#and I definitely missed stuff about loop

[two-days-a-little-high]

Just completed Isat and I feel like I'm missing some stuff

Edit: ok I watched some YouTube videos I can be normal about this game now 👍

[kthologue]

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

[averyspizookies]

Locked.

Part one.

Pairing: Final four UCLA Azzi x UConn Paige, Enemies to lovers.

Word count: 6.8k

Note: hi guys, I really hope you all enjoy this!! It’s based off the clip of juju saying “I hate ucla bro” lol, so yeah I had fun writing it. It’s not well edited, but I really want you guys to give more feedback, it’s how I was inspired to write most of guarded and I miss y’all!! Anons or dms even always welcome. Thank you all for reading. Let me know if you see any errors!🤍

My master list

____ ____ ____

“Bro—I’m not guarding that hoe.”

Paige’s voice echoed through the nearly empty hotel conference room the UConn team had taken for the night. Her chair squeaked as she leaned back dramatically, arms flung wide like she was being personally victimized by the film.

KK didn’t even look up. Just sighed, her cheek smushed into her notebook, highlighters and half-dead pens scattered. “Well,” she mumbled, “you kinda don’t have a choice.”

Paige groaned, “I’m serious. I hate UCLA. Like, on a spiritual level. They’re all—sunny and shit. With their stupid faces and tans like they live in a fucking Nike commercial.”

Across the table, Ice glanced up from her screen, eyebrows raised. “Paige. Half the stuff you just said isn’t even remotely basketball-related.”

“I knowww,” Paige drawled, already halfway draped over her chair, sounding offended by the very existence the West Coast. “But it’s still true. They’re too... happy.”

“I dunno...” Caroline piped up, voice calm, but curious. She was scribbling something in the margins of a notepad, but her eyes flicked up. “Azzi seems kinda nice. Off the court, I mean.”

Paige sat up like someone had just personally offended her. “Nice? Not with the way she plays.”

“She literally isn’t even a dirty player,” KK said, finally looking up, confused.

“No, no, no—y’all don’t get it.” Paige huffed, already flipping open her laptop with laser focus. “Here. Let me educate you.”

She fast-forwarded through last year’s matchup against UCLA with the speed and precision of someone who’d watched it on loop.

“Thirteen forty-two,” she muttered, timestamp burned into her memory.

The video froze on Azzi Fudd, calm and composed, dribbling the ball up the court like she had all the time in the world—like gravity didn’t exist for her. Paige unpaused, and there it was: the shot.

No hesitation. No pass. No screen. Just Azzi, the ball, and the net. The swish was so clean it sounded like water,

It haunted Paige.

“Bro, so what?” Ice asked, pulling back from the screen, her voice casual but amused. “That’s just—”

“So what?” Paige cut in, incredulous, already gesturing wildly. “That’s fucking— it’s just—”

“A good play?” KK offered, sipping from her water bottle, barely hiding her smirk.

The other girls giggled, and Paige scowled, eyes still locked on the paused video like it had insulted her.

“Whatever. She’s a bitch,” Paige muttered, slamming her laptop shut. “Trust me.”

“You’ve literally never talked to her,” Ice pointed out, gathering her chargers and cords.

“Don’t need to. I can feel it,” Paige insisted, shoving things into her bag with uneeded aggressiveness “She has bitch energy. bitch aura.”

KK was already halfway to the door with Ice, but she turned back, grinning like she was about to drop a grenade. “Maybe you just wanna get in her pants.”

Ice exploded with laughter, nearly choking as she tried—and failed—to cover it up with a cough. The two of them disappeared through the door, still cracking up.

Paige was left alone in the quiet room, surrounded by the glow of half-lit screens and scribbled scouting notes.

“Hell no,” she grumbled, even though her face felt a little too warm and she suddenly couldn’t look at the paused image of Azzi on her laptop without thinking about the way her ponytail bounced when she shot, or the way her eyes didn’t blink after she followed through.

No. Absolutely not.

She slammed her laptop shut again.

Definitely not.

***

The UCLA team rolled into the Final Four hotel like a wave of California sun, dressed head-to-toe in royal blue and gold. There wasn’t a hair out of place or a single scuffed sneaker in sight. They looked every bit the part of a team built for the big stage—cool, polished, camera-ready.

They strolled through the lobby like it was a runway, a day out from their Final Four matchup against South Carolina. A rope separated fans from the players, but it didn’t stop the noise—screams, phones raised high, posters waving in hopes of a signature or even a glance.

Most of those screams were for one person.

Azzi Fudd didn’t acknowledge them. Not really. A polite smile here, a wave there, but never long enough to feed the frenzy. She moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned long ago that attention was a currency—and too much of it could bankrupt your peace.

She’d been “the star” since her sophomore year, though she’d never say it out loud. You didn’t have to.

Slam covers. GQ. Vogue. A $3 million Nike deal dropped just months ago that had turned her from basketball prodigy into a full-blown brand. Ten million on Instagram. More on TikTok. She didn’t even run half of it anymore—there was a team for that. A fan favorite? Understatement. Fans didn’t just support her; they idolized her. Worshipped her like goddess.

Edits of her game highlights mixed with thirst-trap music regularly hit millions of views. Every game day, her name trended.

She moved through the lobby with her best friend and teammate Lauren beside her, flanked by security. Lauren was the only person who never changed around her—never acted like she was someone to tiptoe around.

“Ughhhh,” Lauren groaned the second she face-planted onto the plush hotel bed, the mattress dipping with a satisfying thump.

“I know,” Azzi replied, flopping down beside her, voice muffled in the pillows.

March had been a blur of red-eye flights, endless film sessions, bruising practices, and must-win games. And now, they were here. The Final Four. Another night, another city…

But tomorrow? Tomorrow wasn’t just another game. It was South Carolina.

And maybe, just maybe... after that? UConn.

Azzi sighed again, but this one came from somewhere deeper in her chest. The part that still remembered last year. And the year before.

“What the hell are we gonna do about UConn?” she blurted, still face-down.

Lauren groaned and turned her head, dark curls spilling over her cheek. “What?”

Azzi rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. “They’re not here to mess around. Paige—she’s not leaving without that championship.”

Lauren blinked at her for a second. “Well... neither are you.”

Azzi didn’t reply.

Lauren sat up a little. “We’re ready. We’ve got you. We’ve got height. UConn’s bigs are good, but they don’t dominate the post like they used to. And you’re averaging twenty-three a game, Az. We’ve got this.”

Azzi nodded, slowly. Lauren was right. Technically. Statistically. But reality wasn’t always made of numbers.

They both knew the truth: if Azzi or Lauren went down—or even just had an off night—the rest of the roster cracked like glass under pressure. It had happened before. Too many times.

They didn’t have depth. They had each other.

And tomorrow, it had to be enough.

“I gotta stop Blondie,” Azzi muttered.

Lauren burst out laughing. “Right. And she’ll be trying to stop you. You two are like... the same person, just on opposite coasts.”

Azzi made a gagging noise and stuck out her tongue. “Don’t even say that.”

Lauren grinned, unfazed. “I mean... c’mon. Both of you are bajillionaires. Both have followers in the tens of millions. Both have armies of fans thirsting over edits. Both of you are the face of your programs.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and flopped an arm over her face. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Admit it. You’re the West Coast Paige.”

Azzi lifted her arm just enough to shoot Lauren a look. “Please. If I ever start flailing around and yelling at my teammates mid-game like she does, bench me.”

Lauren cackled. “That’s fair.”

Still, the words stuck. Paige was UConn’s golden girl—their anchor, their edge, their fire. Everything Azzi was for UCLA. Their rivalry was iconic. Edited to hell and back. Every time they met on the court, it was like the internet paused to watch. Azzi never let herself look too close, but sometimes... she did. And that was the problem.

“Whatever,” Azzi said, shaking the thoughts out of her head. She sat up and grabbed her sneakers. “Let’s go.”

Lauren blinked. “Go? Go where?”

“The gym.”

Lauren sat up like Azzi had just suggested running a marathon. “Azzi. We just got off a plane. My knees are still vibrating.”

Azzi tugged on her arm, relentless. “Yeah, well—tough. I want to win.”

Lauren groaned but grabbed her gym bag anyway, mumbling something. As they reached the door, she gave Azzi a long look.

“You know... you’re not as nice as everyone thinks.”

****

“C’mon bro, let’s go. Just real quick,” Paige whispered urgently, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Ice, lounging sideways on a stiff hotel bench in the hallway, arched a brow and glared at her. “Paige. Madison. Bueckers.”

“Yeah?” Paige grinned, dragging her voice into something sugary and innocent, eyes wide and untrustedworthy.

“You are six feet tall and a fully grown adult woman. You’re more than capable of getting shots up alone.”

Paige crouched beside Ice like a little kid. “Yeah, but—” she took Ice’s hand in her own—“it wouldn’t be any fun without my very best friend there.”

Ice smacked her hand away with a smirk. “You’re such a pain.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you. For 30 minutes. No more.”

She tossed her gym bag over her shoulder, blonde hair whipped into a messy bun, in black UConn warmup pants and a slate gray shirt still damp from earlier shootaround. Ice sighed, tugging her hoodie over her braids and muttering under her breath as they wandered down the hotel corridors, lost twice and laughing about it both times.

Then, Paige shoved open the double doors to the gym.

Immediately, Ice stopped dead in her tracks.

“Bruh, Ice—what’s your deal?” Paige asked, crashing into her back.

Ice didn’t move, eyes locked on the court. “We should come back later.”

“What? Why?” Paige slipped around her, utterly confused. “It’s not like—”

Her words cut short as she stepped into the gym.

There were already people here.

Lauren Betts stood alone near the far basket, 6’7”, commanding space like gravity. Her UCLA shorts clung to her frame, her form fluid and efficient. Watching her in person—up close—was different. The stats on paper didn’t show how naturally dominant she was. She wasn’t just tall. She was elegant in the way skyscrapers are elegant.

Paige gave Ice a look. “It’s fine.”

Ice hesitated, then followed her.

They set up on the opposite half-court, silently respecting the invisible boundary. Sneakers squeaked against the floor as Lauren continued her workout, sweat glistening down her back. Paige and Ice tied their laces, then jumped right in—Paige leading one-on-one drills, exploding into the lane, her footwork a blur of muscle memory and talent.

Every jumper was water. Every crossover was tight, slick. Her passes snapped through space like knives. The kind of flow that made time irrelevant.

She didn’t hear the gym door creak open.

Didn’t hear footsteps.

Didn’t notice the sudden shift in temperature.

But Lauren did.

“Azzi!” she said, a little too brightly. Too forced.

Paige froze—not because of the name, but because of the tone. Her back straightened like a shot. She turned, slowly.

There she was.

Azzi Fudd. In nothing but UCLA-rolled shorts, a royal blue sports bra, and sweat-kissed curls braided into a bun that framed her face like something out of a GQ shoot. Her face, flushed from rinsing off in the bathroom, was unreadable—but her eyes?

They were daggers.

“Don’t,” Azzi snapped at Lauren, already annoyed.

Lauren offered a helpless shrug.

“Well. Look who it is,” Azzi said, voice syrupy-sweet and sharp as a blade. She walked forward, arms crossed, her stare pinned straight on Paige like a heat-seeking missile.

The tension snapped like a rubber band pulled too far.

Paige turned fully now, her hands resting on her hips, her expression unreadable but undeniably smug. “Azzi Fudd. How are you?”

There was no warmth in her voice. Just a hollow echo of politeness. A taunt wrapped in pleasantry.

Azzi cocked her head, cool and unbothered. “I’m great. Ready to play.”

They stared each other down, less like rivals and more like predators unsure which one was hungrier.

They didn’t blink.

They didn’t break.

They hated each other.

And not in the cliché way most people claim to hate their rivals. This wasn’t school spirit, or trash talk, or even competitiveness.

This was personal.

But neither could say why.

“Good,” Paige said finally, breathing out slowly, like she had to push the word out past her pride. “That’s good.”

Azzi smiled—chill, collected, cold. “I hope to see you guys on the court. It’s always… fun, to play against you.”

Paige chuckled dryly, a sound that lacked all humor. “Yeah. Sure. ‘Fun.’”

Their gazes clashed in the middle of the court—blue eyes against brown, California sunshine versus Minnesota. Neither flinched.

Azzi held her smirk a second longer, then turned and walked back toward Lauren, her strides sharp, her presence magnetic. Without a word, she picked up the ball and started drilling again—only harder now, sharper.

Paige turned back to her side of the court too, jaw tight, pulse quicker than before. She hadn’t lost control. Not really. But something was different now.

*****

Ice, Paige and Azzi, Lauren all worked. The coexisted in the space even though the air felt charged-and it was.

After Lauren missed a step for the second time in a row Azzi groaned.

“Lauren! Cmon.”

She sighed and whipped her sweat off her hands, lookimg back to Azzi. “I'm tired Az! And so are you. Can we leave? It’s been like an hour and a half.”

Azzi glanced over quickly to where Paige and ice were.

They were blowing through some drill where Paige blocked ices shot and kicked out for a three.

She was sweating- probably out of breath too.

But still, she was full out sprinting each time, never missing, always talking to ice.

She pulled her head back.

“No..not yet.”

Lauren’s gave her a glare, following where her eyes had just been. “Really?”

Azzi locked eyes with her, still breathing heavily dispite wanting to keep going. “Really what?”

“Azzi” she started, “I’m not stupid.” Lauren’s voice dropped down to a whisper. She glanced over Azzi's shoulder again to motion towards Paige. “I know you just wanna stay here and work longer then Paige…for whatever stupid feud you too have going on.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was completely right.

She grabbed the ball out of Lauren’s hands and started dribbling. “Cmon, let’s shoot some threes.”

“Your evil Fudd.”

****

Paige… I’m gonna pass away,” Ice groaned dramatically, sprawled half-upright against the wall.

“You’re not dying,” Paige replied flatly, the words almost lost beneath the crisp swish of her shot ripping through the net. She was locked in; shoulders square, eyes sharp, every release a surgical strike.

“No. I am. This is it. I’m leaving this world sweaty and betrayed.”

Paige didn’t look her way. Just caught the ball off the bounce and let another three fly, all net. “If you die, can I have your slides?”

Ice rolled her eyes so hard her whole head tipped back against the wall. It had been over 90 minutes of nonstop one-on-one drills, makeshift shooting contests, and—more than anything—unspoken warfare between Paige and Azzi across the court.

Neither of them said a word to each other.

But the tension screamed.

They mirrored each other perfectly: the same relentless drive, the same stubborn refusal to quit, the same stolen glances.

It was like a silent chess match. Only with sneakers, sweat, and pride.

And Ice? She was done.

She let out a fake cough loud enough to rattle the gym. It echoed.

Neither Paige nor Azzi looked up.

But someone did.

Lauren.

Across the court, Lauren caught Ice’s exhausted eye and tilted her head with concern. Ice looked at her, nodded dramatically toward her own body and mouthed, “I’m dead.”

Lauren barely smirked, but the laugh hit her eyes. She mouthed back, “Me too.”

UCLA and UConn weren’t even rivals, not officially. But the Azzi-Paige Cold War could’ve melted steel beams. The two of them acted like the other’s existence personally offended them—but even that didn’t explain the weird electricity in the air.

Lauren’s gaze flicked toward the locker room hallway. She tilted her head meaningfully, mouthing, “Meet me?”

She stood up slowly, muscles stiff from shooting, and started walking toward the bathroom. Ice caught the signal and nodded.

As Ice made her move, Paige finally snapped out of her shooting trance.

“Ice?” she called, not looking away from the hoop. “Where’re you going?”

Ice froze for half a second. “Bathroom. Real quick,” she said casually, already halfway down the court. “Don’t miss me too much.”

Paige just hummed and sank another jumper.

Azzi didn’t look up either, but Ice noticed her brows twitch the moment Paige spoke.

Curious.

The door clicked shut behind Ice as she slipped into the bathroom. Lauren was already leaning against the counter, pulling her hair out of its sweaty bun and sighing.

Ice didn’t waste time. “We need to do something about them.”

Lauren didn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

“Like… what even is their problem?”

“I don’t think even they know,” Ice muttered. “It’s like they hate each other, but also can’t stop looking at each other like they wanna… I don’t know. Fight or kiss or fight and kiss.”

Lauren snorted. “Right?! Thank you. I’ve been saying that. No one else sees it!”

“Oh, I see it,” Ice said, pacing now.

“So what are you thinking?” Lauren asked,

Ice paused and looked at her. “Okay. Don’t call me crazy.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a promising start.”

“I’m serious. I get a vibe. I think they’re into each other. Or at least—something. Something messy and probably way more interesting than either of them would admit.”

Lauren leaned in. “Keep talking.”

“Well,” Ice began, smirking now, “even if they’re not into each other, they’re gonna have to figure this out eventually. We have a few single rooms left open, right?”

Lauren’s eyes widened slightly.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s evil.”

“I know,” Ice whispered, grinning like the Grinch. “But it’s also kind of genius.”

Lauren burst out laughing, her whole body shaking. “Oh my god. You're insane. I’m in.”

****

They slipped out of the bathroom like criminals on a mission.

The plan? Foolproof. Dirty. Beautiful.

Get Paige in first.

Say it was about going live.

Use her one weakness.

And let the rest fall into place.

Ice led the way, casual as hell, phone in hand like she was just scrolling TikTok. But her brain was calculating every move like it was game point. She dropped herself dramatically onto the hardwood, legs sprawled, phone propped up against her knee.

Time to bait the hook.

“Paaaige,” she drawled out, voice extra whiny, like a little sister trying to get her way. “C’mon, dude.”

Paige, mid-dribble, didn’t even turn fully. Just flicked her eyes over. “What, Ice?” Her tone was short, distracted, a little annoyed. Classic locked-in Paige. Even this late, she was still trying to one-up Azzi across the court.

“We’re done,” Ice said. “It’s literally two a.m. We. Are. Leaving.”

Paige sucked her teeth and let the ball roll back into her palm. “Yeah, aight. You can go. I’m stayin’.”

She squared back up at the top of the key, body angled, hips light. She moved like she was in her own world. Just her and the rim.

Until Ice dropped the magic words.

“If you leave right now… we’ll go live.”

Paige froze mid-shot. The ball still in her hands, forgotten.

“You deadass?” she asked, brows raised. “Ice, don’t play with me right now.”

Ice gave a nod, biting back a smirk. “Deadass. You know I hate going live but— Let’s give the people what they want.”

Paige squinted. She was suspicious, but intrigued. “You being for real? Like, we’ll actually go live? Not that ‘five minutes and end it’ shit?”

“I’m talking real live. Long live. Comments on. No filter.”

Paige hesitated, then slowly cracked a grin. “Say less.”

She jogged over to grab her bag, tossing her head back and wiping sweat off her neck with the collar of her shirt. Her grey UConn tee clung to her like she’d just showered in it, and her hair was a wild mess of curls pulled into a lopsided bun.

“I gotta shower first, though,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Not tryna go live lookin’ like a raccoon.”

Ice nodded casually, already rolling into Phase Two. “Bet. Actually, I need to shower too. I was thinking…”

She paused like she just now thought of it.

“…since the team rooms are all right next to each other, and it’s stupid late, what if we used one of the extra rooms across the hall? Less noise. Plus it’s got its own bathroom.”

Paige stopped for half a second, clearly thinking. Then she shrugged. “Aight, cool. That’ll work. I’ll hit the shower first, come in like twenty?”

Ice smiled, trying to look chill but barely holding back. “Say less.”

She watched as Paige turned and strutted off toward the elevators, humming under her breath, already dreaming about Instagram comments and dumb livestream filters.

Behind her, Ice pulled out her phone and sent one message to Lauren:

“Room secured. It’s go time.”

***

“Lauren?” Azzi asked, glancing over as she wiped sweat from her temple. “I think they’re leaving. Would you like to head out now?”

“Yes! Finally,” Lauren said, a bit too enthusiastically. Then, stepping closer with a sudden thought, she added, “Oh, also—I was thinking about doing some yoga before bed. If you’re up for it. I just didn’t want to get our room all messy, so maybe we could use one of the extra rooms?”

Azzi blinked, surprised. Lauren never suggested yoga. Usually, Azzi had to beg. “Sure, sounds good. I’ll rinse off first.”

“Alrighty,” Lauren replied, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile too hard.

They left the gym a few minutes after Paige and Ice, casually making their way back to the dorms. Inside their room, Lauren slid the door open and stepped in first, pausing just long enough to surprise Azzi again.

“You can go first. I’m going to text Jayden real quick.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Jayden? Who is that?”

“Oh. Just… some guy,” Lauren lied smoothly, avoiding eye contact as she reached for her clothes. In truth, "Jayden" was the code name for Ice—they’d coordinated this entire plan together.

Azzi didn’t push. She just nodded as she grabbed her towel. “Alright. But I want to hear all about this mystery man when I’m done.”

“Promise,” Lauren replied, already tapping away on her phone.

Lauren: Hey, Azzi’s in the shower now. Should be about 15 minutes ‘til we head over.

Ice: gotcha, Paige is already in the room. Left her phone on the table too

Lauren: they’re so perfectly stupid it’s painful. I’ll text when I drop Azzi in.

Ice: bet 🫡🫡

The sound of water running filled the room, and not long after, Azzi stepped out. Her curls were looser now, stretched from the conditioner. The front half of her hair was still braided, the rest hanging wet down her back. She threw on a pair of Nike Pro shorts and a UCLA hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her signature Stewie socks peeked out above her slides.

“Laur? You ready?” she called, finishing brushing her teeth.

“Yep!” Lauren answered a little too quickly. She tried to play it off with a casual nod. “All set.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m totally fine. Why?”

“No reason,” Azzi said with a shrug. She stepped into her slides and followed Lauren out.

Once they were walking, Lauren texted again.

Lauren: Heading over now.

They strolled toward the extra room, which was a short walk from the main UCLA block. Azzi stayed focused on her phone—probably checking team emails—while Lauren’s attention locked onto the door ahead. She felt her pulse tick upward.

Lauren pulled the keycard from her pocket and swiped it.

“Can I see your phone for a second? I think I might’ve posted something by accident,” she said casually.

Azzi, distracted, didn’t hesitate. “Sure.” She handed it over and stepped into the room.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her eyes landed on the bag and clothes thrown over the bed. Her stomach dropped.

“I’m pretty sure this is someone else’s room,” she said, turning sharply toward Lauren.

Lauren just smiled, stepped back, and closed the door with a sharp click. Locked.

“Lauren! What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Az! We’ll be back in the morning,” Lauren called through the door.

“We’ll? Who’s we?!”

That’s when Paige’s voice called from the bathroom. “Ice? That you?”

Azzi’s eyes widened in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ice strolled up beside Lauren, already laughing.

Inside, Azzi slapped her palm against the door. “Lauren! What the hell!”

“Sorry Az!” Lauren shouted back, voice chipper.

“Y’all have fun in there!” Ice added, barely containing her giggles.

“Ice? Seriously?” Azzi groaned. Then she paused. “Wait—do you have my phone?”

“Yup!” Lauren answered through the door, practically glowing. “Told you, we’ll grab you in the morning.”

“Bye Azzi! Tell Paige I said goodnight!” Ice chirped before the two conspirators walked away, still giggling.

From inside, Azzi could still hear them laughing down the hall.

Then the shower stopped.

Out walked Paige, towel slung over her shoulders, sports bra on, shorts low on her hips. Her eyes flicked up when she spotted Azzi standing by the locked door.

“Yo. Azzi?” Paige said, confused, water still dripping down her back.

“Yep,” Azzi replied with a resigned sigh.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Paige asked, voice deep and unbothered, arms folding across her bare chest.

Azzi crossed her arms too and pointed at the door. “Lauren and Ice thought it would be hilarious to lock us in here for the night.”

Paige’s eyes followed the motion. She walked over and tugged the handle twice. Nothing.

“Your joking.”

“Nope.”

With a muttered curse, Paige banged on the door. “Ice! Stop playin, open the door!”

From the bed, Azzi said dryly, “You really think I haven’t already tried that?”

“Man, shut up,” Paige muttered, not looking at her.

Azzi lifted her hands in surrender. “Fine. Do your thing.”

Paige gave the door one last shake, then turned, annoyed.

“You try callin’ somebody?”

“Lauren has my phone,” Azzi answered calmly. “What about yours?”

Paige dragged a hand down her face. “… I left it on the table.”

Azzi threw her hands in the air. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.”

Paige sucked her teeth and dropped down into a chair across from the bed. “this is some bullshit.”

“Well, do you have a better idea?”

She stared at Azzi for a moment, jaw working like she wanted to snap but didn’t have the energy. Then she leaned back with a grunt.

“Nah. Guess I don’t.”

“Mhm,” Azzi murmured, folding her legs beneath her. “Didn’t think so.”

They sat in the thick quiet for a second—Paige glaring at the floor, Azzi watching her from the bed. Neither spoke, but the tension in the room hung heavy, thick as humidity. And neither of them looked away.

