight ahead, at the back of the seat in front of him.

“on the form. under what i learned.”

you blink.

your chest does something weird and slow.

you want to say something clever. or funny. or soft. maybe all three. but your throat’s too full of whatever this is.

so instead, you just let your shoulder fall against his. let his hand drift close enough that your pinkies touch.

and leave it there.

returning to the office is like stepping into a parallel universe.

the emails are worse. the coffee is worse. the printer is somehow worse.

but everything’s different.

you see it in the way he lingers by your desk instead of breezing past.

in the way your conversations drift. less complaints, more curiosity.

and when he texts at 12:31 p.m. asking “lunch?”, you don’t even pretend to hesitate.

at first, it’s casual.

shared takeout at the back of the break room. eating out of the same box without acknowledging it. him stealing your last dumpling like it’s tradition. you letting him.

then it becomes routine.

tuesday: curry. thursday: overpriced poke. friday: him remembering you don’t like cilantro. you pretending not to notice that he remembered.

the others don’t question it.

you’re assistants. you’re allowed to coordinate.

no one asks why he walks you out some nights.

or why your lipstick keeps fading around 4 p.m.

the supply closet becomes your shared religion.

there’s something hilariously undignified about kissing someone between boxes of toner and spare lanyards. but that’s where it happens most. tucked into the corner, his clipboard jammed under his arm, your breath catching before you even close the door.

it’s never dramatic.

it’s always sudden.

like gravity just... tips.

his hand finds your jaw. yours fists in his shirt. you both laugh too much after. you both leave with your heart doing that thing it’s not supposed to do during work hours.

sometimes he texts you while you’re ten feet away.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just called his 47-slide deck "visionary" thoughts?

you immediate prison

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] same cell or separate?

you supply closet. ten minutes. no witnesses.

your boss seems pleased lately.

“your tone’s changed” he tells you one morning. “you’re more solution-oriented. less... sharp.”

he thinks it’s the retreat. thinks you came back wiser. calmer. aligned.

maybe he’s not wrong.

but he doesn’t know that the thing that changed isn’t you.

it’s that now, when the workday gets unbearable, when the chaos piles up and the caffeine runs out, there’s someone waiting by the copier with a smirk and a post-it that says:

“lunch?” “you look like you need a minute.” “i’m stealing you. don’t argue.”

and maybe that’s all it takes.

maybe the retreat didn’t fix your job. maybe it didn’t fix your boss.

but it gave you something else.

something stupid and ridiculous and kind of beautiful.

and you’re not giving it back.

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 12: Are We Fighting or Flirting and Other Questions

Summary: A bit of humor because I couldn't handle another chapter of "depression: the story".

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 11 | Part 13 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist

You parry another of Miss Hunter’s strikes with ease. Her expression is one of frustration and determination. She looks every bit the feisty cat that Sylus calls her, hackles raised and claws out.

“You’re getting soft on me, sweetie. Tired?”

She just huffs and swings at you again, the loud smack against your gloves and the way it makes you slightly waver causing a grin to creep onto her face. One that disappears when you bat her fist away a moment later. Then you break through her defense and tap her shoulder.

The simple touch gives a flash of threads, threads that aren’t hers. They’re from others, some far, some close. Luke and Kieran’s broken threads, one of Onychinus’ accountants’ thread, and threads of people you just know are in Linkon. They blink into existence every time you two touch during spars.

It’s jarring. Fascinating. And you hunger to know more. But you don’t let them distract you from teasing Miss Hunter.

“And that’s another point to me,” you know you’re sporting a very smug smile judging by how deep your friend pouts and how loud her groan comes out.

You two set up your stances again for what feels like the one hundredth time. Her threads are wild, spinning, curling, and weaving as her adrenaline spikes. You can’t help but be caught up in it. They’re dazzling to watch.

But they don’t distract you. Because you still easily knock through Miss Hunter’s defense and sweep her leg out from under her. You wince a little when you hear the air being knocked out of her lungs.

“Your footwork is atrocious,” you critique as you help her to her feet.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” she glowers at you, and it’s one of the least intimidating things you’ve seen in a while. “You gonna tell me how my breathing’s wrong too while you’re at it?”

“Well—“

“Don’t even.”

You laugh, sweat dripping down your face as you tilt your head back and embrace the lightness of this moment. Skyhaven and all the turmoil it brought up feels so distant, like it happened in another lifetime. Truthfully, it’s only been a few days.

A few days of nonstop training between you and her. A few days of you shaping her, molding her, to become your replacement.

Stop it, you tell yourself before you fall further down the rabbit hole, further down the spiral of all the mess that day causes to boil within you.

The embarrassment from that day still stings. Every time she and Sylus so much as talk. Every time he leaves the base with some vague reasoning. Every time the loneliness creeps further into your skin to line your veins and blacken your heart.

That burn never leaves, only hurts less.

“You’re so ruthless. Fiendish. A pain to work with, and the most critical person I’ve ever had the displeasure of sparring with.”

”Fiendish.”

That word gets you to finally acknowledge the other person in the room, your silent observer. You instantly regret it.

He’s changed his clothes since last time you looked over. He’s wearing his boxing outfit: the tank that shows off his biceps and the shorts that fit him just a bit to well. His smug grin, the levity in his eyes, and his voice all do things to you. His outfit just makes it all the worse.

You can see every movement in his arms, every flex of his muscles as he stands there with them crossed. Your cheeks are warm, body flushed from feelings and thoughts that flood you with other ideas of exercise. The ghost of his touch runs up your arms, your waist, your legs, your mouth.

Imagination runs wild with these ideas and emotions. His chest impossibly close to yours. His breath on your lips. Your back on the floor of the fighting ring you stand in. His hands between your thighs. Your hands in his hair, trying to get more and more of what he’s giving you. You’d take it all, everything you can get.

You’d trace his veins as rocks into you. Your eyes would drift towards the ceiling and your vision would blur because all he’s giving you is just too good and just too much despite how much you beg for more. And he’d guide your gaze back his, over and over again, because he’d want to watch you come apart under him.

Shut up.

The adrenaline must be driving you crazy. You try to convince yourself of this as you turn away from Sylus and look at Miss Hunter, all while your heart still pounds at the fantasies of what could be happening if she weren’t here.

“Did you just insult my partner for helping you, Miss Hunter? Not very noble of you.”

“Thought you were going to stay quiet, Sylus,” Miss Hunter struggles to get the words out between pants.

Their bickering fades into the background. All you can focus on is that one word again: fiendish. Fiend. Words that speak to a past you’re meant to restore. Words that speak to a future you’re meant to carve. Words that remind you of what you’re supposed to be doing.

Fiendish. Fiend. They all remind you of your place, of the task you’ve set out to do: give them that life back. Get Miss Hunter to remember her past life. Give Miss Hunter her dragon, her fiend, back. Give Sylus his sorceress back. There’s no place for a broken human in that.

Fiendish. Fiend. The fiend and his sorceress stand before you, laughing and bantering while you drown in your mind. As it should be. As it will be. You need to remember that.

You speak because of that, because if you’re going to be remembering your place, you should actually to get back to it, “If you think this is cruel, my dear friend, I fear you won’t survive once we move onto blades.”

Your words cause her attention to shift to you, “Blades?”

There’s a spark in her eyes. A beautiful, curious, little spark that you want to nurture. It’s a light that draws you in like a moth. It’s a light that makes you hate yourself for all those times you’ve allowed your heart to curse her name and her existence.

“Yes. Blades, my dear. Like rapiers, katanas, longswords, sabers,” you have to pause before you say the last one, but hope no one really notices. “Claymores.”

You refuse to look at Sylus when the name leaves your mouth. Not just because you don’t want to be bombarded by impure thoughts again, but also because you fear speaking about that blade, about that claymore, will bring back that old vision. Sword in his chest, Sylus dying.

”My dragon is dead.”

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!

You can almost see the rivers of blood on your hands again. You can feel your throat closing and fear replacing all other sensations again. Why did you have to bring up that sword, that cursed object that once took the life of the man you love?

You focus on Miss Hunter, not sure of what else to do. You focus on her because she’s why you did this to yourself. You focus on her in hopes that the spark of curiosity has transformed, that a glimmer of her old memories is resurfacing.

None of what you foolishly wish for happens. Because of course they don’t. Miss Hunter doesn’t suddenly remember her past life. She and Sylus don’t suddenly start staring into each other's eyes with the most loving expressions while they forget you exist. You don’t get to study them with plastic happiness as your glass heart breaks at your feet.

Instead, Miss Hunter looks down at her hands, and lets out a painful sigh. “How it the world do you expect me to carry such a heavy sword? You’re crazy. Insane. Sylus has driven you crazy.”

She’s muttering to herself as she exists the boxing ring, dipping between the bands that surround it. You follow her, bumping one of your gloves on her shoulder.

“You’ll manage it, sweetie.”

“How? Explain to me how my noodle arms used to carrying guns will lift that monstrosity?”

“You’d be surprised with what lies within you, Miss Hunter. Strength unmatched by anyone.”

You did it in the past. You lifted that so-called monstrosity in the past to murder Sylus.

You hate yourself for the thought that crosses your mind. Because you know the truth. You know Sylus chose to die for her; he chose to give her his life so that she could live. He chose to sacrifice himself for her.

Which is why you can never measure up, never have even the smallest place in his heart when it’s utterly consumed by her. How could you find a place in a love where each party will die for other, defy fate for each other?

I can’t. And it’s why the only thing I can do is repeat the cycle.

All you and your empty soul can do is to disappear for them, to suffer for them. It’s your only purpose. The only value you add to the world is what you do to bring soulmates together, to bring everlasting joy and love to others.

“You flatter me too much, you know that?”

Miss Hunter slouches in one of the many expensive lounge chairs Sylus, for some reason, has around his gym. She sighs again, one that's deep and like she’s setting down some great weight for the first time in her life. You sit in your own chair not too far from her. Sylus still just watches you two, his smirk ever present.

“Would like me to stop?”

“You wouldn’t dare! I need your blessings to balance out the cursed words that come out of your boss’ mouth.”

The two of them are once again having their own little conversation. And you, once again, drown in your thoughts. You think about the flashes you’ve had of the old Miss Hunter, of the white-haired sorceress who cries for her dragon.

You think about her grief, about the noose of emotion that single glance tied around your neck. How it squeezes. How it loops around your neck over and over again, a cursed rope with no end in sight. It suffocates you the more you think about.

There’s layers to every fiber of this rope. Not just grief. Not just anger at Sylus for dying, or the universe for damning their love, or at the people who killed him. The sorceress has an unfathomable hate for herself, for everyone and everything, for every little datura flower she now has to see alone rather than with her beloved.

Another piece of that rope is loneliness. Now she’s experiencing being the last dragon, the last fiend, in a world that’s already condemned her when she was human.

Another piece is longing. Longing for a different life. Longing for a different future. A longing you know all too well.

There's so many pieces. Pieces that one like you who's never experienced true love can never even begin to grasp.

Her love makes yours seem tiny, trivial. Your love is a blip, gone in a flash, compared to hers. No wonder she’s blessed with a soul-bond to her dragon in this life, while you’re stuck with nobody.

But as you watch her and Sylus banter and giggle, you wonder. You wonder if it’s the right decision, or even your decision in the first place, to give her back her memories. To return her to that grief and guilt and anger and loneliness.

The more you think about it, the more you despise yourself. Are you doing this because you want to hurt Miss Hunter, to break her under the weight of her past life so she feels an iota of the pain she causes you? Do you want her to sit in confusion, in turmoil, over the memories of her past self, and drown in them so throughly there’s no hope of her resurfacing?

Is this the right choice?

Seeing your happy friend, her smiles and fierce determination, makes you waver. Would this version of her ever come back? Would she ever make it out from beneath the sea of her old life, a life of isolation and betrayal?

There’s part of you that’s staunchly aware of the fact you aren’t doing this for morally pure reasons. That you’re selfish for your goals, for your desires. That part of you is aware that you’re just running away again. That part of you is aware that things could go horribly wrong in the blink of an eye.

Another part of you doesn’t care. Clings to that selfishness like a lifeline because it knows this is the only way you survive. Cut them off before they cut you off. Hurt them before they hurt you. Break them before you become even more broken. That side of hopes, yearns deep within it, that Miss Hunter cracks under the weight of her past.

That part of you prays for it. Because it believes only then, will it be even. Only then will it be satisfied and able to truly move on.

You want to kill that side of you. Kill her and burry her so far down no one will ever find her and nothing will ever expose her again.

That’s not me. That can’t be me.

But still, that part of you raises some questions. If you should be doing this. If this is your place to decide. If your judgement is wrong. If all this and all your plans are a mistake.

“You know what, Sylus… you’re starting to make me excited to know how to wield a claymore.”

Frustration is evident in your friend’s voice, and it’s what pulls you out of your thoughts and pries the rope of guilt from around your throat.

Out of your head and able to actually observe them, you notice that your friend lounges back in her seat, gloves off but protective wrappings still on. Sylus leans against one of the posts of the boxing ring, smug expression of his face as he looks down at her.

“Would you care to tell me why that is, dear Hunter?”

“Because then I can use it to smack you upside the head and scramble your brain for a bit. Maybe even shut you up so that someone can properly think.”

“And just what are you thinking about so hard that my voice is such a problem for you?”

“It’s not me that needs to think!”

“Just what did my foolish boss do this time to earn your ire, my dear?” you interject.

Both Miss Hunter and Sylus turn to you. Sylus raises an eyebrow. You give him a look and he chuckles a bit before addressing Miss Hunter again.

He scoffs at her. “With claws as dull as yours, kitten, whatever you’re planning could never come to fruition.”

Turning back to you, and with a much more—you almost want to call it fond—tone, he says, “But my partner here seems to already have accomplished your goal of rattling me. For her words cut through my heart far more than some silly blade.”

His words shake you. His gaze pierces you. His entire being flusters you, confuddles you to a degree that shouldn’t be possible for this version of you. The old you, sure. That old, retired, dead, version of you would mold and change with every little thing Sylus does.

Not this you. Not this you who’s trying to get him with his soulmate and leave as quickly as possible. Not this you that’s come to terms with the fact he doesn’t love you. Not this you who knows her place.

“Than perhaps my boss could use thicker skin,” is all this you can think of say; anything more is asking too much.

There’s layers to Sylus words, the way he says them, and the glint in his eyes you refuse to think about. You, who normally takes every opportunity to analyze every detail, to comb over every tonal shift and slight change in body language. You shut down that part of yourself. You throw it in a room and swallow the key to deal with later.

Because if you think too much about it, you’ll spiral again. Spiral into a pattern of hope and feeding your delusions rather than cold hard fact.

He’s not your soulmate. He doesn’t love you. You have no chance. You’re broken.

Those facts have become your personal mantra, an echo that keeps you in line when your traitorous mind wanders. When it wonders of what could be.

“Be a dear and come help me with my gloves,” you say Miss Hunter’s name.

Sylus scoffs again. “It appears I might as well be sealed off in some cave and incapacitated if you thought to ask her for help instead of me.”

Miss Hunter doesn’t move; Sylus does. And your heart rate begins to pick up. Your already sweaty hands get worse. You try to steady yourself, to focus on anything but him and his body heat and the fact that he’s so, so, close.

He crouches before you, “May I?”

There’s that tone again.

You refuse to think more about the way he asks. The sound of his voice. The tenderness and love it blooms in your chest. You nod, not trusting your own voice for a change.

He’s gentle as he takes off your gloves. So gentle and so caring and so loving and so perfect. You hate him for it.

Hate how he unknowingly makes you fall even deeper with little gestures like this. Hate how he makes it so so easy for you to adore him, and so so hard to let him go.

You hate him, hate Miss Hunter, hate the universe, and hate yourself. Hate him for making you love him. Hate her for taking him from you. Hate the universe for cursing you and breaking you and making you empty. Hate yourself for daring to fall for him in the first place, and not crushing that feeling long ago.

This is what you wanted. You got yourself into this.

When Sylus’ hands finally meet your bare skin, it takes everything in you not to react. Physical touch has been a thing in you two’s relationship for a long time. You’ve held hands, cuddled, and dressed one another’s wounds. Him simply unwinding your protective coverings shouldn’t affect you this much.

But it does. It does and you don't know what to do about it.

“Just how hard were you swinging to cause this many bruises, sweetie?”

His voice is low when he speaks, as if he’s trying to be sure this moment is just between the two of you. As if he wants just your attention and nothing else. As if his words are so precious that only you deserve to hear them.

“I’m teaching her, Sylus. I need to be tough. Being soft on a hunter does nothing for either of us.”

“And yet with how your hands tremble, I believe you went too far. No amount of good done for her isn’t worth a strain on you.”

Your heart leaps at his words, touched beyond belief. His worry. His kindness. That tone in his voice. They all serve to make your chest flutter with love and a warmth that makes you smile.

Stupid Sylus and his stupid concern.

“I’m tired, dear boss of mine. Isn’t boxing supposed to be a workout that makes one tired?”

“Still…” he trails off, pondering as he weaves his hands around your fingers.

“You worry too much.”

“Only because you worry too little about yourself, Gamayun.”

You almost flinch at the nickname and quickly glance at Miss Hunter. As if she can hear him. As if she’s going to steal that name from Sylus’ lips and take it for her own. As if she’s going to take something else from you.

A puzzled look crosses Sylus’ face. You don’t engage with it.

“I have bigger worries than myself at the moment.”

It’s arguably the most truthful thing you’ve said in your life since you got your powers. So truthful and so raw than you want to run as soon as you say it.

“Let someone else handle those worries for a change.”

“I can’t, my dear boss. I don’t work that way. You know that.”

“That I do, my dear Gamayun,” his voice gets even quieter and even sweeter. “That I do.”

He keeps treating your hands. Your little wounds don’t warrant such care. Each dab on your bruises and each way he gazes at you to make sure you’re not hiding your pain twists your heart.

He keeps reminding you of why you love him. And keeps making you wish for the days when you didn’t.

Maybe we should’ve kept our distance all that time ago. Maybe I should’ve minded my own business.

Sylus taking care of you reminds you of the first time the two of you crossed the boss/employee relationship barrier. The first time both of you saw a glimmer of something more—a companionship—in each other. The first time you two let your guards down.

The first time all labels and preconceptions fell to the way side and you two could just exist. It was the first step on your pathway to hell.

The Zoion Hunt is something you never truly been a part of, but always capitalized on. Whether to sneak some rare jewels from under the noses of participants, looting corpses, or just taking the opportunity to clean up the N109 Zone. You’ve always used this event to your advantage whenever it rolls around.

But you’ve never met its host. You hear whispers of him, know his name and that he has some vague connection to your boss, but you’ve never seen him with your own eyes. Never heard his voice with your own ears. Never seen his thread.

He disgusts you. His thread that weaves tales of suffering children, of his madness and obsession that runs so deep his own soulmate cut him off. His own wife couldn’t take his insanity, couldn’t stand by his delusions. That in of itself turns you off from Dimitri, makes you want to avoid him at all costs. Those eyes of his don’t help matters.

Eyes that glimmer with dark thoughts. Eyes that study like you're back in Ever and are some kind of specimen. Eyes that have probably skimmed over your file that organization keeps of you. Eyes that look at you and know exactly what’s wrong with you.

But your years of acting and knowing the unknowable do you well. You don’t buckle under his gaze. You don’t flinch when he finally speaks.

”Miss Moirai. I have to congratulate you on your victory.” 

“Moirai…”

That dreaded name. It’s the name Ever gave you. It’s the name that haunts you. It’s the name that crawls under your skin during some horrible nights and reminds you of all that’s broken.

Of the needles. Of the drugs. Of the sensory deprivation and the lies and the tricks and the betrayals and everything you left behind ages ago.

Moirai is dead, you remind yourself. You killed her.

”I have no earthly idea who this ‘Moirai’ is and why you’ve confused me for her. And I take offense of you trying ascribe my victory to someone who’s been lost to time."

There’s only confidence in your words. Dominance and power radiate off of you as stare down Dimitri. You refuse to look away from his eyes as you do, refuse to back down from this man that makes your skin itch. You’ve faced worse. Like your annoying boss who made you participate in this stupid game.

”Of course. My apologizes,” he says the words with such emptiness and false niceties that you almost gag. ”Forgive this old man. My eyes don’t see the same way they used to.”

”You’re forgiven,” it’s never been so hard to force a smile on your face in a long time.

”Thank you for being so gracious. Now, for your reward…”

The change in subject matter allows you to relax a bit. Not much, given who you’re dealing with, but enough for your heart to race just a smidge less. It’s easier to breathe. Adrenaline still pumps through your body, but you’re not as numb as before.

It makes the aches in your body all the more apparent. A sprained ankle. A few wounds caused by the grazes of bullets. Some nicks from knives. Nothing too bad.

But the awareness of them and the crippling exhaustion that floods your veins causes you to want to hurry even more.

”Aww, yes. Your coveted power to make any wish come true. I hope it's not merely a rumor.”

You tap into the auctioneer in you, the performer that spins stories and dances across a stage. It makes the tiredness in your bones less potent. Narrowing in on tasks always does that to you.

”My wish is simple: a treasure not even Sylus could find.”

The laugh Dimitri lets out makes all your defenses go back up in full force. “I believe you already have that treasure, my dear. But I’ll do what I can.”

”I eagerly await news of your progress, Lord of Charon.”

You give him a dramatic bow and begin to walk away to the exist.

Dimitri’s voice makes you stop, "It was nice seeing you again, Miss Moirai.”

Your blood is cold. Your breath is stuck in your lungs, not budging despite how hard you try. The world is dead quiet except for the sound of your heart: thump, thump, thump.

You walk faster. Faster and faster and farther and farther until you’re sure that man is gone. Until you’re sure that remnant of your past is gone. Until Moirai is once again buried and out of sight, not occupying even a corner of your new life.

Breathe, you coach yourself. Just breathe.

The distance does one bad thing for you: calm the excitement and edge in your blood. Now you can feel everything. The cramps in your fingers. The pains in your palms. That very same blood that once coursed with adrenaline dripping down your back.

You brush it off though, shooting off a text to Alex to come pick you up. And you add a bit about bringing some medical supplies after another flash of stabbing pins and needles crawls up your scapula.

It doesn’t take long for them to arrive in a fancy car you get the feeling is from Sylus. The vehicle doesn’t seem Kai’s style, and you doubt Alex of all people would spend even a penny on a gas guzzler when they can just as easily hop on an elephant or something. The smell of cologne and new car that hits you when you enter just confirms your suspicions.

”Do you need help with your wounds?” is the note that Alex passes to you.

They’ve turned to face you, one hand still on the steering wheel while the other hovers over the manual shift. Concerns covers their face. It clouds their normally bright green eyes, eyes that remind you of sprawling forests and massive fields of grass.

You get lost in those eyes every time you see them. This time is no different.

”I’m quite alright. Nothing’s too bad.”

The wince you make when you plop yourself into the passenger’s seat doesn’t go unnoticed.

”I’ll deal with it once we’re back. And I’ll wire Komorebi their winnings during that time as well. For now, I need some rest. It’s been a long few days.”

While you haven’t been in the Zoion Hunt since the day it started, you have been it for far too long for your own liking. Hours and hours of bending strings and dodging people far too trigger happy for your taste. All because of the demands of your boss.

You hope Kai didn't schedule a meeting today. You’ve dealt with her and anything involving her organization, Komorebi, since the day you struck that deal with her at her gala. Those meeting are your favorite. You get to relax. Kai makes good company despite her reputation that speaks to the contrary.

Maybe it’s that good rapport that allows you to drift off so quickly, that you don’t even notice. One second, you’re in some rundown part of Charon. The next, you’re at the base and Alex is gently coaxing you awake.

They playfully toss a sticky note folded into a paper airplane at you, “I hope you got a good sleep.”

”That I did,” you smile at them as you get out of the car with the medical supplies in a bag you sling over your shoulder (which causes another arc of pain to rip through your nerves) and they step out of the driver’s seat. “Here’s to hoping that streak continues and my boss gives me some time off. Perhaps we can go to that cafe you’re always raving about?”

While Kai and you’s relationship isn't just business, it’s nothing like how you interact with Alex. Your time together consists of them translating for you to animals the two of you are trying to convince of something. Little trips on the beach and caring for sea turtles. The occasional hang out at a cat cafe in the Zone for “information gathering” and ice cream runs.

And the more time you spend with Alex, the more you wonder how they came to marry Kai. They have a living soulmate, a living perfect partner. Kai and them couldn’t be more different. Alex is full of life and happiness and kindness and so utterly free. Kai is anything but any of those. Yet, they chose her. They married her.

The two of them make an interesting pair for many reasons. The fact that they aren't fated just adds to that mystique.

You’ve gotten snippets of their story, about how they apparently met through an injured dolphin and the search for a missing conch. About little moments in their lives, like their small wedding ceremony and both of them bonding over complicated family dynamics. Just tiny windows are shown, short stories that illuminate a whole other world for you.

A world where soulmates aren’t everything. A world where a love forged through blood, sweat, and tears means far more than a love handed to you by the universe. It’s fascinating. It’s something you thought you’d never see.

”If you want to,” the next note reads.

Alex’s smile betrays how much that truly touches them. That, and how their thread buzzes with excitement. You can practically hear a little jingle of joy in your mind. There’s also extra pep in their step.

They open the door to the base with no caution, giving a huge smile to the woman who stands in the doorway.

”Why exactly is the liaison I specifically asked for just now returning?”

Kai’s voice is as devoid of emotion as ever. It’s strikingly empty, especially when you give her a once over and see how annoyed her string is. It screams as it wobbles in the air.

Her presence does give you pause though.

”I thought you were informed that I’d be in the Zoion Hunt?"

She scoffs. “Well, your boss decided not to tell me shit. Didn’t tell me it was you specifically that was participating this year rather than one of his million disposable men.”

”Well, I volunteered, so the blame doesn’t fully rest on my boss,” a brief flash of surprise runs across Kai’s face before she gets it under control. “It’s the easiest way for me to make my mark within my new place and cement myself as more than a mere woman of words.”

You continue, “So I apologize for not holding up my end of our bargain. I’ll be sure to make it so it never happens again.”

All the hostility drains from Kai’s thread. It shines with less violence, less rage. And it’s only when it does so that you notice how disheveled the normally composed woman is: clothes a bit more wrinkled than they should be, bruises on her pale skin, and some cuts here and there.

Just what happened while I was away, you ponder.

”Never mind. It’s Sylus’ fault for his poor planning, so I’ll let it slide,” Kai walks past you. “And we need to get going, anyway. There’s things I must do back home."

You can’t help but be a little disappointed. Kai’s an interesting woman with a rich history you want to know more about. The little tales she’s shared about her past have captivated you. And while you’re curious about your boss’ past, you two don’t have the relationship to ask such questions.

For whatever reason, Kai deems you worthy for hers. She mentioned in passing that you remind her of someone she knows, but that’s all you’ve really gotten for context. She doesn’t budge on telling you anything more than that. As a result, you lap up all the bits of information she gives you.

About her time in certain cities. About her childhood being surrounded by the waters of the ocean and the bustle of small town life. About little anecdotes of the days she spends with her only living family member, her brother. Her life is full of a clash of cultures, and they each show in their own way.

The slipping of different accents. Archaic sayings. Her knowledge of things there's no way of her knowing. Everything draws you in.

So yeah, you’re a little sad to see her go so soon.

”I hope to see you both soon than.”

”And I you. You’re far better company than Sylus.”

Her lips twitch into a smile for a second before she sticks her hand out to shake hers. They’re also a bit scarred like your own. You clasp it; neither of you flinch from the pain you’re each causing.

Alex hugs you in a loose embrace after you shake hands with their wife, one they ask you for permission to have before they touch you. They slip another piece of paper into your pocket before the pair depart.

”Hope you’ll join us at that cafe soon!” it reads, with a little drawing of cat in the bottom left corner.

You place a hand on your chest as you smile, carefully folding it and putting it back in your pocket before you close the door after your guests.

As you venture deeper into the base, it becomes a mess. Furniture destroyed. Bullet holes in the walls. Piles of feathers from torn pillows.

