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enhaflixer · 6 months ago

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psh - king of tears.

Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC

📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t. now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you. so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?

word count: 20K genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order) content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,

The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.

The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.

You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.

To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.

To you, it’s just for show.

"Smile."

His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.

"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.

Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.

"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.

Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.

"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.

Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.

"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."

You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.

"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"

There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.

The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?

You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.

"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."

The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"

You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.

Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."

Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"

It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.

You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.

Still, he says nothing.

The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—

A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.

"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.

The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.

The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.

You and Sunghoon don’t speak.

It isn’t new.

It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.

Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.

To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.

You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.

At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.

"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"

It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.

Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.

She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.

The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.

"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."

You say nothing.

She doesn’t need you to.

"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."

The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.

She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.

You are not the only option.

There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.

Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.

Your grip tightens around your fork.

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.

"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.

Two words. Nothing more.

His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.

The conversation moves forward.

You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.

I’m aware.

A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.

You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.

The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.

You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.

You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

"You didn’t say anything."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.

Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."

A pause.

Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"

The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.

"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.

His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."

And there it is.

That unbearable indifference.

The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.

It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.

"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.

His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.

"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"

You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.

Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."

His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.

He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.

You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.

He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.

The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.

Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.

Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.

"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.

And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.

He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then, just as expected, he pulls away.

Rolls onto his back.

Says nothing.

You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.

Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.

The morning is quiet.

You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.

For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.

There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you��d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.

Now, there’s nothing but space.

You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.

When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.

But he didn’t.

He never could.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like last night was just another night.

The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.

Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.

Divorce Agreement.

His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.

"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.

"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.

Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."

"Then sign them."

A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.

"You really want this?"

The words are simple. Too simple.

You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"Yes."

His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.

For a second, your breath catches.

You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.

And then—

He stops.

His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.

The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.

"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.

You blink. "What?"

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."

Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."

His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"

Your breath catches.

Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.

The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"You’ll have them back tomorrow."

But you already know—he won’t sign.

Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.

Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.

This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.

This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.

It begins every morning.

6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready. 7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid. 7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.

By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him

[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.

[Riki]: bet.

And then, of course, there’s lunch.

There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?

Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.

By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.

They have to be in the same room.

The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.

The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.

At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.

It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.

The first arrival is you.

You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.

You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.

Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.

Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.

he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.

For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.

Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.

"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.

You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.

"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."

Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."

The temperature in the room drops.

Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.

Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."

Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"

His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."

"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."

Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.

"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."

You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."

Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.

Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.

The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.

But that isn’t what catches your attention.

The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.

Untouched.

Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.

"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.

"No."

The single word lands between you like a gunshot.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

"Say it."

His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.

You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"

His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

"Say you don’t love me anymore."

The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.

It should be easy.

You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.

But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.

Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"

Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."

Something snaps.

Fast. Brutal.

Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.

Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.

His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.

"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.

Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.

"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.

Then, his grip tightens.

Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.

"Tell me to stop."

You should.

Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.

You shake your head.

And then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.

"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.

You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.

He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.

"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.

Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."

Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.

"Liar."

"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.

He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.

The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.

You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.

"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."

Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.

"Then break it."

The entire room freezes.

Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.

The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"

You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.

"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."

You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.

"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."

His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

Because you aren’t.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.

The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.

You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.

Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.

“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.

You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.

He looks off.

Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”

He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.

"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”

He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.

"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."

Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.

Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.

The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.

Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.

The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.

“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.

“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”

Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.

It had been late.

Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.

Sunghoon lay beside you.

Awake. Motionless. Silent.

His back was turned to you.

And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.

It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.

But he hadn’t held yours back.

The memory lingers even as you push it away.

You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.

Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.

"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”

"You should get checked out."

He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”

"Not ex yet."

And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.

The Park family never asks for favors.

Not officially, at least.

It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.

Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.

“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.

You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”

His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”

Dear.

You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.

Because this is what you’ve become to them.

Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.

A lawyer first, a liability second.

“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”

Of course. Personally.

They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.

Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon won’t say a word.

You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.

Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.

Just… silent.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”

His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.

“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.

Sunghoon still says nothing.

Not when his mother praises you.

Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.

Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.

It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.

“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”

Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”

He went back after dropping you off.

His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”

Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.

His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The room had gone silent.

His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.

His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”

“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”

His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.

Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.

“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.

For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.

You’re used to it.

But today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.

Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.

You stop in your tracks.

"Where is he?"

Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”

You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”

Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.

You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.

When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.

Collapsed on the floor of his office.

Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.

"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.

That’s when panic sinks in.

You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.

The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.

It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.

Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.

Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”

Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”

“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been hiding this.

The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”

The word cuts through you like a blade.

You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.

“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”

The hospital room is suffocating.

It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.

He looks wrecked.

His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.

“How long have you known?”

Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.

“Six months.”

The words sink into you like stones.

Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.

“Six fucking months?”

Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.

“Yes.”

Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.

“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”

The air leaves your lungs.

You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

And pain.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”

His breath catches.

“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Your throat tightens.

“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.

And that’s somehow worse.

“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”

Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.

And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,

“You think I didn’t care?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—

Sunghoon moves too fast.

He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.

His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”

But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.

You barely catch him in time.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.

His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.

And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—

“I named them.”

Your entire world tilts.

You go still.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.

“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”

Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.

You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”

Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.

“Say their names, Sunghoon.”

His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.

Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—

“Eunha and June.”

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.

“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”

His next breath is ragged, breaking.

“They were my girls.”

Your stomach twists.

His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.

“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”

A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.

Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.

He’s burning up, feverish, barely staying upright.

Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of you speak.

For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.

You wake up feeling… off.

Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.

It takes a second to register where you are.

The hospital.

Sunghoon.

The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.

Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.

And yet, somehow—you didn’t.

Before you can sit up, the door swings open.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.

He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.

You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.

Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”

It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.

“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Sunoo nods. “Right.”

You hate how knowing he sounds.

Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.

And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.

“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.

Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”

Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”

Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.

Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”

Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.

And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—

“You’re fired.”

Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”

Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”

“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.

You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”

Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”

“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”

Neither of you remembers a knock.

Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”

Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”

Sunghoon glares.

Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”

“I don’t care.”

Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”

“I still don’t care.”

Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”

For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.

Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”

And with that, he’s gone..

Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.

You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.

It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.

But you see it.

You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.

And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.

You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”

A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”

Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.

“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.

“Then why are you still here?”

The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.

You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”

The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.

“Wanna bet?”

The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.

“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

Neither of you say anything after that.

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.

Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t say anything.

Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.

“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.

You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.

Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.

“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.

“I will if you keep being difficult.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—

“You need to take time off.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.

“I already did,” he mutters.

You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.

“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”

His jaw tightens.

You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”

Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.

“…I know my limits.”

The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.

“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”

“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”

His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.

You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”

Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”

“Then act like you know it.”

Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

“Are you staying in my room?”

The words are soft. Careful. Testing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.

You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.

“Just until you’re better.”

A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.

The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.

You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.

And that’s when you feel it.

The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.

Sunghoon.

Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.

Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.

Your mind races, but your body remembers.

For a second—just a second—you don’t move.

Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists.

It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.

Then, suddenly—he shifts.

His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.

Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.

But he doesn’t.

Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.

Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.

His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.

He’s awake now.

Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.

And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.

His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.

You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.

And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.

It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.

Because it did.

And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.

You knew this was going to happen.

You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.

You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?

Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.

You don’t let it go this time.

“You’re working.”

It’s not a question.

Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.

“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.

“Didn’t we already have this argument?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Your patience snaps.

You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”

His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.

It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.

Something tense.

His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.

“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.

Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”

Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.

Your breath comes in shorter now.

And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.

He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.

“Go on, then.”

Your pulse hammers.

Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.

Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.

You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this.

You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.

The tension between you pulls tighter.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.

You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.

For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.

Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—

Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.

You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.

The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.

You hadn't planned for this.

You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.

But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.

"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.

Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.

"Then do something about it."

He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.

You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.

His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.

"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

"Sunghoon."

His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.

"Say it again."

His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.

"Sunghoon."

That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.

And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."

It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.

Because you missed him too.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.

Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.

His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.

But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.

"What?"

Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."

Your breath catches slightly.

He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.

But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Mhm."

Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Sunghoon stills immediately.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.

Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.

You smirk, tilting your head.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.

"You’re a fucking menace."

You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.

"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.

You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.

"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"I changed my mind."

You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.

Your breath catches.

"Sunghoon–"

"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."

His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.

"Wait."

Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.

"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."

His entire body tenses.

Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.

You hum, tilting your head. "What?"

His jaw flexes.

Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Then work for it."

It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.

He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.

You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.

But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.

Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.

The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.

A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.

Now?

Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.

People are concerned.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees

🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ??? 🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.

(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)

🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right? 🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED. 🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.

📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team

⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?

You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?

⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.

It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.

Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.

The doors slide shut.

Riki visibly short-circuits.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]

🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN. 🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there. 🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming. 🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN). 🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.

The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.

But he was watching.

And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.

The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because you both know where this is going.

The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.

And then—his hand slides higher.

Your breath catches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.

You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

His hand tightens.

"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."

Your stomach flips.

You don’t respond.

Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.

Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.

And that’s when he loses it.

The car jerks to a sudden stop.

The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”

"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.

Then, he yanks you into his lap.

You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.

"Say it."

You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."

Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.

"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."

His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.

"Sunghoon—"

"Shut up."

His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.

"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"

Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.

But Sunghoon notices.

He always does.

His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.

"Answer me."

You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.

"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.

"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."

His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.

"That desperate already?"

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.

Your head spins.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.

"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.

"Yes—"

But he doesn’t give you time to beg.

Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.

Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.

Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."

You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.

No easing into it. No gentleness.

Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.

"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”

You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.

"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."

The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.

Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.

The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.

Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.

The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.

He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.

Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.

"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.

Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.

"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.

You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.

Sunghoon notices.

His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.

"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."

Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"

His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.

"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."

Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."

His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.

"No, you love me."

You take a deep breath “I do.”

He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”

You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”

He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”

Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.

You freeze.

Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.

Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"

You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.

Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.

"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."

The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."

And then, just like that, he walks away.

You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."

Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

"Let me clean you up."

You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.

"You don’t have to—"

His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.

"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."

Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.

Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.

And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’

You don’t ever want to lose this again.

EPILOGUE

It starts the same way it did last time.

The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.

Sunghoon notices before you do.

At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.

And then, one morning, you feel it.

The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.

You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.

"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.

You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.

Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.

"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."

Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.

Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.

Instead, he just looks at you.

"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.

Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."

Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."

A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.

Then, slowly, he reaches for you.

His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.

The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.

Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

And then, finally, he does.

"I won’t fail you this time."

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.

"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.

A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.

This is what he never let himself say out loud.

"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."

Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.

"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.

"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."

His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.

It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.

When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.

"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."

You smile, pressing your forehead against his.

"I already did."

fin.

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adelheidvonschicksal · 2 years ago

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The Love and Deepspace Boys Trying to Get You to Sleep ⋆｡°✩

Tags: Fluff, teasing, needy boys, mild sexual content, gender neutral reader (I had to re-write so please let me know if I messed up.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Xavier is surprisingly softer than you expected when you first met him on your mission together. He’s an incredibly powerful hunter but possesses a quiet and gentle, almost oblivious, aura when navigating everyday life, like a ghost floating through the space he takes up. It should also be understood that this very nature of his makes him affectionate, so much so, that he won’t unwrap his arms around your waist and stop pressing his head to your shoulder as you sit at the kitchen bar, typing on your laptop.

“Are you planning on staying up later than the stars?” he mumbles.

There’s a gentle yawn against your skin from the sluggish man, highlighting just how long he’s been trying to coax you into going to bed.

“I wanted to finish this report for work.”

“The report will be there tomorrow,” he says. You swat away his hand that reaches for the power button on the laptop causing him to pout. He grumbles. “You should go to bed. Otherwise, I can’t sleep.”

Smiling to yourself, you decide to tease him. “Oh, so you’re really trying to get me to go to bed for your own benefit?”

“Well, you can’t very well expect me to do it by myself anymore.” Xavier nuzzles his head into the slope of your neck, cuddling you. “It’s your responsibility since you ruined my sleeping habits.”

“Ruined?”

“Ramshackled,” he repeats quietly, causing you to giggle. With an airy sigh, he presses his weight into you more. “How do you expect me to sleep when I can’t hold you?”

Defeated, you save your work and close the laptop. You swivel in your chair, enough to meet his eye, and cup a hand to his cheek. It never stops being endearing to you how he cutely closes his eyes and angles his head to snuggle your palm.

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to beg.”

His eyes flutter open, and the smile on his face grows as he wraps his fingers around yours. Carefully, he pulls on your hand to bring it up enough to begin to lace your wrist with affectionate kisses, tracing your pulse.

“I thought you enjoyed my begging.”

“That’s different.”

“It isn’t,” Xavier mutters into your skin, pressing another light kiss.

“It is.”

“So, you're resolute about that position?” he questions “innocently”. There’s something mischievous about the glint in those arctic eyes, which makes your face warm. You find yourself breaking eye contact, or else you’d lose it.

“Yes.”

Xavier chuckles then begins to lead his kisses down your arm. “In that case, care to explain the difference in detail, love?”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Sleep.”

“But—”

“Sleep.”

Zayne narrows his eyes at you from his side of the bed. You can’t blame him for being a little annoyed right now but the movie you put on to fall asleep was much better than you expected; and instead of falling asleep, you were more awake than ever at a very late one in the morning.

“I’m almost done with the movie,” you tell him, hoping he’ll cut you a little slack this one time.

“Everyone dies at the end of their own stupidity,” he bluntly states and grabs the remote. The television turns off with an overly loud click, and you pout. “Now, sleep.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you huff. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m fine with that title if it gets you to rest,” he explains with a smooth yawn. “Poor sleep habits lead to bad decision-making later. You’re more likely to develop high blood pressure, and with your heart in particular—”

“I get it. I get it,” you say, wanting to be spared the lecture. Zayne is a good person and a better doctor, but you wish he didn’t worry about you so much just because you might have a little big heart problem. Sighing, you squiggle onto your back and pull the sheets up to your collar, kicking them a little childishly in the process (totally not to let him know that you were not pleased with his spoiling). “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Very.”

Zayne turns over onto his side, away from you, and you frown at the loneliness. Softly, you poke him in the back, once, then twice then a third time before you finally get a hum in response.

“Am I really not getting a good night kiss?”

“Do you need one to sleep?” he asks, his voice deeper from the lack of sleep, urging you to convince him to kiss you even more.

“Duh,” you explain. Slowly, he turns back over to look at you, propping himself up on one arm with a look that says “Is that so” as you continue to ramble. It makes you a little flustered when he watches you so intently. He’s always had this silent dominance that makes you obedient, but you could get what you want from him just as easily with the exact opposite strategy. Cutely, you puff your bottom lip out at him. “There has to be some health benefit to it. Kissing makes people all happy. Happy is good, right?”

It takes a second for him to take in what you say, those smokey eyes closing in on you with thought before he climbs over you. He places both hands at your sides and quickly boxes in your upper thighs with his knees.

“You’re thinking of dopamine,” he says.

“Huh?”

“That makes you “all happy”,” he explains and presses a deep kiss to your lips, leaving you thoughtless and breathless all at once. He moves to your jaw, and you begin to squirm from the pressure of his impassioned lips.

“And Serotonin.”

Another kiss, lower.

“Oxytocin.”

He’s at your shoulder when he starts to nip your skin, and one of his hands moves to ski up the back of your thigh.

“Reduced cortisol.”

Flustered, you grip his arms.

“Zayne, stop, it tickles,” you whine, but it’s the last thing you actually want as he readjusts his position and hovers above you.

His usually neat hair is messier and his breathing a little heavier judging by how his chest laboriously rises and falls. Groaning, you bite your bottom lip as he knowingly leans in and whispers,

“You need it to help you sleep, isn’t that what you said?”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Why don’t you just say you don’t love me anymore?”

You look up from your phone screen at the sudden accusation. You’re resting on the couch, your back propped up by the armrest and legs splayed out on the other cushion while Rafayel looks down at you with crossed arms and a less-than-pleased scowl on his face. You’re entirely confused as to what you could’ve done to make him think something like that.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been playing video games for what—the last two hours?” he says, uncrossing his arms to grab your phone. It’s too late to warn him as he glances at the screen, clicking a few times. “What are you playing anyway? An…otome? Sheesh, go ahead and say you want me gone. Come on, tell me you actually hate me.”

Holding in your smile, you shake your head and affectionately roll your eyes. It takes an enormous amount of effort to not laugh as he continues to rant. “So, it’s one of those things. I thought I was actually in trouble.”

And by those things, you mean his dramatics.

“Hush, my complaints are perfectly legitimate,” he demands as he pushes your legs aside and sits on the couch. Leaning over, he flashes the screen at you to show the evidence he has that you’re completely unfair, unfaithful, and downright mean. “What’s this game giving you that I’m not? Are my dashing good looks and even better personality not enough? Is that it?”

Gently, you take the phone from his hand and set it down on the end table. “You’re plenty, perfect even.”

He scoffs and refuses to look at you. “Apparently not. Don’t you ever think about anyone else? What if I want to cuddle with you one day but you’re too busy to notice because you’re playing silly games?”

Ah, there it is. His real want. You never know why he can never just come out and say it.

“Rafayel, do you want me to come to bed and cuddle with you?”

“Want is a strong word,” he remarks but you can see his resolve (can you call it that when he planned to give in all along?) crumbling as he slowly turns back to meet your gaze, “but I wouldn’t be opposed to it. Not that you deserve it or care.”

Humming, you sit up, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and pull him down onto you. Lovingly, you snuggle him, stopping to only take in how red his neck and ears start to get when you squeeze him and start to stroke through his hair. You’re not sure if Lumerians can blow happy bubbles like he claims, but he definitely hums and relaxes his entire body weight to lay on top of you like he wants to sink into your skin.

Teasingly, you coo at him. “You’re so needy.”

“I’d rather say you humans aren’t needy enough,” he fires back as he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses the corner of your lips. “Ah, the sweet taste of victory.”

Giving out a gentle and short laugh, you lightly tap his back. “Go to sleep.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

#zayne x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace smut #adelssmut #notsfw

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monstersholygrail · 1 year ago

Text

Puppy bf being a good boy and waiting by the door when you come home from work, his cock already nice and hard. Waiting impatiently he wags his tail so hard it smacks against the wall. Whining about how badly he needs you.

Sending even the slightest signal he’ll be on you before you can blink, his snout nuzzling against your nose as he crowds you against the door so that you can feel the straining bulge in his pants. His hips move on their own as they automatically start grinding against your clothed core.

You protest, trying to at least go to the bedroom, but as soon as your bf gets a whiff of your arousal he’s done for. His nails catching on your clothes and tears them off in one single jerk of his arm. His quickly following.

You cry out, trying to cover yourself up before his hand pins both your wrists above your head. You look at him in shock and he immediately whimpers, bowing his head to you as his hard cock now rocks into your exposed folds. Wanting to be good even as his need consumes him and your arousal drips down onto his length.

“Don’t I deserve your pretty pussy? Haven’t I been good for you?“

His free hand slowly begins to trail down your body, not being able to help but grab fist fulls of your flesh on the way down. You moan softly, head rolling back against the door as he continues his journey until he’s cupping your cunt in his hand. Fingers cheekily running through your glistening folds.

“Y-yes,” you stutter, barely able to talk. Your bf whines louder and dips his fingers inside you just enough to have you jerking in his arms before they leave to swirl around your clit.

“Then please let me fuck you. I’ll do anything! I’ll lick you raw, I’ll make you cum till you pass out, I’ll make you feel better than you ever have before.”

You both know he was going to do all that anyway, but at the desperation in his eyes you know you can’t deny him any longer. And you can’t deny yourself either. Today was stressful and all you want right now is for your bf to pound into you until you’re seeing stars.

All it takes is you hooking your leg around your bf’s waist and his eyes brighten, immediately understanding your signal. Before you can even blink he’s thrusting inside you and he doesn’t stop to let you adjust.

Grunts and moans ring throughout your home and you’re more than certain all the neighbors can hear your bf fucking into you with reckless abandon. The door rattling on its hinges from the sheer power of his cock plunging into your wet heat.

Your bf whines lowly in your ear, nuzzling into the fold of your neck. Slowly turning to a puddle now that he can feel your squishy body back against his and his cock back inside of you.

“Why won’t you touch me? P-please, need your touch. Been forever, do you even love me anymore?” He whines dramatically.

He starts fucking up into you even harder. As if trying to remind you of the sensations that only he’s ever been able to bring out of you. You pant heavily, your eyes clouded with lust to the point you can barely think straight either.

“Baby, you got my hands.”

Your bf looks up and sees his claws still trapping your wrists against the door. His cheeks blaze with pink and he lets you go before hiding into your neck, rocking his hips so his pelvis grinds against your pussy in a silent apology. Your jaw drops, pussy clenching around him and he growls until your hands claw down his back and he calms down.

His length still sliding along your walls at a punishing pace, bringing you closer and closer your release. It’s as if he can sense it, grinding harder against your clit. Wanting to feel you milking his dick more than anything.

“Waited so long for you, to feel your tight pussy sucking my cock back inside you. Felt like years. Missed you so much,” he whimpers, rutting into you furiously like he doesn’t want to leave your cunt for a second.

“I’m right here. Not going anywhere,” you whisper breathlessly in his ear.

With one more thrust you’re coming so hard on his cock that your ears ring. Your pussy clenching down so tightly on his length that he instantly cums right after you. Satisfied growls leaving his chest as you two help work each other through your climaxes.

You sag against him and his hands tighten on your hips, insistent on keeping you close. And he does as he helps take you to your room where he plans to make sure you don’t go anywhere as you’ll be too busy writhing on his thick tongue.

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raylynnn · 5 months ago

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“Fuck- I forgot to lock the door..”

Featuring mha boys: Katsuki, Eijro, Hanta, Kaminari, and Izuku.

Scenario (head-cannon) : basically mha boys and how they would react to being caught being intimate with the so.

Katsuki Bakugo:

• at first yall are just chilling in his dorm, watching some lame movie (in his opinion) that you put on. He couldn’t take this sappy romance shit movie anymore but knew you wouldn’t turn it off. So what else could he do but distract you.

•it started with little neck kisses which led into sloppy open mouth kissed that trailed from you lips to your collar bone. “Fuck baby. Cmon take this off for me.” He demanded lifting the hem of your shirt as he held you in his lap. You were both now topples. “So fucking pretty..” he mumbled into your breast as he nibbled and sucked. But as he propped the other into his mouth, you both heard the door open.

• “Hey man, me and the others are play COD. You finna join-“ said Kiri as he stopped in his tracks, eyes bugging out of head at the scene. You both froze as katsuki quickly turned your body away from the red head. “Fuck! Get out-“ but before Bakugo could even try to demand Kiri out the room kiri was already turning on his heel, as apology’s spilt from his mouth like a water fountain.

• “fuck I’m sorry- god fuck.” Katsuki mumbled obviously pissed and embarrassed. “I should’ve locked the door-“ before Katsuki could continue his apology’s you shut him up with a kiss. “Ok well let’s do that now..cause I still need you..” you said shyly as you twiddled your thumbs while still in his lap.

•all he did was grin before his mouth was back on yours. Let’s just say Kiri knows to knock like a pro now.

Eijro Kirishima:

•your under him as he plowed into you like a dog. Your legs hooked over his shoulders as he gripped you by the calf’s of your leg for support rutting into you. “F-fuck..” he groaned biting his lip back. “All this for me hon?” He said as he kissed your calf watching your eyes roll back into your head.

• “yes- yes Kiri..” you whimpered as your reached out for his hand. The car rocked slowly as kiri’s moves were slow but rough and powerful. “I love you- love you so much” you said in between broken moans and whimpers.

• “fuck baby..yeah I love you more baby your so- so cute..” as you both were too lost in the pleasure you heard a knock on the window. Y’all both stopped quickly sitting up as Kiri covered you with his wrinkled shirt that the two of you discarded on the floor.

• “dammit.” He muttered as he rolled down the window slightly careful to not reveal you. “What- oh my go-“ Kiri said before quickly rolling up the window. “What! What is it-“ you asked frantic since Kiri seemed all of sudden embarrassed and almost scared. “Quick get your clothes on- now” kiri barked like an order which was really unlike him.

• you did as he said shimming your clothes on as quickly as you could before Kiri rolled down the window again. “You two finished..?” A familiar voice called out. And suddenly you freeze as the realization hit. “Don’t tell me-“ you spoke before eyes peered through. “Azawia- sensei I-I can explain-“ said Kiri as he zipped up his pants. “Uh huh..look I just assumed you- were um just passed curfew..” he said clearly uncomfortable. “Look I won’t bring this up..if you don’t. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore then you do..” he said as he rubbed his temples.

• “yeah- of course…” Kiri mumbled clearly embarrassed. Soon enough Azawia walked off and kiri rolled the window back up. You gave Kiri a knowing look. “Sooo..wanna continue this in your room..” Kiri shook his head laughing slightly as he kissed the shell of your ear, “your crazy y/n” he said as he helped put the rest of your clothes back on as he returned yoh back to your dorm.

Hanta sero:

• “b-baby! T-too much!!” You whined into the pillow as sero taped your arms and wrists behind your back. “Fucking slut..I can feel you clenching when I tie the bind tighter.” He spat like venom as he rutted into you.

•you had hearts in your eyes as you couldn’t help but smile at the amazing feeling of being so full. He had you face first into the mattress as he propped your ass up hitting that perfect gummy spot in your walls. “Yeah? That feel good mamas?” He whispered into your ear. “Yes- feels so g-good!” You don’t even know how it happened. Maybe y’all were just too rough and moved too much. But somhow you ended up on seros phone and touched somthing- some button. And of fucking corse ended up calling kaminari.

• “yo what’s up man?” Called out kaminari “hello? Dude?” He said confused.

“Agh- oh fuck right there..”

“Yes- yes omg YES!”

“B-baby baby!! Oh my god..cmon milk me baby-“

“Harder- fuck me harder!”

Denki just set the phone down on his lap as he just stared off into space before he hung up.

• the next morning you came downstairs in seros shirt as you sat down in the chair as sero came around putting his hand on the small of your back as he leaned around to kiss you. Denki sat at the other end as he remembered last night’s call. “Hey man you ok? You look bothered..?” Called out sero.

•”no..no why would I be bothered” said Denki obviously sarcastic. You both raised your eyebrows in confusion before kaminari put his phone on the table revealing the call at 9:44 remembering that yalls “activity’s” resulted around that hour.

• “oh my- did I.. did we call-?” You asked your face going pale as sero just froze. “Yes. Yes you did.” He said stern.

•all 3 of you had similar reactions and all wanted to curl up in a ball and die.

Denki kaminari:

• he had been on that stupid game forever now. You two were supposed to hang out and stuff but nooo “5 more minutes” he said. 30 minutes ago. You were fed up. As you should be and what other way to make him feel sorry than stripping him of his dignity and pants.

• “f-fuck I need a power up g-guys..” he grunted as you rolled your tongue over his tip your other hand stroking his base. He was out of breath panting and sweat heading at his brow. “Cmon Kami lock in- you good bro?” Questioned Kiri.

• “Y-yeah I’m fine..” denki said biting back his lip as he had a death grip on his controller but you wanted to punish him for not giving you any attention. So as expected you took your other hand using both hands stroking his base as you kept his tip busy with your mouth.

• he was losing it. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up. He set the controller down harshly as he put a hand in your hair. “Fucking- brat..” he mumbled forgetting Kiri was on the other line. Soon enough he was thrusting his hips up into your mouth making your jaw sore.

• “you guys are some freaks..” Kiri mumbled into his mic before logging off chuckling slightly at his friends freaky and brave actions. Denki glared at you. “You wanted my attention that badly huh?” He said before picking you before setting you in the chair before he was on his knees before you already taking your panties off with his teeth.

Izuku midoryia:

• “fuck izu-“ you moaned out into the air as he had a death grip on your ass as he pushed you forward and back against his face. You used him as some chair almost. And he was loving every fucking bit. Small groans and grunts could be heard as he fucked you sloppy with his tongue.

• you gripped him by the hair rocking your hips against his lips chasing that high. Izuku was such a yearner he had no shame making noise and being vocal and loving you outloud.

•you two must of been feeling good to not hear the door knob jingle and twist. And it’s not like izuku planned on stopping anytime soon either. “God princess- you taste so good” he moaned into your heat.

• izuku shared an apartment with Katsuki and the two were pretty good friends now. As katsuki puts his keys on the hook he walked towards izukus room opening the door to let him know he had dinner. “Nerd I have dinner, come eat- oh shit” he said as his eyes widened. His eyes resting on the absolute fucked scene infront of him. You turned around being the first to catch on as you saw a pair of deep red eyes locked on the scene between you and the green haired absolute MUNCH below you.

• “IZUKU-“ you called out trying to hop off his tongue before he pulled you back down totally unaware of the situation. “F-fuck damnit-“ katsuki said before he tried to bolt out of there. Izuku finally looked up afraid he hurt you or something. “What is it baby? KACHAN?-“

•katsuki was so scared he and izuku were close but he didn’t want to feel like a creep for seeing izukus girl like that. Even though katsuki could be a hothead he knew to knock but him and izuku were at the point were they would both just walk in. But things were different now that izuku had a girlfriend.

• when the two of you both got decent. Katsuki was grabbing his keys before the two of you stopped him. Katsuki felt his stomach drop when he made eye contact with the two of you. “Katsuki- wait!” You said before you made contact with the clearly red and bothered blonde. You couldn’t help but laugh at how clearly ashamed he was. Soon enough Izuku started laughing slightly before Katsuki glared at the two of you.

• “fuck..I thought y’all were gonna hunt me down” the 3 of you laughed before katsuki messed up your hair playfully. “Fucking nerds..” he said before he went off to plating the food.

❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️❣️

AN: Hey guys! I hope you enjoyed this! I know some of it is unrealistic but it’s just head cannons (sort of?) if y’all want more characters to this or other scenarios feel free to leave requests!! Also TYSM for blowing up my last post I wasn’t expecting that many likes! Tysm for all the support!

Go check out my other stories!!💕

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beaunoor · 1 year ago

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when your bf wants to experiment with you riding on top. he's gripping your thigh with one hand while the other holds the vibrating wand to your clit.

𓇼𓇼𓇼

The tv in the background plays a late night show on low, while you lay your cheek on his chest, one hand lazily rubbing small circles on his chest. He lays out on the bed, eyes on the tv. He’s got one hand behind his head and the other lightly massaging your hair. It’s moments like these that you love. It was just you two in the quiet world.

But the touching and massages always turn into something more. Especially when in the privacy in your bedroom you both are barely clothed in the first place. These moments always end in more heavy petting, where you both ruin the quiet air with raspy gasps and moans.

You're on his lap now, the both of you sat up. Your lips on his, mouths wet and moving in a dance. Your hands running through his hair, gripping his tresses desperately. His hands run down your back grabbing a handful of your ass, then up again to your back to pull you into him, getting your hips to move in a slow tandem on his growing bulge.

“Let’s try something different this time baby.” He says after pulling away from your lips, a small grin forming

“Like what?” You ask, going back to kiss his cheek then his jaw—

“Just stay on top and you’ll find out.” You pull away and raise an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Don’t worry, I promise you’ll like it.” He smiles innocently.

Except maybe you like it too much.

“Hahh, please!” you exclaim, feeling him buck up into you again. Hands flexing in the air, knowing you couldn't touch anywhere.

He’s got one hand around your thigh, squeezing every so often, while the other holds the wand still. You’re struggling to control your sounds when the powerful vibrations coming from your sex toy rubs on your mound. Then the force of his cock drives up again and you can't help but let out a scream. Your neighbors are sure to get a kick out this tonight.

“Remember you can’t touch, stay still baby.” he mutters, eyes watching what he can see himself move in and out of the tight grip you have on him.

You’re struggling keeping yourself upright, the stimulation of everything making your head fuzzy and your body shaking. He won’t relent on the pounding, you barely doing any of the work.

“Nngh, stop! Please! n’t take it anymore!” you cry, tears welling up, hands coming down to rest on his chest to keep yourself upright.

“I know, I know. Feels so good.” he coos at you, reveling in the erratic movements of your body, “You can take it.”

He moves the toy away and tosses it aside, both hands coming to grip your hips to hold you in place as he bucks deeper into you. Hitting that gooey spot over and over to help finish you off.

“Oh my god—I’m cumming, I’m cu–” you’re cut off from your words by the force of your orgasm, juices squirting out as your mouth opens in a silent scream. Your body jolting at the powerful contractions happening in your abdominal cavity.

“Oh baby, did you just squirt?” he lets out a small laugh as your arms give up and you fall forward onto his chest, sweaty and breathing heavily. All you can do is let out a quiet whimper.

“Hold on baby. I didn’t get to cum yet.”

toji, kento, satoru, eren, connie, armin, jean, suguru, isagi, yuta, kaeya, takuma, sae, ryusei, hanma…whoever else seems right to you

wrote this really quick to get something out

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joemama-2 · 7 months ago

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velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation wc: 17k spotify playlist series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

“What do you mean you’re just ‘giving up’?”

“Satoru, calm down.”

“Oh, calm down? You expect me to calm down when you’re just letting whoever threw all this shit on Y/N, my son just…free? You’re really not going to look harder?”

Satoru huffs in a frustrated manner, rubbing his hands through his hair, and messing up the silver locks. When he was called by his parents so early in the morning to come to their place, he thought he would’ve been greeted with good news. Any news. Not this. He not only feels immensely annoyed, but also thrown under the bus. But what else was supposed to expect from them? He’s pacing the living room, his parents standing off to the side and watching their only child try not to lose his shit.

“Satoru, we’ve all looked into this. But whoever took that picture was smart, they knew how to stay hidden. We’ve done everything in power, son.” His mother tries to placate him, holding her hand out in an attempt to gently plant it on his forearm.

He promptly pulls away before she makes contact, fixing his mother with an icy look, lip curled up slightly.

“How convenient,” Satoru snaps, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The all-powerful Gojo family, with all its influence, resources, and connections, suddenly can’t find one person? Spare me.” His pacing becomes more erratic, his steps heavy as if each one is an outlet for his frustration.

His father finally speaks, his tone sharp and commanding, “Enough, Satoru. You’re not the only one affected by this. We’ve handled the situation as best as we could without escalating it further. Do you even understand the damage control we’ve had to do?”

“Damage control?” Satoru lets out a bitter laugh, stopping dead in his tracks to glare at his father. “You’re more worried about your reputation than your grandson’s safety, aren’t you? Or Y/N’s for that matter?”

His father narrows his eyes, his voice lowering dangerously. “Watch your tone. You think we don’t care? Everything we’ve done has been to protect this family.”

“Family?” Satoru scoffs, gesturing wildly. “If you cared so much about family, you wouldn’t just let this slide. You’d help me hunt them down, no matter what. But no, you’re just sweeping it under the rug like everything else, aren’t you?”

His mother’s voice trembles slightly, though she tries to keep her composure. “Satoru, please try to understand—there’s only so much we can do without creating more chaos. We can’t act recklessly.”

“You mean I can’t act recklessly,” he mutters darkly, taking a step back from both of them. His jaw tightens as he looks between his parents, disgust and disappointment etched into his face. “You don’t get it. None of this is just about me anymore. It’s about Y/N and Koji. They didn’t ask for any of this, and now they’re the ones dealing with it.”

His father sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What do you want us to do, Satoru? Tell me, what more can be done that hasn’t already been tried?”

“I’ll handle it myself,” Satoru growls, the fire in his eyes blazing. “You won’t. Fine. But I will.” Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and storms toward the door.

Yamato’s hand shoots out, gripping his son by the elbow and effectively holding him in place. Satoru turns his head over his shoulder, matching his father’s death glare with one of his own—only it looks…scarier.

The silence is palpable—disturbing. Akane stands half way in the middle, unsure if she should stop this now or let Yamato deal with it—deal with their son. She worries her lip between her teeth, brows furrowed together.

“Satoru,” Yamato’s voice is low, firm, but the underlying tension cuts through the room like a blade. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to.”

Satoru’s lips curl into a cold smirk, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t pull away, but his entire posture radiates defiance. “Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to. The man who taught me that family comes second to pride. Let me go, Dad, before this gets uglier than it already is.”

Akane takes a hesitant step forward, her hands trembling slightly as she reaches out. “Yamato, please. Let him go. This isn’t the time to—”

“Stay out of this, Akane,” Yamato interrupts sharply, his focus never wavering from Satoru.

Satoru scoffs, the sound filled with disdain. “Of course. Can’t let Mom get in the way of the big, bad Gojo men, can we?” His tone drips with mockery, but his glare burns with genuine anger.

Yamato’s grip tightens, his knuckles white. “You think this is about me? About my pride? This is about you—your recklessness, your inability to see the bigger picture. You can’t solve everything with brute force, Satoru.”

Satoru’s smirk fades, replaced by a steely resolve. “And you can’t solve anything by sitting back and doing nothing.” He yanks his arm free with a sharp motion, the force of it making Yamato take a half-step back. “You’ve made it clear where your priorities lie. Don’t worry—I won’t let this ‘family legacy’ get in the way of protecting my family.”

Yamato’s jaw tightens, his expression unreadable. “Satoru, the boy is your family but not that woma—”

“Address her by name, Yamato.” Satoru steps closer to his father, the two at towering heights. Truly a frightening sight to an outsider’s perspective. “Or you and I are going to start having some serious problems.”