****

Back in Ices room, her and Lauren sat on the bed talking.

“So, you have like any real idea why those too hate each other?” Lauren asked.

“Not really” ice replied. “Paige is..stubborn to say the least, when set her mind on hating Azzi, it’s not changed.”

“Same for Azzi. There like, the same person.”

“I know!”

“You know what we should do? Let’s go live right now.” Ice said.

Lauren nodded and moved closer to ice on the bed, getting in frame for the tik tok live.

Ice started it and the comments rolled in.

“Ice and Lauren?? What kinda duo is this?”

“Why are yall together this is so random😭😭”

“Acting like yall don’t have game tmrw night smh😪”

“Where’s Paige and Azzi?”

It’s not uncommon for fans to ask about Paige and Azzi, them being the stars.

Lauren looked over at ice, giving her a side eye at the comment then laughing.

“Umm who are Paige and Azzi?” Ice said at the camera, her voice dripping in sarcasm as Lauren laughed.

The chats started blowing up

‘WAITT why yall laughing 🤨🤨’

‘Suspicioussss’

‘Maybe Paige and Azzi duo soon’

“Doubt it” Lauren said under her breath at the last comment, which of course the chat caught

‘WHAT ARE YALL HIDINGGG’

‘Acting mad strange right about now’

‘Lauren wdym bro😭😭’

“Me and ice aren’t good enough for yall?” Lauren said, while ice snickered.

‘Nooo just let us know where Azzi and Paige are🤫🤫’

Ice and Lauren both read the comment, then ice answered.

“Umm Azzi and Paige are..busy”

‘BUSY DOING WHAT?’

‘What is going on atp🤨🤨🤨’

‘Mhmm so there together #NewDuoAlert’

“Yall are messy” ice laughed

****

“We’re in here for the night, you know,” Azzi said, her voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Yeah. Figured.” Paige didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the carpet.

Azzi tossed a pillow in her direction. “You take the bathtub.”

The pillow hit Paige’s chest with a soft thump. She caught it, then lifted her eyes slowly, a brow raised. “You’re joking.”

Azzi’s arms crossed, mouth pulled in that maddeningly calm way she had. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, standing a little straighter. “Because you’d have to be out of your damn mind to think you’re getting the bed that easy.”

A pause.

Azzi held her stare for a moment too long. Then, voice softer, quieter: “Why do you hate me?”

That caught Paige off guard. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even bitter. Just... curious.

She hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said honestly, which was dangerous—truth always was with Azzi. “Because I hate UCLA, maybe. And you... you basicallyare UCLA.”

“Mhm.” Azzi’s eyes didn’t leave hers. There was something unreadable in them. Not challenge. Not sarcasm. Just... presence.

“Why?” Azzi asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you hate UCLA?”

Paige shrugged like it was stupid, like this conversation wasn’t unraveling her from the inside out. “You guys are all... blue and shit.”

Azzi laughed. Like, really laughed. And damn it, it made Paige want to smile too.

“What’s funny?” she asked, lips twitching.

“I’ve just never been hated for a color before.”

“New experience for you then,” Paige said, smirking now. The tension shifted, a little looser. Still there, but not choking.

“Okay. Then why do you hate me?” Paige asked, firing it back like a challenge she didn’t mean to make.

Azzi tilted her head slightly. “Because I hate guarding you.”

Paige blinked. “...Is that a compliment?”

“It’s just a fact.”

The silence that followed was different. Not awkward. Not cold. Just... weighty.

“I don’t love guarding you either,” Paige admitted after a moment.

Azzi leaned in slightly, like gravity had shifted. “Why’s that?”

Paige found herself mirroring her—leaning in too, like they were finally on the same wavelength. Or maybe circling something they’d been pretending wasn’t there.

“Because your shot’s quick. Stupid quick. Hard to read. I hate that.”

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just listened, head slightly tilted. Waiting.

“I like knowing things before they happen,” Paige continued. “I like reading the play before it forms. You don’t let people do that. You’re... slippery.”

“Thank you,” Azzi said softly.

“Like you said. Not a compliment. Just a fact.” Paige’s tone was calm, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Something new.

Another silence—this one thicker. Heavier. Like an unspoken truce had been signed and neither of them wanted to admit it.

“Your shot’s pretty,” Azzi said, and it landed like a drop of warm rain on skin.

Paige blinked. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Azzi nodded, her gaze unwavering now. “Your three-pointers are easy, though.”

“Easy?” Paige asked, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“I mean, you usually come off a screen. Not always. But enough.”

Paige didn’t bristle at it. The way Azzi said it wasn’t critical. More like analysis. More like she watched her. Closely.

“Your midrange, though,” Azzi added, a crooked smile pulling at her lips. “That’s practically cheating. You stop on a dime, change direction, attack the paint. Can’t predict that. It’s... brutal.”

Paige stared at her. Really stared. Like she was watching film, trying to dissect a play she didn’t quite understand.

“High praise from you,” she murmured.

Azzi just shrugged, smile still lingering, eyes still locked on hers. “Maybe“

Paige scratched the back of her neck, still standing while Azzi leaned casually against the edge of the bed like she owned it. That alone irked Paige—not the bed, but how Azzi always looked so composed, like nothing ever got to her. Paige wasn’t used to feeling off balance, especially not around someone who wore smugness like it was stitched into their jersey.

“You always talk like that?” Paige asked finally, voice low, gritty.

Azzi raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like a therapist who also dropped thirty in the semis.”

Azzi grinned. “Only around people who need therapy.”

Paige let out a scoff that was half a laugh, dragging her palm over her mouth like she could hide it. Then she crossed the room, dropped onto the chair in the corner with a full man-spread—legs open, elbows on her knees, chin resting in one palm. Watching Azzi like she was still trying to scout her.

“Alright, go ‘head. Say what you really think of my game.”

Azzi’s eyes lit up, just slightly. “You want honesty?”

“Nah, lie to me,” Paige muttered, rolling her neck with a smirk. “Of course I want honesty. C’mon. I can take it.”

Azzi studied her for a beat longer, then pushed off the bed. She walked closer, slow, steps soft against the hotel carpet. She stopped a couple feet away, arms folded, expression calm but edged with something a little more playful now.

“You hunt space better than anyone I’ve seen,” Azzi said. “Like—you create it out of nothing. And you don’t even hesitate. Most guards, they wait. Think twice. You just go.”

Paige didn’t move, but her smirk tugged a little deeper on one side. “Aight,” she said.

“But,” Azzi added.

“Knew it.”

“But you overuse your left crossover when you’re tired. You don’t trust your weak-side kickout. And you lose track of the weakside cutter when the play breaks.”

Paige leaned back like Azzi had just hit her with a cross to the jaw. “Damn.”

“You asked,” Azzi said, that crooked smile back again.

Paige ran a hand over her braid, biting down a grin. “That’s crazy comin’ from someone who pump fakes like she’s in a community college acting class.”

Azzi scoffed. “You bit on it twice in the last game.”v

“I slipped,” Paige said.

“You did not.”

“I slipped,” she repeated, eyes glinting now.

Azzi stepped closer. “Slipped right into a midrange jumper. I remember.”

Now Paige stood up, the chair creaking behind her as she rose. Not aggressive, not threatening—but there was something in the way she loomed a little taller now, arms hanging heavy at her sides, body loose and ready like she was checking someone at halfcourt. They were nearly eye to eye, close enough Paige could count the flecks in Azzi’s brown eyes. The air between them tightened.

“I could guard you,” Paige said, voice low.

Azzi tilted her head, not backing off an inch. “Not for four quarters.”

“I’d get in your head,” Paige added.

“You’re already there,” Azzi said, soft and devastating.

That landed heavier than either expected.

For a second, neither moved. Paige’s chest rose and fell a little slower now, not calm—but careful. Like if she moved too fast, the moment might crack.

“Alright,” Paige said, breaking it. “That’s enough of this... vibe.”

She stepped back, like she needed the distance to breathe, then walked to the other side of the room and dropped onto the bed like it owed her money—legs open, hand rubbing her face like she’d just stepped off a double-overtime game.

“You sleep on that side,” she said, tossing a thumb at the far end of the bed without looking.

Azzi hesitated, then crossed the room and sat, pulling her legs up underneath her.

They both stayed facing forward, like the other might disappear if they looked too long.

A long stretch of silence passed. The room was dim, lit only by a muted bedside lamp. The kind of light that made things look softer than they were.

“I don’t actually hate you,” Paige said eventually, her voice rough with sleep or something close to it.

Azzi didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Another beat.

“I still don’t like you, though,” Paige added.

Azzi smirked at her lap. “Would’ve been disappointed if you did.”

Paige let out a low chuckle, then flopped back dramatically, arms behind her head like she owned the ceiling.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be hell,” she said.

“For Texas?”

Paige turned her head slightly, eyeing Azzi. “You cocky now?”

Azzi shrugged. “You asked.”

Paige let that sit a minute. Then closed her eyes. “South Carolina’s not gonna let y’all breathe.”

“We don’t need to breathe,” Azzi said, voice dropping lower, like the truth in it was simple. “We just win.”

Paige opened one eye. “You always talk like that?”

Azzi nodded. “Only around people who listen.”

For a long time, they didn’t say anything.

Just the sound of the air conditioner humming.

Paige stayed on her back, legs still wide, body sprawled out like she wasn’t used to fitting into clean corners. Azzi sat curled up, spine straight, arms around her knees like she was trying to stay contained.

Opposites.

But the silence between them wasn’t cold anymore. Just stretched. Like taffy.

Eventually, Paige rolled onto her side, facing Azzi. Her voice dropped.

“You really hate guarding me?”

Azzi glanced over. “I do.”

“Why?”

Azzi hesitated. Then let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Because you don’t stop. Not when the shot clock’s low. Not when the lane’s clogged. Not when you’ve missed four in a row. You just keep coming.”

Paige blinked, the words hitting her stomach before her ears.

Azzi kept going. “And you talk. Always. In the middle of plays. Between free throws. It’s distracting.”

Paige grinned. “That’s the point.”

Azzi looked away. “Yeah, well. It works.”

Paige sat up, the bed creaking again. “You talk too.”

“Not like you.”

“true.”

Azzi didn’t respond. Just pulled the blanket up a little.

Then, like the room had shifted again, Paige said—quietly, sincerely—“Good luck tomorrow.”

Azzi looked at her. “You too.”

They stared at each other for a second too long again.

Then, slowly, carefully, Azzi laid down, facing the ceiling. Paige did the same. The room dimmed further as one of them clicked the lamp off.

And in the dark, without speaking, Azzi shifted just a little closer. Not touching. Just near.

It was Paige who spoke first, voice barely above a whisper.

“You cold?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

Instead, she moved again—slow, like sleep was pulling her limbs. Her shoulder found Paige’s, tentative, then settled there like it belonged.

Paige stiffened at first.

Then—gradually—relaxed.

Azzi’s breath evened out, soft and slow.

Paige stared at the ceiling.

And didn’t move.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because something sharp and slow and burning was blooming in her chest. Something she hadn’t planned for.

Something like… not hate.

Just the sound of Azzi breathing. Just the heat of her shoulder, warm against hers.

Just the silence—finally not thick, not heavy.

Just… full.

Paige closed her eyes.

Didn’t sleep.

But didn’t move either.

Not yet.

[dollgxtz]

His Watchful Eye Pt. 6

Word Count: 15.k...(oops)

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, dubcon, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding, comfort sex, cunnilingus, overstimulation if you squint, mentions of murder, nightmares, manipulation, pet names like, kitten, sweetie, honey, tw for panic attacks, rape flashbacks, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglmela @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @mysssticc, @babygirl-panda19, @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1, @honnylemontea, @altariasu, @the-slytherin-poet, @sorryimakira, @pearlymel, @emidpsandia , @angel-jupiter, @hwangintakswifey,

AN: Hi everyone! This is also on A03! Please someone stop me, how the hell did I manage to squeeze in like 4k extra words than last time??? Anyways, enjoy the meal, I definitely have missed writing smut with yan!sylus and reader :3. Also a gentle reminder that reader has no specific skin tone! I just use images that I think represent the chapter well, you can imagine her however you’d like ^^

"I'll make it all disappear," Sylus murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, penetrating the darkest recesses of your fractured psyche. It was as if he possessed the power to reach inside your mind and vaporize the painful memories that clung to you like shackles. "You want to feel so good you won't think about him again?"

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt. 5 Pt.7

The car roars down the empty road, its tires devouring the distance between freedom and your inevitable return to captivity. Luke sits at the wheel, his face completely hidden behind the bird shaped mask. You can’t see his eyes, can’t gauge anything from the way he’s holding himself—just the silent, unyielding presence of the man steering you back to your prison.

You wonder how he sees out of that thing.

Kieran sits beside him, his mask just the same, his fingers tapping a light, almost carefree rhythm on the dashboard as he finishes humming a cheery tune. His face, too, is entirely concealed, leaving you with nothing to hold onto—no eyes to search for clues, no expressions to read.

In the rearview mirror, you sense Kieran shift his head to look at you but can't entirely tell, his hidden gaze offers you nothing. The silence stretches on, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the steady, deliberate breaths of Sylus against your neck, the heat of his body keeping you trapped in more ways than one.

Sylus holds you tight, as if the moment he loosens his grip, you’ll dissolve into the darkness beyond the windows. His large hands are splayed possessively across your thighs, pinning you in place on his lap. Each minute that ticks by in this confined space feels like a countdown to something you can’t define, but the feeling of impending dread settles deep in your bones.

Your mind is a storm, thoughts swirling in an endless, chaotic loop. The gunshot that ended Reese’s life thunders in your head, over and over, refusing to let you go. You can still see it so clearly—the way his body slumped to the floor, lifeless, his eyes wide with the shock of it all.

It feels like it’s eating you alive.

This is your fault.

Yes, Reese was a monster. He’d kidnapped you, lied to you, dragged you into a nightmare you never deserved. But even now, that part of you—the part that still clung to honor, to a sense of right and wrong, the part of an honorable deep space hunter—hated what had happened. You hated yourself for it. He should have been locked away, brought to justice, not gunned down like that.

Your chest tightens. Why didn’t you stop it? You could have, couldn’t you? You didn’t have to let your anger take over, didn’t have to spit those words at him, didn't have to tell him to go to hell. If you hadn’t done that, Sylus wouldn’t have killed him right? The weight of it presses down on you, like you’re suffocating under the guilt.

You can feel it in your bones—the sharp sting of your failure, the way you let your emotions run wild. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to be the reason a person died, no matter how twisted or evil they were. You were supposed to be better than that.

But you weren’t.

And now Reese’s blood is on your hands.

The guilt coils tighter around your chest. You can almost taste the bitterness of it on your tongue, a relentless reminder of how you failed. Maybe if you had just kept your mouth shut. Maybe if you had found some way, any way, to de-escalate the situation, he’d still be alive. You wouldn't have to carry the weight of his death.

But you didn’t. And now it’s too late.

This is your fault.

You feel tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly suck in a breath, forcing them back. You can’t let them fall—not here, not now. You can’t let Sylus see the storm raging inside you. If he sees you faltering, sees your weakness, he’ll think he’s won.

You sense his eyes on you, watching, studying, but thankfully, he says nothing. His grip around you tightens slightly, as if he’s aware of the cracks forming in your resolve, but for once, he stays silent, leaving you alone with the war you’re fighting within yourself.

Instead of crying, you shift, turning your head to focus on the window. The dark tint makes it difficult to see clearly, but not impossible. You can just make out the blurred outlines of buildings as they whip past, vague shadows in the distance.

How much longer would this take? How far had you come?

You think back to the agonizing walk that had led you to the convenience store—the endless hours of trudging through unfamiliar streets, hoping for an escape. Time had lost all meaning then, just like it had now.

Lost in your thoughts, you feel your body betraying you, your exhaustion creeping in. You start to drift off against your will, feeling the heaviness pulling at your eyelids as you sink further into Sylus’s lap. You fight it, not wanting to rest your head on his chest, fearing what you might wake up to. But it’s been days since you’ve had proper rest, and the pull of sleep is relentless.

Minutes stretch into eternity, and despite your best efforts, your body begins to give in. You’re teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when suddenly, Sylus’s gruff voice cuts through the silence, startling you awake.

“Luke, tell the chefs to have dinner ready in an hour. Kieran, cancel my meeting with the general.”

Luke and Kieran both nod silently, their masked faces giving nothing away, and just as you’re trying to make sense of the words, the car abruptly comes to a stop.

“Yes, boss!” the twins respond with a clipped tones, as if this exchange is routine.

Everything happens so quickly. The moment the car parks, Luke and Kieran scramble out of their seats with swift, practiced efficiency. The sound of the doors opening and shutting echoes in the quiet night. Sylus shifts beneath you, opening his door, and you awkwardly slide off his lap, trying to maintain some semblance of balance as he exits the vehicle. You watch through strained, weary eyes as he steps out, his figure towering over the open car door. Then, he stretches out his hand toward you.

You hesitate.

The gesture, though outwardly polite, is anything but friendly. It’s not an offer—it’s a command, an unspoken reminder of your captivity. The world seems to close in around you, the air growing thicker, and your heart begins to pound in your chest. Your mind races, but there’s nowhere to run.

“If you’re thinking about driving off,” Sylus says with a low chuckle, leaning down to peer into the car, “Luke’s already got the keys, kitten.”

You can’t help but shoot him a sharp glare. You’d thought about running, yes, but not now—not when escape was utterly impossible. The moment passes quickly, and you open your mouth, wanting to explain yourself, to insist you weren’t planning anything. But the words stick in your throat, useless.

Instead, you shut your mouth, swallowing your frustration, and glare at him in defiance. Wordlessly, you reach out and take his hand. His grip is firm, possessive, as he helps you out of the car. Carefully, you step onto the ground, your heart still racing, knowing you’re walking back into your cage.

You glance around as Sylus pulls you forward, your hand still trapped in his. The sight of the mansion looms ahead, its grand, imposing silhouette becoming clearer with each step. Tall iron gates and bird statues loom in front of you, a place that might have been beautiful if it weren’t for the dread curling deep in your chest.

The mansion is more than just a building; it’s a cage, one that now feels even more suffocating as Sylus forces you to walk beside him, hand in hand like you’re something precious. But you know better. This is control, a quiet but undeniable display of power.

With each step toward the front door, the walls of the world seem to close in tighter, and your heart races faster. The echoes of your own footsteps blend with the eerie silence of the night, the only sound that reminds you how very trapped you are in this place—never truly alone, but never free either.

As you walk toward the towering front doors, your eyes drift upward, almost unconsciously, to Sylus. His appearance has always been striking—red eyes that seem to glow with a mix of malice and amusement, and white hair with subtle gray undertones, catching the faint light of the mansion. His angular features, so sharp and perfectly controlled, show signs of wear now. You can see the tension in his brow, the tiredness in the slight creases around his eyes—things you hadn’t noticed before. It makes you wonder how much stress your escape had caused him. How much had he sacrificed in the time you were gone? Had he been frantic, furious?

As if sensing your gaze, Sylus turns his head slightly, catching you in the act of studying him. A smirk plays across his lips, and his crimson eyes flicker with amusement. "What’s the matter? Falling in love?" His voice is a low drawl, teasing, but there’s something predatory in it—like he’s already enjoying this little game.

Heat rises to your face, a mixture of irritation and something else you refuse to name. You look away quickly, forcing yourself to focus on anything but him. His taunts are the last thing you want to entertain, especially when your mind is still spinning with the weight of what lies ahead. Still, the words linger, taunting you as much as his smirk did.

Finally, the massive front doors loom before you, framed by the same wrought iron and heavy stone that always made the mansion feel more like a fortress. Sylus stops, standing tall beside you, his hand still gripping yours as if to remind you that escape, or even defiance, is out of the question.

He gestures toward a small panel embedded into the wall near the door. "Lean down," he orders, the edge of his voice soft yet commanding, "in front of the scanner."

Confused, you glance between him and the scanner, unsure of what he’s planning. You hesitate, but his unblinking red gaze locks onto you, expectant, leaving you little choice. Slowly, you lean forward, lowering yourself until your eyes are aligned with the scanner. A soft beep fills the air, followed by a click as the door unlocks.

You straighten, startled, staring at the door in disbelief. "Wait," you stammer, turning to Sylus. "Aren’t you trying to prevent me from escaping?"

A deep, rumbling laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head, the white strands of his hair shifting slightly as he leans in closer, his red eyes flashing with amusement. "Your eyes," he says with a grin, "can only get you into this place." He leans in further, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Not out."

His words settle heavily in your chest, and a knot of dread tightens in your stomach. Your eyes—the very thing that could open doors here—were also the key to locking you in. Any hope you might have had, any fleeting thought of escape, is crushed in that moment. The world seems to warp, the walls of the mansion now looming around you like a trap. A cage disguised as opulence.

Why had he even bothered with something like that? The thought gnaws at you as you stand at the threshold of the mansion. Did he seriously think you would ever want to come back inside? The idea seems absurd. You were his captive, forced into this nightmare. There was no version of this where you willingly returned.

But as you glance back at him, his smirk still lingering on his face, you wonder if that’s exactly what he wants. He’s a man who thrives on control, on bending people to his will, and the thought that he might relish the idea of making you come back to this place, on your own terms, sends a shiver down your spine. Would he leave you out there in that desolate city, waiting, desperate, only to watch you break down and crawl back inside? The idea feels like a twisted game only he could design—where escape was impossible not just because of physical barriers, but because he'd burrowed deep into your mind.

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away, but the question lingers, settling like a weight in your chest. Did he think that, over time, you’d surrender? That this grand mansion, this cage, would eventually become a place you’d walk into willingly?

Sylus catches your hesitation, his red eyes glinting in the low light. “Strange, isn’t it?” he muses, his voice smooth and casual, as if he could read the questions racing through your mind. “A key that only lets you in. But maybe someday…you'll want to use it.”

His words hang in the air, and you can feel your pulse quicken, anger mixing with the uncertainty swirling inside you. He can’t seriously believe that, can he? That one day you’d walk back into this place of your own accord?

The very thought of it makes your stomach turn. You can’t imagine a future where you wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to stay away from here. Yet, there’s an unsettling confidence in the way he says it, a certainty that leaves you with more questions than answers.

“As if I would ever, prick,” you spat, your voice sharp and defiant.

Sylus laughs, his amusement rolling off him in deep waves, rich and unhurried. His red eyes gleam, locking onto yours with a look that holds something deeper than mere satisfaction. There’s affection there—twisted, yes, but genuine.

“Ah, there she is,” he murmurs, his grin widening. “I was starting to wonder if the N109 Zone had fully broken you.” His grip tightens, not painfully, but firm and reassuring, as he leads you into the grand mansion. To him, this was always meant to be your home, even if you couldn't see it yet.

You grimace at his words, irritation bubbling up inside you, making your heart race. This was still a game to him—a challenge, but not one born of cruelty. No, he found your defiance amusing, like a kitten batting at the hand that feeds it. He loved it, even.

You silently curse him under your breath as he leads you deeper into the grand house, your feet moving mechanically while your mind fights to keep up. The familiar sights come back into view, flooding your senses like a slow wave of nausea. The glossy black tile beneath your feet, the dark, lavish décor that loomed from every corner—it was all the same, just as cold and suffocating as you remembered.

Your eyes flick to the kitchen entryway, a place that had once offered a glimmer of hope, a chance to escape. You remember fleeing into it, heart racing, desperate to get away from all of this, only to be dragged back into Sylus’s grip. The memory gnaws at you, bringing a fresh wave of bitterness.

It makes you sick.

Every inch of this place, every dark aesthetic, seemed designed to remind you of your captivity. This was a cage, no matter how opulent or luxurious it appeared on the surface. And the worst part was the weight of his hand around yours—the possessiveness of his grip, the unspoken reminder that escape, no matter how hard you tried, was out of reach right now.

Sylus gently guides you toward the stairs, his grip still firm, giving you no room to hesitate. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as your feet start moving up the dark, winding staircase. Every step feels heavier than the last, your pulse thrumming in your ears as memories flood back—memories of when you had fled, heart racing, legs burning, desperate to escape this place. You’d made it down these very stairs once before, only to have freedom ripped away from you.

Now, you were being forced back up, step by agonizing step, into the room you had fought so hard to leave behind.

With every step upward, your resolve starts to crumble. The closer you get to that door, the more you feel the weight of your captivity settling in again, suffocating you. The darkened hallways, the oppressive silence—it all presses down on you, reminding you that no matter how much you fight, this is where you’ll always end up. Trapped.

You hesitate when you finally reach the door to the bedroom. The sight of it makes your stomach twist, your feet glued to the floor as a wave of dread washes over you. Everything in your body screams not to go inside, not to let yourself be locked in that room again. To run, to fight.

But Sylus is right behind you, close enough that you can feel his presence, his breath warm and steady, almost unnervingly calm. His grip on your hand softens, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your skin, as if to soothe your frayed nerves. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice gentle but laced with that unsettling authority. “Go on, sweetie.”