You ask one of the workers that are cleaning it, a girl simply named Simurgh with skin almost as light as Kai’s and purple eyes, “Whatever happened here?"

You’re gentle with your tone, knowing the poor girl is quite jumpy. She’s been through some shit in the N109 Zone. But despite her young age, you know better than to underestimate her. She’s one of Onychinus earliest members, being with Sylus longer than most. She was there the day Sylus ‘hired’ you.

”Sorry madam,” she replies, her head still bowed (she only ever looks Sylus in the eyes). “Boss’ orders were clear: clean and tell you nothing. Clean and let you rest after your victory.”

Part of you is empowered by Sylus’ assurance in your abilities. Another is annoyed at your boss for hiding such things from you. But, a quick glance around the room shows Mephisto perched on one of the tables, so you don’t press. Not that you would’ve asked for more from such a young child.

 Simurgh isn’t even a teenager. At most, she’s 12. But she’s ruthless when it comes to her work. Ruthless, efficient, and not one to hesitate to carry out whatever orders Sylus gives her. You don’t dig into her thread, don’t read her soul and the past it tells you, because she’s a child. She deserves to keep her secrets. She deserves some privacy.

But you do read her thread for her emotions. While more emotive than you or Sylus, she’s still closed off. She shows her fear and nerves—sometimes her bits of joy when Sylus lets her help him modify Mephisto—but none of the more complicated things.

Her fear of heights. The terror she feels every time she’s around an adult woman like yourself. Her love of chocolate. And what she’s feeling now: apprehension at the thought of you being mad at her for not giving you answers (she’s seen you work before and knows how brutal you can be with your words when getting information or whatever you need from others), and a bit of determination to keep her word to the man she owes everything to.

”It’s alright, Simurgh,” the sound that comes out of your mouth is still calm, still quiet as to not spook the little girl. “I’d rather rest anyways. Will you inform Sylus that I’ll be dressing my wounds and bathing before he has me report in? I’m much too tired to deal with whatever tantrum he’ll expose me to for being late.”

 Simurgh nods and gets back to work. You walk to your room, clutching the medical bag Alex gave you (making note on returning it as soon as you can) and trying to keep standing tall. 

Don’t falter. Don’t break. You can be weak in your room, you repeat to yourself.

You collapse as you shut the door, dumping the supplies unceremoniously onto your bed. It’s rather easy to take care of your wounds, the ones that sting the most being on your hands.

Well, excluding the one scab on your back you can’t reach. It’s in the same place as your heart. You find that to be a bit comedic.

You don’t spend much time on your bed, heading for the bathroom in hopes of getting a better angle on your most serious wound. You, of course, don’t. Only able to get a mediocre job done before you give up and bathe.

The soak does you good. Hits at the sore muscles in ways no massage ever could. Some of your wounds sting, and you occasionally hiss as a result. But it’s worth it.

You allow your mind to wander as you sit. About Kai’s appearance, how clear it was she got into a scuffle. About how despite your words to Simurgh, it nags at you to not see Sylus as soon as you finish your mission. To not give a report right away. To not have your usual conversation with him while you eat a lavish meal.

Guess I have to go see him, you decide.

Jankily getting a shirt over your still terrible scapula wound is a chore. Each movement of your arm with said injury causes a flare up. Hot iron rakes itself up and down that side of your body. But you grit your teeth.

Your curiosity is one that conquerors any pain. And you need answers about your boss and the predicament he’s found himself in.

Your walk to your boss’ office isn’t anything like your walk to your room. A different brand of worry courses through your veins. Worry for him. Worry for a man many believe to be invincible.

The knock on the door fills you with dread. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he chases you away? You two aren’t exactly close, so why would he tell you anything?

Those worries vanish when the man himself opens the door. First thing you notice: the twin scars on his head that have dyed his white hair red. You blink at him, hiding how surprised you are at the sight.

He’s not healing.

You’re aware there are weapons out there that can do this to him. You know that Kai’s one of the people who’ve been spear-heading such development for some time. That wasn’t going to disappear with one flimsy alliance. Kai's a woman of costs and benefits; the benefits outweigh the costs in this case.

As a result, there are many explanations to the sight before you. A test gone wrong. Or just another of their usual bouts; Kai and Sylus are two aggressive people with a history of mutual attempted murder. A little blood on either of them after they’ve spent any time alone shouldn’t affect you.

Your normally logically mind doesn’t listen to any of this. It just sees blood on a man you’ve never seen bleed and decides the appropriate course of action is to internally scream. The carer in you longs to clean those wounds, to tend to them.

Logic beats compassion out long enough for you to speak, “I’m in need of your assistance since I can’t reach one of my injuries. I went into the Hunt for you, so you owe me.”

”Of course,” Sylus beckons you inside.

Your brain takes a moment to process this information. You didn’t expect it to be so easy to get in, for him to relent without even thinking about it. Sure, you know Sylus isn’t heartless. Him more or less adopting Simurgh is proof of that. But vulnerability, any type of closeness, isn’t part of you two’s dynamic.

He’s kind to others, not you. You’re kind to others, not him. He teases you for being soft. You snark him for being bloodthirsty. He threatens you. You threaten him back. That’s you two’s ‘bond’. That’s the extent of where you two stand.

Even as you sit in his chair (which takes some convincing for you to even do), and help him move your shirt off your shoulder enough to see what he’s working with, your mind can’t quite believe what’s happening.

”I’ll do your hands first.”

”They’re fine,” you interject and Sylus clicks his tongue at you.

”Sure they are, sweetie,” he points at the bandages on your hands. “Whatever you say, you can believe. But I say this is mediocre work, especially for someone like you.”

”You place a lot of faith in my abilities.”

”I wouldnt’ve hired you if I didn’t.”

That shuts you up. Your boss is slow and methodical as he undoes your sloppy work and uses his own supplies to redo them. You can’t really focus as he does so. His hands are so warm. He’s so warm.

It’s been ages since you’ve had any physical contact with another person outside of handshakes and tiny moments during business. It's why you cling to Alex so much, given that they're generally a very tactile person. You thought they gave you your fill of touch, gave enough for you to be satisfied.

But the way you unconsciously lean into every little graze of his fingers on yours tells you otherwise. Moving your hands slightly towards his, twisting them so that the two of you stay in contact for a little bit longer. It sends shivers down your spine. Give life to sparks beneath your skin in a good way. It's a marvelous distraction from the pain that threatening to swallow you whole.

Sylus checks the rest of your bandages, humming in approval before he finally gets to your back. And you force yourself to zone out for it. The pain. The terror of having someone so close to your heart, having your back to them when they could strike at any moment.

Mentally, you can’t be here for that. You can’t be anywhere near where this is happening.

But every touch is a fire poker. Every breath Sylus takes, every time one of his hands leaves your back, you think he’s about to end you. That this where you die. All because you dared to let your guard down.

Fear was something you showed this man the first time you met. But that was strategic (or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself). That was for a reason, for a purpose.

What’s the purpose in now? The purpose of letting him see how you tremble in agony, of letting your boss see how foolish you were in letting someone hurt you so badly. It's utterly confusing, mind-altering, to not understand yourself.

What boggle you most, however, is how kind he is to you. How gives you no attitude. How his thread only shows concern. How he doesn’t ask question, doesn’t ridicule, doesn’t make any move to make you understand that this can’t happen again.

”I’m finished,” as soon as the words leave his lips, you bolt out of his chair and fix your shirt. 

It still hurts. Your body still sends zaps of discomfort, of electric pain, when you stand. But it’s better. And you feel comfort in knowing you’ll at least heal better.

”Sit,” you command him to push back your storm of emotions.

Sylus, amused, chuckles at your demand. “Why?”

”Equivalent exchange. You helped me, I help you. Which you clearly need, given how I can see that my usually white-haired boss is slowly becoming a red head.”

For whatever reason, Sylus doesn’t protest. He sits in his fancy chair, hands you his supplies, and lets you card through his hair to fix him up. As you do, he too leans into your touch. It’s subtle. Small tilts of his head and occasionally following your hands when they leave to grab what you need.

It’s there all the same. The same touch-starved behavior. You make note, not entirely sure why you do.

Every other person you’ve worked for was purely professional. No wound tending. No questions asked. Just work, and only work. Why is Sylus so… not?

”You know, Miss Diplomat… you smell like me for some reason.”

His words catch you off guard for a second. Understanding sprints to beat confusion in the race for whatever’s going to come out of your mouth though.

”I stole your soap.”

”You stole my soap?” he repeats, humor dripping from every word.

”It’s good soap.”

Sylus hums again. You foolishly believe that’s all there is to his questions, and you’ll be getting some peace.

”Why not buy your own soap?”

”I’m lazy. And like I said, it’s good soap, given it still clings to your gangly body after you’ve blown up yet another building. Besides, I believe I’m allowed to be a bit lazy at times, give how much of a slave driver you.”

You think you’ve finally shut him up for good and can fully focus on the task before you, “If I’m such a slave driver, than have you considered working elsewhere?”

”Did we start playing 20 questions at some point between you helping me and me helping you?”

You hope the snark is enough to deter him. Because something about answering questions, even mundane ones, while you’re both in vulnerable positions disturbs you. Stirs something deep, something primal. Something that begs you to back away.

Something that begs you to run.

”And what is that?”

Your jaw drops and you stop what you’re doing, “Just how much of a friendless hermit are you, dear boss of mine?”

”So I’m dear to you now?”

And, for the first time, you truly let your guard down. You think Sylus does too. You two just exist. No apprehension. No paranoia. Just a boss and his diplomat.

“It appears you’re all patched up,” present day Sylus’ voice brings you out of the memory.

You retract your hands from his and sit back in the chair as soon as he does. This proximity isn’t good for your health, whether that be your physical or mental.

“That it does.”

You’re wistful as you speak, glancing down at your hands as you cradle one in the other. Wisps of the past still float in your head. Smoke of a history long gone from the fire of a new relationship. Unknown to you at the time, the wood that fuels that flame are made of your own heart.

“What are you thinking about so deeply?”

You don’t want to answer Sylus. Not even a little bit. But maybe the adrenaline from your multiple matches with Miss Hunter and the emotions the old memory conjures forth makes you bold. Makes you want to say or do anything to get the stink of Dimitri out of your head.

“Just recalling an old memory.”

“Which one?”

“The first time you did this for me.”

Sylus’ hum tells you there’s no need for you to give any more context. Which makes that gentle warm embrace in your heart even stronger.

Is that memory as precious to him as it is to me?

A silly thought. An arbitrary thought. A meaningless thought. Because, odds are, that simply moment of time will fade under the hoard of memories he’ll build with his soulmate. It’s a dull treasure. Useless. Nothing. Something no dragon, no fiend, would ever deem worthy of collecting.

“You have any questions for me this time? It’s only fair I trade you being my faithful nurse in exchange for some information.”

You try to keep your delivery steady and light. You try not to let your words fail you. You try to just be your usual playful self while something inside your breaks and screams and dies.

Moriai is dead. You killed her.

Sylus plays along, “What sort of deal would you strike with your greatest nemesis to survive?”

Your breath catches. Your heart stutters. And you can’t stop your eyes from briefly glancing to find Miss Hunter, who’s no longer in her chair or the gym.

Where’d she go?

“She stepped out for a bit, Gamayun. Am I so distracting to you that you didn’t notice?”

You ignore Sylus in favor of focusing on her and her absence. On focusing on something so that you can hear your thoughts over the sound of your heart.

Focus on her. Focus on her.

You’re envious of her. Of her not being here and spiraling with you. Of her not knowing what those words mean. Of her not knowing the weight they carry.

Sylus tilting his head gets your eyes to drift back to him. It drags you back to thoughts of him.

Nor does he. He doesn’t know how much they crush me.

Sylus says that your words hurt him far more than any blade could. His do the same to you. No gun, sword, or Evol can hurt you anywhere near the same level his simple question does.

By why does he look at me? Why does he not wait to ask the woman he really wants to say this to?

Your love doesn’t even spare his soulmate a crumb of his attention. He crouches at your feet, something strange sparking in those garnet eyes of his eyes that glow the dreadful red of fate. He doesn’t move. He just waits for whatever answer you can spit out of your mouth.

“I already have made such a deal,” you jest, hoping to every force in the universe Sylus will let get away with such a lackluster answer.

He doesn’t, of course. “And just what did this deal entail? I need details, my dear partner.”

“That sounds like a second question,” you stall.

“Than those ears of yours need to be checked. I’ll have Philip come in tomorrow.”

“Don’t waste that poor man’s time.”

“I won’t if you answer my question.”

“Fine,” you let out a sigh to fein annoyance at his antics, but the smile you feel on your face that just won’t go away betrays you; you’ll miss moments like this when you leave. “But don’t throw a tantrum when it is not the answer you seek.”

Sylus just hums, smirk on his face and eyes bright. You want to run your fingers through his hair, pull him close and let him cuddle you on this chair. Lay your head on his chest, listen to his heart while you play those locks. Giggle and burry your face into his neck as his unique scent washes over you and all the drama and struggles and noise of the world fade away.

Too bad none of that is yours to take.

“The deal entailed far more than I expected. It entailed them being a pain in my ass and forcing me to drag them to business meetings. It entailed me having to constantly make sure they don’t blow someone up for the most minor of inconveniences. It entailed me having to be sure they could have one civil conversation with one of our business partners.”

It entailed me becoming their friend and bonding with them over our shared traumas. It entailed me exposing the most vulnerable parts of myself to them. It entailed me adopting two chaotic boys with them.

It entailed me falling in love with them.

No part of you wants to say those things out loud, but your stupid brain still conjures them up for some reason. “It entailed me having to learn how to put someone on a short leash without them knowing.”

Sylus chuckles, low and laced with something that makes your body tingle and squirm in the best way, “My dear Gamayun… if you want to leash this enemy of yours, truly tame them, you should know exactly what to do.”

He gets closer to you as he says this, standing and than walking to be behind your chair. He doesn’t lean down to your ear, but he is more in your face. You look up at him. His breath is on your skin. His lips are within reach.

Kiss him, that sensation in your stomach from the gala calls to you again. Kiss him.

“Are you saying I should entice them, seduce them with my words like the siren you claim me to be?”

You don’t know why you play into his game, why you say the words you do. They only add to the tension, to the rope that pulls you towards Sylus and makes you consciously aware of soft his lips look. You keep having to stop yourself from licking your own as you peer up at him while he tilts over your chair.

He touches one of your shoulders with his hand. Goosebumps prickle along the path he drags across your skin. It takes everything in you not to shiver, which you find ridiculous, given how much you two touch on a daily basis.

“Yes,” he’s even quieter, and the way he sounds makes you so hot and so hungry . “But there’s something else you can use. Something I’d want in their shoes. Something I’d gladly put myself on leash for in order to have a taste of.”

Flustered doesn’t even begin to describe how his words make you feel. You’re off center, teetering on the edge of something in the best way possible. Unbalanced and struggling to swim through the unknown of the heat and emotions he causes with ease.

You’re hyperaware of the distance between you two. Of how beautiful his red eyes are. Of his eyelashes, every lock of hair, and the way they capture the light. Of him and his wonderful scent. Of his sweet lips and how they tempt you to press your own against his.

One wouldn’t hurt, you tell yourself. Just one taste and you can finally get it them out of your head.

Logic dictates you ignore that. Logic tells you that’s ridiculous. Logic tells you that’s how every addiction starts.

I’m already an addict for him and his presence. What’s one more thing to the list?

The obnoxious sound of someone slurping air through an empty straw breaks you out of your trance. Sylus is still close to you, but he faces the interruption, Miss Hunter. Irritation comes off him in waves. His brows are pinched, his eyes narrowed.

He has an air of disappointment. You try to reason with your heart and tell yourself it’s not because he wanted to kiss you. Because of course he didn’t. Of course you have nothing to do with what he’s feeling right.

He’s probably disappointed he had this moment with me rather than her.

Satisfied with your own answer, you address your friend, “You’ve returned.”

“Of course I did, silly. I couldn’t possibly leave you here alone with my arch-nemesis,” she laughs at her own words.

You keep a smile on your lips and your face relaxed, but your blood turns to ice. Cold and pricking the inside of your skin, cutting at your heart and mind.

Does she remember? Does she remember her dragon, being his sorceress, and all that happened in the past? Am I going to lose her and Sylus right here?

You find your thoughts stupid. Foolish. Childish. Nothing at all like the thoughts you should be having at seeing even a glimpse, a chance, of Miss Hunter recalling her past.

You should be rejoicing. You should be happy for your friend and the man you love, happy for their happiness and their future. You shouldn’t be this bitter, jealous, foolish little girl who feels like her toy’s being taken from her.

Then again, your feelings are irrelevant. The universe doesn’t care how you hurt, how you long, or how you break. It only cares about uniting people together with their other half, with the other part of their soul.

”I curse your soul.”

“I heard Sylus ask about striking a deal with your worst enemy before I left, and kind of regret not just answering then and there.”

Miss Hunter’s normal words, ones that do nothing to further suggest her remembering anything, ease your racing thoughts. She makes them put less gas into their car, no longer floor the pedal. They’re still cruising down the road of your mind, but they’ve slowed. They’ve calmed.

And you’re back in control.

“And what would your answer be, my dear Hunter?” Sylus’ tone is still playful, but you pick up the little bits of annoyance and how it bites at Miss Hunter more than it needs to.

It’s strange to you, to see Sylus so irate at her. Not because you haven’t seen him this way, he gets impatient with clients and business partners and meetings pretty often, but because it’s at Miss Hunter. He’s mad at his other half, his soulmate, his perfect partner.

It’s so odd.

“That my deal got me a grumpy man who can’t no for an answer,” she turns to you, huge grin on her face and eyes wild with mirth. “But I got to meet the prettiest woman with the biggest heart out of it, so maybe I can learn to deal with the old guy.”

Once again, you flush. Your cheeks burn, and your entire body is too hot. You squirm under her gaze, a smirk on her lips and a proud gleam in her eyes.

“Are you trying to steal my partner, Miss Hunter?”

Again, Sylus’ posture and voice says he’s being playful. But there’s an undertone of something else. His eyes shine with that new emotion. And you refuse to look at his thread to find out what it all means. Not just because said thread will remind you that he’s not yours but because you don’t want to know.

You don’t want to give yourself ideas.

Miss Hunter shrugs at Sylus. “It’s not theft when she doesn’t belong to you.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly that you imagine Sylus responding something like, “not yet,” or “she will be.” Whatever the case, you’re going crazy.

The warmth from his hand makes your head dizzy. The world spins and your heart thumps like an erratic drumbeat. You need space. Distance. Something to give yourself some breathing room.

“Sylus, would you mind removing your hand and backing up a bit?”

He does so. Gives you the space to think. You can breathe right again.

“Now than… what’s your answer?”

You ask him to distract yourself, to draw yourself back into this silly game and pretend you two are back in those old days.

Sylus moves from behind you and instead pulls up his own chair next to yours with some distance between you two. “That’s not how you taught me this game works, sweetheart.”

You give him a look. He lets out a chuckle, one that makes you shiver and releases butterflies into your stomach.

“I’d strike any deal if it meant keeping the people I love.”

Something about his words warms your heart. Perhaps because that stupid organ believes he's directing the words at you.

“Fortunately, unlike you two, I’ve yet to have to strike such a deal.”

Miss Hunter scoffs. You roll your eyes at him, playing along with her to not let anyone know how much what his says affects you.

“Didn’t know you were so sappy, dear boss of mine.”

“I’m a lot of things, dear partner of mine.”

He puts one leg on top of the other and crosses his arms before tilting his head, staring into your soul with those eyes of his while that familiar smirk sits upon his face. You hate him. You love him.

“And since I broke the rules for you, I’m owed another answer,” his smile widens and you want to punch him.

“Fine,” you beckon Miss Hunter with your hand to come over after you huff out your answer. “Come here now. I need back up to deal with my boss’ bullshit.”

“You hurt me, my dear. I thought we were exclusive. You’ve never needed another to deal with me in the past.”

“Things are different now.”

Sylus’ hum allows you to ruminate on your own words. Some much is different now from the first time you two played this little game. And the prime example of that pulls up a chair to complete your little triangle of people.

His soulmate is here. The twins are here. Kai and Alex have disappeared. I’m in love with him.

So much is different. Good and bad things.

Part of the “joys” of life, I guess.

“But no matter how different things get, you’ll still have time for my little inquiries, yes?”

“Sure boss,” you respond, not allowing anyone to see how much his question truly touches your lonely soul.

”You wouldn’t be so lonely if you’d reach out. To him. To Miss Hunter. To me,” Astrid’s voice, of all people, echoes in your mind.

You quickly shove her aside to pay attention to Sylus’ question, “Would you die for the person you love?”

“Such a serious question,” Miss Hunter teases.

“And I demand serious answers, sweetie.”

It’s quiet for a bit as you all think of your answers. Miss Hunter’s expression doesn’t hide any of her struggles to ponder, to sift through possibilities and find which fits her views the most.

“Yes,” she finally says, to the surprise of no one.

Sylus makes a noise of satisfaction, “Glad to see when can agree on something, Miss Hunter.”

Both of them turn to you.

The response that comes out shocks even you, “No.”

Your brain takes a moment to process what just came out of your mouth. You, Miss Bleeding-Heart, said no? You, Miss Adopt-a-Random-Pair-of-Depressed-Teens, said no? You, Miss I’ll-Return-to-My-Abusers-for-the-Happiness-of-the-Man-I-Love-and-the-Woman-He’s-Destined-to-be-With?

You said no?

The justification, your jumbled thoughts, come out before your mind can catch up. “I work as a negotiator, after all. I’m always trying to find solutions in unconventional situations, given the environment I’m in and the people I have to work with. So, when you positied your question, it made me think: about how due to my work, and just who I am as a person, it’s not in my nature to just give up. That I wouldn’t be me if I simply just died if some outside force or fate or whatever just decreed it. I’d find my own way.”

Your own words make you think. Really, truly, think. About your situation. About your plans. About you.

You think about why you still go on. On why you push and push and push through life despite the pain. On why you let yourself be there for others so much. On why you give your bleeding heart away to everyone.

Yet, you’re still here. You’re still alive. You’re still existing, plotting, thinking, dreaming, feeling. Despite how much the universe tears you down. Despite heartbreak after heartbreak. Despite everything, you cling to life.

Because for all that sacrifice, for all that you let fate bend you, you refuse to let it break you. You refuse to make you into some monster, some heartless beast.

You refuse to buckle beneath the weight of a universe that despises you. So you’ll let fate steal everything from you—you love, your happiness, your self worth—but not your life. Not your empathy. Not your compassion.

They’re all you have left to hang onto.

For the first time in a while, you let yourself feel. You let yourself listen, really listen, to those darker parts of yourself. You let yourself breathe. You let yourself be.

This will not break me. I will not let anything or anyone break me.

You’ll survive Ever, just like you did in the past. You’ll survive losing Sylus, just like you did your childhood crush. You’ll survive starting over, just as you did many times.

You’ll survive. You have to.

Finally out of your head and resolute in your decisions, you study your two companions. Miss Hunter’s expression is more open, easier to read. Her eyes flicker with confusion and respect. Like she both doesn’t understand your answer, but also finds a great deal of admiration for it.

Sylus is different. His smile is softer, more gentle and more warm and more full of tender emotions. His eyes are bright with something you can’t quite place.

So you ask your own question in order to move on from what’s going on in your love’s eyes, “If you could be anyone for a day, who would it be?”

“You,” Miss Hunter replies without hesitation.

You blink at her, stunned. Sylus’ laughter shakes you out of it.

“My, my. Today’s a strange day. Yet another thing we agree on.”

He leans back in his seat, uncrossing his legs with his usual demeanor and smirk back in full force.

“Shut up! My thought process and reasons for choosing her are far different that what’s going on your messed up head.”

“Then let’s hear those reasons of yours,” Sylus goads at her, poking and prodding the little bear cub that is Miss Hunter.

Your friend looks like she wants to punch him. You can’t blame her.

“For one, I could piss off Sylus for an entire day and face no repercussions. He’d be helpless to stop me. And the twins might actually treat with a modicum of respect.”

“Sounds like someone’s thought this out. Look at you, already nailing my mannerisms with your big words.”

“I hope you know that I hate you.”

“Duly noted. I’ll keep it mind for next time that we train.”

Your friend goes pale. You can see how her imagination runs wild, how it wonders and ponders about the torture of her next session. It’s adorable. It’s hilarious.

“Never mind. Please don’t. Forget I said that. Because what I meant to say is that I hope you know I love you. For your endless kindness, your fancy words, your dramatics, your—“

She cuts herself off, taking a more serious tone while balling her hands into fists on her lap, “Your uncanny ability to find the right words to reach someone. Even when no one else can.”

Ah. So that’s the reason.

Your encounter with Colonel Caleb is still fresh in your mind. The flashes of machinery on his skin that remind you of Alex. His coldness and his willingness to become a monster, a killer, for the sake of the person he loves make you think of Kai.

He’s a strange ghost indeed.

But what really makes you wallow in your thoughts, what really makes you trip on your oh so precious words, is how much Miss Hunter prompts you to thinks of your old self. The self who never had the right words for anything. The self who never speaks unless it’s a last resort.

What would that version of you say, you wonder? To her? To the twins? To Sylus?

Moirai is dead.

You play this thought on loop as you move out of your seat and stand next to hers, placing a hand on her shoulder, “Is it alright if I ask you to elaborate? Tell me more so I can help.”

“I don’t want to—“

You already know what she’s going to say. It’s in all her threads, in all her lives and past loves. The weight of uselessness. The noose of others protecting her and not trusting her. The embarrassment of others hiding things from her and running from her that makes her feel like a young child again.

”She’s so much like Moirai. And you’ll make her into Gamayun before you leave."

Looking at her, your past self layers over her. The old crybaby. The broken girl who longed for a love she’ll never get.

Difference is, you tell that dark voice, she’ll get that love. She’s no Moirai. And she’s more of a Gamayun than I’ll ever be.

Gamayuns are kind. They’re beautiful. They’re prophetic creatures on the edge of paradise. All things you aren’t.

“For the last time, you are not a burden, Missy. You’re my friend. And I’m offering my assistance. You don’t have to say anything. But don’t hold back because you foolishly believe you’re a burden.”

She laughs a little. Not a real laugh. It’s one of self-ridicule. One that mocks herself and her uselessness and her weaknesses. It’s one you’ve yourself directed towards the Moirai in you many a times.

It hurts. Washes hot fire into your body and burns you more than any flame could hope to.

Her words only deepen that pain, “Is foolish your go to insult?”

“Only when I believe someone before me is being so. Most often, that title is given to my boss.”

Said boss chuckles a bit.

“Again with the harsh words, my dear partner. Do you intend to teach her that as well?”

“Someone has to keep you in line, my dear foolish boss. And I alone am clearly not enough.”

You say the words with jest, with humor, despite how much you know it’s not a joke. That it’s the cold hard truth you have to accept. That it’s the future you have to survive and endure.

Sylus’ energy shifts. You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s frowning. But your focus is on her, on your friend and her predicament.

It’s for selfish reasons that you zero in on her. For distraction. For soothing. For some way to patch your aching heart that longs for love and wishes she’d just disappear.

”That’s the real reason you do so much. Not just for her, but for others. Poor little Moirai, so desperate for someone to hold. To shield her. To love even though she’s a monster.”

The voice sounds suspiciously like your parents. And Professor Lucius. And Dimitri. And Josephine. And everyone who’s ever known the truth about what you are.

Miss Hunter, thankfully begins to talk before you can get too deep into their words. She spills about what little she knows about what happened to his friend, about his arm, about the chip she knows is in his head but he refuses to admit, and about how she wants to help him, but he turns her away.

As she spills, you think about your own experience at Ever. About how you’d cover the scars, grin through the pain, and brush off the worries of your friends. Even those who left you for a better love would give you looks, would ask you questions.

But the threads and the mastery over words they gave you allowed you to dodge and weave through the gaps of their concerns. Perfect excuses. Every detail hammered out. No one would question you. No one could question you. You made sure of that.