Yamato’s lips press into a thin line, his stoic demeanor cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of irritation. “You think threats will get you anywhere with me, boy?” His voice is sharp, controlled, but there’s a distinct edge that betrays his frustration. “She’s the reason this mess even exists. She’s—”

“Enough.” Satoru’s tone drops to something cold, lethal. His cerulean eyes blaze with an intensity that could freeze anyone in their tracks. “You don’t get to disrespect her. Not when you’ve done nothing to fix this so-called ‘mess.’ Not when she’s been doing everything she can to protect my son—your grandson.”

Yamato stiffens, his brows furrowing. “Watch your tone.”

“I’ve been watching my tone my whole damn life,” Satoru snaps, his composure finally breaking. “But not anymore. You don’t get to sit on your throne and act like you care about this family when all you care about is the Gojo name. Koji and Y/N are my family now. Whether you like it or not.”

“You two aren’t married,” Yamato reminds his son, for what must be the thousandth time now.

Really, Satoru’s losing his mind here. He knows that. He knows you two aren’t married. But he still feels an obligation towards you—the magnetic pull to protect you from outside scrutiny that could potentially harm you and Koji. So sure, you guys aren’t married. But that doesn’t change the matter of fact here. “And what if we were?”

Akane gasps, Yamato’s eyes visibly widening in surprise before lowering down to their normal state. His jaw ticks. “Stop, don’t make jokes like that. You’ve been promised to Himari for a while now.”

Satoru’s laugh is sharp, humorless, slicing through the tense air. “Promised? What century are you living in? I’m not some pawn for you to move around, Yamato.” His tone drips with disdain as he steps closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over his father. “You think a promise to Himari means a damn thing to me? I’ll marry who I want, when I want.”

Yamato’s composure wavers for the briefest moment before he narrows his eyes. “You don’t understand the importance of this arrangement, Satoru. It’s not just about you—it’s about securing alliances, protecting the legacy—”

“Legacy, legacy, legacy,” Satoru mocks, rolling his eyes. “Is that all you care about? Your ‘legacy’? Not your grandson, not the fact that your son is trying to do what you never could—actually be there for his family?”

Akane’s hands tremble at her sides as she steps forward, voice tentative but pleading. “Satoru, please. We only want what’s best for you—”

“No,” Satoru interrupts sharply, turning his icy gaze to his mother. “You want what’s best for you. Don’t twist it.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as if trying to physically shake off their words. “Koji doesn’t need your ‘legacy.’ He doesn’t need your politics or your alliances. He needs a father who puts him first.”

“And Y/N?” Yamato retorts, his tone scathing. “Do you think she’s above this? She could be using you, Satoru. She’s a liability, dragging you—us into scandal after scandal. And now, with the boy—”

“Enough!” Satoru’s voice booms, cutting through the room like a clap of thunder. He steps even closer to his father, their faces mere inches apart. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. She’s the mother of my child. She’s family. And I’ll defend her with everything I’ve got.” His voice drops, low and cold. “So go ahead. Keep pushing me. See what happens when I stop giving a damn about your ‘legacy.’”

Akane’s quiet, labored breathing breaks the tension, her hand fluttering to her mouth as she looks between the two men. The silence that follows feels deafening, and for a moment, Yamato looks like he might lash out—but then he takes a breath, regaining his composure.

“Fine, you’ve made your point clear,” Yamato finally says, his voice low and measured. “But don’t expect me to clean up the fallout when this all collapses around you.”

Satoru huffs a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I won’t. I’ve learned not to expect much from you anyway. A man who cares more about sealing business deals than the own well-being of his family.”

Yamato glares, his jaw tightening once more, but he doesn’t respond. The tension in the room is suffocating, a silent battle of wills playing out between father and son.

Satoru doesn’t wait for his father to break. Instead, he turns sharply, heading for the door. Before he leaves, he glances over his shoulder, his eyes steely. “You can take your promises, your alliances, and your legacy—and shove them. I’ll protect my family, with or without you.”

And with that, he slams the door behind him, leaving Akane and Yamato in stunned silence. The house rattles with Satoru’s exit. Akane slowly turns her head towards her husband, who is still staring at the spot their son once stood in. Her jaw clenches, French-tipped nails digging into her aged palms. “You…you’re breaking this family apart, Yamato.”

“It was already apart.”

That’s it. Nostrils flaring as she hastily stomps up to her husband and delivers a slap to his right cheek. His head shoots toward his left, unflinching. He doesn’t face his wife, even after he hears the sniffling come from her.

The room hangs heavy with silence after the sharp crack of Akane’s hand meeting Yamato’s cheek. She stands there, trembling, her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Tears well in her eyes, blurring the sight of her husband—unmoved, unshaken, and cold as stone.

“You’re so blind,” Akane whispers, her voice quivering. “Blind to what really matters. Satoru…he’s slipping away from us, and you can’t see it because you’re too damn proud to admit you’ve failed him.”

Yamato remains still, his head turned, staring at nothing. “I’ve done what I had to do,” he replies, his voice devoid of emotion. “For this family. For its survival.”

“No,” Akane counters, her voice growing louder, cutting through the tense air like a blade. “You did it for yourself. You’ve always done it for yourself. The name, the power, the control—it’s all you care about. You don’t care about Satoru. You don’t care about Koji. And now…” Her voice cracks, and tears spill over her cheeks. “Now, you don’t even care about me.”

Finally, Yamato turns to face her. His expression is unreadable, a mask of stoicism, but there’s a flicker—just a flicker—of something in his eyes. Regret? Doubt? It’s gone before she can be sure.

“I care about this family,” he says, the words sounding rehearsed, hollow. “I’ve always cared.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Akane snaps, taking a step closer, her fists clenching at her sides. “If you cared, you’d see what you’re doing. You’d see that you’re driving Satoru away, driving us all away. You’d see that the ‘legacy’ you’re so desperate to protect isn’t worth a damn if there’s no one left to carry it. Aren’t you tired of this all?”

Yamato opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his tongue. For a moment, he simply stands there, his towering frame somehow diminished by the weight of her words.

“You’ve lost him,” Akane whispers, her voice breaking. “And if you keep this up…you’ll lose me too.”

She turns and walks away, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she retreats, leaving Yamato alone in the echoing silence of the living room. He doesn’t call after her. Instead, he stands there, the faint sting of her slap lingering on his cheek, and for the first time in a long time, Yamato feels the weight of his choices pressing down on him.

Satoru’s driving faster than he should back home, inhaling deeply then letting it go. He stops at a red light, too close to the white line of pedestrians. His phone sits in the cup holder before being picked up once more, eyes narrowing at the article he was looking at before he stormed on the pedal home.

“Satoru Gojo and girlfriend Himari Nakamura spotted with Y/N L/N! Trouble in Paradise? Is this an end to Hitoru?!”

He bitterly scoffs once more when he sees the idiotic title to the even more idiotic article. Once again, an intrusive element to his already asphyxiating life. He knew meeting up with you to drop off Koji’s jacket might have been pushing it already, but for some reason…he found himself wanting to see your face and hear your voice. Even if it was just for a few short minutes. He hadn’t expected Himari to find him so soon, which was why he knew he needed to cut it short and keep his cool before anything unsavory happened.

Because of shit like this.

Satoru’s grip tightens on the wheel as he glares at the screen, the words blurring as his anger mounts. His chest feels tight, like the very air around him is too thick to breathe. The headline taunts him—Hitoru—the mockery of it all, the never-ending reminders of the mess he’s in. Himari’s name keeps appearing in connection with his, like some knot he can’t untangle.

Hitoru—the name they gave him and Himari when they were pushed together by their families, the perfect picture of a relationship built on top of strict obligation, not love. His fingers tighten around his phone, the familiar buzzing of frustration building in his throat.

He snaps the phone shut with a sharp motion, tossing it back into the cupholder. But the damage is done. The images of you, of Himari, of the scrutiny that surrounds them, keep circling his mind. It’s suffocating. He doesn’t even want to think about it anymore—about how you’ve been dragged into this mess.

The light changes, and he slams his foot down on the accelerator, the engine roaring as he speeds toward home. But even as he drives, his mind races—faster than the car, faster than his thoughts can keep up. He can’t shake the image of his parents, the look in their eyes, the silence that followed his exit. And now this—this new intrusion. It’s like he’s always on the edge of losing something, something he can’t even define anymore.

He turns off the road onto a quieter street, his heart hammering in his chest as he parks in front of the familiar house. The world feels too loud, the air too thick, and all he wants is for it to stop—for it all to just stop.

He grabs his phone again, his thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. He pauses, staring at it, then pulls his hand away, staring at the water in front of him instead.

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself. There’s so much to fix, so many wrongs to right, but he doesn’t know where to start anymore. Throwing the phone onto the passenger seat, he knocks his forehead into the leather wheel.

He wonders if you saw it already. Maybe you did, but maybe you didn’t. There’s a part of him that wants to text you to ask, and maybe even apologize. However, he’s not sure if that would be a good choice right now. He recognizes every little bit of you so easily, it’s startling. Maybe concerning?

The small downturn to your lips as you held back a frown and formed a smile, the pitch of your voice lowering in disappointment. The look in your eyes that glazed over with nothing but…betrayal? He cursed himself, eyes squeezing shut.

You probably hate him even more now for not standing up for you as you would’ve liked—as he would’ve liked. He’s starting to feel like his older self again, and he absolutely despises that. Fucking up and knowing it, but not fixing it up afterwards. He should’ve followed you back into your workplace and apologized for what Himari said to you, but he didn’t. He froze like a fucking idiot and in the end—chose another woman.

Satoru’s forehead remains pressed against the steering wheel, the heat of it grounding him in the overwhelming rush of guilt and frustration. His thoughts swirl in chaos, a vortex of what-ifs and should-haves. Every moment he’d spent ignoring your pain, every opportunity to protect you he let slip by—it feels like he’s suffocating on the weight of it all. The truth is, he knows you too well. Better than anyone else ever could. And that makes it worse.

He can picture it so clearly: the way your lips had almost quivered before you plastered that smile, the way your eyes shifted, too tired to pretend anymore. He’s seen that look before, way more times than he’d like to admit. And it terrifies him now. Betrayal. Is that what he’d done? It was almost like he had carved a bigger wedge between you without realizing it, all because he couldn’t act fast enough, couldn’t be the man you needed.

Did you still need him?

He slams his hand against the wheel in frustration, the sharp sound echoing in the otherwise quiet car.

His phone buzzes on the seat beside him with a random notification, and instinctively, he grabs it, his thumb hovering over your name again. But no—he can’t. Not like this. Not when he’s this tangled up in his own mess.

What could he possibly say?

He drags his hand over his face, muttering to himself. "God, what are you doing to yourself?"

Every time he tries to piece it together, another fragment of reality shatters in his mind. You’ve always been strong. You never asked for him to do more than what he could handle. But you’d been forced to handle so much already, and he... he’d let it all slip away.

Maybe you actually do hate me now.

He leans back against the seat, closing his eyes again, hoping for a moment of clarity. But the only thing he can hear now is the ringing silence in his head.

“Do you still love me?”

“…of course I do. I’d never stop.”

“Then why…why don’t I feel like you do anymore?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.”

“No, really. I’m—”

“Let’s go to sleep now.”

He actually feels like he’s going crazy. Snapping his eyes open. He’d never thought he’d be the person to hear voices from the past in his head, but now he’s starting to understand. His heart is beating faster than it should, mouth drying like the Sahara desert and his fingers are starting to feel fidgety. With a shaky, labored breath inward, he reaches for his glove compartment. Opening it and bringing out the picture frame you gifted him.

It’s only been a few days, but Satoru has discovered that not just staring at his son, but at you, has calmed him down in his hardest of moments.

Satoru’s fingers tremble as he holds the picture frame, his eyes drawn to the image of you. It’s a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of a time when everything was different. Your smile, your eyes full of a younger warmth and something more—something he wishes he could’ve seen in person. That smile, the one that always made his heart flutter despite the chaos surrounding them.

It was just a small moment, a simple gesture—no grand speeches or dramatic declarations—but to him, it meant the world. And now, in the silence of his car, surrounded by the weight of everything he’d failed to protect, it’s the only thing that feels real.

He runs his thumb along the edge of the glass, his mind replaying the words from before—your words. His chest tightens.

“Why don’t I feel like you do anymore?”

It’s a question he still can’t answer. How could he? He was so far from being the man you needed him to be. He thought the love you shared was enough, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he’d let it wither, neglected it in favor of his own responsibilities, his own distractions, until it had slipped through his fingers like sand. But in a way, he saw the neglect. And again, he froze. And again, he chose to turn away from you, letting you walk away.

“Satoru... I know you are.”

He flinches at the memory of your voice, still so clear, still so piercing in its sadness. He'd heard the pain in your words that night. The resignation. He should’ve comforted you more—should’ve tried harder to. It was your own understanding that whatever you two had left, he wasn’t offering it in a way that could keep you whole.

The picture frame shakes slightly in his grasp. The noise of it is almost deafening, drowning out the chaotic swirl of his thoughts. He closes his eyes, feeling the weight of guilt settle deep within his chest, heavier than anything he’s ever felt before.

I never wanted to hurt you. I’m so sorry.

His breath hitches. Maybe he wasn’t entirely lost. Maybe he could still fix this.

With a shaky exhale, he sets the frame back on the seat, staring at it for just a second longer before slowly closing his eyes, and leaning back against the headrest, allowing the overwhelming weight of it all to settle over him. His heart rate evens out, his hands no longer jittering. His sweat has dried down and his shoulders feel lighter.

Maybe he should apologize. For anything at this point, so long you know he’s regretful.

He gets a ping at his phone again, one that has him reaching for it and unlocking it with quick ease. He’s set up a different notification sound for whenever you text him or call him—it separates you from the rest of the contacts. Also, it lets him know that your message or phone call is actually worth replying to.

Y/N:

Can you watch Koji tonight, please? I’m going out with a friend.

He hesitates, a wave of curiosity passing through him. What friend? Going where? He wants to ask, and he almost does. But logic wins over and he finds himself having better restraint than he would’ve expected. So, with a big inhale, he types back a simple ‘sure’.

He blames it on the fact that he hasn’t seen you dressed up in a while. That’s why his mind has suddenly gone foggy, lips parted and eyebrows raised as if he’s on the very verge of saying something. “You look…” Edible.

Clearing your throat, you stuff your hands into the pockets of the small black jacket you adorn to keep you semi-warm throughout the night. But it probably won’t do much considering your legs are on full display for everyone to see. Your white-painted toes peeking out from the black heels you wear. And not to mention, the red dress you’re wearing that’s almost too tight and short for his liking. You’re wearing a glossy red lip to match, hair down, and jewelry that stands out perfectly against your skin. If he inhales hard enough, he’ll smell the sweet scent of your floral, strawberry fragrance that always leaves him wanting—feining for more.

“…nice.”

Nice? That’s all he could come up with? He mentally berates himself, though he’s not entirely sure if he wants to give you the satisfaction of knowing just how good you look. It’s not just the dress or the heels—it’s your unknowing confidence in your stance, the way you carry yourself. It’s infuriatingly captivating.

“Thanks,” you reply, not meeting his gaze as you adjust the strap of your small purse. You’re not oblivious to the way his eyes linger, but you refuse to let it affect you. Not tonight, not anymore. “Koji’s already asleep, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Satoru nods, leaning against the doorframe, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Who’s the lucky guy?” he finally asks, his tone deliberately casual.

You pause mid-motion, glancing back at him with a raised brow. “Why does it matter?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Just curious. I mean, you haven't gone out much, so…”

“It’s a friend,” you say firmly, cutting him off before he can push further. “That’s all you need to know.”

His lips thin, looking briefly at his son’s closed door before back at your figure; watching you grab your keys. “Well…how are you getting there?” He asks, a hint of concern in his voice.

“My friend and the guy she’s talking to are picking me up. We were going to meet him there, but he said he could pick us up instead.”

“What guy?” He can’t help but ask. “Is he a good driver? Do you know him well? Do I—”

“They’re picking me up,” you reiterate, cutting him off. Looking back at him, a plain emotion on your face. “I have it situated. Just worry about watching Koji, okay?”

The words sting more than he expects them to. He watches as you step out the door, your heels clicking against the pavement. “Please be safe,” he calls after you, his voice softer this time, almost hesitant.

You turn briefly, offering a small, polite smile. “I will.”

And just like that, you’re gone, leaving Satoru standing in the apartment, staring after you with a sinking feeling in his chest. The thought of you out there, dressed like that, with someone else—some other guy—makes his blood simmer. He knows he has no right to feel this way, but it doesn’t stop the jealousy from gnawing at him.

A few minutes and he decides to be nosy. Peeking out the window, looking down at the parking lot of the complex. He sees you getting into a car. Now, it’s not the fact that the entire car is blacked out so he can’t even see who’s in the car with you, or the fact that it has obnoxious lights on the rims. But solely the fact that it’s a Maybach.

Since when do you know anyone who drives a Maybach?

Not that he’s trying to diss you or anything, but so far, he has no knowledge of you coming across any people who could afford that kind of car. Up until now. And that thought alone has him on edge.

Or maybe it’s the signature, golden ‘Z’ emblem above the back license plate that he spots as the car drives off. His stomach turns. No. No. No. That couldn’t be. He’s just imagining that.

No way you’re in a car with a Zenin right now.

There’s just no way.

“You look cute,” Hana comments, turning around in her seat. Smiling as she gives you a once-over. “Is that the dress we bought together that one time at the mall?”

“Yeah. You look great too,” you chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You glance over at Naoya who’s currently fixated on the road. “Thanks for the ride, by the way. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Naoya replies without taking his eyes off the road, his tone neutral but polite. “Hana insisted we pick you up anyway.”

Hana grins, turning her attention back to you. “Of course I did! It’s been forever since we had a proper night out. You’ve been cooped up for too long, Y/N.” She gestures dramatically, earning a small laugh from you.

“I guess I have,” you admit, glancing out the window as the city lights blur past. “It’s just been… a lot lately.”

Hana’s smile softens, and she reaches back to give your hand a comforting squeeze. “Well, tonight’s about letting go of all that. We’ll have fun, I promise.”

Naoya glances at you in the rearview mirror, his sharp gaze lingering for a moment before he focuses back on the road. “Just make sure you don’t let loose too much,” he says, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

You look over, seeing the corner of his lips upturned into what must be his permanent grin. You catch his eyes meeting you through the rearview mirror for a minute and it makes you feel naked. Clearing your throat and looking back at your window with an awkward chuckle.

“Naoya, the overprotective chauffeur,” Hana jokes, earning a laugh from Naoya as he puts his hand on her thigh.

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you two,” Naoya quips, his smirk widening as his fingers give Hana’s leg a light squeeze. “Especially when you’re dragging her along into whatever chaos you’ve planned.”

Hana rolls her eyes, brushing his hand off playfully. “Relax, Dad. We’re just going out for a few drinks and some dancing. Nothing too wild.” She winks at you. “Right, Y/N?”

You nod. “Right. I’m not exactly a party animal.”

Naoya hums, clearly unconvinced. “We’ll see about that.”

Hana waves him off. He chortles a low, smooth sound that vibrates through the car. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just here to make sure my ladies get home in one piece.”

Your lips part in confusion, brows knitting together. You glance at him, but he doesn’t elaborate. Hana, ever the chatterbox, quickly fills the silence. “Well, lucky us, then! Who else gets a chauffeur who also cares about their well-being?” She leans over and plants a dramatic kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, honey.”

Naoya laughs, but he subtly turns his head to the side and grimaces, wiping his cheek as if offended. You notice.

The dynamic between them is easy and light, and though you try to relax, you can’t shake the feeling of Naoya’s lingering gaze every time he catches your eye in the mirror. There’s something unnerving about the way he looks at you—like he knows something you don’t.

For now, though, you push it aside. Tonight isn’t about overthinking—it’s about having a moment to breathe.

But you shake it off, plastering a smile on your face as the car pulls up to the club. Hana claps her hands excitedly, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Alright, let’s get this night started!”

Naoya puts it in park and rounds over to the other side of the car, opening Hana’s far and surprisingly yours as well. Giving him a small nod in thanks, you go to loop arms with Hana, but she’s already doing that with Naoya.

You falter for a moment, your arm awkwardly dropping back to your side. Hana is too busy chatting animatedly with Naoya to notice, her laugh ringing out as they start walking ahead. You follow a step behind, trying not to feel out of place.

The entrance to the club glows with neon lights, and the steady thrum of bass greets you as you approach. Hana bounces on her heels, her excitement contagious as she tugs on Naoya’s arm. “Hurry up! We don’t want to miss the good music!”

Naoya glances back at you, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You good back there?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”

Hana beams at you over her shoulder, oblivious to the moment. “Don’t let us leave you behind, Y/N! Tonight’s about you having fun too!”

“Right,” you murmur, falling into step beside them as the bouncer waves you three in instantly as soon as he sees Naoya’s with you.

Inside, the club is alive with energy—flashing lights, pulsing music, and a crowd already losing themselves on the dance floor.

In other words, it’s a sensory overload. The air is thick with the smell of perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and the floor vibrates underfoot with the heavy bass of the music that pulses from every corner. The dim, moody lighting casts long shadows across the room, but flashes of neon blues, purples, and pinks blink and fade in time with the beats, giving the space an electric, otherworldly glow.

To your left, a long, sleek bar stretches the length of the room, illuminated by LED lights embedded beneath the counter, giving it a cool, almost ethereal glow. Behind the bar, bartenders move with practiced efficiency, mixing colorful drinks, occasionally tossing bottles into the air as part of a flashy show to catch the attention of the crowd. The shelves of liquor gleam under the shifting lights, every bottle begging to be chosen.

The dance floor is alive with movement—a sea of people in various states of abandon, swaying, grinding, and throwing themselves into the beat. The DJ booth is elevated at the far end of the room, with an impressive setup of turntables, flashing screens, and a bright spotlight that shines down on the DJ as they command the crowd. Their hands are a blur as they adjust the controls, sending waves of sound crashing through the speakers, making the room feel alive with every drop.

Above, the ceiling is dark but dotted with small, moving lights that give the illusion of stars or distant galaxies, adding to the club’s otherworldly atmosphere. A few scattered tables sit around the edges of the room, reserved for VIP guests, and each one is surrounded by plush, velvet chairs and bottles of expensive liquor.

As you move through the crowd, you catch glimpses of people laughing, chatting, and flirting, but it all feels distant—like you’re part of the scene but not entirely involved. The club is packed, but there’s a strange sense of intimacy in the chaos as if everyone is trying to escape their real lives, if only for a few hours. The energy is intoxicating, but beneath it all, you can feel the weight of your own thoughts creeping back in, no matter how hard you try to let the music wash them away.

Naoya guides you two upstairs, which shocks you because you weren’t aware this spot has more than one floor. “C’mon, upstairs is where all the important people stay.” He says, his head tilting in the direction of where he’s referring.

Hana giggles and practically bubbles with excitement. You on the other hand, not so much. Maybe it’s just the fact that you’re a very analytical person at heart, constantly checking and being sure of your surroundings. Of course, a few men pass you and Hana lingering stares, but none of them approach you.

Naoya walks over to a small VIP booth that’s been blocked off, sitting leisurely down on the couch and bringing Hana down to his lap; her arms around his neck. You sit beside them, hands in your lap. Looking around, and yep, it definitely is a different vibe than downstairs.

As you settle into the plush, velvet booth, the vibe upstairs feels even more exclusive. The lighting here is more subdued, with golden accents and low-hanging chandeliers casting a warm, luxurious glow over the space. The music from downstairs is muffled, replaced by a mix of smooth beats and more chill, electronic sounds, making the atmosphere feel like a blend of relaxation and quiet intensity. The view from the booth offers a perfect vantage point, allowing you to overlook the main floor, but with a sense of separation from the chaos. The air smells richer up here too—expensive cologne and the faint scent of cigars from the few people who seem to want a more private retreat from the crowd below. Glasses of wine and crystal-clear cocktails sit on the tables, adding to the upscale feel.

“All rounds on me. Let’s enjoy the night,” Naoya announces.

“Thank you, babe!” Hana exclaims, nuzzling into his neck.

Your eyes flicker to the other patrons in the booth with you. Some are laughing softly, holding drinks, while others sit in hushed conversations, the dim lighting making everything feel secretive and intimate. You can’t help but wonder if this is how the elite live all the time—an almost curated existence, designed for maximum enjoyment and minimal disruption.

A waitress arrives with a tray of drinks—various cocktails with elaborate garnishes, the scent of alcohol mingling with the floral air in the room. Naoya takes one without hesitation, handing it to Hana, who beams in delight. He looks over as if waiting for you to take one as well. You glance down at the assortment of drinks before finally picking up a glass, the amber liquid gleaming in the dim light. You take a small sip, the sharpness of the alcohol hitting your tongue as you try to keep your focus on the present moment, not letting your mind wander too far.

Naoya watches you with a raised brow, then leans back in his seat, his arm casually draped around Hana’s waist. He seems to enjoy the fact that you’re more reserved than the others. He chuckles lowly. “I wasn’t sure you’d be the type to go for the fancy drinks,” he remarks, his voice light but piercing as he studies your expression.

You give him a dry smile, shifting your attention toward the music pulsing through the speakers. “I’m not, but I figured it’s a good way to blend in,” you reply, trying to keep the conversation flowing without delving into anything personal.

Hana, always the life of the group, doesn’t seem to notice the tension hanging in the air. She’s already lost in the rhythm of the night, swaying her body slightly as she sips her drink. You, on the other hand, are a stranger in it all, unsure of your place here.

You’re don’t know how much time has passed, but it’s probably sooner than later when you’re nudging Hana over as Naoya is engaged in conversation with another man. “Hey, I thought we were going for the more…you know. Lively kind of night. Not a sit down and whiskey type.” You lace your words with a chuckle, though you speak the truth. You’d much rather be on the first floor, drinking expensive, but poorly made drinks and shaking your ass off on the dance floor with a bunch of strangers.

“What’s wrong with being up here? Naoya said all the important people stay here.” She tilts her head, sipping from what must be her fifth drink already. She’s drunk, obviously.

You’re teetering the line of tipsy and drunk.

“Well, yeah, sure. But don’t you want to dance or something?” You ask back.

Hana looks at you for a moment, her eyes softening with a thoughtful expression. She tilts her head, the buzz of the alcohol making her seem a little more carefree. “I mean, I guess, but I like the vibe up here more. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Her words are a little slow.

You glance down at your feet for a moment, debating your options. The temptation to be more carefree is there, gnawing at the edges of your mind. But as the music and voices continue to swirl around you, you feel more and more out of place in this sterile, high-class VIP area. You can practically feel the weight of the high-heeled shoes digging into your feet, the tightness of your dress that’s become slightly uncomfortable as the night wears on.

You shoot a glance toward Naoya, who's deep in conversation with some well-dressed man. His posture is perfect, the kind of poised confidence only someone like him could exude, while you and Hana are caught up in your own corner of the booth, the alcohol clouding your judgment but not your awareness. It’s strange to be so close to people who are so at home here but yet feel so far away.

“I think I’m gonna go dance,” you say, suddenly making up your mind. “You don’t have to join me if you’re not feeling it.” You stand, brushing your dress down as you do. Your legs feel a little unsteady, but it’s manageable. You’re not a newbie to drinking, after all.

Hana looks at you, her gaze blurry but her smile still wide. “Go for it, girl! I’m fine here.” She gives you a thumbs up, though she seems too drunk to be fully aware of what’s going on around her.

You nod, and make your way down the stairs back toward the first floor. The music is louder here, the bass thumping through your chest as you walk toward the crowd of people already dancing. Normally, Hana would never shy away from dancing with you—or straying away from you during a night out. So the fact that she’s suddenly willing to tonight makes you feel weird. But it’s probably just the alcohol.

You shake off the momentary discomfort, the need to blend into this world of expensive drinks and quiet conversations. This is what you came for.

The crowd is exactly as you expected—a mixture of sweaty bodies, neon lights, and the pulsating energy of a hundred people trying to escape their realities, if only for a few hours. You take a deep breath, letting the beat of the music invade your senses. For a second, you feel a bit more free.

You grab a drink from one of the servers, not caring much about what it is, and make your way into the center of the dance floor. The drink is cool in your hand as you take a sip, feeling the sharp burn of the alcohol before you set it aside, letting yourself be carried away by the rhythm.

The night is finally starting to feel a bit more like it should.

As you lose yourself in the music, the bass vibrating through your bones, you feel the tension in your body start to melt away. For the first time tonight, you're not thinking about the drama, the men, or the uncomfortable constraints of the VIP booth. The club is full of people, all dancing, laughing, and letting go of whatever worries they might have had earlier. You let yourself blend into the crowd, moving fluidly to the beat, forgetting about everything except the thrum of the music and the freedom in the space around you.

It feels nice. Very nice, in fact. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been to a club, let alone go dancing. You forgot how freeing it feels. Of course, the alcohol plays a role in the freeing sensation, but it’s also the fact that you can let loose. You don’t have to think of anyone else but yourself at this moment. That realization makes your lips upturn, hips swaying and eyes closing in a euphoric blissfulness.

You can tell it’s been a while since you’ve been down here by the way sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck. You don’t wipe it off, however. That’s the whole point.

But as you move, you can suddenly feel eyes on you. At first, it's easy to dismiss the sensation, assuming it’s just the way the lights play across the room, making everyone appear to be watching. But the longer you dance, the more you realize that someone is actually watching, their gaze sharp and unwavering. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s Naoya.

His presence is unmistakable. Even amidst the blur of strangers, you can feel him like a weight in the air, his energy standing out amongst the crowd. He’s standing at the edge of the dance floor, his arms folded, his expression unreadable but clearly intent on you. You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. Something about the way he’s staring makes your stomach flip, though you can’t quite tell whether it’s from excitement or unease.

You try to ignore it, but the discomfort lingers. You dance a little harder, moving to the rhythm, hoping the feeling will pass. But Naoya doesn’t look away. In fact, his posture shifts slightly, and the subtle smirk that plays on his lips only deepens.

At that moment, you feel an unexpected shift in the crowd around you. You glance over, expecting to see some stranger encroaching on your space, but instead, it’s just the pulse of the music getting more intense. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that Naoya is watching you with something more than curiosity. His gaze is intense, too intense for a simple night out.

The realization starts to gnaw at you. He’s waiting for something. And it’s not just the usual flirtatious attention. There’s a deliberate energy in the air, a challenge almost.

You swallow thickly, trying to push the tension away. But it’s getting harder to pretend like you’re not aware of him, especially as you move.

“Having fun?” Naoya’s voice cuts through the noise as he approaches you, standing dangerously close, almost too close. You freeze momentarily, caught off guard by his forced proximity. He towers over you, the heat from his body radiating towards you, his gaze locked onto yours like he’s studying you, dissecting you.

You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out, your mind scrambling for something to say, anything to break the intensity of the moment. Instead, your eyes dart toward the exit of the dance floor. You need space. But Naoya doesn’t give you the chance to retreat.

“You seem a little distracted tonight,” he murmurs, his voice low as if they’re the only two people in the room.

You know he’s not just talking about the music. A part of you wants to pull away, to tell him you’re fine, but another part feels caught in his web.

He leans in slightly, his voice nearly lost in the music. “I thought you’d be enjoying yourself up there. Why the sudden change of heart?”

You tilt your head, forcing yourself to stay grounded. “I just needed a change of pace, that’s all.”

Naoya looks you over with a raised eyebrow, his posture leaning just a bit closer. “I see.” His voice drops to a teasing whisper. “You’re not trying to forget anything, are you?”

You glance at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away, letting the question hang in the air for a second. Instead, he moves closer, his hand brushing against the small of your back. His touch is light, but there’s an intensity behind it, a pull that almost makes you lose focus. The air around you thickens, the moment stretching out longer than necessary.

“I’m just wondering how long you’re going to keep running away from what’s really bothering you,” Naoya murmurs, his smirk never faltering.

You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. His words—casual, yet somehow pointed—cut through the haze of alcohol in your mind. It’s strange how Naoya can make you feel uncomfortably exposed even when he’s doing the least. That’s not normal.

“I’m not running from anything,” you say, your voice steady but your heart suddenly a little heavier. “Just enjoying the night, like you said.”

Naoya chuckles softly, though there’s a sharpness to it now. “Sure, just enjoying the night. You do that.” He leans in closer, almost too close now, his breath brushing your ear. “But you should know, sometimes the thing you’re trying to forget ends up finding you, no matter how far you run.”

You tense, your pulse racing, and for a moment, you wonder if he knows something—something about you, about Satoru, or maybe even about your own deepest fears. His hands are on your hips before you know it, moving your body in a swaying motion to the beat of the music.

And for some reason, you let him. Feeling the weight of his ominous words stay heavy on your mind, fixating on a random tile of the floor. You feel his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, unmoving. For a second, you feel yourself give in. Placing your hands atop his in a hesitant manner—testing out the waters.

And instantly, you’re met with your answer, a nauseating pit forming in your gut. Lip curling into a tiny sneer.

“W-where’s Hana?” You blurt out, pushing his hands away from you and turning around to face him.

There’s a momentary look of shock on his face before he pulls it back down into his usual Cheshire grin, though you can tell it looks more forced than usual this time. His eyes narrowed. “Oh, Hana? She’s still upstairs.”

“And you left her there?” You huff with disbelief, your head shaking. You attempt to side-step past him, but he’s putting an arm around your shoulder before you can go.

“Don’t worry, pretty. I can lead you to her.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol clouding your judgment or the lingering discomfort from his presence, but you find yourself stopping. His touch, warm but unnerving, keeps you in place as his arm wraps around you. His grip feels possessive in a way that makes your skin crawl, and for the briefest second, you almost feel trapped.

You glance up at him, his grin too wide, too knowing. There’s something in his eyes—something that doesn’t sit right with you. His words float in your mind like smoke: “The thing you’re trying to forget ends up finding you.”

Forcing a tight-lipped smile, you tilt your head toward the stairs, where you know Hana must be waiting. “I think I’ll find her myself,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm, and detached, though your pulse quickens.

Naoya’s eyes glint with something unreadable, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he tightens his arm around your shoulder, his touch more possessive than before, making it hard to breathe. “I’m just trying to help, sweetheart. What’s the harm in me escorting you?” His voice is low, almost coaxing like he’s trying to pull you into his orbit.

Before you know it, he’s taking you upstairs. All the while keeping his arm around you. You gulp down the lump in your throat, unsure if you should push him off and let him take you to your friend. Maybe you’re overthinking—overreacting. Once you two are upstairs, he’s walking past the booths. You glance at the booth you were once at, seeing no sight of your friend.

Panic trickles in slowly as he takes you down a small hallway, turning to his right and opening the last door.

You’re taking in everything. Women, men, glasses of alcohol. Some make out and others getting frisky with each other. The room feels even more suffocating than the second floor itself. But your eyes don’t just widen at what the others are doing, but what your friend is doing.

She’s sitting beside some guys you don’t even know, white snowy lines laid out in front of them on the glass table. She’s leaning down, holding a finger to her nostril and just about to partake in the activity when you snatch her up by her arm. “Hana! W-what the hell are you doing?!”

Hana looks up at you, her face slightly flushed and her eyes glazed over, an uncharacteristic haze of confusion settling over her expression as she blinks a few times. The room is full of murmurs, laughter, and the sharp scent of something far stronger than alcohol. For a moment, Hana doesn’t seem to recognize you at all, or perhaps she’s just too far gone to care. The men around her don’t react immediately, their attention is divided between each other and whatever else is happening in the room.

“Hana!” you repeat, voice rising in panic, shaking her arm a little more forcefully. Your grip is tight, and you can feel the tremor in your hand as the weight of the situation starts to sink in.

She blinks again, then her gaze clears just enough to focus on you. “Y/N?” she slurs, a small frown forming as she rubs her nose absentmindedly. “What’s up? I was just… having fun.”

“This isn’t fun, Hana!” You pull her up from her seat, your voice trembling as you yank her away from the men. “This is dangerous—what are you thinking?”

Hana stumbles a little, her movements sluggish, and she doesn’t seem to fully grasp the seriousness of the moment. She laughs softly, her words laced with a slur that makes it hard for you to hear her clearly. “Come on, Y/N, chill out. It’s just a little fun. You’ve been so uptight lately... you need to loosen up, too.”

Your heart races as you glance back at Naoya, still standing in the doorway, his hand resting casually on the frame. His grin is gone, replaced by a coldness that seems to make the room feel even more stifling. You’re left standing there, breath shallow, with Hana still swaying slightly in your grip. You don’t know how long it takes for the fog of confusion to lift from her eyes, but when it does, her face falls.

Your stomach twists, both from the overwhelming sense of protectiveness and the lingering disgust at what she’d been about to do. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You’ve been friends for too long to just let this go. You can’t leave her here like this—not with those people, not in this situation.

You pull her closer, your voice softening. “We’re leaving, Hana. Now.”

A beat of silence hangs between you, and for a moment, you think she might actually listen, but then she looks at you with frustration, and then back at Naoya, who hasn’t moved an inch.

“Why are you always trying to control everything, Y/N?” she snaps, and it feels like a slap to the face. “I’m fine. Just let me do what I want for once.”

It’s the final straw. You can’t stand it anymore. You’re about to pull her out of the room, about to drag her away from this mess, but Naoya steps forward, a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to stop. “Maybe you should let her be, Y/N,” he says, voice calm but his grip tightening on you. “She’s not your responsibility tonight.”

Your anger flares, but your mind is spinning too fast to catch up. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face, but you know better. You can feel the weight of the situation settling in, and something about being in this room with him, watching everything around you spiral out of control, is making you lose your footing.