The way he says it is almost tender, but it only deepens the knot of anxiety in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s real kindness or just another layer of control. That soft, coaxing tone… it unnerves you more than his laughter, more than his taunts.

Despite every fiber of your being wanting to resist, you find yourself moving, stepping forward under the weight of his quiet insistence. You cross the threshold into the room, your body betraying you even as your mind screams to stop. The door clicks shut behind you with an almost imperceptible finality, and just like that, the familiar four dark walls of your prison close in around you once more.

You fight back the tears burning at the edges of your eyes as you step further into the room. The familiar surroundings feel like a punch to the gut—the large, imposing bed where Sylus had forced himself on you many many times, leaving behind scars you hadn’t realized had cut so deep. The leather couch in the center of the room, cold and impersonal, where you’d sat, waiting for the next wave of control to sweep over your life.

It’s too much.

For a moment, your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down with crushing force. The memories—dark, suffocating—swirl around you, making it hard to breathe. You almost crumble right there, unable to withstand the flood of emotions, of trauma that suddenly feels too close to the surface.

But before you can collapse, Sylus is there, his hand wrapping around your arm, guiding you away from the room and into the bathroom. His touch is firm but oddly gentle, a contrast that makes you even more uneasy. He’s pulling you toward the tiled space, and your mind races, trying to understand what’s happening as he begins to carefully, methodically, lift up your shirt to undress you.

“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. Your body goes stiff, your hands gripping the fabric of your shirt as if holding onto it could somehow protect you. “No,” you repeat, a little louder this time, your voice shaky and uneven. The tremors wrack your body, panic rising in your chest.

Sylus looks at you with something akin to worry, his touch slowing, but not stopping. He doesn’t force you, but his actions continue with a sense of inevitability, as though he believes this is just part of taking care of you, of ensuring you’re where you belong.

"I'm not going to do anything to you now, you just need a shower, sweetie."

But your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Flashes of memory assault you—dim lights, the scent of damp stone, and the overpowering fear of when you were in that basement. The man who had tried to force himself on you, who had pressed you against the bed with a hunger that still made your skin crawl. Your breath hitches as you remember his hands, his twisted smile. The terror, the helplessness—it's all too real, crashing down on you like a tidal wave.

You hadn’t realized just how deeply the trauma had sunk into you. Not until this moment, with Sylus standing in front of you, touching your clothes, his touch too familiar, too close to the horror you’d endured. You had been holding your emotions back but you couldn't now.

You flinch, your body recoiling instinctively as the memories close in around you. Your voice cracks, barely holding back the sob building in your throat. “Please…don’t.”

Sylus’s hands pause, and for the first time that entire day, you see it,—hesitation flickering across his sharp features. His red eyes, usually so calculating and cold, soften just enough for you to notice. His grip loosens, his fingers no longer working to take off your clothes but instead resting lightly on your shoulders, as if afraid of causing more harm.

“Be still,” he says again, his voice quiet and strangely tender. “I’m just trying to help you.”

But his words barely register. The panic has already set in, tightening around your chest like a vice. Your breathing grows shallow, quick—too quick. Your thoughts scatter, your heartbeat hammering so hard it feels like your ribcage might shatter under the pressure. The room spins around you, and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re back in the basement, cold stone beneath your feet, that man’s hands on your skin, forcing you against the wall. Forcing you on the bed.

You gasp for air, but each breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts. Your vision blurs, and your knees wobble beneath you. It’s happening all over again. The helplessness, the terror. It’s like your body has been pulled back into that moment, and no matter how much you try to claw your way out, you can’t.

Sylus moves swiftly, pulling you into his arms before you can collapse. His embrace is strong and grounding, his chest solid against your trembling form. “Breathe, sweetie” he whispers, his voice low, soothing, as if trying to coax you back from the edge of your panic. His hand rubs slow circles on your back, the gentle rhythm fighting against the chaos inside you. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But you can’t. The air won’t come. Your breaths are sharp and shallow, your body on the verge of shutting down as you feel the world slipping away. You struggle, pushing weakly at him, but his arms only tighten around you, holding you firmly in place, anchoring you.

“Shhh, shhh…” His voice drops even lower, soft and almost tender. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

The warmth of his body presses against yours, his presence somehow steadying the storm inside you. You eventually cling to him, not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing that keeps you from spiraling into complete panic. His hand continues to stroke your back in slow, measured motions, and though your heart still pounds in your chest, his touch starts to break through the suffocating fog.

“I’ll turn around, okay?” he says gently, as if sensing the root of your fear. “You can undress yourself. I won’t watch.”

There’s something in his tone—something that feels honest, reassuring, like he’s not just saying the words to control you but because he wants you to feel safe. You weakly nod, barely, but he catches it. He loosens his grip and takes a slow step back, raising his hands in surrender, his red eyes locked onto yours.

“I’ll give you some time. You don’t have to rush.”

With a careful turn, he faces away from you, his broad back filling the room but no longer imposing. His actions aren’t threatening; they’re deliberate, giving you the space he knows you need.

Your breathing slows and you blink back tears, but your body still trembles. You wipe the remaining tears from your eyes with a shaky hand, glancing around the bathroom as the panic begins to ebb. And then you notice it—something is different.

The bathtub is gone.

It had been there before, you remember. A large, ornate tub that had taken up the corner of the bathroom, a symbol of something luxurious in this prison of yours. But now, it’s nowhere to be seen. Your brows knit together in confusion as you stare at the empty space.

“Where’s the tub?” you ask, your voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Sylus doesn’t turn around, but his response is quick and calm, as if he expected the question. “I had it removed,” he says softly, his voice strangely careful, almost cautious. “I didn’t want you to drown yourself again.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as the weight of what he’s saying sinks in. He thought…no, he knew. He knew how deep the darkness inside you could go, how close you’d come to actually dying. He’d taken precautions—not just to keep you here, but to keep you alive.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the empty space where the bathtub used to be, and the reality sinks in—there’s truly no escape. Not from this place, not from Sylus, and not from the relentless grip of your own mind. He’s stripped you of every option, every avenue, until there’s nothing left but this.

Nothing left but him.

The exhaustion presses down on you, heavier than ever before. With slow, mechanical movements, you step into the shower, your limbs feeling distant, as if they don’t belong to you anymore. The warm water hits your skin, but it does nothing to ease the weight in your chest. You close your eyes, hoping that the steady stream of water can drown out the chaos inside your head—the panic, the hopelessness, the memories.

But they cling to you, stubborn and unyielding.

Images flash behind your closed eyelids—memories of that basement, the cold stone walls pressing in, the terror that gripped you when the man came too close, his hands reaching, his breath sour. You press your hands against the tiled wall, your body shaking as you fight the memories back, but they keep coming, like waves crashing over you, dragging you under.

And then there’s Reese.

You can’t stop seeing it—the moment his body hit the floor, the sound of the fatal gunshot echoing in your mind like a haunting refrain. His face, twisted in shock and pain. Your fault. The words circle in your mind like a dark mantra, mixing with the trauma of that basement. It’s all tangled together, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t make it stop.

"Go to hell, Reese."

The water cascades down your back, but it doesn’t wash away the guilt. It doesn’t drown out the horror. The images of blood and brain matter sliding down concrete walls.

You press your forehead against the cold tile, letting the water soak through your hair as you fight the rising tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. You want to believe that there’s a way out, some form of freedom—maybe not from this mansion, but at least from the grip of your own mind. But right now, standing under the relentless stream of water, you know that freedom is further away than ever.

No matter how much you fight it, you’re trapped. Inside this house. Inside yourself.

And the worst part? Sylus knows it.

You feel the tears begin to well up, hot and uncontainable, spilling over before you even realize you’ve let them go. They mix with the water, disappearing beneath the steady stream of the shower, unseen, unclaimed by anyone but you. For the first time in what feels like forever, no one is watching. Not even Sylus.

You let the sobs come quietly, your body trembling as the tears fall, merging with the warm cascade. It’s a strange relief, knowing that in this moment, he isn’t witnessing your breaking point. Sylus had made it clear—your pain, your misery, your tears, they all belonged to him.

But right now, this moment is yours.

As the tears fall silently, you press your forehead against the cool tile, letting yourself cry in a way you hadn’t allowed before. The sobs are shaky, barely audible over the sound of the water, but they are real, raw, and they are yours alone. The stream washes them away before they have the chance to leave a trace, like they never existed at all.

Even as your heart aches and the trauma still weighs you down, there’s a strange comfort in the tears that go unnoticed. For just these few minutes, you aren’t his broken thing to fix or keep. You’re just a person, trying to survive, trying to breathe.

And even though the water doesn’t drown out all the pain or the memories, it gives you enough space to let the emotions pour out—if only for a little while.

Xavier’s breath came in shallow bursts as he navigated the empty streets of Linkon City, the familiar hum of his hunter’s watch glowing faintly on his wrist. His blue eyes flicked between the road and the holographic screen hovering just above the watch face. The blue light illuminated his face, highlighting the sharp focus in his eyes. The signal from the phone booth was still there, blinking steadily. That was his main lead—the last place you’d been before everything went silent.

His mind replayed the sound of your voice from the call, every word etched into his memory. Kidnapped. You hadn’t said much, but the panic in your tone had been unmistakable. The moment the call cut, something in him snapped. There was no hesitation, no second thought—he had left almost immediately, speeding through the city, your trembling words echoing in his head.

"Yeah, his name is S—"

Your words echoed in Xavier's mind, over and over, like a haunting refrain. You hadn’t been able to finish your sentence before the call had abruptly cut out, leaving him with nothing but that single, meaningless syllable. S. It replayed in his head as the car sped forward, finally breaking free from the limits of Linkon City and onto the dark, winding road that would lead him toward the N109 Zone.

He had tried to call back the second the line went dead, his hands trembling as he frantically redialed the number, but it was no use. The call wouldn’t connect. Maybe you had run out of money for the payphone. Maybe something far worse had happened.

The not knowing gnawed at him.

Who was S? The question had burned in his mind from the moment you said it. A name. It had to be a name. But just that one letter wasn’t enough to figure out who this person was, let alone why they had taken you. He cursed under his breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the dark road stretched out before him.

Whoever S was, they were dangerous enough to bring you to the N109 Zone. That part made his blood run cold. This place wasn’t just desolate—it was the kind of area that most people in the city pretended didn’t even exist. It was lawless, forgotten. A place where the desperate went to disappear, where the city’s darkness festered beneath the surface and on top of it, darkness everywhere you turn.

But why there? What did this S want with you? And why take you so far from the city?

He replayed the phone call in his mind again, your voice shaky but steady as you’d tried to tell him what had happened. The fear had been there, simmering just beneath your words, but you had clearly fought to stay calm.

Xavier’s heart pounded harder with every mile. There was something else that bothered him, something gnawing at the edges of his mind. Why had you been targeted? You were strong, capable—smart. One of the best deep space hunters around. You wouldn’t have let yourself be taken easily. That meant whoever S was, he’d planned this, thought it through, and knew how to get to you. That thought made Xavier’s stomach twist. This wasn’t random. It was calculated.

The car hit a bump in the road, jolting him back to the present, but his mind still raced. He needed to find you, needed to get to you before this S—whoever he was—did something unforgivable. He couldn’t stand the thought of you being out there, scared and alone, waiting for help that felt too far away.

He glanced at the holographic display on his hunter’s watch again, watching as the faint signal pulsed from the N109 Zone. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was the best lead he had. That phone booth, that single clue you’d left him before the call ended, was his only connection to you now.

Who are you, S? The question echoed in his mind as he pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car roaring down the empty highway.

He didn’t know what awaited him in the N109 Zone, but he knew one thing for sure: he was prepared to fight like hell for you.

After what felt like an eternity, buildings whipping past him, Xavier finally pulled up to the phone booth, his heart hammering in his chest. The headlights illuminated the cracked pavement and the battered glass of the booth, standing alone at the edge of the desolate lot like a ghost from another time. But of course, you weren’t there. The booth was empty. You were nowhere to be found.

Xavier’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he sat there for a moment, staring at the empty phone booth. His mind raced, thoughts tangled in frustration and fear. You had told him you would call back—you had said you were going to that strange man’s house, and then you’d come back to tell him what it looked like. But now, standing there in the middle of the N109 Zone, it felt like that plan had shattered into a thousand pieces.

He stepped out of the car, the cold air hitting him like a slap to the face as he approached the booth. His eyes scanned the area, up and down, looking for any sign of you. But there was nothing. Just silence. The eerie kind that made his stomach twist with unease.

The booth was run-down, even worse up close. He stared at it, his thoughts flickering between panic and regret. Should he wait for you to come back, as you said you would? Or had something already gone terribly wrong? Every second that passed felt like a ticking clock, time slipping away, leaving him more uncertain than ever.

He leaned against the booth, raking a hand through his hair, trying to decide. You had been so determined—so sure you could handle this. You’d said you were going to check out this strange man’s house, get some rest, and then return. But the thought of you going there alone, to that man—whoever he was—made him sick.

I should’ve told you not to go with him.

The regret hit him hard, twisting deep in his chest. He should’ve been more forceful, should’ve stopped you. The second you’d mentioned this man, this stranger who had somehow convinced you to follow him, alarm bells had gone off in his head. He had sensed something wasn’t right. Why hadn’t he told you to stay away? Why hadn’t he made sure you didn’t go?

But you were strong, capable—you had always been stubborn, determined to handle things on your own. And he had trusted you to do that. But now…now you were missing. And he was standing in an empty lot with no idea where you were or who had taken you.

Xavier clenched his fists, staring at the phone booth as if willing it to give him answers. The last place you had been. He thought about turning around, driving through the N109 Zone, checking every corner, every building. But the reality of how vast and dangerous this area was made him hesitate. He didn’t even know who to look for. S. The mysterious man whose name had been cut off by the phone’s disconnect. That wasn’t enough.

Xavier’s stomach growled, pulling him from the fog of his frantic thoughts. He hadn’t eaten properly in hours, and the adrenaline that had been fueling him was finally wearing thin. He gritted his teeth, the pang of hunger a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d stopped moving. He didn’t want to waste time, but he knew he needed to eat, to think straight.

Reluctantly, he climbed back into the car and started driving, scanning the streets of the N109 Zone for anything that looked remotely functional. This part of the city was basically wasteland—most of the buildings were crumbling, their windows broken, and the streets were nearly empty. He almost decided to give up before spotting a flicker of neon in the distance.

It was a convenience store—small, dingy, and barely lit—but it was open. The cracked neon sign buzzed weakly, casting a dull glow over the entrance. It didn’t look promising, but it was all he had. He pulled up, the car’s tires crunching over the broken pavement as he parked.

Xavier stepped out, his eyes narrowing as he approached the entrance. The store looked as worn out as the rest of the area, its windows covered in grime and dust, but the lights inside told him it was still in business. He pushed the door open, the warmth of the store enveloping him.

The place reeked of stale air and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined the narrow aisles, most of them half-stocked but there was variety. Xavier grabbed a few snacks—whatever looked edible—and made his way to the counter, where a grimy man with disheveled hair and yellowed teeth sat behind the register, staring at him with a disinterested scowl.

“Do you take gold?” Xavier asked, pulling out a small pouch from his pocket. It wasn’t unusual for places outside Linkon City to not take gold, as a lot of places were still living in the past. Couldn't hurt to ask though.

The man behind the counter laughed, a rough, guttural sound that made Xavier’s skin crawl. “Gold, huh? Figures. You Linkcunt folks just keep coming in here actin’ like it’s worth more than it is.” He leaned forward, eyeing Xavier with something between amusement and suspicion.

"No, we don't take it."

Xavier pocketed the small pouch, unsurprised by the man's harsh words, “You said Linkon folks? Who else from the city has been here?” His tone was casual, but his heart skipped a beat. Maybe someone else had seen you?

"Linkcunt," the man corrected with a sneer. The man’s eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly. “Why, you looking for someone?” He eyed Xavier and leaned back in his chair, his voice taking on an edge of curiosity.

Xavier pressed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Maybe. Just wondering who else might’ve been through here recently.”

The man scratched his stubbled chin, considering. “Well, there was this disheveled-looking girl who came through a little while ago. Had a lot of attitude, that one. Demanding help. Swiped some snacks and shit when I wasn’t looking. Took off before I could do anything about it.” He shrugged, clearly not too bothered by the theft. “But that’s basically all I know.”

Xavier’s heart stopped. A disheveled girl… Could it have been you?

His pulse quickened, the pieces clicking together. You must have come through here before disappearing. The man didn’t seem to know much more, but this was a sign. You had been close—you had been right here.

“What’d she look like?” Xavier asked, trying not to sound too eager.

The man waved a hand lazily. “Didn't look that closely to be honest. Bitch looked like hell, though. Clothes all messed up, like she’d been through something. But she was quick—didn’t stick around long enough for me to really notice much else. Don’t know where she went after that. Just up and vanished with my stock”

Xavier nodded, feeling a surge of both hope and frustration. You’d been here, that much was clear. But now you were gone again, slipping through his fingers like a ghost.

"You really shouldn't talk about women like that".

He paid for the snacks with some dollar bills he kept in his car for out of city trips, and turned to leave, leaving the disgruntled cashier. His mind already racing to figure out where you could’ve gone from here.

Xavier’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped back outside, the cold night air hitting him like a wall. You’d been here. Not long ago, from the sound of it. He could almost picture it—your disheveled form rushing through the aisles, grabbing whatever you could before vanishing into the shadows again. You were close, too close to give up now. But where had you gone?

He clenched his jaw, glancing around the empty streets. There were too many directions, too many places you could have disappeared to. The N109 Zone was vast, a labyrinth of forgotten corners and abandoned buildings, and there was no telling where you might have run off to next.

His mind raced, trying to make sense of the little he knew. You had come here to get food, maybe out of desperation—running on fear and adrenaline. And then, like the man said, you were gone. No tracks, no sign of where you’d been taken.

Xavier pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing over the faded image of a sleek pair of boots. It was the same pamphlet the shoe store clerk had given him earlier, and now, it seemed like his only other lead. A shoe store… It might seem like a stretch, but he had learned to follow even the smallest clues. If he couldn’t figure out where you had gone, maybe he could figure out more about the man who had taken you. And starting with something as small as his shoes might just be the break he needed.

He studied the pamphlet again, his eyes narrowing as he recalled his brief conversation with the clerk. The shoes had been expensive, high-end—definitely not something most people in the N109 Zone would be wearing.

But S wasn’t like most people, was he?

Xavier’s mind spun as he hurriedly typed the address from the pamphlet into his hunter’s watch, the holographic screen glowing softly as it processed the information. The watch pinged, highlighting the location of the store in the city. It wasn’t far, but it was a place he wouldn’t have expected someone from the N109 Zone to frequent.

If S was wearing those shoes, it meant he had money—or at least access to it. That was something Xavier could work with. People like that left trails, even in places where they thought they could stay hidden.

He started the car again, his pulse quickening as the watch projected the route onto the windshield. The shoe store was his next stop, and if he was lucky, he could get more information about who S really was. Maybe someone there had seen him, or better yet, could point him in the direction of where he lived or did business.

As the car sped toward the heart of the city, Xavier’s determination sharpened. He was getting closer to answers—closer to finding you. If he could learn more about this mysterious man, this “S,” then maybe, just maybe, he could figure out where you were being held.

As Xavier sped through the dark, crumbling streets of the N109 Zone, the world outside his car blurred into a mix of shadows and faint streetlights. His mind was focused on finding you, piecing together the next step in his search. Then, out of nowhere, a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

His foot slammed on the brake, the car lurching to a stop as his heart raced. The sound of the scream echoed through the desolate streets, raw and desperate. He scanned the area frantically, searching for the source of the cry for help. Then he saw her—a woman stumbling into the dim light from a broken streetlamp, clutching her side, her face twisted in pain.

“Help! Please, help me!” she gasped, her voice cracking with panic as she looked directly at him, her body collapsing onto the cracked pavement.

Xavier’s hunter instincts kicked in immediately. He couldn’t just leave someone like that. He shoved the car door open and rushed toward her, his eyes darting around, looking for any potential danger. The streets of the N109 Zone were unpredictable, but he couldn't just ignore someone in need.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone urgent but calm as he knelt down beside her.

The woman’s breathing was shallow, her face pale and contorted with pain. She clutched her ribs, wincing with every breath. “I don’t know,” she whimpered, “I was attacked. I need help… please…” Her eyes were wild with fear, darting between Xavier and the shadows beyond, as if expecting someone—or something—to come after her at any moment.

Xavier’s heart pounded, his mind racing. “I’ll get you some help,” he assured her, reaching for his phone. But as he fumbled for it, he felt a shift—something wasn’t right.

The woman’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, her panic momentarily replaced by something colder, more calculating. Before he could react, a blur of movement rushed behind him.

A sharp clink. The keys.

Xavier’s blood ran cold as he spun around, just in time to see a man slip past him, keys glinting in his hand. The stranger, quick and agile, darted toward Xavier’s car, jumping into the driver’s seat. How did I not see this coming? The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—this was a setup.

“Hey!” Xavier yelled, lunging forward, his heart hammering in his chest. But it was too late.

The woman, now standing tall with no trace of pain or injury, smirked at him, her expression smug and mocking. “Thanks for the ride, city boy,” she sneered, her voice dripping with satisfaction as she ran toward the passenger side of the car. She moved easily now, as if the earlier fear and desperation had been nothing but an act. It had been.

Xavier’s mind raced as he sprinted toward the car, but the engine roared to life before he could even get close. The man in the driver’s seat gunned the accelerator, the tires screeching against the pavement as the car sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

His heart sank as he watched the taillights disappear into the darkness, the weight of the situation crashing down on him. His car. His keys. Everything—gone in an instant. And with it, any chance of quickly finding you.

He'd have to walk on foot.

The steam from the shower still clung to your skin as you stepped out, your mind swirling in a haze of exhaustion and hunger. Your stomach growled loudly, reminding you just how long it had been since you last ate. The hot water had done little to wash away the weight of everything pressing down on you—the memories, the fear—but it had, at least, cleaned the grime from your body. You were left feeling raw and exposed, unsure of what was coming next.

You opened the glass door of the shower and grabbed a towel laying on the counter, wrapping it around yourself quickly before exiting.

You saw Sylus had elected to lean against the doorframe when you stepped out, and he turned around to face you. His eyes, those sharp, red eyes, softened when they met yours. "The chef has prepared food for you," he said, his voice gentle. The tenderness in his tone felt unnerving, like everything else with him, but the thought of food was too tempting to resist.

But before you could respond, he gestured to a set of neatly prepared shopping bags laid on his bed outside the bathroom. “I want you to open these first. Consider them gifts I had planned for you… before you ran off.” The edge in his words lingered, but his expression remained neutral. You vaguely remembered him clipping your nails while you were in the bathtub, a pile of shopping bags at his feet.

Ah, you had forgotten all about those. You wrapped the towel around yourself tighter, a knot of discomfort forming in your stomach.

You hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached the bed, your hands trembling slightly as you began to take out the "gifts". The first bag contained delicate pieces of underwear—soft, lace, and undeniably expensive. You swallowed hard, feeling a wave of unease crawl up your spine.

“Gifts for me? Or for you to see on me?” you muttered, unable to hide the malice in your voice, the bitterness slipping out.

Sylus’s lips quirked into a small, amused smile, his red eyes flickering with that familiar, unsettling glint. "Why not both?," he replied softly, the weight of his gaze lingering on you as though he found your defiance amusing.

These weren’t just clothes; they were symbols of his control, of how he saw you. Like you were his little doll to dress up. Still, you nodded hesitantly, accepting the garments with quiet reluctance.

Beneath the underwear were more practical clothes—soft, comfortable tops, leggings, and dresses. Each piece was chosen carefully, and despite yourself, you appreciated the effort, if only because you were desperate for something to wear to avoid Sylus's lingering gaze on your damp body. You chose a simple, slightly loose white dress, letting it fall over your damp skin. Then slipped on one of the many underwear he had bought for you. Sylus watched you quietly, a small smile playing on his lips as he waited for you to finish.

“You might've lost a few pounds from stress, once you start eating more, it’ll fit better,” he said casually, his tone matter-of-fact as though he hadn’t just casually referenced your weakened state. The words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of how long you'll be trapped here. Then, with a surprising softness, he added, “You look beautiful nonetheless, honey.”

“Honey.” A new pet name.

Surprisingly, instead of making you grimace like his usual endearments, it sends an unwelcome heat crawling across your face. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to react, but the flush is unmistakable. Against your will, your gaze drops, and you look away from him, the sudden surge of embarrassment catching you off guard.

Sylus notices, of course. His smile deepens slightly, a quiet satisfaction flickering in his eyes as if he can sense the effect his words have on you. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you—steady, watchful—his presence filling the room in an unnerving way that makes it harder to breathe.