“I’ll teach you what I know,” the words fall out of your mouth, and part of you feels like you’re talking to your old self. “Give you the ins and outs of people. You’ll be able to reach your Colonel after I’m done with you.”

Of that, I have no doubt.

She’s better than you in every way. So of course she should be able to be you, be Gamayun with her prophecies and stories, better than you.

And to think I ever viewed Gamayun as mine, as my name from Sylus.

“Everyone has to start from somewhere, my friend. Even I once tripped over and flubbed my words.”

You giggle and smile despite the suffering in your heart and mind. Despite how they clench, how that stupid muscle in your chest throbs. The light coming back in Miss Hunter’s eyes hurts you further. You can’t even look at Sylus.

”They’re mocking you,” that dreadful cacophony of voices comes back. ”Laughing.”

You turn those thoughts away as you return to your seat, willing yourself to remain calm and in control. Threads are ignored. Souls are out of sight. It’s just and your emotions, you and your need to rein in the nonsense that fills your brain.

“So,” Miss Hunter plasters a smile on her face, and claps her hands together. “Who's your choice, Sylus? And why?”

Neither you nor your boss call out her obvious attempt to take the attention off of her. In fact, your boss seems to bask in it. That insufferable grin of his is back and he place one hand arm under his chin to lean into his hand. He leans at you. Stares at you and makes you burn again with whole different set of emotions.

Look only at me. Run away with me. Abandon your perfect love for a messy one with me.

But you are no Alex. No Astrid Rafia. You don’t have that quality in you that makes someone choose you. You’re no ancient cyborg. You’re no fiend. You’re just plain, jaded, “bleeding heart”, shattered you. So you don’t indulge in those thoughts for long.

“My dear partner is my choice, of course. As I said before.”

That smile of his begs to be kissed. That tone of his pleas for you to jump out of your chair and smother his lips with yours.

“And your reason?” you ask so that you don’t do any of that.

“So impatient,” his rich and full laugh almost causes you to shiver, but you suppress it. “I was getting to it.”

“Well than spit it out.”

Your rude attitude gets a titter out of Miss Hunter and you consider it a win.

“I don’t know why you’re harping on me so much for my answer, Gamayun. It’s quite simple: I want to be you for a day to understand what goes on in that pretty head of yours.”

The sting you expect to come from him using that intimate name in front of another so easy is consumed by a different fire. Twins blazes fill those eyes of his that you love so much. They give a whole new definition to the color red for you.

Red isn’t just the red of fate anymore. Or the red of your beloved. It’s the red of desire. Deep, deep, desire. For knowledge. For understanding. For answers.

For you.

It’d be so easy to give into. To let yourself forget about your duties and fate and the future for just one moment. To chase out Miss Hunter and allow yourself to let go for one night.

But because you think yourself so much better than that—above the instincts and impulsiveness of the animal you are—you don’t do any of that.

“I suppose it’s my turn to answer.”

Sylus sighs, in what you want to say is disappointment but you know better, and Miss Hunter’s eyes shine even brighter with longing. Their attention is on you. So your perform as you ought to.

“Well, my answer would have to be Miss Hunter here.”

Because even though you tell yourself to put the foolish ideas of love and Sylus behind you, despite how much your brain and heart warn you to back off, you still wonder. Wonder what life would be like if you were her and not you. If you could train her to the extreme to walk in your shoes and you could truly take her place.

What would it be like? To have so much unconditional love? To be embraced by affection from so many people, and the stars themselves?

What would it be like? To love Sylus and the twins and your friends with no care? To never fear others turning their back on you, because rather than sensing something wrong with you, they sense how loved you are?

What would it be like? To have no one see that you’re broken? To not even be broken, but to be whole?

“What’s your reason?”

Miss Hunter’s face is soft; she’s touched by your choice. Only because she doesn’t know how deep your shamelessness runs, how expansive your hatred is.

She feels this way only because she doesn’t know how rotten I am.

“I’d like to experience what it’s like to be a so called ‘good guy’. But only for one day. Any longer and I’d loose my mind due to the never-ending boredom.”

“Are explosions and murder and bending the rules that fun for you?”

“Yes. And I figure you agree with me, Missy, give that you’re here,” you gesture around with your arms.

She just rolls her eyes.

Wanting to keep the more light-hearted atmosphere, and frankly tired of being in your feelings so much, you ask your next question, “What fruit do you believe would win in a fight if they were sentient?”

Both Miss Hunter and Sylus give you judgmental looks. You stand your ground, arching an eyebrow and crossing your arms.

“Are you serious?” your friend asks while Sylus stifles his laughs.

“Deadly.”

Miss Hunter taps a finger on her chin, “I donna know. I don’t exactly sit around in my day to day life thinking of this.”

“Humor me and just shoot something out. I’ll judge you afterwards.”

“You’re so encouraging.”

You shrug, and uncross your arms. “I try.”

Sylus is still quietly laughing. You make the mistake of looking at him and find his gaze on you, eyes puddles of fondness and warmth.

“Grapefruit, I guess. They’re pretty big.”

Sylus scoffs. You try to hide your smile as Miss Hunter whirls on him with an attitude.

“Okay Mr. Boss-man, let’s hear your answer then!”

“Pomegranate is the obvious, and only correct answer, sweetie. There’s a reason it’s called ‘grenade’ in many languages.”

“Of fucking course you know that…” she mutters, turning away from Sylus and giving you an expression that screams ”can you believe this guy?”

It uplifts you, brings you out of the storm of your earlier turmoil and secrets.

You have your own two cents to add, so you give your answer, “You are both, obviously and expectedly, wrong.”

“Of course we are,” the hunter snarks.

“What else would we be? For your mind is beyond ours and has thought through all the possibilities of this questions and has arrived at the only correct avenue,” your boss continues.

You giggle at both of them.

“It’s durian, you fools. I believe the technical way to describe them would be that they have ‘skunk powers’ and are ‘smelly fuckers’.”

Chaos erupts in the gym after your answer, with each of you throwing in new fruits to the discussion.

Giant jackfruits from Sylus, which you counter with stealthy tomatoes.

You bring up spiky pineapples and Miss Hunter swoops in with gangs of grapes.

She brings up hard-shelled coconuts (and winces as she regales a story of when she tried to kick one open as a child), and Sylus responds with the not-so-subtle retort of dragonfruit.

You finish with a manchineel, recalling a story of when you once poisoned a former client with the deadly food.

No one knows how much time passes as you debate fruits. But you’re all laughing by the end, Miss Hunter holding her stomach and barely able to stay in her chair. You and Sylus aren't quite as removed from your usual composures, but still loose. Still free from the shackles of the earlier atmosphere.

“Ooh, it’s my turn to ask a question now!”

Miss Hunter wears a shit-eating grin, finger under her chin as she scans you and Sylus. You gulp down the worry her expression stirs in you.

What’s going on in that head of yours?

The thought sparks up Sylus’ earlier words on why he wanted to be you for a day. Miss Hunter’s new power over you gives a new perspective to his words.

Is this how he feels when I plot?

When Miss Hunter reveals her question, you’re anything but relieved, “What’s your most embarrassing, but not traumatizing —and I feel like I need to say this because it’s you two—childhood memory?”

Sylus and you exchange glances. Understanding flashes through you two.

”You go first,” you both say without words.

You relent first, because you’re fucking weak to this man and his eyes.

“I recall being elementary school and forgetting to put water in one of those microwavable mac-n-cheese things and nuking it anyway. My friend later retold the story during dinner in high school and said it smelled like ‘burnt ass’.”

Smile spreading on your lips, you lean back in your chair, recalling that dinner.

Was it freshman or sophomore year of high school?

Despite what surrounds that dinner—you friend breaking your heart, your family stabbing you in the back and taking you to the Ever, and the entire circumstance around your powers—you treasure that memory. You hold it to your chest on nights where being alive is just too hard.

Clinging to what good plagues your memories is the only reason you survived long enough to meet Sylus. To meet the twins, Kai, Alex, and Miss Hunter.

”To meet Astrid," that demon in your head supplies, ”to meet her and see the possibilities.

You pay attention to your hunter friend’s jaw hanging open to swallow down those words in your head and what speaks.

“What?” you say incredulously.

“I just didn’t expect your story to be so… normal.”

You huff at her. “I was an average kid growing up.”

One with people issues that turned into people skills once I started seeing the threads. One with a broken soul and broken heart.

“Many moons ago was that a thing for you,” Miss Hunter teases.

“I have no earthly idea how old you think I am, Missy, but I’m not nearly as ancient as whatever number you’re conjuring.”

Especially when compared to the company I keep, you internally finish.

Now that you think about it, Alex is probably the only person you know that’s actually close to your age. Kai’s a Lemurian. James, from what his thread told you, was much older than his appearance suggested. Miss Hunter’s lived many lives. Sylus is a fiend that was sealed in a cave for over a thousand years.

The twins are just normal teens. No past lives. No ancient histories. Normal kids with a lot of trauma because of the horrid adults that exist in this world.

But most of your friends, and even acquaintances, are very old. Alex, while having a past life, didn’t live very long in their first go around. They’re pretty close to you in terms of mental and physical age lining up.

It’s than that your earlier thought of Miss Hunter and her memories come back. She’s lived countless lives, died a thousand deaths.

Remembering all that wouldn’t do her any good.

A light’s been turned on in your head.

Who’s to say I awaken more than just her life with Sylus? What if she recalls more?

It’s not your place, you decide. If Sylus pries her past life from her soul to the surface of her heart, so be it. You—an outsider—have no room to make that choice. You, in all your ordinary strangeness. You, with your single life with all your worst days burned into your mind, couldn’t understand the fear and pain of death.

For all that you surround yourself with people with pasts that stretch across time and space, you don’t really understand it. You can’t. No matter what the threads you see tell you.

It’s not my place.

It’s not your place. It’s yet another avenue, another world, you have no right to be in.

Turning to Sylus, feeling enlightened by your new task, you demand, "So what’s your story, dear boss of mine? Anything juicy for me to indulge in?”

“Indulge?” he tilts his head at you, amusement clouding his eyes and his remark.

“Yes, indulge. I’ve been in need of something to hold over that arrogant head of yours.”

“Well, if I must give you something, I shall. I’ll pay any price for your happiness.”

Jovial as his voice is, there’s serious weight to what he speaks. A weight that comes over and takes the stones off your shoulders. A weight that carries the world with you, taking on the burden on your existence, and lets you rest.

”I’ll pay any price for your happiness,” contrasts so much with  “My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

What do you want with me?

Your body aches to move, to get the tension these feelings out no matter the cost.

You can only banter back in order to survive, “Flattery gets you nowhere. Only results.”

You force a smirk on you face and pray that mirth is what reflects in your eyes rather than any of the actual things that are floating through your mind.

“Fine. Fine. I shall deliver,” your boss rests his chin on his interlaced fingers, trying to fake a serious atmosphere so terrible it causes a giggle to bubble up in your throat. “I—allegedly—called my older sister ‘acid’ when I was young because I couldn’t properly say the ’T’ in her name.”

Miss Hunter cackles. You let your own laughs slip past your lips. But something else is more pressing, more pertinent to your stupid brain that just won’t let you relax.

Acid. Astrid. Older sister.

Everything fits too perfectly together. The fiend you met at Skyhaven—the woman that bridges your struggles to Sylus’—is his family. His older sister at that.

A sister you never knew existed. A sister he never felt comfortable enough to even speak about until his soulmate appeared.

It’s another knife to gut, another bat to the knees, another blow to your already fragile heart. You wonder how it still beats, how it still hopes that it won’t be crushed. Logic dictates it should’ve learned its lesson. You say it should’ve learned its lesson.

Yet it still holds on. Still pumps its blood and lets you feel all too much in hopes that someone, someday, won’t hurt you. All that’s done is make things worse. Makes you spiral further and drown in that blood deeper.

Foolish heart and its foolish hopes, you reprimand.

“And your answer, Missy?” you ask because what else is there for you to do.

She sighs the most dramatic sigh you’ve heard in your life, “I, allegedly, announced in like elementary school that my grandma was pregnant with twins in front of my entire class.”

The twin chuckles you and Sylus let out make her shrink back in her chair, not looking at either of you.

“I was tired of stupid Caleb holding his ‘older brother privileges’ over my head and thought speaking out loud would make it come true.”

“And you didn’t think of the logistics of that statement?” you tease.

“I was a naive 10-ish year old! Don’t mock me!”

“No one’s mocking you, sweetie. You’re doing that all yourself,” Sylus’ wolfish grin and how he sits back in his chair while looking down his nose at her makes the scene all the more amusing.

The two are at a standstill: Miss Hunter glaring at Sylus, while your boss just peers at her with a widening smirk.

“I believe it’s my turn once more, my dear partner.”

“I believe it is not!” Miss Hunter retorts.

The two of them share another look. This time, much different. The air shifts and your hunter friend relents.

“Fine. But just so you know, you’re both in debt to me by one question.”

“Deal,” Sylus says before he turns his head to face you. “My question is simple: what am I to you?”

Heartbeats are all you can hear. An all consuming wave of heat is all you can feel. Because for some reason, your dumb heart thinks this question is addressed to only you. Is meant for just you.

“My boss turned partner, of course.” Sylus raises an eyebrow at your answer.

“Surely I’m more to you than just that, my dear sweet Gamayun.”

“You’re laying the praise on thick,” you laugh is clearly not genuine, and you cringe when you hear the sound.

“My best friend?” Sylus’ smirk get wider and you swear he’s moving closer to you.

“My most trusted companion?” He full on laughs this time, getting out of his seat and instead maneuvering to be in your personal space.

“‘Companion’? ‘Partner’? ‘Friend’? That can’t be all I am to you…”

His breath is on your skin again. Miss Hunter’s presence disappears from the room, your brain not even registering that there’s anything else around you but him. He’s so so close, and it’d be so so easy to just kiss him. Just a little tug down towards you.

“You’re my Morana,” is what you choke out. “My precious god of death.”

There’s so much packed into those little words. So much so Sylus backs off. But he’s clearly not satisfied.

“Fine. If that’s how you’re going to be, I’ll back off. For now.”

“For now,” you’re breathless when you speak.

He nods. “For now. You know me, Gamayun. I always get what I want in the end.”

He walks to you and reaches out a hand to help you stand, “Spar with me.”

This time you know for a fact he’s just addressing you.

“Missy still hasn’t given her answer.”

You say this despite knowing the answer, despite not wanting to hear the answer. You don’t want the truth. You don’t want to listen to and digest what you already know to be fact.

Confirmation from others means you can’t lie to yourself anymore. Means you can’t turn your back on this matter anymore. Means you can’t just pretend everything’s fine anymore.

You’d have to face what’s happening. And while you have many specialties, this isn’t one of them.

“I don’t care for it,” said ‘Missy’ squawks at his nonchalant words. “I already know it, so why waste time on something so obvious?”

His words cut you. Slice and dice and dig into your flesh. It’s like he’s holding their relationship over your head. Like he knows how you feel and is telling to squash that idea, to let it die.

I’m trying, you want to scream. I’m trying so fucking hard.

But Sylus, in all his glory, is just too lovable. Too smart, too strong, too kind, too brave, too funny, too fun, and too easy to be around. Too easy for you to trust him despite the secrets you keep from him. He’s too easy to love.

On the other hand, you’re too easy to not love. Loving you is so hard even your own family gave up. Why should anyone else even try?

“I suggest you watch, Miss Hunter, so you’ll mess up less the next time you train with my partner.”

His emphasis on the ‘my’ does things to your heart. But you just gather up your gloves and try to calm down.

“Leave them. I’ll do your wrappings.”

Sylus is in front of you before you can protest. You let him handle you. And just like when he undid them, he’s so gentle. So soft. He handles you with care, like he can see how brittle your heart is.

You fall in love with him all over again. Because for all that you project strength, confidence, and perfection, Sylus makes weakness simple. He makes you okay with letting your guard down, with letting the weight of the sky down and just existing.

Never will you ever the truth of who, of what, you are to him. But times like these make you waver on that decision. He makes you want to stay. He makes you want to drop your mask.

As you stand to face your boss in the ring, those thoughts still circling through your mind, the fight in you burns a new. The fight to keep yourself together. The fight to fix your falling mask.

The fight to survive.

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: Next chapter is the long awaite crashout (part 1)

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[teaboot]

Hey tea how do you cope with the crushing horror and dread over seeing the continuing massive rise in puritanical policing among the youth and young adults over stuff like fiction?

I’ve seen careers destroyed because of this. I’ve been accused of horrible things for daring to suggest that harassing others, especially over fiction, is wrong.

I’ve seen teens celebrate when they successfully suibait people who liked the “wrong” fiction.

I come upon teens and young adults literally daily, who think in that horribly toxic and dangerous way. because they’re so common, especially in art circles.

How do you deal with knowing that, if they knew about your (my) existence they’d try and snub it out with vitriol and glee?

Because I’ve been terrified for years at this point, and the problem is only getting worse

I dunno, man. I guess I just… try to keep things in perspective, I guess?

I don’t know everything, but I know more than I did when I was younger, and when I was younger I said and did a lot of stupid and hurtful stuff that any reasonable person would have been within their rights to kick my ass for.

But they didn’t, and through the kindness and patience of everyone around me I managed to… sort of learn better?

And now, looking back- I regret stuff. But if I hadn’t made those mistakes, I wouldn’t have something to look back on and avoid repeating, right?

And looking back, a lot of it was because I was ignorant, or unhappy, or hurting, or angry. So I try to imagine when I see other people doing hurtful things… that they probably aren’t very happy people either, always seeing the worst in everyone and feeling responsible to do something about it, even though it’s hopeless, and any single person they tear down is just a drop in the bucket.

So like… it’s awful, what they do, and I don’t intend to just roll over and LET them, but I kind of just have to pity them a bit?

And I imagine, you know. That if they had the full picture, and the emotional maturity, and the communication skills, and the compassion, and the perspective to just… leave people they don’t like alone? Probably other things in their lives would benefit from those skills as well.

So it’s kind of sad, thinking about how many other problems they have that are caused by the same hurtful impulses.

And on top of that… social attitudes are like fashion trends, yeah? They swing from one extreme to the other, back and forth forever JUST long enough for the next generation to over-correct the previous one. So it’s not NEW, it’s happened before, it’s just our turn.

Which does suck, I’ll admit, but well. Feeling bad about it won’t fix anything. Better to just take care of people in my little bubble as best I can while I’m here with them. You know?

As long as I’m alive, I’m winning. Right?

Also: Most people are not like that. In fact, the VAST majority of people are NOT like that. Humanity, at large, mostly just wants to be comfortable and happy and full of food with people they love.

The jerk crowd just seems big ‘cause it’s louder.

[bbyg4rl]

jj distracts you when you get scared watching tv . . .

cw: carpenter!jj x sugarplum!reader, SMUT, fingering, reader is scared, soft!dom!jj.

You and JJ were curled up on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, tangled up warm and close. You’d convinced him to start some show about zombies with you. But right now, the tv was paused.

Because you had panicked mid-scene, some door swinging open, a half decayed face roaring straight toward the camera and you’d squeaked, slapped JJ’s chest, and shrieked, “Pause it! Pause it!” like the creature was about to lunge out the screen and bite you.

So JJ paused it. And now he had a very scared, very curled-up girl in his shirt, pressed tight to his chest and hiding. “You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered, arms already wrapped around your waist. “You jump like a squirrel every three minutes.”

“That one was wet, JJ,” you whined into his neck. “He was oozing.”

JJ glanced over your head at the screen. The zombie was still there. Mid-roar. Face rotten, jaw crooked, arms out like it wanted to hug something. And JJ did not give a fuck about it. Because what he did care about was you. Squeaky and clingy in his lap, curled up like a bunny in his hoodie, thighs pressing tight to his hips. Your breath still jumpy, your hands around his neck, your body doing that soft little squirmy thing it did when you got overwhelmed.

And suddenly his brain went sideways. “…You want a distraction?” he murmured, voice dropping low.

You froze slightly. “Wha—?”

JJ’s hands were already smoothing up the backs of your thighs under the blanket. He tugged you forward gently, guiding your legs around his lap until you were fully straddling him, warm and trembling and perched right over where his cock was already starting to stiffen. “You said it yourself,” he whispered, leaning in. “He’s gross. You’re scared. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re so annoying—”

“I’m so hard, actually,” JJ grinned. “And you’re sittin’ on it.”

You made a noise halfway between a squeak and a breathless moan as he rolled his hips up under you, just enough to make you feel the full pressure of it.

“JJ—” You tried to look away, tried to peek at the screen again, but he cupped your jaw and made you look at him. “Eyes on me, baby. I’m way more dangerous than that dead motherfucker.”

He shifted forward, one big hand slipping under your shirt, trailing slow up your back, the other tugging your panties gently to the side. Then two fingers, warm and careful, brushing between your folds. “Not wet from the show,” he said smugly, dragging slow circles over your clit. “So that means this is all me.”

You whimpered, rocking your cunt into his palm like you couldn’t help yourself, hiding your face in his hoodie. “Mmhmm,” JJ hummed, curling his fingers deeper. “Look at you. Humpin’ my hand all scared.”

You were trying to stay quiet, thighs twitching, hips pressing down into his palm without even meaning to. He laughed softly. “Love when you get scared, sugar. I get to distract you like this.” And then he leaned in, bit your ear, and whispered, “Come on, baby. Let me show you what’s actually scary.”

You whimpered into his neck, mouth falling open and teeth grazing his skin. “Fucking love when you make that noise,” he groans, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, then your temple, while his fingers slid in deeper. “All shaky and sweet. Like you’re scared of my fuckin’ fingers.”

You choked. “I’m not—”

“You are,” JJ grinned, nosing against your jaw. “You love how big my hands are, huh?” You nodded, dizzy, hips twitching as your body pulsed around his fingers.

JJ curled them again, just right, and your moan cracked in his ear. And he cooed at you. “Aw, baby. Look at that. Not so scared now, are you?”

The zombie’s still there. Frozen. Dead. Gaping in silence from the screen behind you. And JJ is kissing down your throat while he fingers you gently in his lap, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms flexing every time your thighs squeeze.

“Drippin’ on me,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ soaked from just two fingers. You gonna cum just like this?”

You nod, burying your face against him. “You need it?” he whispers, softer now. “Need me to make you feel good so you forget the bad stuff?”

You nod again, whimpering. “Yes, please.”

And JJ melts, just for a second. “Yeah, baby,” he breathes. “I got you.” His fingers curl and pull at your walls, thumb pressed tight against your clit, the pressure making your head feel foggy. Your thighs tighten around his hips, rocking harder on him as you inch closer to your orgasm.

When you cum, its silent at first, just your body clenching down, back arching, mouth dropped open with no sound, then a tiny cry, broken and helpless, right into his neck. Straddling his lap. Hugging his hoodie.

His fingers are still slow and careful inside you, working through every shake while he kisses your cheek. The zombie doesn’t move. But JJ does. He leans in again, mouth right next to your ear. “You still scared?”

You nod hesitantly. He grins. “Good,” he says, voice all low and warm. “Means I get to do it again.”

check out my other works ! masterlist

[heartfullofleeches]

Papa Bear

Parental Bear Hybrid Yan + Child Reader/ Deer Hybrid Yan + Adult Cannibal Reader [Romantic]

[Tw: Child Abandonment, Past Child Abuse]

-

Three times.

Three times has that plate been filled. It reminded you of the fancy ones- Porcelain dishes tucked to the back of the cupboards your mama made you swear to never touch. They're for guests - she told you. It must be nice to be a guest, you thought. They always get the nice things at home.

First, it was nuts and mushrooms.

Then there were vegetables.

Finally, fruits.

All the building blocks a lost child left to fend on their own needs to find their way out of the forest and into the hands of responsible, caring adults.

But you aren't lost. Nor have you been abandoned. Your mama is just running a little later than usual. It's like the time she forgot she told you to go pick out your favorite candy before she left the store. Or when she met that friend at the park and left you to push yourself on the swings. Your feet barely touched the ground at the time. Thankfully, there was a group of older kids to help you out.

She'll be back sooner or later. You know she will..

...You really wish you hadn't eat all your snacks during the drive.

The bag she packed for you is empty now save for a handful of wrapers and new changes of clothes. You grew out of half of them last winter. Your stomach growls as the winds howl, but you dare not to step forward. It's rude to take other people's food. That's why mama keeps the pantry locked. Or so she says. What do you do now?...

Oh... There's a note.

Maybe they wrote down their name. It'd be easier to apologize for taking their food if you had a name to address your sorry to.

Twisting your head to either side as you would when crossing the street, you cross the forest floor - checking sparingly for any signs of life. You didn't even see, let alone hear the stranger as they piled the plate high with harvest. It scared you a little. How someone was able to slip in and out existence without detection. Maybe it wasn't a person at all.

Retrieving the note from beneath the plate, your eyes strain against the impending darkness of dusk as you struggle to read. The words are bold and scratchy. The paper smells smoky and slightly burnt. The chalky ink stains your fingertips as you underline each word - sounding them out loud.

"EAT. STRENGTH FOR WALK HOME."

Walk home? All by yourself? The trees stretch and bend - towering pillars scrapping the orange sky. Their trunks forms pathways even the most skilled hikers would fall victim to without proper equipment. The last time you saw the road feels like ages ago. You'll be swallowed up by nightfall.

"I can't..."

You can't make it out. You can't make it home. Mama will make that your fault somehow. You can't stand when she yells at you. You want to go home, but is there even a home for you anymore?

Black streaks pigment your face as you scratch at your eyes. You won't cry. She hates when you do. If there's someone out here, why won't they help you?

Sounds of scratching fills your ears. Another note. It drifts top the toe of your worn sneakers. You pick it up.

"THE WOMAN. SHE LEFT YOU HERE."

As a prickly sensation claws at your throat, you notice an arrow at the bottom of the note. You turn it over.

"FOLLOW."

Your mind plays tricks on you. A tree, surpassing its neighbors in mass, sprouts to life before your weary, tear filled eyes. Fur blacker than pitch coats its bark. An eye, brown as autumn leaves pokes out at you from the heap of fuzz - encased in the ghostly shell of bone.

Without a word, the shadow signals you to follow with the point of its head leading deeper into the heart of the forest.

And so you do- carrying the plate of food along with you.

-

You should have gotten rid of him months ago.

"Eek! Y/n, I'm so sorry! I was just trying to do something nice for you and clean up while you were away! T-that box fell out of the closet and pictures scattered everywhere! Please don't throw me out, I'll do better!"

Ignoring him, all sound bleeds into the background as a single photo stands out from the rest. Small arms wrapped around the trunk of a man's calf. Their head barely reaching his knee. The antlers of the deer skull shielding the child's face knock against his hip - a clawed hand dwarfing the child's skull by yards resting peacefully atop their head.

"Who is he?" The deer, curious as the days are long, blinks up at you with earnest in his eyes. You wish he was a silent as his four legged counterpart.

"I realize the hunting knife... That's you as a kid, right? Who's that next to you?"

A thump sounds in your chest. Like a man brought back from the brink. How long has it been since you've allowed yourself to feel? How long have you forbidden yourself from grieving?

It doesn't matter now.

You crumble the photo in your fist.

"He's dead."

[revelboo]

May we request a IDW gladiator Megatron x Reader?

Sure! 🔞

Prize

Gladiator Megatron x Reader

• Staggering forward when the chain attached to your wrists is tugged, you stumble and hit your knee and hip when you’re yanked forward on the platform. Crying out when your captor wraps the chain around his fist and hauls you off the ground by your wrists, dangling you over the open pit below as you struggle, legs kicking. Arms avenging, it feels like he might pull your shoulders from the socket. Can’t understand the guttural, mechanical snarling of the alien language as you’re dangled in the air naked, but whatever your captor is saying has to be bad. It’s been nothing but bad since you came to in a crate. And as you wonder if he’s going to drop you, you look down and see more of the robotic monsters staring up at you and they’re armed with weapons, optics glowing as they study you.