And Hana—she’s still there, looking so lost, so far gone.

You feel the pressure of Naoya’s touch on your shoulder, almost like an invisible barrier, stopping you from moving. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air heavy and thick with tension.

“Did you bring her in here? Did you force her to do things she couldn’t consent to?” You ask, forcing your drunken mess away for just a moment to deal with the situation at hand.

His head tilts in faux innocence. “What? No. She said she wanted to meet my friends so I let her. I said I’d be back in a few minutes, I didn’t know she’d be doing anything like that.”

“But you still left her alone.” You grit.

“So? She’s a grown woman. Besides, she’s not alone.” He gestures to the people inside.

You can feel your heart racing, each word hanging in the air like a heavy weight, suffocating you more than the dense atmosphere of the room. Your chest tightens with anger and concern for your friend. The nerve of him—standing there, acting like he didn’t know what was happening. He knows exactly what’s going on, and now he’s just playing it off like it’s nothing.

“You still left her alone,” you repeat, voice sharper this time, forcing yourself to meet his eyes even though every instinct tells you to look away. “If you had any decency at all, you wouldn’t have let her get to this point.”

Naoya shrugs, an almost bored expression on his face, like he’s done this too many times to count and knows exactly how to make people like you back down. “Decency? You want me to babysit her?” His lips curl into that smirk again, the one that sends a chill down your spine. “I’m not her keeper, Y/N. She made her own choices.”

Your hands shake, but you force them to remain steady. You glance at Hana again, who’s swaying, her mind clearly lost in whatever she was about to do, her gaze vacant. The sight makes your stomach churn, the reality of how deep she’s gotten into all this hitting you like a punch to the gut.

“Then why did you bring her here?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice from breaking. “Why even let her near this place if you knew what was going on?”

Naoya’s eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you might have actually caught him off guard. But then his expression hardens, and the slight tension in his jaw gives way to a shrug. “Because she wanted to be here. She asked to come. I didn’t make her.” His tone is colder now, more dismissive. “You know, Y/N, sometimes people just want to let loose. You can’t control everything. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

You flinch at his words, and that’s when you know—you’re not going to get anything else from him. He’s already too far gone into his own ego, into this sick game he’s playing. But you won’t stop. Not when Hana’s here, not when she’s clearly in over her head.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward, putting yourself between Naoya and Hana, your voice unwavering. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Naoya opens his mouth as if to argue, but you don’t give him the chance. You grab Hana’s arm again, more forcefully this time, pulling her away from the table. She resists at first, confused, but your grip is unyielding.

“Come on, Hana. We’re going.” You almost want to shout it, to get her out of there before anything else can happen, but instead, you keep your voice steady, calm, for her.

She blinks at you, her vision blurry. “But... Y/N... I... I’m fine, I just... I just wanted to try it...”

“No, Hana,” you snap, cutting her off before she can finish her sentence. “This is not you. You’re not fine.”

The words hit her hard. You can see it in her eyes—the brief flash of clarity before the fog comes back over them. She sways, but you manage to keep her steady as you drag her out of the room, ignoring the stares and whispers of the people inside.

Naoya doesn’t try to stop you. He stands there, arms crossed, watching you leave with that same smirk plastered across his face.

You can hear him mutter under his breath. And you find that being your final straw again.

You stop in your tracks, holding your friend to your side by her waist. Debating. “Hey.”

He barely has time to look over his shoulder before your fist makes contact with his cheek. He audibly yelps in a feminine manner, instantly holding the injured area. “Ow! W—hey!”

His mouth is agape, eyebrows furrowed and glaring at you with looks to kill. You wring out your fist, glad you wore your favorite ring today. You can’t punch for shit, yet he’s acting like…

“You crazy woman!” He huffs out, the room going silent as he has his breakdown. Rushing over and pushing a couple of women out of the way to cheek his face in the mirror. He sees the red area, and his lip is busted. Whipping his head back over to you. “How dare you?! I’ll fucking sue you for this, you know?”

“Go ahead, I have nothing to give you.” You reply back, turning on your heel and walking out. Footsteps quick from the sheer adrenaline and small amount of fear that he’ll try to grab you from behind. He doesn’t, luckily.

All that matters now is getting Hana out of this hellhole. As you make your way to the exit, you finally feel like you can breathe again. But just barely.

Once you’re outside, the cold air hits your skin, grounding you. Hana stumbles beside you, still out of it, but you’ve done what you came to do. You’ve pulled her from the edge.

But as you both stand there, the reality of what just happened settles in. You’ve confronted Naoya, punched him, and you’ve dragged your friend out of a situation she was too far gone to see. But now, as the adrenaline begins to fade, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not done yet.

You look down at your shaky fist, seeing the red knuckles. “…shit…” you mumble under your breath, chest heaving up and down. You gasp and catch yourself on a light pole when Hana suddenly goes dead weight and almost brings you down to the concrete with her. It takes everything in you to hold her up.

Your vision feels wavy, feeling your feet stumble a bit to the right from your own inebriation before catching yourself mid-haze. “Okay, okay.”

You’re bear-hugging her to your chest, holding your bodies up against the light pole. Breathing in and out heavily, eyes closing as you try to figure out a situation for this all. Your ride, gone. You didn’t even bring money for a taxi. And your friend is passed out drunk. You do a mental checklist of people who can haul you and Hana’s drunk asses back home. Only coming out with two viable options. And one of those is currently watching your son at home.

Leaving only one other person.

Satoru has been lounging around your place for a few hours now, bored out of his mind. He switches from laying on the couch, to rummaging through your cabinets and reading the expiration date on everything, to checking on his son.

He sighs heavily, staring down at the familiar key he had gifted you that lies on the kitchen counter. Untouched. He still hasn’t asked about your confirmation of the place he bought for you two, he figures he can do that tomorrow. But the fact that you haven’t seemed to put much regard into it feels like a small dig to him, his frown deepening. Did you not care for it? Do you not like it? The fact that he went out of his way to buy you and his son a better place to live??

He needs to clear his mind.

Walking over to Koji’s room, peeking in once more, everything is the same. His son still sleeps peacefully, snoring lightly and holding his Spider-Man close to his chest with his blankets thrown over him. The Spider-Man makes Satoru scowl again, forcing his eyes away and to the small hamper in the corner.

He might as well do something productive now.

Carefully, he walks in and grabs the hamper, walking back out with effortless silence. Going over to your washer and dryer, opening the two doors to reveal them. He already sees a full hamper on top of the washer and sighs. “C’mon, Y/N,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

Flipping the light switch on, he puts both hampers on the ground and it takes him a while to figure out how to work your washer. Afterward, he opens the lid and tosses on Koji’s small load, then yours. He tries not to hold onto your panties and bras for too long, not trying to be a perv. But he’s a man, after all. A man who may still have feelings for his ex.

So when he sees a pair of blue, lace panties, he thinks he might get a hard on right then and there. You creep! He’s holding it in front of his face, admiring the dangling fabric. He’s surprised you still have this. He remembers the…day you got it, after all. Yep, he feels his pants tighten.

The sick, twisted part of him tells him to give the panties a small sniff. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right?

No, no. That’s disgusting of you, Satoru.

He shakes his head, reminding himself that he can’t do this and that he has a girlfriend. And by the gods above, he quickly tosses it into the washer before he loses control. The rest of your clothes consist of pants, sweats, a jacket, a few shirts, and a….wait.

…what’s this?

Getting to the bottom of your hamper, he comes across a shirt. One that’s too oversized to fit you. One that’s cotton. One that smells faintly like someone else he knows. One that he bought for his best friend two Christmases ago.

Satoru stares at the shirt in his hands, his eyes narrowing as the realization hits him like a cold slap to the face. The fabric feels heavier in his grip than it should, and the faint scent clings to it—the unmistakable scent of someone else. Someone he knows. Someone who's apparently been a part of your life in ways that make him uncomfortable to even consider.

His stomach twists, a mix of anger and confusion flooding his thoughts. The shirt feels like a thread unraveling everything he’s been trying to convince himself of. He knows it’s irrational to feel the way he does, but in that moment, all he can think of is him. His best friend. The one who’s always been there. The one who seems too close to you. His grip tightens around the fabric, his stomach dropping. Gulping hard and forcing himself not to jump to conclusions.

But that’s pretty fucking hard.

Why the fuck do you have Suguru’s shirt? Why is it in your dirty clothes? Did he just put it there? Did he spend the night? Did you and him—

He tosses the shirt back into the hamper with more force than necessary, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. It’s his.

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. What is he supposed to do with this? He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but everything about this feels wrong. He glances over at the pile of clothes—your clothes. He sees everything but that damn shirt. But it's there now, in his mind, looming like a specter.

Satoru grabs the rest of the clothes, hastily tossing them into the washer, but it’s hard to focus. His mind keeps returning to that one question. That one shirt. And the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, there's something he's been missing.

He almost feels like gagging as he closes the two doors and turns the light off, head spinning. He places a hand to his forehead, blinking hard.

His head whips over to the front door when he hears muffled chatter from outside.

“Thank you for coming on short notice,” you mumble in embarrassment, focusing your eyes on your fiddling hands in your lap.

“Don’t thank me, Y/N. I would’ve come either way.” Suguru responds, smiling briefly at you before focusing back on the road.

You’re just dropped Hana off. The trip felt way easier since Suguru opted to carry her in and to her bed, with you grabbing her keys and unlocking her door. When you left, you made sure everything else was locked. He didn’t even question anything, simply doing as you asked.

Of course his gaze is riddled with concern, confusion, and skepticism. You don’t miss the way he keeps looking down at your red knuckles that you hide, but with the way you haven’t mentioned anything about the night, he figures you won’t talk about it.

“How much did you drink? I brought some water, it’s on the door.” He juts his head in your direction.

You glance down and grab the bottle, thanking him as you down it. “Um…just a few drinks. I’m not entirely sober right now, still.”

Suguru nods slowly, not saying anything for a moment as the car hums along the quiet road. He doesn’t push you to talk, but he knows something’s off. You’ve been quieter than usual, and the tension in the air is palpable. He’s been around you long enough to sense when something isn’t right, but he’s trying not to pry—especially when you’re clearly trying to avoid the topic.

When you finish the water, he glances over at you, eyes softening. “I know you’re not ready to talk, Y/N. But you know I’m here, right? If you ever want to—”

You nod quickly, cutting him off, but not in a way that’s dismissive. It’s more like you’re trying to assure him. “I know. Thanks, Suguru.” The words hang between you both, neither of you fully comfortable in the silence. Guilt hits you, so you continue. “I just…tonight didn’t go as planned.”

He nods, stopping at a red light. Finally taking the chance to look at you fully once more. His lips thin in displeasure when he sees your current state. Shivering, flushed cheeks, hazy eyes, hair messy. He sighs and reaches in the backseat and brings out a warm, thick black jacket. Putting it over your shoulders. “Put that on, okay? Keep yourself warm and hydrated.”

Your lips part, but you nod and smile slightly. “…thank you,” you murmur, holding the jacket closer.

“And don’t thank me anymore, okay?” He replies, hints of playfulness in his voice like he’s trying to ease the mood. When the light turns green, the car moves forward again and gets closer to your apartment complex.

You let out a quiet breath, the warmth of his jacket enveloping you as you pull it tighter around your shoulders. The night feels like a blur now, too many conflicting emotions tangled together. Suguru’s steady presence is a welcome relief, but you can’t help but feel like you’ve lost control in some way. Tonight wasn’t just a mess—it was a wake-up call.

As he makes the final turn toward your apartment, you glance at him, still holding the jacket close. His eyes are on the road, but you can tell he’s trying to read you without being too obvious. There’s concern in the way his brows are furrowed, even though he’s doing his best to keep things light.

“I didn’t expect the night to turn out like this,” you admit, voice quieter than before. “I thought it’d just be a fun time with Hana, but… everything kind of spiraled.”

Suguru’s expression softens, though his gaze doesn’t stray from the road. “I know you wanted to have a good time, Y/N. Sometimes things just… happen. Doesn’t mean you can’t recover from it.”

You glance out the window, trying to focus on the passing scenery. The bright lights of the city feel like a distant memory compared to the emotional chaos inside your head. You force your stomach not to start twisting. “I know. It’s just hard. I never thought I’d have to deal with something like this.”

Suguru reaches for the wheel a bit tighter, but his voice is gentle as ever. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone, you know? Not everything is on your shoulders. Let yourself breathe a little.”

You bite your lip. I tried doing that tonight, look where that got me. You stay silent as he finds a space and parks, deciding he’s dealt with enough of your burdens.

“I’ll walk you up,” he mutters, unbuckling and getting out of the car to come to your side. He helps you out wordlessly, closing the door behind you and locking his car.

Your footsteps falter for a moment. “I-is it okay if I lean—”

“Of course,” he cuts you off, holding a steady arm around your waist and allowing you to use him as grounding for your leaning weight. He’s practically leading you, but you have no problem with it. Even as you two enter the elevator, the silence doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable. If anything, you’re leaning more into him, the side of your head against his chest.

He glances down at the top of your head, pulling you just a tad bit closer and twisting the urge to plant a kiss to your hair. His thumb rubs small, soothing circles around your hip, feeling you lean more and more against him.

The doors open and he’s slowing his movements for you. “Still with me?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He smiles and looks forward. “Good, don’t go falling asleep. Get some water in you, maybe some bread.”

You can’t help but softly chuckle. “You know, you’ve been really nice to me, Suguru. Nicer than anyone else.”

Your words are getting quiet and more mumbled—slurred. But he can still faintly piece your words together. You feel the rumble in his chest from his coaxing laugh. “Yeah? I think I’m just acting how any other man would.”

“Not any other man.” You reply.

He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, getting a tiny idea of who you may be referring to. But he doesn’t want to ruin your night even more by saying his name.

The quiet hum of the building is a comfort, a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier. You’re not sure how much of your surroundings you’re taking in; your thoughts are still clouded from the night’s events. The warmth of Suguru’s presence, his steady support, makes it easier to keep going. When you reach your door, he stops, giving you the space to find your keys in your pocket. You fumble a little, but Suguru doesn’t rush you. He stands patiently, his thumb still grazing the side of your hip. He’s careful not to crowd you too much, but there’s an undeniable sense of protectiveness in the way he stands close.

Finally, you manage to find your key. You glance up at Suguru, your eyes a little foggy. “Thank you… for everything.”

He smiles down at you, the warmth in his expression making your chest tighten a little. “It’s nothing, really. Just doing what’s right.”

You hesitate for a moment, not sure if you should say anything else, but the words slip out before you can stop them. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly but his smile softenn. His hand traveling up to gently tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll always be around when you need me.”

There’s a quiet beat between you two, the silence saying more than words ever could. You swallow down the lump in your throat, trying to keep the emotions from overwhelming you. You gently bite your bottom lip, the action causing his eyes to flicker down towards it. “I just…I feel like I haven’t been having anyone on my side lately. I’m…I’m glad I have you.”

His insides practically melt at your soft, drunken tone of voice and the way you’re gazing up at him. Suguru feels his heart shift, warmth pooling in his chest at your vulnerability. He’s never seen you quite like this, so open and raw, and it makes him want to protect you in a way that’s deeper than he expected. The softness in your voice, the way you lean into him—it all pulls him in closer, making his resolve weaken just a bit. He swallows hard, stepping a little closer to you, but trying to keep his distance, knowing that you’re vulnerable right now, not fully in control of your emotions.

“Y/N,” he says gently, his voice low but steady. He reaches for your hands, lifting them from where you were gripping the door, and holds them softly in his. “I'm not the only one, I promise. But I’m always going to have your back. You never have to feel alone, okay? We all go through tough times, but you’re not carrying it on your own.”

You nod slowly, eyes glimmering with a mix of gratitude and something else he can’t quite place. Your fingers curl around his as if you’re grounding yourself in his touch, a small comfort in the sea of uncertainty.

“You’re not like the others, Suguru,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You make me feel… safe.”

The words hang in the air, delicate and full of meaning. Suguru’s chest tightens again, but this time it’s not from concern or pity—it’s from something else. Something warm, something that feels a little dangerous, but right. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as he registers the way you’re looking at him.

“You’re safe with me,” he says softly, his voice almost a promise. “You always will be.”

You both stand there in the quiet, the weight of everything between you—everything unsaid—lingering. Suguru’s hand reaches up, brushing your hair away from your face again, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary, like he’s trying to convey something in that simple touch.

You blink, breaking the moment just enough to step back. “I should go inside.”

Suguru nods, not forcing anything further. He understands. “Yeah, go get some rest. Drink that water, and don’t forget about the bread.”

You tiredly smile, looking back at your door and putting the key in its hole. But, you find yourself hesitating. Movements stilling as thoughts overwhelmed your already vulnerable brain. You’re looking back at him before you know it.

His eyebrows raise. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head in response, your heart beating faster. He says nothing, just allowing the little staring contest to continue on. For some reason, it’s making you not want to face your reality. God, it’s the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing to him. How stuck he feels, how guilty he feels and how perfect it all feels at the same time. It’s almost not fair.

Maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve experienced more shit than you would’ve wanted to tonight—and of course, you’re a lightweight. Hence why you don’t really like drinking in the first place. But you’ve needed one recently.

So yeah, your balance is not very steady, your head feels light but heavy at the same time, your lips are curved up into a smile on their own and your calculations are a little miscalculated.

Because you could swear that with the way he’s looking at you now, his lids the slightest bit hooded that one could miss it, his tilted head, and the way he’s leaned in close enough that you can smell his intoxicating cologne…he’s looking tempted.

And to be honest, so are you.

The night air is suddenly quiet, you’ve been staring into his eyes for who knows how long now and your breathing feels shallower. It feels like a sappy romance movie you watched when you were a tween and wished upon a star that one day it would happen to you. Except it’s not the person you would’ve exactly wanted. But your body is still reacting all the same.

What does that mean for you?

Your key is still lodged in the hole of your door, seemingly frozen—but awaiting. He leans in and your eyelids flutter. “I’m sorry.”

“F-for what…?”

“For being such a selfish man right now.” He places a steady hand to your waist as your body swayed backwards again.

It’s just the alcohol talking. “I-it’s okay…”

“Is it?” He mutters, breath fanning your face.

This time, you lean closer, practically moving up to your tip-toes. You notice the way his eyes have darkened, glancing down at your pink, parted lips. “Yeah, I think…I want to be selfish too.”

He smiles, matching your drunken one. Your right hand raises to his cheek, admiring the heat that wavers off of it. You think you want more of his magnetic heat. He doesn’t move, allowing you to do the work. Maneuvering your head up to close the rest of the distance. And you’re so close, so very close that you could practically lick his lips if you wanted.

His lips part, making space for your own to slot between them. Just when you’re about to—

Your door yanks open from the inside, jolting you back to reality. Eyes wide and looking over at the culprit.

Oh, fuck.

Satoru stands in your doorway, hair poking up at all different angles, jaw clenched and saccharine eyes darting around at the sight in front of him, of what he just interrupted. And it feels like you’ve just been burned, pulling back and away from Suguru like you’ve been caught cheating. Suguru matches your actions, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “S-Satoru…” you mutter, swallowing.

“What’s this?” He asks, looking between you and his best friend. “He brought you home?”

“I—”

“She called me to pick her and her friend up, Satoru.” Suguru interrupts, meeting his friend with undeterred eye contact.

However, that seems to be just the icing on top for Satoru. Turning his gaze towards you, looking up and down quickly. “…So…I’m watching our son while you go ahead and get yourself shitfaced, you’re gone for hours without any call or text to let me know you’re okay, and when you come back… you’re about to…kiss my fucking best friend?”

“Sato—”

“Shut the fuck up, Suguru.” He gives his friend a death glare, taking a step outside and forcing you to take a wobbly one back. Suguru doesn’t move. “Tell me, huh. You think I’m an idiot?”

“Satoru,” you reach out for his arm, but promptly pull back when he looks back at you.

“And to think,” he scoffs, regarding you with an icy coldness that feels completely foreign to you. “I thought we had it okay for once. And now you’re fucking my best friend behind my back?”

“No! N-no, Suguru and I aren’t doing that.” You quickly protest.

He simply scoffs and Suguru steps back in between you two. “Satoru, calm down, okay? We weren’t doing anything. Y/N’s been having a tough time and I’m just here to help her through that.”

“By what? Forcing yourself into her life? Into my son’s life? Who the hell do you think you are, Suguru?” He pushes the other man by his shoulder, to which Suguru does not fight back.

You grimace, pulling back on his shirt. “Satoru, stop it, please. We aren’t doing anything like that.”

“Bullshit!” He snaps, throwing his arms up. “He gives you and Koji a present. I find his fucking shirt in your hamper, and now I just caught you two about to kiss. Did you fucking forget I was inside? Were you going to bring him inside and let him fuck you?”

Your mouth is agape, eyes blown wide at the accusations. The words hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and unable to form a coherent thought. Satoru’s accusations sting, each one harsher than the last. His anger is palpable, the venom in his voice making it hard to breathe, and yet all you can do is stand there in stunned silence, feeling the weight of the situation crash down on you.

“No... Satoru, I—I didn’t—” You struggle to find the words, but nothing seems to come out right. How do you explain something that’s so far from the truth but also so complicated in its own way?

Suguru, his expression tight with frustration, steps forward, clearly trying to keep the situation from spiraling even further. "Satoru, this isn’t the way to handle it. Y/N’s been through a lot, and I'm just trying to be there for her. That’s all it is."

“You think that makes a difference?” Satoru spits, turning back to Suguru with a glare that could burn. “You think you can just waltz in, playing hero, and it’s all fine? You don’t get to play the martyr here. Not with my family.”

You flinch at the mention of Koji, feeling the sting of his words even more sharply now. "Satoru, please," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "Don’t talk about him like that. You know I would never—"

But Satoru cuts you off with a sharp gesture, his eyes dark with fury. "No, you don’t get to explain yourself anymore. I saw it. I know what was happening."

Your heart races as the silence hangs heavy between you, Suguru and Satoru locked in a tense standoff. You can feel the weight of the accusations pressing down on you, suffocating you.

“I’m sorry, okay?” you manage, the words coming out in a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry. But I swear, nothing was going to happen. Nothing. I just... I didn’t know what else to do.”

Satoru doesn’t respond, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. Suguru looks between you both, his eyes softening just a fraction, but there’s nothing left to say. You’re standing at the edge of everything, and you don’t know how to fix this, how to make Satoru believe you.

“Satoru, Y/N’a a grown woman.” Suguru says.

“Yeah? And what, that makes you a grown man?”

Once more, Suguru is pushed by Satoru. You can see the growing irritability in Suguru’s expression, the way he’s doing his best to not give in and fight with his best friend. You’re torn, unsure of how you can stop this. Sure, you punched a man today, but he was a bitch. That doesn’t mean you can stop a possible fight between two other men. “Please, don’t raise your voice, Satoru. I don’t want to wake Koji.”

“Oh, now you fucking care?” He huffs out. And that sentence alone puts a halt to you. Your mind momentarily freezes, going silent. He almost looks like he regrets the words as soon as they’re uttered, but it’s drowned out by his look of anger.

Soon…you’re mirroring his fury.

“What?” You quietly ask, letting out a deep huff. “What? What the fuck did you just say to me?”

This time, it’s you who pushes the pusher. He stumbles back barely, caught off guard by your suddenness before he’s planting himself in place. “Don’t touch me, Y/N.”

“Then don’t you ever say something like that! I’ve done everything I could for Koji and more. You had no idea what kind of shit I went through alone.” You grit out.

“Because of you! Because of your own stupid decision to not let me in, let me help you!” He argues back. He's right. He's always right. And that’s why you two could never work together because while Satoru was always right, you were always wrong. They say opposites attract, when actually, opposites do nothing prove what the other could never be.

And after the events of tonight, you’re growing tired of holding back your explosion. Your drunken brain is telling you to fight fire with fire.

“Because you were a fucking shitty person!” You shout back, aware of the fact that your loud voice may cause some of your neighbors to wake up. Koji to wake up. “And now you’re getting mad at me for trying to move on? For trying to live my life? Fuck you! You have a fucking girlfriend who treats me like shit and you let it happen!”

“You want to play that game, Y/N? Really?” Satoru replies, a dead firmness in his tone.

Before you can respond, Suguru, ever the peacemaker, is cutting in again. “Y/N, stop it, okay? Go inside, you’re drunk. Satoru, don’t—”

He’s cut off by another push from Satoru. “Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Suguru. You’re trying to get with my ex behind my back, is that how low you’ve become?”

“Satoru,” he slowly exhales out, trying to calm himself. “I’m not doing that. Y/N and I aren’t getting together. I’m just being here for her.”

“By trying to get in bed with her?”

Suguru has begun to have enough. “Stop speaking like that, Satoru.” He gruffs out.

The atmosphere crackles with tension, and your pulse races as Satoru’s words hit harder than before, each one a slap in the face. You can feel the anger bubbling up inside you, pushing you past the point of control, past the point of regret. This argument feels like it’s never going to end—like it’s been building for years, simmering beneath the surface, only now it’s boiling over in a mess of accusations and past hurts.

Satoru’s sneer deepens as he stares you down. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? I’m not stupid, Y/N. Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes now. You think you’re going to move on with him after everything?”

You step closer to him, barely noticing the way your hands are trembling, your heart pounding in your chest and tears prickling at your eyes. “I’m not moving on with anyone. Not like you think. But you—” You pause, trying to steady your breath. “You’ve had no idea what I’ve been through. You’ve walked away at times when I needed you the most, Satoru. Don’t fucking act like I owe you anything now.”

Satoru’s expression darkens, his hands balling into fists, but you don’t flinch. “I’m sorry if you think I don’t care, but I’ve been in the fucking trenches with you, Y/N. Do you think it was easy for me too? To watch you shut me out? To watch you fucking struggle with everything while I—while I—tried to be there for you? But I was never enough, was I?” His voice cracks with a mix of frustration and disbelief, but it’s too much. It’s too late for apologies and explanations. You feel your vision blur with tears, and for a brief moment, you almost crumble under the weight of the argument, the hurt, the feeling of being misunderstood.

“You knew you could’ve tried hard enough. You knew that, you know that.” You argue, despite your shaky voice.

His eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Suguru steps forward, intervening again, his voice low and firm, but there’s a warning in it. “Enough, Satoru. You’re not hearing her. This isn’t about you anymore.”

Satoru’s fists clench at his sides, his jaw tight with frustration. “It’s always been about me, Suguru. It’s always been about what I need, what I want. And now you want to play the hero? To take my place in my own fucking life?”

Suguru shakes his head, his expression hardening. “No, I’m not trying to take your place. But you’re blind if you don’t see how much she’s suffered. How much she’s going through. And how much you’re still hurting her by dragging all this up now.”

“Shut up,” Satoru snaps, and his voice is harsh enough to make you flinch. “I don’t need a lecture from you, not now.”

Suguru doesn’t back down, his eyes never leaving Satoru’s. “Then maybe you should take a fucking look at yourself first.”

For a moment, the three of you stand there in silence, the tension thick enough to slice through. Your heart is racing, your mind spinning with a mix of anger, hurt, and confusion. The words you’ve been holding back for so long feel too much to bear, too raw to say out loud, but now they’re there, sitting on your tongue, threatening to spill.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but the weight of everything is overwhelming. Your hands tremble as you press them against your sides, eyes focusing on the ground to keep from breaking down. But the words, the truth you’ve been holding inside for so long, feel like they’re going to suffocate you if you don’t let them out.

“I didn’t mean for this, Satoru. I didn’t mean for any of it,” you finally say, your voice thick with emotion. Your chest tightens, your breath shaky as you look at him, the tears threatening to fall. “But now you’re standing here, making it worse, blaming me for everything. I’m always getting blamed, no matter what. For trying to find happiness. For surviving.” You swallow hard, your voice quieter but still filled with the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. “But you don’t get to make me feel bad about trying to heal, Satoru. You don’t get to make me feel like I’m the one who ruined everything when you were the one who stopped trying.”

Suguru’s gaze flickers to you, a flicker of concern flashing across his face, but it’s Satoru who you focus on. The silence stretches, suffocating, before he speaks again, his tone hard, bitter, but with a hint of something deeper—something vulnerable. “I never wanted to leave you,” he mutters, almost too quietly. “But you shut me out. You kept pushing me away like I didn’t matter.”

“You didn’t try hard enough to matter,” you shoot back, your voice a little stronger now. “You didn’t try to understand. You didn’t try to see me. You only saw what you wanted, what fit into your world. And I couldn’t do that anymore. I couldn’t just keep being this thing that existed to meet your needs, while I fell apart. I couldn’t.”

Satoru’s eyes flicker, and for a moment, you swear you see something break in him. But it’s gone just as quickly as it appears, replaced by the cold, hardened exterior he’s been wearing for so long. “You think this is easy for me?” he spits, voice laced with something that could be self-loathing. “You think it’s easy watching you—watching him—take over everything I thought was mine? That’s not fair either, Y/N.”

“You don’t own me, Satoru,” you whisper, the words coming out stronger than you expect. “You never did.”

Suguru steps forward again, his voice steady but firm. “Enough. This isn’t going anywhere. It’s just going to keep hurting both of you.”

But Satoru isn’t listening. His fists clench again, his jaw tight as he shakes his head, the hurt flashing in his eyes. “I don’t know how to fix this, Y/N. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I ever could.”

The rawness in his voice catches you off guard, leaving you momentarily speechless. The anger and resentment still burn in your chest, but beneath it all, you realize that maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left. Something that isn’t as broken as you thought.

But it’s too late for that. It’s too late for him.

With a shaky breath, you look away, your heart heavy in your chest, and turn toward the door. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Satoru. It’s done.”

Suguru’s hand rests gently on your shoulder as you walk past, his silent support a comfort, even though the pain doesn’t fade. And Satoru stays there, his fists trembling at his sides, caught between regret and anger, as you step back into your home and shut the door behind you.

The tears overcoming your being once you’re locked inside, taking the jackets off haphazardly and tossing your purse onto the sofa. Holding a hand to your mouth to muffle your cries as you walk past Koji’s door and to your own room, silently shutting and locking it.

You crumble into your bed, holding your pillow close, and making you feel like a little girl all over again. Letting your warm tears wash your makeup away and stain your white pillow. Feeling your body trembling from every sensation flowing through it right now. You feel your heart pick up way too fast for your liking and you’re almost sure you’re breathing at an erratic pace right now.

You feel like no matter what, you can never do good in your life. You fucked up tonight by trying to kiss Suguru, you fucked up by keeping Koji a secret, you fucked up by even going out in the first place.

Everything is crumbling down at you all at once and you think it’s about time you toss the rag in. Because everyone has their breaking point, you’re not sure if you hit yours yet, but it damn well feels like you have. And now you’ve probably broken up a years long friendship due to your own selfishness, to your own stupid intoxication. You’re wrong in every aspect. Everything is eating you alive right now, leaving just a hollow suit in its place.

You wonder how things will look going forward.

And you wonder if you’ve ruined any little chance at possibly having Satoru in your grasp again.

A small knock pulls your attention, shifting your eyes open and looking over to the small head that peeks through. Oh god, this is the last thing you wanted.

“Mama…” Koji’s small voice utters, slipping inside and coming over to your curled up form on the bed. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

You wish you had it in you to put on a poker face and dry your tears, giving him the usual lie. But tonight, you can’t. “…mama’s sad.” You whisper.

His eyes widen, lip quivering down into a pout. Eyes glistening with his own onset of tears and he’s diving into your bed, scrambling up to your chest. Wrapping his tiny arms around your neck in such a fast way that it leaves you momentarily speechless. When he looks at you, you almost feel yourself wanting to cry harder at the sole fact that your son is seeing you like this, that he’s almost crying now too. “Please don’t cry, Mama. I don’t like you being sad.”

“I…I know.” You croak out, holding him close. “I know, Koji. And I’m…I’m so sorry. I can’t be strong today.”

He shakes his head furiously. “It’s okay! Because Papa told me that when I grow up, I’ll protect you. I’ll be strong and big like him. So…so maybe I can be strong today for you, Mama.”

Your heart shatters at his words, and despite the weight of everything that’s been crushing you, you hold him even tighter. The fragile little boy who’s trying so desperately to comfort you when he should be the one you’re protecting—it’s too much. You can’t hold back the flood of emotions anymore. You pull him into you, your arms trembling, but all you can do is let him in, letting his warmth and innocence wrap around your heart like a fragile balm.

“Oh, baby,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You don’t have to be strong for me. You’re so strong already just by being you.” You bury your face in his hair, feeling his small body pressing against yours, his little heartbeat steady and comforting in a way nothing else can be. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this, Koji. I promise I’ll be okay.”

Koji’s small hands rub at your back, and his voice, though still a little quivery, carries the same hope and determination he always carries. “I’m gonna help you, Mama. I’ll make you smile again, okay? I promise.” His words, simple as they are, strike a chord deep inside, reminding you of everything you’ve fought for. You’ve fought to protect him, to give him a better life, to shield him from all the pain and hurt that came with being tied to Satoru, and now you’re breaking down in front of him. It feels so pathetic.

But maybe you need to be broken in order to rebuild. Maybe it’s okay to let him see your fragility, so he knows it’s okay to feel and not bottle everything up.

You breathe out a shaky laugh, lifting him slightly to kiss his forehead. “You’re my little hero, Koji. I’m so proud of you. I don’t deserve you.”

Koji, however, just shakes his head again, his small face scrunching up in determination. “No, Mama. I’m not a hero. You’re my hero. You always are.”

And somehow, in the midst of the mess you’ve found yourself in, his innocent words are the only thing grounding you. You’re not alone. You’re not broken beyond repair. You still have him. You still have him to fight for, to love, and to protect.

And right now, that’s all that matters.

You hold him close, sinking deeper into your bed, feeling his small body curl up against you. The weight of the world still feels heavy on your shoulders, but for a brief moment, with Koji’s warmth surrounding you, you feel the tiniest flicker of hope. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe you’ll figure things out.

But for now, you let yourself cry. You let yourself grieve. Because tomorrow is another day.

a/n: soo many things happeneddddd. hoped u all enjoyed :)

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dollyswishingwell · 2 months ago

Text

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ I’ll think for you

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, manipulation, dependency, power imbalance, forced domesticity, isolation, a tiny bit infantilisation, this is me getting yall slowly used to dark content

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They shaped you to be exactly how they want

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You used to be so independent. So opinionated, so decisive. A skilled hunter of the Deep Space Hunter Association, Graduated top of the academy. And now?

You’re a delicate little thing wrapped in lace and pearls, sitting in Rafayel’s lap at a velvet booth in the most exclusive restaurant in the city. His hand strokes slow circles on your bare thigh, keeping you calm as your wide, pretty eyes flit nervously over the menu.

Not because you can’t read it. But because, “Raffy,” you whisper softly, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, “…I can’t pick..”

He beams. Oh, you sweet, helpless thing. “Mm, my baby wants the saffron lobster risotto,” he murmurs against your temple, curling a lock of your hair around his finger. “You always get pouty when the rice is undercooked anywhere else, remember?” He tucks the menu away without you even touching it. “And we’ll share the strawberry mille-feuille after. No cherries. I’ll kill them if they bring cherries again.”

You nod obediently, letting him order for you, your fingers fidgeting with his sleeve like a lost child. You don’t even notice the way the waiter looks at you with pity. Or is it fear?

Rafayel doesn’t mind. He lives for this. For your dependency. For the way you look to him like he’s your entire world, because he is.

You don’t shop anymore unless he’s there to tell you what’s pretty.

You don’t eat unless he feeds you the first bite.

You won’t even open the curtains without asking him if it’s okay today.

And when you’re home, swaddled in your frilly little outfits, toddling after him barefoot in your designer slippers, asking “Raffy, can I put ribbons in my hair today or are we staying in?”, he nearly collapses from how cute you are.

You can’t function without him anymore. And he made sure of that. Sure, It took a while to get you to this state but he managed.

Rafayel hums softly as he spoons the first bite into your mouth. “That’s it, sweet girl. Good, isn’t it?” His smile deepens when you nod happily, your lips still parted a little for another bite. “See? You don’t need to worry about anything. Just let Raffy take care of it all.”

His voice is so soft, so gentle. But beneath it is that familiar edge of obsession.

If you ever did try to choose something without him now,

If you ever said, “I think I want—” instead of “Raf, What should i—?”

he’d smile at you just the same.

But the look in his eyes would turn terrifyingly cold.

Because you’re his. Utterly, helplessly his.

And he won’t let you survive without him.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Your life is so easy now. No stress, no pressure. Just floating through luxury in silk nightgowns and diamonds, curled up in Zayne’s lap in the garden pavilion or lounging in the marble tub he has drawn for you daily at 7pm sharp. He handles everything. He decides everything.

You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything anymore.

And he made sure of that.

⸻

You’re out for dinner with him, very rarely, only when he says it’s safe enough, and you’re clinging to his arm, face half-hidden in his shoulder as the waiter approaches.

“Have you two decided?”

You blink at the menu like it’s written in another language. You didn’t even read it. You looked at Zayne the moment you sat down, your hand resting lightly on his thigh under the table, eyes wide and waiting.

He glances down at you briefly, one of his hands sliding protectively behind your back. “She’ll have the roast duck. Glazed, no herbs on the skin. And the red wine reduction on the side, she doesn’t like it poured over.”

He doesn’t ask you. He knows.

You give a little hum and lean into him, relaxing instantly. “Thank you, Zaynie…” you whisper against his collarbone.