He extended his hand toward you, the gesture oddly tender and yet impossible to trust. You hesitated, unsure if taking it would solidify his power over you further or if refusing would draw out something worse. But you take it, residing to the fact that you didn't have much choice.

He moved toward the door, your hand held in his grip. “Come,” he said. “The food is waiting.”

Your stomach growled again, and despite the tension between you and him, you found yourself trailing after him, your body driven by the gnawing hunger you couldn’t ignore. As you stepped into the dining hall, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of freshly prepared food hit you like a wave.

The table was filled with an extravagant feast. Platters of roasted meats sat alongside bowls of vibrant vegetables, glistening under the kitchen lights. There were thick, tender cuts of lamb, still steaming from the oven, their edges crisp and golden. Roasted chicken, its skin perfectly browned and seasoned with herbs, sat atop a bed of caramelized onions and garlic. Beside them, a platter of seared duck breast, cooked to perfection, its fat rendered into a rich, savory glaze.

On another side of the table were bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, rich and buttery, their surface dusted with flecks of chives. A dish of roasted root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and beets—was arranged in a beautiful display, their edges crisp and caramelized, drizzled with a balsamic glaze. There was a vibrant salad of mixed greens, tossed with fresh pomegranate seeds, crumbled goat cheese, and candied walnuts, the dressing a light, tangy vinaigrette that made your mouth water.

A basket of freshly baked bread sat in the center of the table, the rolls warm and soft, their golden crusts begging to be torn apart. Small bowls of whipped butter, infused with honey and herbs, accompanied them, the scent sweet and savory.

But it didn’t stop there. Desserts, too, were laid out, tempting you even further. A decadent chocolate tart with a glossy ganache topping, dusted with powdered sugar and fresh raspberries, sat next to a platter of delicate fruit tarts, their centers brimming with custard and topped with glistening berries. A tower of macarons in various pastel shades—lavender, pistachio, rose—completed the lavish display.

Sylus pulled out a chair for you, his smile widening as he watched your eyes dart from one dish to the next. "Well don't just stare, sit down".

The sight and smell overwhelmed you, and for a moment, you felt like a prisoner presented with a royal meal, knowing full well the chains still bound you. But hunger gnawed at your insides, and no matter how conflicted you were, your body screamed for sustenance as you sat.

"Eat," Sylus urged, taking a seat across from you. His eyes never left yours, watching, waiting for your reaction.

Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for a piece of bread, the warmth of it soothing in your palm. You tore it open, the soft dough yielding beneath your fingers, and dipped it into the whipped honey butter, taking a small bite. The flavors burst in your mouth, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh of relief.

The food was perfect—too perfect. And as you took another bite, you couldn’t help but wonder: was this all part of the game too? Or was it simply nourishment after the storm?

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you as you ate, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak, just watched you in that unsettling, familiar way—like he was always studying you, always thinking, always planning. His silence, for once, was almost a relief, allowing you to focus on the food and ignore his presence as much as possible.

You couldn’t help it. The hunger gnawed at you, and the feast before you was impossible to resist. The flavors were rich, the textures comforting, and before you realized it, you had cleared almost four plates. Each bite had momentarily dulled the chaos in your mind, letting you push aside the fear, the memories, and the discomfort that still lingered in your chest.

Sylus didn’t comment as you reached for more, nor did he interrupt. He seemed content to let you eat in peace, his eyes never leaving you but his lips remaining closed. It wasn’t until you finally pushed the last plate away, feeling the fullness settle in your stomach, that the silence between you felt heavier.

The weight of exhaustion began to settle over you. The warmth from the food and the sheer relief of being full left you feeling heavy, your eyelids growing heavier by the minute. You hadn’t realized just how tired you were until that moment. Your body felt like it had finally reached its limit.

Sylus stood up, breaking the silence. His movements were smooth and deliberate as he pushed his chair back, his gaze never leaving you. “You must be tired,” he said softly, the same unnerving tenderness in his voice as before. “It’s time for bed.”

You tensed slightly at his words, but your body, worn down by hunger and stress, didn’t have the strength to protest. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid of what might come out if you did. There was no point in resisting, not tonight.

Sylus moved toward you, his hand extending again as if offering comfort. You hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand, but you didn’t have the energy to reject him. You let him guide you, his touch gentle yet firm as he led you toward the bedroom you were dreading your return to.

You don’t remember when exactly you slipped into unconsciousness, but the world had faded into nothing after Sylus lifted you into the bed. His arms were unexpectedly gentle, cradling you with a kind of care that felt entirely out of place. You were vaguely aware of him pulling the blankets up around you, tucking you in, but then everything went dark. The exhaustion you had been fighting all day finally consumed you, and you sank into the deepest sleep you’d felt in what seemed like forever.

There was comfort in the darkness, the kind of peace that only comes with complete surrender to sleep. No fear, no panic, just the void. You floated there, cradled in warmth. But soon, the darkness gave way to a dream, vivid and consuming.

Xavier appeared first, stepping out of the shadows of your mind. His familiar figure brought an immediate sense of relief. His ashy blonde hair fell into his face, and his striking blue eyes bore into you with the same warmth and intensity that always made your heart flutter. There he was, just as you remembered—strong, dependable, and safe. He reached out, his hand extending toward you, and without hesitation, you moved toward him.

The moment your hand met his, your heart melted, the overwhelming sense of security flooding through you. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt safe. You felt home.

But something changed.

Xavier’s gaze, once filled with affection and care, shifted. His eyes darkened, turning cold, distant. The warmth you’d found in his presence quickly evaporated, replaced by something harsh and unfamiliar. His lips curled downward, a shadow crossing his face, and his grip on your hand tightened. The shift was sudden, the dream warping around you like a twisted reflection of reality.

"Why did you want him dead?" His voice cut through the dream, sharp and cold, the softness you’d expected from him nowhere to be found.

You blinked, confusion gripping you as his words sank in. “Huh?” Your face faltered, your heart pounding in your chest. His cold stare drilled into you, and you could feel something inside you cracking under its weight. What was happening?

"You're the reason Reese is dead," Xavier said, his words landing like a punch to the gut. His voice, usually so steady, so comforting, was now filled with anger, with accusation. His grip on your hand turned painful, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost crushing force.

“No...” Your voice wavered, barely able to push the word out as your mind reeled. “That wasn’t my fault, it was Sy—” You tried to explain, to say anything to stop the blame from settling on your shoulders. But the words caught in your throat, and you couldn’t finish. You couldn’t get them out.

His face twisted, contorting with anger and something that looked like disappointment. His blue eyes, once a source of warmth, were now filled with icy judgment, the coldness sinking into your skin like knives. His grip tightened further, pain shooting through your hand, but no matter how hard you tried to pull away, you couldn’t escape.

The dream around you blurred, the edges of reality warping and distorting. The ground beneath you seemed to shift, unsteady, while Xavier's figure loomed larger, his presence suffocating. The weight of his blame pressed down on your chest like a stone, suffocating you, filling your lungs with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

You tried to explain again, your voice strangled by the intensity of the moment, but Xavier wasn’t listening. His hand was like a vice, his fingers digging into your skin as his gaze pinned you in place. His words repeated in your mind, echoing louder and louder—“You're the reason he’s dead.”

Xavier's face began to twist, distorting into something grotesque, something no longer human. His once gentle features morphed and stretched unnaturally, his blue eyes darkening into hollow, accusing pits. His grip on your hand became unbearable, crushing the bones in your fingers as his form continued to change, shifting from the man you loved into a nightmare. The warmth that had briefly comforted you was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to pull away, but the force holding you was relentless. You stared in horror as Xavier’s form became unrecognizable, his skin taking on a gray, cracked texture, his mouth elongating into a grimace filled with sharp teeth. His eyes, now nothing more than deep, empty voids, bore into you with a hatred that sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re a murderer,” the figure spat, its voice now a low, guttural growl that echoed in your ears, far louder than it should have been. “Murderer.” The word hit you like a physical blow, making your entire body tense as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

“No…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you desperately tried to defend yourself. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t—”

“You have blood on your hands!” the figure roared, its voice shaking the world around you. Xavier’s face continued to twist and contort, veins bulging from his neck, his body looming over you like a towering monster. “You told him to die!”

The words echoed again and again, crashing into you with the force of a tidal wave. The weight of guilt slammed into your chest, almost knocking the wind out of you as the grotesque version of Xavier leaned in closer. His voice became more vicious, more unforgiving. “You let him die, and now the blood is on your hands!”

You looked down, and your breath caught in your throat. Blood. It was everywhere—on your hands, dripping from your fingers, pooling at your feet. Panic surged through you, your heart racing as you tried to wipe it away, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the blood only seemed to multiply, staining your skin, your clothes, everything around you.

“You’ll never wash it off!” the figure screamed, its voice shaking with rage. “Never!” It grabbed your shoulders, shaking you violently as it continued to scream. “You’re a murderer!

You struggled, trying to pull free, but the figure’s grip was unbreakable. The dream spiraled into chaos, the world around you collapsing into darkness as the screams filled the air, overwhelming your senses. The blood seemed to rise like a tide, crawling up your arms, soaking through your skin. You gasped for air, but it was suffocating, the guilt swallowing you whole.

“Murderer!” the figure roared again, louder this time, shaking you until your vision blurred. “Murderer! Murderer!"

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the accusations wouldn’t stop. The guilt, the blood, the rage—it was all around you, suffocating you, crushing you.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the figure stopped. It stood over you, silent now, but its eyes—those hollow, accusing voids—were locked onto you. “You can never escape what you’ve done,” it whispered, the venom in its voice chilling you to the core.

You shot up in bed, heart hammering in your chest, a scream tearing through your throat before you even knew what was happening. The sheets clung to your sweat-soaked skin as you gasped for breath, the nightmare still gripping you in its suffocating hold. Your hands shook violently, fingers instinctively rubbing at your palms, expecting to see the blood, the thick, crimson stain that had haunted you moments before.

But there was no blood.

The room was dark, dimly lit by a lamp settled on the nightstand. Sylus sat beside you, awake, casually reading a book. His red eyes glanced up from the pages, calm and steady, showing no sign of surprise at your sudden outburst.

“You’re okay,” Sylus said softly, his voice low but steady. He closed the book, setting it aside as he reached out, pulling you closer, into his arms with a gentle grip. The warmth of his body on yours was meant to be comforting, but the lingering terror from the dream made his touch feel heavier, suffocating.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the echoes of the nightmare still gripping you. The blood, the screams, the weight of guilt—it all felt so real, too real to shake off. Your hands trembled in your lap, still trying to rub away the invisible stain that wouldn’t leave.

“Shhh,” Sylus soothed, his voice soft as he stroked your back with deliberate calmness. “It was just a nightmare, kitten.”

But his words barely penetrated the thick fog of panic swirling in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing, but the image of Xavier’s cold, accusing gaze still lingered in the corners of your thoughts, leaving an ache in your chest that refused to fade.

Sylus’s gaze never wavered from you. He was patient, his grip around you getting stronger as you fought to regain control, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern, though it was impossible to tell how much of it was real. He watched you wordlessly, waiting patiently for your breathing to slow as he rubbed your back in soothing motions.

And you did, eventually. Slowly, your heartbeat began to slow, the cold sweat drying on your skin as the nightmare finally started to loosen its grip. You were still shaken, but reality was settling back in.

Sylus smiled, his eyes softening slightly. “Good girl,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You feel better?"

"It's not my fault..." you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper as tears began streaming down your face, hot and unstoppable. The weight of the nightmare still pressed against your chest, the guilt wrapping itself around your heart. "Reese... I told him to die, kinda. But you killed him!"

Your words trembled in the air, and for a moment, the room felt suffocatingly silent. Sylus’s arm stilled on your back, his red eyes watching you closely. His face remained calm, unreadable, but something flickered behind his gaze—curiosity, perhaps, or even amusement. He began rubbing your back again.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady as he spoke. “I killed him because he took what was mine,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t pull the trigger, I did. Don’t fool yourself, sweetie.” His fingers gently wiped away the tears falling down your cheeks, lingering on your skin a second longer than necessary.

“His fate was sealed the moment he touched you. You’re not responsible for his death.”

Your heart ached, the confusion and guilt twisting inside you. The memory of Reese's lifeless body, the sound of the gunshot, played over and over in your mind. You knew that Sylus had been the one to end it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that your words, your anger, had driven the final nail in the coffin.

"But I—" you started, your voice cracking, but Sylus shushed you gently, pressing a finger to your lips.

“Don’t burden yourself,” he whispered, his voice soothing but firm. “Reese was a pest, and pests are dealt with. It wasn’t your fault. You said what you needed to say in the moment” His eyes softened, his gaze almost affectionate. “And now, you’re here—with me. Safe.”

"Am I?" you sobbed, the weight of your emotions crashing down on you all at once. The tears came faster, and with them, the memory of that night—the night Sylus had taken everything into his own hands, literally. The sharp pain, the feeling of your skin being sliced open as he calmly removed your birth control implant, resurfaced in vivid detail. The raw fear that had gripped you then returned now, surging like a wave you couldn't hold back.

"At least Reese never hurt me," you choked out between sobs, your voice trembling, barely holding together. "You, on the other hand..."

Your hand instinctively went to your arm, tracing the faint scar left behind from when Sylus had decided, without a second thought, that he would control every part of you—inside and out. The scar was still there, but it wasn’t just on your skin. The memory of that violation ran deeper than any wound that could heal.

Sylus’s expression didn’t shift at your words. His calm gaze remained fixed on you, though there was a slight narrowing of his eyes. His hand paused in its comforting motions, hovering just inches from you, as if calculating how to respond.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, his voice calm, controlled, almost dismissive. "Everything I’ve done has been for you. For us. Why are you crying over a man that handed you and countless others over for crack?"

The flood of emotions broke through all at once at his words.

"Because-because he wasn't supposed to die. Hunters aren't the reason people die, we save people...he could've went to jail he wasn't supposed to-"

You crumpled, sobs wracking your body as the weight of everything—of all you had endured—became too much to bear. Memories you had tried to suppress, to bury deep within you, rose to the surface like dark waves crashing against fragile walls.

The man from the basement. His hands grabbing you, the smell of his breath, the sheer terror that had paralyzed you as he tried to force himself on you. You had fought, screamed, but the memory was still there, etched into your mind like a brand that would never fade. The nightmare you had just woken from had only served to rip open the scars you had so desperately tried to heal.

Your words came out in broken fragments, incoherent between sobs. "That other man…he tried… I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop him…" Your voice cracked, your chest heaving as you babbled through the memories, the trauma wrapping itself around you like a suffocating shroud. "He—he wouldn’t stop… I couldn’t breathe, I was so scared…"

You weren’t even sure Sylus was listening. You couldn’t look at him. Everything blurred together, your mind overwhelmed by the pain, the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped again in that moment. You curled in on yourself, trembling as the sobs became uncontrollable, the terror of that night suffocating you all over again.

Then you felt it—Sylus’s hand, soft and deliberate, gently cradling your cheek. He leaned in, his voice softening into something almost unbearably tender, a tone you never thought he was capable of.

"Poor thing, you're such a mess," he murmured.

His eyes lingered on you with a mix of pity and affection, as though you were something fragile, something cherished. It was as if watching you unravel before him caused his heart to ache.

“I can help you forget,” he whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears with slow, careful strokes. “Let me take the pain away, kitten. You don’t have to carry it anymore.”

His words were soothing, like a lullaby coaxing you away from the edge of your breakdown. His touch was uncharacteristically soft, his presence surrounding you like a cocoon, making it harder to pull yourself out of the depths of your despair. For a brief moment, the way he looked at you—like he truly cared—made you falter.

"I'll make it all disappear," Sylus murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, penetrating the darkest recesses of your fractured psyche. It was as if he possessed the power to reach inside your mind and vaporize the painful memories that clung to you like shackles. "You want to feel so good you won't think about him again?"

You hesitate at his words. The rational part of your mind urged you to turn away, not to respond. To pull yourself from his embrace and fight him. But the other part, muddled by trauma, drove you to stay. To seek comfort, any comfort, even in his arms.

From your captor of all people.

“Yes…” you whimpered, blinking away tears. You didn’t know why you answered that way—your mind screamed at you to stop—but you found yourself reaching out, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer.

Anything. Anything to make this pain stop.

His lips crashed against yours before you could even register what was happening, consuming you in a kiss so passionate it bordered on painful. All rational thought evaporated as his tongue plundered the recesses of your mouth, stroking along your palate and tangling with your own tongue in a sensual dance as old as time itself.

You were consumed, caught in the storm of his touch, unable to think beyond the overwhelming need to escape the agony of your memories—even if only for a moment.

Your hands flew to his face of their own accord, fingers threading through his hair as you clung to him like a drowning woman gasping for air. You kissed him back with a fervor born of desperation, pouring all your pent-up anguish and trauma into the hungry clash of lips and teeth. The two of you panted against each other, like animals ready to tear each other to shreds.

Some distant part of you screamed that this was mistake, that doing this with him willingly was certainly wrong. He had kidnapped you after all. Stolen you. But it was drowned out by the pounding of your heart, the ache of need pulsing between your thighs. His hands slid under your dress, calloused palms skimming over hypersensitive flesh, and you arched into his touch with a whimper.

"Sylus..." you whined, already feeling the desperate ache reach your core.

"I know, kitten. Patience, we just started" he said, amusement adorning his face.

His lips found yours again, hot and demanding, silencing any lingering protests. You melted into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. The taste of him was intoxicating, a heady mix of desire and danger that left you craving more. His fingers find the hem of your underwear, wasting no time to remove the obstacle from your wet depths.

Your whole body trembled as Sylus's lips blazed a path down your body, trailing molten kisses along the column of your throat. Each brush of his mouth against your sensitive skin sent electricity singing through your veins, igniting another fiery ache between your thighs. When he nudged aside the fabric of your dress to nuzzle the slick flesh of your cunt, you let out a strangled moan, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you.

The tip of his nose grazed your swollen bud, and your back arched off the bed, every nerve ending sparking with raw pleasure. "Nnnngh…" you whimpered, hips bucking instinctively toward his teasing touch.

Sylus's deep, resonant chuckle rumbled through you, vibrating against your core in a way that made your toes curl. "So responsive," he murmured, his warm breath ghosting over your dripping folds. "Tell me, kitten-were you this wet for him? Did he make you shiver and moan like this when he touched you?"

He grips your thighs almost possessively, waiting for your answer.

His words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, plunging you back into reality. Shame crashed over you in nauseating waves, your arousal doused by the realization of how easily Sylus manipulated your body. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut, fists clenching in the bedding.

"No," you choked out, voice brittle. "Never. He never touched me like this…Sylus, please…" The plea was torn from your throat, part desperation, part disgust. You felt filthy, tainted by your own traitorous reactions to Sylus's sensual assault on your most intimate parts.

But despite the revulsion roiling in your gut, your body still yearned for more.

"Its hard to say no when you beg me like that," he said, seemingly satisfied with your answer, began trailing a hot, wet streak against your folds. A gasp punches through your throat, eyes fluttering as you try not to lose all control. The mere feeling of his tongue was sending your brain into frenzies. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough to block the pain.

"Sylus, ple-mmph!”

You grip the bedsheets even tighter when he tenderly cuts off your plea with a moan against your clit, his tongue beginning to spread the entrance of your lips apart feverishly. Your breathing gets rapid when you feel something hot breaking past the entrance, deeper and deeper into your walls. Sylus's tongue delved deeper, stroking along your inner walls with devastating skill.

"You don't have to hold the bedsheets." he says, withdrawing momentarily from your depths. He wordlessly guides your hands to the top of his head, and before you can say anything, he's back licking up and down your folds, eventually making his way back in completely. The immediate shockwaves of pleasure make you grip his hair basically against your will, and you tearfully hold his hair as you neared an orgasm.

The pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo as Sylus's tongue relentlessly stroked your inner walls, each slick thrust driving you higher toward the brink of climax. Broken moans spilled from your lips, intermingling with his hungry growls of appreciation. Tears streamed down your face as your hips rocked shamelessly against his mouth, silently begging for the oblivion that hovered just out of reach.

Sylus's strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted upon your aching cunt. He seemed enraptured, almost worshipful in his attentions, lavishing your most intimate places with devoted licks and sucks. He ate you out like a starved man. Like he craved you.

Like he missed you.

Occasionally his nose would rub against your clit again and again, a delicious friction that made you sob with the intensity of it all.

When his lips finally closed around your swollen clit and sucked hard, you nearly vaulted off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat.

"Mhgn! Sylus! Please, I can't…it's too much!"

But he didn't let up, his talented tongue circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with ruthless precision. Your vision whited out as you finally reached heaven, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over you until you thought you might drown in it. Your walls clamped down on his invading tongue, pulsing with the force of your release, unwittingly calling out Sylus's name as you did so.

Finally, blessedly, Sylus withdrew. You melted in the sheets, finally letting go of his hair, boneless and shuddering in the aftermath. Tears streaked your face, but for once, they weren't because Sylus had hurt you. He had done quite the opposite actually.

Taking in the sight of you sprawled before him, flushed and panting, your body trembling. With a wicked smirk, he trailed a hand along your trembling thigh, drawing a shuddering moan from your throat. Evidence of your orgasm coated his mouth, and you watch as he licks the remaining from his lips.

"Tired already?" he teased, quite enjoying the way your body tensed under his touch. "For a hunter I expected you to have more stamina."

The haze of post-orgasmic bliss dissipated as quickly as it had descended, harsh reality crashing back in with brutal clarity. Tears pricked your eyes as the weight of your shame threatened to crush you. You had begged him for it, eagerly spread your legs for your kidnapper as if y'all were lovers. What was wrong with you?

"I..." you trail off, vision blurring with tears once more. What were you going to say? What could you say?

Sylus trailed lazy kisses along your jaw, seeming to sense your internal turmoil within your head. His lips rubbed against your sensitive skin, sending unwanted sparks of pleasure skittering through your nerves.

"If you're still able to think," he murmured against your throat, "then I clearly haven't kept my promise of helping you forget." His nimble fingers worked at his belt buckle.

The leather strap slid free of the loops with a hiss, dropping forgotten to the floor. Soon after, you felt the straps of your dress slip past your shoulders, past your waist, and eventually off your body completely. Sylus's gaze raked over you, lovingly and hungry, devouring the flush on your skin, the swell of your heaving breasts. You felt bare under his scrutiny, stripped of all defenses.

"And here I thought I was doing such a good job of distracting you," he purred, palming himself through his jeans. The rigid line of his erection strained against the faded denim, an obscene bulge that made your mouth go dry. You watched as he began taking his shirt off from over his head, his chiseled stomach and chest coming into view.

"Please..." you whimpered, the word torn from your throat as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body trembled, caught between the whirlwind of conflicting emotions roiling within you. Revulsion. Lust. Desperation. Self-loathing. You don't even know what you're asking for.

Sylus's expression softened as he gazed down at you, his thumb brushing away the moisture collecting on your lashes. It was uncharacteristic of you to beg for anything other than freedom. It was pulling at his heart and making him feel weak. "Shhh, it's alright sweetie," he soothed, his voice a low murmur. "I'm keeping my promise. Don't think, just focus on me."

Slowly, reverently, he lowered his mouth to yours in a kiss that stole your breath and shattered your reservations. His lips moved over yours with aching tenderness, sipping at your parted lips as if savoring the sweetest nectar. The press of his body against yours was solid, reassuring, anchoring you in the whirlwind of sensation.

His tongue slipped past your defenses to stroke the sensitive flesh within, each languid thrust a silent promise of the ecstasy to come. One large hand cradled your face, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other smoothed soothing circles on the small of your back.

When he pulls back, eyes staring down at you, it feels like he's staring into the depths of your soul. His eye begins to glow dangerously, and you begin to feel your mind start to spin and the room start to grow hazy. Voices begin pouring into your ears.

Devour him.

He's right there.

Grab him!

But just as quickly as they started, they stopped. You lay there shocked, unable to process what just happened.

"Your mind says a lot more than your mouth does, kitten" he chuckles, and you can only blink confusingly at him as he begins unzipping his pants. He stands up momentarily to remove his pants and you watch as his cock finally spring free. You feel a gush of arousal as you watch it throb, precum slightly leaking at the tip.

"W-what?" you ask, one half of your brain focusing on his raging erection and the other half wondering why the hell your mind felt like it was splitting in half just a second ago.

But you have no time to ponder such questions as Sylus begins to tower above you once more, grabbing your legs and spreading them apart. You squeal at the sudden touch and shiver when his tip rubs against the slit of your opening. His face is twisted with pleasure and his lips are parted, as if he's restraining every part of himself not to push everything into you at once.

"Slow...please" you beg, your hips involuntarily pushing down on the head of his tip when it greets your opening.

"You want me to go slow, yet your hips are lifting off the bed like you can't wait to have me buried inside you," Sylus teased, his voice a low, wicked murmur. He enjoys the way your face twists in annoyance.

 "So greedy, aren't you kitten?"

"I'm not trying t-mmph!"