• An organic? Lip curling because that’s no prize at all, really, Megatron vents, turning away. Who’d want that? Had hoped for extra rations. A weapon. Something worthwhile. Hears another gladiator asking his companion if he thinks you can take a spike, his friend laughing as he says ‘not and survive.’ And his jaw clenches, rumbling softly as he glances back up at the tiny, squirming shape and his servos tighten into a fist. Knows what it’s like to be thrown away, to have all of his choices taken away, his voice ignored, that anger what drives him.

• Gasping as you’re tossed into a cage, you curl up in a corner farthest from your captor as he lifts a fist, snarling alien gibberish and there’s an answering roar from the pit. Just want to go home. To wake up from this nightmare as you draw your limbs up against yourself, your ragged breathing loud in your own ears. Hear the snarls and roars, the violent crash of metal against metal from below. And the screams. Maybe they’re fighting for the right to rip you to pieces. Maybe you’re food. Shuddering and stressed, you dry heave.

• Wielding his drill and his servos, his denta, he doesn’t hold back, because his opponents won’t either. And above it all, the aristocracy watches the savage fights and gossip, sipping energon when he’s starving, they all are. Barely getting by. Hates them so much. Imagines they’re his opponents, that it’s their energon being spilled. Their plating crumpling under his fists. Because one day, it will be. Everything shifts, becomes a heated, red haze of violence and survival. Snarling as he lifts his head, realizing there are no more opponents. That he’s won.

• Screaming as you’re dragged from your cage, you fight like a mad thing as you’re shoved into a different box. Swinging freely over the pit. And you scream even louder when it drops sickeningly. Realizing you’re being given to those monsters. That you’re going to die here and no one will even know what happened to you. Scrambling into the corner when your cage hits the ground hard enough to make you cut your lip with your teeth. Can’t breathe as huge peds appear and a hand grabs your cage, lifting and tipping it. Trying to grab at the bars, you scream when you slide out and land in the monster’s palm. He’s just staring down at you, his face marked up with red paint, his frame spattered in something neon and faintly luminous as you hyperventilate and he clears his vents loudly, servos curling around you as he flashes his denta in a snarl.

• What’s he supposed to even do with you? If he tries to turn you loose, you’ll starve. Or get killed horrifically by another bored gladiator. He’s not even sure if the overseer that gifted you will bother to provide him food for you. Most likely he’d given you as a prize expecting you to die quickly. Venting tiredly as you tremble nonstop, chirping softly while you squirm around like you’re trying to get free. Like you’re so terrified you might throw yourself to your death from his hands. How’s he supposed to keep you alive? Maybe ending you quickly would be the kindest option? Can feel the frantic tattoo of your heart as he closes his servos around you and carries you to the communal berths for gladiators as your chirping gets louder.

[confessionsandcreampies]

public fucking with karasu, 18+

the gala was in full swing. crystal lights glittered across the hall, tuxedos and evening gowns mingling in polished laughter and champagne toasts. the music was soft jazz, elegant and proper. everything about the night screamed class.

except for what was happening on the balcony above it all. she stood facing the open night air, hands gripping the railing, city lights sparkling in the distance, but her attention wasn’t out there. it was behind her. on the body pressed up tight against her back, so firm and possessive it made her stomach flutter.

karasu tabito had been watching her all night. in that black silk dress, with her back bare and her hips hugged like the fabric had been sewn onto her skin, she was temptation incarnate. she knew what she was doing. every look, every brush of her fingers against his arm, every smile. it all said one thing: i know what you want. and i want it too.

so now here they were. on a private balcony where anyone could step out at any moment. just a few meters above the crowd, where the whole football elite laughed and gossiped below. his teammates, the press, sponsors. if someone looked up…

“you wore this for me,” karasu whispered, pressing his mouth to the curve of her neck. his voice was low and rough, breath hot against her skin. “didn’t you?”

she gasped when she felt his hand snake around her waist, the other already tugging her dress up. the slit gave him perfect access. no panties. just smooth, hot skin and her body ready for him.

“i knew you wouldn’t be able to behave,” she whispered trembling, head tilted as his fingers teased between her legs.

“and you love that about me,” he growled.

then he pulled his cock free, already hard from how she’d been eyeing him all night, and with one hand on her waist and the other wrapped around himself, he pushed inside slow, deep, until her breath caught in her throat and her knees nearly buckled.

“oh my—tabito,” she gasped, nails digging into the railing as he bottomed out inside her.

“you’re dripping,” he hissed into her ear tight. “fucking knew you’d be wet the second i touched you.”

his thrusts started hard and controlled, hips slapping against her ass, the sound muffled by the ambient music and crowd below. she was trying to stay quiet, but every time he sank in deep, it dragged a breathy moan from her lips. he reached around to press a hand over her mouth.

“shh. you want rin or isagi to walk out and see you getting fucked like a common whore?” he teased darkly, thrusting deeper.

she whimpered into his palm, and it only made him harder. below them, someone gave a toast. glasses clinked. a camera flash went off. karasu didn’t care. his only focus was her, fucking her until her thighs trembled and she could barely keep upright, hips slamming forward as he chased the high he’d been aching for all night.

“you look so fucking pretty in this dress,” he groaned, pace stuttering as her walls clenched around him. “but you look better like this. bent over, full of my cock.”

her hands slipped, barely holding onto the railing now, her moans muffled but desperate, soaking him. he knew she was close. he felt it in the way her body shook.

“cum for me,” he demanded, grip tightening on her waist. “give it to me, baby. right here. on display.”

she shattered. legs shaking, walls pulsing around him as she came with a cry that he smothered with his hand. karasu followed with a low, broken groan, spilling inside her, his hips jerking as he pressed himself flush against her back.

a door handle clicked behind them. they both froze. karasu didn’t even flinch. he just leaned forward, lips to her ear, still buried inside her. “let them see,” he whispered. “let them know you’re mine.”

[wbbwhorez]

Chaotic asf

The post-practice chill session in the locker room is in full swing. Natisha “T” Hiedeman and Courtney Williams have their phones out, scrolling through highlights and fan clips from the UConn live streams — the official ones, not the ones from the game. And suddenly, the screen freezes on you, mid-chaos.

Courtney bursts out laughing, nearly dropping her phone. “Yo, did you see this? Y/N just went full disaster mode on the live stream again.”

T, grinning wide, pulls up the clip and plays it:

You’re on camera, trying to say hi to the fans, but the mic catches you sneezing loud enough to make the commentators jump. Then your dog runs into the frame chasing a ball, knocking over a lamp in the background. You try to laugh it off, but your wifi glitches so bad your video freezes on a hilarious expression.

Courtney slaps her thigh, chuckling: “I swear, every time Y/N’s on, something wild happens. It’s like a live blooper reel but better.”

T nods, eyes twinkling: “It’s pure entertainment. I’m low-key impressed — like, how do you make chaos look so charming?”

Courtney scrolls to another clip — this time you’re waving and trying to hold a coffee, but the cup slips, coffee spills, and you do that perfect ‘oh no’ face right into the camera.

“Yo, that spill was legendary,” T laughs. “Only Y/N could turn a coffee disaster into a fan favorite moment.”

Courtney shakes her head, still grinning: “We need to get you on our next team live. If you bring this level of chaos, the fans will love it.”

T smirks, looking up: “Honestly, it’s kinda comforting seeing you be real out there. No fake poses, just you — the queen of live stream chaos.”

Courtney nudges T: “I’m telling you, this is gold content. I’m saving all these clips for when we wanna roast you in person.”

They both laugh, clearly entertained but also a bit fond of how effortlessly you turn messy moments into something memorable.

“Y/N: Menace to Lives — A StudBudz Reaction Special”

“Court. She’s on again.”

Natisha “T” Hiedeman doesn’t even look up from her phone — she just knows. The StudBudz are on the couch, post-practice, snacks in hand, and UConn’s latest IG Live pops up with a familiar notification: “@Y/NtheLegend joined the live.”

Courtney Williams turns her phone, already grinning. “Let’s see what the queen of chaos has in store this time.”

[UConn Women’s Basketball Live Stream: 2.3K viewers]

Camera flips. Back of your phone. Black screen.

You: “Wait is this working—? Oh—OH I flipped it—wait no I didn’t—hold on—”

Court: wheezing “Every time.”

T’s already recording it with her own phone. “I got five bucks says she forgets she’s muted.”

You: “Y’all hear me? Is this thing muted?”

Court + T (in unison): “EVERY TIME.”

Then your cat leaps into frame, right across your lap, tail smacking your face. You flinch.

You: “Please—someone take this cat. She just tried to assassinate me live on air.”

The comment section is losing it. So are the girls.

T: “Bro I’m crying—she’s so unserious.”

Court's doubled over. “Why is this better than Netflix??”

You: “Anyway, UConn baby! Let’s go Huskies!—OH MY GOD—”

Crash.

Coffee. Everywhere.

You: “I just spilled it on my signed Sue Bird hoodie. Okay. Okay. We’re fine. We’re good. We’re—nope. This is a disaster.”

Court, choking: “That’s like the fourth spill this season.”

T: “We need a live tracker. ‘Number of spills Y/N has committed on UConn lives: 6.’”

Then: you accidentally click a filter and now you’re a literal banana.

Court: “SHE’S A BANANA.”

T's crying, recording: “I’m making this my lock screen.”

After the Live

You finally log off, totally unaware of the digital storm you’ve left behind. Your phone buzzes within seconds.

Group Chat: “StudBudz + Y/N (aka Chaos Incarnate)”

T:

📸 sends screen recording of you yelling “WHY AM I A BANANA?!”

“Ma’am. Explain this.”

Court:

“Are you even safe unsupervised?? 😭😭😭”

You:

“I’m unwell. I was trying to turn the comments off and turned myself into produce.”

T:

“Y’all. She said PRODUCE 💀”

Court:

“Can we get you a tech coach??”

You:

“No. I thrive in this entropy.”

Court:

“Girl the hoodie is burnt.”

You:

“Pain builds character.”

T:

“Your cat staged a coup.”

You:

“She’s the captain now.”

---

Two Lives Later… (could be literally)

This time you’re in the background of a UConn player’s live, just saying hi—and somehow, in under 60 seconds:

Your doorbell rings.

Your dog barks loud enough to set off someone’s Alexa.

You trip over your charger and go fully off-screen mid-sentence.

When you come back, your forehead is on 3x zoom and you’re yelling “I DIDN’T EVEN ORDER ANYTHING??”

StudBudz reaction?

Court, posting it on her IG story:

“Y/N lives be like 💥📦🐶📴📣💀"

T, quoting the moment you screamed “IS THIS PLUGGED INTO THE WALL OR MY EMOTIONAL DAMAGE”

“Bro. She’s not real. She’s an improv skit with legs.”

---

You finally text them:

You:

“Okay fr. Was I that chaotic or are y’all exaggerating?”

T:

“Let me just remind you: you went live with a cracked camera lens, spilled boba on a championship banner, and asked why your screen was ‘in black and white’ when you had sunglasses on.”

Court:

“You joined a Zoom-style UConn reunion and said ‘sorry I was late I had a dream about muffins and had to go get some.’”

You:

“That one was justified.”

T:

“No one’s arguing. We’re just documenting.”

[em1i2a3]

Be Sweet

Pairing: Soft!Void/The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You’re just trying to finish your mission reports so that you can go run some errands for the Watchtower, but The Void has other plans for you.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Void being a bit overdramatic, Reader and Bob have an established relationship (therefore it’s also established with Sentry and The Void as well), Mentions of a little bruise that was consensually given to you from The Void.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up guys), Sex that doesn’t take place in the bedroom but it’s not in public either? (Kitchen sex…Nobody’s home lol), Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, The Void has an oral fixation (kind of), Dirty Talk,

Author’s Note: This was a request, I switched things just a little bit, but I was glad to get this done for ya anon :), its also RAAAAAF today y’all, get your cowboy hats on ;)

Word Count: 5,586

You were working on the last of your mission reports, perched at the kitchen island with your tablet in hand, stylus tapping lightly against the glass screen, scribbling out what you had written minutes prior so you can replace it with a more detailed response. The sun poured in through the tall windows, warm and hazy, gilding the marble countertop and the fabric of your white sundress. It was soft and simple, cotton-thin and loose in the breeze that flowed in through the open balcony window. It caught the light with every small, deliberate swing of your legs. There were embroidered flowers that dotted the hem–little blooms in pink and green that danced against your thighs as you rocked gently with the stool’s motion–something you would do when you were pondering what you wanted to say.

It was a peaceful kind of domestic moment–until it was interrupted.

Because you could feel him.

The air itself felt different when he stared. Heavy. Stretched. Saturated with heat and static, like a solar flare brushing the skin before it breaks open the sky in all its glory. His presence was coiled in the space behind you, shadows thickening near the couch, the sense of being watched so potent you could nearly taste it.

You glanced up from your work, already knowing what you would see.

The Void sat like a statue of shadow–sprawled on the far end of the couch in the common room, long limbs draped with studied stillness with a book long forgotten in one hand. He didn’t blink. He never did. Not when those faint, star-pale eyes were fixated on you like you were some precious, forbidden thing.

“Whatcha looking at, Void?” You asked, glancing back down at your screen. He hummed softly, the sound quiet and low, reverberating in the hollowness of his chest.

”Your legs…” He replied, you stilled for a moment, then turned your head fully to face him.

In the golden wash of sunlight, he stood out like an eclipse. The light bent strangely near him–not quite touching him–and all that remained in that pocket of space was black, rippling and endless, like gravity had folded in on itself around his body. The only thing visible through the darkness were those eyes–those two white pinpricks against a sea of nothing.

You felt heat crawl up your chest at the way he watched you so closely, at how long he had probably been staring and taking in every move you made.

”Any reason why you’re looking at me like I just committed a crime against humanity?” You teased, letting your foot bounce slightly, “It’s a sundress. Not a sniper scope.” There was the soft rustle of his book closing, as he set it aside with a care that felt intention–like he was preparing himself.

”Is there a reason you must torture me by wearing that particular piece of clothing?” He replied, almost like he was pained. You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, warm and airy.

”Torture you?’ His head tilted at your comment.

”Yes.” He said quietly.

“I’m running errands after this first off,” You explained with a shrug, “And second, it’s summer, Void. I’m not going to walk around the compound in a sweater and sweatpants just because you can’t keep it together when I show a little bit of skin.” He let out a dramatic sigh, the kind that echoed in the hollowness of his body like the groan of a distant storm. You didn’t even have to look up to know he was gesturing–likely toward your legs, which were still swinging lazily in the golden light, only this time you were doing it intentionally.

“That,” He started, voice dipping into something indulgent, “Is not a little bit of skin.” You snorted softly.

”And also,” He continued, “I can control myself. But when you’re tempting me like this…” His voice trailed off for a moment, thickening like cooled honey, “You can’t fault me for staring.” You shook your head and let out another quiet laugh.

”You make it sound like I did this on purpose.”

”Didn’t you?”

“No.” You clicked your tongue and refocused totally on the tablet, stylus dragging across the screen as you continued to write your botched summary. “Sentry is to blame for your anguish. He’s the one who picked this out for me last night.” There was a pause. Then a groan, long and drawn out.

”Don’t worry,” He muttered, clearly suffering, “He’ll get his own scolding when I get him. That guy does that shit on purpose. He knows my weaknesses too well.” You hummed with amusement, glancing up at him through your lashes.

”Once again, you’re making it seem like this was some kind of targeted attack on your self-control.” You commented. Then you heard it–the low creak of the couch frame, the hush of shifting weight. But before you could turn, before you could add another though that was forming in the back of your mind, he was there. The shadows moved faster than your breath could catch, and he appeared at your side like smoke made flesh. One second he was across the living room,a nod the next, the space beside you was full of him–his cold presence, his gravity, and his hunger.

His cool arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his body pressing up to your back with a slow, languid intent. He didn’t grab or squeeze–just simply enveloped. The weightless press of his body against your sundress, his form a contradiction of heat and absence, tangible only where he wanted to be.

You barely had time to say anything before his mouth found your neck, as he pressed a soft kiss right behind your ear, feeling your whole body pulse at the contact.

“I’m so used to seeing you in tactical gear that seeing you like this…In something so soft and sweet…Like a pretty white dress–“ He murmured, placing another kiss, lower now, right at the base of your neck where your pulse jumped, “–Just gets me going.” You froze, tablet still in hand, stylus hovering just above the screen. He pressed his nose deeply into your neck and breathed you in like a man in mourning, like he was grieving the time he hadn’t spent touching you this way. His arms around your waist flexed slightly, his hands ghosting over the folds of fabric, curling into it possessively, like he wanted to pull you even closer to him.

“Void…” You groaned, your breath catching as his lips brushed over your skin again, “You’re losing it.” He let out a small sigh–not frustrated, nor annoyed. It was something deeper. Hungrier. Almost desperate. And then his mouth was open against your neck, his cold tongue pressing to your pulse point before sucking gently. A slow drag of his lips against your throat before pulling off and exhaling, his cool breath skating across the damp spot he left behind. Goosebumps lifted immediately along your arms and down your side, and you stiffened, as the stylus almost slipped from your grip.

”Y’know…” He started, voice vibrating with something primal just beneath the shroud of calmness he was trying to put on, “There’s one way you could stop me from spiraling further…” You squinted, tilting your heads to the side just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision. His pupils–those white, pinpricked stars–were glowing now. Subtly at first, then brighter, like the flame of a match swelling just before it touches skin.

“I need to get this report done, Void,” You said, though your voice had lost its edge. It didn’t even sound like a protest anymore. He shook his head slowly, and you felt the deliberate unraveling of his arms from your waist, as though it physically pained him to let go. The sudden loss of his touch left the air thinner, your skin prickling from the contrast. One of his hands slid to the edge of the stool while the other mirrored it, both palms bracketing your hips as he turned the seat gently, pivoting you to face him. The sun framed him in golden streaks, but none of it truly touched him, it just curved around as if it dodged his body.

“You won’t have to do a thing,” He whispered, voice hushed and low, “You don’t even have to pay attention to me.” His hand found your thigh, cool and smooth against your warm skin, sliding slowly from your knee upward. Your sundress shifted as he moved, the soft cotton folding easily under his touch, rising inch by inch until the hem sat high enough to reveal the faint bruise like splatter he had pressed into your skin–a mark he had left once months ago, because you had begged him to make you his. The pads of his fingers ghosted over it slowly, acknowledging it, like he was reliving the moment he had given it to you.

You exhaled softly, lids fluttering at the sensation, and felt your legs part instinctively on the stool. The sunlight warmed the inside of your thighs, but all you felt was the chill of his presence closing in.

“What are you going to do?” You asked, your voice barely audible–fractured by anticipation, by the heat that had begun to pool in your belly. His smile flashed in the sunlight, crooked and devastating–a rare expression that cut through the ever-present shadow clinging to him. It was a kind of hunger that dripped with beauty. A quiet plea dressed in seduction. Then he leaned forward, his cold, silky black hair brushing against your skin, leaving a chill in its wake as it tickled along your collarbone and throat.

”I’m going to get on my knees and please you…” He whispered, thick with restraint. A promise. A prayer breathed into your body. He kissed your jaw, slow and lingering, like he wanted to savor it. You could feel your throat tighten, closing around the breath that tried to escape your throat, before he spoke again.

”Because I can’t go another moment without tasting you.” The confession sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

His lips grazed your skin once more, then paused at the corner of your mouth. “All you need to do,” He murmured, “Is open your legs for me, and sit back. Then enjoy, and do your report…” His eyes flicked up to yours again, glowing brighter now with that soft, aching starlight–warm and cold at once. You could feel him vibrating just under the surface, stretched tight with the desire he was barely holding back.

“It’s a win-win.” You swallowed hard, trying to refocus, but your hands felt too light. Your skin too alive. Your thighs had already parted slightly, the space between them drawing a path of light and shadow, heat and cold. His gaze dropped briefly to your center, then back up again, and he didn’t move until you gave the smallest nod.

That was all it took.

He moved like a shadow made of silk, a ripple in the fabric of the room. One second he was in front of you, and the next, he was below you–kneeling between your thighs, reverent and unblinking. The glow in his eyes lit the space beneath your dress, casting ghost-light across your skin as he reached up and slowly dragged his fingers along the backs of your knees, urging them apart just a little more. Your hand tightened around the tablet as you peeked down at him–at the sight of that impossible shadow made man, kneeling between your thighs like you were an anomaly. His fingers trailed softly along the backs of your knees, thumbs pressing gently into the curve of muscle, coaxing your legs wider with every beat of your heart. He moved slowly, like he wanted to be careful with you, to show his appreciation.

Then his mouth descended.

He pressed one kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Higher. Slower.

Each touch left behind a glistening mark, warm spit trailing across your skin as his cold lips dragged upward, wet and tender. You could feel your muscles twitch in response, tension building in your belly, your legs parting a little more in silent surrender. His voice vibrated against you when he spoke, low and breathless.

“God, you smell so sweet,” He rasped, kissing again just beneath the crease of your hip. “I want to lose myself in it every time.” You shivered, your head tilting back slightly as he pushed the dress higher, careful and methodical, bunching it gently around your waist so he didn’t ruin how nice and smooth the fabric was. His hands were so tender, so deliberate–never rough, never rushed. His fingers brushed your hips as he tucked the hem into itself, just enough so he could see you fully, and when his gaze landed on the soaked cotton between your thighs, he let out a soft, trembling sigh.

“Look at you,” He whispered, in awe. “So wet already…”

He leaned forward and licked you through the fabric.

A long, slow drag of his tongue over the damp lace, the coolness of it shocking against your soaked center. The cotton clung to you, stuck to your folds with spit and arousal, and he mouthed at it like he didn’t care that it was in the way–like it turned him on more, tasting you secondhand, his hands gently massaging your thighs in slow, adoring circles as he worked his mouth against you.

Your eyes fluttered shut, hips rising off the stool just slightly in response, instinctive, desperate. His tongue flattened against the soft cotton and dragged up again, this time pausing to suck gently. You let out a soft whimper. It was so gentle. So careful. And it was driving you mad. You put the tablet down.

“Please…” You breathed, voice strained. He groaned low against your center, the vibration sinking into you.

“I know, baby. I know.”

His hands slid higher, fingers curling around the waistband of your underwear. He paused–just long enough for you to nod–and then slowly he began to tug them down. You pushed yourself up slightly off the stool, helping him, lifting your hips so he could ease them down your thighs and off completely.

He didn’t toss them aside.

He held them for a moment–just looked at them. At the translucent wet patch he’d caused. He brought them briefly to his lips, and kissed the center before finally setting them down next to your tablet with quiet care.

When he looked up at you again, his eyes were glowing–burning.

“Keep your legs open for me,” He said softly, his breath catching, “And don’t think about anything else but how good I’m going to make you feel.” You nodded–barely–and leaned back against the edge of the marble counter, shifting your hips forward slightly, your breath already uneven. The tablet was forgotten. Time was irrelevant. All that existed now was him, kneeling between your thighs like a worshiper before an altar, the sunlight breaking gently across his dark figure like some divine contradiction.

His hand slid beneath your knees, cool palms gliding over heated skin as he lifted and draped your thighs over his shoulders. His grip was soft, like you were porcelain that would shatter if he dared to touch you too roughly. He pressed kisses to your inner thighs again, following the wet trail he had left for himself, as his tongue teased its way up your skin, until he buried his face completely between your legs.

The first pass of his tongue made your back arch–not because it was hard or fast, but because it was tender. Slow. The contrast of his cool mouth against your molten center sent a rush of sensation through your whole body. He moaned softly, the sound vibrating against you, and you felt him tighten his grip, squeezing your thighs gently as if anchoring himself there, holding onto the moment. His tongue moved in slow, adoring strokes–lapping up everything you gave him like a starving man nursing from springwater.

“Fuck…” You whispered, your voice already trembling. He looked up at you from between your thighs, lips glistening, his eyes glowing like eclipsed stars.

“You always make the best sounds…I’m so devoted to you, Y/N…” Your breath caught. One of your hands reached for him, threading through the silky black strands of his hair, smoothing it away from his face, holding him there. He pressed deeper into you, tongue swirling, his lips suckling gently at your clit like it was all he ever wanted to do.

“You were made for me,” He breathed between kisses. “This perfect fucking pussy–” He groaned, “–And this little dress, and these thighs, and your voice–” He nipped at your clit lightly, just enough to make you gasp. “You’re driving me mad and making me better at the same time.”

“Void…” You whimpered, hips twitching as he moaned again, slow and pretty, almost pained.

“You’re everything I crave,” He admitted softly, “Everything I could ever want. I could live on you. Just like this. Forever. You’re my fucking lifesource.” His tongue found its rhythm–languid and worshipful–each pass of it punctuated by small, open-mouthed kisses. Your other hand slid across the counter, reaching for something to ground yourself with, but all you could find was him. So you gripped his hair tighter instead, gently guiding him, your moans tangled with his name.

“Please…More,” You begged, legs quivering on either side of his shoulders.

He obeyed like a man possessed.

One hand left your thigh, trailing down, knuckles brushing lightly over your folds before his fingers joined in. His touch was careful at first–two fingers sliding through your soaked heat, gliding easily with how aroused you were. He dipped them inside, and your whole body shuddered.

“There you go,” He said softly, like he was praising a miracle. “So good for me. Always so perfect, so open when I touch you like this.”

His fingers curled with practiced skill, brushing against your walls as his mouth latched around your clit again. It was overwhelming–the cool glide of his tongue, the warmth of his breath, the slow stretch of his fingers curling deeper. Every motion was deliberate, drenched in adoration. You whimpered, eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s it, baby,” He whispered, pausing to kiss your clit before sucking again. “Let me feel it–give me everything. I need it.”

“Void…Jesus Christ, you’re always so good at this…Eating me like I’m yours.” You gasped, voice breaking into something breathy and beautiful. He moaned loudly, and the sound echoed through you like a command.

”You are mine,” He mumbled, “Every time I lick you…I claim just another piece of you. But now…I want you to say you’re mine while I make you come.”

“I’m yours,” You gasped, legs starting to tremble, the pleasure mounting in waves. “I’m…Void…I’m yours–” He curled his fingers harder, deeper, hitting just the right spot. His lips sealed around your clit and he began to suck, gently but insistently, in rhythm with the way he pumped his fingers. The praise didn’t stop.

”So perfect,” He whispered, “So sweet…My good girl…My favourite thing in this entire world. My fucking altar.” That pushed you over the edge.

Your hand flew to his, gripping it tightly as the orgasm surged through you–hot and overwhelming, like light bursting behind your eyelids. You cried out, legs locking around his shoulders, your hips jerking. He held on. He stayed there.

Sucking. Licking. Worshipping.

He didn’t stop even as you shook, even as your breath stuttered. He moaned against you, and the sound was ecstatic–like he was tasting something forbidden and divine. He let your pleasure flood over him, soaking his mouth, his chin, the underside of his nose. And when you finally sagged against the counter, blinking down at him through the haze, he slowly pulled back.

The sunlight struck his face.

And you were glistening on him.

Your arousal shimmered on his mouth, streaked across his cheeks like the aftermath of a kiss from a god. His lips were parted, breathing shallow, and his eyes–those white, glowing stars–were soft with awe.

You smiled, dazed and radiant, before leaning forward slowly, sliding your fingers through the silky strands of hair that felt damp against your skin, your lips grazing his cheek. You kissed him gently, then ran your tongue across the heat of his cheekbone. His breath caught in surprise.

Then he giggled.

A sound so quiet, so rare, it barely had form–but it was there. Light and breathless, startled by the ticklish trail your tongue left behind.

“I love when you laugh,” You murmured, brushing your nose against his temple before continuing your path–cheek to jaw, jaw to chin, soft fluttering kisses that made his fingers tighten ever so slightly around your thighs.

Then you reached his lips.

“My sweet love…” You whispered between kisses, each one delicate and sweet, “My starless sky…My favorite boy.”He shuddered like you’d carved the words into his skin. His free hand lifted and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking the softness of your jaw as he looked up at you like you were sunlight he never earned.

He pulled back just slightly, and in that brief distance, whispered, “You’re wonderful. A fucking…Apparition. You’re not even real sometimes. You’re just…” He trailed off, eyes burning with affection and want. “You’re everything.” You smiled, brushing your lips against his again.

