#counting until there is nothing left to count

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ “five inches of water”

TW: blood, panic attacks, PTSD, anxiety, mention of drugs, food/sleep deprivation, disordered eating, suicide ideation, bathtub drowning attempt, grief, self-hatred, emotional breakdowns. If you're sensitive with any of this themes put yourself first and don't read it,i'll see you on the next post! wc: ~2.5k

You find him in the bathtub.

Not bathing.

Not asleep.

Floating.

Face up. Eyes closed. Water still.

The room reeks of old iron—blood. There’s a bottle of something half-empty on the counter. Not liquor. Not poison. Just sedatives, maybe. Just enough to numb the nerves, slow the thoughts, loosen the gravity.

Enough to sink.

Your heart stops.

“Jason—”

You’re kneeling beside him before your mind can even catch up. Your hands plunge into the water—grabbing his shirt, his arms, his wrists, anything to pull—and he stirs. Barely.

A twitch.

A breath.

He opens one eye.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he says.

Voice hoarse.

Broken.

Almost disappointed.

You want to scream. You want to shake him. You want to slap him and hold him and never let him go again.

Instead, you whisper, “You left the door unlocked.”

A beat.

Then, with a half-laugh, half-cough:

“Rookie mistake.”

You haul him out of the water.

He’s heavy. Deadweight.

(You don’t think about that word.)

Your hands are trembling as you wrap a towel around him, as you sit him on the bathroom floor, soaked and pale and still not looking at you.

He’s not shivering. That scares you more than anything.

“Talk to me,” you plead, voice cracking. “Please.”

Nothing.

So you take inventory instead.

Bruises. Cuts. Split knuckles. Burn marks. Bite marks.

The kind of scars you’ve learned to recognize.

Self-inflicted, or someone else’s?

You don’t ask.

Because you know.

“Why?” you whisper.

Jason closes his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to die.”

You stare.

He shrugs, mouth twitching.

“Not really. Just… needed quiet.”

“By drowning?”

He shrugs again.

You want to grab his face and shake him. You want to scream his name until it echoes through every crack in his skull.

But he looks so small.

So young.

And he won’t meet your eyes.

So you whisper, “Did you take anything?”

“Didn’t kick in.”

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Once.

Twice.

So you don’t break.

You help him to the bed.

Not that he sleeps there much. The sheets are cold. The mattress thin. The room littered with weapons and half-eaten protein bars and prescription bottles.

There’s a half-written suicide note in the trash.

You see the top corner sticking out.

He knows you saw.

Neither of you say a word.

Jason lies on his side, facing the wall. You sit behind him, back to the headboard. Staring. Breathing.

You don’t touch him.

You don’t know if he wants to be touched.

But when you shift, the mattress creaks, and he flinches.

And that’s when it starts.

The first crack.

A shudder.

A sharp inhale.

And then he’s gasping—hands shaking, chest collapsing on itself, shoulders hitching like his body is trying to crawl out of its own skin.

“Jay,” you whisper, heart in your throat.

He can’t speak.

His mouth opens but nothing comes out—just this horrible sound, raw and ragged.

Panic.

Real, paralyzing, blackout panic.

You crawl toward him slowly. Press your hand to his back.

He doesn’t move.

“Breathe with me,” you whisper, and you mean it. You do it.

You inhale. Count. Exhale. Again.

You do it until your voice goes hoarse.

You do it until he starts to follow.

One beat at a time.

When it’s over, he’s shaking so badly you’re sure he’s going to be sick.

You sit there with him.

Still.

Quiet.

Until he says—

“I don’t know how to live with myself.”

And it hurts.

God, it hurts.

Because it’s not a metaphor.

It’s not a cry for attention.

It’s just truth.

His truth.

You press your forehead to his shoulder. Breathe him in.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you whisper.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to see me like this.”

You lift your head.

“I’d rather see you like this than never again.”

He flinches.

He covers his face with both hands.

And then he breaks.

Ugly sobbing.

Not silent.

Not gentle.

Just grief.

Self-hatred pouring out of him in waves.

Years of being told he’s disposable. That his second chance was a mistake. That love is for people who don’t shoot first and ask questions never.

You hold him through it.

He doesn’t ask.

He doesn’t need to.

Later—after the storm, when his voice is barely a whisper, and the bed’s still damp from the towel you forgot to take off him—he turns to you.

Eyes red. Jaw slack. Skin pale.

And he says, “I haven’t slept in two and a half days.”

You nod.

“I haven’t eaten in one.”

You nod again.

“I think—” He stops.

Swallows.

Then:

“I think I was trying to disappear without calling it suicide.”

You let that sit.

Then, gently:

“I think you’re hurting more than anyone ever let you say.”

He looks at you.

And for the first time in a long time—he lets you.

Let’s you see it.

All of it.

The pain. The fear. The shame. The want.

To be better. To be whole.

To not feel like a walking wound.

You don’t leave that night.

You order soup and bread and force him to take three sips before he says “okay.”

You get him clean clothes.

You braid his hair.

You put his phone on Do Not Disturb.