You words lodge into your throat as you feel the head of his tip pierce your hole. You gasped, back arching as you stretched impossibly around him. A painful stretch causes you to groan and try to pull away, but Sylus puts a hand on your stomach, holding you down and ceasing all resistance.

"Be still, hah, it wont hurt for long". Sylus lips are parted as he lets out his own breathless groan, his senses being overwhelmed with you as he sinks deeper and deeper.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Sylus groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought for control. He eased forward slowly, inch by excruciating inch, letting you adjust to his substantial size. Your velvety walls resisted initially, clamping down around him like a vice.

Sylus paused, buried to the hilt inside you, his pelvis flush against yours. "Breathe, kitten," he instructed, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. "Try to relax okay?."

You tried to relax, to focus on the pleasant pressure building deep in your core instead of the dull ache in your stretched flesh. Gradually, you yielded, your muscles unclenching as Sylus began to move.

"Good girl," he managed through clenched teeth, withdrawing until just the tip remained before sliding back in with agonizing deliberateness. Over and over, he set a torturously slow rhythm, savoring every drag of your fluttering walls along his rigid cock.

 Soon, the sting gave way to blossoming pleasure, radiating outward from where you were joined. You found yourself meeting his measured thrusts, your hips rocking up to take him deeper, chasing that euphoric friction. Sylus's pace quickened marginally, his self-control fraying at the edges. The slap of flesh against flesh echoed obscenely in the room, a filthy symphony that drowned out your labored breaths and muffled whimpers.

Each deliberate thrust carried you further from the pit of anguish threatening to swallow you whole. The exquisite drag of Sylus's thick cock along your sensitive walls obliterated every coherent thought, leaving only the raw, visceral pleasure of the moment. Higher and higher you climbed, chasing the blissful oblivion he promised, until the first warnings of an impending climax rippled through your trembling form.

Sylus shifted his angle slightly, and stars exploded behind your eyelids as he grazed a spot deep inside that made your toes curl. A strangled moan tore from your throat, lost in the slick slide of bodies and the heady musk of arousal perfuming the air.

"That's it, sweetie," Sylus coo'd, his voice low and rough with lust. "Let go. Think about the one making you feel good right now. Think about me. Only me."

His words shivered through you, igniting something primal and needy. Your hips bucked up to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, harder, faster. Your mind snapped and went blank. You were drowning in sensation, drowning in him, and you never wanted to surface. Never wanted to think about reality ever again.

"You're so cute like this," Sylus purred, punctuating each word with a savage grind of his pelvis against yours. "Brain empty and filled with too much cock to think. Should just keep you like this..."

His filthy praise melted your reservations, stoking the desperate frenzy consuming your body and mind. Nothing else mattered beyond the slick slide of flesh and the heady perfume of sex saturating the air. In this moment, Sylus owned you wholly, a willing slave to his lust. All you could do was surrender, drowning in the exquisite agony of your impending release.

The coil of tension in your core tightened with each passing second, your impending climax hovering just out of reach. Sylus sensed your mounting desperation, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release.

"You're so close," he growled, his rhythm growing erratic as he chased his own completion. "I can feel you tightening up, greedy little thing."

"Go ahead, cum. Let me hear your pretty sounds."

The lewd demand shattered your composure, catapulting you into heaven and you practically screamed his name. Pleasure crashed through you like a tsunami, obliterating every coherent thought. All you knew was the pulsing ache in your core, the rhythmic throb of Sylus's cock buried deep, prolonging your climax until you couldn't take the sensations anymore and almost begged him to stop thrusting.

“Sylus…” you whimper weakly.

Your vision grew blurry as you teetered into overstimulation, your walls clamping down on Sylus's pistoning length like a vise. Thankfully, he was at his own end. You hear a guttural groan of your name in your ear, and then felt the hot splash of his seed painting your insides soon after. His thrusting completely stopped, and the both of you lay there, panting and unmoving.

It was only when you felt his warm seed spilling out onto the bed that you snapped back into reality.

"Did you-"

“Yes, I did it inside,” Sylus murmured, his voice calm, almost too calm. “Where else would it go?”

Before you could even process his words and sit up, he was on you, pinning your arms down to the bed with a swift, ruthless precision, as if anticipating your next move. The weight of him was suffocating, leaving you no room to escape. Panic surged through you, your body instinctively twisting and writhing beneath him, but it was useless. You were trapped.

“After your little escape," he continued, voice laced with playful amusement, "I’ve realized I need to put in more effort. Taming you isn’t as easy as I thought...a baby should be a nice, heavy, leash for you"

“Sylus… please,” you stammer, your heart pounding in your chest. Desperation claws at you as the gravity of his words sinks in. “We don’t need to do this. Not like this. Please, let’s solve this without a child?—I’ll do anything you want. I won’t try to run again, I swear.”

Tears blurred your vision as you begged, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear. But Sylus just smiled, that soft, chilling smile that made your stomach drop. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his hand disappearing beneath the bed.

“I know you won’t be running away again. In fact…”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, terror coiling tighter with every passing second. What was he doing? What was he reaching for? You searched your mind desperately, trying to think of anything, anything at all that might change his mind, but you knew better. Sylus was relentless. He hadn’t forgotten your attempts to resist, and now he was only more determined.

And then you felt it—the cold, unforgiving touch of metal snapping around your ankle.

Your eyes flew wide open, your pulse spiking as you looked down in horror. An ankle chain. You were shackled.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. "No...is this..?"

“Anything I want, you say?” Sylus's voice oozed with satisfaction, a smile creeping across his lips as he leaned in closer. The warmth of his breath contrasted sharply with the cold metal now binding you in place.

“Then make us a baby, sweetie,” he purred, his fingers tracing lightly down your arm. “That’s what I want most right now.”

The weight of his words settled like ice in your chest. A shiver coursed through your body, your mind racing, searching for some way out, but the chain around your ankle clinked softly with every tiny movement, a reminder of how trapped you really were.

“It’s long enough to reach everything in here, including the toilet and shower,” Sylus said, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he leaned down to press a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek.

You shuddered beneath him, your tears finally spilling over as the full weight of your situation crashed down on you. “Is this… my punishment for running?” you whispered, your voice fragile and trembling, as if the question itself might break you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. “No, it’s not a punishment,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. “It’s a necessity, honey.”

His words hung heavy in the air, sealing your fate as surely as the chain around your ankle.

Tears broke free, pouring down your face in uncontrollable waves as the reality of it all crushed you. You sobbed openly, your body shaking under the weight of it, and yet there was nothing you could do. Sylus leaned down, his presence overwhelming, his hand softly brushing the side of your tear-streaked face. His voice was low, almost soothing, as if he believed he was offering comfort instead of twisting the knife deeper.

“The faster you accept this,” he whispered, stroking your hair gently, “the easier it’ll be for you. Accept your place by my side and have my baby.”

"I'll take care of both of you, I promise."

His words only made the knot in your throat tighten further. You hated him. You hated him with every fiber of your being, but worst of all, you hated yourself. Hated the fact that you had once given yourself to him willingly, that you had let the devil himself have your body in a moment of weakness, as if you hadn’t known exactly what he was capable of.

The shame of it burned through you, deeper than any chain ever could. How had you fallen so far? How had you ever let him touch you, let him inside your body, your mind—your soul? The answer twisted cruelly in your gut.

But even despite all the burning hatred you had for him in this moment, another unknown feeling sprouted. One that ached and felt almost unbearable to think about. A longing. Festering within the walls of your strained heart and mind. You refused to acknowledge it though, choosing to drown in the sorrow of your new situation.

Sylus shifted beside you, wrapping his arms around you as if you were lovers instead of captor and captive. His warmth pressed against your skin, a twisted parody of intimacy, and you lay there, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. You felt his breathing slow beside you, felt his presence still as he settled in comfortably at your side. But you were miles away, staring into the abyss above, where there was no escape, no solace.

Only the cold, bitter truth. You had let the devil in, and now, there was no way out.

[nobodyinfart]

Would they keep you as a secret from the crew?

For Johnny, I honestly doubt that man could keep it on the down low. I mean, he practically graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Yapperism, like fr he’s the certified yapper of the force. Soap would praise you to the high heavens, saying stuff like “my baby is such’a good cook, lads. I miss their food already.” even if he just came back from deployment. You could be meeting them weeks later and Captain Price is like “Oh, how’s your new job going for you?”, leaving you completely bewildered that Johnny talks so much about you that the team is aware of what’s going on in your life. 

Ghost will definitely keep your relationship on the quiet side at first, since he’s genuinely certain that it will not last with his emotional baggage. However, you prove him indefinitely wrong, loving him through thick and thin even in his darkest days. Despite him not having said anything specific to the team, his body language tells the team that there’s someone special lighting up his days. Maybe it is the curve of his masked mouth as he smiles at your messages, or the way Simon stares a little longer at beautiful sceneries that remind him of you. And the beaded bracelet he wears on his wrist is the dead giveaway all the team needs to confirm that you are there waiting for him to come home. 

Now, Gaz is the one that I am not entirely sure about. Since he isn’t as open about his personal life as Johnny but not as secretive as Simon, he may not treat your relationship as a complete mystery. Somehow, it makes it sweeter if Gaz were to let it slip from a conversation with the boys yet act completely nonchalant as if it wasn’t a secret to begin with. “Didn’t take you for a flower kinda guy, mate.” Soap commented when he watched Kyle stop by a florist to get a bouquet on the way off their base area. “Wanted to get something to surprise the darling back home,” Kyle replied without a blink, as if he had not said anything out of the ordinary. Also the one to comment that the team didn’t ask when Soap shrieks out why he hadn’t mentioned a loved one.

  As the Captain on the task force, Price is no doubt not the type to dish out that kind of personal information straight away. Rather, your existence is evident in the necklace that has your promise ring looped on his neck at all times (yes, even on missions). In private, John kisses the ring with your initial engraved on the inside of the band as if a sort of subconscious reminder of what he’s fighting so hard for. I do believe that Price would be more open to talking about you to old friends, so Laswell knows of you well and would definitely have your contact in the scenario that anything goes south. Even with his expertise, you still worry about your lover on the field.

[welcometoyunosworld]

Lovely, see?

𝐊𝐰𝐨𝐧 𝐉𝐢-𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐠 / 𝐆-𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍

𝙎𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙤 [𝙍𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩]; 𝘑𝘪-𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘚𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘳, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘰, 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦.

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘦!! 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘉𝘢𝘦𝘴!💋

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You and Ji-yong were well known as the sweetest couple by many, many fans. Hell, you don't even see any bashers with the amount of fans that support you, creating fan pages about you and your Ji-yong. Sure you had Instagram, full of pictures of you, Ji-yong, you and Ji-yong together, maybe even TikTok too. But you only have a few posts there, sneak peaks of your own songs that your fans love.

Although whenever you miss Ji-yong, since he also has his tours, and can be very busy, you would watch the fanmade stuff about you and Ji-yong. It was out of curiosity, and plus, it was so sweet to see fans making those cute videos about you and Ji-yong. Giggles escaped your lips as you watched the 24th video that popped up from the search '𝙂-𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙔/𝙣'. Your giggles turned into a soft laugh when you came across an edit of you and Ji-yong, being the best couple.

And it was true, you two were the best of couples. The definition of true love, loyalty, compassion and patience. Talk about a power couple, hell, your collabs with Ji-yong always got fans going crazy. Tours? Matching outfits. Period.

He wanted you to feel special, and you wanted the same. He needs you to know that he loves you for who you really are, not because you're a celebrity, not because you're beautiful. In short, you both wanna make each other happy and loved no matter what.

Before you met Ji-yong, it was like a loop to you. Wake up, rehearsal, write songs, tours and make money. It was so ����𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁, your motivation for writing and singing was crumbling away, you felt helpless, alone. Your staff was there but what will they do? They only record your daily life, to which you get pissed and shut them out and lock yourself in your hotel room for days. YG didn't like it one bit, but they didn't wanna lose you, 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰.

Until you met this 𝗚-𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻 at the cafe you would go to every weekends, you didn't recognize him at first until you noticed his colored hair and nearly screamed when you realized who just offered you a handkerchief.

Okay so here's how it went,

You were just making your way outta there because you got your order and you wanna get back home as soon as possible, but the moment you open the door, there goes Mr. Ji-yong who bumps into you, spilling your precious coffee all over your beautiful outfit. “Oh shit- Miss, I'm so sorry.” You really didn't have the energy to even reply but when you saw his face and when he saw yours, you two had a staring contest before you eventually went like; “Am i hallucinating after days of no sleep? Is that really you Mr. Kwon?” You whispered and he chuckled. “Yes Ms. L/n.”

So that's how your love story with Ji-yong started. You knew him, he knew you but none of your asses had the guts to text or talk, just liking each other's posts until fans started to notice.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

“Aein? Earth to Aein??” Ji-yong snaps his fingers in front of you making you blink and look at him wide eyed with a 'Huh??', he laughed softly and placed a kiss on your forehead. “I was saying, come to my tour on the 5th, Saturday.” He said softly, cupping your cheek and you smiled softly. You placed your hand above his, looking into his eyes. “Of course, I'm not busy. My interview is on the 10th anyway.” This brought a smile to Ji-yong's face and he pulled you in, cuddling you and whispering sweet nothings in your ear until you both fell asleep.

Damn lucky you are. Little did you know, you'd be the one in tears of joy soon.

Standing there at the front, literally right near the stage, excited as the fans. You adjusted your mask and sunglasses as you sighed softly, you can't help but feel a bit annoyed that you had to hide like this but it was for Ji-yong and watching him slay like he always has. Five more minutes before the precious man would finally show up. And you're here wondering what on earth is this album about that Ji-yong didn't even give you any sneak peaks like he used to.

Brushing it off, thinking it was just a really good surprise, you waited patiently until the music finally started and there's your Ji-yong, ah, G-Dragon making his way there with a proud smile on his face. Your smile only grew as you listened to the first song, mentioning stuff about love, compassion and loyalty. You couldn't help but chuckle, the lyrics had a deeper meaning that Ji-yong knew 𝘆𝗼𝘂'd understand better than anyone else.

The final song has arrived and you were caught off guard by Ji-yong who suddenly got off stage and gently swooped you in his arms and brought you on stage. What the hell? Is this part of the song or something? You shrieked and held onto him, the crowd's cheers were too damn loud and Ji-yong gently removed your sunglasses and mask. “Ji?? What's going on?” He only smiled at you and gently placed you down on your feet.

“Listen to me, Aein.” He said as he brought the mic back to his lips, the music started again. Lyrics expressing his love for you, how you make him feel loved and appreciated, and—

“𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗜'𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲, 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆?”

You froze and your eyes widened when Ji-yong got on one knee. Reaching for the small box in his pocket and looking up at you with a soft smile and your tears were already streaming down your cheeks, your heart was racing and you looked away, a staff handed you a mic and you looked at Ji-yong with disbelief and admiration..

“Oh, Ji.. You did all this.. for me?” Your shaky voice came as Ji-yong chuckled and nodded. “Yes, Aein. I wanted.. to surprise you, and make this moment special for you, not just me. So, Aein, will you marry me” Ji-yong puts the mic down so he could hold your hand and you couldn't even talk, just nodding your head with a smile on your face. “Yes..” Barely above a whisper, but Ji-yong heard it nonetheless.

Easily sliding the ring around your ring finger, oh it was perfect alright. He quickly hugged you, bringing you up and doing a little twirl as everyone cheered for you both.

“This is perfect, Ji..” You muttered softly.

“You're perfect, Aein.”

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳

How do we feel, singles? Jk jk HAHAH

hope u like this one bc i do. It's so cute😔💋

[starrycloak]

I attended a series of lectures on neuroscience these last few days (well, they were a super basic cliffnotes-esque version of the topic cause medicine/STEM is not my field of work, so apologies for any inaccuracies ahead), and when the lecturer brought up the importance of the frontal lobe, she casually alluded to what happened to Phineas P. Gage and-

wbk but also non-accidental split imagery one more time ^

She also briefly touched upon the 'cuts' of the brain (left and right hemispheres, lobes —and primary functions of each—, gray and white matter) and neural processes like synapsis —communication between neurons by chemical and electrical reactions—, but one of the things that stood out to me the most was the creation and reconfiguration/transformation/plasticity of neural circuits.

A neural circuit is a population of neurons interconnected by synapses to carry out a specific function —i.e. processing specific information and sending signals to other parts of the brain and body — when activated.

definition just for context; the point of bringing this up being what these circuits look like:

^^^this is just a guide alluding to the differences in morphology neurons can have, but they kinda giving-

and-

literally when the lecturer first showed what these cells look like I was like "neat, the tree of life. kinda, sorta. out to deliver trauma to the rest of the nervous system :))"

and (to the right, for comparison: what neuron synapses look like)

and of course, not totally accurate comparison ahead, but I couldn't resist the slight visual graphy coinkidink with the letter-assigned grid:

Additionally, zooming out, multiple neural circuits can interconnect with one another to form large scale brain networks, and the one that stood out to me was the default mode network (DMN):

also known as the medial frontoparietal network, it's a large-scale brain network [...] best known for being active when a person is not focused on the outside world and the brain is at wakeful rest, such as during daydreaming and mind-wandering.

Other times that the DMN is active include when the individual is thinking about others, thinking about themselves, remembering the past, and planning for the future. The DMN creates a coherent "internal narrative" control to the construction of a sense of self.

^ smart people, pls do with this info what you must.

the point I think I was trying to make: what if the blue UD we know has blurred the lines between being a representation of will's subconscious mindscape and also a visual abstraction of the biological/neurological state of his brain —as the two, like irl, are so intrinsically connected?

which, fortunately, means hope for will and the UD too (wbk), because by this line of thought/theory of sorts, the capacity neural circuits have to rearrange themselves, even after years and so much pain, can transform the blue UD, will's mind, as we've come to know it (the plasticity I was reffering to at the beginning of the post). However, it's important to note that to learn something new, you have to unlearn other stuff to make room for it.

I'm far from the first to talk about this topic, so check out the following posts! This one by @erikiara80, along the lines of her loop theory, dives into the implications of will's possible injury or death caused by having been hit on the head, particularly the zone closest to the frontal lobe, by a blunt object.

@conflictofthemind also has a great post about the treeflayer (shoutout and tysm to @threemanoperation for telling me about it and for prompting me to post this) with more tree imagery that evokes similar shapes to those of neurons (and it also links to Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan/Neverland parallels).

edit: everyone, please take a look at the additions other users have written on their reblogs! you won't want to miss them!

[veryberryjelly]

🍸 + Dick Grayson with prompt no.58 with his fem!reader pls 🫶

dick grayson x reader

lyrics ; ' says random 'i love you's throughout the day ' [ lowkey wayne family adventures style dick more than titans ]

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦ 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 !

you had spent the night at wayne manor before, but never had you spent more than three days there.

and now you were spending two weeks in dick's childhood bedroom because your apartment building was being fumigated.

you were currently sat on the floor of dick's childhood bedroom, your clothes spilling out of a suitcase as you searched for something to wear in your underwear.

when the door opened your instinct was to cover yourself with whatever you could find considering that jason had walked in on you in your underwear last week.

but when you spotted the familiar sight of your boyfriends muscular arms and bare chest, his hands full of two mugs.

" morning " he said as he offered one out to you, sitting himself down on the desk chair after he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

" morning " you replied, your heart warming as you turned to face him, abandoning the task of finding an outfit. " i miss our apartment " you lamented, leaning back against his closet as you took a sip of the warm drink.

" i know, me too. as much as i love you, you have a lot of stuff that needs to go back in your closet. "

his joke let a soft laugh fall from your lips. if it weren't for dick you weren't sure how you would be handling this.

you stood from the floor, setting your coffee down on his desk before sitting down on his lap, your arms looping around his neck while his dropped down to your waist.

" just a few more days and we'll be back in our bed, and we won't have to worry about locking doors anymore " his teasing let another round of laughs echo against the bedroom walls.

--- ⎉ ---

staying at wayne manor definitely came with its positives, including the huge kitchen you could use to make your meals.

the huge fridge and vast counter space made it easy to make slightly more elaborate meals.

including making your own pesto for your sandwich and for the rest of the house to use if they so pleased.

you were mid way through cutting up some basil when a pair of arms wrapped around your torso, halting your movements so you didnt injure yourself or him by being distracted with a blade in your hand.

you spun in his grip, your arms lifting to wrap around his neck as your head tilted back to look at him.

" how was your workout ?" you questioned, noting his much sweatier appearance than when he had left you this morning.

" good, tiring, kicked jasons ass. " a laugh reverberated through his chest causing a smile to spread on your lips. " what're you doing ?"

" making pesto for lunch. you want a sandwich ?"

his response came in the form of his head dropping down to press a short kiss to your lips.

" please. i'm gonna shower, but i'll be back before you finish "

another kiss to your lips before his hands started to pull back from your waist.

" i love you " he whispered.

" i love you too. now go shower, you smell "

--- ⎉ ---

as the day wound down, and the manor emptied with bat boys going on patrol around dothan city, you found yourself exploring the building as you did every night.

so far, your favourite place was the balcony on a guest room on the top floor of the house. it was quiet, you could see the forest surrounding the manor, and so far every night you had been lounging there, dick had pulled himself up over the balcony after patrol to greet you.

tonight was no different.

you had been lounging on a woven chair with some music playing from your phone as you watched the trees sway gently in the breeze.

hands clasping at the metal railing made you jump out of your skin, your hand shooting up to clutch at your chest.

" jesus, dick. what the hell? you scared the shit out of me " you could feel your pulse racing under your fingertips.

" sorry sweetheart " he said as he sat down on the accompanying deck chair to yours, peeling his mask off of his face and dropping it down on the table. " thought i'd tell you that we can go back to the apartment tomorrow. they've finished fumigating. got the message when i was out on patrol "

your shoulders sagged in relief.

" thank god. " you practically groaned, standing from your chair and draping yourself across the practically solid surface of dick's thighs, curling into his form. " baby, i love you, and your family. but i dont think i could've lasted past tonight. i want to go to sleep tomorrow night in my underwear and not have to worry about scarring your brothers "

" they've seen much worse, baby, dont worry. "

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

breaking news!

pairing: milf! reader x pre-re2 leon

cws/tags: protected p in v, virginity loss, leon cumming immediately, coming untouched, talking about past somno (implied to be consensual), presumably established relationship, no description of reader beyond cis female who has had a child and is older than leon, reader POV, no use of y/n

summary: leon doesn't wanna die a virgin! shit goes down in july '98 (bizarre murders occur in raccoon city etc. you know the monologue), and leon sees it on the news, decides he's gotta fuck before he becomes a cop fr.

a/n: this is part 3 to cool mom's countdown. i wasn't sure how to tag some stuff bc it's like they're having sex rn but reader is thinking about stuff they've done in the past too, so it's kinda a little time-skipping sometimes. (past things are italicized for your reading pleasure)

wc: 1.7k

taglist: @onlyasimp4-2dbitches @puppedup @nilpill @sya-skies @shiawaseorii

@rigorwhoring @porcelainseashore

@tieabowaroundme @frankieeeeesblog @kerredgraveblog

join my taglist! purchase a commission!

At first, your relationship with Leon made you feel old -- all of the pop culture references you’d make flew over his head, and you realized how out of the loop you were when it came to modern slang when you had to ask Leon for the definition of approximately one word per sentence he spoke. While miscommunications arose through conversations, you were in sync when it came to sex. 

In the proverbial bedroom, Leon made you feel young again. After work one Friday night, you made out on the couch until you insisted that you needed to freshen up before your movie date, and ended up sitting on the bathroom counter with Leon’s head between your thighs, and, to pay him back, you jerked him off in the theater.

You’d been together for a good six months before you finally went all the way. You told Leon from the beginning that you wouldn’t have sex with him until he was 100% sure he was ready. A sweet boy like him deserved to have a good first time. 

After a gourmet meal of macaroni and cheese plus whatever else you could find in the cabinet, the two of you shared a six pack on the back porch while watching the sun set over the suburbs. It was romantic, minus the topic of conversation -- everyone was talking about the bizarre murders in the Arklay Mountains which weren’t far from where you lived. Leon was glued to the TV, watching updates as they appeared on the news over the course of the past week. 

It was disturbing enough to hear the outlandish reports of families being attacked by a group of about 10 people, but the victims were apparently eaten. And, you couldn’t bear the thought of Leon being a member of that STARS team that went missing. 

Leon had always been insistent on joining the force, but being forced to actively accept your own mortality can be a scary experience for even the bravest. However, Leon’s biggest fear wasn’t death itself. 

“I keep seeing those cops on the news -- the ones from the RPD who died and I don’t wanna die a virgin.”

“What?” His train of thought blew past about 10 stops before arriving at its destination, it seemed. You struggled to put the pieces together. 

“That’ll be me pretty soon -- well, not necessarily dead, hopefully not, just part of the RPD, I mean. But, since there’s a real chance I could die, I would like to lose my virginity.”