The waiter leaves. Zayne stays silent for a moment, sipping his drink, then gently shifts your chair a little closer to his. Always keeping you within arm’s reach. Always watching you.

“You didn’t even glance at the menu,” he murmurs, tone unreadable.

You blink up at him like a kitten caught doing something wrong, but you can’t tell if he’s displeased.

Zayne watches the way you shrink slightly, how your lips pout just faintly. His hand reaches under the table and settles possessively on your thigh.

“…Good,” he says after a long pause, his voice soft and deep. “You shouldn’t be thinking about things like that anymore.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting across your cheek. “You’re not built for decision-making. Let me handle it.”

And you do. Always.

You wake up when he tells you.

You eat what he places on your plate.

You wear what he’s laid out on the bed each morning, with the jewelry box open for you like a princess.

When you feel anxious, you bury your face in his chest and ask softly, “Zay, what should I do…?” — and he holds you like you’re breakable, whispering, “Just follow me. That’s all you ever have to do.”

He’s spent years making sure you rely on him so fully you wouldn’t last a day without him. And the way you smile when he decides everything for you? Like being cared for is the only thing you’ve ever known?

Zayne would never admit it aloud, but he lives for that look.

You’re not just his housewife. You’re his porcelain doll, the soft and helpless girl he locked away from the world just to protect and control.

And he loves you like that.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It’s subtle, with Xavier.

So soft you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve sunk into him, how utterly dependent you’ve become.

You don’t remember when it started. When your “What do you think, baby?” turned into “I don’t know unless you tell me.” When your curiosity, your opinions, your sense of direction, all slowly dissolved into him.

Now, you’re just his. A sweet, soft-spoken housewife who waits by the window for him, dressed in his favorite pale colors, your hair styled just the way he likes, your entire world revolving around when he comes home.

You don’t even know what you like anymore unless Xavier whispers it in your ear.

⸻

You’re out with him, rare, but he allows it. Only in quiet, secure places. Tonight, you’re seated across from him in a secluded booth at a lantern-lit garden café in the upper rings of Skyhaven.

There’s a pretty dessert menu in front of you. You tilt your head at it like it’s written in another language.

“Xavi,” you murmur softly, tugging at his sleeve with both hands, “…what do i want?”

He smiles at that. Not in mockery. Not in amusement. In devotion.

“You want something warm,” he murmurs gently, sliding the menu away and taking your hand, long fingers threading through yours. “Something gentle. Not too sweet.”

He strokes his thumb along your wrist as he places the order. You lean forward, pressing your cheek against his hand as if to say thank you for thinking for me, again.

You always look to him before making any move. You won’t even stand up without asking, “should I follow now?”

He picks your dresses.

He braids your hair in the morning.

He brushes your teeth for you when you’re sleepy.

And when you’re nervous about anything, even something as small as picking the scent of the room diffuser, your first instinct is to turn to him and whisper, “What would make you happy…?”

And he always gives you an answer. Always, so quietly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to guide you.

Because you’re his pretty housewife. His soft little wife who doesn’t need to think. He’s the one who bears the burden of decision. You just have to smile, stay close, and let yourself be loved.

“You’re happiest when you let me think for you,” he whispers against your temple one evening, as he tucks you into the massive bed in your penthouse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart… I’ll never let the world confuse you again.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You don’t make decisions.

You don’t even pretend to anymore.

You flinch when someone asks you, “Paper or digital receipt?”

You hesitate in boutiques, waiting for Sylus to tilt his head before stepping toward the display.

Even at home, you sit quietly beside him, legs tucked under you, waiting for him to decide what you’ll eat, wear, watch, or do.

Not because he forbade you.

But because he’s so perfectly, ruthlessly conditioned you not to.

⸻

Tonight, you’re seated beside him at a private luxury tasting hosted by an ally syndicate. Glittering cityscape behind you, violins playing faintly. You look divine in the dress he chose. The one with the daring back and delicate sleeves that makes you look more like a prize than a wife.

A waiter steps forward. “And for the lady?”

You blink, clearly startled. You hadn’t been paying attention, just tracing lazy shapes on Sylus’ thigh, face resting against his shoulder.

Sylus doesn’t even let you speak.

He lifts his wine glass without looking at the man. “She’ll have the truffle risotto. No onions. She won’t touch it if she smells even one.”

The waiter hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. Sylus gives him a single glance, cold, razor-sharp. That’s all it takes. The man practically bows and disappears.

You blink up at Sylus. “I didn’t even realize I don’t like onions…”

He smiles, so smug, so fond, so terrifyingly pleased. “You don’t. You used to pretend you did. For appearances.”

You didn’t even remember that.

But Sylus did. He remembers everything. He’s constructed your new life down to the minute. You don’t have to know anything. He’s already decided what you should.

And it’s so easy to let go.

⸻

You once stood against him as a force. A powerful figure with opinions, ambitions, sharp edges. Took him a while to break you down but now you’re a perfect little thing in designer heels and soft perfume, standing half a step behind him and gripping his sleeve like a doll.

And he loves it.

“You used to challenge me,” he’ll murmur while brushing your hair, voice velvet-slick. “Now you ask me which hand to wear your rings on. How far we’ve come, my little bride.”

You’d never survive without him. Not because you couldn’t try.

But because he made sure you wouldn’t want to.

Why would you?

When Sylus gives you everything you could ever want, except freedom?

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You’ve been his since you were four years old.

Even then, Caleb was the one who brushed your hair, tied your shoes, and chose which dress you wore on school days. Even when he was just six, he took responsibility for you in a way that was unnatural. Fierce. Obsessive.

So now, as his wife, you don’t lift a finger without him.

You don’t have to.

Because Caleb has spent every waking moment of his life making sure you wouldn’t know how.

⸻

You’re seated beside him in the Skyhaven Officer’s Club, plush and extravagant, your legs swinging beneath the table, perfectly dressed in the soft pearl chiffon gown he picked out for you. His gloved hand rests on your lower back, keeping you steady and close.

The menu sits untouched in front of you.

“Baby,” he says lowly, voice calm, “read it.”

You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “I don’t know what I want,” you murmur shyly, fingers twisting in your lap.

“No.” His purple eyes cut to you sharply. “You don’t make decisions. I do.” He places a single gloved hand over the menu, slowly sliding it toward himself. “But I want to see if you even remember how.”

You go quiet. Embarrassed. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

He stares at you for a moment longer before softening, sighing under his breath. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, low and satisfied.

He orders for you. Cuts your food into bites for you. Swaps your glass of water when he sees the condensation has made it too cold. When the waiter brings a side dish that has even a hint of spice, he narrows his eyes and says, “My wife doesn’t eat that. Fix it.”

And you, so sweet, so dependent, you look up at him after every bite like you want praise for just chewing. It makes his chest tighten. He lives for this.

You ask him what to wear.

You ask if it’s okay to sit on the balcony.

You even ask if you’re allowed to use the pink lipstick he bought you.

He trains you into this kind of helplessness. Not through cruelty, but through constant, overwhelming control. Quiet discipline. Every time you make a decision on your own? He gently corrects you.

“Pips, that’s not your job,” he’ll say, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Your only responsibility is to look pretty and wait for me.”

And you do. You really do.

He’s raised you into this. His good girl. His housewife. His soft little thing that wouldn’t know how to breathe without him reminding you.

And that’s exactly how he wants it.

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of-apollo · 25 days ago

Text

₊⊹ 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐓 !

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Johnny Storm x GN!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You’re scared for Johnny when he starts acting like a different person after the accident. He’s shut himself off from everyone, but you’ll stop at nothing to get through to him.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of anxiety and self blame, emotional distress, mention of cosmic blast incident (very minor spoiler for First Steps), romance implied but can be read platonically.

𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝐌𝐂𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

It’s been three months since the accident. Three months since the universe decided that four people would be different from everyone else. You’ve been at this team’s side since the beginning, but things aren’t like they were before. Things are different. And Johnny Storm? He’s a ghost of the person you used to know.

You’ve watched him slide down a spiral of reckless stunts, cocky grins, and half-hearted attempts to make you laugh as if that would cover up everything underneath. His cockiness, the same one that used to be endearing, is now just a thin mask, and you’re tired of pretending it’s anything else.

You’ve seen him put on a show for the cameras, because that’s what Johnny does now. He lives for the fame, for the applause, for the attention. You think it’s all hollow. Johnny is burning himself out, faster than anyone could have imagined, and you can’t do anything about it.

It’s another night at the Baxter Building, and Johnny’s supposed to be off on one of his ‘community-building’ missions with Ben. You find yourself staring out of the window of your office, the cold of the glass biting through your shirt, while your thoughts churn in a thousand directions.

“Hey.”

The voice startles you from your trance, and you turn to find Reed standing there, leaning against the doorframe with an unreadable expression. His eyes glance over at your desk, then back at you. “You okay?”

You’re not sure if it’s because he’s Reed and he knows everything, or if he just knows you well enough by now, but he reads you like a book. Your answer isn’t as simple as ‘yes’ or ‘no’. You want to tell Reed the truth, that you’re exhausted from the mental weight of watching Johnny implode. You don’t tell him.

Instead, you nod, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, you know, thinking.”

Reed doesn’t buy it. “I’m sure you’re thinking about Johnny.”

Your heart sinks. You don’t even have the energy to pretend you don’t care anymore. “I just don’t know what to do, Reed,” you confess, dropping your gaze to the floor. “It’s like I’m watching him burn himself alive, and I can’t even…”

“He won’t let anyone close,” Reed finishes your sentence for you, his voice soft with understanding. “Not even you.”

You hate the fact that Reed’s right. Johnny used to come to you with everything. He used to be your safe space when life outside the lab was too much. Now? Now, he barely looks at you when you try to talk to him, like you’re some sort of inconvenience in his newly-perfected routine of avoiding anything that might require him to feel real emotions.

“I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried,” you mutter, rubbing your temples as the exhaustion catches up with you. “I’m tired of watching him be this version of himself that I don’t even recognise.”

Reed gives a solemn nod, eyes narrowing as he considers the weight of your words. “He’s self-destructive right now. It’s part of the fallout from the accident. His powers... they’ve affected him more than he lets on.”

Johnny’s laugh echoes down the hall, loud and obnoxious. He’s talking to Ben, but you can hear the artificial quality in it, the kind of laugh someone uses to cover the cracks they can’t fix. Your heart aches as you catch the faintest glimpse of him. He’s wearing that ridiculous grin, the one that used to make you laugh, but now it just feels wrong.

You cross the hall before you can stop yourself, your feet moving on their own accord as you approach him and Ben, who are standing near the kitchen, debating something trivial. Johnny doesn’t even notice you at first. You watch his profile, the too-blonde hair, the cocky posture. He doesn’t even flinch when Ben mentions that the latest stunt might be pushing things too far.

“You’re such a buzzkill, Ben,” Johnny grins, his voice dripping with faux confidence. “Just trust me. I’ve got this.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who ends up a flaming disaster every time you try something new,” Ben shoots back, crossing his arms with a gruff laugh. Johnny just shrugs, completely unfazed, as if he’s already forgotten their conversation.

You’re already regretting this. Regretting coming over. But, you press on, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this time he’ll be real with you.

“Johnny,” you start, trying to catch his eye. He doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

“Hey, Y/N!” Ben greets you with that familiar warmth, but you can’t muster the same energy. You’re looking only at Johnny now.

It’s when he finally turns to you that you realise just how far he’s gone. His smile’s faded into something that barely registers as an expression, and his eyes are a little too bright, like they’re desperately trying to hold something back. He tilts his head, trying to make it look casual. “What’s up?”

You swallow your frustration. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, sure. Later, though, right?” Johnny waves you off, clearly eager to escape this conversation, whatever it is you want to say.

Your throat tightens. “No, Johnny. Now. Please.”

He’s quiet for a second, eyes flicking over to Ben before he nods stiffly and steps away from the kitchen counter. You take a deep breath, trying to push the storm of emotions rising in your chest back down, but it’s too much.

“I’m not gonna let you keep doing this,” you say, voice low but firm.

Johnny raises an eyebrow, looking at you like you’ve just insulted him. “Doing what? I’m just living my life. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” you say through gritted teeth, “is that you’re destroying yourself. You think you’re fine because you’re cracking jokes and acting like everything’s a joke, but it’s not. Not anymore.”

Johnny’s jaw tightens, and for a second, you see something flicker in his eyes. Guilt, maybe? He laughs, but it sounds forced. “I’m fine. What’s your problem?”

“No, you’re not,” you snap, and before you can stop yourself, your voice cracks. “You’re not fine, Johnny. You’re so damn far from fine, and you won’t even let me help you.”

The silence that falls between you both is heavy. It presses down on your chest, suffocating. Johnny’s face is hard, unreadable, but you see the way his hands twitch by his sides like he’s ready to explode. Maybe it’s just the heat creeping up his neck, the way his eyes start to glow, as though he’s losing control.

“I don’t need your help,” Johnny bites out, and this time, it’s not an act. “I don’t need anyone. Not anymore.”

It hits you like a slap to the face, and for a split second, it feels like the world’s shifting beneath your feet. “You think I’m doing this because I pity you?” you ask quietly. “I love you, Johnny. You’re my best friend. I can’t watch you do this to yourself.”

For a second, you think you’ve made a mistake, but then, Johnny freezes. His eyes flicker with something vulnerable, something you haven’t seen in weeks, and his hands drop from their defensive posture. “You love me?”

You nod, swallowing back tears. “Yeah. I can’t just stand by and watch you burn out.”

The tension in Johnny’s shoulders melts away, but he doesn’t say anything. He just takes a step forward, his fiery skin dimming to a warm, soft glow, and his hand hesitantly brushes against yours.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I don’t even know if I can.”

You squeeze his hand. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

You stay with Johnny through the night, talking and comforting him. The next morning, he’s still broken, still hurting, but he’s not alone. And that’s enough for now.

#babe wake up its my first johnny fic #johnny storm x y/n #johnny storm x you #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm angst #human torch x reader #fantastic four x reader #mcu x reader

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tarotwithavi · 19 days ago

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And I'm gonna serve exactly what you are.. CU*T

What does your energy say before you enter the room? The vibe you carry? What makes people obsessed with you?

Feel free to leave a tip to support this reader… or not, I will love you regardless

TIP JAR

PAID READING

MASTERLIST

Pile 1

You know you’re THAT BITCH, and no one can tell you otherwise. You know exactly what you bring into people’s lives, and you won’t hesitate to take it back if someone tries to disrespect you. The moment you walk into a room, people can feel your presence. It’s not just the way you look, it's the energy you carry. Bold. Powerful. Magnetic. You are assertive, spontaneous, talented, and surprisingly friendly when you choose to be. You know who you are, and you’re not afraid of being seen. There was a time, maybe at some party or in certain friend groups, when you dimmed your light just to make others feel comfortable. But not anymore. You’ve stopped shrinking yourself for the sake of others. You’ve stopped watering yourself down just to let someone else feel like they’re blooming. Now, you’re confident, comfortable in your own skin and fully aware of what you bring to the table. You were never meant to be the “pick me” girl. You’re not here to be liked by everyone. You’re here to break hearts, shake foundations, and own every damn room you step into. You’re here to be that bitch, unapologetically. In the past, maybe you used to seek validation from others not because you were weak, but because it was just what you were used to. It’s how you were conditioned. But not anymore. Now? You couldn't care less about what people think. You don’t crave validation. The only approval you need is your own. You’re focused on yourself, your goals, your craft, and your own damn peace. I’m hearing “Three things I don’t play about myself, my money, or my man. Mention one of them and best believe I’m gonna be at your head.” You’re talented as hell. You're skilled, sharp, and scary-good at whatever you do. And when people realize that you're their real competition, they get nervous. They know deep down they can’t beat you even when they try to copy, compete, or compare. You don’t even look their way because there is no comparison. There’s only one you. People might try to paint you as arrogant, egoistic, or even call you narcissistic but they have no idea. You’re actually deeply kind, soft-hearted, and real but only for the people who deserve to see that side of you. You’re not for everyone, and you’re okay with that. Only a chosen few get to know the real you, and that’s how it should be. When you enter a room, it’s like a thunderstorm just rolled in. You shake things up. You challenge people’s beliefs, their fake confidence, their illusions and that makes people uncomfortable. You trigger people without even trying. That’s probably why you faced a lot of hate, jealousy, or even bullying growing up. But the tables have turned. Now, no one would dare speak against you. You keep evolving. You keep learning. You never stop growing. And honestly? That’s one of your most powerful traits. You’re not afraid to be a student of life. Whether it’s through experience or knowledge, you absorb and transform. That’s where your real magic lies. Some of you might be artists, painters, writers, poets, singers. You’re gifted with words and hands. You might have Libra, Gemini or Virgo sun, moon, or rising placements or even Mercury in the 1st, 7th or 10th house which makes you incredibly articulate, clever, and expressive. You’re unstoppable. And you’re just getting started.

Thank you so much for reading this, please show support by liking or rebloging.

TIP JAR

Pile 2

You’re not afraid to call people out on their bullshit. You’re not afraid to be the “bad guy” in someone’s story if it means standing up for what’s right. You’re not scared of being seen as “too intense” or “too much.” You know your words hold weight like sharp swords that cut through lies, illusions, and fake energy. When you speak, it's not just talk, it's wisdom. It’s truth. You may not be the loudest person in the room, but when you do speak, people stop and listen. There’s something about your energy that feels powerful, ancient almost. You come across as someone who’s been through hell and back and turned every scar into a source of strength. You’re intelligent, intuitive, and deeply experienced. That’s why people naturally turn to you when they’re lost or going through something. They trust your judgment. They know you see things others miss. You have this uncanny ability to sense people’s intentions. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve predicted someone’s actions before they even did it and then watched it unfold exactly the way you said it would. That’s the level of awareness and sharp perception you hold. When you walk into a room, you bring a sense of stability and balance. You’re the grounding energy in a chaotic world. You don’t treat people differently based on status or appearance. It doesn’t matter how rich, pretty, loud, or privileged someone is in your eyes, everyone’s the same. You treat people based on who they are, not what they have. And honestly, that kind of energy is rare. Some people might find you intimidating or hard to approach at first, but those who get close know how kind and loyal you truly are. You may not always express your emotions in words, and you might struggle to explain how you feel, but your actions say it all. You show your love in what you do, not in what you say and that makes your presence feel safe and real. People are obsessed with your nonchalant, IDGAF attitude. You move like you don’t need validation. You don’t chase. You attract. You don’t wait around for opportunities to come to you if the door’s closed, you build your own. You’re the type of person who says, “If nobody’s going to do it, I will.” your energy is addicting . It’s powerful. And people can’t get enough of it. You might have strong earth placements especially Capricorn or Taurus or a stellium in the 10th or 2nd house. You give off rich as fuck energy, and honestly, it’s not just about money. It’s the way you carry yourself. Your aura screams abundance, success, and self-made glory. People might even assume you come from a wealthy or famous family like you're some nepo baby or something but the truth is far from that. You’ve worked hard for every ounce of stability you now have. You earned this. I’m also picking up that you might be multi-lingual or someone who has deep knowledge about different cultures. Maybe you speak two, three, or even more languages and people are fascinated by that. You’re the type of person others want to be around not just because you’re magnetic, but because being around you feels valuable. You’re resourceful, wise, and full of depth. And the people around you? They know it. You’re the calm before the storm, the storm itself, and the safe place after it’s over. And people are obsessed with all of it.

Thank you so much for reading this, please show support by liking or rebloging.

TIP JAR

Pile 3

You are not afraid to try something new. You’re not scared of taking risks, you embrace them. You’re probably the friend who’s always got a new hobby, a fresh idea, or a spontaneous plan every other day. Or maybe you're the one who's constantly starting new projects, chasing after new experiences. Why? Because you’re genuinely passionate about living. You’re fascinated by life and all the possibilities it has to offer. You don’t want to look back one day filled with regrets, thinking about all the chances you didn’t take. You want to live fully, freely, and with purpose while you’re still young, while you’ve still got all this incredible energy inside you. You live by the idea that life is meant to be enjoyed now. And that makes you such a joy to be around. You’re the friend who cheers others up, who hypes people up, who reminds everyone that it’s okay to just live. You’re supportive. You’re loving. You’re that warm, golden soul that brightens up any room just by walking into it. You might not realize it, but strangers can feel that energy on you. Maybe you’ve noticed people randomly smiling at you, approaching you for directions or help, or just gravitating toward you. That’s your aura, babe. It radiates kindness and approachability. You’re also incredibly resilient. Life may not have always been easy, but your mindset? Powerful. You’ve decided that even if you don’t receive love or kindness from others, you’ll become love. You’ll become kindness and offer it to the world anyway. That’s the kind of energy this world needs more of, and honestly, I appreciate you for that. (Also, side note: If you were drawn to Pile 1 too, make sure to check it out.) I also see that you receive karma fast. Like, instantly. If you do something bad or out of alignment even by mistake it reflects back to you almost immediately. But strangely enough, this keeps you humble. It’s like the universe checks you lovingly in real-time, and you’ve learned to see that as a blessing. You might be a Leo or Aquarius sun, moon, or rising. I’m also getting a strong sense that you either have red or uniquely styled hair, or you’ve been thinking about doing something new with your appearance, maybe a hair color change or bold cut. Go for it. It suits your vibe completely. A lot of people have mixed opinions about you. Some think you’re full of yourself, while others think you’re too kind. And honestly? That’s their problem. The truth is: people can’t put you in a box. You don’t fit into one personality. You’re full of contrasts: soft and strong, kind and fierce, playful yet wise. You’re a mystery, and that confuses people who want to label everything. But that’s also what makes you so unforgettable. You’re the life of the party. You don’t just enter the room you shift the whole vibe. People notice your presence physically too. You might have features that stand out, maybe short, colored hair, a bold style, or something about you that always catches people’s attention without you even trying. Colors like red, yellow, and purple might be significant for you; they could be your favorite colors, part of your wardrobe.

Thank you so much for reading this, please show support by liking or rebloging.

TIP JAR

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lexiputellas · 2 months ago

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The Real Victory

You’re horny. Like, dangerously horny.

Alexia is on the pitch, locked into the Champions League match against Manchester City. She lost the last game, and you know how badly she wants this one. You should be focused too. Supportive. Cheering.

But you're six months pregnant and your entire body is buzzing.

And all you can think about is her.

Not the game. Not the score.

Just her

The way her thighs flex when she sprints, thick and powerful. The way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating, that sharp little frown. The way her hands settle on her hips when something doesn’t go her way, fuck.That posture alone sends a direct electric shock to your clit, like a livewire.

It’s unbearable.

You can’t hear the crowd. You barely notice the plays. It’s just her, her, her.

“Oh, that ref is shit. He should’ve called that a foul,” Alba mutters beside you, snapping you out of your haze.

“What?” you blink.

“The ref,” she says, nodding at the pitch.

“Oh. Right. Yeah,” you say, pretending to care. She’s already turned back to the game.

But you? You’re dying.

This feeling is consuming you, melting you from the inside out. You feel like you’re going to burst. Your hands are clenched in your lap, trying to behave, but your legs keep pressing together. You're sweating under your dress, soaked through your underwear, every shift in your seat making you want to whimper.

You can't take it anymore.

You grab your phone and open Alexia’s contact, fingers trembling as you type:

— if after 30 minutes of the game you don’t fuck me and give me at least 2 orgasms i will expose you to the internet. i’m not joking. i’m feral.

You hit send.

She won’t read it now, obviously. But when she gets back to the locker room, when she finally checks her phone, you want her to know what she did to you.

You type again:

— i’m a mess. i’m so wet it’s probably running through my dress and dripping onto the fucking seats. this is 100% your fault.

You stare at the screen, your heart pounding harder than the crowd’s chants.

Final whistle.

Barça wins.

The stadium erupts. People are screaming, waving flags. Fireworks. Hugs. Applause.

You don't care.

Finale. They’re going to the goddamn finale.

And all you want is her.

All you want is home

All you want is to be touched.

You turn to Alba. “Let’s go.”

She glances at you, a little surprised. “Already?”

“Help me up.”

She does, and you wobble a bit, pregnant belly leading the way. You make your way to the VIP lounge and ask for a bottle of water. Your heart is racing like you played 90 minutes.

“You having dinner with us?” you ask Alba casually, your brain screaming please say no please say no please say no—

“I don’t think so, actually. I promised Julia I’d have dinner with her tonight. Been a while.”

YES.

“Oh, okay,” you say, masking the desperate joy clawing at your throat. “I just thought—”

“I’m sorry!” she smiles. “We can have dinner later this week.”

You nod, but your mind is elsewhere. All you can think is: Where the fuck is Alexia?

Why is she not here yet? Is she still giving interviews? Talking to people? Laughing with teammates while you’re over here throbbing?

Then, finally, she walks through the doors.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your entire body clenches. She looks so fucking good. Post-game glow, loose ponytail, jersey stuck to her skin, thighs still tense from running. She’s flushed. Confident. Unreal.

You bite your lip. Hard. Press your thighs together again.

You love her. You hate her. You want to murder her and climb her at the same time.

“Oi, bebé,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek, arms wrapping around you.

You give her a dry peck back, but your eyes are blazing. She hugs Alba next.

“Hey, you coming to dinner?”

“Oh, can’t. Was just waiting for you to show up. I’ve got plans.”

“Okay,” Alexia nods. Alba leaves.

“Dinner out or do you want to order in?” she asks, turning to you with that too-casual tone.

“Order,” you narrow your eyes. She was really about to take you to a restaurant like she didn’t just read those texts? Is she insane?

Then again, she is insane. She's mean. She's hot. She’s yours. So so yours.

“Okay, let’s go,” she says, grabbing your purse and holding out her hand.

You walk with her, past a few teammates. She says her goodbyes. Opens the car door for you. Puts her gear in the trunk. Starts the engine.

She’s humming along to the song on the radio. Calm. Collected.

You look at her. Really look.

What kind of monster leaves their pregnant, needy, drenched wife like this?

The way her fingers grip the wheel. The muscles in her forearms. The little furrow of concentration on her brow.

It’s criminal.

“What?” she says suddenly, catching your stare.

“You’re so mean,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“What? How am I mean?”

“You read the messages. And you chose to ignore me. You ignored your pregnant, unholy, unsatisfied wife”

“I didn’t ignore you,” she smirks. “I just wanted to see when you’d break.”

“When I’d— WHAT KIND OF MONSTER SAYS THAT? I hate you!” you yell, dramatic and breathless.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do! I hate you so much!”

She looks at you sideways, eyes dark and smug, and then slowly lets one hand slide off the wheel, straight to your thigh.

You gasp.

Her fingers press into your skin, spreading a little warmth, a little promise.

“You don’t hate me,” she says, low and certain.

And god help you, she’s right.

Her hand stays there hot, firm, steady on your thigh. Not moving. Just existing. Like a warning. Like a fucking claim.

And you're trembling.

“You don't hate me,” she says again, softer this time, almost teasing, like she already knows you're seconds from falling apart. “You’re just mad I made you wait.”

You twist toward her in your seat, glaring. “I wasn’t mad. I was dying. There’s a difference. You left me like that for ninety minutes. In public.”

“In a stadium,” she corrects, her thumb now rubbing slow, maddening circles over your skin. “While my team fought for the Champions League.”

“I fought for my life. ”

She laughs, actually laughs, and you nearly claw at her. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s adorable.”

“Adorable?” you nearly shriek. “I threatened you. I explicitly said two orgasms and you acted like I said two cappuccinos,”

“I saw that,” she says, grinning wider. “And the one after. The part about your dress. And the seats.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“And?” you snap, voice shaky.

She hums, dragging the tip of her fingernail up and down your thigh now. You shiver. “And I guess we’ll see if you were exaggerating.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I hope not.”

You make a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. Your hands are fisted in your lap again, trying not to beg her in traffic.

The city blurs outside the window, but all you see is her profile, focused, gorgeous, unfazed. Your whole body is throbbing and she’s just…driving. Calmly. Like you’re not about to crawl into her lap.

You glance down at her hand on your leg. Her thumb is drifting closer to the inside of your thigh now. Dangerous territory. Too close. You spread your legs slightly without thinking.

She doesn’t say anything. Just flicks her eyes toward you with a slow smirk.

You clench your fists tighter.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter.

“You married me.”

“I was tricked.”

She chuckles again, completely in control, and your pulse is in your ears. She's wearing that smug, satisfied post-match look, jersey still sticking to her skin, and all you can think about is how much you need her on you, in you, now now now.

“Alexia,” you whisper, desperate.

She exhales through her nose, leans forward to turn down the music, then returns her hand to your thighs, this time higher, much higher.

“Shhh, bebé. Almost home.”

Your hips twitch toward her.

“No, not shhh. I’m going to die,” you say breathlessly. “You’re going to have to explain to the paramedics that you edged your pregnant wife into a cardiac event.”

She grins. “I’ll just say it was hormones.”

You whimper. Actually whimper.

“You’re evil.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she says, but her voice is lower now, quieter, slipping into that tone you know means trouble.

Then she turns onto your street.

Your breathing stutters.

You’re seconds away from sobbing, from tearing the fabric of your dress apart, from climbing her while the engine’s still on. She parks the car and the moment it clicks into place, you undo your seatbelt and twist to her.

She hasn’t even opened her door yet.

You lean toward her, breath warm, hands shaking.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, “if you make me wait one more second,”

But she’s already moving. Turning to you. Hand slipping behind your neck and pulling you in for a deep, hot kiss. It hits you like fireneedy, claiming, hungry. Her tongue sweeps over yours and her fingers dig into your skin and just like that, you’re gone.

Your moan gets swallowed in her mouth.

She reaches down, pulls the lever, and shoves the driver’s seat all the way back.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” she says, low.

“What?”

“You heard me. Come here.”

You scramble over the center console, breathless, messy, belly in the way, everything awkward and unhinged. But she helps you, strong arms around you, guiding you to straddle her lap. Her hands slide under your thighs, lifting you so you’re not too heavy, easing you down until you're sitting right against her.

The moment you're seated, your soaked center pressed against the firm muscle of her thigh, your arms around her neck, she kisses you.

Hard.

Messy.

Open-mouthed and fucking relentless.

You moan into her, rocking instinctively, already rolling your hips against her. Her hands slip up under your dress, grabbing the back of your thighs, your ass, your hips, tugging you closer until you're gasping into her mouth.

“Ale, fuck, I’m gonna explode”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, lips wet, eyes glassy.

Her hand slides between your legs. Straight under your underwear.

And when she feels how wet you are?

Her jaw clenches.

“You’re soaked.”

“I told you,” you gasp.

“Sit up,” she orders, and you barely register what she’s doing before she slides her fingers inside: slow, deep, no warning.

Your whole body jerks.

“FUCK”

Her other hand grips your hip, grounding you, holding you in place.

“You gonna ride me like you threatened to?” she breathes into your neck. “Or do I have to make you beg for it?”

You’re already moving. Hips grinding down, your belly tight against her chest, your thighs trembling with the effort.

“God, yes, yes, please, Alexia”

“You’re so desperate,” she whispers. “So messy. You wanted to come in my car so bad? Do it.”

Her fingers are already soaked, dripping, knuckles buried in your cunt as you grind against her like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. She’s letting you do the work, just watching, controlling the rhythm with the slow flex of her hand.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” she mutters, voice low, forehead pressed to yours. “Dripping all over me. Can you feel how wet you are?“

Your jaw drops. You moan, raw, desperate and she doesn't give you space to recover.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and mean, rubbing against that swollen, electric spot that sends sparks flying up your spine. Her palm drags hard over your clit. Again and again and again.

You fall apart.

Your back arches, your belly tight and shaking, and then your cunt clenches down so hard on her fingers it hurts. You don’t just moan, you wail, the sound tearing from your throat like a sob. Your head tips back, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

She’s right there, whispering filth into your skin.

“That's it. Give it to me, bebé. Let me feel it. Let me feel all of it.”

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t work. Your whole body is twitching, seized by the orgasm, soaking her wrist, her palm, the fucking seat. You’re gushing, crying, shaking in her lap like your body’s been possessed.

She holds you there through it gripping your ass with one hand, still inside you with the other, riding it out until you're limp and clinging to her.

When you finally collapse forward, she’s panting against your ear, voice rough with praise.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “You came so hard for me. Fuck.”

Your whole body buzzes. You’re not sure if you’re still crying or just breathless, but her jersey is wet with sweat, and your thighs are shaking.

“That’s one,” she says, slowly pulling her fingers out, wet, slick, obscene. She lifts them to her mouth and licks them clean while you just stare, wrecked and speechless.

Then, with a grin that’s all teeth:

“You still owe me another.”

“And I haven’t even ripped your fucking dress yet.”

#barcelona x reader #woso x reader #x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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formulafanfics13 · 2 months ago

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hiii !would you write somnophilla?? Myb a bit dark??? Max/Carlos comes home after a long flight and finds their partner in bed looking tempting. He knows he shouldn’t, just let her sleep but he can’t help it. What started with just a little touch turns into full on nailing her on the bed. He can’t stop, even when she wakes up startled and terrified, even when she asks to stop cz she can’t take anymore, especially when her 🐈‍⬛ won’t let go of him

Didn’t Mean to Wake You - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: Max returns home early and finds the reader asleep, soft and exposed in bed. Overcome with desire, he touches her gently, then fucks her while she’s half-asleep, worshipping her body and reminding her she’s his — always. What starts with quiet hunger builds into intense, possessive sex followed by tender aftercare.

Warnings: Dom/sub dynamics, consensual somnophilia (semi-conscious sex), power imbalance, rough sex, choking (light breath play), possessiveness, degradation and praise, marking (biting), multiple orgasms, crying during sex, overstimulation, breeding kink, emotional intensity

He told himself he wouldn’t touch you. Not tonight. Not after twelve hours of airports and five hours of interviews and a car ride that made his spine ache. Not when it’s nearly 3 a.m. and the apartment’s dark and still and your bedroom door is cracked open just enough for him to see the sliver of skin between your tank top and the curve of your ass beneath the duvet.

But then again… He never had any self-control when it came to you.

Especially like this. Soft. Warm. Sleeping. Completely his.

You’re on your side. One hand tucked under your cheek. Hair messy against the pillow. The sheets pushed low around your hips, the tiniest pair of shorts riding up enough to make Max’s breath catch in his throat.

You didn’t even know he was coming back early. He didn’t tell you. Wanted to surprise you. Wanted to see you. But what he feels now isn’t tenderness. It’s need. Dark. Heavy. Crawling under his skin like a sickness.

He shrugs off his hoodie, kicks off his shoes, and walks to the bed. Just to look. Just a touch. Just one. He kneels beside you and drags two fingers over your bare thigh. You shift. Just slightly. But don’t wake.

His cock twitches. He trails higher. Over the swell of your ass. Between your legs. Still asleep. Still not resisting. Still his. And tonight he can’t stop himself.

His fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts. You’re warm. Soft. Damp. He swears under his breath. Slides two fingers inside you, slow and deep.

You stir. Barely. Your thighs tense. Then relax.

He curls them, once, twice, and your body shudders in your sleep. A soft moan slips from your mouth. Max leans in. Kisses your shoulder. “Good girl,” he whispers.

Then he pulls your shorts down and slides them off completely. Still asleep. Still moaning. He’s hard. Fully. Painfully. He doesn’t wait. He lines himself up and pushes in, inch by inch, burying himself in the heat of your cunt with a low, broken sound.

You jolt. Gasp.

“Wh-Max?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, hand curling around your waist. “It’s me. Just me.”

You tense for a second. Then relax completely. “Fuck,” you whisper, already breathless. “You’re home.”

“I missed you.”

You try to speak, but it turns into a whimper as he rocks into you slowly, deeply, like he’s been dreaming about this for weeks.

“You said I could,” he murmurs. “You said I could take you whenever I needed. Didn’t you?”

You moan.

He thrusts harder. You cry out. He doesn’t stop. You’re wet. Perfect. Eyes glassy now, head buried in the pillow as he fucks you with a hunger that borders on violent. His hand wraps around your throat. His teeth sink into your shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Even when you’re asleep.”

“Always yours.”

“You waited for me?”

“Always.”

You come the first time around his cock. Shaking. Biting the sheets. He fucks you through it, harder now, sweat dripping down his back as he lifts one of your legs for deeper leverage. Second orgasm rips through you so hard you scream his name. He shushes you gently, kisses your neck, whispers “That’s it. Let go.” You do.

You sob his name when the third crashes down, overwhelming, too much, too fast. Your nails claw at his arms. You twist under him, panting.

“Max-Max please-”

“What is it, baby?”

“I can’t-” you sob. “I can’t take any more. Please.”

"You can baby- so tight- gripping me"

You’re shaking by the time he finishes in you. “It’s okay. Its okay baby, we're done. I wanted it. I wanted you. I’m done now.” He kisses your forehead. Lays you down gently. Holds you like you’re breakable.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve always got you.” And you fall asleep safe, sore, and so deeply his it hurts.

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfic #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #max verstappen smut #max verstappen

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edenarchives · 4 months ago

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♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Nanami betrayed you. Toji blackmailed you. Now you’re done playing nice. You’re not the girl who falls apart anymore—you’re the one pulling the strings. And if getting even means letting Toji ruin you? Then so be it. You’re not here to be saved. You’re here to win.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Blackmail, professor/student dynamic, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, dubcon, rough sex, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, overstimulation, creampie, aftercare, toxic relationship themes, revenge, infidelity mention, Megumi humiliation, emotional fallout. MINORS DNI.