“Well,” You started, breath teasing his mouth, “This apparition wants her starry-eyed man to fuck her.” His eyes flickered. You kissed him again, just once–slow and full of promise–before pulling back with a small smile.

“Since there’s no point in continuing to work,” You added, arching an eyebrow, “When you’re such a huge distraction.” He hummed like you’d given him a gift, tongue peeking out briefly to taste your words lingering on his lips.

“That can be done.” He murmured. And with one last kiss to your inner thigh, he slowly slipped his fingers from inside you–your walls clenching around the sudden loss, aching to feel full again. He stood in a single, smooth motion, hands sliding under your thighs as he lifted you effortlessly from the stool. You clung to him, legs wrapping around his hips automatically, your arms loose around his shoulders, forehead brushing against his. He stepped forward, nudging the tablet and your soaked underwear off to the side of the counter with careful precision. Then he placed you onto the marble.

The stone was cool against the heat of your skin, and your dress was still bunched around your waist, but none of it mattered. Not with him standing between your legs, not with the sun at his back and your scent still clinging to his mouth.

“You want to do it right here?” You asked with a laugh, letting your heels hook loosely behind his back.

He tilted his head slightly. “We’ll clean up afterwards,” he said, voice low and silken. “It’ll be spotless. Nobody will know anything happened…”He leaned in, his breath brushing your lips, eyes molten white as they flicked down to your mouth. “Except us.” You let out a soft, breathy laugh, arms sliding around his neck as you pulled him in closer.

“You don’t have to do much convincing,” You said. “I like how desperate you are. Can’t even bear to carry me to our bedroom.”

“Why should I?” He murmured, his nose brushing against yours. “I need you now.” You let out a soft laugh, the kind that trembled at the edges with anticipation, before pulling him down into a kiss that turned far from sweet.

It was hungry.

Hot and spit-slick, teeth grazing, lips catching–like the two of you had been starved of this for far too long. His mouth met yours with urgency, with reverence disguised as desperation. You could feel the growl buried low in his throat, pressed into your teeth as your tongues slid together, tasting, taking. The kind of kiss that stole your breath even as it fed you something else entirely.

He exhaled harshly through his nose against your cheek as his hand dropped between your bodies. You didn’t break the kiss–not even when you felt him shove his sweatpants down just to his knees, the rustle of the fabric barely audible between your bodies. He was too focused, too gone. His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him, your thighs spread wide around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back.

You gasped into his mouth when you felt him, cool and hard, the slick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. The tip was already wet with pre-cum, and it spread across your folds as he dragged himself through them slowly, coating you in his need. He groaned low into the kiss, like the heat of you burned through the cold that clung to his skin.

And then–without ceremony, without fanfare, but with the kind of restraint that bordered on trembling worship–he began to push inside. You broke the kiss with a gasp so sharp it caught in your throat. Your head tilted back, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut as the stretch of him filled you inch by inch.

“Fuck…” You whispered, breathless, back arching slightly as he eased deeper. He immediately ducked to your neck, his mouth wet and open against your skin. He peppered kisses along the curve of your throat, sucking softly, dragging his lips along your pulse, his breath cool and shaky as he moaned against the warmth of your skin. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pulling you tighter against him with each inch he sank into you, anchoring you to his body like he couldn’t bear the thought of space between you.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails dragging across his skin. Your thighs tensed around his waist as if your body was trying to hold him in place, as if it needed to keep him inside.

He was thick. Deep. The stretch of him felt divine. Your bodies adjusted together in that perfect, unbearable way, just like they always did. When he bottomed out–when he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt–you both stilled.

You could feel him pulsing inside you, like a heartbeat, in tandem with your ragged breaths.

“Christ…” He groaned against your throat, like a man struck down by a vision, “Always feel…So fucking good.” You pulled his face up with one hand at the nape of his neck, kissed him again–not as rough this time, but full of weight, full of that silent desperation that made your limbs tremble. He kissed your bottom lip slowly, savoring it, then moved to your top one, sucking gently, nipping, giving both equal attention like he was memorizing you all over again.

And when he finally pulled away, breathless, lips still brushing yours, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Made for me,” He whispered. “Fucking made for me.”

His eyes–white and glowing–searched your face like you were a miracle, lips parting like he was tasting your breath.

”Can I start moving?” He asked quietly, and you nodded, almost frantically.

”Please.” You breathed out. He started slow–deep, rolling thrusts that made your whole body slide slightly along the marble counter, the slick sound of your arousal filling the space between your bodies. Each motion was careful, worshipful, but brimming with tension, like he was trying not to lose himself too fast.

You clung to him, moaning into his mouth when he kissed you again, swallowing every sound you made as he began to rut into you a little harder, the slap of skin meeting skin echoing softly in the kitchen.

“You feel so fucking good,” He groaned, voice shaky against your lips. “So hot and tight around me…Like your body has an imprint of me inside it…”

“It does,” You whispered, kissing him again, messily this time, your mouths sliding together, open and wet and aching. “Because I’m yours…Only yours.”

He let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking harder, deeper.

Your dress was still bunched around your waist, your chest rising and falling with every breathless sound you made. One of his hands slid under the fabric, splaying across your lower back, anchoring you as his thrusts gained pace, hips snapping forward as he buried himself into you over and over again.

Then, as if pulled by some magnetic urge, he ducked back to your throat.

His mouth latched onto the column of your neck, lips sucking and tongue dragging slow and filthy against your skin. You whimpered as he sucked harder, marking you, the heat of his mouth clashing with the cool breath that followed. Saliva ran in a slow trail down the side of your throat, soaking into the neckline of your dress where it clung to your damp skin.

You shivered beneath him, and he growled softly, “God, I could eat you alive…You taste like heaven and fuck like sin.” Your hands roamed everywhere–clutching his shoulders, raking down his back, threading into his hair again just to hold him close. Every part of you was stretched wide open, exposed and vulnerable, but it felt safe–like no one else in the universe could have you, like you belonged only here, under this sun-drenched kitchen light, spread open and moaning on the countertop.

He pulled back just far enough to look down.

To watch.

And so did you.

You both looked between your bodies–his cock disappearing inside you with every thrust, coated in your arousal, your folds wet and swollen and clinging to him like your body didn’t want to let go.

The image made your breath hitch.

He saw it. Saw your face tremble with the weight of it.

He groaned, curling one arm tighter around your back while his other hand lifted–slowly, reverently–to your chest. He pressed his palm flat over your heart, feeling it pound wildly, and you covered his hand with your own, fingers trembling as they laced between his.

“That’s for you,” You whispered, voice breaking. “It’s yours.”

“Fuck…” He moaned, trembling, eyes wide and awestruck. “I feel it. I feel you.”

You squeezed his hand and rolled your hips up to meet his next thrust.

“I’m close,” You gasped. “So close–don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His pace stayed steady, passionate, fucking you through the coil building low in your belly. Every deep thrust pushed you closer to the edge, until your breath was catching and your eyes were fluttering, until you were gasping his name like it was the only word left in the world.

“Let go for me,” He begged, his voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours. “Come on, baby, please.” You did—with a broken moan and a full-body shudder, your climax tore through you like a sunburst. You clung to him as it hit, your walls fluttering around him, milking him, pulling him in even deeper.

He followed almost instantly.

With a soft cry, he buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, rutting into you a few more times as his cock pulsed inside you, filling you up with his cool streaks of cum. His body trembled with each small thrust, like he couldn’t stop chasing the feel of you, the intimacy, the perfect fit.

And then stillness.

He let out a breathless whimper, still inside you, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. Then he kissed you.

A real kiss. Long, slow, warm–like thanks and surrender and devotion all in one.

When he pulled back, his forehead dropped to yours, eyes fluttering shut, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his spit-slick mouth.

“Sorry I distracted you from finishing up the mission reports…” He murmured, voice hoarse and thick with affection.

You let out a quiet laugh, your hand still resting over his.

“They can always wait,” You admitted. “Especially when it comes to you.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips. “Always good to know that,” He said, grin crooked and boyish now, the afterglow softening what little features you could see, his eyes, maybe the little crinkle in his brow. “I’ll bring it up the next time I distract you.” You smiled, fingers threading into his cool soft hair again, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

”Hopefully I don’t forget.” You commented, as he hummed.

”You probably will…But I’ll be sure to remind you every time I see you.” Then he leaned in and gave you a slow, wet kiss.

[hanonfilm]

an ego thing | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader

contains smut! (light bdsm(?) slight choking(?) chef(?) kink(?))

you and carmen have been rivals since new york. years later you both find yourself in chicago, and get invited to do an interview together all the way back where it started.

a/n: hey thanks for reading, i havent written for the bear yet but wanted to have a go at it especially as someone who has worked in the industry for most of their life in ny. i've spelt his nickname ‘ber’ (albeit pronounced bear) idk if thats what everyone does? i just assumed bc his name is spelt berzatto, idk tho im new to the bear fanfic writing thing, so apologies if yall spell it bear im uncultured. hope u like it. if u do, i love requests. also this is not proof-read yet.

chicago, now.

You open your eyes.

The sun is shining.

The birds are singing.

Just another beautiful day in Chicago.

A great day to work. 

You swing your legs out of bed, methodologically you shower, brush your teeth, get dressed.

You grit your teeth together, open an article on your phone:

Your name is printed just right above his on the Tribune’s “Top 5 Chefs Under 35” list.

You don’t smile, you just close the window, pack your knife roll, and head to work. 

The kitchen is already buzzing when you walk in, there’s prep lists, chopping and dicing, the sound of pots and pans, the frantic scribbling of notes as chefs take down the menu changes for the day.

One of your line cooks approaches you, holding up their phone to you with that look on their face.

“Chef,” they say, their face just a little more serious than it should be, perhaps, “Carmen Berzatto posted about you.”

You don’t flinch. Barely react. “Did he tag me, or just allude to me in a very vague way on his story?”

They blink at you. “The second one, chef.”

You nod. “Fuckin’ coward.”

You take the phone from them anyway, Just for a moment.

It’s a photo of some dish. A duck breast, cooked to perfection. Blood orange gastrique. Fennel pollen.

You made something suspiciously close to this about two menus ago. 

Your version had pomegranate. 

The caption reads, ‘Innovation is imitation with better technique.’ 

“Oh fuck off,” you mutter, handing the phone back to the line cook. “Tell garde manger to go heavier on the fennel today, I want them to fucking taste it from across the street, chef.”

The line cook nods, disappears, and you’re alone again. Surrounded by chaos, but still.

You don’t look at your phone, or any other phone for that matter, again until after service, leaning up against the wall by your locker.

You know you shouldn’t look at his account.

You shouldn’t. But you do.

The post is gone. You slam your locker just a little harder than is really necessary.

Of fucking course it is.

You roll your eyes, he’s always been so good at that. Throwing a proverbial punch, hiding his hands. Letting you look like the one who’s too sensitive, or too reactive, or too…hungry, driven.

Your coat smells like smoke and citrus and work. You toss it into your tote deciding that you’d pass up the assault on your senses during your walk home. The walk-in hums to your left, like it’s talking to you, whispering, telling you to go home.

And you should go home.

Instead, you walk. In the opposite direction.

There’s an all-night coffee shop somewhere around halfway-ish between your place and The Bear, a neutral ground as you call it, if such a thing exists at all. You’re about three minutes into waiting for your order, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when the door chimes jingle like they’re trying to warn you.

And there he is.

Carmen Berzatto, that fucker.

His hood is up, his sleeves pushed to his forearms, a notebook open in his hand, a look on his face like he’s composing a sonnet to microgreens and regret.

You see his eyes flick toward you, then back down, your name is called, and you sit one stool away from him. Not closer. Not farther.

A power move. 

You take a sip of your drink, keep your eyes on your phone, like you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Bold move,” you say, quiet, pointed, not looking at him.

“Didn’t realize this place was yours now,” he replies smugly, barely glancing up at you.

You hum like you’re amused with the situation. You’re not.

“You liked the duck?”

“I liked it better when I made it…first,” you say, still scrolling through your Instagram feed. “Two menus ago. Pomegranate instead of blood orange. Remember that? Bet you do.”

“Yours was sweeter.” He says it like it’s an insult. Probably because it is.

“Yours was derivative.” You respond, just as pointed, just as dry. 

You see his eyes narrow at you in your peripheral vision. He snorts, but he doesn’t deny it. You finally look at him.

“Nice quote, by the way, Carm. Real subtle. Real mature.”

“Wasn’t about you.”

“Right. Just happened to post it the day that article ran, just happened to use the same plating.”

“Same cut, different execution.”

“Same cut, worse execution.”

“Is that the maturity you were referring to earlier?” 

You roll your eyes, a light blush starting to dust your cheeks betraying you in the process. 

He tilts his head, studies you. He has that familiar look on his face, like he’s trying to solve you and break you all at once. You recognize it all too well from all the way back in New York. 

He used to look at you like that from across the line, down the line, wherever he was situated, there was one thing that Carmen Berzatto was gonna do, stare you down. Steam rising between you, always. Ten minutes to service and he’d always say something just fucking infuriating like, “You gonna do the scallops like that, chef?” just to fuck with you. Just to get under your skin. You hated him.

He seemed to like fucking with you just a little too much.

You didn’t appreciate it in the slightest.

“I remember your duck,” he says finally. “Was good.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You scoff, take another sip from your drink. “Relax, Ber. You still win when it comes to presentation.”

“Because you don’t care about that shit.”

“I care when people like you pretend that they invented it.”

That hits, you know it does, you watch as his hand flexes around his cup like he’s trying to keep it together, maintain his composure. It excites you.

“I didn’t delete it because of you,” he says.

You arch an eyebrow. “Sure.”

“I deleted it because I didn’t feel like a fight.”

You blink at him. That was…unexpected. Unwelcome, even.

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you started swinging, then, hm?”

“Wasn’t swinging,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “It was…I don’t know. I saw your name above mine, and it just- fuck.”

“What?”

“It just pissed me the fuck off.”

A moment of silence passed between the two of you, the music of the coffee shop filling the space, low, jazzy. 

“I didn’t ask for the article,” you say, quietly, face falling.

“Neither did I.”

“Doesn’t stop it from feeling like something, though.”

“Yeah.”

“Like a win.”

“Or a loss.”

You both turn, stare ahead for a moment.

“We were better,” you say.

“When?”

“Back then. Before Chicago. Before…all this.”

He turns his head, looks at you again, like he might actually say something, something…honest.

“Maybe,” he says, “Or maybe we just hid it better.”

You don’t respond to him, you’ve had enough of this tonight.

You stand, deciding to take your drink to go. 

And as you pass him, “Same cut, Carmen,” you say, you don’t look back at him. “Same wound, too.”

new york, then.

The kitchen was finally quiet, well, except for the hum of the fridge, and the crackle of the old radio someone had left on. You and Carmen were the last two standing, which was nothing out of the usual. Wiping down stations, just trying to shake the exhaustion from your bones, knowing very well that you’d just be right back standing in the same place within the next twelve hours. 

“You ever think we’re too much alike?” Carmen said as he slipped on his jacket, leaning against the counter with that half-smile that you didn’t quite want to admit was just the slightest bit magnetic, attractive, even.

You turn to him, head tilted. “Or, maybe not alike enough.”

He shrugged at you, his eyes darkening. “Or, maybe we just want the same thing.”

You look him right in his eyes, scanning them, daring him to elaborate. “Or, maybe, I just think you should be more like me.” 

Carmen chuckled, a low, amused sound that made the back of your neck heat up and your stomach flip. 

“More like you, huh? I don’t know if the world’s ready for that.”

You smirked, stepping closer to him, your shoulders nearly brushing. 

“Maybe the world needs shaking up, maybe that’s the point.” 

His eyes flicked down to your lips for just a second, before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

“Well, you do like to push people’s buttons.” 

“And you’re too stubborn to admit you like it.”

He shook his head at you, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Maybe I do.”

A silence settled in, charged and comfortable all at once, electric.

Carmen breaks the silence, gives you a crooked grin.

“So, want to grab a drink? Blow off the last twelve hours?”

You hesitate, the corner of your mouth twitching. 

“Only if you promise you can keep up, Ber.”

He throws an arm around your shoulder playful, friendly, as you head for the door, the world outside buzzing with New York City nightlife and potential.

Down the street a dive bar’s blue and red neon sign flickers, you make your way towards it together. Inside, the lights are dimmed and there are worn wooden booths, a long bar, older TVs on the front and back walls, a pool table in the back, a jukebox in the front, and a large crowd of people of all ages. 

You order drinks, and the conversation flows easily at first. Then Carmen leans into you, just a touch closer than ‘friends’, his voice is low, teasing.

“You know, I’m starting to think you might actually like me more than you let on.”

You snort, nearly spill your drink.

“Please, you wish.”

He grins at you, his eyes seem to glitter under the bar lights. “Maybe I do.”

It catches you off guard, the way he says it, quiet, steady, more sincere than you’re used to, it trips you up for a moment longer than you’d have liked for it to. 

You cover it up quickly with a laugh, one that’s maybe just a touch too loud. “Now, don’t get all soft on me, Carm.”

Before he could respond to you, there’s a cheer from across the room. A few line cooks from the restaurant are sitting towards the corner of the bar, seemingly already halfway through a sizable pitcher, waving you both over to their table.

You begin to lift your hand to wave back when someone brushes past you from behind, hands light on your shoulders, just a little too familiar. 

You turn around.

“Hey stranger.”

It’s Alex. One of the sous chefs you had met just a few months back when you had staged over at the Olivette. Tall, pretty, maybe just a touch too confident for their own good. They smell like cardamom and something more expensive that you can’t quite make out. 

You smile, it’s polite, casual. “Alex.” 

“Didn’t know you’d be here.” Their hand stays on your arm for just a second longer than it should’ve been.

Carmen doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the shift in energy before you can see it, his whole posture going stiff.

“We were just-” you start to say, but Alex speaks, cutting you off.

“You coming to Devon’s thing after this? He said you might.”

Before you could answer that you weren’t, that you actually hadn’t even been made aware of Devon’s thing, Carmen stands up abruptly. 

“I’m gonna grab a pool cue,” he says to no one in particular, not quite making eye contact with either of you, already walking toward the back of the bar.

You exhale sharply. “Excuse me,” you say to Alex, your tone clipped, as you hop off your stool and follow Carmen across the bar.

You find him at the pool table, he’s chalking the cue like he’s trying to wear it down to dust. It dawns on you that you’re actually not even entirely sure that he’s ever touched a pool table. 

“Is everything, like, okay?” you ask.

He shrugs, doesn’t meet your eyes. “Fine.”

“You sure?” you press him. “Because that didn’t really look fine.”

He takes a deep breath, rests the cue on the table, and finally meets your eyes.

“Look, I know it’s stupid, alright? I just…I just wasn’t- I wasn’t expecting that.”

You blink at him. “What? Alex?”

He nods, just once. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head at him, soften your tone. “They’re just like, some person, I worked with, okay? It’s like, it’s not a thing, like at all.”

“I know. I know that.” His mouth twitches, like he’s more frustrated with himself than he is with you. “And, like, what am I then, am I just like some person you work with, then?”

You pause, blink at him, startled by the question, completely and utterly caught off guard by it. Not because it’s unfair, necessarily, but because it’s just such a total pivot. It throws you for a loop.

You recover quickly with a scoff, attempting to deflect. “You? You’re, you’re Carmen fucking Berzatto, okay, you don’t- you don’t count.”

His brows lift at that. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re different.”

“Different?” His eyes narrow at you, he’s watching you too closely, and you hate how warm your face feels under his gaze. “Different, how?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” you mutter out, suddenly wishing that you’d just stayed over at the bar. 

Carmen steps toward you, pool cue forgotten. “Then why does it feel like I just watched someone hit on you and I felt like- like some sort of fucking idiot for thinking-”

He cuts himself off.

“For thinking…what?” 

You say it too fast, sharper than you had intended.

He hesitates, his eyes flicker over to the other side of the bar before coming back to meet with yours. “Something.”

Your pulse stutters.

“Something,” you echo back to him, not quite a question, not quite an answer.

Carmen’s tongue darts across his bottom lip like he’s working through the right words to say in his head before they come out wrong, but they still do.

“Doesn’t matter, just, nevermind, forget it.”

You shake your head in utter disbelief. “Are you serious right now, Carmen? You can’t just like- you can’t just drop that and then say ‘forget it.’ That’s not how-” 

You stop yourself, close your mouth, swallow your frustration.

He’s already retreating, you can see it happening in real time, not physically, but that shuttered look on his face, the one that you’ve seen about a thousand times during a particularly bad service when he feels himself starting to care just a little too much. He’s not angry, he’s protecting something. 

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” he mutters, half to you, half to the floor. “It’s late.”

You stare at him, jaw tense, “You’re such a fucking coward sometimes.”

That lands, and he flinches like you’d slapped him.

“I’m being honest with you, (y/n),” he says sternly, like when he has to call out an order one too many times, a flicker of irritation behind his eyes.

“No, Carm, you’re being half honest,” you snap back at him, the irritation in his eyes makes you irritated. “You say just enough to make it my fucking problem. Like I’m just supposed to fucking, read between every one of your moody little silences and just like- just figure out whatever the fuck page you’re on.”

Carmen gives you a humorless laugh. 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” he bites back, his voice raising just a little. “You flirt like it’s some fucking, some fucking sport and then act all shocked when someone thinks that maybe, just maybe, it might fucking mean something.”

You fall silent.

You don’t mean to do it, just, the silence falls out of your mouth before the words can.

He notices it, a look of regret falling over his features almost instantly. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his eyes softening, “Fuck, (y/n), I’m sorry, I really- I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh that sounds just a little too light to be friendly, too brittle. “You were right the first time. Doesn’t matter.”

You turn away before he can stop you or say anything else, move back towards the bar, and you don’t look back at him.

Carmen stays standing by the pool table, cue leaning beside him, shoulders all hunched like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for something that’s already slipped away. 

The next morning you walked into work like nothing had happened at all. 

Walked into work like you’d slept at all the night before. 

Like you didn’t play the whole fucking thing on loop in your head until your alarm went off, telling you to get up and go to work. Like it didn’t sink into your skin, that something that he almost said.

Carmen’s already there when you arrive, his hair is wet from what was a presumably too-fast shower, his eyes looking tired, focused on his mise like it’s the only thing anchoring him to planet Earth. 

Neither of you say anything about the night before. 

In fact, neither of you said much of anything to each other at all. 

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

And that was it. 

The first service shift back is fine.

Fine like a cracked plate. 

The service moves fast. You work clean, correct, efficient. Carmen works, albeit, quieter than usual, but it’s sharper. Sharper in a way that makes you want to beat him at something. Anything.

He doesn’t look at you during the dinner rush, not really, at least, not when you’re looking, not when there’s a possibility for you to catch him looking. But what you do see is him when he clocks your dish from across the pass. He stares at it just a little longer than is comfortable, your citrus-cured hamachi, plated with fennel, sorrel, a tasteful lemon vinaigrette so acidic that it makes the back of your mouth clench just watching it hit the spoon.

He says nothing to you, nothing about it in general. But you can see it, that spark of recognition on his face. He did something almost exactly like it just last month. 

Later on as you pack up your stuff to leave for the night, Carmen just to your right a few feet over, you hear one of the line cooks whispering,

“Didn’t Berzatto do something like that?”

Another one responds,

“Yeah, but this one hits so much harder.”

You smile to yourself. And then hate that you smiled at all.

You hear a locker to your right slam just a little harder than usual, you jump, startled, look up just long enough to see Carmen walk past you, brisk, nails digging into his palms. 

You pissed him off.

When you come into work the next day you find that Carmen has, subtly but completely unmistakably to you, added a new amuse-bouche to the board. 

Your eyes narrow at it.

A challenge. You know it. You know him. 

Crispy duck skin chip. Cherry gastrique. Microgreens.

You step just a little closer to the board, your fingers hovering just a breath away from the duck chip, squinting your gaze as you take it in, the sheen of the cherry gastrique is catching the light like it’s a dare. Like he’s daring you. It’s meticulous, precise, unfortunately, near perfect. A very typical Carmen move, to throw down a gauntlet like it’s just nothing. You hate him for it.

You sharply inhale through your nose, crossing your arms. 

You scan the kitchen around you, busy prepping, chopping, focused, but you know every glance from across the room is slowly landing on you. The whispers have started again, the bets are quietly being placed.

You roll up your sleeves, push back the nerves, get to work. That’s the moment you decided, you’re going to answer the challenge…And every one that comes after that. 

He wants a game? Fine.

You’re game.

Let’s fucking play.

You begin pulling ingredients, tasting, testing flavors in your head, envisioning how to turn something simple into something completely unforgettable, how to make that stupid fucking duck chip regret ever existing in the same kitchen as you.

You don’t look at Carmen. You don’t need to. 

You know he’s watching you, waiting.

This isn’t just about who plates the better amuse-bouche, it’s about respect. It’s about territory. It’s about control.

And you’re not about to just let him have it, not without a fight, not if you could help it.

You’re not flashy about it, that’d be missing the point. At least for tonight.

It’s precise, clean, surgical. Devastating. It takes everything in you not to cackle to yourself.

A whipped chicken liver mousse. Buckwheat cracker. Pickled blueberry. Burnt shallot.

Served. Cold.

Fuck. You. Carmen.

You send it up without a word, front of house goes wild. A regular asks to meet the chef. Someone on the floor calls it “visionary.” A food writer snaps a photo before they’re even done chewing.

You want to smile. Want to laugh, throw your hands up, after all, Carmen aside, this was everything you’d ever wanted…But you don’t. You keep a straight face, even as the compliments echo their way back into the kitchen, even as Carmen hears it too. You don’t react.

You don’t feel a need to.

You just don’t feel like it. 

You just work harder.

Carmen doesn’t say a word to you, he just keeps working.

But as you’re both wiping down the pass at the end of the night, he stops you, doesn’t touch you, just hovers close enough to get your attention.

“You’ve been holding onto that one, huh?” 

You shake your head at him, cool, exhausted. “No. Made it up this morning.” You brush him off.

“Right,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why? That’s a problem or something?”

Carmen shrugs. “Guess we’re doing this now.”

You smirk, but nothing feels good about it. “Guess so.”

You would think that would be it. That maybe he’d let it go. That maybe you’d let it go.

And maybe any normal person would’ve let that go, but of course, neither of you were about to.

Weeks later, you walk into the kitchen and he’s already there, his sleeves are pushed up, his arms tense, focus clipped. The mise set up with surgical precision, as per usual. Carmen doesn’t look at you, but you know he knows you’re here.

The duck chip is still on the board. Still on the menu. Like a fucked up warning shot he never stopped firing. But then again, so is yours. 

So, you don’t flinch. You don’t back down. You just bring your A-game. Again.

And then, as per usual, it starts small.

He adjusts the garnish on your plate…again.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t pause. With just a quick flick of his fingers over your work at the pass, he changes the positioning of every single one of your garnishes, like it’s his goddamn right.

And if this was anyone else, you wouldn’t have had an issue. You can take criticism, oftentimes, you’re grateful for it even. But this was Carmen. He wasn’t doing it to help you.

He was doing it to spite you.

You freeze mid-plating.

“That supposed to be helpful?” you ask, your voice is low, a harsh whisper, you don’t look at him.

He doesn’t respond to you, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t address you at all. He just moves onto the next plate. 

Your blood boils. You slam the ramekin down just a bit harder than necessary.

“You touch my plate again, and we’re gonna have some serious issues, Ber,” you say through gritted teeth.

The ramekin doesn’t make him flinch, neither does the threat, but you see it when he hears the nickname, he flinches, just slightly. “Your citrus was bleeding. I fixed it.”

You snort at him. “Right. You fixed it. You’re just fixing it.”

He then wipes the rim of another plate with his towel, still refusing to make eye contact with you.

“You make it messy,” he mutters, like that settles it, like that means the end.

“No, you make it yours.”

That seems to grab his attention.