Talking about death put a bit of a damper on the mood, but Leon could get you riled up in the most inappropriate of situations. 

“I told you we can do it whenever you’re ready,” you said nonchalantly. 

“What I meant was, I’m ready now.”

Your first instinct was to look down towards the front of his jeans. 

“Mentally,” he clarified when he saw you checking for a bulge in his pants. 

You swiftly led him up to your bedroom and by the time your lips were on his neck, he was physically ready for you too. Leon’s a sucker for hickies. Pun intended. 

“It makes me feel like I’m yours,” he mentioned one night, wearing a stupid grin and smudged lipstick - both courtesy of you.   

“You are mine,” you said, cupping his cheek, “and I’m yours.”

“Then, can I give you one too?” 

He shouldn’t. You already felt out of place at the neighborhood book club, and you didn’t want Karen and Cheryl (or whatever their names are) to think you’re a complete whore. 

Fuck it. They could stare all they wanted. Bring on their jealousy-fueled disgust. 

You exposed your neck to Leon and let him suck lightly at the skin. As it turned out you liked them quite a bit too. 

When you told Leon he was yours and vice versa, you meant it, but tonight you were really going to seal the deal. 

It was a dance of tipsy fumbling around as one’s first time should be. Giggling while barely holding yourselves back from ripping each other’s clothes off. 

“You’re so needy,” you whispered into his ear, though you were the one palming him through his underwear. 

“No... you’re just hot... I can’t help being like this around you.”

“Yeah? Then how do you think I feel around a handsome young man like you?” You took his hand and gently guided him to feel your arousal through your panties. 

He inhaled sharply, and you felt his needy cock twitch against your hand which had yet to slip inside his boxers. Poor thing, he was always so desperate. 

Not that you minded – not even when you’d wake up in the middle of the night to him rutting his hips into you from behind. He did this often in his sleep – he thought it was embarrassing, but you thought it was endearing. He’d mumble your name and coax your hand back to his hard-on if you ever dared to retract it. 

Leon hooked his fingers in the fabric of your panties and slid it to the side, teasing your folds with his touch. 

In retaliation and reward, you took his length in your hand, planning to give him the same languid, tantalizing strokes he was giving you. But he grabbed your wrist and stopped you. 

“Wait-” he said, breath shaky with what you assumed to be nerves.

You backed off completely. “Leon, I’m so sorry. If you’re not ready tonight, we can do this some other-”

“-I’m ready, too ready. Just thinking about getting to be inside you is making me feel... really good already, so, um, if you touch me like that, I might not be able- I might cum before I can actually... you know...”

“Fuck me?” God, it was so cute how flustered he’d get over the simplest things. 

“Yeah, fuck you.” He couldn’t curse in front of you without blushing. It took him a while to adjust to calling you by your first name instead of ‘ma’am’, so you couldn’t blame him for feeling awkward cursing around you. The redness in his cheeks only rose when he realized how his statement - fuck you - could’ve been interpreted. 

“No, wait, not fuck you, I mean, I wanna fuck you... in a good way. I wanna make you feel good,” he clarified.

“Then come here,” you lied back on the bed and beckoned him closer. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Typical. You had to resist the urge to call him a ‘good boy’, knowing those words alone might make him cum in his pants. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. Once, while he was going down on you -- on his knees at the edge of your bed, his favorite position -- you told him how he was such a good boy for making you feel so good, and though his hands remained gripping your thighs, holding them open so he could bury his face in your cunt, your orgasm triggered his, and he came completely untouched. 

You grabbed a condom from your bedside table -- you were on the pill, and neither of you were seeing anyone else, but you were pretty sure that his cock wouldn’t make it inside you if you told him he could fuck you raw -- and you handed him the packet. 

“Do you know how to do it?”

“Yeah, they made us try putting them on bananas in health class.”

“Thank your health teacher for me, then, will you?”

“Um, I don’t know if Mr-”

“I’m kidding, baby.”

“This is no time for joking around. You’re breaking my concentration,” he said, but his smile betrayed any facade of seriousness. 

When he successfully put it on, you said, only half-joking, “I’m proud of you, baby.”

“Don’t say that,” he said -- no, whined. 

“Why not?”

“Gonna make me cum too quick.”

If only he knew that his bashfulness, his pretty, whiny voice, and his desperation were going to make you cum quicker than you usually would. 

“Okay. I won’t say anything.”

“At least tell me if I’m doing it right, like, if I’m putting it in the right hole.”

“You’re doing fine so far.”

He nodded and took a breath before positioning himself at your entrance. When he pressed the tip inside you, you moaned simultaneously. You wanted to beg him to keep going, you wanted to feel all of him, but you knew you needed to let him set the pace. 

“You feel so good, you’re so tight...” His thoughts were mostly tame, things you’d heard men say before but he was so genuine, couldn’t even help running his mouth -- until his words were reduced to nothing but moans. Pornographic, pathetic, sexy. 

When he’d finally buried himself to the hilt, he stilled his hips, keeping both of your orgasms at bay. Your hands never left his body because you couldn’t get enough of him, not even when he was entirely inside you. You thought you were being gentle but the marks left on his skin said otherwise. 

Eventually, he began to thrust in and out of you slowly, and you could see that he was holding himself back. 

“Leon, baby, you know you can go as slow or as fast as you want, yeah?”

“I wanna go faster but if I do, I’m gonna cum,” he said as if that wouldn’t be the hottest thing he could do. 

“Yeah? I wanna see you cum, baby.”

“Fuck, really? Already?” 

He didn’t wait for a response before he increased the pace of his thrusts rapidly, his hips leading and his mind following. 

You tried to answer, but he was brushing against that sensitive spot inside you over and over again, so all you could manage was an ‘uh-huh’. 

Frantically, he said, “I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” with a mixture of pleas and apologies. Neither of which you needed. 

When he came, he threw his head back and let out an unbridled moan followed by labored breaths. 

The sight of him sent you over the edge, scrambling for something to hold onto, your nails dug into his back. You nearly screamed his name as you shuddered through your high. 

When you returned to reality, you saw complete bewilderment on Leon’s face. “Did you just cum?”

“Uh, yeah?” you couldn’t help but laugh a bit as you said it. 

“I made you cum?”

“Uh-huh.”

Flopping down next to you, satisfied with himself, he asked, “Can we do that again?”

“Like right now?”

“Yeah, that was amazing.”

And you couldn’t agree more.

[love-that-we-were-in]

lighting the fuse might result in a bang

pairing: frat!luke castellan x reader summary: Silena thinks you need to start blowing off some steam. You think you just need a fresh victory and Luke Castellan is the perfect opponent. word count: 5.3k warnings: smoking, drinking, usual college party stuff.

author's note: brought to you by my personal deep dark history with boys in hats. also i haven't gotten drunk in like 4/5 years so i don't remember what it's like so this was interesting. also i don't know anything about frats OR smoking. have the most fun <3

When Silena mentions a party you could go to, you jump at the offer, brain fuzzing at the edges where you’ve been locked in on flashcards all afternoon. It’s something you’ve started to navigate better this year, remembering to have fun after a year of non-stop focus. Silena makes it easier - a social butterfly with no qualms about dragging you out of the library when she thinks you’re pushing yourself too hard - and there’s no harm in listening to her without protest sometimes. 

“Do you even know who’s throwing this one?” You ask as she’s leading you through campus, rubbing at your arms to fight the fall chill. “I do not want a repeat of March.” 

“Have some faith in me. I’ve started vetting my sources.” 

Both of you shiver, the memory of a night spent outside the Stolls’ cramped dorm still haunting you six months later. You’re not overly familiar with this side of campus, turning away from the usual halls and towards the sorority housing, but Silena walks the path with ease, arm looped through yours.

The walk seems to have cleared your head, the music as you approach shaking off the last of the static. You’ve been here before, borrowing notes from a teammate, but it’s different like this, all pumping bass and cheers from the kitchen. Clarisse waves at you from across the room, beer in hand, and you mutter to Silena that you’re going to grab a drink. She nods, making a beeline for Drew Tanaka. You assume that’s who the invitation came from originally.

There’s a different energy to the kitchen, not quieter by any means but less noisy. Less concentrated, maybe, with twenty different conversations happening at once and nothing you have to pay attention to. Most people you don’t recognise, a group from your first year stats class huddled together near the sink, and the Stolls off to the side pointing at every new person they see. 

Mixing your drink is an easy fix, the kitchen island covered in more choices than you’ve seen in a while, and you savor the first few sips. Between class and swimming, you’ve barely drank since the semester began and the burn of vodka isn’t as numbed as you wish it was. Still, a drink is a drink so you refill it before returning to the thick of the party. 

Clarisse takes it upon herself to drag you away from the conversation you end up trapped in with Lee Fletcher, quite literally taking hold of your elbow. You mutter an apology, however disingenuous, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation as he smiles grimly. 

“I have no idea how you talk to that lot,” she says when you’re far enough away. “They’re all boring.” 

“Lee’s great. He always lends me notes from the lectures I miss.”

She laughs, pushing you into another room. “He’s trying to swindle a date out of you and you’re using him for lecture notes.” 

You shrug. There’s nothing wrong with Lee, except that Clarisse is a little right when she says most of your classmates are boring. It’s probably not intentional, and they definitely don’t realize it, but there’s this way they carry themselves around campus - half-nervous and half-haughty. It’s not a great combination and it’s why you gravitate towards the people Silena meets. 

“We were wondering when we were going to see you next,” Chris says as he throws an arm over Clarisse’s shoulder. You still don’t quite know the story there, how Chris Rodriguez managed to sweet talk your stoic teammate. One day, you’ll find out - a drunken vow you made with Silena on your dorm room floor when Clarisse mentioned a boyfriend - but you’re content to let them enjoy their romance in peace for now. “Almost thought you’d succumbed to the dark side.”

“You’re not getting rid of me yet.”

“And thank god,” he knocks his cup against yours before gesturing to the far corner of the room. “Because we need someone to kick Castellan’s ass at beer pong.” 

“Whose?”

Turns out, Luke Castellan is the newest brother to ksig. There’s not much to know about Chris’ fraternity in your eyes, just the basics of all frats, and you know from last year that there’s always bound to be a hotshot that needs someone to pump the brakes on their ego. Usually, they’re on the younger side, with more money than sense and they don’t expect anything from your approach. Luke Castellan isn’t quite that, but he’s not far from it either.

While Chris talks to the boy who was about to play, you take the opportunity to size up your opponent. It comes naturally, a part of constantly competing, and it comes in handy in moments like this, when the element of surprise is a key factor to the situation going ahead. 

Fitted jeans, branded polo and a stupid snapback cap worn backwards to show how cool he is. Nothing you haven’t seen before, really, except there’s this focused glint in his eyes with each plastic ball he throws like he has to prove his worth here. It’s a simple practice, unnecessary for a silly party game, but there’s this serious set to strong shoulders that you’re curious about.

The same way you want to know about Clarisse’s relationship, you want to know what makes Luke Castellan, whoever he is, tick. 

“Are you trying to get alcohol poisoning, Rodriguez?” 

“I’m not playing you, Luke,” Chris says and you watch closely as the other boy tilts his head slightly to the left. “I just had to go and get the current undefeated champion on campus.”

There’s this moment that happens every time you play - those awkward seconds where everyone looks completely past you to anyone else, anyone more noticeable. You count on it, occasionally, so it takes you a moment to process the way Luke’s gaze slides to you, drinks you in before he nods towards the other end of the table. 

Chris mutters a quiet “you got this,” as you brush past him, handing him your drink. You’re not delusional enough to think you can get away with mixing your drinks this early in the game. 

It takes two of Luke’s shots for you to land your first, his last hour of playing an advantage you accounted for. He’s not getting sloppy, not in the slightest, but he’s at the point where he’s a little worse for wear - a tired arm and hazy mind - and you take the chance you have at a false sense of security, taking your losses on the chin before playing the game to win. 

Within seven shots between you, you can see Luke start to get restless. How he reevaluates the table in front of him, his three empty cups to your four. Part of you really wants to knock that hat off his head, as if it’ll give you more of an insight into his mind. Instead, you wait for what you know is coming, a slight miscalculation that has the plastic ball rolling off the table to land at someone’s feet. 

Chris hands you a fresh one and you take in the way Luke swallows, jaw clenching as you line up your next shot. Whether he knows it or not, you’ve just been handed your win.

Clarisse cheers, handing you one of the cups from in front of you as everyone yells. You both chug what’s left of them, the bitter taste of cheap beer drowned out by victory, and as soon as that’s done, she throws herself back into Chris’ arms. Laughing, you turn around to find another drink, only to be met by Luke standing beside you.

“Are you about to be a sore loser?” 

He chuckles and it’s different like this. His eyes are brown, which you didn’t know five minutes ago, and his hair is dark from the little wisps of it you can see peeking out underneath his hat. You consider telling him that the hat makes him look lame, but then he’s leaning down to whisper anyway. “I expect a rematch.” 

It’s quiet and heavy and you wonder if anyone can tell that your blood feels like it’s on fire. It’s nothing, really, and it takes more effort than you want to respond. 

“Then expect to lose.”

The only saving grace to the exchange is that Luke looks a whole lot more affected by it, a blush crawling up his neck as you take the drink nearest to you and leave to find your roommate once more. 

*

Losing never used to get to you. Not like this, at least, where everything sort of feels like a precipice and you’re waiting for the next loss to fall on your shoulders alone. It was meant to be an easy game, a warm-up, for when the season started in earnest and you couldn’t afford to be incohesive. There’s always a learning curve, new starters and new competition, but in no world should it have caused this. 

Silena tells you to let it go, throwing yet another outfit on her bed as she gets ready. When you saw her at lunch, Clarisse told you to just push harder during practice. Sometimes you’re not even sure how you can be friends with both of them, how they can be friends with each other either. Unfortunately, it becomes very clear when Clarisse knocks on the door that night. 

“Why aren’t you ready?” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

She tuts at you, digging through the pile of clothing on Silena’s bed before throwing a dress at you. “Get dressed.” 

“You can’t make me,” you protest, the black fabric scrunching in your fist. You’ve borrowed it before, for a party last year you don’t remember very well, and you don’t even want to consider why it’s the one Clarisse selected. You turn to your roommate, looking for backup, only to find her with a pair of your shoes in her hands. “Are you seriously going to make me?” 

In unison, they raise a singular eyebrow each and it’s unsettling enough that you let go of all will to fight them. Today may as well just be full of losses that you can mourn tomorrow.

It’s only when you arrive at the party that you realize you have no idea who’s throwing it. Or who’s going to be there. Distantly, you really hope it’s a stranger Silena met on her way around campus - full of people you’ve ever met and will never see again. You could find someone nice enough to blow off some steam with before going on your merry way. 

When Clarisse yells at her boyfriend, you let out a huff as both he and Luke Castellan turn around. 

Since your first meeting, you’ve learned a few more things about Luke. He’s from Connecticut. He was responsible for half of Drew’s sorority coming down with the flu during freshers week. He’s in pre-med. He’s the reason Professor Chase introduced a ban on energy drinks in his lectures (one hundred students simultaneously opening a can of Redbull each was, apparently, mildly disconcerting). Most importantly, he’s always wearing that stupid cap. 

You try to equate the things you know with the Luke standing in front of you. Some of it makes perfect sense - Professor Chase and Connecticut - and some of it unsettles you, but it’s all true. Freshers and pre-med and track meets. Focusing on the distracted way he taps on his beer bottle instead of Clarisse greeting Chris, you kind of want to find out a whole lot more. 

“Fancy a rematch?” 

It’s the first thing he’s said to you all night, twisting the cap off a fresh beer before handing it to you. Then doing the same with his own. You pretend not to notice the movement of it, the few short seconds where you can get away with staring at the shine of silver rings in low light. Taking a sip, you crinkle your nose. 

“I’m not really in the mood,” you mutter and, at the very least, the beer is cold and you chug half of it before you even notice you’ve done it. “Don’t you have someone else you can bother?” 

There’s seconds before you notice it, how his eyes shift from slightly curious to intense. They don’t change much but standing in front of him, you can tell when they go from relaxed to focused. How his back straightens and shoulders roll back just so. You should go and find something stronger to drink. Maybe even see if Lee Fletcher is nearby.

You stay put.

“It’s just a bit of friendly competition,” Luke shrugs, unknowing of how it echoes in your skull. How that’s all today was ever meant to be. Leave it to him to dig the knife in again just as the tightness in your chest was starting to ease. “But I guess you just can’t handle it.” 

“I’d kick your ass in a rematch. I’m doing you a favor.” 

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say, Luke’s eyes brightening as the words push past your lips. The beer you drank way too fast is forming words before you even know what they are.

“You can always choose something else for me to beat you in,” he says, like it’s an offer, something gracious that you should be grateful for. “I’m easy.” 

“How many beers have you had?” 

“Three, I think?” 

Silena would tell you it’s a stupid idea - you have a coaching session at 9am and you haven’t gotten drunk since the party where you met Luke - and she would be right. But you need a win tonight, something guaranteed, and there’s this itch that crawls under your skin the longer you stare at the boy in front of you. 

So you say it anyway. 

“I bet I could outdrink you.” 

“I’d like to see you try.”

He waits as you down two more beers in quick succession, nursing his own as you do. A clink of your bottles against one another, followed by the final sip you each take and it’s finally a competition. 

The night continues, you and Luke almost joined at the hip. It’s to keep track, you tell yourself, talking to a kid that might be in your organic chem class. If the kid looks at you weird for pouring two drinks, only to hand one to Luke in silence, that’s probably just the alcohol misreading things. Only once, when you’re deep in conversation with Lee does Luke pass you a beer, eyebrow raised when Lee gives him a glare. You think that might’ve been drink eight. 

By the time Chris finds you both again, you’ve thrown yourselves onto the couch on the outskirts of the room. Someone’s abandoned coat is thrown over your legs in a mediocre attempt to preserve some dignity in the dress you’re wearing and Luke’s hat has twisted to the side. You’re sure neither of you has drunk a sip in ten minutes.

“You guys doing okay?” 

“We’re drunk,” you say and you can’t tell if it’s a whisper or a shout. “I’m winning.” 

“You’re not winning,” Luke turns his head to glare and you blame the alcohol on the attention you pay to the slope of his nose. “Neither of us have finished these drinks.” 

“Are you going to?” 

He glances down at the cup in his hand, half empty. You can see it, the hesitation, before he places it on the floor by his feet, shaking his head. “Are you?” 

The nice thing to do would be to give up, call it a draw and appreciate that you managed to have fun despite the bad day that had preceded it. However, you like to win. So you grit your teeth before drinking the final three sips, tilting the empty cup towards him so he can see the proof. It takes you a second to remember you have to actually swallow in order to drink, but you do and Luke scrunches his nose. You kind of want to kiss it as a way to smooth the skin back out.

“That’s two wins to me, Castellan.” 

Chris shakes his head at you both. “I’m not calling either of you to make sure you’re alive in the morning.” 

*

It’s an almost unconscious action when you walk into Drew’s sorority house, how you wave Silena off in favor of scanning the crowd, searching for the one reason you agreed to show up in the first place. It takes a moment, pinks and blues and silvers all merging together in your eyeline until you spot him near the staircase, familiar black cap resting on his head. 

You’re already a little buzzed, the thrill of your final project this semester finally being handed in just hours ago, and it’s why you let yourself actually look at Luke for once. 

By this point, you’ve seen him in a polo and a flannel, always with jeans. Laidback. That’s what party Luke was. Tonight, though, it’s like he’s trying harder - baggy pants, like they’re resting a little too low on his hips, a white t-shirt, white trainers that you know are going to stain before the night ends and a slightly oversized leather jacket that doesn’t quite go with the hat you used to identify him. Maybe it’s something he does on purpose, ruining a good thing over comforting familiarity. Maybe you’ll ask him.

Luke looks up then, as if he has a sixth sense, and you kind of don’t know what to do with the slight wave he sends in your direction. You wouldn’t call him a friend, that’s for sure, but you nod in response before weaving through your classmates to the kitchen.

It takes two vodka cranberries for Silena to find you. And it takes four shots with people you’ve never met for Chris to ask if you’ve seen Luke anywhere. You tell him where you last saw him, maybe an hour ago, and he shakes his head like he’s already checked the entire house.

“Do you think you can let him know I’m heading out?” Chris asks, one arm looped around Clarisse’s waist, more for support than anything else. She was already unsteady when you arrived and you know by the flush in her cheeks that it’ll only take a couple more drinks for her to start throwing up. You nod at Chris, cradling your drink to your chest, and he mumbles a thanks while steering his girlfriend towards the door.

With both of them gone, it leaves you with little to do except go hunting for Luke. So that’s what you do, waving Lee off as he attempts to grab your attention from the couch. 

Focusing is a lot harder now, squinting over everyone’s heads in search of that damn hat. Nothing. You know he’s not in the kitchen, that’s definite, and you learn that he’s not in the garden either, Katie from your anatomy class staring at you bewildered as you explain your quest. 

There’s only one place left to check for Luke and you consider if it’ll be a worthwhile risk. It’s entirely possible that he’s already left, whoever he was locked in conversation with earlier with him maybe, and you’re searching an entire sorority house on the off-chance he’s still in the building. 

But you promised Chris. More than that, you refuse to let Luke Castellan beat you.

So you commit to the staircase, pushing past the line for the restroom upstairs. It’s quieter up here, not by much, but you can hear yourself think clearer. There’s three doors on your left, all closed, and you drain the remnants of your drink so it warms your blood and erases the small part of your brain still protesting. 

There’s two yells when you knock on the first door, both hurried and pitching higher as the words fade so you move on quickly. No one answers to the second door, so you crack it open enough to see inside. It’s dark and neat and completely untouched by whatever is happening below, so you let it click shut again. 

Luke is in the third room, you learn, pressing it open when there’s no response to your knock. The room itself is still orderly, but you find the boy you’ve been searching for sitting on the floor at the base of the bed, hat turned to the side and the sleeves of his jacket bunching carelessly where they’ve been pushed higher on his forearms. 

“Chris wanted me to tell you he took Clarisse home,” you blurt when it feels like you need to say something. “He couldn’t find you so…”

Luke waits. When it becomes clear that’s all you’re here for, he says, “Well, thanks for letting me know.” 

You’ve done your job. You can go back and enjoy the party downstairs, maybe make use of the empty room next door instead of remaining awkwardly in the doorway. 

You think about how Chris mentioned that Luke can recite pi to seventeen places while drunk. How you’re still beating him by two points. How there’s an ashtray on the floor beside Luke’s knee and it’s sort of considerate of him to use one when no one else would.

“Mind if I join you?” 

Being in an empty bedroom with a guy at a party isn’t unusual. You’ve had your fair share of them, rushed and quiet and mostly on a bed. Sitting on the floor with Luke is different, you find, a gravity to it than you can’t quite wrap your head around after so many drinks. It’s slow and languid and you don’t really say much of anything as your knee bumps against his thigh in an effort to get comfortable in the space.

No one told you Luke smokes. 

You tell him as much.

“It’s a bad habit,” he shakes his head, twisting a cigarette between his fingers and you both act like you’re not paying rapt attention to it. “I try to avoid making it one.” 

“I used to. Back in high school. Gave it up when I got accepted here.” 

He turns to face you then, head tilted so the visor of his slanted hat brushes his shoulder. “I would never have guessed you were a smoker.” 

It’s not said with judgment, just as an observation from the limited interactions you’ve had since the semester began. The focus in Luke’s gaze crawls up your spine and mingles with the alcohol you’ve yet to flush from your system. 

“You ever blown a smoke ring?” 

If you’re not challenging him, you don’t quite know what to make of Luke. It’s the thing you know most about him, the way his face shifts from victory into loss. The way it matches yours, stretches from his eyes to his jaw and into clenched hands. If you’re not challenging him, you can’t read him - you want to be able to read him in the low light of right now. 

“I bet I’m better at it than you,” you say after he answers. A short laugh escapes him, almost a huff, and it raises the skin on your arms when it meets the top of your ear. “Wanna see?” 

“I’ve only got one.” He waves the cigarette he’s been holding in front of your eyes. 

“We can share.” 

It’s a bad, terrible, absolutely stupid idea. 

“You’re on, Castellan.” 

As he lights the end of it, you wonder if he knows what the brief flame does for his cheekbones, for his jawline. Paints them in small, defined shadows that you might still see if you close your eyes. You almost want to mention it to him. You settle for watching his lips settle around it, the sinking of his cheeks on the inhale and the noise as he exhales. There’s an almost complete ring of smoke in the air.

Luke hands you the cigarette and you repeat his motions, a little quicker. A little smoother. The ring that leaves your lips is full, but less circular. 

Both of you pretend not to notice the other one staring.

You agree to best of three. You agree and you win by the tiniest margin and you hand Luke the little that remains as a consolation prize. He indulges in the last few drags and you watch him do it, looking nothing like the pre-med student you know he is. You think he could be dangerous like this, based on the way your stomach twists as he puts the cigarette out, how his head tilts back and the final wisps of smoke escape his mouth.