𝐖𝐂: 𝟗,𝟓𝟎𝟎

It’s been three days.

Three long, aching, breathless days since you walked into Toji Fushiguro’s office thinking you could win—thinking that if you just stood your ground, said the right words, made him see reason, it would be enough to save Nanami. Enough to save yourself.

You thought you could hold your own.

That he’d listen.

That somehow, he’d care.

You should’ve known better.

Because the second that door shut behind you, it all slipped away.

Toji didn’t even look up at first. He was sitting at his desk like he’d been waiting there all morning, legs spread, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up, collar open. He glanced at you from under thick lashes and smirked.

“This is blackmail.”

You stood in front of his desk with your arms crossed and your chest burning, trying not to let the tremble in your hands show.

His smile widened, lazy and amused. “Is it?”

“You can’t just manipulate people like this. You can’t hold this over our heads.”

Toji leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered. “I think you’ll find I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“We’re not doing anything else,” you snapped. “Nothing. It’s over. There’s no story here. You don’t have a case. It was a mistake. We won’t be together again. On campus, off campus—ever.”

He chuckled, low in his throat. “God, you’re adorable when you’re righteous.”

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth to stop yourself from screaming. “I’m serious. If someone’s going to take the blame, let it be me. Just leave Nanami the hell alone.”

“Why would I do that?” he said, cocking his head.

Your heart kicked, but you didn’t back down. “It was my fault too.”

“No,” Toji said, dragging the word out, savoring it. “You were just convenient. Cute, sure. But not the first.”

The blood drained from your face. “What?”

“You’re the latest,” he said casually, like he was listing the weather. “Not the first.”

You stared at him. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” His smile stretched wider. “You really thought you were the first student Nanami’s ever fucked?”

Your stomach turned.

“He didn’t even know who I was,” you argued, voice rising. “We met through that site. It wasn’t… it wasn’t planned.”

Toji raised a brow, then leaned forward slowly, folding his arms over the edge of the desk. “That’s cute. But you know what’s funny about that?”

“Professors get the student lists before the semester starts. All of them. Names. Majors. Contact info. Photos. You think Nanami didn’t know who you were when he saw your profile?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

“You’re not some hidden gem,” he says. “You were on his desk months before he ever sent you that first message.”

“No,” you whispered. “That’s not true.”

Toji shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it wouldn’t be the first time.”

You blinked.

“What?”

A cruel glint flickered in his eyes.

“It’s his thing. Every semester—he picks someone. Some sweet little thing with straight A’s and something to lose. And then he waits. Times it right. Makes it look like fate. Makes you think you’re the one who started it. And when it happens, when you’re all wrapped up in it? He pretends to pull away. Pretends he’s ashamed. But really?”

He smirked.

“He’s watching you fall apart for him. Watching you crawl back. Every time he disappears, every time he tells you it’s wrong—he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

“He gets off on it,” Toji said softly. “Watching you risk your future for his cock. Watching you beg. Watching you think it’s love when really, he just likes watching you squirm.”

You shook your head. “No. That’s not—he—he doesn’t…”

“He doesn’t love you,” Toji finished for you, leaning back again. “He loves what you’ll do to feel like he might.”

The words sat heavy between you.

He sipped his coffee like he hadn’t just cracked your entire world open.

And you stood there. Frozen. Because some part of you, even as you denied it, even as you fought it, was already starting to believe him.

Toji exhaled slowly, shaking his head like he was genuinely impressed. “He was careful. I’ll give him that. Never brought it onto campus. Always met them off-site. Never got caught.”

Then, a grin. “Until you.”

Your throat burned.

“You’re the one he fucked in his office,” he said, gesturing toward the walls around you. “You’re the one who made him forget to be careful. You’re the mistake.”

You looked down. Your hands were shaking again.

Toji tilted his head. “And now I get to use that. Or maybe I just let the old bastard hang himself with guilt. Watch his perfect career crumble while I sip my whiskey.”

He didn’t look angry.

He looked satisfied.

Like he’d already won.

Like he wasn’t threatening you—just explaining how this would go.

You stood there, staring at the floor, breath shallow in your lungs.

You blink.

The memory slips away, but not the feeling.

You can still hear his voice. Still see the smirk on his lips. You can still feel the way the floor dropped out beneath you when he said you weren’t the first. That Nanami had known. That maybe it was never real.

And now, three days later, the ache hasn’t dulled. But it’s changed. Hardened. You’re not shaking anymore. You’re not crying. You’re not sitting in your bed with your phone in your hand waiting for a message that isn’t coming.

You’re getting dressed.

Not soft. Not sweet.

You wear black. Something tight. Something that hugs your hips and bares your skin and makes you look like someone you don’t recognize anymore. You smear eyeliner over your lashes. You wear gloss that shines like a weapon.

You grab your bag.

And you walk to the admin building like your heart isn’t broken—like it’s been replaced by something sharp and dangerous and willing to bite back.

Because if this is the game?

You won’t be a piece.

You’ll be the fucking player.

Even if it means using the devil to destroy the man who broke you.

———

The admin building is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re being watched, like the walls themselves know what you’re about to do. But your steps don’t falter. Your heels click across the floor, steady, sharp. You don’t hesitate when you reach the office door with his name printed in clean black lettering.

Vice Chancellor Fushiguro.

You knock once. Firm. Not out of politeness—but so he knows you’re coming.

The door swings open like he��d been waiting right behind it.

Of course he had.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Not even a little. He leans against the doorframe with his sleeves rolled up and his black shirt half-unbuttoned like it’s just another Wednesday. Like he didn’t spend the last few days tearing your entire sense of reality apart.

His eyes drag down the length of you—slow, heavy. Like he’s tasting the sight of you with every blink.

“Figured you’d come crawling back,” he says.

“I’m not crawling,” you bite.

You walk in without waiting for permission. Close the door behind you.

And this time—you lock it.

That makes him pause. His smile twists just slightly. Amused. Curious. Dangerous.

“Well well,” he murmurs. “Kinky.”

He pushes off the doorframe and moves closer, slow like he’s circling prey. “What are you here for, sweetheart?”

You stand tall. Your heart’s racing, but your voice stays level.

“I want to make a deal.”

He laughs—short and quiet, like he doesn’t take you seriously yet. “We already made one.”

“No,” you say. “You made a threat. I’m giving you an offer.”

That stops him.

He tilts his head. Says nothing.

You take a breath and keep going.

“You want leverage? Fine. You can have me. On your terms. However you want. But if you want me, then you don’t touch Nanami. You bury the recording. You never say his name again.”

The silence stretches.

He looks at you—really looks at you—like he’s trying to figure out what game you’re playing.

And then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

You don’t blink when he steps closer. When the space between you tightens. When the air turns heavy, electric, laced with something sharp and sour that sinks into your bloodstream.

Toji looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second he doesn’t smile. He just studies you—like he’s trying to decide whether you’re brave or stupid. Whether you’re bluffing or broken.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“After everything,” he murmurs, “you still wanna save him?”

His voice is low. Not mocking. Not amused. Just curious. And that’s worse.

You swallow. Don’t answer.

Toji hums like he already knows. Like he can see right through you.

“You think he’d do the same?” he asks, slower this time. “You think Nanami would lock a door for you? Offer himself up just to keep your name clean?”

Your jaw tightens.

He leans in closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “Do you think he’d beg for you, sweetheart?”

You want to say yes.

You want to scream it.

But the words get stuck somewhere between your ribs.

Because you don’t know anymore.

You don’t know.

And Toji sees it. Sees the flicker of hesitation. The second of silence that splits your chest in half.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, stepping back, smile curling again. “You’re smart. But you’re not special.”

Your fingers curl into fists.

But you don’t run.

You don’t crumble.

You lift your chin again, sharp and angry.

“Then take it,” you spit. “Take me. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?”

His smile is slow, eyes gleaming like a blade catching light.

He doesn’t answer. Not with words.

He steps forward—closer, closer—until there’s barely an inch between you, until your back is nearly brushing the edge of his desk and you can smell the coffee and smoke on his breath. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second, you think he’s going to touch you.

But he doesn’t.

His fingers hover just beneath your chin, never making contact. His voice is low when it comes.

“You say that like you’re offering me something I haven’t already taken.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in slightly, mouth near your ear now, his lips just barely grazing the shell of it.

“Every time you walk around this campus with your thighs clenched and your mouth shut and your eyes all glassy like you’ve got something to confess—” His voice drops, dark and amused. “—that’s me. That’s mine.”

His breath is hot. Heavy. You don’t move.

“I don’t need to take you, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You already gave yourself to me the second you locked that fucking door.”

His hand finally touches your jaw—just a graze of knuckles—and it’s humiliating how fast your body reacts. Heat blooms between your legs like it never left, like it’s been simmering under your skin since the first time he smiled at you with that knowing look. Your spine straightens, but your knees threaten to give out.

Toji watches the shift happen in real time.

“That’s more like it,” he mutters. “Go ahead. Be honest.”

His thumb traces your lower lip.

“You want to be ruined, don’t you?”

You hate that you can’t lie. Not here. Not now. Not when your body is already betraying you, your chest rising too fast, your mouth parting like you’re waiting for him to fill it.

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

Because he already knows.

And when his hand curls into the back of your neck and pulls your mouth to his—when he finally kisses you—it’s not sweet. It’s not comforting. It’s not anything you’ve ever had before.

It’s ownership.

It’s the start of something irreversible.

And you let it happen.

The kiss isn’t kind.

It’s rough—hot, consuming, all tongue and teeth and dominance. You gasp into it, and he swallows the sound whole, one hand fisted in your hair, the other already sliding down your waist like he owns the blueprint of your body. His grip is unrelenting, possessive, like he’s waited just long enough to enjoy the moment your spine gives in.

You barely register the low thunk of your bag hitting the floor before your back slams against the edge of his desk. He presses into you, chest to chest, cock already hard against your stomach through the fabric of his pants, and fuck—he’s big. You knew it. You felt it in the way he carried himself. And now there’s no more guessing.

“On the desk,” he growls, voice gravel under heat. “Now.”

You don’t move fast enough.

He flips you himself.

Hands on your hips, spinning you, pushing you forward until your chest hits the cold wood and your elbows slide across its polished surface. You feel his hand on the small of your back, flat and firm, holding you down like he’s staking a claim. The other slips beneath your skirt.

“Bet you’re already wet for me,” he mutters.

And when his fingers slide against the soaked lace between your legs, he groans—low, guttural, dark.

“Fuck. You are.”

You try to bite your lip, try to stay silent, but your body twitches under him—hips rocking back just barely, without thinking.

That’s all it takes.

Then his fingers are sliding through your folds, two of them sinking into you at once like he has something to prove.

He shoves your panties to the side. Doesn’t pull them down, doesn’t bother with anything careful or sweet—just tugs enough to get access.

“Goddamn,” he hisses, pumping slow, deliberate. “You like this, huh?”

You choke on your own moan, nails digging into the desk.

“Like being traded for a secret? Like being used to cover his ass?”

His fingers curl.

You cry out.

“Say it,” he snarls. “Say you like it.”

You bite it back.

He withdraws instantly—hand gone, heat gone, and your body clenches around nothing.

“No—please,” you gasp before you can stop yourself.

Toji chuckles darkly behind you.

“There she is.”

You hear the rustle of a belt. The clink of a zipper. The sound of fabric shifting.

And then—

The blunt, heavy press of his cock dragging through your soaked folds, head catching right where you’re aching the most.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks, mocking.

You nod, frantic. “Yes. Just—fuck, please.”

He doesn’t wait.

One hard thrust.

He buries himself inside you to the hilt—so thick it knocks the breath from your lungs, the stretch brutal, delicious, overwhelming. You cry out, nails scraping across the desk as he grinds in deeper, holding your hips like you might try to run.

“You feel that?” he breathes, lips close to your ear. “That’s mine now.”

Then he starts to move.

Brutal pace. No mercy. Just the sound of skin on skin, the slap of his hips against your ass, the wet drag of your cunt gripping every inch of him like it’s never been this full before. Your moans turn helpless, high and ruined, echoing in the room like a confession.

His hand slides up your back, catches the collar of your shirt, and yanks. You hear the fabric tear, feel the scrape of buttons popping open. Cold air hits your skin.

“You like this better,” he grits. “You want it filthy?”

You nod. Desperate. Sweat slicking your back, tears threatening to spill from how deep he is, from the way he hits that spot over and over and over—

His hand slides down.

Finds your clit.

Rubs tight, punishing circles while he slams into you.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it to me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave of fire—violent, blinding. You scream, body locking up, legs shaking as you clamp down around him and nearly collapse over the desk.

Toji groans, low and ragged. “Fucking tight.”

You feel him lose rhythm. Hear the change in his breath.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna make sure you remember who owns you now.”

You moan, still trembling, completely at his mercy.

“Please—” your voice is cracked, ruined. “Please, cum inside me—”

“Yes, Beg for it,” he hisses.

He curses hard.

One last thrust, deep and rough and final—and then he’s spilling into you, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep as he empties himself with a guttural sound that shakes the bones in your spine.

The silence after is thick. Hot. Drenched in sweat and power. You’re still bent over his desk, breathing hard, your hands pressed flat to the wood, your body slick with heat and shame and satisfaction.

He’s still inside you—deep, heavy, pulsing slow as he drags out the moment. And when he finally pulls out, you whimper at the loss. Not because you want him again—yet—but because the emptiness makes you feel it all over again.

His cum spills down your thighs in slow, hot drips.

You shift, trying to stand, but your legs are too shaky.

He hums behind you, amused. “Told you I’d make it worth your while.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you lower yourself slowly onto the edge of the desk, your bare thighs sticking to the cool wood. You can feel everything—the mess, the stretch, the ruin between your legs—and it should feel degrading.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like a win.

Toji grabs a few tissues from the box on the desk.

You expect him to hand them to you.

He doesn’t.

He kneels instead.

And fuck—you almost flinch.

Because when his thumb drags through your folds, slow and lazy, smearing his cum back inside you, your whole body shudders. He watches your cunt flutter, watches your thighs tremble, watches the way your hips twitch helplessly beneath his hand.

“Don’t waste it,” he murmurs.

You gasp when he presses two fingers into you again, spreading the mess deeper.

“That’s mine now,” he adds, soft but sharp. “You gave it to me.”

He wipes what’s left with a lazy, practiced touch. But it’s not kindness. It’s ownership.

You slide off the desk on shaking legs and grab your bag. You smooth your skirt. Fix your top. Pretend you’re in control again.

Even though your panties are soaked.

Even though his cum is still dripping out of you.

Even though he’s watching you like this was only the beginning.

You make it two steps toward the door before his voice stops you cold.

“You think this was a one-time favor?”

You pause. Don’t turn around.

“I keep my mouth shut,” he says, “you keep showing up.”

You glance back at him—hair a mess, shirt undone, cock still out.

And you smile.

“Who says I won’t?”

Toji leans back in his chair like he’s already planning the next time. Like he knows you’ll come crawling back. But this time, it won’t be because you’re scared. It’ll be because you want to.

You step into the hallway, raw and sore and glowing.

Because you’re done playing fair.

You don’t feel ashamed.

You feel powerful.

And Nanami?

He has no idea what’s coming.

You return to class like nothing happened.

It’s been a full day since you locked that office door behind you—since Toji’s hands were on your skin, his voice in your ear, his cum dripping down your thighs.

A full day since you stopped pretending you didn’t like the fire.

You’ve been quiet since. Not hiding.

Just waiting.

Letting it settle into your bones, letting the world shift just enough to feel like you’re the one in control now.

And when you walk into the lecture hall, it’s like you’ve been reborn.

Same seat. Same desk. Same room.

But not the same girl.

You’re not pretending to be soft anymore.

There’s a new weight behind your gaze. A new sharpness to your smile.

You feel it in the way people look at you now—like they’re seeing you for the first time.

You’re here to be seen.

And Megumi notices first.

He’s already in your row, lounging back in the chair beside yours with his legs stretched out and that smug little smirk that says he still thinks he has the upper hand.

“You’re back,” he says, like it’s funny.

You drop your bag on the desk and sit beside him, slow and graceful and just a little too pleased with yourself.

“Miss me?” you hum.

His smile grows. “Didn’t think you’d have the nerve.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say sweetly, turning to face him, your voice low and rich. “You snitched on me. Thought you were pulling strings. But all you did was hand me your father on a silver platter.”

He blinks. The smile falters.

“What?”

You lean in, close enough that only he can hear. Your lips barely move. Your tone is dripping in syrup and acid.

“I should be thanking you,” you whisper. “Because thanks to you… I got to fuck your dad.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Megumi goes still. His mouth parts—just slightly—but no sound comes out.

And then, without another word, he stands up and leaves. Fast. Wide-eyed. Like he’s running from something that just snapped loose in his chest.

You don’t even flinch.

You just sit back. Cross your legs. Flip open your notebook like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just shatter someone.

Like you’re already thinking about what’s next.

You hear the door open behind you a moment later.

Footsteps—slow, even, familiar.

Nanami.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t look up.

You feel it in your chest when he passes—like a ghost brushing through you.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge you. But you feel his gaze linger for a fraction too long as he moves past you.

He stands at the front of the room, briefcase already open, tie perfect, expression calm.

But when he glances at you again, it’s different.

He knows.

It’s burning in the cool way you hold your pen, the way your lips curl just slightly at the corner like you’re keeping a secret.

It’s shining in your skin.

And he doesn’t know what, not exactly—but something in you has changed, and it’s loud.

And Nanami feels it.

He feels it in the pit of his stomach.

And for the first time since he told you it was over—he wonders if maybe you finally believed him.

And moved the fuck on.

The lecture drags.

But something’s off.

His voice is steady, his notes are clean, and his explanations are as polished as always. Not because Nanami falters—he doesn’t.

You are off.

And it’s throwing him.

He tells himself it’s nothing. That you’re just back—finally—and maybe he should be relieved.

He tries not to stare. He tries not to think about the way your lips shine under the fluorescents or how your legs are crossed just a little too tight.

He’s unsettled.

Because the girl sitting in the front row, notebook open, pen between her fingers?

That’s not the girl he left standing in his office three days ago, shaking and tearful and betrayed.

This version of you is cold.

Beautiful.

Sharp-edged and glowing with something dangerous.

You smile at him once—just once—and it wrecks him.

Because it doesn’t reach your eyes.

And he realizes, too late, that he’s the only one in the room who knows how far you’ve fallen.

Because he’s the one who dropped you.

Class ends.

You pack slowly. Deliberately. Your fingers move with a calm he doesn’t believe. You can feel him watching you as the room empties out—his stare heavy, desperate, burning a hole into the back of your head.

And when the last student leaves, and it’s just the two of you again?

He says your name.

Soft. Tentative. Not like a professor. Not like a lover.

You turn around slowly. Raise your brows, calm as anything.

“Yes, Professor?”

He flinches at the title.

His jaw tightens. “Can we talk?”

You tilt your head. “About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

And you almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Because this is what he wanted, right?

Separation.

Silence.

Distance.

And now that you’ve finally given it to him, he looks like he’s choking on it.

You step closer. Not enough to be inappropriate. Just enough to make him sweat.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk,” you murmur. “You made it very clear.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up again. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes,” you interrupt, sharp but not unkind. “You did.”

You watch him struggle for a second longer—jaw clenched, eyes flicking across your face like he’s looking for a way back in.

And then, just before you turn to go—

“Oh,” you say, like it just occurred to you. “And you don’t have to worry about Toji sending the recording.”

His breath catches.

“I’ve got it under control.”

You give him a sweet smile.

One that’s all lipstick and fire and secrets.

Then you walk out.

Calm. Collected. Glowing.

And Nanami?

He doesn’t sit down. He just stares at the door like it might open again. Like he’s hoping you’ll walk back in and take the weight off his chest.

But you won’t.

You already did your part.

And now it’s his turn to fall apart alone.

You don’t go home after class.

Not now. Not since you stopped pretending to be the kind of girl who lets other people decide what she’s worth.

You should. You could. But your body doesn’t move that way anymore.

You don’t text Toji.

You don’t have to.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees you. Just gives you a once-over—eyes dragging down your legs, your hips, the smug little smirk still clinging to your mouth.

Arms crossed, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like the picture of careless sin.

By the time you reach the admin building, he’s already leaning against the doorframe of his office, like he knew you’d be back.

Then he steps aside.

Door open.

Invitation clear.

You walk in.

Don’t speak.

Just wait.

Toji shuts the door behind you, slow and easy. Doesn’t bother locking it this time—like he knows you’re not here to play shy anymore.

When he turns around, you’re already by the desk, fingers grazing the edge.

“You were late today,” he says, voice low, teasing. “Was starting to think you were over me already.”

You glance back at him, expression flat. “I was busy ruining a man’s day.”

That earns you a grin. “Let me guess—Nanami?”

You hum. “Told him I had the recording under control.”

Toji chuckles, steps closer. “You’re really getting the hang of this whole revenge thing.”

You shrug. “Figured I’d learn from the best.”

There’s a beat of silence—heavy, pulsing.

Then he moves.

One hand comes up, cradles your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip like he’s remembering exactly how it felt when you moaned around him.

Crosses the room, slow and deliberate, until his chest brushes yours.

“You’re dangerous now,” he murmurs, almost admiring. “You taste it yet?”

You don’t answer.

Just tilt your chin up. Just enough.

An invitation.

His mouth crashes into yours like a promise—messy, brutal, already desperate.

It’s different this time.

Not because it’s softer. Not because he’s gentle.

But because you want it now.

Not to prove something.

Not to survive.

But because this is yours.

You want all of it—his mouth, his cock, his voice in your ear saying filthy things that make you feel alive again.

Your thighs tighten around his hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair.

Let him peel your top off, kiss down your chest, bite at the soft underside of your breast.

You let him back you up against the desk again.

And Toji?

Toji gives it to you.

Every fucking second of it.

His mouth is already on your neck, hands up your shirt, hips between your thighs like he’s got no plans to stop. He groans into your skin, breathing heavy, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You’re gasping before you can stop it, fingers tangling in his hair, legs tightening around his hips. You feel his belt press into your thigh, the thick line of his cock hard against you through the fabric of his pants.

“Toji—” you start, already breathless.

He kisses you hard—deep and rough, like he’s staking a claim. You feel him reach for your skirt, about to drag it up, when suddenly he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough.

You blink at him, chest rising and falling fast. “What?”

“Not here,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly.

Your brows knit. “Why not?”

He steps back, adjusts your top for you, then fixes his own shirt like it’s no big deal. But his jaw’s tight. His eyes are darker now. “I’m not fucking you on a desk again.”

You just stare at him.

Then he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door without another word.

When you step out into the cool air, you pause. It’s still campus. Still public. And you glance around instinctively, nerves prickling at the back of your neck.

“Toji—” you tug at his arm, lowering your voice.

He stops walking. Turns to you slowly.

Then smirks. “Baby, relax.”

You blink.

His eyes gleam with something sharp, wicked. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

You swallow.

He leans in, brushing his mouth against your ear. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

You stare at him for a second longer—until he opens the passenger door of his car like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t insane.

“Get in.”

You hesitate just a second. Then slide into the seat, heart hammering.

The ride starts quiet.

Not awkward—just heavy. Thick with everything you didn’t get to finish back in that office. Toji’s hand is steady on the wheel, rings glinting in the sunlight, jaw sharp in profile as he drives like he’s not in any rush. Like he’s trying to savor this part, too.

You shift in your seat, thighs pressed tight together, still aching with the want he didn’t satisfy.

He glances over, one brow raised, smirking. “You always this squirmy, or is it just me?”

You roll your eyes, but your face burns. “You literally dragged me out mid—”

“Mid what?” he interrupts, voice low and smug. “Mid whimper? Mid grind?”

You punch his arm lightly, but he just laughs, a quiet, throaty sound that settles low in your stomach.

Then, softer—more real—he says, “Didn’t wanna rush it.”

Your chest tightens a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looks over at you again, slower this time. “You looked too pretty to fuck quick against a desk. Wanted to take my time. Make you cry a little.”

That shuts you up.

He smirks like he knows it. Like he’s proud of himself. Then he adds, “You worried someone was gonna see you, back there.”

You glance out the window. “…Maybe.”

He scoffs, like it’s the dumbest thing he’s heard. “I own that fucking school.”

You blink. “What?”

Toji shrugs, casual as hell. “Board loves me. Faculty can’t touch me. You think someone’s gonna open their mouth? Let ‘em try. I’ll make ‘em wish they didn’t.”

You swallow. “You’re insane.”

He grins. “Only for you, sweetheart.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You cross your legs slowly. “So… where are we going?”

He looks at you, eyes dark and amused. “Home.”

“Yours?”

“Unless you wanna get wrecked in a parking lot.”

Your heart stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gonna take my time. Wanna ruin you properly.”

And with that, he shifts gears—and your breath catches.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gonna take my time. Wanna ruin you properly.”

And with that, he shifts gears—and your breath catches.

His hand stays on the wheel, knuckles tight, thumb tapping slowly against the leather. He doesn’t look at you, not yet, but there’s something about the way his jaw flexes that makes your stomach twist. That lazy, dangerous calm he wears like second skin—it’s thicker now. Louder. It’s in the way he turns onto the main road like he’s not thinking about anything else but what he’s gonna do to you when you get there.

You sit back, legs crossed, pulse ticking under your skin. You try not to shift in your seat. Try not to let your thighs press together. But you can feel the tension building, slow and sticky, winding through the air between you.

Toji doesn’t speak. Not at first. He just drives—slow enough to tease, fast enough to make your heart race.

“You always this quiet?” he finally asks, glancing at you sideways.

You shrug, voice soft. “You’re the one who said you wanted to take your time.”

That earns you a crooked smile. “Yeah. But not in silence.”

You hum, letting your head tilt slightly, lips curling. “What do you wanna talk about?”

He huffs a laugh. “Nothing. Just like hearing your voice when you’re not moaning.”

You look away, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re wet,” he says easily.

You shoot him a look, but he’s already grinning. One hand still steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift like he’s not in any rush to touch you again. Like he’s making you wait on purpose.

“Cocky,” you murmur.

He glances over. “Only when I’m right.”

The silence stretches again—longer this time. Thicker.

You can feel it creeping back in, curling between your legs, heating your cheeks. It’s not the kind of quiet you fill with small talk. It’s the kind that builds pressure. The kind that makes you squirm in your seat and pretend like you’re not imagining what his hands will feel like all over you the second you step inside his house.

And then finally, his voice cuts through it, lower now. Rougher.

“You nervous?”

You pause, just long enough for him to notice. “No.”

He doesn’t call you out on the lie. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just nods once—quiet, settled. But the way his hand tightens on the wheel says something else entirely.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause I’m not gonna stop this time.”

The rest of the drive blurs. Not because it’s fast, but because the air is thick with things unspoken. Your heart’s pounding. Your thighs ache. Every time he shifts gears, the movement sends another jolt of heat through you.

And then he’s pulling into a driveway.

It’s not what you expected.

Not a flashy house. No giant gates or pretentious signs. It’s clean. Neat. A quiet, modern two-story tucked behind tall hedges, windows dark. Private. The kind of place where secrets are safe.

He kills the engine, and the sudden silence makes your breath hitch.

“You coming?” he asks, already opening his door.

You follow, legs a little shaky as your heels hit the concrete. The air is cooler now, sharp against your skin, but you barely notice it. Not with the way he’s watching you from the front step, keys dangling from his fingers, that same lazy confidence in every inch of his posture.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t wait for you to walk in first—he just steps aside, lets you move past him, lets his hand brush low over your back like a warning.

It’s warm inside.

Dim lights. Clean floors. A dark hallway stretching out ahead of you. You hear the door shut behind you with a quiet click, and then his voice—low, close to your ear.

“Upstairs,” he says, already moving past you. “Second door on the left.”

You don’t hesitate.

You walk.

And you feel him watching every step.

You reach the top of the stairs, your fingers trailing lightly along the wall like you need something to steady yourself. Each step feels heavier, hotter, like the air’s thickening with every breath.

Second door on the left.

You stop in front of it, hand hovering over the knob, pulse drumming at the base of your throat. And then you feel it—him. Toji right behind you, not touching, but close enough that his presence drapes over your shoulders like heat.

He leans in, voice low. “Open it.”

You do.

The room is… minimal. Clean lines, dark wood, soft lighting that throws long shadows across the floor. A massive bed in the center—black sheets, unmade. Like he hadn’t expected company, but didn’t mind the idea of it.

You step inside, heart climbing into your mouth.

Toji shuts the door behind you, and this time, he does lock it.

Then silence. Heavy. Almost too much.

Until—

“Take off your shoes.”

His voice is soft. Gentle. But it leaves no room for argument.

You kick them off slowly, feeling the shift in the atmosphere as your heels hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Come here.”

You don’t walk.

You drift.

Like your body already knows the way to him.

And the second you’re close enough—he touches you. One hand on your waist, the other sliding up your spine, fingers dragging the heat of the night right through your clothes.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice gruff, almost strained. Like if you say no, he might actually stop.

But you look up at him—lips parted, breathing uneven, already undone.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

And Toji smiles like he’s been waiting his whole fucking life to hear you say that.

He pulls you in slowly, like he wants to savor it—your skin, your breath, the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re already bracing for the fall. His lips brush yours once—barely there—before he tilts his head and kisses you for real.

And fuck—it’s everything.

Hot and messy, all tongue and teeth and want. You gasp, and he swallows it. His hands are everywhere, greedy, slow, dragging up your back and into your hair, tugging until your head tips back and he can get to your throat.

“Been thinking about this,” he mutters against your skin. “All goddamn day.”

You arch into him, hands fumbling at the hem of his shirt, needing more, needing him, but he catches your wrists and holds them still.

“Let me,” he says, low and steady.

And then he peels you open like a secret.

Top off. Tossed somewhere across the room. His eyes darken when he sees you—no bra, no hesitation. Just you, standing there like you’ve already given yourself over to him and you’re not taking it back.

“Fucking beautiful,” he says, like it hurts.

He runs his hands down your sides, slow, thumbs grazing just under your ribs. You shiver.

“Lay down.”

You do.

The sheets are cool, but your skin is already burning, and when Toji crawls over you—knee between your legs, hand cupping your jaw—your whole body arches like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment since the first time he looked at you.

“Still nervous?” he asks, lips brushing your ear.

You nod. Barely.

And he smiles.

“Good.”

Then he kisses you again—deeper, slower.

Like he plans to ruin you piece by piece.

His mouth moves lower, unhurried. Down your neck, across your collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. He palms your breast, thumbing over your nipple until it stiffens, then replaces his hand with his mouth—hot, wet, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

You writhe under him, fingers clawing at the sheets.

“Toji—” you breathe, and it sounds wrecked already.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips dragging across your chest. “Say it again.”

“Toji,” you whisper, softer this time, like it’s not just his name—it’s permission.

And he takes it.

One hand slips between your thighs, pushing them open with practiced ease. He groans when he sees the soaked fabric sticking to your core.

“Fuck. You’re soaked for me already?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “That for me, or were you just thinking about how I said I was gonna ruin you?”

You don’t say anything—but your hips roll toward his hand without thinking.

That’s enough.

He hooks a finger into your panties, dragging them down slowly, deliberately, until they’re off. Tossed aside. Gone.

And then he just looks at you—like you’re art. Like you’re dangerous. Like he’s already addicted.

He spreads your legs with his hands, slow and steady, settling between them with a low, hungry groan. “Gonna take my time with this,” he says again. “Wanna learn how you fall apart.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot, slow, sinful.

And it starts all over again.

His tongue drags through your folds like he’s savoring it—every slick, messy second. He groans against you, hands locking around your thighs to keep you open, to keep you exactly where he wants you. The sound alone makes your stomach flip, your back arch.

“Toji—fuck—”

You grab at the sheets, at his hair, at anything you can reach because the way he’s eating you out is obscene. Slow at first, lazy licks like he’s just warming up—but then he starts to focus. Starts to learn you. Where you twitch, where you cry out, where your thighs try to snap shut because it’s too much.

And he doesn’t stop.

He flattens his tongue, flicks it fast, then sucks—hard—right over your clit until you jerk up off the bed.

“Oh my god—”

He grins into you. “There she is.”

You’re already shaking, breath ragged, heat coiling so deep in your belly it hurts. He doesn’t need you to come yet. He’s just playing. Just getting you used to the way he devours.

Then he adds a finger.

And another.

Curled just right.

It punches a moan straight out of your chest.

“Fuck—Toji—please—”

“You close already?” he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. “You gonna come just from this?”

You nod—desperate, shameless. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He chuckles against you. “Go ahead then. Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”

And you do.

Hard.

Loud.

Like your whole body gives out under the weight of him.

But he doesn’t stop.

Your hips jerk—too sensitive, too raw—but he holds you down, mouth still working you through it like he’s not satisfied yet. Like he wants more. Wants you twitching. Squirming. Whimpering under his tongue.

You whine, thighs trembling around his head. “Toji—please—s’too much—”

He lifts his head just enough to speak, lips shiny with you. “Nah, baby. Not even close.”

And before you can catch your breath, he’s moving again—fingers still deep, curling up, stroking that spot that makes you wail. His mouth finds your clit again, sucks so hard you feel your spine try to escape your body.

It’s overwhelming. You’re drenched, ruined, a fucking mess and he’s still eating you like he hasn’t had a proper meal in days.

“That’s it,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

You try to grab his wrist, try to push him back—but he doesn’t budge. Just groans like the taste of you is enough to make him lose it. Like he needs this. Needs you.

And when your second orgasm crashes over you—louder, hotter, blinding—you scream his name like a prayer. Like a curse. Like it’s the only thing holding you to the earth.

He lets you ride it out this time. Slower. Gentler. Still inside you, still licking soft and slow while your body trembles beneath him.

You’re not even sure when the tears started.

But he notices. He always does.

“Too much?” he whispers, leaning up, dragging his lips across your thigh.

You nod, dazed. “Y-Yeah. Just… fuck.”

And he grins, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and says, “Good.”

And before you can even fully breathe, he’s crawling up the bed—slow, like he’s giving you a second to run. Like he’d enjoy it if you did. But you don’t move. Can’t. You’re still trying to process the way his mouth felt on you, the way your body’s still shaking from how easily he pulled you apart.

His hands find your knees. Spreads them again. You gasp, sensitive, and he just hums low in his throat like that’s exactly what he wants to hear.

“You’re not done,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Not even close.”

Then he leans down—one forearm beside your head, the other sliding up your thigh—and kisses you. Deep. Messy. Like he wants you to taste yourself on his tongue. Like he’s already drunk on it. You moan into it, arms coming up around his neck, legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.

You can feel him now. Hard, hot, pressed right against where you need him. But he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grind. Just teases. Keeps kissing you like he’s got nowhere else to be.

And fuck—you’re already gone for him.

You arch into him, whimpering softly against his mouth, and that’s when he finally presses down—just enough for you to feel how hard he is through his sweats. Just enough to make you twitch under him.

“Feel that?” he mumbles against your lips. “Been like that since you stepped in my office.”

You nod, dazed, breath catching in your throat as you try to rock your hips against him for more. But his hand shoots to your waist, holding you still.

“Uh-uh,” he breathes, voice low and thick. “I said I was gonna take my time.”

He leans back, just far enough to look at you. Really look at you.

Hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, skin flushed and glowing under his weight.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hands smooth down your sides, slow and reverent, like he’s grounding himself. Like if he doesn’t touch you right now—if he doesn’t feel your skin, warm and soft under his palms—he might lose it completely.

“You’ve been driving me fucking insane,” he says, almost like it’s your fault. Like you knew what you were doing every time you looked at him like that in class, every time you bit your lip and played innocent.

You open your mouth to speak, but his thumb brushes over your bottom lip again, silencing you before a word can slip out.

“Shh,” he says, gentle but firm. “Just let me look at you.”

And he does. Lets his gaze trail down your neck, your chest, the curve of your waist like he’s seeing all of you for the first time. Like he’s not just undressing you—he’s unwrapping something sacred.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Then he leans in again, presses his lips to your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone—soft, lingering kisses that make your whole body shiver.

“You feel safe here?” he whispers, mouth brushing over your skin.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, and you feel the heat in it—the promise. “’Cause I’m not letting you go tonight.”

Then he finally shifts. One hand slides under your thigh, the other steady at your waist, guiding your leg up around his hip as he settles between them. You suck in a breath, body already burning again, every nerve raw and humming. You feel him—bare, hard, pressed against your entrance—and your whole body aches for it.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

He just stays there, forehead resting against yours, eyes locked on yours like he’s searching for something in your face—something honest. Something real.

“You sure?” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like it’s costing him to ask.

You nod, already breathless. “I want you.”

“Yeah?” His eyes drop to your lips, then back up. “Say it.”

You swallow hard. “I want you, Toji. Please.”

And that’s all he needs.

He pushes in slow. Thick. Deep. Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and your nails dig into his shoulders as he sinks all the way in with one long, devastating stroke. He groans, head dropping to the curve of your neck, breath hot against your collarbone.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… fuck, you feel so good.”

You whimper beneath him, back arching as he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside out.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

It’s worship.

Like he meant it—when he said he was gonna take his time.

Your hands slide up his arms, his shoulders, his back—grabbing at anything you can reach as the pressure builds all over again. His name slips from your lips in a broken whisper, and he lifts his head to kiss you hard, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to feel every part of you at once.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your mouth, hips rocking into you slow and steady. “All mine.”