And when he starts crying again at 3 a.m., you hold him.

When he says, “I don’t think I deserve you,” you say:

“Maybe not. But you have me anyway.”

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos (if you want to be added comment down below!!) A/N: Sorry @dhazefawn (I’m not)

[heartyluv]

Note: LATE NIGHT POST?!?! I said I was gonna wait to do this, but I actually couldn’t get him or this whole concept out my mind. First time my fingers were flying across the keyboard in a minute, so I hope you luvlys actually enjoy this! If you don’t…I wasn’t here. And the song is ABSOLUTELY PERFECT for this entire thing and it randomly played from my playlist as I was writing and I was like omg……YES. Okay, I luv you, MWAH!

Contains: You miss Zayne (even if hasn’t left yet), smut, and something so cute that I’m not spoiling it ;)

Word Count: 2.3K

Summary: You don’t want your husband to leave.

Zayne/Reader - A Good Morning

For the first time in… well, ever, you’re up before your husband.

You simply couldn’t sleep and the little bit that you did surrender to, it wasn’t remotely enough to ease your racing mind or rejuvenate your sluggish body. Leaning over to look at your phone, you wince from the light that flashes your sleepy eyes as you tap the screen before you see that it’s nearly 5:30 in the morning, approximately one more hour before Zayne has to get up and get ready for his flight.

It’s another research trip where him nor his colleagues were entirely sure about how long they’d be away for because of how often things could change or arise. It broke you enough to go nearly an entire day without him when he would work overtime at the hospital. The prospect of several that could add up to weeks and go as long as a month in a whole different country? It made you nauseous.

When you carefully sit up to not disturb your sleeping Zayne too much, you turn on your bedside lamp and the bulb inside casts the perfect amount of gentle light. It offers you just enough to turn over and look at his sleeping face clearly, your lips twisting in a frown and nearly quivering because he’s right in front of you, yet you miss him so much already.

Zayne’s played along with your firm belief that scientifically, you and him are extensions of each other due to how connected and attuned you are when it comes to anything either of you say, do, or feel. There was nothing that could shake you of that conviction because of how often it happens and funnily enough, you’re proven right once again when he stirs beside you.

His body rustles beneath the all black comforter before his eyelids slowly lift to grace you with his searching hazel-green orbs like he can sense your unease.

“Hmph…” he huffs, and the action of him cutely blinking away his tiredness puts a smile on your face. “What time is it?”

“Early,” you whisper. “It’s okay. You still have plenty of time to sleep.”

“But is everything alright? Why are you awake?”

“I just,” you rest your temple on your knuckles and shrug. “couldn’t sleep, is all.

“It must be serious to have you awake at this hour. Would you like to talk about it?” His voice is raspy and terribly sexy, but that’s beside the point.

You can’t. You shouldn’t.

Disturbing him with your emotions when he needs to be getting a sufficient amount of rest is an absolute no-go.

“I’ll be fine, babe. Please, just go back to bed.”

If he was someone to be easily deceived by your fake smile, the somber tone in your voice would’ve eventually given you away.

“That’s not what I asked you, my love. I asked if you wanted to talk about it. Because you’re lying to me, I cannot rest until you tell me the truth or tell me how I can remedy what troubles you until you’re prepared to share what it is.”

Now you’re feeling absolutely awful for the fact that you’ve clearly worried him enough to fully pull him out of his slumber.

You watch the cover fall from his bare upper body in his efforts to lay comfortably on his pillow, taking the time to admire the beauty of the man whose ring and heart you proudly own.

“I am ready when you are,” he tells you gently, arm open in invitation with a patient gaze as he waits for you to give him something to work with.

You’ll always admire how ready he is to be of assistance no matter what condition he’s in. He’s always been a giver and more often than not, you were always open to receive.

Your fingers pick at the sheets like there’s something meddlesome about them, feeling that burn in your throat form as you crawl towards him. You rest your head on his chest to welcome the calming steady beat of his heart and hope that it can begin to soothe you like its successfully done before.

“You’re upset.” He rubs down your arm. “Please, talk to me. Tell me what’s happened.”

“I don’t…” your begin shakily. “I just really don’t want you to go. I know I’m being dramatic, t-that you’ve done this kind of trip before, but I hate being without you for any reason, Zayne. I know that’s selfish because you do this to help people who need your level of care and expertise, a-and I tried to not be a bother because you didn’t need to hear all of this when you’re supposed to be focused on what’s important. I just can’t help but—”

“You are important,” he interjects. “My most important everything in this entire world and in any universe thereafter. Is that clear?”

His hold around you tightens and you snuggle into the embrace with a nod.

“Saying you are selfish would mean that you only care about yourself, when we both know how far that is from the truth. You simply love me, and I love how you love me. I don’t vocalize it as much as I should, but I do. It’s a warmth and comfort I’ve never felt or had so strongly before. Marrying you, that was just the beginning of me showing you how grateful I am being given such an irreplaceable gift.”