You aren’t as drunk anymore. 

You really wish you were.

It takes Luke a second to notice that you’ve moved at all, eyes still closed but he does, and the run of his gaze across your face is enough for you to seize the last of the alcohol in your bloodstream, pushing forward so you’re actually face to face with him, knees digging into the rough carpet beneath you. 

“Can I help you?” It’s low and a little ragged and this is the first time you’ve really noticed the thin, pale scar that stretches down the skin of his right cheek. It’s actually a little insane how pretty he is up close. 

“I think I want a little more than the glory of winning this time,” and half of your whisper is lost to Luke Castellan’s lips but it’s not that important anyway.

What is important is the warmth of his hand through your shirt, pressed into the skin that exposes itself as you shift even closer. It’s the slightly rough texture of his jaw underneath your palm, the way his breath hitches in tandem with yours and you both push through it anyway. It’s the unexpected catch of your finger on his cap and the way you give up on it entirely, finally snatching it off his head so it lands somewhere nearby. 

You’re not sure what you expected Luke’s hair to look like. Horrible, probably, with odd patches that lie weirdly flat and should be covered from view. It’s not this, wild dark curls that deserve to be seen. 

“You have curly hair?” You say it before you can think not to, so caught up in the discovery you’ve just made, and Luke squints at you, unsure. “I can’t believe you have curly hair.” 

He’s preparing a smart-ass comment, you know it by the way his teeth dig into his bottom lip, and that’s really just not going to work this time - not when he’s been lying for months behind a hat. So you do what any sane person would, twist your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck and trail your lips across his jaw like you’ll die if you don’t.

His hand hooks underneath your thigh and, when you bracket his waist between your legs, cool leather brushing against your knees, you think this might be the best victory you’ve experienced yet.

*

Silena knows something is up when you refuse to speak to her about the party. There’s few secrets you’ve kept from each other since meeting, and even less since Clarisse got involved. It’s pointless to try, mostly, since they all spill out of you when the lights go out and you’re left with each other's company. You almost forgot how annoying she could be when she’s pushing for information.

“Don’t think I’m going to tell you either,” you say when Clarisse joins you in the library a week after the party. “I am a fortress of secrets.” 

“I know you hooked up with Luke.” 

“Seriously?” 

She rolls her eyes, passing you the book you’d asked her for during practice last night. “Calm down. Chris told me. I’m down ten bucks now.” 

“You bet on it?”

“Of course we did, it’s our brand.” 

“I’m not telling Silena,” you whisper again, frowning at your notes. You wonder if Clarisse is aware you haven’t actually spoken to Luke since that night. “She’ll make it a big deal for nothing.” 

“I won’t tell but you should probably figure out what happens next. There’s a party at ksig tomorrow night before everyone goes home for the holidays.” You tap your pen against the textbook. Clarisse pushes a slip of paper towards you. Someone’s phone buzzes to your left. “Think about it.”

When she’s long gone, you grab the paper she left from the table. It’s wrinkled and you smooth it as best you can beneath your fingertips. Blue ink, messily scrawled, and you commit it to memory. Closing your textbook, you leave it pressed between chapters seven and eight. 

The party is loud, louder than you’re prepared for after flaking out on so many since your first one last year. Silena brushes past you once you arrive, shoving your shoulder just enough that it twinges and you frown. You didn’t speak a word on the way here and the silent treatment is starting to drive a little crazy. 

It feels silly now, in a place so crowded, and you breathe deeply. Someone points you in the direction of the kitchen after multiple attempts at asking and you miss the light chaos of throwing up outside the Stolls’ dorm with your best friend. 

You grab a beer, using the table edge to pop the cap off, and it helps to ease the tightness in your chest at how unfamiliar this all is. You’re not sure you could even find the restroom, let alone a singular person.

Pushing back into the bulk of the party, you vow to leave if you don’t find him before you finish your beer. There’s a project you have to start looking into for next semester that could be a good use of time tonight. 

If anyone tried to convince you that most of campus was here, you’d be willing to believe them. A drink raised in Lee’s direction, a nod to Ethan from last years’ stats class, a half-hearted smile at Rachel, who raises an eyebrow at you like she knows something no one else does. 

And maybe she does, because you turn away from her to find Luke just feet away, gesturing animatedly to the guy next to him. There’s a beer in his hand and a hat on his head and his phone number so deeply etched in your mind since last night that you hardly think about it until you’re standing next to him again, drink placed on a table somewhere along the way.

“Hi,” he smiles and his scar shifts with it. He turns to the guy from before. “We’ll catch up later, man.”

“Have I ever told you that I hate that fucking hat?” 

“I sort of got that when you threw it across the room.” His lips wrap around the rim of his bottle and you think you can be normal about it, go back to the way things were, until he smirks just slightly and you know you can’t. 

“You’re such a sore loser, Castellan,” you mutter as you push yourself up to snatch it from his head. He doesn’t comment, lets your fingers brush through his curls until they’re a complete mess instead of compacted. He glances down at the cap in your hand and mutters, “And what is your genius plan for my hat?”

It’s a really fucking good question. Short of getting it off his head, you didn’t know what you were going to do. It’s one thing to throw it across an empty room in the dark, another thing entirely to abandon it to a frat party. So you choose the next best thing - placing it on your own head and daring him to question it. 

“I guess that can work,” Luke says and it sounds like a promise soaked in laughter. 

Neither of you find it as funny when he has to tip the visor upwards to kiss you.

[cowgirlcherrie]

florist! abby Headcanons ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

a/n: something quick n sweet you knowwwww got this random thought and had to write it I couldn’t resist I couldn’t. I also saw that no one done florist! abby(?) so I wanted to be the first to hop on! plus I missed writing for Abs — my baby, so enjoy ♡

warnings: 18+, MDNI, some fluff, gets smuttier halfway in, strap, blowjob (strap), eating you out, mentions of obsessive behaviors, polaroid nudes-ish, fingering, edging, public-sex-ishh, soft dom! Abby, tatted! Abby. Hinted at smoker Abby if you squint, petnames, fingers in mouth, masturbation, use of the word mommy, use of the word pussy, fem reader.

divider creds here

ೀ florist! Abby wears a basic white cropped t-shirt and black dickies under her beige apron. Her apron has a rainbow flag pin, with black pliers in one pocket. Doc Martins on her feet, tied miserably into a bow, it’s a miracle she doesn’t trip around the flower shop. She has a carabiner on her belt loop that jingles every time she walks. 

– apart from smelling like the flowers (obvi bc of where she works) smells like heavy pine and fresh soap, like forget the additives – just clean if ykyk

ೀ florist! Abby gets little patchwork tattoos in random places: a dainty lavender tattoo on her wrist, a little crescent moon behind her ear, paw prints on her bicep for her late dog Alice, a ‘gentle artist’ in bolded times new roman font – but dainty on her forearm. Her knuckles are tatted spelling out “FUCK YOU”.

ೀ florist! Abby that has a ‘Save the Bees!’ sticker on the back of her phone case. Super Bee activist.

ೀ florist! Abby who spends all day in the floral shop, playing music from her playlist on the shop’s aux, slightly swaying to the music as she works on a bouquet. She works with such prestige, god her hands work so quickly at building arrangements but the outcome is so beautiful and that’s why she has many customers. She definitely uses any leftover flowers as bookmarks for her books.

ೀ florist! Abby who’s aux will go from Lauryn Hill to Boy Genius to Mac Miller — she gets compliments on her music taste by customers all the time.

ೀ florist! Abby stops working on a bouquet when you walk into the store because of how confused you look. Wanting to save a damsel in distress. Abby moves from her place at the counter walking over to where you stood looking at the different types of flowers, creeping behind you. You smell divine to her, driving her head crazy knowing that your scent alone will be stuck in her head all day. The floral shop is a slow yet steady business, so Abby definitely doesn’t forget a face or a smell. The form-fitting dress you wore that day, the way your hands bunched at the fabric in confusion had her head spinning!

“Beautiful aren’t they?” Abby whispers from behind you,

Actually scares the living shit out of you when you see her standing behind you, but the way the sun was hitting her face from the big window panels made you less nervous. Rather in awe at the beauty in front of you. Her sunkissed skin, and silky blonde mane, were raveled in a delicate braid with wispies around her face. The raspiness from her voice – which honestly sounded like a smoker's voice now that you thought about it. 

ೀ florist! Abby who makes small talk with you while making your boquette for you (taking her slow sweet time), asking you where you’re from and what you’re doing in town? Absolutely praying that the flowers aren’t for some significant other of yours, Abby letting out an exhale when you say that they’re for your mom who you are visiting for dinner. When you mention you are unsure of what flowers to get don’t worry Abby will help you!

“So pretty girl, are you more minimalistic, talking Lilies, Gardenia’s, Jasmine – which is over there...or colorful? Which I think your beautiful self enjoys a nice Orchid, Camellia, or Begonia?”

Definitely shocks you with how well she knows her stuff

ೀ florist! Abby zones out when you are speaking and stares at your lips for far too long, looking at the way your pink gloss shines wondering how your pretty lips would look taking her strap. Percase covered in spit, from your saliva that has built up from blowing her off. Abby wanted to do nothing more than take the pretty little fabric ribbon from your hair and tie it around your hands as she went down on you while you beg her to touch you in all the right places – it was all a dream to her. Wet dreaming with you right in front of her.

Undeniably horny and touch deprived…she spends so much time in the floral shop she doesn’t have time for dating apps and finds shit like Tinder CORNY LOL. 

Meanwhile, you are trying your hardest not to stare at the way her arms are flexing or how her fingers are paying delicate attention to your bouquet, mentally laughing at the “FUCK YOU” on her knuckles, it contrasted her soft nature so much.

ೀ florist! Abby who slips in a little note into your tote back when you’re not looking, with her number on it, hoping that you would find it and call her soon, Which you do find when you are scrambling for your keys on your way back to the car. Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to give the overly, steaming attractive florist a call. 

ೀ florist! Abby when the two of you start dating, she would teach you how to make a bouquet, standing closely behind you – her body right up against your back as you feel her breath tickling your ear as she whispers to you what to do

“Atta girl, look at that my sweet girl – woah! watch your hand there’s a thorn baby.”

Will definitely put her hands over yours as she works with the knife to make sure there isn’t any thorns so you don’t prick yourself. 

ೀ florist! Abby fucking you in the flower shop, when the shop is closed. Having her head in between your thighs, as her jaw slacks – the sound of your juices sloshing against her mouth as she sends hums into your pussy making you let out low mewls. Bringing a hand up to cover your mouth but she slaps it away so that she can see you

“Don’t hide from me baby, I wanna see you…look at how beautiful you look whining for me doll”

ೀ florist! Abby who kept your lace underwear in her pocket after she fucked you in the floral shop keeping it for safe-keeping (pft…we all know what she is doing with that)

ೀ florist! Abby who shows you her small pocket-sized notebook full of different flowers and arrangement ideas she had. Even the sketches of a flower bouquet that she made inspired by you and all your favorite flowers.

ೀ florist! Abby definitely tucks flowers behind your ears, specifically a white or light-pink Carnation. Especially loves putting one behind your ear as she fucks you with her strap, missionary style so she can see your face – just loves your face honestly. Bending down to kiss your lips, her cheeks dusted red with the pressure she applies.

Tucking her head into your neck swiftly smelling the carnation that she put behind your ear driving her even further insane as she drills into you — makes her go faster.

ೀ When she starts teaching you more about flowers, Definitely uses sexual enforcement to get you to remember it. Will have you sat on her counter as she stands in between your legs – locking you in as she lunges two fingers into you, edging you and not letting you cum until you say the right name of the flower that she taught you. But you could hardly focus staring at her inked knuckles as they pump in and out of you which only makes you reach your climax even further. 

“You wanna come don’t you my sweet girl? I know you want to…just say the name– awh don’t whine at me…I know you know it dollface, I don’t buy that you don’t.”

Sometimes she’ll give you a hint if the flower starts with one of the letters on her knuckles she will stick the corresponding finger into you, working at getting you just about there as her finger curls into you. Your vision is blurry as you can hardly tell what the letter is, moaning out as you try to focus on the order of the letters on her knuckles to catch the hint.

“C’mon baby I’m giving you a hint…pay attention sweetheart– focus!”

ೀ florist! Abby when you get it wrong and she finally lets you come — is fake-mad at you, shoving the lettered finger down your throat as you gag on her fingers covered in your juices.

“Baby the hinted letter was C, and the other finger was U, flower: Curcuma. You’ll get it right next time right sweetheart? You won’t let mommy down hmm?”

ೀ florist! Abby is definitely a soft dom just saying… soft as hell, loves when you hold her – kiss her, and skin-to-skin contact is important as hell she just wants to feel you and loves when you baby her. 

ೀ Definitely keeps a Polaroid of you holding flowers in pink floral lingerie in her beige apron and another one of you in her wallet, that way she has you on her at all times (honestly probably touched herself to blow off some steam after a hard shift while looking at it)

ೀ Depending on how far the relationship goes, especially if y’all start talking marriage will get your favorite flower tatted and not tell you until you see a dainty tattoo of your favorite flower on her collarbone slightly above her heart as she is filling you up, you questioning her in between moans about it.

“Mmhm…fuck is that new? Shit..abbyplease – wait is that my favorite flower?” You ask, as she grinds into you – your finger dragging against the tattoo

“Yes baby, you’re all mine. Mine…mine…mine” As she pounds harder into to you each time she says mine. Obsessive, possessive + territorial, let’s talk about it 

ೀ florist! Abby is overall just a sweetheart who loves you so much and just wants you to be her pretty flower – her muse, you definitely inspire most of her bouquets and she is so happy you ran into her shop looking for flowers that day.

[tizeline]

Hi, love your Au and your art!

Since the Drax boys have lived in the Hidden City their whole lives, they have a much better sense of community than the Donnie. Even if they aren't the most well liked since I assume most yokai find their views on human's extreme. They can still go down to a supermarket, a restaurant, a park. All things in which Donnie has never been able to do out in daylight. How would they react onto figuring out. "Oh, crap this kid is a socially isolated weirdo [affectionate]." Like would they do a montage of dragging Donnie to all their favorite places? Also, I imagine that yokai culture has different faux pas, any Donnie might just accidentally do something offensive, like how he did in Witch town by not collecting the worms right. Or he might accidentally do something incredibly dangerous like go to a place with gangs or go to Big Mama's and he'd have no idea because Donnie's not a resident of the Hidden City. Also, do you think Yokai celebrate Christmas or New Years? I imagine it would be very weird for Donnie to see people that look like you and be under the same category of 'freak' (in the human city) just walking around doing everyday things. Especially since Donnie's spent his whole life hiding, walking around and not worrying about if some human scientist is going to nab you must be world-endingly weird. Also, it would probably give Donnie hope for things he's never been able to do before. Make a proper friend group, own a home in a neighborhood, and go to college. All the regular teen things he see's people in the movies and April doing.

Also, something I've always wondered in canon, do you think Donnie has his shots? Since he can't access a regular doctor, do you think he's just like a carrier of every single dead disease. I assume he's probably immune to a lot of sicknesses because of how Draxum made them. But imagine Draxums reaction when he wants to get Donnie's medical records (I imagine Draxum is a stickler for health, shots, and Doctor checkups as a form of affection) and Donnie has to tell him he's literally never been to an actual Doctor. I imagine at some point he made records for himself, but that was probably when he got a bit older, so for the first seven years or so, Splinter was just hoping Donnie didn't come down with anything deadly.

I'm also betting that the Drax boys are a bit smarter than canon because Draxum seems like the type of person to do ZERO skimping on education. Like yes, Donnie's still smarter, however I do think they Drax boys are just smarter than canon, like they probably know high school algebra, science, yokai history all that stuff. I think it would be cool to see the boys reference a piece of yokai culture of history and Donnie just be like ".....what". I imagine it make him very mad to be out of the loop in any piece of knowledge. However, Donnie could make a human pop culture reference and also get the Drax boys confused.

LMAO yeah it's quite weird for Donnie to be able to just. Walk around in public without having to worry about anyone finding out that he's a mutant. It takes him a while to adjust to the fact that he doesn't have to hide his turtle-features amongst yōkai, he probably instictually keeps doing it for a while at first (keeping to the shadows and wearing clothes that hides his appearence, stuff like that).

His brothers are quite eager to introduce Donnie to all the cool stuff in The Hidden City that he's been missing out on. And while part of Donnie's difficulty with social interactions is just a symptom of him being autistic, him growing up so isolated definitely made things even harder for him. A lot of his knowledge about social etiquette he learned from like........ shows and movies, and I don't think 80s martial arts- and campy sci-fi-movies are the best teachers on how to interact with others lol. He had April of course, but she's one person and also kind of a weirdo too. And all of that just may have given him insight on how to socialize in human society, he's very unprepared for yōkai society!

His brothers really don't mind this, partially because Donnie's behavior is so similar to Draxum so they honestly just find it endearing. They also fully expected Donnie to have been completely traumatized from living amongst humans. The fact that he's (mostly) fine, just a bit eccentric, is great news to them! Also a lot of yōkai consider the entire Draxum family to be a bunch of weirdos too, maybe Donnie doesn't really fit in amongst other yōkai as much as he'd liked but he DOES fit in amongst his family, both the Hamatos and the Draxums! :]

Also LMAOOO- Splinter: "This is my son Donatello, he has every disease"

Honestly..... yeah Donnie kinda mostly relied on his mutation-enhanced immune system growing up. Donnie, being a NERD, might have figured out how to get himself vaccinated for at least some stuff eventually. I also imagine with Splinter knowing he himself is the closest thing to a medic he or Donnie were ever gonna get access to, he put in effort into research and other precautions to be safe. That being said, he's not an expert, and while I do believe the Hamato Ninja Training included some basic medical training like first aid and such, there's the small problem of both Splinter and Donnie both having EXTREMELY weird biology on account of the mutation, so Splinter kinda just had to guess a lot and hope for the best when it came to Donnie's health

Regardless, I absolutely belive that as soon as Donnie's relationship with Draxum became slightly less hostile, Draxum managed to convince Donnie to sit down for a checkup. And OMG Draxum being so concerned about his kids' health as a form of affection is both adorable and hilarious 😭

And yup the Drax Bros got a much better education in the AU compared to canon lmaooo (Leo still doesn't like reading books though). Donnie is still definitely the most academically gifted, but yeah his brothers of course are going to know a lot more about yōkai stuff in general, which kinda makes Donnie a little bit insecure. Specifially when Raph, Mikey and Leo start talking about something yōkai-related that Donnie is completely ignorant of, then that makes him feel a bit left out. Of course, then he, April will talk about something human-related and then his brothers are the ones out of the loop (aside from maybe Leo he knows quite a bit about human pop-culture)

[sabertoothwalrus]

I’ve seen you post some labru stuff and I’m curious what your thoughts on it are. personally I don’t see it? I can buy Kabru having feelings for Laios, but I think Laios wouldn’t be interested in Kabru, so it makes me wonder why so many people ship them. (Tbh I feel like Kabru has more chemistry with Mithrun anyway)

Sorry if this ask sounds rude, I just genuinely don’t understand the appeal of the ship, but I want to understand and I trust your analysis of characters very much :] maybe there’s something I’m missing

I really like both ships, actually!

For labru, there’s sooooo much I could talk about. The inherent homoeroticism of being narrative foils. The inherent homoeroticism of being the king’s advisor. All of chapter 76. The fact that Kabru has mask upon mask upon mask, and Laios is the first person that made his facade absolutely crumble.

Kabru struggles with being genuine!!! Everything he says and does is so perfectly calculated, even when he sort of means it. But since Laios doesn’t get social cues, Kabru gets thrown for a loop.

I get so frustrated when people act like Kabru still hates Laios by the end of the manga!!!!! He killed those corpse retrievers for being corrupt, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to kill Laios. He has such a strong sense of justice, and knew that killing Laios would be a mistake. Because, after meeting him, he could tell he wasn’t actually evil. He’s strange, sure, but not evil.

Kabru DEFINITELY wants to be friends with Laios!! He was not lying about this!!!

But this last comic shows how much Laios wants to be friends with Kabru, too. He’s so nervous after calling Kabru his friend 😭 he doesn’t want to be presumptuous and fuck it up again.

Laios does show an interest in Kabru, at least when Laios thinks he’s interested in eating monsters too. Like,, what was up with THIS

Laios’s gaze is LINGERING. Plus, (this is before that bit at Thistle’s house when he forgets his name) he brings up Kabru when they first form their plan to eat Falin.

And maybe this is just because of my own personal experiences, but Laios reminds me a lot of my own girlfriend. I think they have a similar flavor of gay/aspec & autism combo where, had I not asked her out first, she probably never would have considered being interested in me. But she was very down when I did.

The tricky part about labru is more the political aspect. Regardless of whether you see Laios as aroace or not, he’s in a situation where he will probably get married. He had a fiancée before he was age 13, likely betrothed since he was a baby. He’s already comfortable with the idea of getting married because He’s Supposed To.

However, Laios is king, and could make gay marriage legal if he wanted to (He would probably do this for his sister and Marcille before considering it for himself ). But at the same time, I think Kabru would object to Laios making whatever policies he wants without considering the repercussions of how other kingdoms might react, especially when they’re just getting Melini off the ground and need lots of support from other countries. Laios and Kabru getting gay married anyway and dealing with the aftermath could make for a really compelling story.

I do think Kabru would be a good ruler. He’s already fit for it. He speaks a dozen languages, he knows people and their motivations, and likes politics. The manga already joked about Chilchuck’s daughters trying to marry a king, so it seems like noble blood isn’t too important, but Kabru’s foster family IS nobility. When it comes to heirs, I do like trans Kabru headcanons, but at the same time, I think it’d be cute if they adopt anyway. Kabru seems like he’d have strong feelings about adoption given,,, yknow.

The alternative version of labru to this is Laios gets straight married out of obligation, and Kabru is his mistress hdhdhshsj. I don’t know if I could see Laios doing that? or if Kabru would risk the scandal of being outed as Royal Advisor and Regent trying to seduce the king. It could go SO downhill. but maybe that would be fun.

NOW FOR KABUMISU.

I knew people shipped them, and I could see the basis for it while reading, but I wasn’t really sold on it until the very end. There’s something about “I had no desires left. I decided to create new desires, and one of them is you” that’s really charming.

There’s also something funny about “the demon ate my heterosexuality so I’m gay now”

I think it’s interesting that Kabru hates elves. He was raised by them, and he hates them. He hates feeling patronized by them. He made absolutely sure that elves wouldn’t take control over Melini, not just for his sake, but for Rin’s.

But Mithrun’s interactions with Kabru are founded on more mutual respect. Though, that’s not to say that Mithrun doesn’t still have his biases towards short lived races..

Where Laios doesn’t understand social cues, Mithrun does but just doesn’t care. For that reason, I think Kabru would enjoy spending time with Mithrun. It’d give him a break from his compulsion to calculate all of his social interactions. But at the same time, Kabru is the KING at bottling his emotions. Mithrun is blunt, but also doesn’t care enough to pry. If Kabru had anything bothering him, I could imagine him seeking Mithrun’s company to avoid thinking about it. Could make for a fun dynamic.

I do think it’s funny that Milsiril 1) took care of Mithrun for potentially 20 years and 2) is only four years older than him. I imagine this could lead to funny situations.

I don’t ship things for no reason! I think both of these could work platonically, romantically, one-sided, or even “requited but they don’t do anything about it.” Their relationships compel me and I think it’s sort of bad faith to brush off either like they’re nothing more than baseless yaoi pair-the-spares. To me, I see just as much of a foundation in the source material as farcille.

After all, dungeon meshi isn’t a story about romance, but it IS a story about love. It’s a story about life and death and grief and the love that comes with it. Regardless of shipping, these characters love each other!!! And I love talking about it!!

[thir10th]

Je t'aime - October writing challenge day 6

summary: you already knew Emily spoke a lot of languages, you just never thought they could sound so sweet when directed at you tw: a bit smutty, super super soft, fingering. that's all i think, lmk if i miss something a/n: can you tell i love polyglot Emily?? cause i DO

Date nights are always nice regardless of what you do, but you gotta admit cooking together must be your favorite, even if 'cooking together' means Emily cooks and you watch, try stuff out, and try not to burn anything.

You sit on the counter, swinging your legs and just admiring your girlfriend cook, she looks so focused, her shoulders tense, she bites her lip and it makes your skin itchy. Nothing could make you lose interested on her right now. Almost.

"I think it's still a bit tasteless, could you pass me the salt, amor?" she says softly, almost absentmindedly.

You pause mid-reach, surprised to say the least "Amor?" you're not fluent, but you know enough Spanish to guess what it means, and your heart skips a beat.

Emily glances over with a smirk, noticing your reaction "Yeah... Amor. What? You don’t like it?"

You can feel yourself blushing "No, no… I do. I mean, I know what it means."