You nod, dizzy. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Fuck—Toji, I’m yours.”

And something in him snaps.

He picks up the pace—still not harsh, but heavier now. Deeper. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers threaded tight as he fucks you slow and possessive, like he wants you to remember this forever.

You will.

You already know.

Every drag of his cock, every breathless sound he pulls from your throat, every graze of his teeth on your skin—he’s burning it into you.

Branding you.

And you let him.

You want to.

Because this time, it’s not about power or revenge or survival.

This time?

It’s about giving in.

It’s about the way his mouth finds your throat again, tongue dragging slow over your pulse like he’s tasting every beat of your heart. It’s about the way your legs lock around his waist and stay there, shaking and tight, like you need him to stay inside you or you’ll come undone completely.

“Toji,” you whisper—barely a sound, more breath than word.

His name doesn’t even sound like a name anymore. It sounds like a need. Like a prayer.

He groans at the sound of it, hips stuttering just slightly, and that’s when he presses his forehead to yours again, eyes dark and raw and open in a way you’ve never seen.

“Fuck, you’re everything,” he mutters, voice breaking on the edge of it. “You feel—Jesus, baby, you feel like fucking heaven.”

And it should feel dirty. Should feel like something you’re not supposed to want—this man, this situation, this entire tangled mess. But it doesn’t. Not when he says it like that. Not when he looks at you like you’re something sacred.

You cling to him, gasping, shivering, blinking past tears you didn’t know were building. You can feel it building again, hot and sharp, curling low in your belly like a storm about to break.

“I’m close,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Toji—please—”

“I know,” he pants, hips grinding deeper, slower. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His hand slides between you again, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease. He circles once—twice—and that’s all it takes.

You come apart with a cry, body convulsing, legs tightening around him as the wave hits. It’s messy. Loud. Your hands scramble for purchase, fingernails dragging down his back as he fucks you through it, mouth on your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—anywhere he can reach.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my girl.”

And when you’re still trembling, still trying to breathe, he lets go—finally, fully.

You feel him pulse inside you, feel him spill deep, feel his whole body shudder as he buries himself to the hilt with a ragged, broken moan that sounds like it’s being ripped from his chest.

He stays there. For a second. Two.

Breathing hard. Holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And when he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to see your face.

Eyes soft. Lips swollen. Skin damp and glowing.

“Still good?” he asks, voice quiet.

You nod, dazed. “Better than good.”

Toji smiles. Really smiles. And for the first time, it’s not cocky. It’s not smug. It’s just soft. Real.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then don’t move.”

And he leans down again.

Kisses you like you’re his to keep.

And for a second—just one—you let yourself believe it.

His breath is warm against your cheek, slower now, steadier. His hand doesn’t leave your skin, just shifts slightly, from your thigh to your hip to the curve of your waist, like he’s mapping it all again now that the storm’s passed. Like he wants to memorize the softness that came after the ruin.

You blink slowly, lashes brushing his collarbone, and realize your legs are still tangled around his. That you’re still holding him. Still clinging.

And that he hasn’t let go either.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and quiet, lips brushing your hair.

You nod. A little too fast.

His fingers lift, trace the edge of your jaw, and tilt your face just enough so he can see you. His thumb strokes under your eye, down to your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod again. Then, softer, “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed.”

A pause.

Then Toji sighs—deep, from the chest—and rolls, pulling you with him until you’re draped over his body. One of his hands spreads across your back, the other tugs a blanket up over your shoulders. It’s instinctive. Casual. Natural. Like he’s done this before. Like he wants to.

“Good overwhelmed or bad?” he asks.

You blink again. Your throat feels thick. “Good,” you whisper. “I think.”

He doesn’t push. Just holds you closer.

Lets you breathe.

Lets you think.

Lets you exist here, on top of him, your heart still racing a little too fast for what’s supposed to be the calm after. Lets your fingers curl into his chest like you’re scared of what it means that you don’t want to move. That you’re not thinking about Nanami. That you’re not thinking about the mess. That you’re just… here.

With him.

And then—to your own horror—you feel it.

That flutter in your chest.

Small.

Annoying.

Warm.

Toji hums, lazy, lips brushing your hairline. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s too dry. Your thoughts are too loud.

Because he’s warm. And solid. And still tracing circles into your back like it’s second nature. Like he wants you to fall asleep on top of him.

And something about that hits you like a fucking freight train.

Shit.

You shift slightly—just enough to hide your face again. To press your nose into the space beneath his jaw. To ground yourself in his scent before your heart does something even stupider.

Toji doesn’t question it. Doesn’t tease.

He just wraps both arms around you.

Holds you like you’ve got nowhere else to be.

And that’s when it hits you hardest.

You don’t want to leave.

Not yet.

His chest is warm against your cheek. Steady. Real. You curl in closer, one of your legs tangling with his, breath syncing up without even trying. His fingers move slowly up and down your spine, gentle like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence isn’t awkward.

It’s full.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. Long enough for your eyes to start closing. Long enough for his grip to tighten a little—like he feels it too.

And then, just when your mind starts to drift—when you think maybe, maybe this doesn’t have to mean anything—

He whispers your name. Soft. Barely there.

Your heart skips.

You tilt your head up, blinking at him.

His eyes are already on you.

And then he says it. Quiet. Careful.

“Don’t go back to him.”

You freeze.

Toji doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t clarify. He just stares at the ceiling for a second, like he’s working something out in real time. Like he’s already said too much but won’t pretend he didn’t mean it.

And then, quietly—gruffly—he says,

“I know you’re using me.”

Your stomach twists.

“Hell, I was using you too.”

You blink. Stay still.

“To fuck with Nanami,” he says. “That’s what it was, at the start.”

You don’t say anything.

“But then you showed up,” he murmurs. “Locked that door. Looked at me like you weren’t scared of what I’d do—and suddenly it wasn’t just about him anymore.”

There’s a pause.

“To be honest, I don’t know what the fuck this is,” he admits. “But it’s not a game now. Not for me.”

You glance up at him, heart climbing a little too high in your throat.

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps tracing lazy circles along your hip with his thumb.

“I don’t do soft,” he mutters. “I don’t do feelings. But… I don’t want to go back to whatever the hell I was doing before this.”

Another pause.

Then, finally—

“Nanami had you in his game,” he says, voice low. “But I don’t want that with you.”

His fingers tighten a little on your side.

“I want something that’s fucking real.”

—

@rjreins @jeankirschteinsimp @nanamiscsleeve @rissaaaaaa @mikrh-lizzie @tnaiis

#jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro #toji smut #jjk smut #smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #Nanami kento #Nanami #Nanami smut

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demie90s · 2 months ago

Text

Spoiled

Sabrina Ionescu x bratty fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: The kind of brat that gets her own money but still acts like she deserves the world right now.

Word Count~ 0.8k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), dom!Sabrina, sub/bratty!reader, light choking (implied), power play, brat taming, attitude, cursing,

Genre: Smutt, Dom!Sabrina, Brat Taming, Domestic Power Play, Light Humiliation, Teasing.

Sabrina was at the island, elbows on the counter, reading over scouting reports like a damn scientist. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied back, face all serious—like she was solving world hunger. I leaned in the walkway, arms crossed, shirt tied just enough to show stomach, trying not to roll my eyes.

“Can we go to the movies?” I asked, voice syrupy, swaying slightly as I walked over. “I wanna watch the new Final Destination.”

“No.” My body physically flinched. I blinked slow.

“……Excuse me?”

She didn’t even glance up. “Watch your tone. And I—”

“Oh, I heard you,” I cut her off, head tilting with a deep scowl. “I just thought you were smart enough to rethink that shit.”

She stopped typing. Looked up. Real calm. Real still.

“…you better fix that attitude before I fix it for you.”

My lips twitched into a smug grin. “Or what? You gon’ take my phone? Spank me? Put me in timeout?”

She exhaled slow, leaned back in the stool like I was exhausting. Which, fair.

“Why are you like this?”

I shrugged. “I asked a simple question. I said can we go to the movies, not ‘can you take me to Paris.’”

“You don’t even like scary movies.”

“I like watching them with you.”

“I’m not in the mood today, baby. I’m not.” She said it plain. Gentle. Tired. I don’t do ‘no’ well. My daddy never says no. My mama taught me sass before she taught me how to spell. And I’ve never been told ‘wait’ a day in my life. Why start now?

I rolled my eyes and turned my back like I was about to walk off.

“You don’t have to come. I’ll find someone else.” That was the one.

I ain’t even make it to the doorway before I heard the stool scrape back. Her footsteps slow, heavy with that WNBA GOAT weight she always be carryin’. I stopped mid-step, smirk already creepin’ onto my face before she even touched me.

Sabrina stepped in close, towering just enough to make me tilt my chin up. Her lips barely ghosted mine—close enough to kiss, but I knew better. I didn’t flinch. Just held her gaze, lollipop still in hand like I was unbothered.

Then she whispered.

“Sit. Your. Ass. Down.”

“Whate—”

Her hand was on my neck so fast, not hard, just firm—controlling. She turned my head to look her straight in the face. That perfect, unreadable expression. No emotion. No sympathy.

“Baby,” she said low. “You need to get out my face with this shit. Like I’m not in the mood.” And God help me, I was grinning.

“Whew. Okay then, Miss Liberty MVP. Touch me again.”

She let go slow, like she knew exactly what I was doing. She looked down at me like she could wreck my whole attitude in under five minutes—but wouldn’t, just yet.

“I’m not your daddy. I don’t give you everything just because you pout.”

“You act like you don’t love it.”

She laughed once. Dark. “You act like I won’t put you in your place the second you forget who runs this house.”

I sat on the couch without her asking again. Crossed my legs. Looked up at her like a girl who needed to be taught a lesson.

“You gonna keep lecturing me?” She turned back to her laptop.

But not before mumbling, “Keep runnin’ that mouth.”

I whispered, real soft to myself, “God, I love this woman.”

I stayed on the couch, fake-pouting, arms crossed like I hadn’t just damn near called her dumb to her face. The TV was on but I wasn’t watching it. I was too busy mumbling under my breath.

“Talkin’ bout some ‘no’… girl whatever… ain’t even that busy… barely plays anymore…”

I wasn’t even trying to be slick with it. Just loud enough. Just bratty enough. That country spoiled energy. Stomach tight. Legs crossed. Trying to act like I didn’t care that she shut me down. But baby—I cared.

I heard her behind me, closing her laptop. Then footsteps. I peeped the time on the oven clock. 4:23. My face scrunched. Practice was at 3.

“…Wait—”

“I told Coach something came up,” Sabrina said casually, leaning on the back of the couch right behind me. Her voice was calm. Still. Way too calm. “You came up.”

I turned slowly, lips parted. “You skipped practice?” She gave me that look. The one that made my stomach flip and thighs tighten.

“I skipped practice… because I knew your little ass was gonna need correction today.” Now that made me nervous.

She reached for the remote, muted the TV. Then walked around and sat down on the arm of the couch, towering over me like she always do.

“You thought you were slick. All that little whispering… thought I didn’t hear you?” I didn’t say a word. Just looked up. Smirking. She reached down, fingers trailing under my chin, lifting it slightly.

“You gonna say sorry?”

I sucked my teeth. “For what?”

Wrong.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

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all-my-love-for-harry · 1 month ago

Text

Something Steady

pairing; jake seresin x fanboy's little sister!reader

summary; after a rough year, you move in with your half-brother, Mickey, just trying to stay afloat. The last thing you expect is to fall for Jake Seresin—the one guy Mickey told you to avoid. But healing is messy, and somehow, so is falling in love.

word count; 17.5k (i am so sorry)

warnings; drug use, angst, mention of past SA (nothing graphic), overprotective!fanboy, age gap (reader is twenty-three and jake is thirty-four) violence (mickey pushes jake), emotional breakdowns, sexual themes, no usage of y/n, reader is kind of a little shit but she's hurting, mickey is kinda mean sorry, let me know if i missed something

a/n; i feel like a permanent warning on my stories should be that i have no knowledge of the military as i'm not even american, i came here for the hot shirtless pilots so every reference is based on vibes and confusing google searches lol also, the pictures are for aesthetic porpuses, there's not really a description of the reader. one more thing, sorry if the flirting is a little cringe, i'm not really good at that stuff lol

masterlist

Mickey García paced the length of his living room, phone pressed to his ear, his thumb running a nervous path along the edge of his watch. He’d called three times. On the fourth, you finally picked up with a sigh that was more theatrical than annoyed.

“What, Mickey?”

“You got the ticket, right?” he asked, ignoring the tone, trying not to get drawn into the usual power play. You were good at that—had been since you were little. Deflect, charm, push buttons. It worked on everyone.

Except him.

“I told you, I don’t want to move to San Diego,” you said, the irritation sharp now. “You can’t actually make me do this.”

Mickey stopped pacing. He took a breath and looked out the window, watching the sun bleed into the horizon. “You don’t get it,” he said, low. “I’m not asking.”

You laughed. “Jesus, you sound like Mom. Is this about the party thing again? I told you, I was just tired. And maybe a little high, not a big deal.”

“You haven’t answered Mom’s calls in weeks,” he snapped, sharper than intended. “You’re skipping class, hanging with people you won’t even name. You don’t even sound like yourself anymore.”

There was a pause. Just enough of one to let something slip. But you caught it, clinging to pride like a safety vest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Mickey’s voice went quiet. “And I’m done pretending like you are. You land tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

“You’re such a control freak,” you muttered, but your voice wavered in the way that always betrayed you.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just ended the call, phone still clutched in his hand as he stared into the gathering dark. He didn’t know what the hell had happened in the last year—something had cracked in you, that much was clear. You partied harder than before. Acted like nothing touched you. You’d always been spoiled, a little entitled from living in your dad’s mansion with your endless wardrobe and perfect, expensive smile. Mickey had rolled his eyes at your drama more times than he could count. But now… he wasn’t rolling his eyes anymore. He was scared.

You’re gonna hate me for this, he thought, but I’d rather you hate me here, alive, than whatever the hell you’re turning into alone.

An hour later, the Hard Deck was buzzing. Neon lights danced off the bar top, and a salty breeze swept through the open doors. Jake was already there, leaning against the bar like he belonged to it, beer in hand, eyes always scanning, always calculating. Phoenix sat nearby, tossing peanuts into her mouth with idle precision. Rooster and Payback argued over who actually won the last round of pool while Coyote racked up the next game.

Mickey walked in slower than usual. His mind was still in Boston.

Jake spotted him first. “Fanboy,” he drawled, lifting his bottle in greeting. “Damn, man. You look like you just got chewed out by a nun.”

Mickey gave a half-smile and joined the group, dragging a stool toward the bar. “Something like that.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Everything okay?”

Mickey hesitated. The words hovered for a beat too long. He hadn’t planned to say anything—there was no reason for them to know yet. But his guard was down. His chest still tight from the call.

“My sister’s coming to stay with me for a while,” he said, the sentence dropping between them like a brick.

Everyone blinked. Rooster leaned in. “Wait, you have a sister?”

Jake let out a low whistle. “You kept that quiet. Is she older or younger?”

“Younger,” Mickey replied before he could stop himself.

“Hot?” Jake smirked, tone light and cocky. Typical.

Mickey’s head turned fast, and the look in his eyes wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was ice.

Jake’s smirk faltered.

“Stay away from her, Seresin.”

That tone—cold, serious, final—landed with a thud. Jake leaned back a little. Even Phoenix paused, her peanut halfway to her mouth.

“Damn, alright,” Jake said, hands raised. “Message received.”

Rooster let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “You didn’t even tell us you had a sister, man. What gives?”

Mickey ran a hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t want to get into it. He didn’t want their pity or their concern. And more than anything, he didn’t want them asking questions he couldn’t answer.

“It’s complicated,” he muttered. “She’s... going through some stuff. My mom doesn’t know how to handle it, and I don’t trust her dad to give a shit. So she’s coming here. I’ll keep an eye on her. That’s all.”

He didn’t mention how he'd begged your mom to let you stay with him before thinking about just shoving you into rehab. How she’d resisted until she didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t say how he'd watched you slowly start to unravel, hiding behind clothes and money and empty nights filled with nothing good.

Jake didn’t say anything for a while. Then he knocked back the rest of his beer and clapped Mickey on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, with a slow grin that didn’t reach his eyes, “guess we’ll find out how good you are at being a big brother.”

Mickey gave him a look that said don’t test me—and Jake, surprisingly, didn’t.

San Diego International Airport was humid and crowded, and Mickey was already regretting wearing a jacket.

He stood just past the baggage claim with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, refreshing the flight tracker app like it would somehow make you land faster. The terminal buzzed around him, full of sleepy tourists and business types yapping on Bluetooth. He scanned the crowd again, pulse quickening in that familiar way he hated — not fear, exactly, but that mix of dread and responsibility that had been simmering in his chest since he booked your ticket.

And then he saw you.

You were hard to miss — sleek sunglasses, an oversized cashmere hoodie that probably cost more than his rent, and a Louis Vuitton duffel slung over your shoulder like a gym bag. You walked like you didn’t need help from anyone and you dared the world to suggest otherwise.

He waved you over. “Hey.”

You didn’t hug him. Just rolled your eyes behind your sunglasses and shifted your bag on your shoulder. “Jesus, I thought California was supposed to be sunny.”

“It is. You’re just cursed,” Mickey said flatly, grabbing your suitcase.

“I could’ve booked a hotel, you know. You didn’t need to play bodyguard.”

Mickey gritted his teeth, choosing silence. You were already in a mood, and it had only been thirty seconds.

He didn’t say what he really wanted to — You would’ve never shown up if I hadn’t dragged you. You think you’re fine, but you’ve been unraveling for months. Instead, he just led the way to the parking garage, ignoring the dramatic sigh you let out when you saw his car wasn’t valet-level luxury.

The drive was quiet. Not peaceful. Just… loaded.

You stared out the window, legs tucked under you like you were back in your old penthouse, not riding shotgun in your brother’s slightly beat-up SUV. Mickey drummed his fingers on the steering wheel the whole ride, half expecting you to bolt at the next red light.

You didn’t. But you sure as hell didn’t make it easy.

“So,” you said finally, tone bored, “am I supposed to get a schedule or something? Like do I check in with you at night so you can make sure I haven’t OD’d?”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, jaw ticking. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

You turned to him with a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. “You mean call it like it is?”

“I mean pretend like this is a joke,” he snapped. “You may not like it, but you’re here now. So maybe don’t treat me like the asshole for giving a shit.”

That shut you up for a moment.

Mickey’s apartment wasn’t much — two-bedroom, sparsely decorated, tidy but lived in. A stack of mail sat on the counter. His keys hit the hook by the door with a practiced flick. He watched you step in and look around like you’d just walked into a gas station bathroom.

“This is how you’re living?”

“Yup,” Mickey said, tossing your suitcase toward the hallway. “It’s not Daddy’s Malibu compound, but it’s clean, and you’ll survive.”

You looked around again, arms crossed, unimpressed. “It smells like takeout and old socks.”

“Then it’ll feel like home in no time.”

He was trying, and you knew it. That was maybe the worst part — watching him pretend like this could work, like he could handle you when no one else ever had.

You sat down on the couch with a huff, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands. “Fine. But I’m not doing dishes.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. “Just don’t set the place on fire, and we’ll call it even.”

The shower had helped — a little. You stood in the hallway in one of Mickey’s oversized t-shirts, damp hair sticking to your neck, socks slipping on the hardwood floor. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional groan of old pipes. He was in his room, probably scrolling through Navy emails or pretending he wasn’t regretting this whole thing.

You weren’t tired, not really. Not in the way that meant sleep. So you wandered.

The place was cleaner than you expected. Sparse. Functional. The furniture was mismatched in a way that suggested Mickey had only recently started giving a shit about what went where. Still, it had a heartbeat. There were little signs of him everywhere — an old Nirvana poster thumbtacked above the TV, half-melted candles on the bookshelf, a note on the fridge in your mom’s handwriting that just said Buy bananas. It was stupid, but something about that note made your chest ache.

You turned toward the hallway and spotted it — the bookshelf tucked near the second bedroom. It was more like a catchall; some framed certificates, old cracked mugs, a couple of medals in dusty display boxes. And tucked between two thick folders of flight documents, there was a small leather photo album. One of those that looked like it belonged to someone’s mother, not a thirty-year-old naval aviator.

You pulled it out gently, fingertips grazing the cover. It smelled faintly like dust and the vanilla air freshener Mickey probably thought you wouldn’t notice.

The first picture was of you.

You couldn’t have been more than five — tiny and grinning, missing your two front teeth, wearing an expensive sundress no kid should be wearing, and sitting in Mickey’s lap on the front porch of your childhood home. He was maybe fourteen in the picture, already lanky and long-limbed, arms wrapped awkwardly around you like he wasn’t sure how to hold something so breakable.

You kept flipping. Birthday parties. Beach trips. Some photo booth strip from a summer carnival you barely remembered — but there you were, cheeks painted with glitter, holding a cotton candy half your size while Mickey made a face at the camera beside you.

You sat down on the floor, back against the wall, legs pulled to your chest.

That little girl — she hadn’t been afraid of anything. She hadn’t known what it meant to drink just to feel okay. She hadn’t woken up with her ears ringing from the bass of a frat house and a headache that wasn’t just from the music. She hadn’t learned yet how to smile while disassociating. She hadn’t touched anything stronger than candy, let alone molly, or whatever someone offered her at the last party just to get her out of her own head.

Back then, happy didn’t come in capsules. It came from the sun on your skin and the sound of Mickey teasing you and the sugar rush from a cherry Slurpee. You didn’t need to pretend. You didn’t need to disappear to feel okay.

Now?

Now, the only time you felt close to that girl — truly close — was thirty minutes into a hit of MDMA, body warm, brain finally quiet, like someone had dimmed the lights on your thoughts. That was the only time you could breathe and mean it. The only time you could smile and not feel like it was cracking your face open.

You shut the album, heart thudding too loudly in your chest.

This place was supposed to be safe. Mickey meant well. But safety didn’t fix the part of you that already felt too far gone. It didn’t undo the night that stole everything. It didn’t erase the months after, when you tried to tell someone — anyone — and realized how easy it was for people not to believe you when you had a reputation for being too much, too dramatic, too spoiled.

But here you were. In a second bedroom filled with clean sheets and too many memories. Living under the same roof as your big brother.

[...]

The lunchtime buzz in the mess hall was the usual mix of shouting, metal trays clattering, and the unmistakable stink of over-steamed broccoli. Mickey sat at the end of the long table with a fork in hand and zero appetite, mind somewhere far from the overcooked chicken breast on his tray. His leg bounced under the table like it was keeping time with a song no one else could hear.

Rooster noticed first.

“You good, Fanboy?” he asked, popping a grape into his mouth. “You’ve been in a mood all week. Thought you were gonna take Payback’s head off during drills this morning.”

“That was one time,” Mickey muttered.

“That was today,” Payback shot back, deadpan, leaning on his elbows. “And you yelled at me for sneezing.”

“You sneezed in my ear during a dive turn. That’s how people die, man.”

Jake, seated across from them, grinned behind his fork. “I don’t know, García. You’re twitchier than usual. Something going on at home?”

Mickey’s jaw clenched. Goddamn it. He hadn’t meant to open any doors. Not here. Not with them.

Phoenix raised an eyebrow as she picked at her mashed potatoes. “You’ve been off, dude. And we’ve all been pretending not to notice out of the kindness of our hearts.”

“But now we’re bored,” Rooster added helpfully.

Mickey sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just… complicated, okay? Family stuff.”

Jake leaned forward, sensing blood in the water. “Ohhh, is this about the sister you forgot to mention for, what, the entire time we’ve known you?”

“You never asked,” Mickey deflected.

Jake raised both brows. “You literally never gave us a hint that she existed. Not a single mention.”

Phoenix smirked. “And judging by the way you snapped the other night when Jake so much as breathed near the topic, I’m guessing this isn’t your average sibling dynamic.”

Mickey groaned, leaning back in his chair. He’d hoped they'd forget. No such luck.

“She’s staying with me,” he muttered.

The table went quiet.

Payback blinked. “Wait, like— living with you?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?” Phoenix asked, voice lighter now, intrigued.

“Don’t know yet. A while.”

Jake bit back a grin. “Let me guess. Hot. Younger. Attitude problem?”

Mickey’s eyes snapped up, sharp. “Don’t.”

Rooster chuckled. “Man, relax. We’re just asking.”

“You don’t get it,” Mickey said, stabbing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. “She’s not... like us. She didn’t grow up around this. She’s not military. She’s spoiled, she’s stubborn, and she’s been through some shit, okay? She’s complicated. I’m trying to keep her out of trouble.”

“You think we’re gonna drag her into trouble?” Phoenix asked, feigning offense.

“I think you’re nosy,” Mickey shot back. “Especially you,” he added, glaring at Jake.

Jake gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m wounded.”

“You’re on a damn watchlist, Seresin.”

“Jealousy's a bad look on you, García.”

“Alright, alright,” Rooster cut in, chuckling. “Look, we’re not gonna ambush her or anything. But maybe introducing her wouldn’t kill you. She’s new in town, right? Let her meet some people who aren’t you.”

“Yeah,” Payback added, “let her decide who she wants to be around.”

Mickey opened his mouth to protest but paused. You had been quiet that morning. Quieter than usual. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to be around people who weren’t just his anxious, hovering self.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

Jake leaned back in his seat, looking far too smug. “Tell her I’m charming in person.”

Mickey pointed his fork at him. “You show up at my place, I’ll break your nose.”

Jake winked. “Promises, promises.”

Mickey didn’t expect the apartment to be dark.

It wasn’t late — barely past six — but the lights were all off and the place was dead quiet when he unlocked the door. No music, no TV, not even the faint hum of a podcast playing from the bathroom like usual. He felt a flicker of unease as he stepped inside, keys clinking into the dish by the door.

“Hey,” he called out. “You home?”

Silence.

He dropped his bag and moved toward the hallway, his footsteps loud against the floor. A strange scent hit him — not quite smoke, not quite perfume, something almost chemical buried beneath the faint sweetness of the candle he’d left burning earlier. His stomach dropped.

He said your name once. Then he saw you.

You were lying flat on the living room floor, arms splayed out, palms up like you were waiting for stigmata. The glow of the streetlights outside spilled across your face, casting your features in soft gold. For one terrifying second, he thought you were dead.

“Jesus Christ—!” He dropped to his knees beside you, heart in his throat, hand going straight to your shoulder. “Hey—hey, talk to me—wake up—”

You blinked.

Then you giggled.

A stupid, airy, bright little sound like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. “Mickeeeeey,” you sang, eyes glassy and wide, lips curved in a dreamy smile. “You’re home.”

He sat back on his heels, blinking like he couldn’t believe it. “What the fuck? I thought you were— I thought—”

“I was listening to music,” you said like it explained everything. “This song came on and I was like, wow, I am made of stardust.”

He stared at you. Speechless. You were beaming, cheeks flushed, limbs loose like all the tension in your body had evaporated. He knew that look. He’d seen it in college dorm rooms, in house parties, in bathrooms with doors half-closed and too much laughter inside.

“What did you take?” he asked, low and tight.

You blinked slowly. “Nothing bad. Just a little pick-me-up. It’s not like I’m strung out on the couch watching Family Guy reruns and eating cat food, relax.”

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was.”

He got up and started pacing. He needed to move or he was going to scream. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I’m fine. You need to chill out. You’re always—tense,” you said, stretching the word out with a flourish. “Like your whole body is one big angry muscle.”

Mickey exhaled through his nose and stopped pacing long enough to look at you again. You looked happy. Genuinely happy. It scared the shit out of him.

He ran a hand down his face. “You’ve been here a week.”

“And I haven’t broken anything,” you replied cheerfully. “Or dyed the dog pink or gotten arrested. That’s progress.”

“We don’t have a dog.”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t cut out for this. He didn’t know how to help without making things worse. You weren’t the same kid he used to swing around the backyard or sneak candy to when Mom wasn’t looking. You were... this. Floating. Untouchable. Somewhere halfway between laughter and collapse.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you need to meet some people.”

You tilted your head. “Are you trying to set me up?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. I just—my team. My friends. They’ve been asking about you.”

You squinted at him, smile still lingering. “You told your fighter pilot friends about me?”

“By accident. Kind of. Look, they’re good people. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I think it’d be good for you to meet someone that isn’t me. Just… get out of the apartment. Be around people who aren’t ghosts.”

Your face shifted. Not a lot. Just a flicker, like a cloud passing over the moon.

“I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Or babysitters.”

“It’s not that either.”

You went quiet for a moment, eyes on the ceiling. Then: “Are any of them hot?”

Mickey groaned. “Don’t make me regret this.”

You grinned lazily. “No promises.”

[...]

The crash was never as sweet as the climb.

You sat on the edge of the bed Mickey had so graciously given you, chin in your hand, staring at your reflection in the vanity mirror like it owed you something. Your eyes were bloodshot, skin duller now, lips pressed together in a tight line as you tried to will yourself into giving a damn about your appearance.

Your hair was a mess. Your head ached. And now that the chemical high had worn off, everything felt heavier — like the air around you had thickened and your body was moving through soup. Your fingers dug through the tangled mess of your makeup bag, retrieving an old tube of mascara and a half-used highlighter stick like armor.

You didn’t care about meeting Mickey’s team. You didn’t care about much of anything. But pissing him off a little? That still had its charm.

There was a knock on your door — a quick, two-beat rhythm like he didn’t want to actually come in unless he had to.

“You alive?” Mickey called through the wood.

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, swiping concealer under your eyes.

The door creaked open anyway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking at you like he was trying to solve a math problem with too many missing variables.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

You rolled your eyes. “You say that like it’s a real option.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not. You’d just get weird and sulky and guilt me into going anyway.”

Mickey sighed. “Why do you always assume I have an agenda?”

“Because you do,” you said, standing to grab your boots. “And you suck at hiding it.”

He watched you lace them up. Your movements were jerky, uncoordinated — the residual molly still whispering through your veins, soft enough now that all it left behind was a low-grade crash and an irritable ache behind your eyes.

“You’re coming down,” he said quietly.

You shot him a look. “Congratulations, Sherlock. Want a merit badge?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just stood there, steady and exasperated. “You can’t keep doing this.”

You stood too, smoothing your skirt, fixing your top in the mirror. “And yet, here I am. Upright. Breathing. What a miracle.”

Mickey didn’t say anything. The quiet between you expanded like fog.

You turned to him after a beat, chin tilted high. “So… which of your little pilot friends am I supposed to impress tonight?”

He blinked. “None of them. You’re just coming to hang out. Be normal.”

“Define normal.”

“No flirting. No games. Don’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” you said, grabbing your jacket from the hook. “You think I care about your reputation.”

Mickey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m serious. This isn’t Boston. These people matter to me.”

Your hand froze on the zipper. For a second, something like guilt flickered in your chest — short-lived, quickly buried.

“I’m not going to wreck your life,” you said, quieter this time. “I just want a drink and maybe someone to talk to who doesn’t treat me like I’m about to shatter.”

“You want someone who doesn’t care.”

You looked at him. And for a heartbeat, didn’t deny it.

He exhaled. “Just… behave, alright?”

You grinned again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll be on my best.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a best.”

“Exactly.”

It was the golden hour — the kind of California sunset that made even the dust in the parking lot look cinematic. Mickey stepped out of the car with the tight, protective posture of someone already bracing for a migraine.

You followed with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to being noticed. Your outfit wasn’t over the top — not exactly — but it hugged you right in all the places that made older women frown and men take longer sips of their beer.

The second the door opened, the familiar mix of music, laughter, and bar chatter hit you like a wave. You took a breath, slid your sunglasses up to rest on your head, and plastered on a small, unreadable smile.

Mickey scanned the bar quickly, eyes finding the Daggers crowded around their usual table near the back corner — beers in hand, casual and relaxed, half-tuned into the end of a college football game on the screen above.

Jake was the first to notice.

His eyes flicked toward the entrance — and then stopped. Froze, really. The bottle in his hand lingered at his lips as his gaze trailed from the top of your head to the tips of your boots and back again, slow and unhurried. His smirk formed instantly, a kind of reflex — easy, smooth, dangerous.

“Well, well,” he muttered, just loud enough for the table to hear. “That’s not who I thought García was bringing.”

Coyote turned, did a double take, then gave a low whistle. “No way that’s your sister.”

Mickey didn’t answer. His jaw was already set like concrete.

“Holy shit,” Payback said, eyebrows raised. “You were hiding that from us?”

Phoenix blinked, surprised, her drink halfway to her mouth. “Wait—she’s your sister?”

Bob, ever polite, tried not to stare too long — which made him even more obvious.

Bradley chuckled. “I see now why you kept her a secret. Damn.”

Mickey led you toward the table with a kind of reluctant march, shoulders tight, expression somewhere between this was a mistake and God, please behave.

You, of course, were glowing. You lived for this kind of attention — the looks, the tension, the static in the air that followed you like heat lightning.

“Everyone,” Mickey said tightly, “this is my sister.”

You gave them a honeyed smile. “Half-sister, technically.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, arms draped casually along the backrest, eyes never leaving you. “So you’re the girl we’ve been warned about.”

“Oh?” you said, head tilting. “What exactly did Mickey say?”

“That you’re off-limits,” Jake replied, voice smooth as bourbon. “But I’m very bad at following instructions.”

Mickey’s eyes went straight to murder. “Seresin.”

Jake held his hands up in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”

Coyote leaned toward Phoenix and whispered, “This is gonna be fun.”

You pulled out the empty chair next to Bob and sat down like you’d been part of the group for years. “So,” you said, crossing one leg over the other, “which one of you actually flies the planes, and which ones are just here to look hot in sunglasses?”

The table laughed — except for Mickey, who sat down beside you, looking like he wanted to crawl under it.

Jake’s grin widened. “Well, sweetheart, lucky for you, I do both.”

Mickey looked directly at Phoenix, desperate. “If I die tonight, you know who to blame.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “Honestly? You had this coming.”

It didn’t take long.

One drink in, and you were already bored of group conversation. The Daggers were nice — charming, even — but they all talked in shorthand. Inside jokes, old stories, the kind of ease that came from years in cockpits and bars together. You didn’t mind. You knew how to entertain yourself.

Especially when you had someone like him around.

You caught Jake’s eye across the table, your smile slow and unmistakably deliberate. The kind that asked a question without saying a word.

He raised an eyebrow — just one — and tipped his beer slightly toward the door leading to the deck.

You answered by standing.

Outside, the sun was low and golden, casting everything in a soft haze. The ocean breeze lifted your hair as you leaned against the worn wooden railing. Jake followed a second later, steps slow, almost amused.

“I figured you’d come find me eventually,” you said without turning.

“You figured right,” he said, leaning beside you, arms resting on the rail, just enough space between your shoulders to be maddening.

“Let me guess.” You glanced at him. “This is your usual move?”

“Not quite. Usually they come find me.”

You huffed a laugh, eyes flicking back to the horizon. “God, you’re cocky.”

He tilted his head. “And you like it.”

You didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel like you were winning. Then, with a sideways glance: “I think Mickey might actually explode.”

“He looks like he’s holding in a sneeze and a stroke at the same time,” Jake agreed, chuckling.

You smiled. “Serves him right for dragging me here like a stray cat.”

Jake gave you a once-over, slower this time. Not crude — more curious, like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, your angle was. “So what’s your story, princess?”

You arched a brow. “Princess?”

“You reek of money, attitude, and boredom.”

“Are you flirting with me or writing my biography?”

He laughed — full and unguarded. “Can’t it be both?”

You shrugged. “You tell me.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like he wanted to read every page of the mess you were pretending not to be.

“You know,” he said finally, “Mickey warned me to stay away from you.”

You smirked, turning to face him fully. “Then you should probably run.”

He stepped closer — not quite touching, but close enough to make the air feel warmer between you. “Too late for that.”

From inside, you could feel eyes watching. Maybe Phoenix, maybe your brother. But out here, in the fading light and quiet laughter of strangers, you didn’t care.

You grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Careful, Hangman. I break things.”

He smiled right back, slow and easy. “Good thing I’ve never been fragile.”

The deck door creaked open with a bang, and the breeze carried in the familiar weight of someone annoyed on purpose.

You didn’t even need to turn around.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for Jake to hear, “here comes the bodyguard.”

Jake chuckled, low and unbothered, sipping from his bottle as he leaned casually against the rail beside you. “That’s my cue.”

Mickey’s footsteps were heavy, his frown practically audible as he stopped a few feet away, arms crossed in full older-brother stance. “Seriously?” he said, voice sharp and incredulous. “We’ve been here ten minutes.”

You didn’t move. Just tilted your chin, met his glare with a pointed arch of your brow. “You need to calm your tits, Mickey.”

Jake snorted, nearly choking on his drink.

Mickey’s mouth fell open slightly, his annoyance flickering into disbelief. “Are you—Did you seriously just—”

“Yes,” you said, slowly and clearly, “I did. You’re at, like, an eleven and I need you at a five.”

“She’s not wrong.” Jake cleared his throat, straightening.

Mickey shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

You finally turned to face your brother fully, your expression drier than the San Diego air. “We’re standing. We’re talking. You didn’t walk out here to find me grinding on him under a neon sign.”

Jake wiggled his brows. “Not yet, anyway.”

You grinned. “Down, cowboy.”

Mickey looked between the two of you, frustration visibly warring with his desire not to have a coronary.

“You told me you’d behave,” he said to you.