Carmen’s head lifts, just slightly, and it’s just enough for you to catch the twitch in his jaw, he sets the plate down at the pass. You watch as he wipes his hands slowly, finally daring to meet your eyes.

“You done?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You step towards him, just an inch closer. “Not even fucking close, chef.”

The kitchen falls quiet around you, not silent, not completely, but it shifts. Everyone keeps their heads down, their knives chopping faster, their mouths shut tighter. Everyone pretends that they aren’t listening. Pretends that they aren’t watching. 

Carmen’s gaze is heavy on yours and you can feel it deep in your bones. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t move.

There it is. That electricity. 

“Cool it,” he says finally. “We’re in service.” 

“Then stop trying to play God with my station, Carm.”

He flushes at the mention of his name, what you used to call him so adoringly, spit out with such venom punctuating it.

He leans in slightly, speaks low and sharp, you can feel the heat of his body, his breath on your face. “Then stop plating like you’re doing it in the dark…chef.”

Your heart slams against your ribcage. You open your mouth to say something, but then snap it shut. Not because you don’t have something to say, but because you have too much to say, and you know better. If you start now, you won’t stop.

You step off, step back, finish your plates. You don’t look at him again.

But later, just past the peak of the service, your adrenaline cooling down to something meaner in your bloodstream, you catch him. 

He’s tasting one of your amuse-bouches.

Just one. Just one bite.

He doesn’t react, he doesn’t blink. He just sets the spoon down.

Later still, when you return to your station, there’s a mise list on your board, and it’s not yours.

It’s someone else’s. 

It’s his.

In his handwriting. 

At the bottom of it, there’s a note scrawled in blue Sharpie: Heavy on the horseradish, chef? Cute.

You exhale a breath, that’s almost a laugh. Almost.

Then, you slam your knife down so hard that the entire board jumps, the sound cuts through the kitchen like a bone snapping.

You find him outside after close, he’s leaning up against a back brick wall, lighting what looks to be his 3rd or 4th cigarette judging by the smell lingering in the air and the fresh cigarette stubs that surround his feet. He’s flicking at the lighter like it personally offended him.

He hears you coming before he sees you. 

“You really think this is how we’re gonna do this?” he asks, he doesn’t turn around. 

You cross your arms. “Do what?”

“This fucking- this fucking, one-up game, (y/n), it’s- it’s fucking bullshit.”

“You started it.”

“You finished it,” he mutters, cigarette between his teeth, “you always fucking do.” 

He turns to you then, slowly, the smoke is curling around his face like a frame, his voice is even, but his eyes, his eyes look enraged. “You ever stop and think maybe I didn’t want a war with you, (y/n)?”

You step into the halo of light coming in from an overhead streetlight. You stare him down.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have made it a fucking knife fight.”

A beat passes. 

“Yeah?” he says, his voice is lower now. “Then maybe stop fucking twisting that shit in my side every time I breathe, like a bitch.”

Silence. Long and heavy. Not quiet.

You can feel your head swimming, you feel like you’re going to explode.

You stare at him like you’re seeing him for the first time, and maybe you really are. He’s exhausted, unfortunately still beautiful, but he’s mean. He’s cruel. Cruel in a way that’s familiar and intimate. 

“You trying to start a war, chef?” you ask, your voice was almost soft.

Carmen doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away from you. “If you’re losing, don’t call it a war, chef.”

The alley is dead silent, and somewhere from inside the kitchen, a pan clutters.

You shake your head at him. “Fuck you, Carmen.”

Carmen just shrugs at you. “Too late.”

He tosses the cigarette, he doesn’t stomp it out, he just lets it burn.

You leave first, turning around, heading toward the door.

You don’t look back.

chicago, now.

A few days later, after your little coffee shop showdown with Carmen, an email came with a subject line: Culinary Voices: Legacy and Innovation.

You almost deleted it, almost sent it to the trash bin.

At first glance, it really just felt like spam, or even worse, networking. But at second glance, your name was spelled correctly, the tone was reverent, professional, and buried three lines down:

“We’re excited to be asking you to participate as a featured speaker alongside Carmen Berzatto for our upcoming panel, Culinary Voices: Legacy and Innovation…”

You read it.

Read it three more times. That name again. 

That same pressure in your chest.

It was always going to come to this eventually, you knew it. Being in the same room again, except under bright white lights, on a literal stage, in front of an audience, dressed in business casual, pretending all the knives were just literal, none of them metaphorical. 

The irony of the situation was not lost on you. 

You hover over the RSVP link, hesitate only for a moment before clicking it: Accept.

Fuck. You. Carmen.

You close the laptop, sitting back in your chair, and stare up at the ceiling like it might have answers.

Of course it would be him, of course, out of everyone. Legacy and Innovation, as if the two of you didn’t represent complete opposite fucking ends of that exact axis. Like you hadn’t been trying to outdo one another since the very first fucking tasting menu.

You’d told yourself time and time again that it didn’t matter anymore, that Chicago was big enough, no, that the whole culinary world was big enough for both of you, that it was just him carrying on this bullshit rivalry. It was his fault, really. You were over it…Over him.

Clearly not.

Because now you’re pacing across your office, remembering how he looked at you back in New York, at that bar. That half-smile he would always give you, like a dare. Like he was just daring you to say something, to do something. Before it all went sour.

You shake your head, trying to shove the memory away, but it sticks to you regardless, like smoke in your lungs.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him, not now, not when you have an interview coming up, a new menu to think of, people counting on you, a panel to prepare for…a panel where every word, every glance, every goddamn gesture will be under a microscope.

Still, you can’t help but wonder, was he thinking about you too?

Had his stomach dropped when he saw your name in the email?

Did he hover over the RSVP button, picture your voice already cutting across his in front of an audience, your gaze on him?

Or did he smirk to himself, already sitting in his office plotting how to get in the last word?

You wouldn’t put it past him. Carmen has always known exactly how to weaponize his silence, how to make a room really bend toward him without ever raising his voice, without ever saying too much. That was the problem. He didn’t have to try very hard to get under your skin. He just had to be there.

And now you were going to be there too on a panel called Legacy and Innovation, like some junior marketing intern had just googled your names and decided to stir shit up for fun.

You could already hear it, a moderator’s voice saying some shit about “creative tension” or "competitive admiration” like it wasn’t about you and him, expecting both of you to just smile like you haven’t wanted to scream at each other in a walk-in freezer on more than one occasion.

You reopen your laptop, type back a two-line reply to the event coordinator just to officially confirm your attendance, you make sure to CC Carmen. Professional. Clean. Chilling.

Just before you hit send, your fingers hover again.

You type a third line, impulsive. 

Looking forward to it.

And you don’t know if that’s a lie or a threat.

The reply comes back faster than you’d expected it to.

From: Carmen Berzatto

To: (y/n) (y/l/n)

Subject: Re: Culinary Voices: Legacy and Innovation

Sent: 3:14PM

Got it. See you in New York. Looking forward to it.

That’s it. No greeting, no signature, just that.

You stare at the email for about a full minute before closing your laptop again.

You should be used to this by now, the way he says almost nothing yet still somehow manages to say far too much. Like every word he doesn’t use is deliberate. Like it’s a strategy. 

Three days later, your publicist forwards you a press blurb talking about the panel, there’s a graphic on the article with both of your faces, side by side, turned just enough away from each other to make it look dramatic. 

“Legacy and Innovation: A Conversation Between Culinary Titans.”

You almost laugh, stop yourself. It’s nauseating.

Some food blogger on Twitter posts a side-by-side photo from when you and Carmen both won some of your first awards, your plating versus his, flames in the quote retweets of it.

Another post calls you the “Culinary’s most eligible opposites” and in the replies underneath:

@ m1chelincurse: Bet they’ve fucked.

@ eaterchicagos1ns: Or wanted to.

You don’t engage, you just shut your laptop, cheeks burning, the heat trailing down your neck.

They don’t know what they’re talking about. 

Not really, at least.

The panel prep call happens two days before your flight to New York, for the real thing. Both you and Carmen are meant to fly in the night before. The flight is only supposed to be around two hours, but the idea of sitting next to Carmen for that long nauseates you regardless.

You log into Zoom, clicking the meeting link, you’re met with three other faces already in, the event coordinator, the moderator, and much to your dissatisfaction, Carmen in from what looks like to be a very poorly lit office or dining room table somewhere. He has that look at his face again, like he’s half-listening, half-plotting. You narrow your eyes at his little box on screen.

“We just want to keep things light, conversational,” the moderator says, chipper. “You know, like maybe a little good-natured ribbing for the press, if it comes up? You two are kind of infamous for your, uh, competitive spark.”

You glance at your own image on the screen and smile with all your teeth, nodding.

Carmen just scratches his jaw, says nothing.

“Great!” the coordinator says, seemingly pleased with the meeting so far.

There’s a pause, and then Carmen finally speaks, his voice low and slightly giant through his laptop mic. “Just don’t ask us to do a live demo.”

You think it’s meant to be a joke but you scoff before you can think better of it and say, “Scared I’ll show you up again, chef?”

The moderator on the other end laughs just a little too loudly. “See? There it is! That’s exactly the kind of energy we’re talking about, you two, you’re electric!”

You don’t look at Carmen on your screen but you swear that you can feel him roll his eyes.

“We’ll keep the talking points broad,” the coordinator jumps in, sensing a need to redirect. “Innovation, mentorship, maintaining legacy while pushing boundaries. You both represent something exciting, some fresh.” The coordinator looks down at their notes, continues, “There’s a real uh- public interest, in your…dynamic.”

You glance at Carmen’s box on the screen for just a moment, just enough to catch the tail end of his smirk. It was subtle, almost gone immediately. You’ve seen that look before, know it well. You’ve seen it before a win, or worse, right before a loss, the type of loss you feel guilty for.

“Right,” you say tightly, you smooth the front of your t-shirt. “Glad to know we’re so trend worthy.”

The moderator nods enthusiastically at you from the screen. “Exactly! Think of it as an opportunity to showcase some mutual respect, maybe…admiration?”

Carmen’s gaze flicks up, deadpan. “Sure,” he says. “Admiration.” 

You can’t help but let out a short laugh. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Another all too bright chuckle from the moderator. “Ah, kitchen rivals turned panel darlings, it’s gold. Just, you know, don’t murder each other on stage,” they joke.

“No promises,” you say.

And without missing a beat Carmen says, “I’ll bring bandages.”

The coordinator’s smile is starting to look a bit strained at this point. “Okay, great. We’ll send a final run-of-show and travel logistics info list this afternoon. You’re both scheduled to arrive Thursday evening, just to re-confirm with both of you while I have you here in person- erm, on Zoom. Same hotel, different rooms, obviously."

Your stomach flips, but you nod like everything is fine, like none of this really matters to you, like you haven’t already Googled what the hotel bar looks like, what the layout of the rooms is like. 

The call winds down, you’re polite, professional. You click Leave Meeting just as Carmen says, “See you in New York.”

You stare at the blank screen for a minute.

Little did you know, you’d actually be seeing him sooner.

Like in two days at the airport sooner.

You spot him before he can spot you. Of course he’s already sitting at the gate, white tee, headphones on, one leg bouncing with a nervous energy about it. Classic pre-service Carmen posture. He’s got a book on his lap that you’re almost 100% sure that he’s not actually reading, and a carry-on bag that looks like it’s been through a war.

You hesitate for a moment, debating on whether you should just keep walking, come up when it’s officially time to board instead, get a coffee, take a call, pretend you didn’t see him at all until it’s absolutely necessary. But then, as if he can sense you there, he looks up. 

He makes eye contact. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t nod, he just lifts one eyebrow, barely.

And just that is enough to pull the irritation right up your spine.

You walk over to him, slow, controlled, every step a silent refusal to let him get under your skin.

“You’re early,” you say.

He shrugs. “You’re late.”

You check your watch. “We board in half an hour.”

“Exactly.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, then he gestures to the empty seat next to him.

You sit. Your legs just a whisper away from touching.

“So,” you say, “What seat are you in?”

He still has his book in his hands, he doesn’t look up, just taps the boarding pass tucked between the pages.

You lean over, just close enough to read it, just close enough that your legs are now touching.

“13A,” you mutter.

He glances at you. “Don’t tell me we’re seatmates.”

You pull out your own boarding pass, hold it between your fingers like a playing card. “13B.”

You can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. 

You smile at him. “Guess we’ll be rubbing elbows all the way to JFK.”

Carmen exhales sharply through his nose, amused. “I’ll ask to switch.”

“Shutup.” 

He huffs, shaking his head at you, he goes back to his book, but you can see it now, that tiny twitch of a smile threatening to appear at the corner of his mouth.

The gate attendant calls for pre-boarding and Carmen stands without a word, stretching just enough for the hem of his shirt to ride up slightly. You look away quickly, but not quick enough.

He notices, doesn’t say anything. He picks up his bag and waits for you to fall in line beside him. 

You board together in silence, but it isn’t truly quiet, not really. Every brush of your arm against his, every glance from the row ahead, you suddenly feel very self-conscious. 

You settle in your seats.

The moment that you buckle in, your knees bump against one another. Too tight of a space, too much history to fill it. You cross your legs towards the window, subtly angling yourself away from him, but it just makes his thigh rub up right against yours.

He doesn't shift away.

You try not to look at him when the flight attendants start going over the safety procedures, but your eyes drift regardless. HIs gaze is fixed ahead, jaw clenched in that way that he does when he’s trying to remain unreadable, stoic.

When the plane finally takes off, there’s a pocket of turbulence that makes your shoulder knock against his, you expect him to pull away from you, but he doesn’t.

Twenty minutes in, he puts his book away, and you’re still pretending to scroll through something you’d downloaded on your phone prior to boarding, but you catch him glancing at your screen. Once. Twice.

“You still using that same knife?”

You blink, look up at him. “You stalking my mise, Carm?”

He shrugs, but there’s just the ghost of a smile on his face. “Just noticed it in that photo from the press tasting.”

“Oh, so you’re following my press too?”

He exhales a laugh through his nose, low and quiet. “Hard not to, they just won’t seem to shut up about you lately.”

You tilt your head, pretending to be flattered. “What can I say? The camera loves me,” you say, then add, “Not like you’re doing too bad yourself though.”

Carmen gives you a look, mildly incredulous, slightly amused. “Right,” he says, his tone monotone, deadpan. “Because you know I just thrive in front of a camera.”

You give him a half smile. “You do this thing where you act like you hate attention, but we both know you secretly love it.”

“I don’t love it,” he says, too quickly, then quieter, “I just don’t mind it when it’s earned.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Oh, and mine isn’t?”

He looks at you again. “Didn’t say that.”

You nod slowly at him, narrowing your eyes. “No. You never say much of anything, do you?”

His jaw flexes, just barely, a flicker of something passes behind his eyes, something guilty maybe. 

“You always need to hear it?” he asks, his voice is lower now, quieter than the hum of the cabin. 

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest, but you still manage to keep your tone light, albeit, biting. “I don't need anything from you, Carmen.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. 

You both go silent again, just for a few bears, the space between you feels charged, electric. His thigh brushes up against yours when he shifts, deliberate or not, and neither of you move away.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “You think they’re gonna uh, ask about us?”

You blink, caught off guard by his question. “What, like, like us us?”

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You know. The press. This whole dynamic bullshit? The fake rivalry they all love to talk about so much?”

You scoff. “Fake? That’s cute. Adorable, really.”

He grins. “So, you gonna play nice on stage?”

“Are you?”

His grin falters, just for a second, but you catch it anyway.

“I’ll try,” he says. “Depends on how smug you look when they introduce you.”

You lean in slightly, just close enough that he has to meet your eyes, “I always look smug. That’s just kinda like, my thing.”

He exhales a small laugh, shakes his head at you. “Yeah, trust me, I know.”

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One second, you were staring at the back of the seat in front of you, pretending not to care or notice that your arm was resting just against his, and the next, you’re blinking awake to the faint sound of the landing gear descending, the announcement overhead is distant and muffled. You’re warm.

Too warm.

You blink hard, and then realize that you’re leaning on him. You’ve been leaning on him.

Not just leaning, no. Your head has been against his shoulder.

And he let you.

His sweatshirt is soft against your cheek, and he hasn’t moved yet, his arm is still up against yours, stead and unmoving.

You jolt upright, your eyes wide.

“Fuck,” you mumble.

He glances at you, barely. “You snore.”

“I do not.”

He smirks. “No, you don’t. Just wanted to see if you’d argue.”

You scowl at him, adjusting your shirt, trying to pretend like your face isn’t heating up.

“You could’ve woken me up, you know.” 

He shrugs. “Didn’t want to.”

You’re still processing it all when the plane bumps against the tarmac, and Carmen’s already shifting around in his seat, pulling his bag down from overhead with ease, like he didn’t just completely short-circuit your brain.

The hotel is sleek, modern. Minimalist lobby, curated playlists, a concierge who says both of your names with an irritating amount of recognition when you walk up together. Carmen doesn’t meet your eyes as you both approach the front desk, his duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, you don’t know why it bothers you so much that he’s packed so light.

“Two rooms under Culinary Voices,” the front desk staff says, looking from Carmen to you a few times. “You’ll find your rooms right next to each other.”

Carmen gives a small nod, signs the form, you step up to do the same, feeling his gaze brush over your profile. 

You’re handed your key card and he’s handed his, and still, you don’t say anything.

Not until the elevator.

It’s silent as the two of you stand there next to each other, just the occasional ding of passing floors. You catch each other’s reflections in the mirrored walls, you’re too aware of how close you’re standing to one another again, it feels like the plane all over again. 

“What’re you doing after this?” he asks.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “After what? This thrilling elevator ride?”

He glances at the ceiling, suppressing a grin. “After check-in, I was gonna hit the bar downstairs.”

“Oh,” you say. “Planning to brood into a whiskey, chef?”

He shrugs at you. “Only if you’re not already doing that.”

You laugh, just under your breath. “You buying?”

His eyes flick to you, then to the ground, “If I do, will you actually drink it?”

You step out of the elevator first as it reaches your floor. “Guess we’ll see.”

It’s low-lit and quiet, just a faint clinking of glasses, a low murmur of conversation. 

Carmen is already at the bar by the time you walk in, a drink in front of him, another one beside it, untouched.

You slide onto the stool next to him without a word.

“What is it?”

He nods at your glass. “Negroni, thought you might want something familiar.” 

You lift the glass to your mouth, take a sip, then glance at him. “Still remember what I like?”

He looks at you, serious, far more serious than you expected. “I remember everything.”

You smile faintly. “Dangerous thing to say to a rival.”

He doesn’t smile back at you, he just looks at you, his gaze steady.

“I’m tired of being rivals.”

Your fingers pause on the rim of your glass. 

For a moment, all you can hear is the quiet jazz from the corner speaker and the distant sound of a shaker being rattled somewhere behind the bar, it feels like the floor shifted beneath you.

You laugh, soft, just a little unsure. “Carmen, we’re scheduled to be rivals, literally, tomorrow. On a stage.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, “I know.”

He looks down at his drink, contemplative, then back up to you. “But it’s never really been just that, has it?”

You fall quiet, the air between you sharpens, charged with everything that’s gone unspoken. You sip your drink again, just trying to buy yourself some time to think of what to say. When you finally meet his eyes, there’s no point in denying it anymore, and you can’t recall who moves first, maybe he leans in first, or maybe you do, but either way, when his mouth finally finds yours, there’s no hesitation, no smugness. Just heat. 

And something that feels a lot like relief.

The door clicks softly behind you as you step inside his room, it’s one of those types of hotel rooms that’s fancy enough to have a small kitchen in it, a mini fridge, a counter, all that, it’s a direct mirror image of yours, which was right next door. You don’t speak, you just toe off your shoes by the door, the carpet muffling your movements. He watches you from across the room, standing near the countertop, the shadows playing over his face in the dim light. 

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he says.

You move toward him, the space between you shrinking with each step. Just one more and you’d be touching. You can hear his breath catch, he’s standing still, but you can see it in his body, he’s nervous.

“I don’t fuck rivals,” you say, it’s quiet and firm. It’s also a lie.

He tilts his head at you, just the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Then stop making everything a competition.” 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Then stop trying to win.”

His voice lowers, it’s dark and slow. “I haven’t won a fucking thing since you left." 

You blink and you start to feel lightheaded, you can feel your body start to heat up, you can feel it in your throat, in your chest. 

He exhales, once, it’s quick, and he looks at you like he’s just stepped off a ledge of a skyscraper. 

“I really- I really don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

You stare straight at him. “Then what do you want?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, your throat, then back up.

“You,” he says again. 

Your stomach flips, and you can feel it, low, electric. You swallow hard, you know he can feel it too.

You step in even closer, and he doesn’t lean back, you’re close enough now that you can smell him, something acidic, smoke, something woodsy you couldn’t really put your finger on. You hate how familiar it still is, after all this time.

“You say that like it’s simple,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh, “It’s never been simple.”

You tilt your head at him. “Then why say it at all?”

He meets your gaze, it’s steady and raw.

“Because it’s been eating me up inside for years.”

He doesn’t wait for a response after that, he puts his hands on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to hold you firmly in place, but not enough to hurt. Your breath hitches, caught between irritation and something much sharper, hungrier. The sharp scent of smoke and spice is overwhelming now, mixing together with your own heat.

He leans into you, voice low. “Ready to call it a truce?”

You meet his eyes, cool but charged. “You wish.”

“You sure?” he shoots back.

You hold his gaze, steady. “Why, you scared to lose?”

He gives you a half-smile. “Not scared. Just ready to win.”

Before you can react, his hand slides up your side, his fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path beneath your shirt, the world shrinks to just the two of you, the heat between your bodies and the sharp edge of challenge in his eyes, the one he always seemed to save for service, is now on you. You’re not sure if he wants to ruin you or revere you, and that only serves to make your body heat up further.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing up against the hem of your pants.

“Say what?”

“That you want this, as much as I do.”

You bite your lip, your body already seeming to answer for you as you lean into his touch. “Cocky, as per usual, I can see.”

His mouth is much closer to yours now, barely a breath away. “Always.”

Then he kisses you, it’s hot, precise. Like even now, even in the heat of this moment he’s still trying to outdo you.

It turns you on.

You respond by just as sharply pulling him by his collar, daring him to take it further. It’s teeth and tongue and tension, it’s years of heat collapsing in on itself all at once. He presses you back against the kitchen counter without breaking the kiss, the edge of it bites into your hips in a way that catches you off guard and makes you gasp, he swallows the sound like he’s been starving for it.

His hands continue to roam down your body, they’re rough and calloused. They search you, greedy, wanting. You want him right back. He palms your waist, your back like he’s relearning something that he used to only dream about, you shove his jacket off his shoulders, and he lets it fall to the floor with a thud, never once breaking from your mouth. 

“You always this easy to beat, chef?” you can feel him smile against your lips.

You grab a fistful of his shirt, drag him in tighter. “You wish, chef.”

He groans low, deep in his throat, and it ignites something in you. You hook your leg around his, pull him in even closer, grinding up into him, you can already tell he’s rock hard.

He stills just for a moment, just one, and then his hands are under your thighs, lifting you onto the counter fully, with a grunt, his mouth is trailing down to your jaw, then to your throat, and he bites, just a little, just enough to make you tilt your head and gasp again.

“You gonna stop me?” he mutters, his breath is warm against your skin.

“Only if you get lazy,” you shoot back at him.

His laugh is dark, breathy, and right on your collarbone. “Not a chance.”

His hands grip your thighs tighter and he drags you towards the edge of the counter, your hips meet with his with a bruising pressure. His mouth is back on yours, and it’s hotter, messier…needier now. 

You bit at his bottom lip, it’s hard enough to make him curse into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he says into your mouth, “Like playing dirty, huh?”

You smirk, breathless, “Only way to play, Carm.”

He pulls back from you just long enough to yank your shirt, and over his head, his eyes rake over you like he’s pissed about how much he likes what he sees. You reach for his belt buckle, un-do it without ceremony, you whip it off of him, and it hits the ground. 

He’s back on your neck, his hand sliding between your legs like he knows exactly what’ll undo you. You roll your hips up into him, grinding on him shamelessly, daring him to keep up with you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “Still such a fucking brat.”

You dig your nails into his back, “Still such a fucking control freak.”

His hand wraps around your throat, and it’s not hard, or dangerous, but it is just enough to make you tilt your head up so he can look you dead in the eye. His thumb brushes along your jaw.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice is low and serious.

Your breath stutters, catches in your throat. 

You nod, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeats back to you, grinding into you, “Yeah, what?”

“Yes?” you say, gasping.

“Yes. What.”

“Yes, chef?”

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you, deeper, slower, but no less hungry. His hands are everywhere, pushing your pants down, dragging you flush against him, and it’s frantic and fast and rough in only the way that hate turned to heat can be. 

You pull at his waistband, nipping at his neck, “Less talk, chef, more show.”

He groans, bites down on your shoulder, “You asked for it.”

His hand slides down your stomach, under your waistband, you suck in a deep breath, his fingers are sure, arrogant, searching, and then they find exactly where you’re already aching for him. You gasp when his fingers make contact, your hips grinding into his palm without really meaning to, completely shameless and instinctive.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, “You’re so fucking wet for me.

He says it like it’s an insult.

“You’re not special,” you breathe, even as your voice shakes.

He pulls back just enough for you to see his smirk. “You keep telling yourself that, chef.”

Then he’s on his knees, and before you can say anything cocky back, he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down in one swift motion, rough but careful. You barely get a breath before he leans in, his tongue flicks over your inner thigh.

“You gonna be nice and quiet for me?” he says against your skin. 

You scoff. “Not a chance, chef.”

That earns you a grin, then he licks you, slow at first, just a single stripe, just enough to make you twitch, to make you gasp, to make you wait. He doesn’t give you what you want right away, he never has, but that was always the game.

But when he does, when his mouth finally closes over you, hot, wet, greedy, your hand flies to his hair without thinking, tugging at it tight as he goes down on you. He moans like he loves it, like he’s the one being completely unraveled by it.

Your thighs begin to tense around his shoulders, your back arching off the counter, and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but fuck, he’s good. He’s always been so fucking good.

Your voice breaks when you gasp his name. “Carmen-”

He pulls back just enough to say, “Say it again.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

You hesitate for a moment, then, caving, “Carmen.”

“Good,” he breathes, “Very good,” and goes back to giving you head like he’s got something to prove.

You don’t know exactly how long he keeps at it like that, or how many times he brings you right up to the edge just to pull back, but you’re a mess in his hands, cursing his name, clinging to his shoulders when he stands up again, mouth glistening, eyes dark.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“You still want this?” he asks, rough, “Still want…me?”

You meet his eyes, nodding, breathless, “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?” he teases you, a grin spreading across his features.

You pause, roll your eyes. “Yes, chef.”

He grins, dark and triumphant, and pulls you against him.

“Good,” he says, “Cause now I’m gonna show you what winning feels like.” 

He drags your hips back to the edge of the counter, and lines himself up with you, the second that his fingers slide between your thighs again, he groans.

“Fuck, still so wet for me,” he mutters, almost like it’s to himself. “Should’ve figured, you always had such a fuckin’ mouth on you, never could hide anything.”

You glare at him. “Then quit talking and-”

He pushes into you in one sharp thrust, cutting the words clean off.

You gasp, head tipping back, back arching, fingers clawing into his shoulders. 

Carmen bites his lip like he’s trying to keep it all together, but his hips are already rolling into you, deep and rough and devastating. You can feel the fight in every motion, every snap of his hips, like he’s trying to fuck years of rivalry out of you. Good luck with that.

He fucks you with precision, exact and so good. You meet him thrust for thrust, your nails dragging down his spine, biting at his shoulder just to get a sound out of him, and he gives it to you, a low wrecked noise in the back of his throat.

“Still think you can win this?” you breathe, your teeth are gritted.

He pulls almost all the way out, waiting just long enough for you to catch your breath again, then slams all the way back into you, bottoming out. “Already won, chef.”

You could slap him. You might. Later.

Right now, all you can do is hold on, your hands grab at his hair, his grip bruising on your thighs, his body against yours, hot and sweaty. The sound of skin and breath echoes off the tile in the kitchen, the counter shudders under you, your thighs are burning from where you’re wrapped tight around his waist.