"Oh, so you do know. Interesting." She raises an eyebrow, clearly picking up on your flustered expression.

"It’s just… it sounds nice when you say it." you mumble, trying to play it cool.

Emily grins "Does it now?" Her tone is playful, and she steps closer to you, enjoying your reaction "I didn’t realize you had a thing for me speaking other languages."

You laugh nervously "I don't— I mean, it's not—" You trail off, realizing you’re caught.

Emily laughs softly "Mhm, sure." She brushes a hand over your arm as she passes by to grab something from the counter. "Maybe I should switch it up then. How about... cara?" She switches to Italian, her voice dropping slightly as she steps closer again. "Or maybe mon trésor?" French this time, the words rolling off her tongue smoothly.

You blush harder, heart racing "Emily!" you scold her.

Emily keeps grinning wider, she loves how flustered you’re getting "What? I’m just experimenting. Seems like you enjoy it when I do."

She leaves the spoon in the pot, forgetting what she's doing, and walks up to you, pulling you by the belt loops of your pants, drags you to her and you surround her neck with your arms.

You mumble, barely able to meet her eyes "Maybe."

She kisses you so sweetly, it's impossible to deny her anything.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

Over the next few days, Emily keeps casually switching between different languages when she calls you pet names, testing how much she can fluster you. It’s playful, but you can tell she’s enjoying watching you blush.

Like the walk home after dinner some days ago, when she just casually let it slip

Emily slipped off her scarf and wrapped it around your neck, noticing you shivering "Зайка, you’re cold. Why didn’t you say something?" You blinked in surprise, not fully understanding the Russian word but definitely recognizing the affectionate tone.

You blushed under the warmth of the scarf and the way Emily’s voice drops when she uses Russian "What does that mean?"

Emily smirked, pulling you a little closer as you walk "Zayka? It means 'bunny' or 'sweetheart' in Russian." She gave s you a sidelong glance, enjoying the blush creeping up your cheeks "And you’re blushing again."

"Maybe."

It's not until a week later that you acknowledge it again, but in your defense, sometimes she makes it so hard to let things go.

You’re in the hotel bathroom, getting ready for bed after a long day of work. Emily is brushing her teeth while you’re washing your face. When she's done, she leaves a chaste, soft kiss on your shoulder and turns to go to bed.

"Je t'aime." She absentmindedly says like it's just nothing.

You freeze in place, wide-eyed "Wait, what did you just say?" Your heart skips a beat. You definitely recognize that phrase.

Emily smiles to herself, turning to you "Hmm? Oh, nothing important."

You move closer, trying to catch her eye "Emily, don’t play with me. You just said something very important."

Emily bites back a smile, playing innocent "Oh, you mean je t’aime?" Her eyes glint with mischief as she repeats it, leaning casually against the bathroom counter.

"Yeah. That." you remark, nervous but excited.

Emily finally gives in, stepping closer to you, her smile softening "I love you." She brushes her fingers lightly across your cheek. "That’s what I said."

You are trying so hard not to freak out, trying not to grin like an idiot "You— you just—"

Emily laughs, absolutely delighted by your reaction "Oh my God, you’re freaking out." She pulls you into a gentle hug, still chuckling. "I didn’t think you’d love it this much."

You muffle against her shoulder "You said it in French! What do you expect me to do?"

Emily laughs, pulling back to look at you "You’re blushing so hard, all I did was say I love you in French." She gently pinches your cheek playfully.

You mumble, completely flustered "yeah, well, it already is a big deal to me when you say it in english!"

Emily smirks "Oh, do you want me to keep going? I could say it in every language I know if that’ll make you blush more."

If it was even possible, you are blushing even harder now "Emily—"

She smirks "Oh, amore mio— I love you." Italian now, and you can’t stop the way your face flushes. "Or, how about... te quiero?" Back to Spanish, her voice soft and playful.

You laugh, hiding your face in your hands "You’re impossible."

She gently pulls your hands away from your face "No, I’m just enjoying seeing you like this." She lowers her voice, getting even closer, her breath warm against your skin. "Ti amo... kocham cię... ich liebe dich..." Switching between languages effortlessly, her eyes sparkling with affection.

You are barely able to keep up, completely flustered "Okay, okay, you win!" You laugh, pulling her into a tight hug, burying your face in her shoulder again. "I love you too, okay?"

Emily smiles against your hair, voice soft "Good. Because now I get to call you every pet name I know in every language... just to watch you blush." She leans in closer, her lips brushing against your ear. "And maybe... teach you a few things."

You groan, although you're secretly loving every single bit "You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?"

She laughs, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper "Oh, absolutely, mi amor."

Emily’s teasing smile lingered on her lips as she pulled you closer in the bathroom, her hands gently cupping your face. Without another word, she kissed you again, soft and slow at first, savoring the moment. Her lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your heart race, and you couldn’t help but kiss her back with the same intensity, completely lost in the moment.

As the kiss deepened, Emily's fingers slipped to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer, her body pressing against yours. Her lips moved more urgently now, the heat between you building as the playful teasing gave way to something deeper, something that made your knees weak. You felt her smile against your mouth when she felt you shiver, her hands wandering down your sides with a touch that was both gentle and possessive.

Still holding you, she guided you out of the bathroom, her lips never leaving yours as she carefully led you toward the bed. You stumbled back a little as your legs hit the edge of the mattress, and Emily chuckled softly against your lips, her hands steadying you by your waist. Her playful nature never fully left her, even as things heated up.

“You’re always so easy to lead,” she teased, her voice soft and filled with affection.

You laughed breathlessly, trying to sound indignant but failing as you tugged her closer by her shirt. “Maybe I just like following you.”

Emily grinned, her dark eyes locking with yours as she gently pushed you down onto the bed, her body hovering above you. She didn’t waste any time leaning back in, capturing your lips once more, but this time the kiss was hotter, more urgent. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way into her hair, pulling her closer as you both lost yourselves in each other.

The room seemed to melt away as you kissed her, the outside world no longer existing—just you and Emily. Her hands roamed your body slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing every inch of you. She shifted slightly, her knee sliding between your legs, pressing just enough to make you gasp against her lips.

Emily grinned at your reaction, kissing you harder as her hand trailed under your shirt, her fingers warm against your skin. She was always so gentle, but now there was an edge to her touch that made your heart race faster. Her lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, each one sending shivers through you.

“You taste so good,” she murmured against your skin, her voice low and sultry, and you couldn’t help but arch into her touch, her words making your pulse quicken.

"Emily," you breathed, barely able to think straight as her hands continued their slow, torturous path over your skin, her lips following wherever her fingers went.

She smirked against your neck, knowing exactly what she was doing to you. “Mmm, I love it when you say my name like that.”

Before you could respond, her lips found yours again, kissing you deeply as she slowly shifted you both until you were sitting up in her lap, her hands on your hips as she settled you against her. The shift made your heart race all over again, the new position allowing you to feel every inch of her against you.

Her hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, lifting it off and tossing it aside. She pulled you closer, her lips brushing softly against your collarbone before trailing lower, her breath warm against your skin as she whispered sweet things, making you shiver in her arms.

“Such a good girl,” she murmured, her voice both sweet and teasing. “I love the way you respond to me.”

Her words made you blush, but you couldn’t deny how much they affected you. You wrapped your arms around her neck, pressing your forehead to hers as you tried to catch your breath. Emily smiled softly, her thumb tracing small circles on your hip as she whispered, "You look so beautiful like this."

You bit your lip, feeling warmth spread through your body at her words. Before you could respond, her hand slipped between your legs, her touch slow and teasing. You gasped, clutching at her shoulders as her fingers pressed exactly where you needed them.

“Emily,” you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with affection.

She smiled, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, her fingers sliding inside you with a gentle, practiced ease. Your breath caught in your throat, your body responding immediately to her touch, arching into her hand as she worked you slowly, her other hand steadying you on her lap.

“You’re doing so well for me,” she whispered in your ear, her voice soft and intimate, her breath sending a shiver down your spine. “I love the way you feel…”

You moaned softly, burying your face in her shoulder as her fingers curled inside you, her rhythm slow but deliberate. She held you close, her other hand resting on your back as she murmured sweet things in your ear, her voice a constant source of warmth and reassurance.

“Such a good girl…” she whispered again, her fingers quickening their pace slightly, her lips brushing against your neck as she kissed you softly. “I love seeing you like this, all wrapped up in me.”

You could barely respond, your breath coming in short gasps as she brought you closer and closer to the edge. Every touch, every kiss was filled with so much affection, and it only made the moment more intense. Emily’s fingers moved in perfect rhythm, her voice low and soothing as she whispered sweet, teasing things in your ear.

“You’re so perfect for me,” she whispered, her voice filled with affection. “I love you…”

Her fingers worked you just right, and it wasn’t long before you were trembling in her arms, your body shaking as the pleasure overwhelmed you. Emily held you close as you came apart, her fingers never faltering as she whispered soft, sweet things in your ear, her lips brushing against your skin as you rode out the waves of pleasure.

As you finally came down from the high, still trembling slightly in her lap, Emily kissed your temple softly, her fingers gently sliding out of you. She held you close, her arms wrapping around you as she whispered, “Je t’aime.”

You smiled, your heart still racing as you nuzzled into her neck. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

Emily chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Well, I aim to please.”

You laughed, playfully swatting her arm before snuggling closer into her embrace. “I love you too,” you whispered, feeling safe and warm in her arms.

Emily grinned, resting her chin on top of your head as she held you. “Good,” she murmured, her voice filled with playful affection. “Because I’m never going to stop saying it… in every language I know.”

You groaned softly, but you couldn’t hide your smile. "You’re impossible," you teased, though the warmth in your chest told you just how much you loved it.

Emily kissed the top of your head, her voice filled with love and laughter as she whispered, "I love you, mon amour… and I’m never letting you forget it."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

[dayasfilms]

Chapter Three - Investigation

Summary: You decide to investigate some of the reports by yourself, feeling as though there was much more than people were letting on.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of Y/N, a man being creepy, missing persons, hospital mentions, mistakes in information regarding law

Word Count: 2.4k

Note: A bit of a short chapter today. I wanted to focus on reader a bit and her storyline, apart from the other characters.

Series Masterlist

ㅤ♡ ㅤ♡ ㅤ♡

You drove back home, the rapid pounding of your heart slowly easing the farther you get from the federal building. That feeling in the elevator, you can’t explain it, but it wasn’t normal. You knew you needed to tell your mom.

When you walk into the house, you’re met with darkness. All the lights were off.

“Mom?” You call out. Silence.

You think back to what Renna said, how your mom left with a brunette woman earlier. The description sounded a lot like Joyce.

You sigh, assuming your mom was still with her. You head into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. That’s when you spot something in the corner of your eye. A magnet, lying on the floor.

“Huh,” you mumble, crouching down to pick it up. You turn it over in your hand, confused. Your fridge doesn’t have magnets. You and your mom never put anything on it.

You try to shrug it off and press it to the fridge. It drops to the floor. You frown, pick it up, and try again. It falls.

“What is going on?” You whisper. The magnet reminded you of the magnets that were in the Byers house.

Your thoughts go back to Renna. ‘Something about magnets,’ she’d said.

This is confirmation. Your mom definitely left with Joyce. But you couldn’t understand why her magnet was here.

You try a few more times before giving up and tossing the magnet onto the counter. You turn to head upstairs, and nearly jump out of your skin when the phone rings.

You blink, your heart picking up again. You walk over and answer it.

“Hello?”

There’s no reply. A faint hum.

“Uh, hello?” You try again.

Then, breathing. Heavy, deliberate breathing.

You stiffen. “Is anyone there?”

Still nothing. Your grip tightens on the receiver. Frustrated, you hang up.

You stand there for a moment, nerves creeping up your spine.

You head toward the stairs, trying to brush it off, when the phone rings again. You let out a groan and snatch it up.

“Hello?” You say, harsher than before.

“Y/N, hey!” The voice spoke. You pause, recognizing it as Nancy’s.

You exhale. “Hey, Nancy.”

“Are you busy, by any chance?”

You glance at the clock. “No…Why?”

“I know this is going to sound crazy,” she starts. “But have you seen any…rabid rats lately?”

You blink. “Rabid rats?”

“Yeah. Rats with rabies.”

“No. Why?” You lean against the wall, one hand still gripping the phone. “Is something going on?”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then a sigh. “No reason. Just curious. Thanks.”

“Nancy, wait–” But she hangs up.

You stare at the receiver for a second before slowly placing it back.

You decide to call it a night, shaking your head as you trudge upstairs. You don’t want to think about the magnet. Or the case files. Or the call. Or Carl. Or Steve.

You try to sleep, but your mind refuses to quiet down. Nancy’s question loops in your head.

Rabid rats.

A magnet that won’t stick.

A creepy man.

The case files.

Your breakup.

And silence on the other end of a phone.

Something is wrong.

Really, really wrong.

The next morning, you come downstairs, still groggy from a restless sleep. You pause when you see your mom and Joyce in the kitchen, speaking in low voices with a few books spread across the table.

“Hey,” you say, stepping into the room.

Both women look up quickly, smiling a little too brightly.

“Good morning, sweetie,” your mom says. “Did you sleep okay?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah…it was fine.” Your eyes drift to the books. “What’s all that?”

“Oh, nothing important,” Joyce says, waving her hand as if to brush it off. “Just some light reading…mom stuff.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mom stuff?”

“Yes!” Yasmin jumps in. “Joyce brought over a few books she’s been reading and thought I might like them too. That’s all.”

Their energy felt off. You glance between them, suspicion rising in your chest, but you don’t push.

“Are you not going to work today?” You ask your mom, watching the way she hesitates.

“I will, just…a little later,” she says, exchanging a quick look with Joyce. “We have something to take care of first. You should take the day off today, sweetheart.”

Joyce smiles at you as she starts stacking the books. “Actually, I wanted to show your mom something back at my house. Just a quick thing.”

Your mom nods, picking up the rest of the books. “Yeah, we won’t be gone too long.”

You stare at them for a second. But again, you let it go. For now.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

“Be safe, sweetheart. Love you!” Your mom calls over her shoulder as the door shuts behind them.

And just like that, they’re gone.

The house feels too quiet after your mom and Joyce leave. You’re left standing there, staring at the door long after it shuts.

That strange feeling from the night before hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s worse now.

You head back upstairs and into your mom’s office. You took the case files from her office in the building and stuffed them in your bag, bringing them with you. You left them on her desk after you came back home. You hesitate for a second, then sit down.

You start flipping through the papers again. You recognize a few of the names, former classmates, people around town. One, in particular, sticks out.

Clara Davis.

You remember her from the yearbook committee your sophomore year. Her smile is frozen in a photo now, paper-clipped to a report that offers no real explanation for her sudden disappearance and reappearance.

The notes are vague. Nothing that really explains how or when she disappeared, or what happened to her when she reappeared.

Something about it doesn’t sit right with you. If the parents claimed to have reported her missing, even though there was no official report filed with the local PD, why would they bring it up at all if they truly believed nothing was wrong?

You jot down a quick list of addresses from the files, grab your internship badge since it definitely will come in handy, and head out.

You knock twice on the door of the Davis’ house, already rehearsing how to explain why you’re here. The door creaks open and Mrs. Davis peers out, her eyes narrowing the second she sees you.

“Hi, Mrs. Davis,” you start, holding up your internship badge like it actually means something. “I’m Agent Kaul’s daughter. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your daughter, Clara?”

She blinks. “Clara?”

You nod. “There was some concern. Her name came up in a few reports–”

Mrs. Davis opens the door wider, frowning. “Clara’s fine. She’s home.”

You hesitate. “I–I had a file on her at the office. A missing persons note. Your name and address were in it.”

Her expression clouds over with confusion. “That’s…strange. I spoke to Kaul two days ago, sure. But we never filed an official report. Just neighborhood talk. Clara came home the day after she went ‘missing.’ I told her everything was fine.”

That’s when it clicks. The reports on your mom’s desk weren’t official. They were from your mom. Pieced together from what she heard around town. Quiet conversations. She’s just been keeping tabs on people in case something happened again.

You try to hide your reaction as Mrs. Davis steps aside to let you in.

“Well, just for records,” you say quickly. “I wanted to make sure everything lined up. Would you mind answering a few quick questions?”

She sighs, clearly annoyed now, but leads you to the living room. You sit with your notebook open, scribbling her responses even as something gnaws at your gut.

“When was the last time you saw Clara?” You ask.

Mrs. Davis crosses her arms. “The night she went out with her friends. She didn’t come home until the next morning. We were worried, yes, but she’s an adult. These things happen. Yasmin just asked if she was back, and I said yes. That should’ve been the end of it.”

“Why did you think she went missing in the first place?”

She pauses, as if she hadn’t really expected the question. “Well…it’s not like her to ever be gone for an entire night, she didn’t let us know where she was, and we called her friend, Becky, to see if she was at her house, but she wasn’t. Her bike was left near the woods. That scared us. But she came back. She said she just needed air.”

You scribble the answer down, though it doesn’t feel right.

Before you can ask more, one of the doors in the hallway creaks open.

Footsteps echo down the hall. “Mom?”

You turn toward the voice.

And there she is. Clara Davis.

Same girl from the file. Same dark hair, same wide eyes. Her hair’s damp, like she just stepped out of a shower, and there’s a faint mark along her neck. Barely visible, like a faded bruise.

Clara stops when she sees you. “Mom, who’s this?”

“She’s Agent Kaul’s daughter,” Mrs. Davis says too quickly. “She’s just asking some questions.”

Clara’s gaze settles on you. Her smile is small, polite. But her eyes are…strange. The kind of strange that isn’t natural.

“Nice to meet you,” she says.

You force a smile. “You too.”

It takes everything in you not to stare. Not to ask more questions.

You wrap up the conversation as fast as you can, sensing Mrs. Davis’s growing irritation. She clearly wants you gone.

Once outside, you walk down the steps and lean hard against the porch rail.

Clara was mysteriously gone. But now she’s there. Alive. Smiling. Talking.

Yet everything about her screams wrong.

You flip your notebook closed with a snap.

You don’t go home right away. You tell yourself you need to clear your head, but really, you’re not ready to sit in that quiet house pretending everything’s fine. Pretending Clara Davis didn’t look like a ghost wearing her own skin.

You drive to Starcourt Mall. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe you just need to be around people. Or maybe, deep down, you’re hoping to run into Steve, to explain, to tell someone what’s going on before it starts to feel like you imagined the whole thing.

The mall has people darting in and out of the doors, music can be heard playing, and there is chatter of people all around.

You make your way toward the main entrance, rehearsing what you’ll say to Steve. Maybe he’ll listen.

You don’t get that far.

Something moves outside in one of the bushes. You pause. A rat, its head jerking in tiny spasms. It turns in a slow circle like it’s trying to find something that isn’t there.

Its movements are erratic, broken, like its limbs aren’t working together the way they should. You take a hesitant step forward.

Then you hear a voice, far too close to your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You flinch.

Carl.

He’s standing just behind you, way too close, eyes half-lidded like he’s amused. That smug smirk, the kind that makes your skin crawl.

“What do you want?” You say, already stepping back.

He shrugs. “Just shopping.”

You didn’t even know he lived in Hawkins.

He glances at the rat without interest. “What are you doing here?”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t have time for whatever this is.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Aw, come on. Don’t be like that, princess.”

You shove past him, brushing his shoulder hard. “Call me that again and see what happens.”

A man walks by with a shopping bag, not looking your way, but it makes Carl straighten, that fake smile slipping just slightly.

You don’t wait. You keep walking, faster now, not stopping until you’re back at the parking lot and in your car.

You never made it to Scoops Ahoy. You never told Steve what was going on.

You sit behind the wheel for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel too tight.

You flip through the files once again. You look for one of the reports you remember reading yesterday. Then your eyes catch it.

A woman collapsed after her family found her eating fertilizer. Her name is Lydia Harper.

You stuff the file into your bag and start the car, driving to the hospital.

Inside, you approach the front desk, flashing your intern badge to the receptionist before she can ask questions.

“I’m looking into a case for Agent Kaul,” you say, voice steady. “A patient here. Lydia Harper?”

The nurse eyes the badge, then checks her clipboard. “Room four hundred and two,” she says after a pause.

You nod. “Got it. Thank you.”

The hallway is empty. Your shoes thud against the floor and the lights are a little too bright.

You reach the door. Room four hundred and two.

Gently, you push it open.

Lydia lies motionless in the bed, her skin pale, lips cracked, IVs taped to her wrists. She doesn’t look like someone who would eat fertilizer.

You glance around. No family, no nurse nearby. Just you and her. The room smells faintly of disinfectant.

You inch closer.

A groan escapes her throat.

You stop.

Lydia’s eyelids flutter. Her head twitches once toward you. And then her eyes open.

They’re unfocused, pupils tiny. She stares at you like she’s looking straight through you. She doesn’t say anything. She keeps staring at you. You swallow hard.

“Mrs. Harper?” You whisper.

Her mouth tries to move, but there’s no words. Just sounds. Then her body seizes for half a second, eyes roll back.

And she’s out again.

The monitor beeps steadily. Like nothing happened.

You step back, heartbeat beating loudly in your ears.

Behind you, the door creaks. A nurse enters, startled.

“May I help you?” She asks, frowning.

You flash the badge again. “FBI,” you say, quieter this time. “I was just checking a file.”

“I see…” she mutters. “I don’t see why the FBI will have much to report on this. Just a poor old woman who accidentally consumed fertilizer.”

“Is she okay?” You ask, pausing at the doorway.

The nurse hesitates. “She wakes up sometimes, but…she doesn’t speak. She’s just in and out.”

You nod, unable to form a reply.

It was darker now, the sun fully set as the street lights flickered on.

You climb back into your car, gripping the steering wheel tightly, and sit in silence for a moment.

You don’t know exactly what’s going on, but you know none of this is normal.

[descendant-of-truth]

Actually I think we need to be talking about Darkside more. Why have we as a fandom (as well as myself specifically) been neglecting Darkside when it's the most consistently recurring boss in the whole franchise

Literally the first boss we fight and it's this thing that rises up out of Sora's shadow in his dreams, and that still looks like Sora for a few seconds before it transforms into the version we fight:

This is Sora's dark side, quite literally. And what just so happens to be there at the destruction of Destiny Islands?

Man, with a thing that big and powerful, it's probably responsible for most of the damage to the islands all by itself.

Hey, what was that thing Zexion said to Riku, again? "It was you who destroyed your home"? Boy I sure am glad that the truth is what we hear and not what we see with our eyes--

Oh. Hm. That's a rather pointed dream sequence for you to be having, Xion.

Guys, I don't know why it took me so long to put these specific pieces together, but I'm pretty sure Sora's darkness was what actually destroyed the Destiny Islands. Whoever opened the door to darkness is still responsible for letting it out - it seemed otherwise occupied in Sora's dreams - and that's an interesting puzzle, too, because we're told that Riku did that even though Kairi was the one closest to the door, but that's not a mystery this post is here to solve.

My question is, what the HECK was going on with Sora for him to have a darkness so potent that it manifested outside of him before he had even been on any adventures? The guy's got insecurities for sure, but at this point in the series, they're kinda... normal ones. Feeling overshadowed and jealous of his best friend who's always better at everything than him, always stronger and cooler, it's not nothing but it doesn't make sense for it to be that. If Sora was going to have a darkness that strong, I'd expect it to come from a later point in the series, maybe around KH3 when the number of Terrible Things that have happened to or around him has reached truly insane levels.

But... the Darkside comes from the Realm of Darkness, right? Where time doesn't exist, and if you walk through it, you can be hit with people's emotions from the future?

So, I dunno, maybe it's a conglomeration of Sora's darkness from various points in time, though it still doesn't explain why his in particular gets to become something so giant. But it's definitely a Sora thing, because in Coded, the record of Sora's Heartless develops into a Darkside, as well.

But how can it be Sora-exclusive when there's so many of them down there??

Well, it might not be... but I'm not ruling out the possibility of time loop shenanigans, either. If Sora can live through the Keyblade Graveyard stuff at least four times (five if you consider the theory of KH3 in its entirety being a second loop from the get-go), then who's to say that doesn't double up on the number of Darksides in the Realm of Darkness?

Sora's already got a narrative history of reliving his past, after all. CoM has him going through his memories of his first adventure (albeit altered), Coded has another version of Sora going through his first adventure (altered again), even DDD has him revisiting Traverse Town and re-meeting his friends (in different ways than he originally did but it still counts).

I'm just saying, the heart remembers what the mind doesn't, and that can surface in a lot of ways. A Sora that's been time-looping a bunch but doesn't remember it probably would be having weird prophetic nightmares and thoughts about whether any of this is "for real" or not.

But honestly, even with the time loop theory I ended up going with in this post, the main thing I wanted to get at is that the Darkside is weird and unexplained but suspiciously tied to Sora in the narrative. These are just the connections I've put together on my own, but there could be a lot that I'm missing! I want to know what this thing's deal is, and I welcome anyone who wants to share their take on the matter.