“I am behaving,” you insisted. “You’re just not used to seeing me sober-ish and flirty.”

Jake leaned back on his elbows, amused. “So this is the toned-down version?”

You gave him a dazzling, innocent smile. “Depends. You got a pool table around here?”

Jake whistled low under his breath. “Damn, Mickey. You said she was trouble, but you didn’t say she was fun.”

Mickey’s face did that thing it always did right before he short-circuited — the twitch of his jaw, the tightening of his eyes. You stepped forward and gently patted his chest, as if he were a stressed-out golden retriever.

“Relax,” you said with faux sympathy. “I promise I won’t ruin your image. Unless you want me to.”

“You are the worst.”

“I’m the prettiest.”

Jake grinned, completely sold now. “This is gonna be a good summer.”

Mickey groaned and turned around, muttering something in Spanish as he headed back inside — leaving you and Jake in your quiet bubble once more, the sun casting long shadows across the deck, and the smell of beer and salt air wrapped thick in the space between you.

You looked at Jake. “So, where were we?”

He smirked. “I think you were about to show me your pool skills.”

[...]

The ride back to Mickey’s place was quiet.

Not awkward, exactly — just… still. The kind of silence that didn’t demand to be filled, not right away. The radio hummed low, some indie playlist Mickey probably didn’t remember putting on, and the city passed outside the window in soft blurs of neon and streetlight.

You sat curled against the door, one leg tucked up under you, cheek resting on your hand as you stared out into the night.

Your mind was still at the Hard Deck.

Still replaying the way Jake Seresin had looked at you — all heat and humor, like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt or take a bite. The way his voice had curled low when he teased you, that smooth drawl that made everything sound like a promise you weren’t sure he’d keep.

God, he was hot. Not just “bar guy hot” — real hot. The kind that filled out a t-shirt just right, who probably smelled like jet fuel and aftershave and trouble you couldn’t wait to touch.

You sighed before you could stop yourself.

Mickey didn’t look over, but you saw the way his hands tensed a little on the wheel.

“You should be careful with him,” he said suddenly, like he’d been chewing on it all the way from the parking lot.

You blinked, then turned toward him slowly. “With who?”

He didn’t answer right away, just flicked the turn signal and took the next exit like he was stalling. Then: “Jake.”

You stared at him for a beat. “Wow. Subtle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “I mean it.”

You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back against the seat. “You don’t think he’s too old for me, do you?” you teased lightly, trying to deflect — but your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Mickey sighed. “I think you’ve got a history of going for the kind of guys who know exactly what to say to get under your skin, and I think Jake’s smarter than most.”

You didn’t respond.

“I know you think I’m just being overprotective—”

“You are being overprotective.”

“—but I’ve seen how guys like him work. I train with him. I fly with him. And I’m telling you, he’s not looking for anything complicated.”

“And you think I’m complicated?” you asked, voice a little sharper than before.

“I think you’re not in a place where you need another person who’s just gonna blow through your life and leave smoke behind.”

You stared at the windshield, jaw tight. He didn’t mean it to hurt. But it still did.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he said just as softly. “I’m just asking you not to get hurt again.” You didn’t answer. The car rolled into the lot, headlights cutting across the pavement.

And suddenly, you weren’t thinking about Jake’s smirk or his arms or the way he leaned a little too close. You were thinking about Boston. About the after. The way one bad night turned into a dozen blurry ones. How easily the lines blurred between fun and escape, between warm and numb.

You were thinking about how much you hated feeling seen.

Mickey parked, killed the engine, and sat back. You opened the door without a word, stepping out into the night air.

You didn’t say goodnight.

And he didn’t expect you to.

The next morning, the apartment was too quiet.

It hit you the moment you stepped out of Mickey’s too-neat guest room and into the stillness of his little kitchen, barefoot and disoriented. Morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds, casting sharp, uneven lines across the tile floor. Somewhere outside, a neighbor's dog barked. A car alarm chirped once. Then nothing.

The silence made your skin crawl.

Mickey was already gone — early base shift, he'd said the night before with that same clipped voice he used when he didn’t want to be pressed further. The TV remote sat untouched on the coffee table. The fridge hummed softly, indifferent to your restlessness.

You wandered back to your room.

At first, it was just to grab your phone. But your fingers itched before you even reached for it — a familiar, gnawing heat low in your stomach and crawling up your spine.

You sat on the edge of the bed, opened your suitcase, and began digging.

Pills. Maybe you’d stashed something in a side pocket. Maybe one last tab. Just something to take the edge off.

Your fingers flew faster, rifling through layers of expensive clothes you didn’t even like, travel-sized makeup bags, crumpled receipts from airports you barely remembered. Your heart kicked up, not from fear — not yet — but from hope. Desperate, stupid hope.

But there was nothing.

You checked the lining. You checked your purse. You even got on your knees and stuck your hand under the bed like maybe it had just… fallen out.

Still nothing.

You sat back hard, spine hitting the edge of the mattress. The silence was louder now, almost mocking.

“Fuck,” you whispered into the room.

The craving wasn’t overwhelming yet — but it was coming. You could feel it curling around the base of your skull, tightening just a little. It always started like this: a whisper of discomfort. A flicker of boredom. Then the sudden, jarring awareness that your body wanted something it couldn’t have.

You glanced at your phone.

Couldn’t exactly search "MDMA dealer in San Diego" and get Yelp reviews. You didn’t know anyone here. Not well enough, anyway. And you sure as hell weren’t about to ask any of Mickey’s uptight military buddies.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. You had a guy back home in Boston. Always reliable. Always delivered. But flying anything across state lines was stupid, and Mickey was already suspicious. He’d see right through you.

You dropped the phone on the bed, hard, and exhaled through your teeth.

The problem wasn’t that you needed it every day.

The problem was that the days without it felt wrong.

Empty. Like the colors were off, the volume turned down, and your own skin didn’t fit right.

You rubbed your hands over your face, groaning. This was going to suck.

You needed to figure something out. But not now. Not yet. Maybe a shower. Maybe some food. Maybe—

You blinked, staring at the wall.

Maybe something to distract you.

You lay back against the bed, arms spread, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you answers. It didn’t. Just white paint and one lazy ceiling fan spinning too slow to matter.

The craving was louder now. Sharper.

It gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, tugged on your nerves like a frayed thread. Not full-blown panic — not yet — but you could feel your body buzzing with the lack. A low, jittery hum beneath your skin. It made everything feel too still. Too quiet. Like you might peel out of your own bones if you didn’t do something.

Anything.

You closed your eyes, tried to breathe.

That didn’t help either.

Instead, Jake’s face flashed behind your eyelids. That smirk. The way he’d leaned back against the railing last night like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him. The way his voice dragged across words like doll and trouble and made them sound filthy.

You swallowed hard, your thighs pressing together.

Maybe you couldn’t score right now — but there were other ways to shut your brain up. Other ways to flood your system with something sharp and hot and head-spinning.

Jake Seresin wasn’t just hot. He was magnetic. Confident in that cocky, half-charming, half-infuriating way that made women roll their eyes even as they edged closer. And he knew it. You could tell by the way he looked at you — like he already had your number, like he’d read every dirty thought you’d tried not to have and was just waiting for you to make the first move.

God, what he could probably do with those hands. With that mouth.

You shifted again, frustration prickling beneath your skin. The room felt stuffy. The air too thick. You sat up and yanked off your hoodie like it was suffocating you, tossing it to the floor in one dramatic motion.

You didn’t want to want him. You weren’t here to hook up with some cocky Navy pilot just because you were bored and spinning out. But then again…

What the hell else was there to do?

You got to your feet, pacing now. The silence of the apartment closed in tighter. No texts. No plans. No high. No anything.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring at your reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Your hair was a mess. Last night’s makeup smudged just enough to give you that effortless, undone look — the kind that screamed: Yes, I’m trouble, and I’m already bored.

You tilted your head. A slow, dangerous smile curled at your lips.

If Mickey didn’t want you talking to Jake, maybe that was exactly who you should be talking to.

Not because you cared what your brother thought.

And not because Jake might actually be worth your time.

But because it would feel good — even for a little while — to be the one in control again.

To take something for yourself, since no one else had let you choose a damn thing in over a year.

You picked your phone up from the bed, your thumb hovering over the screen.

You didn’t have Jake’s number.

Yet.

Mickey came home just after seven.

You were already on the couch, legs curled under you, pretending to scroll through your phone while some muted reality show flashed across the screen. You barely looked up when he came through the door, dropped his keys into the dish by the fridge, and kicked off his boots with a tired grunt.

He didn’t say much — just offered a distracted hey as he passed behind the couch. You caught a faint whiff of his laundry detergent and the sweat of a long day on base.

“Dinner?” he asked, disappearing into the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat.”

“I said I’m not hungry, Mom.”

He muttered something under his breath and let it drop. The fridge opened, then closed. A cabinet slammed. The microwave beeped twice. You waited, watching the seconds tick by on the oven clock.

When he finally sank onto the armchair with a plastic bowl of leftover rice and something that vaguely smelled like chicken, you knew your window had opened.

He set his phone on the end table.

Unlocked.

Idiot.

“Long day?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head.

He nodded, mouth full. “Fucking exhausting.”

You smiled — just a little — and leaned back into the cushions. “You should shower. Relax a little.”

Mickey squinted at you, suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently. “You look like you could use it.”

He narrowed his eyes but didn’t argue. A minute later, he was headed toward the bathroom, peeling off his shirt as he went. The sound of water running came soon after.

Mickey’s phone buzzed on the end table.

You didn’t move right away.

The apartment was quiet again — that same heavy stillness you’d woken up to — only now it felt less like a trap and more like a challenge. You listened to the water running behind the bathroom door, counted the seconds between footsteps. He was rinsing his hair. You had time.

You slid your hand over the side of the couch and picked up the phone.

Still unlocked.

You didn’t even have to guess the passcode — not when Mickey was dumb enough to use your birthday. Same four digits he’d been using since you were both kids. You typed it in, and the screen opened without a fight.

Messages. Contacts. Scroll.

There he was: Jake 🤡.

You rolled your eyes at the name but couldn’t help the little spark of excitement that lit in your chest. You tapped the contact, stared at the number, and copied it into your own phone without a second thought. You didn’t need to dig through their conversations. You already knew enough.

Jake Seresin was cocky, smooth, and undeniably hot — the kind of man who flirted like it was a second language and smirked like he’d already undressed you in his head. If Mickey didn’t want you anywhere near him, well… that just made it all the more tempting.

You opened a new message, pasted in the number, and let your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second. A slow grin curled on your lips.

Then, you started typing:

guess who stole your number, flyboy?

You stared at it for half a second longer, then hit send.

No regrets.

You tossed Mickey’s phone back onto the table with an innocent little thud just as the bathroom door creaked open. Steam spilled out behind him.

He looked at you warily. “You’re still sitting there?”

“Where else would I be?” you said, all sugar and sunshine. “Just having a quiet night in.”

He gave you a look but didn’t say anything.

Your own phone vibrated in your hand.

You didn’t check it — not yet. But the smile that played on your lips was impossible to hide.

Whatever came next?

You were ready for it.

Or at least, you thought you were.

Your phone buzzed again in your hand.

You didn’t even pretend not to look this time.

Unknown Number: Stole my number, huh? Should I be flattered or concerned?

Three dots blinked beneath the message before you could type a response.

And here I was thinking Fanboy's little sister would be all sugar and good manners. Didn’t peg you for a thief, sweetheart.

You smirked, heart tapping a little faster. Another message popped in right behind the last:

Let me guess... bored in San Diego and looking for a distraction? Careful. I’m not exactly the safe kind.

Short pause. Then:

But I am flattered. And curious. What exactly do you want to forget tonight, trouble?

The message sat there like a challenge — not crude, not overly bold — but threaded with just enough heat to make your breath catch. Just enough interest to let you know you’d hooked him. But it wasn’t desperate. It was Jake Seresin through and through: smooth, self-assured, respectful… with a hint of danger curling at the edges.

The ball was in your court now.

And he knew you’d serve it back.

The Hard Deck was already buzzing when you walked in.

Late enough that the sunlight had gone soft and golden through the high windows, early enough that the crowd was still easy to scan. You spotted him almost immediately — leaning against the bar, back half-turned, a beer bottle resting casually in one hand like it belonged there. His posture was easy, relaxed, but you caught the way his eyes flicked up the second you stepped through the door.

Bingo.

You didn’t slow down.

You knew what you looked like — tight black tank top, denim skirt that hit mid-thigh, your hair pinned up in that careless, sexy kind of way that looked like it had taken no effort but absolutely had. Lip gloss shining, confidence dialed high. No Mickey to chaperone. Just you and your cravings, and Jake Seresin standing like a sin waiting to happen. Phoenix spotted you first.

Her brows lifted in surprise — not unkind, just curious — and then flicked quickly toward Jake. Bob followed her gaze, his expression unreadable behind his glasses.

You didn’t look at them.

You walked right up to Jake, your heels clicking softly across the wooden floor, and stopped just close enough to skim the edge of his personal space. His mouth tugged into a slow, amused smile.

“Well, well,” he drawled, giving you a once-over that burned without lingering. “Look who came all the way down here just to flirt with danger.”

You tilted your head, eyes glittering. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for danger... especially when it answers my texts.”

Jake chuckled, low in his throat. “Fanboy know you’re out here stirring up trouble?”

You leaned in a little, letting your arm brush his as you propped your elbows on the bar. “What Mickey doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“Careful,” he said, voice dipping, “you’re starting to sound like a bad idea.”

“Maybe I am,” you said sweetly, lips curling. “Maybe I’m just really good at pretending otherwise.”

His brow twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or worried. “You always come on this strong, or am I just special?”

You smiled with your teeth this time. “You’re very pretty, Jake. I like pretty things. Don’t take it too personally.”

He studied you for a beat, the beer forgotten in his hand. The way you smiled — wide, reckless, like you weren’t afraid of anything — it didn’t read as naive. If anything, you looked like someone chasing a high, someone trying to outrun something invisible. But Jake wasn’t the type to go digging through people’s shadows. He just assumed this was your way of poking the bear.

And hell, maybe it was.

Still, something about the intensity in your eyes made him shift slightly.

“You want a drink?” he asked eventually, more gentle than flirty.

“I want whatever gets me to the fun part faster,” you replied, licking a bit of gloss from your bottom lip.

Phoenix turned slightly in her seat, watching from the corner of her eye. Bob said nothing, but you could feel his attention too.

Jake exhaled through his nose — half amused, half uncertain — and finally gestured to the bartender.

“All right, sweetheart. One drink,” he said. “But don’t expect me to carry you out if you start swinging at a jukebox.”

You grinned, that adrenaline prickle crawling up your spine again — not quite as sharp as a pill under the tongue, but close. Close enough.

“Deal,” you said, and tapped his bottle with your fingernail.

The night was warm, heavy with salt air and the low hum of laughter still trailing from inside the Hard Deck. The stars were faint behind the haze of city glow, and the parking lot lights cast long, golden shadows against the pavement.

Your back hit the side of Jake’s truck with a soft thud.

His mouth was on yours before you could finish laughing — all teeth and heat and hands that gripped your waist like he’d been starving. He kissed like he flew: confident, calculated, a little reckless. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, pressing flush against him like maybe he could drown out everything you didn’t want to feel.

And for a minute, he did.

Jake let out a low groan when you nipped at his lip, like the sound had been trapped behind his teeth all night. His hands slid down to your thighs, lifting just slightly, and you laughed against his mouth.

“Well,” you whispered, breathless, “that didn’t take long.”

Jake chuckled against your skin, lips brushing your jaw, your neck. “I warned you,” he muttered.

“Good,” you whispered, your voice sultry, teasing. “Let's go to your place, or we can do it here.” You reached for his belt.

Jake froze.

The shift was subtle, but instant. His hands stilled. His lips hovered, no longer moving. And then, carefully — too carefully — he stepped back.

You blinked at him, confused. Your chest was rising and falling like you’d just run a mile.

“What—?”

“Don’t,” he said softly, lifting his hand, not quite touching you anymore. “Just… don’t.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t what?”

Jake exhaled, like the weight of what he was about to say had been sitting on him for a while. “You’re gorgeous. And I like you. God help me, I really like you.” His voice was tight, jaw clenched. “But I can’t do this. Not like this. Not in my truck outside a damn bar. Not when you’re Mickey’s little sister.”

“Oh, now you care?” you snapped, your tone turning sharp. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it five seconds ago when your tongue was halfway down my throat.”

“Yeah, well,” Jake muttered, running a hand through his hair, stepping another inch back, “five seconds ago I wasn’t picturing Mickey finding out and trying to take my head off with a wrench.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is that what this is? You scared of my brother?”

“I respect your brother,” Jake corrected. “And I’m not going to disrespect him by hooking up with you in the goddamn parking lot.”

You looked at him like he’d slapped you.

“Oh, I see,” you said slowly, voice ice-cold. “So I’m a hookup now?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Seresin?” you shot back. “Because from where I’m standing, it kinda sounds like you’re saying you’re into me but not enough to actually do anything about it.”

Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he might try again — but he didn’t.

Your lips curled, bitter and bright.

“Whatever,” you muttered. “I’ve had better makeouts anyway.”

You pushed past him, heels clicking on the pavement, your pulse thudding hot behind your ribs. You didn’t look back — not when he called your name, not when he didn’t.

You were already burning.

And you knew where to find something that would put the fire out.

The Uber pulled up outside your brother’s apartment, but you never got out. You just clicked “change destination,” slid across the back seat like you’d done it a hundred times before, and fed the driver the name of a club Mickey would never set foot in — too loud, too flashy, too full of the very people he didn’t trust you to be around.

Your fingers hovered over your phone screen for a second.

You turned it off.

Let it vanish into your bag like it didn’t exist, like you didn’t exist — at least not the version of you Mickey wanted so badly to believe was still there.

By the time you stepped into the pulsing darkness of the club, the bass had already stitched itself into your bones. Red and blue lights spun across the walls like a kaleidoscope of chaos, and the air smelled like sweat and sweet liquor and something artificial you could never quite name but always recognized.

You moved like you belonged.

Past the crowd at the entrance, past the line at the bar. Eyes followed you, some curious, some hungry. But you weren’t here for that. Not tonight.

You scanned the bodies.

You knew the signs — you’d learned them the hard way. The guy leaning on the railing above the dance floor, hoodie pulled low over his eyes despite the heat. The girl in fishnets by the bathroom who hadn’t stopped twitching. The cluster of people too calm in a place designed for chaos.

You found him tucked into a booth behind the DJ setup. Skinny, pale, with rings on every finger and pupils like dinner plates.

You slid in beside him.

“Boston girl,” you said smoothly, just loud enough for him to hear. “Looking to get nostalgic.”

He looked you over once — top to heels — and smirked. “Molly?”

Your smile was slow, almost grateful. “You got it.”

He pulled a little zip bag from his pocket, already palming one capsule into your hand like it was nothing.

You tucked it into your purse, fingers brushing the cool plastic like it was a secret no one could touch.

“You new in town?” he asked, already eyeing you like he wanted more than your cash.

“Something like that,” you said, standing.

The music hit you like a wave as you turned back toward the floor. Your pulse was already racing. Not from the drug — not yet — but from the promise of it. From knowing that in twenty minutes, everything would melt. The ache in your chest. The heat under your skin. The bitter taste of Jake’s rejection still clinging to your tongue.

You’d feel better soon.

You always did.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Mickey stood in the center of the living room, phone clutched tight in his hand, staring at the still-closed door to your bedroom.

He'd already knocked — twice. No answer.

Now he pushed it open, dread curling low in his stomach, half-expecting to find you face-down in bed, headphones on, refusing to engage with the world like usual.

The bed was empty.

The window was shut. No note. No texts.

No you.

He cursed under his breath, already dialing. First your number — straight to voicemail.

"Goddamnit."

Then again. Then again.

By the fourth call, his voice was shaking.

He dialed Phoenix next.

"Yeah?"

"Is she with you?" he barked, not even bothering to say your name.

Phoenix sounded confused. "What? No—wait, who? Your sister?"

"Yes. She’s not here. She’s not picking up."

There was a pause. Then: “She was at the Hard Deck earlier.”

Mickey stopped cold. “What?” His heart dropped straight through the floor, not bothering to let Nat finish.

He hung up without another word, grabbing his keys from the counter so fast he nearly knocked over the lamp.

She could be anywhere. With anyone. With Jake.

His fists clenched.

He didn’t care how good a pilot Jake was or how many pull-ups he could do in a row — if he’d laid a finger on you—

The lock clicked behind him.

The door creaked open.

You stepped inside like nothing was wrong — purse swinging, cheeks still a little flushed from the night, eyeliner smudged just enough to look deliberate. Your hair was a mess. Your heels clicked softly against the hardwood. And you froze the moment you saw Mickey standing in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes blazing.

"Where the hell were you?" he snapped.

"Out," you said breezily, slipping off your shoes like you hadn’t just given him a heart attack.

"Don't," he warned, voice low. “Don’t play this game with me.”

You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes. “I’m not playing anything, Mickey.”

“You turned off your phone. You didn’t leave a note. I thought you were dead in a fucking alley!”

“I’m not,” you said simply. “Clearly.”

“I swear to God, if you were with Jake—"

You laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. “Relax. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you bit out, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Jake doesn’t want me.”

Mickey blinked, thrown for a moment.

You kept talking, your voice light, almost sing-song. “Turns out your precious wingman has a conscience. Or maybe he just thought I was too much. Either way, he slammed the brakes before anything fun happened.”

Mickey stared at you, stunned.

There was something brittle beneath your words. Something off. But he didn’t know how to name it. Didn’t know how to reach you.

So instead, he just said, “Good. Because if he had touched you—"

“Jesus,” you muttered, yanking open the fridge like it had personally offended you. “What are you gonna do, Mick? Ground me?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m two seconds away from locking you in this goddamn apartment until you stop acting like the whole world’s your playground.”

You slammed the fridge shut. “Then maybe I’ll just leave again.”

And for a second — a real second — he didn’t know if you meant it.

The silence was sharp.

You looked at each other, two sides of the same storm. Then you turned on your heel and disappeared into your room, door slamming behind you.

Mickey stood there for a long time after.

Not mad.

Just scared.

Your door slammed harder than you intended. The echo of it cracked through the silence, followed by the sound of your own uneven breathing.

The click of the lock was automatic. A reflex. You didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to see the hurt flickering behind Mickey’s anger. You didn’t want to feel anything at all.

You stood in the middle of the room, still dressed from the night — glitter smeared along your collarbone, lashes barely hanging on, heels abandoned by the foot of the bed. Your purse hit the mattress, and from it, the little plastic bag slipped free.

There it was.

One capsule left. Just one.

You sat down slowly, like the weight of the day had finally caught up. Your fingers curled around the bag, staring through it like you might find something else inside. Something other than a cheap promise of escape. Something you hadn’t already taken a dozen times before.

But it was just molly. Just powder.

Just the only thing that still gave you a few hours of peace.

Your fingers tightened around it.

You didn’t even mean to cry.

It started soft — a prickling behind your eyes. Then came the sting. The burn. The tightness in your throat. You pressed your palm to your mouth like you could shove it down, but your shoulders started to shake anyway.

“I don’t wanna be like this,” you whispered into the dark.

The room didn’t care. It sat there in silence — still and clean and unfamiliar. No party. No music. No soft laughter or sweaty dance floors. Just you and a twin-sized bed and a framed photo of Mickey with his squad on the wall. And the echo of your guilt ricocheting through your chest like shrapnel.

You lay back, the capsule still clutched in your hand, blinking up at the ceiling.

You didn’t mean to think about it.

But you saw it again anyway.

That night. That party. The moment everything shifted.

The laugh you forced, the way your skin crawled, the flashes of hands you never invited, voices you couldn’t focus on, your own pulse like a scream in your ears. You blinked hard, willing the memory away, biting the inside of your cheek to chase something real, something present, something now.

Mickey didn’t know.

He thought you were doing it for attention.

You almost laughed at that — but it caught somewhere in your chest, jagged and sour. You didn’t want to make him mad. You didn’t want to keep worrying him. He was trying. You could see it. He’d brought you here, changed his whole life just to watch over you. And you? You kept fucking up.

You turned onto your side, curled up around the stupid plastic bag like it was something holy.

“I don’t wanna be a mess,” you whispered again. “I just… don’t know how not to be.”

Your tears soaked the edge of the pillow. You didn’t bother to wipe them away.

You didn’t take the molly.

Not yet.

But you didn’t put it away, either.

You just held it in your fist until your fingers ached and your breathing finally slowed, and the silence swallowed you whole.

[...]

The light seeped through the blinds in thin, golden stripes across the room, landing on your cheek like a soft, slow reminder that the world had kept spinning while you slept. Your eyes fluttered open, crusted and raw, and your throat was tight from all the crying — that ugly kind of crying that comes from the pit of your stomach, the kind you don’t admit to later.

Your head throbbed dully. Not quite a hangover, not quite a high. Just… aftermath.

You were still in last night’s clothes, one arm tangled under the pillow, the other curled protectively around the little plastic bag you never ended up using. It lay limp and warm in your fist, like a secret you weren’t ready to give up yet.

You stared at the ceiling for a long time, unmoving. You felt… hollow. Not broken. Not dramatic. Just the echo of yourself, stretched too thin.

Eventually, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, blinking hard as the screen lit up.

3 missed calls — Mickey

1 new message — Jake Seresin

Your stomach fluttered — unhelpfully. You sat up slowly, thumb hovering for a second before you tapped into the message.

Jake Seresin:

Sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You got under my skin, not gonna lie.

If you’re still talking to me, I’d like to make it up to you. Breakfast? Just you and me.

You stared at it.

The words didn’t make sense right away. You read them again. And again.

Jake. Apologizing.

The same Jake your brother warned you to stay the hell away from. The one who looked at you like he wanted to tear your clothes off, then pulled back like you were something fragile. Like he was the one who had something to lose.

Breakfast.

You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve scoffed and deleted it.

But you didn’t.

Your lips curled — not quite a smile. Just the beginning of one. A tug at the corner of your mouth, a twitch of something almost light.

You didn’t reply. Not yet.

Instead, you got up.

Peeling off your wrinkled clothes, splashing water on your face, brushing through your tangled hair. You looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl who’d sobbed herself to sleep with drugs in her hand — but she was still in there. Still lingering around the edges.

Still holding on.

Still trying.

Maybe she deserved pancakes.

You were halfway through tying your boots when Mickey emerged from his bedroom, shirtless, towel draped over one shoulder and wet hair curling at the ends. He blinked blearily at you standing by the door, dressed — brushed, jacket in hand — like someone who’d been up for hours.

His brows pulled together.

“You’re going out?”

You didn’t look up as you tightened the laces. “Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face, squinting at the clock on the microwave. “It’s not even nine.”

You stood, grabbing your phone and sliding it into your bag. “I didn’t realize I needed clearance to leave.”

“That’s not what I said.”

You finally met his eyes, your expression unreadable — calm, if a little cool. “I’m not going to burn the place down. Or run away. Or whatever scenario you’re playing in your head.”

Mickey opened his mouth, then shut it. He sighed. “I just—Christ, I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Then don’t.”

He studied you carefully. You weren’t dressed like you were going clubbing. Weren’t trembling or twitchy like the other night. No signs of a hangover. Just jeans, a jacket, mascara, and a soft tinge of pink on your cheeks.

You looked… normal.

Better than normal, even.

“Where are you going?” he asked, gently this time.

You paused with your hand on the doorknob. “Breakfast.”

A beat.

“Alone?”

You smiled, slow and infuriatingly evasive. “You said you didn’t want to fight.”

“Right,” he muttered, running a hand through his still-damp curls. “You’re not a prisoner. I get it.”

“Glad we agree.”

You slipped out the door before he could say anything else.

But Mickey stood there a moment longer, staring at the closed door, heart thumping with unease.

He trusted you.

He wanted to trust you.

But something in your voice — that lilt of confidence — didn’t sound like nothing.

And he’d known you long enough to recognize the glint in your eye when you were up to something.

jake's pov -

Jake sat at a table near the window, fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee he hadn’t really touched. The café was small — charming, even. Brick walls, worn wood floors, low music humming from the speakers. A place you chose, not him. That alone said something. Not the kind of spot for someone looking to seduce or impress.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes early.

Typical.

He wasn’t nervous — not exactly. But something about this whole thing had his leg bouncing under the table, and he couldn’t shake the memory of your mouth on his, your fingers tugging at his collar, the way you’d looked at him like you wanted to ruin him just to see if he’d let you.

He almost had.

He would’ve.

Jake rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

What the hell are you doing, Seresin?

You weren’t just a pretty face in a crowded bar. You weren’t just another girl looking for attention. You were Mickey’s little sister — the same Mickey who once tackled a guy at a dive bar for making a rude comment about Phoenix.

And Jake had tried. God, he’d tried.

But then you walked into the Hard Deck like you owned the whole damn place, tossed your hair over your shoulder, and gave him that smile — the kind that was born to cause problems. And he hadn’t stood a chance.

That kiss had been a bad idea. The best kind. Messy, hungry, and full of something neither of you had named yet. And then the way you whispered it — Let’s go to your place — like a dare, like you knew he’d cave.

And he almost had.

But then he saw Mickey’s face in the back of his mind, and guilt sucker-punched the want right out of him. Not for long, but long enough.

Jake sighed and leaned back in the chair, lifting the mug to his lips just to give his hands something to do. Bitter, lukewarm coffee.

He glanced toward the door.

You weren’t the first woman to tempt him into trouble — but you were the first who made it feel like it might be worth the consequences.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He didn’t know what your deal was yet. There was something behind your eyes. Something sharp and sweet and sad all at once. You didn’t flirt like someone playing a game. You flirted like someone trying to survive.

It made him want to know more.

It made him want to keep you from whatever the hell you were running from — even if he had no business trying.

His phone buzzed on the table. A message from Phoenix: You really about to have breakfast with Fanboy’s sister? You got a death wish or just a kink for chaos?

Jake smirked, typing back with one hand: Wouldn’t you like to know.

And that’s when he saw you.

Through the window. Head tilted, sunglasses slipping down your nose. Hair pulled back with zero effort and still looking like something out of a music video. You paused outside the door, smoothing down your jacket and pulling out your lip gloss, like you hadn’t made him sweat just 48 hours ago.

He was done for.

Again.

The bell above the café door chimed, and Jake forced himself not to sit up straighter. You stepped inside like the morning belonged to you, like the air adjusted itself around your presence. Casual, confident, smug in a way that wasn’t entirely performative. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t tell — and that intrigued him more than he’d like to admit.

Your sunglasses slid up to rest on your head, revealing those sharp eyes that scanned the room like you were bored already, even though the corner of your mouth twitched the moment you saw him.

You made your way to the table, tugging your jacket off one shoulder in that unconsciously flirtatious way he was starting to suspect was very conscious.

“You waited,” you said, dropping into the chair across from him like this wasn’t a potential landmine wrapped in brunch plans.

Jake smirked, lifting his mug. “Well, I was raised right.”

“Debatable.”

“Fair,” he admitted, setting the cup down. “But I did apologize.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You did. That’s a first.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What can I say? You bring out the manners in me.”

“I’d rather bring out something else.” Your voice was low, lazy. Testing him.

Jake’s smile faltered — not in disapproval, but because his pulse had just quickened, and he hated that you noticed. You always noticed.

“Thought we were doing pancakes, not phone sex,” he drawled, folding his hands on the table.

“Can’t a girl multitask?” You leaned forward just enough for him to smell whatever perfume you were wearing — something warm, almost sweet, laced with a hint of trouble.

Jake swallowed hard.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow. “Now you sound like my brother.”

“God, don’t say that. This moment was almost enjoyable.”

You laughed — real and bright — and for a moment, Jake forgot about all the reasons this was supposed to be a bad idea. You looked better than you did at night. That glow in your skin wasn’t club lighting; it was daylight and fresh coffee and something softer than your usual shield of sarcasm.

“Thanks for texting,” you said finally, a little quieter, fiddling with the sugar packet in front of you.

Jake tilted his head. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually want me to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged, but it was evasive. “You pulled away last time. Guys don’t usually do that unless they’re embarrassed. Or bored. Or liars.”

Jake frowned, leaning in just slightly. “I pulled away because I’ve still got a few morals left. Because Mickey would kill me if he found out. Because I’m not trying to mess you up more than you already are.”

The last part slipped out. Too honest. Too fast.

Your expression didn’t shift much, but something in your eyes darkened.

Just a flicker.

“I’m not a charity case,” you said smoothly, but your tone lost some of its heat.

“I never said you were.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, thick but not suffocating.

Jake sighed, leaning back and signaling the waitress with two fingers. “Let’s eat. I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna need something sweet to survive this.”

You smirked again. “I hear you already survived my brother’s fists. You’ll be fine.”

“Yet somehow,” he said, smiling right back, “you’re scarier than he is.”

And just like that, the tension thinned. The thread between you taut, but not fraying. A truce — temporary or not, neither of you cared to define it. Not yet.

The waitress had just walked away with their order — two coffees, one black, one swimming in cream and sugar, and a split stack of pancakes — when you spoke again. Your voice was different this time. Quieter. Less like you were trying to win something.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” you said, not looking at him.

Jake blinked. “For what?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You traced the rim of your water glass with your finger, as if trying to line up the words just right. “Last night. I… wasn’t in a great place. And I thought maybe if I just distracted myself — if I pushed hard enough — I could make everything shut up for a little while.”

Your gaze flicked up to meet his. Steady. Unflinching. “It wasn’t fair to do that to you.”

Jake didn’t say anything at first. He hadn’t expected it — the apology, the clarity, the self-awareness so rarely seen beneath your usual armor of charm and sharp wit. It threw him.

“You didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” he said slowly, watching you. “But… I appreciate you saying that.”

You nodded. “I know what it looks like. I flirt, I push, I act like I don’t care. But I do. And I know I shouldn’t use people to feel better. I’m trying not to be that girl.”

Something about the way you said it — not ashamed, but tired — made his chest tighten.

You were still wearing lip gloss and still sitting like you knew you were the hottest person in the room, but your walls had slipped just enough for him to see the ache behind your eyes. Not for attention. Not for drama. But for quiet.

For peace.

Jake leaned back in his seat and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay. We start fresh. No expectations, no guilt. Just… pancakes.”

You smiled, soft and surprised. “You’re kind of decent sometimes.”

Jake grinned. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. It felt like the first moment neither of you was performing.

Not hiding.

Just breathing.

And Jake knew — this was why he didn’t walk away.

Not because of the thrill, or Mickey’s warning, or the chase.

But because for the first time in a long time, someone looked right at him, not past him, and still sat across the table anyway.

By the time the pancakes arrived, the mood had lightened. You were halfway through yours, picking the blueberries off the top and popping them into your mouth one by one, when Jake finally asked the question that had been simmering in the back of his mind.

“So,” he said, slicing through his stack with exaggerated concentration. “Mickey.”

You snorted. “That’s a hell of a way to ruin pancakes.”

Jake smirked. “I just mean — he’s got this whole overprotective-big-brother thing going on, and don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive, but… you’re not a kid.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable.

Jake went on, carefully. “You don’t act like a little sister. You act like someone who’s been running her own show for a while now. So why is he acting like you need a full-time bodyguard?”

You set your fork down. Not hard — just deliberately. You didn’t seem offended. More… thoughtful.

“Because Mickey only sees what he wants to see,” you said after a moment. “He sees the bratty little girl who had everything handed to her and complained when the ribbon wasn’t the color she wanted.”

Jake raised a brow. “Was it pink?”

You almost smiled. “It was lavender.”

He laughed, then sobered a little as he leaned in. “He cares, you know.”

“I know,” you said, quieter now. “But caring doesn’t mean understanding.”

Jake didn’t push. He let the silence sit between you for a moment, giving you space. You filled it anyway.

“He thinks I’m some spoiled mess who’s just acting out for attention. And maybe part of me is. I mean, I was a mess this year. Still am, sometimes.” You poked at a corner of your pancake. “It’s been… rough.”

Jake watched you. Not judging. Just listening.

“Rough how?” he asked gently.

Your mouth twisted like you were considering how much to give. Then, a shrug.

Jake watched as you swirled a blueberry through a pool of syrup, your expression unreadable. He decided to try again — gently. “So… your dad.”

Your eyes flicked up, a little wary now.

Jake raised a hand in surrender. “You don’t have to answer. I just… Mickey never talks about him. Like, ever.”

A beat passed. Then, with a sigh, you leaned back in your chair.

“He doesn’t like him,” you said simply. “Mickey’s never liked him. My dad’s… intense. Controlling, yeah, probably. Old-school to the bone. But he loves us. And I love him.”

There was a softness to your voice, like you were defending someone others didn’t understand.

“I know he expects too much, and I know he doesn’t always say things the right way. But he gave me everything. He raised me to be strong — to never settle. Mickey thinks I’m brainwashed. He doesn’t get that it’s not all black and white.”

Jake nodded slowly, taking that in. “So Mickey resents him.”

“He resents me, too, sometimes,” you said, almost too casually. “I got the life he didn’t want. Fancy schools, private cars, champagne brunches. And all I ever wanted was to be at the beach with my brother, making sandcastles.”

There it was — a flash of something raw. Unpolished. Honest.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about all that?” he asked.

You blinked. “Like…?”

“Like a therapist. Someone trained to untangle all the shit your family dumped on you.”

You scoffed. “What, and be told I have daddy issues? No thanks.”