And still, he doesn’t slow down.

“Fuck,” you whisper, “Carmen-”

He groans, it’s low and desperate, and you can feel his thrusts getting more erratic, you can feel his body tensing up, “Say it again.”

You lock eyes with him, bite back another moan, you’re riding just at the edge of your orgasm.

“Carmen.”

“Yeah,” he pants, his thrusts sloppy, stuttering. “Yeah, I got you-”

It builds up fast, heat curling in your spine, pressure threatening to break you open, and you’re right there, right fucking there, so close- and then.

You come with a cry torn straight from your chest, your legs tightening around him, nails digging into his back, he fucks you all the way through it, riding out ever last tremor, whispering something hot and fractured up against your neck.

It’s only a few more thrusts before he follows, groaning, stifled, biting at your shoulder again like he can’t help it.

And then, it’s just quiet.

Your breathing, his heartbeat, the faint hum of his fridge. 

You blink up at the ceiling, chest still heaving, your fingers are curled into his back.

He doesn’t move, he just rests his forehead against yours.

You break the silence first.

“So,” you pants, “that’s your idea of a truce?”

Carmen chuckles, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowed. “Still trying to win?”

He leans in, kisses you again, it’s slow and genuine.

“No,” he murmurs. “Just not ready to lose you.”

The first light seeps in through the curtains, it’s soft and pale. You’re only half-awake when you feel the weight of Carmen’s arm draped over your waist, his breathing steady. You watch him for just a moment before turning your head slowly to meet his gaze as he starts to stir. He gives you a lazy smile.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” you reply, a gentle smile on your face,

Neither of you says much more before the reality of the day creeps in, the panel, the press, and the crowd.

You both know this won’t be just another event.

Later, as you get dressed in the adjoining hotel room, the space between you feels different, there’s less rivalry, more…possibility.

You share a cab to the venue, the lights of the city blurring past the windows. The silence between you is filled with nerves, anticipation, an electric charge that neither of you can ignore.

At the entrance to the event the air buzzes with photographers and murmurs, but when Carmen slips his hand around your waist just for a moment, you don’t pull away.

You step inside the venue, someone from the event staff approaches you, their headset is slightly askey, their eyes wide, urgent.

“Oh, hey, so um, just a heads up,” they say, clutching a clipboard to their chest. “I mean- you already probably know but, you two are…a bit of a trending topic right now.”

Carmen stiffens next to you.

“What?” you ask, confused.

They lift their phone, tilt it so you can both see the screen, and there it is. Blurry, dark, but unmistakable, a photo of you and Carmen from last night. At the bar. His hand on your jaw, your mouth on his, mid-kiss, undeniably intimate. It looks like a screenshot from someone’s Instagram story, but it doesn’t matter, it’s already been reshared and reposted on at least three other accounts at this point.

@ plate.watcher

Enemies to lovers arc real as hell

You feel Carmen shift beside you, not looking away. His hand finds its way to your lower back.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. 

The staff member winces sympathetically. “PR says to, um, to maybe lean into it? They’re calling it ‘strategic chemistry.’ “

“That is so not a thing,” you say.

They gesture to the phone, “Well, it is now.”

Carmen exhales a sharp breath, tilts his head toward you. “You good with this?”

You nod once at him. “You?”

He meets your eyes, his gaze steady. “Yeah.”

The staff member’s expression brightens. “Great, you’re on in five!” They hurry away.

You and Carmen step into the wings, the buzz of an audience hums through the air like static, someone’s mic screeches just slightly for a second as the moderator laughs into it.

And then, the moderator’s voice cuts clearly through the house, “Our next guests need no introduction, two of the most talked-about chefs working today, brilliant, bold, and yes, famously competitive. Please welcome (y/n) (y/l/n) and Carmen Berzatto.”

Carmen gives a short wave to the crowd as he walks on, you nod, the applause seems to stretch just a moment longer than it should. You settle into your seat, your mic clipped onto your collar, your posture upright, trying to ignore that Carmen is sitting so close to you that your knees are brushing.

The moderator opens smoothly, “So let’s just start with the obvious, how do two people with such…distinct philosophies end up on the same panel?”

Carmen exhales a small breath through his nose.

“Mutual stubbornness,” you say, and the crowd laughs.

“Excellent PR scheduling,” Carmen adds dryly, which gets another laugh.

The moderator nods, amused with the two of you. “We love a bit of friction.”

Carmen glances at you, then the mic clipped to the rim of his t-shirt, then back to you, something in his eyes saying watch this to you. “We’ve been…well-acquainted with friction.”

The crowd chuckles again, but it lands differently. Like they’re all onto something, all in on some not-so-private private joke. There’s a new kind of attention now, not just curiosity, but speculation.

The moderator picks up on this instantly, leans forward with a practiced smile.

 “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s certainly working for you both. You’ve had a hell of a year, the both of you.”

“Busy,” you say, brushing some invisible lint from your pants. “Lots of big moves, new kitchens, new menus.”

“And yet,” the moderator says, their voice lifting, “somehow you always seem to circle back to each other, is that right?”

You glance over at Carmen, but he’s already looking at you, you look back to the moderator, cross one leg over the other and smooth your hand down your knee.

“Some people are just…hard to shake,” you say, a light tone in your voice.

Carmen’s voice follows, low and even. “Some people don’t want to be.” That earns a laugh from the crowd, but it’s quieter this time, like they’re all leaning in now, waiting for the next word.

The moderator blinks, then recovers, smiles wide. “So, what’s the real story here, competition or collaboration?” 

You tilt your head at them, “Why not both?”

Carmen nods slowly. “It’s always been both.”

The moderator hums, clearly enjoying the push and pull of it all. “Well, whatever it is, it’s magnetic, and the food world just can’t seem to get enough.”

“They should probably focus more on the food,” you say, offering a diplomatic smile.

“Yeah, that’s what the camera crews are always doing, zooming in on the risotto,” Carmen deadpans next to you.

A ripple of laughter moves through the room, the moderator holds their hands up in a mock surrender.

“Okay, alright, let’s talk about the food then. What’s something that you admire about each other’s work?”

You glance over at him again, and this time neither of you looks away.

You answer first, measured but honest. “He cares more than most people do, more than most ever will. And you can taste it.”

Carmen swallows, and then, “They know exactly what they want a plate to feel like, and they always make it impossible to forget.” 

The moderator gives you both a warm smile. “Sounds like there's some serious respect in this rivalry.”

You glance at Carmen again. “Respect,” you say, “maybe something more.”

Carmen leans into you just slightly. “Yeah,” he agrees, “something more.”

[vin-taege]

you don't go to parties | prologue

summary: you and erik had a good arrangement—fuck buddies that didn't breach the line of casual. the only time this whole thing would unravel is if it became more than what it was. and that would never happen, right?

genre: angst, smut, fwb to lovers

pairing: fwb!erik campbell x f!reader

words: 606

note: i have been thinking of making this series for a while now! hopefully it gets me out of the series writing slump I've had since low expectations (i am so sorry, I've written myself into a corner.). I'm planning about 3-5 chapters for this, nothing too crazy! don't hesitate to drop in my asks if you want to talk O wO

Title taken from 5sos - You Don't Go to Parties

Parts: prologue | 1

Erik’s eyes scanned the living room for the fifth time that night. His head was spinning—from far too much alcohol, too much smoke, and too many people. It took so long to convince Julia and Bobby to help host this party, a party that’s now run its course as the clock ticked closer to 5 am.

From his spot on the couch, he saw that the crowd had thinned to a few stragglers. Some passed-out college students and a co-worker from the tattoo parlor who was looking for his vape. Erik was lying stomach-down on the cushions, a bad idea considering he just finished hurling his guts out.

Someone had turned the music down to a hum. Cups and wrappers rustled in the background as one of his siblings cleaned up—probably Bobby. Erik knew he should help out, especially since the whole thing had been his idea. However, he couldn’t push through the fog in his mind. He inched his fingers closer to the carpet, feeling around for his phone. Barely grasping it, he scrolled through his unanswered texts for the past three months.

Suddenly, a weight was on his legs. He grunted, though not making the effort to turn around and see who it was.

“Erik.” It was Julia.

He stayed silent, hating how his siblings saw him like this—like a wounded animal with the blood puddle getting bigger. Julia rubbed his back tentatively. She knew how prickly he could be. He was already so averse to touch even before what happened. It could only get worse now.

“I’m sorry she didn’t come. Maybe…” she trailed off, trying to grasp for an explanation. “Maybe it slipped her mind.”

She looked up, her eyes meeting Bobby’s. He was tying up a filled garbage bag, though his attention was on his older brother. A look of understanding passed between them. Pity, sadness. Julia’s attention snapped back to Erik when she felt his shoulders shudder. She craned her neck, trying to get a better look at his face without seeming so obvious. When she realized that tears had been rolling down Erik’s cheeks, her stomach dropped. He hadn’t even tried to wipe them away—a rare public display of vulnerability. She waved her hands to Bobby, making a crying motion with them.

“Kiki, let’s go up now. You need to rest, okay?” She slid off him, taking one of his arms and hooking it around her shoulder. Bobby went over and did the same with Erik’s other arm.

“It’ll be okay. I’m sure she’ll come around,” Bobby tried to reassure him, except Erik knew that that was a lie.

It was his fault you wouldn’t talk to him. It was he who pushed you away. Clouded by his fear, he ruined the best thing that happened to him before it got taken away, before it could even properly start.

When they finally got him to his bedroom, Erik still refused to talk. Julia had to pull Bobby back, shaking her head at him in defeat. They’d have to leave him alone for now. Pushing him into a corner would only make him retreat further into himself. They took one last look at him before shutting the door and going back down.

Julia made her way to their backyard. A stream of tissue paper fluttered in the wind, covering their swing set. Chairs were toppled over in between littered solo cups. She sighed, already dreading the clean-up. For now, she was preoccupied with something else.

She dialed your number half-heartedly, already expecting the call to be left unanswered. To her surprise, you picked up.

[sharkerino]

Who He Left Behind

Clark Kent x Reader

When Clark Kent returns to Smallville, it’s not just nostalgia waiting for him, it’s you. The connection you once shared reignites with every touch, every look, every word left unspoken for years. As desire and emotion come rushing back, Clark makes one thing clear: he’s done running, and he’s not leaving without you this time.

3.1k words

c.w. : Sexual tension, suggestive content, mildly explicit language, references to abandonment, angst to comfort

a.n. : Thank you for all of the support on my last one shot, this one is a bit more steamy. I've been getting more comfortable with writing these kind of scenes. I've been thinking about making a part 2 to this, so if you'd be interested please let me know with a comment!

The door to the diner swings open, and in steps someone you haven’t seen in years.

You nearly drop the coffee pot.

Clark Kent stands in the doorway dressed far too fancily in his buttoned up shirt and tie to be in your hometown’s rundown diner.

Instead of causing a scene, you set the coffee pot down on the counter quietly and make your escape into the freezer. Plastic containers filled with patties and other food prep act as a seat for you while you remain hidden.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him, but how did one act around a man whom she shared so many moments with as a teen?

You’d rehearsed this moment once or twice over the years: on the walk home and on those quiet nights alone when you were with your thoughts. But in those versions, you had something clever to say. Some polished, effortless line. Not this panicked retreat into a freezer like a deer caught in headlights.

Clark Kent.

Here.

Looking amazing in that shirt and tie, like he just walked out of a press conference and straight into your life again. He was taller, shoulders much more broad, and his hair was kempt, unlike when the two of you were unruly teens.

You press your back to the freezer door, letting the cool air bite at your skin in hopes it’ll settle the heat climbing up your neck.

It doesn’t.

Of all the days to cover Marcy’s shift.

You take a deep breath. Then another. But it doesn’t help. Because behind your closed eyelids, you can still see him. his smile, just a little crooked at the corner like always, and those eyes, warm and soft and steady. You’d spent most of your teenage years trying not to drown in them.

It had been a heartbreak when he told you he was leaving Smallville, he wanted more in life than hay bales and tractors. And he had gotten it, a nice job at the Daily Planet, where he was writing the big stories and probably finding pretty city girls to fall in love with.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t imagined seeing him again. You had. A thousand different ways. In the grocery store, maybe, or at the town fair. Casual. Easy. Not like this; not with your hands trembling and your apron on crooked and your brain short-circuiting like it had forgotten how to function in the presence of a man who used to sit next to you on the school bus and make you laugh until your ribs hurt. Not at your crappy job in a rundown diner where you couldn’t escape the awkward situation.

You’d have to leave the freezer at some point, table two still needed their french fries.

So you square your shoulders, tug your apron straight, and shove open the freezer door, grabbing a stack of patties to make your freezer meltdown seem like a casual trip to get more food.

And there he is, still sitting in that booth like he never left. Sitting comfortably like the two of you used to on your diner dates as teens. He seems at home, he is home.

You grab the coffee pot and bravely make your way over to him.

Clark’s eyes find yours instantly. It’s unfair how soft they are. How warm. How familiar. You want to be angry at him, but he looks like a kicked puppy and your heart aches.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. The coffee pot in your hand trembles just slightly, and you force yourself to slow down, he doesn’t need to see how rattled you are. But the way he smiles, gentle and almost shy, tells you he already knows.

“Hey,” he says again when you reach his table, quieter this time. Like he’s afraid to break whatever this moment is.

“Hi, Clark,” Your voice breaks halfway through his name, “it’s been awhile.”

“I wanted to visit more,” he continues. “I just… things got complicated. Life got loud.”

“You could’ve called,” you say, softer than you mean to, goddamnit, you need to be angry.

“I know.”

You look around the diner, hoping for some sort of excuse to escape your awkward conversation but there’s nothing. The downside of living in a small town is that everyone knows everyone’s business. Word of your high school romance got around pretty quickly, no one was going to interrupt what they thought was highschool sweethearts being reunited.

So, you slide into the booth across from him, better to rip the bandaid off quickly.

“You here for the holidays?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Visiting Ma. Helping around the farm. Thought I’d check out what it feels like home being home.”

You hum, folding your hands on the table. “And?”

He smiles. “Feels like it never stopped being home.”

You don’t want to ask the next question, but it slips out anyway. “And Metropolis?”

His jaw tightens, just a little. “It’s... loud, nice, but... it’s not this.” He gestures toward the window “It’s not you.”

There’s a pause. Your heart does something it hasn’t done in years.

“I missed this place,” he says. “Missed us.”

You swallow hard, your voice suddenly too small for your chest. “Don’t. You don’t get to just walk back in like nothing happened.”

“I know honey, I just-”

“You don’t get to talk about us,” your hand grips the handle of the coffee pot tighter, “you left me, Clark.”

The words hit the table like thunder, louder than you meant, but you don’t take them back. You won’t.

Clark’s shoulders sink. He doesn’t look away. He never has.

“I had to,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t about you. It was never about not wanting to stay.”

“But you didn’t stay,” you snap. “You left and I-I waited. For calls, letters, something. Anything.”

He flinches at that. Just barely. But enough.

You breathe in, sharp. You hadn’t meant to say that much. Not all at once. But once the dam broke, there was no stopping it.

He leans forward now, elbows on the table, hands flat like he’s grounding himself. “I thought about you every single day. I swear it.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“No,” he says, nodding slowly. “But it’s true.”

“Why did you have to go off to play hero, Clark?” You sniffle softly, hand coming up to wipe your eyes, you still had an hour left on your shift and you refused to look like an even bigger mess. “I see the papers all the time, Superman saving everyone, I hate it, Clark. I miss you here Clark, your Ma and Pa do too. I know what you’re doing is important and all… but you used to treat me like I was important too…”

He closes his eyes like the words physically hit him. Like they reach right down into that bulletproof chest of his and crack something open.

“I never stopped,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Treating you like you were important. You are. You always were. That’s why it hurt so damn much to leave.”

You look away, blinking fast. Your throat is tight, and your hands are trembling, barely concealed beneath the table.

“You could’ve called,” you murmur. “One call, Clark. One.”

“I didn’t know how to explain it.” He leans forward. “How do you tell someone you care about that you're not just leaving town, you're leaving the planet half the time? That you’re risking everything every day and you don’t know if you’ll make it back?”

“You don’t,” you say. “You just… let them wonder?”

“I was scared,” he admits, and it stops you. “Scared of losing you. Of dragging you into a life where you’d be waiting on headlines to know I’m alive.”

You glance at him, brows drawn. “So you just chose to let me go instead?”

“I didn’t know what else to do. But I never stopped loving you.”

Silence falls like snow, quiet but heavy. You want to yell. You want to reach across the table and shake him. But more than that, you want to believe him.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

You stand slowly, smoothing your apron down. “I have to get back to work.”

Clark nods, standing too. “I’ll wait. If you want me to.”

The decision you’re about to make weighs heavily on your chest, if you let him back in who’s to say he won’t hurt you all over again?

“I have an hour left… I’ll take you back to mine…”

The door to the diner jingles behind you as you step out into the cold, the night quiet except for the crunch of gravel under your boots. The air bites at your cheeks, and your breath puffs out in little clouds, but you barely notice it. You’re too aware of Clark walking a step behind you, hands in his coat pockets, his presence just as warm and steady as it used to be.

Neither of you says much on the walk. Smallville’s streets are still and familiar, dotted with porch lights and old mailboxes, the kind of silence that carries memories in it. You wonder if he remembers the way, if his feet remember these roads the same way yours do.

When you reach your front porch, you unlock the door and step inside first, flicking on the small lamp near the entryway. The light spills across the room in soft gold. The place is simple, lived in. A stack of books on the coffee table, a worn jacket over the back of a chair, a candle burned halfway down.

Your cat comes to greet you at the door like usual, the orange ball of fluff darting down the hall, almost slamming his poor body against the walls as he turns.

“Hi, Oliver.” You crouch down to pet his head.

You scoop him up and stand to face Clark, using him as a bit of a shield from your old… What even were the two of you?

You both stand there for a moment, the air thick with the weight of everything unspoken. You should offer him tea, maybe tell him to sit down.

“You left,” you say again softly.

“I know.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I wanted to,” he says, stepping closer. “Every time I picked up the phone, I talked myself out of it. I kept thinking… you deserved better than a half-hearted apology and a voice over the line.”

You sigh, walking past him toward the kitchen. “I don’t know if I can trust you again, Clark.”

“I know honey, I know, but I want to gain your trust again.”

You set Oliver down on the counter and he immediately climbs into the fruit bowl, as he always does. Your hands are shaking, you need something else to focus on, so you busy yourself with the kettle, filling it, flipping the switch.

Behind you, you hear Clark step into the kitchen, his presence heavy but careful, like he’s afraid one wrong word will shatter whatever fragile thread still exists between you.

“I’m not expecting you to forgive me right away,” he says. “I just wanted to see you. To say it in person.”

You keep your back to him. “Why now? After all this time?”

There’s a pause, and then he says quietly, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I’ve been halfway around the world and back again, but nothing ever… stuck. Not like this. Not like you.”

Your grip tightens on the edge of the counter.

“I’m not trying to barge back into your life,” he says. “But I had to at least try. Even if you slam the door in my face.”

You turn then, slowly. He looks tired. Not in the way that comes from lack of sleep, but a deeper kind of weariness. One you recognize in yourself.

“I waited,” you whisper. “And then I told myself I was stupid for waiting. I tried to move on.”

“I didn’t deserve that wait,” he says.

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t.”

Silence again. Oliver sneezes in the fruit bowl.

You swallow hard, eyes stinging. “Tea first,” you say. “Then we talk.”

A quiet smile touches his lips. “I can work with that.”

You turn back to the kettle, but this time, when you brush past him, you let your arm graze his. You don’t look, but you can feel the warmth of his smile behind you.

You turn back to the kettle, flicking it on, the hum of it filling the space like a stand-in for everything left unsaid. This time, when you brush past him, you let your arm graze his, slow, intentional. You don’t look at him, but you can feel it: the warmth of his skin, the sharp inhale he tries to hide, the way the air shifts like something just barely held in check.

He doesn’t move away.

Your hand stills over the tin of chamomile. You close your eyes for half a second, willing your heart not to leap out of your chest.

The kettle starts to steam.

You turn around, slowly. He’s closer than you expected, impossibly close, eyes dark behind his glasses, searching your face for something, anything, permission maybe. His breath brushes your cheek, and you hate how familiar it feels. Or maybe you love it too much. 

Steam curls between you from the kettle, but neither of you moves.

Finally, you reach past him to grab the mugs, your fingers grazing his hand. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

“One cup,” you say, your voice barely steady.

His smile breaks slowly, like the sun warming cold ground.

“I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

You turn to pour the water, but you can feel him behind you, the heat of him like a second stove. When you glance back, he’s closer. Close enough that if you turned an inch more, you’d be in his arms. He doesn't move. Just watches you like he’s memorizing the curve of your jaw, the line of your mouth, the way your breath catches.

“I thought about you,” he says, more quietly now. “More than I should’ve. In the quiet moments. In between deadlines. Sometimes when it got too loud.”

Your heart’s thudding so loud, you swear he can hear it, feel it. He probably can with his super hearing. His hand brushes yours again, and this time, he takes it, slow and sure, his thumb dragging across your knuckles in a motion that feels more intimate than a kiss.

And then his forehead leans gently against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But you don’t.

Not even close.

Instead, you tilt your chin just enough to close the distance. The kiss comes softly at first, hesitant, questioning. But when your lips meet his, the restraint slips, and suddenly it’s like no time has passed, like everything you both tried to forget is flooding back, fierce and undeniable.

His hand rises to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens the kiss. He tastes like diner coffee and something sweet beneath it. Your other hand finds the fabric of his shirt, gripping just a little, feeling the heat of him beneath it, the tension in his shoulders, the strength he reins in so carefully.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes are darker, breath a little uneven.

His eyes search yours like he's trying to memorize every flicker of feeling on your face. It’s in the way his fingers press just a little firmer into your skin, in the way his chest rises and falls like he’s holding something in. You wonder how long he’s wanted this. How long he’s waited.

“You have no idea how many times I dreamed about this,” he murmurs, voice rough and low.

You breathe his name, half a whisper, half a plea, and that’s all it takes for him to kiss you again, this time deeper, hungrier. There's nothing tentative about it now. His hand slips back into your hair, holding you close like he can’t bear the idea of letting go. You part your lips for him, tasting heat and something unspoken, and the way he kisses you, like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, makes your knees go weak.

“Clark, please.” You’re not quite sure what you’re asking him for.

He kisses down your neck, hands wrapped around your waist and squeezing as if you’d disappear if he let go. He picks you up, muscles bulging as he places you on your kitchen counter.

“I’ve got you, honey.” He pants as he slots himself between your thighs, “I’ve always got you.”

His words are reassuring and only add to the heat growing in your stomach. Your fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, fisting it tight as if anchoring yourself.

He groans softly against your mouth, barely audible, but it sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“Careful,” you tease, breathless against his lips. “You keep kissing me like that and I might forget you ever left.”

“You were always it for me,” he says. “Even when I left… it was still you.”

Your heart stutters. You pull him down again, kiss him like you’ve been waiting years, because you have. This time, there’s no space left between you. Just heat, longing, and everything finally, finally rising to the surface.

“God, all I could ever think about was you, mph-” Your hands find their place in his hair, giving the curls a gentle tug.

“I thought about you every damn day,” he breathes against your skin as his lips trail to your jaw, your neck. His voice is hoarse, reverent. “You, and that day in the barn loft… the way you looked at me, the way you sounded when I touched you. The way you said my name like it meant something.”

Your breath stutters.

His hands settle beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing your skin with aching slowness. “God, I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

You arch into him, whisper his name like a prayer. Your nails press into his shoulder blades, dragging him closer, grounding yourself in the weight and warmth of him.

“I’m not leaving again,” he swears, forehead resting against yours, breath shallow. “Not now. Not ever. You hear me?”

You nod, lips parted, trembling under his touch. “Then show me.”

And he does, slow, tender, hungry, like he’s trying to give you every missing year back in the way his mouth moves against your skin, the way he holds you like he’ll never let go.

Like you’re the center of his whole world.

Because to him… you always have been.

[virginreprise]

P O A C H E R ' S ✧ P R I D E ⋆. ˚ ｡ ⋆. ୨ ୧ ˚

joel miller x reader

series masterlist | main masterlist

S U M M A R Y : There had been so little fight left when he had found you, and now there was even less. He had picked wisely, and you could only assume his choice had been intentional. He knew you'd break so easily, and his predictions were coming to fruition as he nursed you back to health and promised you things you had never had the pleasure of experiencing. 7.0k words.

W A R N I N G S : DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, starvation, captivity, non-consensual touching, dark themes, suicidal ideation, ddlg, forced ddlg, manipulation, see series masterlist for full tags

A/N: I know this chapter is out probably a lot sooner than expected, but I already had so much of it written that I wanted to share it asap! Thank you for all the love on the first chapter! I know it wasn't particularly long, so I hope this next instalment makes up for it. Again, heed the warnings. This is a little lighter than the last chapter but still equally as dark when you look past surface-level. The next chapter won't be out so soon - this was a one-off, but I'm hoping to keep consistent updates. Also, this is lowk gonna be slowburn in terms of sexual content; I haven't quite decided yet. Tell me what you think!

TAGLIST: @koshkaj-blog

⋆. ˚ ｡ ⋆. ୨ ୧ ˚. " 𝐊𝐧𝐞𝐞-𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 "

C H A P T E R ✧ T W O — The Ten Commandments

You slept fitfully, shivering and crying, stomach protesting every gag that contracted your weak muscles. There was some time in the middle of the night when you genuinely thought you were dying. Your body had shaken so violently, your head pounded so harshly that it felt like a bowling ball crushing the sides of your skull, and for a brief moment, you had forgotten your name. Then you passed out; it was dawn when you woke. Too afraid to fall asleep again in case you died without repenting, you huddled into a corner, trying with all the strength you had left to cease the tremors, and waited for him. 

You waited until the Northern Cardinals stopped their chirping, flying away to start their work, and jumped when you heard the slam of a door. 

It felt like a lifetime, yet simultaneously mere seconds, before he was fumbling with the locks and swinging the shed door wide open. You squinted at the brightness, shielding your eyes with your arms and responding to his call with a choked sob. 

“C’mere,” he said, almost softly. The care in his voice just made you feel that much sicker. When you didn’t move, he didn’t shout; he just knelt in the snow and reached his hand out to you. “C’mon, sweetheart, let's get you fed.” 

You cowered in confusion, your eyes still adjusting to the whiteness of the snow, and decided to focus instead on his outstretched hand. It was so big. He was so big and terrifying, and yet you wanted to take his hand and let him drag you away. The promise of food was too great. Your body had been protesting for so long, and you felt like you were knocking on death’s door. He could save you. 

Skin pressed against skin as you touched him, burning with warmth; you crawled towards him on shaky legs. It didn’t matter in that moment that you were naked. You had promised yourself that you would do what he asked, and pretend that he had not chased you down in the woods and broken you to the point that your only salvation was your captor. 

Your legs buckled under you as you went to stand, and your head lolled as vertigo snatched you away. 

“Easy there, girl, c’mon,” he encouraged, sweeping you off your feet with a grunt and pressing you tight against his chest. Dazedly, you pushed at him, weakly murmuring your protests, not willing to succumb to him so easily, but he was so warm and inviting. There was food in the house, a shower and a bed. He’d said he didn’t want to hurt you, and you still did not believe him, but if survival meant compliance, you would obey like a believer obeyed the word of God. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” he said, tapping your face lightly as you lulled in and out of consciousness. “Can’t eat if you ain’t awake.” 

Some part of you thrummed with the urge to heed his subtle warning, and your eyes snapped open of their own accord, skin bristling with the contrast of the bite of winter and the blessedness of four walls and a fire as he dragged you up the porch steps and through the front door. 

Your muscles relaxed when he placed you on the couch, head falling against the cushions and clutching tight at the blanket he slung over your shivering form. You felt the burn of the fire against your bare cheeks, bringing with it the most comfort the Lord had granted you these torturous weeks of neglect and impending death. It was tingling along your skin, burning the delicate flesh and fumbling around in your soul. It bent the very fibres of yourself and dragged a lingering feeling of home to the forefront. 