Jake smiled softly. “You said it’s been a rough year. You ever think maybe it doesn’t have to keep being rough?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him, brows drawn, like no one had ever said it to you that way before.

Then, “Why do you care?”

Jake paused. That was a loaded question, and you both knew it.

He could give you a dozen answers. Because he liked you. Because you challenged him. Because behind the gloss and sarcasm and perfect posture, he saw a girl who didn’t really want to fall apart — she just didn’t know how else to hold on.

Instead, he said, “Because someone should.”

You looked at him for a long time, mouth parted slightly like you were going to say something. But the words never came. Not then.

You just picked up your fork again, stabbed a piece of pancake, and said, “Fine. Next time you make out with me, lead with that line.”

Jake grinned. “See? Progress.”

Jake watched you across the table as you leaned forward to snag the last blueberry off your plate, mumbling something about how it was the best part. You looked more relaxed now — still guarded, still carefully composed — but there was a softness around the edges that hadn’t been there when you first walked in.

And he saw it now. Saw you.

Not just the girl with the smirk and the perfect lipstick and the don’t-touch-me confidence. But the version underneath it — the one who’d been hurt and hadn’t figured out how to talk about it yet. The one who’d spent so long trying to live up to expectations that she didn’t know who she was when everything fell apart.

And he got it. God, he got it.

He had sisters. Three of them. Different personalities, different lives — but he knew their tells. Knew what it looked like when something was off, when a smile was a little too bright or the silence was just a little too long. If one of them had been spiraling the way you were, trying to distract yourself with parties or pills or people — he’d burn the world down to pull them out.

And Mickey… he wasn’t wrong for being protective. But he wasn’t seeing it clearly either. He still looked at you and saw a spoiled little sister with too much eyeliner and not enough boundaries. But Jake — Jake was starting to see the cracks forming beneath the surface. The weight of something that had nothing to do with privilege, and everything to do with pain.

You were two seconds away from a cry for help — except you were so good at pretending you didn’t need saving that most people wouldn’t even notice.

But he did.

He saw you.

And now that he did, he wasn’t sure he could unsee it.

Not sure he wanted to.

The ride back to Mickey’s place was quiet in the easy kind of way, with the windows cracked open just enough to let in the golden breeze of late afternoon. You rested your head against the passenger window, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks, a peaceful expression replacing the sharpness you usually wore like armor. Jake kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely in his lap, resisting the urge to reach for yours. Not because he didn’t want to — he just didn’t want to break the stillness you seemed to need.

When he pulled up to the curb, you didn’t immediately move. You just sat there, eyes forward, lips pursed in thought. Then you turned to him, gaze searching his face like you were trying to memorize it.

“Thanks,” you said softly, voice still a little hoarse from the morning’s crying. “For breakfast. And for not being a dick about last night.”

Jake smiled faintly. “You’re welcome. And for the record, I was dangerously close to being a dick. But… I’m glad I wasn’t.”

You smirked. “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. I’d still be thinking about you.”

That pulled a laugh from him — quiet, low, genuine. “Jesus, you’re dangerous.”

“Maybe,” you said as you pushed the door open. “But I’m working on it.”

Jake watched you walk toward the building, his smile fading into something softer, more contemplative. He didn’t know exactly what was coming next for you — but he had a feeling you were finally heading toward it with your eyes open.

your pov -

You had barely stepped inside when Mickey’s voice cut through the living room like a warning shot.

“That better not have been Seresin’s truck.”

You let out a groan and dropped your bag on the kitchen counter, peeling off your jacket like the conversation wasn’t already circling like a hawk overhead. “Good afternoon to you too, Mickey.”

He was already standing by the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Don’t play with me. I know what his truck looks like. Tell me you weren’t with him.”

You arched a brow and turned to the fridge. “You’re making it sound like I came back with a neck tattoo and a police escort.”

“I told you to stay away from him,” Mickey said, stepping closer. His voice was lower now, but sharp around the edges. “He’s too old for you. And he’s—”

“A grown man who listens better than you do?” you shot back, spinning to face him, eyes blazing.

Mickey blinked. That stopped him cold.

You took a breath. “I had breakfast with Jake. We talked. And it helped. That’s all.” He opened his mouth to argue, but you lifted a hand to stop him. “And before you start lecturing me, just—listen. I’ve decided to go to therapy.”

He froze. “What?”

You nodded. “I don’t want to keep feeling like this. Like I’m unraveling all the time. I’m gonna try to get better.” You crossed your arms, but your tone was calm — not defensive, not flippant. Just… real. “Not for you. Not for Dad. For me.”

There was a long beat of silence. Mickey’s face shifted — confusion first, then something softer, like hope dressed in disbelief.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You turned away again, heading for your room, the heaviness still in your chest but lifted just enough to let in a breath.

Maybe it wasn’t a full step forward.

But it was something.

[...]

It had been three months.

Three months of early morning therapy sessions twice a week, of slowly learning how to speak without flinching at your own thoughts. You’d stopped picking at your cuticles. Started showering without guilt. Some days you even forgot to check how many hours you’d gone without crying. It wasn’t linear — it never was — but you were steady now. Lighter.

Mickey had started looking at you differently. Less like a ticking time bomb, more like a person. Sometimes, after dinner, he’d say something like “I’m proud of you” without looking at you directly, as if the words burned his tongue a little on the way out. You’d roll your eyes, but secretly you’d store them up like gold.

And then there was Jake.

Your relationship with him had shifted in that quiet, subtle way things do when two people stop pretending. You didn’t flirt like you used to — not to stir chaos or chase a thrill. Now, when you teased him, it was slow, soft, like a habit you weren’t ready to break.

He let you.

He didn’t push, didn’t chase. But he never backed away either.

You saw him most weekends now — at the Hard Deck, at bonfires with the Daggers, or when he and the rest brought takeout after long training days. He always made sure to save you the last fry or bring you your drink exactly the way you liked it. He never made a big deal out of it, but it was the kind of thing you noticed. The kind of thing you used to dream of having and didn’t think you deserved anymore.

But the pill was still there.

Tucked in a tiny ziplock bag inside your old makeup pouch, hidden behind a row of unused lipsticks. You hadn’t touched it. You hadn’t needed it — not in the way you used to. But you hadn’t flushed it either.

It was a safety net, or maybe a threat. A ghost of a promise you hadn’t yet made peace with.

Some nights, when the silence got too loud, you’d unzip the pouch and just… look at it. Like it might talk back. Like it might still offer you something that no longer lived in your body.

You were healing. Slowly. Not perfectly.

And Jake — Jake was still there.

Today, you were headed to a beach hangout with the squad. Phoenix had texted you that it was low-key and Mickey had rolled his eyes the whole way out the door like he knew damn well Jake would offer to drive you. Which, of course, he did.

And now, Jake’s truck rumbled beside the curb, his elbow perched on the open window, aviators pushed up into his hair as he waved you over like you were the main event.

“You always this slow or just trying to make an entrance?” he smirked.

You grinned, flipping him off as you climbed in. “I like to keep my fans waiting.”

Jake laughed — full and easy. It vibrated through you in a way that wasn’t quite dangerous anymore.

Just warm.

The salty tang of the ocean mixed with the sharp scent of sunscreen as you and Jake stepped onto the warm sand, the sun dipping lazily toward the horizon. The beach was alive with the easy chatter of the Daggers sprawled on blankets and beach chairs, coolers open and laughter riding the sea breeze.

Mickey was there, arms folded, wearing his usual scowl that softened only when you caught his eye. Rooster was tossing a frisbee, while Phoenix and Payback were in a heated debate over who should be on charge of the playlist. Coyote and Bob were setting up a small grill, the promise of burgers wafting through the air.

And then, just like an unexpected encore, Maverick and Penny arrived, their presence causing a ripple of smiles and nods. Penny, with her bright eyes and easy laugh, pulled you into a quick hug, whispering, “Glad you made it.”

Jake’s grip found your hand as you wandered toward the water’s edge, the sand cool between your toes. “Look at you,” he said softly. “All calm and collected.”

You nudged him playfully. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you like me.”

He laughed, the sound deep and sure. “I already do.”

The day unfolded in waves—impromptu games of volleyball, shared stories around the grill, and the gentle ease of being surrounded by people who felt like family. Mickey’s protective gaze lingered longer than usual, but you caught Jake’s knowing glance and squeezed his hand, silently telling him everything was okay.

Mickey stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a careful mask drawn over his usual scowl. His eyes never left you and Jake as they laughed together, the sunlight catching in your hair and the ease between you both so strikingly different from the guarded version of you he’d known for months.

On one hand, there was relief — a quiet, aching relief that you were smiling like this again, really smiling, not just the brittle kind that masked pain. He could see it in the way your eyes sparkled when Jake teased you, the way you leaned into him without hesitation. For the first time in a long time, you looked like you belonged somewhere. Like you were safe.

But in the other hand, there was a stubborn knot of worry twisting tighter with every passing minute. Jake — the man Mickey had warned you against, the guy he’d kept at arm’s length for so long — he had a way of pushing boundaries. A way of stirring things up, and Mickey wasn’t sure if that would help or hurt the fragile progress you’d made.

What if Jake saw you as nothing more than a game? What if the cracks Mickey knew were still deep inside you got worse because of some careless mistake? The thought was unbearable.

Yet, watching you now, so alive and laughing, Mickey couldn’t bring himself to speak up. Not when this moment was so rare and so real.

He took a breath, fighting the impulse to call you back, to remind you to be careful — to protect you, even from yourself.

Instead, he let the waves crash at his feet and hoped that maybe, just maybe, this time things could be different.

You wandered away from the main group, toes sinking into the cool, damp sand where the waves curled toward the shore. The orange glow of sunset stretched across the water like melted gold, and behind you, the murmur of laughter and music from the bonfire faded into background noise. You heard someone win a round of cornhole, someone else yelling about a burger being undercooked.

Jake followed without needing to be asked. His steps were quieter now, more careful. He fell into stride beside you, close enough that your arms brushed, his eyes flicking sideways every few seconds like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say something, or if this was one of those moments where the silence mattered more.

“You okay?” he asked finally.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… taking it in.”

“You seemed quiet for a second.”

You glanced up at him, then back at the water. “Quiet doesn’t always mean bad.”

“I know,” he said. “Just means you’re thinking.”

“Too much.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. The truth was, your head had been spinning all day—not from the anxiety that used to cloud every moment, but from something new. Or maybe something old returning, something you weren’t sure you deserved: peace. Happiness. Him.

“It’s weird,” you murmured. “I’ve spent so long trying not to feel anything… that now that I’m starting to feel again, I don’t know what to do with it. Some of it’s good. Some of it’s terrifying.”

Jake didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, like he understood more than you expected him to.

“You know, I’ve been around a lot of people who fake it,” he said softly. “Smile wide, act like everything’s fine. But it’s different with you. You don’t fake anything.”

You scoffed lightly. “You don’t know me that well.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I want to.”

That made your stomach twist. Not from fear, for once — but from how badly you wanted that too.

You stopped walking, facing the water. He stood next to you, close but not crowding, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” you said. It came out so quiet you weren’t sure he heard.

Jake turned his head toward you. “You won’t.”

“I’m still a mess.”

“So am I,” he said simply. “But I like being around you. That’s not going anywhere.”

You glanced up at him, at the soft lines around his mouth, the easy confidence in his stance, the steady look in his eyes. He was a hurricane when you met him — sharp and full of swagger. But now, he felt like the eye of the storm.

Safe. Warm.

You weren’t expecting to see him again so soon.

It was barely noon and you’d just shuffled into the kitchen with sleep still in your eyes, wearing one of Mickey’s old hoodies and clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee like it was a lifeline. The apartment was quiet — your brother already gone for the day, base schedule pinned to the fridge like he was daring you to forget it.

You heard the buzz of your phone on the counter and squinted at the screen.

Jake Seresin I hope you’re free tonight, because I have a plan. And before you ask — no, it doesn’t involve the Hard Deck or tequila.

You stared at the message for a second, then typed back.

You Color me intrigued. What kind of plan? Jake Seresin A real one. I want to cook for you. At my place. Just us. What do you say?

You bit your lip, a slow smile blooming before you could stop it. A homecooked meal? From Jake “Hangman” Seresin? That had no business making your stomach flip the way it did, but here you were — pressing your cold coffee against your cheek to cool yourself down.

You Pick me up at 7. Jake Seresin Done. Wear something comfy. You’ll want to stay a while.

You stared at that last message longer than you should’ve, heart thudding just a little harder.

Later, as the sun started to dip and you brushed on a little mascara in the mirror, Mickey poked his head into the hallway, eyes squinting with suspicion.

“You’re going out?” he asked.

You didn’t look at him, just kept applying gloss like it was war paint. “Yeah. Nat invited me to dinner. Just the two of us.”

“Since when do you and Nat hang out alone?”

You turned, flashing him a lazy smirk. “Since we've had enough testosterone lingering in the air of the Hard Deck.”

He groaned. “That’s rude.” He narrowed his eyes but let it go with a huff. “Just… don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Always such a vote of confidence, Mickey.”

“Seriously. You’ve been doing better. Don’t do anything dumb tonight.”

You offered a mock-salute. “Yes, Captain Buzzkill.”

He left for his room muttering under his breath, and ten minutes later, you were sliding into Jake’s truck.

He looked up from the driver’s seat, taking one look at you and smiling that smile — the one that always felt like it reached beneath your ribs and stayed there.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hi,” you breathed, tugging your hoodie sleeves down over your palms to hide the way your fingers trembled. It wasn’t fear. It was… hope.

The drive was easy. No music, just the open window and warm evening air rolling in, your hair whipping softly around your face. Jake kept glancing at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were there.

When he opened the front door to his place, the scent hit you first — garlic, something roasted, and a faint citrus that felt like summer.

“You cooked?” you asked, half-teasing.

“I cook,” he said, almost offended. “I can do more than microwave.”

“You’re gonna make someone a good husband one day.”

“Someone?” he echoed, stepping close. “Thought I was cooking for someone tonight.”

You looked up at him. “You are.”

And just like that, whatever this thing was between you — delicate and messy and impossible — tilted forward, slow and certain.

Jake’s kitchen was surprisingly neat. Not spotless, but lived-in — a dishtowel slung over the oven handle, a few spice jars scattered near the stove, an open bottle of wine breathing on the counter. The dining table was small but set thoughtfully, two plates already served, candles flickering low in mismatched holders.

“You didn’t have to go all out,” you said, stepping further in, taking it all in with quiet amusement.

He grinned as he reached for your jacket. “You deserve someone going all out for you.”

Your heart clenched a little — a tiny, unfamiliar ache. You swallowed it down as he handed you a glass of wine and motioned for you to sit.

Dinner was pasta — garlic butter shrimp over fresh linguine with roasted veggies on the side — and it was actually really good. Jake didn’t even gloat. Much.

“Okay, I’m impressed,” you admitted around a bite. “Like, this is date-three-level cooking. You skipped ahead.”

Jake raised a brow as he twirled his fork. “Bold of you to assume this isn’t date three. In my mind, we’ve had at least three emotional dates by now.”

You laughed, nudging his foot under the table. “That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is. Emotional whiplash, unresolved tension, a beach hangout, plus one steamy kiss? We’re practically in a Hallmark movie.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

That smile lingered through the rest of the meal. The conversation slipped between soft jokes and genuine moments — you told him about your failed attempts at baking, and he confessed he once lit his sleeve on fire trying to flambé something he couldn’t even pronounce.

After dinner, Jake cleared the plates, but wouldn’t let you help. “My house, my rules,” he said, bumping your hip lightly as he passed.

You ended up on the couch, knees tucked beneath you, sipping the last of your wine while Jake sank down beside you with a low sigh.

For a few minutes, the quiet settled. His hand found your ankle, thumb brushing in small circles. A movie played in the background, muted, but you weren’t really watching it.

You turned toward him slowly. “Jake?”

He looked over, his expression soft. “Yeah?”

“I really like you.”

It came out quieter than you meant it to — a little unsteady, like you weren’t quite sure how to say it without sounding like you were asking for too much.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I like you too.”

Relief flooded your chest, warm and unfamiliar.

“But…” he added gently, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little… conflicted.”

You blinked. “Because of Mickey.”

Jake nodded slowly. “He’s not just a teammate. He’s… well, he’s Fanboy. The guy I trust with my six in the air. He’s loud, obnoxious, sometimes annoyingly smart — and also fiercely loyal.”

You looked down at your wine glass.

“But then there’s you,” Jake continued. “And I like being around you. I like you, full stop. And I haven’t felt this way about anyone in… hell, maybe ever.”

He reached out, gently tilting your chin so your eyes met his again.

“I don’t want to lie about it. I don’t want to sneak around. But I also don’t want to stop seeing you just because of him.”

You exhaled, slow and careful. “I get it. He’ll lose his mind.”

“He might,” Jake said with a lopsided grin. “But maybe he’ll also realize that you’re not a little girl anymore. And that I’m not trying to play games.”

“You sure?” you teased softly. “Because this feels dangerously close to a game of emotional chicken.”

Jake chuckled. “I’m in it for the long haul, sweetheart. I’ll deal with your brother when it’s time.”

“And in the meantime?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your cheek before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.

“In the meantime, I’m sitting here with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, trying not to kiss her again.”

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covenofagatha · 5 months ago

Text

The Psychology of Love (Part 8)

The Library

You deal with the fallout of your mishap with Morgan

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: semi-public masturbation (kind of?)

Morgan’s fingers freeze against your throbbing cunt and then she slowly withdraws her hand from between your legs. You brace yourself, expecting her to slap you, but she just takes a step back.

“Morgan, I—” But you stop, because what do you say? I’m really sorry I moaned my professor’s name, I promise it won’t happen again? You settle on lamely apologizing. “Fuck, I’m really sorry.”

She regards you for a second, a steely calm look in her green eyes now, and you almost rather her hit you or scream at you or tell you to get out. The lack of reaction from her is startling, to say the least.

“It’s fine,” Morgan says simply and your mouth drops open.

“You’re not mad, or—”

She runs a hand through her hair and laughs bitterly. “Well, I’m not exactly thrilled that you’re moaning some other woman’s name when I’m trying to fuck you.”

You take a sudden interest in your socks and you scuff your toes against her floor. “She’s—the woman—it’s not—”

“I don’t want to know,” Morgan cuts you off and you look up in surprise. She shrugs helplessly and guilt starts gnawing at your insides. “I don’t really care if she’s an ex or someone you like right now or whatever. The point is, you weren’t thinking about me and I’m not foolish enough to think I can change that.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat.

Morgan purses her lips and shrugs. “You could’ve just told me you didn’t want to be with me. You didn’t have to put us into places we both didn’t want to be in.”

Your head hangs low again. “I know. I should’ve. I’m not really good at…that.”

A part of you is filled with regret and remorse for how it happened—Morgan deserves a lot better than this, than you. But, and you feel awful for it, there’s a sense of relief that’s spreading through you. She won’t be led on anymore and you don’t have to feel guilty over leading her on.

It’s a hollow, selfish victory, you know that. But Agatha’s triumphant smirk flashes in your head and it makes the way you’re feeling just the slightest bit better.

Morgan walks to her bedroom door and opens it, clearly telling you to get out. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she says, but her tone is flat.

“I really am sorry,” you parrot for the third time, as if you say it enough times, it will erase what you did.

She holds your gaze and in this light, she’s never looked more different from your professor. “I know.”

The addicting scent of her perfume doesn’t even faze you as you walk out of her room, down the hallway, and to the front door of her apartment. You could call an Uber back to your dorm, but it’s only about half a mile away, so you decide a walk will be good to clear your head.

You’re finally able to breathe since you ran into Agatha at the bar. Ever since then, you’ve been on high alert, aware of everything, and turned on beyond words. You had been so close to getting relief but then you had fucked it up. Your only hope is that your dorm room is empty.

The memory of Agatha is still fresh and hot in your mind. The way she hesitated for a moment when you reminded her that she said you had to wait, the way she cut you off from finishing your sentence like it was too much to bear.

The way her face changed when you said her name. Agatha. Like you had gotten through to her, through her mask of self-control.

Tell me you think about me when you’re with her.

Was she unsure?

Or did she just want the power of making you say it outloud?

And why had she simply walked away from you?

There were a million different reasons, you scold yourself. Even though you were in the alleyway, you were still outside in a public place. Anyone could’ve walked by—including her colleagues. Two of them knew who you were too, so there was no pretending you were just a random girl if they had seen.

Maybe, and you hope it isn’t true, it was just an ego-boost for her. Make you admit the truth and then leave you? You don’t think she would do that though but there was no denying the cocky expression on her face. She certainly got some sort of rush out of it.

But maybe the most important reason is that you are still her student. Toying with you might be all that she feels that she can do without really crossing a line and breaking that university rule.

It just seems like she’s trying to get you to break, trying to see how obedient you can be.

And while you do want to be a good girl for her—you see the flash of Agatha murmuring good girl after you took a sip of her drink and it sends tingles down your spine—you’re not sure how long you’ll really be able to wait.

But you know that she at least somewhat likes you back. She lost control for a second seeing you and Morgan dance and kiss…it makes your clit throb. The chilly air does little to cool you off, the fire inside you still blazing.

If you called Agatha right now, would she come pick you up? You imagine getting into her car, as you’ve done a few times before now, but then her pulling you over the center console into her lap. Her lips finding yours in the dark, her hands stroking up and down your bare thighs. You can almost feel her touch right now.

The smell of her perfume—only Agatha's now—still floats in your mind, mingling with the dark scent of her whiskey from her breath when she leaned in to whisper in your ear. If you close your eyes, it’s like she’s right in front of you.

But you don’t call her because you wouldn’t know what to say if you did.

So you just keep trudging back to your dorm, the exhaustion of the last few days suddenly hitting you like a train. Adrenaline has been coursing through your veins since Agatha put her phone number in her email signoff last Friday and you feel like your brain has been moving a hundred miles a second to figure out the signals she was sending.

And you do really feel bad for what happened with Morgan. You shouldn’t have been leading her on, but moaning Agatha’s name while Morgan was fucking you?

Your professor is really messing with your mind.

All you want to do is collapse into your bed and sleep for the next twelve hours. You’ve gotten insight into Agatha’s feelings and closure with Morgan so you finally feel like you can let some of your anxiety go.

The hallway on your floor in the dorm building is thankfully empty, but your room isn’t.

Illuminated by just the glow of a laptop screen, Wanda and Natasha are cuddling in your roommate’s bed, dozing off but they jolt up when they hear you open the door. They’re watching a movie, by the sound of it. Your heart longs for a relationship like theirs—will you and Agatha ever cuddle and watch a movie?

“There’s our Casanova,” Wanda says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. They had both known you were going out with Morgan tonight but you’re really hoping you can escape questioning.

“Back so soon?” Nat asks slyly, sitting up.

It would appear not.

You kick off your shoes, cross the room, and jump up on your bed. Wanda leans over to turn on her bedside lamp and you wince at the bright light. They both move to sit criss-cross facing you now and you already know how this is going to go.

Kicking your feet back and forth, you look at them sheepishly. “It didn’t really go well. Um, we’re done.”

Wanda gasps dramatically and you bite your thumbnail, refusing to meet their eyes.

“Well, what happened?” Nat demands and you shrug. “Did she meet someone at the bar? Oh—did you meet someone?”

Your cheeks heat up but you shake your head.

Wanda hums thoughtfully. “Did you…spill your drink on her?” Nat gives her a questioning look and Wanda raises her hands up in defense.

“Was the sex bad?” Nat asks and you grimace.

Because it’s clear they’re not going to drop it, you tell them. “I may have moaned someone else’s name.”

Their synchronous “What!” makes you drop your head into your hands with a groan. Nat breaks into hysterical giggles and Wanda raps her on the arm.

“Whose name?” Wanda asks in a hushed voice.

After you don’t answer—because how can you?—Nat nods solemnly. “Was it my name?”

You give her a deadpan stare. “Yeah, Nat. I moaned your name.” She tsks and Wanda rolls her eyes. “No, it was, um, just some other woman.” They both raise an eyebrow at your lame answer.

“Do you like someone else?” Wanda probes and you chew on your nails. My professor, who sort of confirmed that she wants me back tonight doesn’t seem like an answer that would go over well.

So you lie: “No, it was just an old hook-up. I think I got caught up in the moment.” And it makes you seem even more like a jerk than you already are, which is confirmed by Nat’s low whistle.

“That’s fucked up,” she says and you purse your lips in agreement. Regardless of whose name it was, it is fucked up. You make a mental note to apologize to Morgan again.

“Are you okay?” Wanda’s gentle tone almost makes you break. There has been so much going on, you’ve been in a complete whirlwind of emotions, and it’s finally catching up to you.

You nod. “Yeah, I’m just really fucking exhausted.”

“All right, well we’ll let you get some sleep. Try not to moan anyone else’s name while you’re dreaming,” Nat snickers and you glare at her. She blows a kiss and you fondly roll your eyes before grabbing a change of clothes and your bag of toiletries and going to the bathroom.

Your movements are dazed and slow but eventually you get changed into sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt and brush your teeth before making your way back to your room. Wanda and Nat have turned off the light and resumed their movie, but the volume is way lower.

They murmur a good night to you and you return it as you plug your charger into your phone. It lights up with no notifications and the thought of texting Agatha crosses your mind.

In the end, you decide to leave her be. The last thing you want to do is appear clingy or desperate, even though you are very much both at the moment. Pretending to be unbothered might be the best thing for you, and it might even drive her a little crazy.

You expect to fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow, but instead you lie awake for what seems like hours, just replaying your encounter with Agatha over and over.

Eventually, the quiet noise of the movie drowns out your thoughts and you drift off, only to dream about your professor too.

——

The next night, the campus library is almost empty when you get there. You have two discussion posts and a quiz for Physiological Psych the next day and you’re determined to crank out the homework and study. Wanda and Nat are in your room and you do not want a repeat of last night. Plus you’re always more productive when you’re in a public place like this, even if there’s no one here.

For a second, you wonder if Agatha will just magically appear and find you, because she seems to have a knack for doing just that.

You really hope she does. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about her and you wonder if she’s obsessing over you in the same way.

A heavy heat pools in your core at just the thought of her. You never got relief from last night with Wanda and Nat interrogating you once you got home, and today you had classes and no time to go back to your dorm to take care of yourself.

It wouldn’t take very long at all, just reminiscing about your professor last night, the dark, jealous look in her eye, and a few presses to your clit. Maybe a whiff of her perfume.

Hopefully you can get some privacy when you get to your dorm tonight. You desperately need it, especially because you have to see Agatha tomorrow in class. You’re not exactly sure how you’re going to make eye contact with her, especially after what happened with Morgan. Agatha might be able to tell from just looking at you, you think.

Will she act any differently? A line was crossed last night, there’s no denying that. She could pretend it didn’t happen or—

You won’t let yourself get carried away with imagining her asking you to stay after class before kissing you senseless because she just can’t stop thinking about you.

There’s a secluded nook with a table for two on the third floor and you sit down on the uncomfortable wooden chair before pulling out your laptop and your notebook. You pull the directions for the discussion posts and groan when you see you have to reply to three classmates after making your initial post about a video.

The worst sentence for any college kid to read on an assignment.

You plug your headphones into your computer and press play, getting ready to take notes. Physiological Psych is probably your least favorite class—you’ve never been good at anatomy or biology or memorizing that kind of stuff, so you really need to pay attention.

It also doesn’t bode well for the Biological approach in Agatha’s class. Once she starts talking about axons and dendrites and the hypothalamus, you’re completely lost. But at least there’s some overlap in these two classes at the moment, which might make it a little easier on you.

You do, however, miss talking about Trait theory. It seemed like she was able to slip in a lot of hidden meanings specifically toward you, which you feel comfortable saying was on purpose after last night, but it’s a lot harder to make an innuendo out of neurotransmitters.

Although you certainly won’t put it past her.

Right as you’re scribbling down something from the video onto your paper, your phone buzzes. You ignore it until you finish the sentence, assuming it’s just Wanda asking when you’re coming back to the room.

But when you finally look at it, your heart stops. It’s from Agatha.

Did you get home okay last night?

You almost laugh. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you saw her and she’s just thinking to check now. A lot of good it’d do if you hadn’t.

Smirking, you pick up your phone.

I did. How about you? You left pretty quickly.

You picture her delighted expression when the read receipt pops up immediately. She seems to like it when you go toe-to-toe with her. Will she bring up the conversation you had outside the bar?

The bubble pops up and then disappears and you chew on your lip, video forgotten. She starts typing again.

Couldn’t have you thinking your little stunt worked.

Heat flashes through your body and you feel a slickness growing between your thighs.

Your fingers hover over the keys while you figure out how to respond.

Didn’t it?

It’s bold, dangerous, and venturing into the same territory you were last night when you said yes. But you’re feeling particularly brave now, knowing that she wants you back.

Agatha doesn’t read it right away and after a few minutes without a response, you turn back to your homework. It’s only about seven-thirty at night, she’s probably eating dinner or grading or something, even if you want her attention all on you.

Your phone vibrates but you don’t look at it yet, telling yourself it’ll be a reward for getting through the video because if you stop now, you’re never going to finish your work.

It’s the longest eight minutes of your life but you finally finish jotting down the rest of your thoughts on your paper. Heart pounding, you tap on the screen.

Looking to cause trouble again?

When you squeeze your legs together, the pressure on your clit has you gasping. You’re already sensitive.

There’s a few different ways you could reply to this and you feel your heartbeat in your throat as you type one out. It might be pushing it a little, but you want to.

Me? Of course not. I’m just in the library studying and being a good girl.

Your cunt clenches when you hit send and then you write something else.

What about you, Professor?

Your mouth waters while you eagerly await her response. You picture her tongue pressed against her cheek while she chuckles to herself at your boldness. Does she like you like this?

Maybe. Although you definitely know she likes to be in control, if last night was any indication. You can still see the way her face morphed back to normal as she regained her composure after snapping.

Meanwhile, you moaned her name while Morgan’s fingers were inside you.

Two days ago, you were so sure that you’d be able to wait until the end of the semester to finally have her. You could be patient, obedient, and most of all, her good girl.

But now?

Temptation dances in your head and does funny things to your thoughts. Even though you know that she would be risking her job and could get in serious trouble, there’s a part of you that doesn’t care.

It would just have to be a secret.

But you know that’s wrong—you can’t ask her to do that for you. You won’t, no matter how much you want to. Even if the temptation burns you alive first.

Your phone buzzes and your breath catches.

Oh, not much. Just laying in bed.

Fuck.

A callback to last night? It’s almost eight now.

And then you wonder if she waited until now to start this conversation with you just so she could make that reference and let you know exactly what she’s doing. You’re suddenly so certain that’s what she did.

Fire ignites in your stomach and you’re suddenly breaking out in a sweat and cautiously looking around to make sure no one is watching, even if you’re not doing anything wrong.

You’re all alone.

Shifting forward in your chair to ponder how to respond, you accidentally rock your clit against the seat and a small gasp escapes you. You chew on your fingernail while you stare holes into your phone screen. The words blur together after a while and your chest heaves rapidly.

Reading the newspaper?

You hit send before you can think about it and can almost hear her laughing. Your stomach twists and turns and you feel like you’re floating above your body while you wait.

It doesn’t take long.

Not exactly.

And then there’s a picture and your heart stops. Her face isn’t in it, nothing identifying is, but it’s obvious that it’s still her. She’s laying down, like she said, with the camera pointed at her body. She’s wearing a loose gray t-shirt and a pair of olive green shorts that end midway down her thighs. Her pale skin against the lavender bedspread makes your clit pulse.

But what really makes your breath catch is her hand.

Her left hand is splayed out on her stomach, skin tight over blue veins, and the tips of her pinkie and ring finger are tucked beneath the hem of her shorts.

Like she didn’t just make your mind go blank, another notification from her pops up and you barely register it because you’re too busy ogling her. Which you know was fully intended.

How’s your friend from last night?

The absurdity of the question makes you laugh. Agatha doesn’t know anything about what happened with you and Morgan and yet she still worms her way into your brain and knows exactly what to ask to get to you.

You chew on your lip. You could be coy about it and try to make her jealous. But that didn’t work as well as you were hoping for outside the bar, even if it has led to some developments between you and her.

Maybe she’ll reward you for being honest.

So you lay your cards on the table.

We ended things last night.

Agatha reads it immediately and quickly sends an:

Oh?

You picture her sitting up in bed now, suddenly intrigued to find out more. You wonder if her hand has delved any further into her shorts.

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and you rock forward again on the chair as you consider what to send next. Heat floods through your body and there’s sparks in your clit.

There’s a dizzying sensation in your head as you type out your next message. You’re scared to send it, scared of how she’ll react. The boundaries are already being pushed—she’s already risking a lot just by texting you like this.

You scroll back up to the picture.

Agatha wouldn’t have sent it if she didn’t like you.

Agatha wouldn’t have stormed out of the bar last night if she didn’t like you.

Agatha wouldn’t have done any of the stuff she has if she didn’t like you.

You send the message. You’ve already admitted that you think about her when you’re with Morgan, why not go even further?

Yeah, something about me moaning another woman’s name didn’t sit well with her.

The read receipt appears and you feel like you’re about to throw up. You wonder how she’s reacting to that, if she’s given in and started touching herself. You slowly roll your hips against the chair and feel the delicious pressure on your clit.

A quick glance around confirms that you’re still alone. Your table is tucked away and rows of bookshelves line your vision.

Accepting the fact that you’re going to come in the library like that is actually pretty easy, especially when Agatha writes back:

Someone in particular on your mind?

Like she doesn’t fucking know.

It would almost be annoying how she keeps drawing it out like this, how she makes you spell it out like she isn’t fully aware of how she’s driving you crazy, if you weren’t so turned on by it.

Because it seems like Agatha needs you to say it. Like she gets off on you admitting it.

Is she rubbing her clit right now, watching her phone with bated breath to see how you’ll reply? Is she getting as much out of this as you are?

Is the power in your hands right now?

Maybe.

You send it with trembling hands. She reads it immediately and you feel yourself get even hotter.

Are there cameras in the library? If you sneak a hand between your legs, even over your pants, will anyone know? You tilt forward so you’re sitting straight, your clit pressed right against the hard surface of the wooden chair. It throbs and you feel your heartbeat in your core. Your underwear is sticking uncomfortably to you because of how wet you are and god—you wish you had the vial of Black Opium with you.

Although you can smell it even without it, the coffee and vanilla and spice, and you let out a small gasp again. Tension builds in your lower back and core and your clit is so sensitive, too sensitive.

You can almost see Agatha right now, head thrown back on her pillows, dark hair strewn under her. Her back arched off the lavender duvet as her left hand works furiously in her shorts. The muscles in her neck taut and tight. Her nipples poking through her shirt.

As she touches herself because of you.

Agatha finally texts back and you swallow to get moisture back into your dry throat. It seems like all of it has rushed south and is pooling in your underwear.

Be a good girl and tell me.

Your cunt clenches around nothing and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stop a strangled moan from escaping. You can hear her saying it in that delicious, husky voice of hers.

The bubble pops back up, the three dots staring right back at you, but they quickly disappear.

What was she going to say?

Was she going to ask again?

The image of her right on the edge flashes in your mind and stays there, uprooting any sanity you have left. She’s working herself closer and closer and she just needs this final thing…

You give it to her.

You.

The confession is read instantaneously and you wish you could see her right now. You picture her face contorted in pleasure, mouth agape, eyes closed and a dangerous heat flushes through you.

You scroll back up to the picture and imagine her hand—those fingers, god—on your body, teasing you, finally giving you what you want.

But the image of her overtakes you again.

You rut against the chair without even realizing it, movements becoming more and more stuttered as you think about her falling apart for you.

Because of you.

It’s a few minutes later before she texts back while you’re now in a state of frenzy, clit pulsing and throbbing, walls clenching around nothing, absolutely soaked—absolutely ruined.

But when she does respond, that’s all it takes to have you writhing on the chair in pleasure.

That’s my good girl.

One hand grips the table and you sink your teeth into a finger on your other hand to muffle your sounds as your orgasm tears through your body right there in the campus library.

Her good girl.

Hers.

The words echo around in your vision, a permanent tattoo now in your brain, and you’d give anything for her to say that out loud.

How are you supposed to wait until December? Is Agatha just going to keep toying with you like this until then? Because you might actually go crazy.

Is it hard for her, too? She seems like the kind of person who gets what she wants, so is she taking little morsels until she can have all of you?

You don’t know what to think, but all you know is that waiting might be the death of you.

She texts you again and you frantically grab your phone to read it.

I’ll see you in class tomorrow, hon ;)

Your clit pulses against the chair again as you stare blankly at your screen. Leave it to Agatha to make you into a complete and utter mess—in the library, nonetheless—and then brush it off like that.

One thing is for certain, though. She has you wrapped around her fingers in an irrevocable way.

Not that you mind one bit.

You pull your forgotten computer and notebook back over to you and wake your laptop up. It comes to life on the discussion post.

Swallowing roughly, you get back to work and try to keep your thoughts from straying to your professor.

It doesn’t work well, but you finally get everything done. You’re not expecting too high of a grade on this quiz, but you don’t care at this point because you get to see Agatha tomorrow.

The dynamic between you has certainly changed and you’re excited and nervous to see what that brings.

Your underwear sticks to your swollen cunt the whole back to your dorm, just a constant reminder of the intoxicating effect she has on you.

As if you really needed it to be spelled out.

Part Nine

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