You felt like you were back home. You were delirious, but you felt warm, and the scent of chicken noodle soup filled your senses, along with the image of his stature in your peripheral vision. 

You realised too late that you could’ve run out the front door and into the woods in the time it took him to fetch your food. 

“I don’t trust you to eat this slow,” he muttered, the sloshing of the broth making your mouth salivate as he pushed the spoon through the food. “Your body’ll go into shock otherwise.” 

You just whined in response, and you felt drool drop from the corner of your lips. 

“C’mon.” He was using that same soft tone, the faux comfort that burned through you as harshly as the fire licked at your delicate skin. “Open up.”

It would’ve been humiliating if you weren’t so hungry, but the first taste of broth, the press of the noodles under your teeth, were worth every ounce of shame that coursed through your defiant being. You were being fed by the man who had kidnapped you, but you couldn’t find it in you to feel angry at yourself. 

All you needed to do now was get your energy up, let him feed and hopefully clothe you so you could escape the second he got too comfortable with your submission. There was no use in fighting anymore; he was stronger. There was no way around that fact, so you would use your mind instead of your body and hope that the former didn’t fail you along the way. 

He fed you in silence, making sure each bite was chewed and appropriately swallowed before he granted you another piece. It did not fill you, but it was a temporary fix for the lingering cracks. 

Then, he forced you to drink something disgusting, a blend of all you needed to stay alive, he’d said, and you’d chased the concoction with a pint of water that you spent at least half an hour sipping to completion. You hadn’t even realised that somewhere along the way he’d tied your hand behind your back again, and the normalcy he’d created was quickly stripped by the burning reminder that he did not care for you. If he did, he would’ve let you go.

It was silent aside from the crackling of fire, and the blessedness of a full stomach made your eyelids heavy. Your body slumped against the couch, the blanket slipping off your right shoulder and exposing your collarbone to the cool air. You went to reach for it, to pull it tight around you, but you could not. You let it stay there and hoped that his lingering glance at the exposed skin held little malicious intent. 

“You look tired,” he said into the quiet and settled tensely in the armchair by the fire. He sat like he was ready to pounce up at any moment, and if you had any more strength, you would’ve told him that he looked just as exhausted as you felt.

It seemed like he was mocking you, prying you open and praying that you’d break so he could chase you again. He watched you cower at the sound of his voice, your body visibly shaking, all too aware that you were naked underneath the blanket he’d wrapped around you. He spoke up again with a tilt of his head and a gruffness to his voice that you recognised as vaguely Southern the more he spoke. “I got a spare room, your room,” he corrected, and you cringed at the determination. “Food, water, a bath…if you listen to me, I ain’t gonna let you go without any of it.” 

The prospect, in your current situation, seemed unthinkable. In the shed, your prison, you would’ve jumped at the idea. You would’ve let him do anything to you if it meant you could eat and sleep in a warm bed. Yet, the ache in your belly had been sated, you could almost feel the vitamins reinvigorating your obstinance, and you did not want to give him the satisfaction of your obedience. No matter what necessities he gifted, the rope around your wrists was a constant reminder that he had stolen you from your life. He had ripped a hole in the fabric of time and brought you to a hellscape where the sun seemed to set in the east and rise in the west. 

“Why am I here?” you asked, voice cracking yet housing a truculence your mother had always scolded you for. “You just…you—” 

“What?” he asked, as casually as if you had been there years, encouraging you with a simple cock of his head like you were a baby learning its first words. 

You swallowed, hoping to calm your shaking. He was terrifying, but you were not so easily scared. You would not succumb. 

“You just took me from my life.” The words came out in a whisper, and you cursed the splitting of your soul each time you looked in his eyes. 

There was a pause where he seemed to consider, swallowing away the words that swilled and then spat them at your face once they had begun to form coherency. 

“What kind of a life was that, hm?” 

The words rang sonorously in your addled brain, the painful sting of the truth in them mocking you with their exhortation. For years, you had urged yourself to experience life in any capacity you could, to escape Massachusetts and run away to New York, where dreams were made and fulfilled. There was so little to live for in Lexington. You had never had any friends in high school, and you had always been too shy to do things alone. So, you lived without acquaintance. Your mother had died a few months before you turned sixteen, your daddy had left for a new life when he could no longer stand the abuse, and you hadn’t seen him in over ten years. So, you lived without family. 

There was no one, alive or dead, who cared about you, and you had done nothing to change that fact in the eighteen years you’d had to decide what you wanted life to look like. 

The man noted your pause and huffed in acknowledgement of his victory. You waited, trying your hardest not to panic as he stood and walked towards the accent table backed against the wall. He rummaged through the top drawer; you looked towards the door whilst his back was turned, and the rope stung and pulsed in warning. Now was not the time. 

When he turned back around, two items in his hands, you began crying again. You were sick of it: the sting of salt, the accumulation of salvia that pooled around the corners of your mouth and the constant drip of your nose that ran like a leaky faucet. When you had once cried yourself to sleep every night and awoke almost content that the same thing was bound to happen once again, you now grew tired of the habit. It was more of a nuisance than anything. 

He seemed to ignore your display and simply stood in front of you, a notepad and pen held in front of your face. 

“Take it,” he muttered. “You gon’ need to write these down. If you forget ‘em, I’ll give ya hell.” 

You shuddered, almost ready to spew the food you’d just consumed all over his face. The sight would at least make you feel a little better. However, the thought of being hungry again helped settle your stomach, and you stuttered as you stated the obvious. 

“I-I can’t.” A small sob left your throat. “My hands.” 

He narrowed his eyes, seemingly irritated with himself for forgetting something so stupid and threw the items down on the coffee table before exiting your line of sight and disappearing down the corridor. You suddenly felt cold, despite the heat of the fire searing across your bare skin. Where the nakedness didn’t bother you as much before, the urge for food replacing the feeling of vulnerability, you began to feel increasingly uncomfortable with just the fabric of the blanket covering you. 

The man came back a few minutes later, and you jumped at the sound of his footsteps. Your paranoia heightened and your shaking worsened when you caught sight of what was in his hands. There, clutched between his big palms, was a mix of pink and lace that he set down on the arm of the couch as he settled himself above you. 

Softness gave way to irritation when he went to peel the blanket away from you, and you recoiled in horror. 

“I’ve already seen all of you,” he informed, and your stomach churned with the image of him stripping your unconscious body. “Now, you can either let me see you again, or go back outside. Your choice, honey.” 

The irony was not lost on you: you had no choice. The distinct feeling that you could die out here if you didn’t comply captured you, and you let him peel away the checked fabric with a shake and a whine. 

Surprisingly, he did not linger on your naked form for too long, just roughly bent your arms until you cried in pain and unsheathed the blade that rested in its scabbard. The cut was clean, and he reprimanded you when the tip nicked your wrist—courtesy of your wriggling. He paid little mind to it, however, and let the rope fall away. 

You thought about running. You did every time he offered you an ounce of freedom, but the knowledge that he would catch you before you reached the front door rang with a solemn ring, and you decided to stay put. 

“Shh, now,” he murmured, picking up the slip of pink and holding it in front of you. “Should fit…if it don’t, I guess you’ll just have to walk around with nothin’ on.” 

The “please” fell from your lips unconsciously, shaking your head on instinct and hoping to God that the babydoll dress he held between thick fingers would slide over you as easily as skin over condensation. 

“What’s that?” he asked, almost disregarding, still choosing not to gawk at the sight of you naked. He dressed you like a parent would a child and knelt almost subserviently when he pinched the lace and began to pull the knee highs over your calves. You thanked whoever was willing to listen that you fit in the clothes, even if the hem settled high on your upper thigh. When you stood, you were afraid that it wouldn’t cover much of anything at all.

You didn’t reply to his question, assuming it was rhetorical and jumped when he patted your thigh twice and stood with cracking knees. 

“Rule number one,” he began, and you felt whiplashed by the haste with which he commanded his intentions. It was something you started to learn quickly: that the softness did not last for long. It was almost a blessing that he was so willingly able to remind you of who he really was. 

His voice trailed off as he disappeared behind the couch, fumbling with something near the door. You refused to look at him. He was too terrifying to behold, so unpredictable in nature that you were constantly jumping at any sudden movement and shuddering like he was some malevolent spirit come to take your soul. 

He surprised you once more when he was suddenly at your feet and the sound of metal clanging met your ears. You caught sight of the shackle, the thick slab of steel that he clasped round your ankle—the cold of the material seeping through your sock and into your bones. 

You should’ve anticipated, as cautious as he seemed to be, that he would find a way to keep you trapped. The ropes couldn’t be permanent, so he had found another, more malicious method that humiliated you with every jangle. He tugged, and your eyes trailed to the ring in the floor near the door; you wanted to be sick again. 

“You ain’t ever allowed to leave this house.” The key slipped into his back pocket, and he settled once more in the armchair. He clicked his fingers and pointed to the discarded pen and paper. “I hope you’re plannin’ on writin’ these down.” 

You glanced at the two items like they were slick with poison, reaching hesitantly. If you were to pick them up, it felt like accepting defeat. You were going to seal his commandments in your blood. 

When your fingers brushed the paper and slipped around the plastic biro, he let out a pleased hum; observing you as you shakily placed the lid on the other end of the pen and began to write. 

Rule Number One: I’m not allowed to leave the house. 

Your penmanship was almost illegible, your hand shaking so violently that each pass of ink over paper became a scrawl. You had to cross out the word ‘allowed’ and rewrite it without three ‘L’s.’

“Number two,” he said, and you missed a line before beginning to write again. “You call me daddy. Sir, when you’re feeling apologetic.”  

You stopped writing on the ‘D’, looking up at him through your eyelashes. His expression was set, face stony and unrevealing. Your stomach bubbled, and you swallowed down a gag. Yet this time you did not feel sick from your disgust but because that moniker, that fateful name that represented so much more than he could comprehend, housed all of your depravity and lust. You had fought against your desires when you’d begun to understand your sexuality, shook away the thoughts that seemed influenced by everything; you had let them take you when you were sixteen years old and had touched yourself every night since with that name on your lips. It felt right when you would moan it into the ether and then cry when you pulled your hand away and knew that there would be no one to share such degeneracy with. 

Then, he’d shown you that he was willing to partake in the perversion, and your entire worldview seemed to crumble. It was like he knew who you were, had access to the deepest archives of your brain that you had thought was reserved just for you. 

Swiftly, he moved onto number three and you shook more than you had when you were out in the cold, and hastily scribbled the rest of rule number two along the paper. 

He continued, spouting his laws, his eyes never leaving you as you wrote each one down, moving along to the other side of the page before you pressed your final period onto the end of rule number ten. 

You looked down at your handwriting, scanning over every loop, every stem, every little jerk of the ink that resembled your twitching. There they lay: the ten commandments, the beginning of a religion you had unwillingly subscribed to. 

Rule Number One: I’m not allowed to leave the house. 

Rule Number Two: I must call him Daddy, or Sir when I’m feeling apologetic. 

Rule Number Three: I will do all of my chores without complaint. 

Rule Number Four: I will eat three meals a day and bathe every night. 

Rule Number Five: I must be in bed by Ten O’clock every night on weekdays—eleven O’clock on weekends. 

Rule Number Six: I cannot leave my bedroom when Daddy leaves the house. 

Rule Number Seven: No pants allowed. Only skirts and dresses. 

Rule Number Eight: I must be polite at all times, and use my manners. 

Rule Number Nine: Never answer the door. If anyone knocks and Daddy is not there, ignore it and hide. 

Rule Number Ten: If I break any rules, I will be punished. If I’m very bad, Daddy will put me outside again. 

When he was finished, he stood and advanced, reaching out his hand and silently asking for the symbolic stone tablet. 

You handed it to him diligently, your brain reeling from the feeling that you had just signed over your life to his evil spirit, and followed him as he ripped the sheet from the spiral and hung it on the fridge with a Rhode Island magnet. 

“Just so you don’t forget ‘em,” he murmured, then added with a hint of humour in his tone. “You can make ‘em look nicer when you’re in a better frame of mind. Can’t quite believe a pretty girl like you has such shitty handwriting.” 

You stayed silent, staring at him with no more fight. You felt numbed as you sat in borrowed robes, your mind slipping into its subconscious and creating a blockade around the pink flesh that repelled every hope of escape you had once clung to. You felt defeated, and you could tell as he advanced towards the back of the couch that he felt it too. 

He took your face in his palm, dragging your eyes to his. He did not care that you jerked away; he pulled you right back. 

“Don’t make me hurt you again,” he whispered. “I ain’t gonna do anythin’ you don’t ask me to s’long as you follow those rules.” 

He was utterly delusional. It felt like he was competing with two different versions of himself. One: the man who held you now, fed you and clothed you like you were his baby. Two: the man who had thrown you into a dark pit with no food and no concept of where you were or what time of day it was. Already, he had done everything you hadn’t asked him to. You had not wanted to be kidnapped, stripped of your life and clothes and placed in garments that did not reflect the darkness of your soul. He had forced you to comply. He had forced you. Yet, you could no longer bring yourself to feel angry. He had succeeded in his goal; you were shattered. Every piece of you had been stored somewhere in that shed, and the shackle around your ankle meant that you couldn’t get out to find them again. 

Bravely, you opened your mouth to speak, to try and make sense of something so unfathomable. 

“Why am I here then? What do you want from me?” 

The brush of his thumb against your cheekbone paused its careful movement, and he gripped at your face tighter, squeezing each cheek until you were silenced. 

“You’re special,” he muttered. “And I learnt a long time ago that you don’t get nothin’ in this life unless you take it. So I took what I wanted.” 

You squeezed out a few more tears and they landed ceremoniously on his fingers, running along the lines on his palm. His grip loosened, and you felt like you could open your mouth again.  

“Can’t you just let me g—” 

The slap interrupted the end of your sentence; the force of it causing your head to pound. 

“What aren’t you understandin’, huh?” The bruising grip was back again, and the chain around your ankle rattled as he forced your body to face him. The couch was the only thing separating you from him, keeping you safe from his strength as you kneeled against the cushions and gripped the back of the sofa. Your knuckles were white as he pulled, socks slipping past your knees and resting mismatched on your calves. “I can’t let you go, honey.” His voice softened, and the harshness of his eyes descended to an undecipherable haze again. “One day, you’re gon’ realise that this is where you’re meant to be. I just hope for your sake it’s sooner rather than later.” 

Then, he leant down so he was face to face with you, so close that his breath fanned against your cheek. 

“Now, apologise for speaking out of turn. Remember number eight?” 

You swallowed, lip quivering as you nodded. 

“Yes.” 

“Repeat it.” 

You were quick with your reply. “I must be polite at all times, and use my manners.” You visualised your shaky handwriting, the etch of the pen against paper. You were hopeful that your following words would incite some reprieve. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t question you again.” 

At that, he smiled, a simple upturn of his lips, and he patted your face mockingly before his hands fell away completely. 

“You learn quick,” he praised. “Now look at that clock for me.” He pointed to the wall behind you, the one wih the fire and the deer antlers. 

You did as requested, turning around to gaze at the surface—the two hands that pointed three hundred degrees around the face of the clock. 

“What does it say?” he asked, leaning down so his mouth was against your ear. 

“T-ten O’clock,” you murmured.

“Hm,” he acknowledged. “What does that mean?” 

Rule Number Five. 

“Bedtime.” 

“That’s right.” 

You turned back around to face him, neck twisting. His eyes were pinned on yours, and you instinctively jerked back when you realised how close your faces were. Your voice was quiet as you spoke. 

“B-but…daddy.” His eyebrows raised as you uttered the name, and your skin crawled as you realised how easily it had fallen from your lips. “My ankle?” 

He looked towards the chain, then his eyes flicked back to yours, and you were locked in the deepness of them. His eyes were pits, fettered sockets housing no soul. They were bottomless, and you were struggling to claw your way out as he pressed his thumb to your chin, brushing the underside of your lip. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that.” You twitched when he plucked the plump flesh. “There’s another one in your bedroom, so that I can make sure you don’t go anywhere whilst I’m asleep.” 

Just like that, you were reminded. Just when the comfort seemed to consume you, just when your sense seemed to be slipping away, your awareness seized you from such untrustworthy thoughts. He had kidnapped and starved you. He had thrust his ten commandments in your face and promised punishment if his rules were to be broken. That was not a sign of a man who cared, no matter how much he tried to proclaim anything different. 

“Now, c’mon. I’ll let you go to bed without a bath tonight, but tomorrow I expect you to scrub yourself clean before you go to sleep.” 

I’ll be gone tomorrow, you thought. You would fight tonight to free yourself from the shackles on your ankles and take off running again. You’d map your pathway, and when you eventually made it to the police, you would willingly take them back to this godforsaken hellscape, and laugh as he was dragged away. 

Whilst he was there, however, you would follow his rules, and as he pulled the key from his back pocket, you murmured a small, “Thank you, daddy,” just for good measure—just to make sure that you’d remain in his good graces. 

He smiled at the words but did not reply. He told you to hold his hand before you stood, and your body fizzled with electricity when your fingers laced with his. If you could separate those hands from the rest of him, you could feel a semblance of solace. If you could just have the body and not the mind, you would go with him willingly. 

You had been lonely for so many years; you had struggled with the battle of your mental standing that raged continually ever since your daddy had left. You fought against the urges and acted in ways you thought you were supposed to. With so little guidance, you had pulled through, danced through the motions of yesterday: a repetition of emptiness that rendered you immobile when the thoughts grew too loud to be silenced. 

For so long, you had wanted someone. You used to flirt with James Newman every time he would come to the gas station. The man usually frequented at least twice a week, and you would lean over the counter, hoping that he would peek at the slight glint of breast that teased with the promise of something bigger. You’d gone in the back with him on a particularly slow day, and he’d sloppily kissed your neck, groping at every bit of you he could before you realised that it did not feel right. You felt like you deserved it when he kept pushing, but the bell had rung sonorously and he’d shoved you away, harsh names rough on his lips and curses spilling as he left you shaking. 

You had not seen him again and truthfully, you’d been grateful, despite the knowledge that you would not get to indulge in his attention again. 

It was the only mildly sexual experience that you’d had, if it could be classed as such. He hadn’t even kissed you on the lips. 

After so much loneliness, there was a romance to the situation you’d found yourself in. It was a twisted sort of romance, most definitely, but a romance all the same. He’d said that you were special, that he wanted you, and so he’d taken you. A man you had never spoken to before had descended into criminality for you. It was bold to assume that he hadn’t done such things with another woman before, but his words were seeping into your psyche, and the prospect that you were special, that you meant enough to anyone, was bullying into you.  

Despite everything, you liked the attention and you hated yourself for it. He was confusing you, altering your worldview with precise intentions, and everything began to crumble. You were so tired you couldn’t quite fathom the idea of escape. Not today. He was dragging you along to the bedroom by your hand, and when you eventually fell onto that motel bedspread, you felt yourself slipping completely. 

“There we go,” he murmured as you settled against the mattress, the duvet pulled up tight around your chin. After weeks of sleeping on the forest floor, back screeching in pain, muscles torn and begging for release, the reprieve of feathers was welcome. It didn’t matter that he was tucking you in, not when it was so easy to close your eyes and sink away. 

You slept through till the morning and dreamt of what life would be like if you’d met him at a bar, all shy smiles and bright eyes, and let him take you home with the promise of a life you had fantasised about—a life with someone who cared about you. 

⋆. ˚ ｡ ⋆. ୨ ୧ ˚

You woke to the sound of metal and the distinct click of a lock as the shackle fell away from your ankle. You had been so tired last night that you hadn’t even realised he had strapped you in.

“Mornin’, precious,” he greeted as you began to stir. “You’ve been out for a good twelve hours. Must’ve needed it.” 

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, still groggy and basking in your dream. It was sudden, the way you remembered where you were. You shot up, staring at him with wild eyes and went to run before he grabbed your ankle and pulled you a foot down the bed. 

“Hey now,” he scolded, dragging his hand upwards to cover your shin. “I’ll break this leg if you keep pullin’ that shit. Now you can either eat breakfast or keep this up and go without.” 

His words made you pause, and your heaving chest slowed as you realised you had left the willingness to fight somewhere inside the shaky etch of ink tacked to the fridge. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” It was becoming easier to listen—to leave whatever defiance you had and curl into your shell of despair and self-pity. Maybe one day, when he got too stupid, you’d be able to leave. Perhaps you’d end up killing him for everything he’d done and then kill yourself because you couldn’t live with the memories. 

So instead of kicking, you let your legs fall limp over the side of the bed and stood shakily. 

“Hand,” he commanded, and you laced your fingers with his just as you had done hours prior. They were still so warm and big; you had hoped before you’d fallen asleep that the comfort was just a figment of your imagination. Now, you could blame nothing on the physical state of your body. You were well-rested and well-fed. Excuses were becoming hard to find. 

You went willingly to the kitchen, socks shielding you from the cold morning air; the dress, however, did not offer the same protection. You shivered and he noted the movement. 

“I’ll go sort the fire out, you sit yourself down.” He gestured to the table in the corner, a round wooden one with four chairs surrounding it. There were two placemats, atop them, a generous helping of bacon and eggs, and a glass of juice on a coaster next to it—a coffee for him. 

The whole place was panelled with cedar wood, a deer head mounted on the wall next to a Winchester rifle that looked just as menacing as the dead eyes of the animal. You felt watched by it as you sat across from its position, and did not strip your gaze from it until he came back and placed his hands on your shoulders. 

He was heavy and warm, and the cold that you’d felt previously dissipated. You blamed it on the now roaring fire. 

“It came with the place,” he said as he followed your eyeline. “I didn’t have the heart to take it down. It’s quite pretty, don’t ya think?” 

You did not reply. You were taken by how casually he seemed to be addressing you, acting as he had in your dreams. It made it feel better if you pretended that he’d taken you home from the bar and cooked breakfast for you in a bid to impress. It made it easier if you engaged and forced yourself to believe that he was not a bad person. 

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “I guess it is.” 

He squeezed your shoulders. “Pretty like you,” he muttered. “Looks scared like you, too. Maybe I should start callin’ you Bambi.” 

He chuckled to himself and squeezed once more before walking towards the couch and picking up the discarded chain. You didn’t fight when he locked it around your ankle again. You were beginning to realise what two weeks of captivity could do to a person. You were craving attention and connection, and he was giving it to you in bucketloads. 

When he sat across from you, your brain started creating images of a first date and how he’d ask you about your job and your parents; you’d laugh at his jokes and blush when he was overtly flirtatious. You’d pretend now that there was no metal around your ankle binding you to the land. 

“Eat,” he said, lifting his coffee mug to his lips. He took a long gulp, watching you over the rim; you picked up your fork and stabbed a mouthful of egg onto the end of it. Truthfully, your stomach was rumbling, and the thought of new textures and flavours along your tongue made you salivate. You didn’t want to have to endure the blended mix he had forced down your throat again. You didn’t want to go outside, and rule number four battered your chest with its simple reminder. 

You were both silent as you ate, Joel scooping his food up in big mouthfuls and disposing of it within minutes. In contrast, you ate carefully, your stomach still not used to so much food. You couldn’t escape if you were sick and you didn’t want him to grow irate with your constant spewing. It was possible he’d get the wrong idea, that he thought you didn’t like his cooking; being thrown in the shed again was such a terrifying possibility that you could hardly risk it. 

“I need you to clean the carpet today,” he said over the clanging of cutlery and disparagement of your mind. “You got puke on it yesterday.” 

You paused your chewing and dryly swallowed down a sharp bit of bacon. You remember making a conscious decision not to get it on his floor, aiming for a shirt that you would likely never see again; you couldn’t help it if you had passed out in the process. 

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—”

“Now, Bambi,” he interrupted. “I ask you to do somethin’, you do it. I don’t need an excuse.” 

“I’m sorry,” you said hastily, and he hummed softly. He stared as if waiting for something, and the scrawl of rule number two materialised before your eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“That’s better,” he praised and downed the rest of his coffee. You went back to eating your food, and let it settle in your stomach with an inviting warmth. The protein-heavy nature of the meal filled you nicely, and you sat diligently with your hands in your lap as your body digested what it was so grateful for. 

The silence was deafening, and you shifted uncomfortably as you waited for him to break it. Questions were bubbling inside you, but you remained silent, opting instead to furrow your brow and hoping that the urges and curiosity would subside. You wished your mind could just be blank and that you wouldn’t have to think about anything at all. 

“What you thinkin’ ‘bout, Bambi.” His words snapped you from your reverie, and you stared at him as if caught misbehaving. After your heart slowed, you realised his words were an invitation and your question was spilling from your mouth before you could think of the consequences. 

“Am I really special?” you asked, and informed where your question had come from as he tilted his head. “You said last night that I was special. Do you really think so?” 

There was a moment where you thought he was going to reprimand you again, his eyes narrowing to slits, jaw clenched and ready to bite, but your fears slipped away as that expression disappeared from his face and was replaced with a glimpse of sympathy. 

“You are very special to me, Bambi. For reasons you don’t understand yet.” The cryptic nature of his admission had you shivering, but the corroboration of his words that you had convinced yourself was a flippant confession had you heating with fever. You had never been special to anyone before. Your mother had reminded you of that all too often, and your daddy had left before he could convince you he felt such a way about you. 

You found that the fact that he had secrets, that he wasn’t willing to admit to you the reasons for your notability, didn’t matter all that much to you. Warmth settled, and you found yourself becoming grateful that he had nursed you back to health instead of leaving you out there to die. Surely that amounted to something. 

“C-can I ask something else?” 

He scoffed, then said, “You just did,” and your cheeks burned in embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled; he shook his head in dismissal. 

“No, go ahead. Ask away.” 

Your confused brain didn’t think to question why he was suddenly being so nice to you. You decided that it was because you were being good and that if you kept up the act of compliance, it wouldn’t be long before you were back at your shitty job at the gas station, in your shitty little trailer house that you had lived your entire life in. He would simply be a figment of your imagination and a haunting phantom that you would dream about; you would miss the way he called you special. 

You took a breath before you asked your next question. “What’s your name?” 

His jaw twitched before he began to shake his head again. 

“That, little girl, is none of your concern. You know what you’re supposed to call me, don’t you?” 

A sinking feeling of disappointment weighed down your chest, and you bit into your bottom lip with anxiety. 

“I’m sorry, daddy,” you said and watched as he picked up your empty plate and stacked it atop his. 

The cutlery scraped against the ceramic as he bunched them together, knives and forks lying against one another and knocking around as he lifted the stacked plates and began to walk over to the kitchen. 

“I know you’re sorry,” he said before he advanced, eyeing you with a disapproving look that had your disappointment deepening and materialising into anger at yourself for being so stupid. Of course, he wouldn’t tell you his name. He was risking imprisonment if you were to get out. He was risking so much just because you were special. 

You were special. 

Desperately, you looked around for something that could redeem you. The sound of rushing water from the tap as he filled a sink of water fed you your idea. 

“D-daddy!” you called above the sound, and he turned off the tap to acknowledge you. “Do you want me to clean the dishes?” 

The feeling of regret worsened as he called back disconnectedly. 

“I want you to clean the carpet.” You shook in fear at the notion he was unhappy with you. You didn’t want to go outside again. You didn’t feel special outside. “Go on,” he encouraged as you stayed frozen. “Bleach is in the cupboard under the bathroom sink.” 

Your legs felt unstable as you stood up, and as you began to walk, you wondered if they were going to give up on you before you could convince him you were willing to be good. 

You had to grip the counter to steady yourself, the chain dragging behind you; a constant reminder of your predicament. Yet, as you gazed at the expanse of his back, the broadness of his shoulders and the taper of his waist, you couldn’t bring yourself to be aggrieved any more. You were no longer starving or cold. You were special. 

It felt natural when you spoke your following words. 

“Thank you, daddy. I’m sorry for being bad.” 

You did not stick around to see his reaction, worried that if you didn’t clean his carpet soon enough, he’d punish you. You just hoped that he appreciated the sentiment and that you were still special enough to keep out of the cold.