“Oh, Zaynie…” you sniffle, tilting your head up so that you can have his lips. No morning breath was enough to deter you from intensifying the exchange when all you wanted to do was be one with him in ways that overwhelmed you at times.

Your husband builds up the same level of need when your tongue slips into his mouth and your fingers glide into his messy black hair, the desperation only encouraging the build up.

All your sweet moans and desires pour into his mouth as your pussy fervidly clenches in need for the one touching you just right, to fill her up. Especially when his hand traces down your side to then greedily grab a generous handful of your ass, pulling you into him to feel his growing erection past his sleep plants.

“We don’t have to,” you mumble against his mouth. “You need your rest.”

“I want to.” His tongue teases your lips. “I need you more.”

He deepens the kiss and steadily begins to tower over you, making your back press to the soft mattress. Your nightgown rides up your hips the more you writhe and your body arches into his own when he presses in between your legs. His heavy cock lays flushed against you through the few thin layers of separation and sends goosebumps all across your heated skin, a revelation that makes your doting doctor proud to feel the more he caresses you.

Distracted by his lips that have trailed to your neck, Zayne reaches in between your bodies to move your panties to the side. The snugness of them pulled tight across only makes you throb for him more than you already are.

“My love,” he breathes, sucking on your flesh to leave several marks as a token of his undying affection. “You’re soaked.”

“Please,” you mewl. “Zayne, I need you so bad…”

“I know…” His thick finger ghosts up your slit, just barely grazing your aching clit. “I can feel it.”

Your hands run down his arms to anchor yourself, feeling like you’ll crash too quickly if you let go. You silently worship the scars on his skin with reverence and love whilst he gathers your wetness to slowly begin circling your sensitive bundle of nerves beneath the soft pad of his fingers.

“Ah—F-fuck, Zayne baby that feels so good…” you cry, looking into his lustful stare that holds your heady eyes captive.

“That is what I like to hear.” A finger slides into your tightness and you rock into the digit for extra stimulation with tears prickling in your eyes.

“I know you don’t wish to come like this, but getting to feel you in as many ways as you allow me to before we go further, is a delicacy I’ll never grow tired of. Perhaps…I am the selfish one.”

The erotic squelching of your pleasure echoing in your shared bedroom sends more blood rushing to his already leaking cock.

Your choked whimpers as he slips out of your heat and brings your juices to his puffy lips to savor, is his final straw. He laps up your essence and comes to the same conclusion that’s already been solidified—You will always be one of his favorite indulgences.

He spreads you open wider and you stare as he works his pants down enough to free what no longer needs to be confined. When he inches closer and rubs his seeping tip up and down between your slick folds, you both exhale with a trembling hum of pleasure.

“You still want me?” he checks in once more as one hand digs into the pillow beneath you and the other holds himself readily at your entrance.

“Yes. I’ll always want you, Zayne. Always.”

You graze over your nipples through the material of the silk that covers them, the peaked buds making Zayne wish that he could cater to you properly.

“Take your time when you slide in,” you purr. “I want to appreciate all of you…”

Any and all self control that the shaky man above you has built up throughout his entire life crumbles instantaneously, and it’s all thanks to you.

Zayne’s contemplative silence is a response you’ve had enough time to learn the differences between.

And this one screams I would do anything for you.

At the same time that his length eases into your hot pussy, his low grunts make you squeeze him tighter and suck him in deeper. You make his cock glisten with each disappearing inch and the filthy sound of you opening up for him like you’ve been spiraling for, makes your toes curl with gratification.

“Y-You’re heavenly,” he murmurs, giving you the slow start he wordlessly promised before he leaves you with a memory to hold onto until he’s back in your arms to do this again, but better.

Your nails in his shoulders is how he loses complete control and the way you nod with parted lips as if you could read the rabid thoughts in his mind, is what has him putting his hands in yours that fell beside your head. Your fingers intertwine, his ring and yours against one another’s skin a promising memorabilia of your unbreakable connection.

His languid stokes in your gummy walls and each orgasm inducing constriction from your hungry pussy when he sinks back in, makes the both of you dizzy in a way that’s addictive.

His pace rapidly increases, the sharp slap of his skin against yours becoming a seamless addition to the sounds that’s pulled from your throats because of the intimate lovemaking.

“I love you, Zayne,” you gasp when he rubs against your clit, his strokes precise and purposeful. “Oh, I love you, I l-love you so much…”

The promising declarations you make in his ear unintentionally provokes your partner to do something that’s only occurred twice in your relationship: the first time you ever had sex together and a few nights into your week long honeymoon.

Similar to those instances, your hands are surrounded by an unmistakable chill that pricks you with a subtle sting, but it’s not enough for you to alert him or make anything stop. In fact, his wanton moans as he inhales your natural scent and how he grips your hands tighter the harder he takes you, is the only motivation you need to receive everything he’s giving you with appreciation.

“Remember me right here on the nights you miss me most, darling. I know I’m going to cherish it.”

Zayne’s pulsating length reaches the deepest depths of you and the easy glide of him inside your body the more drenched you become, makes him tremble uncontrollably.

“You—I’m going to miss you. So, so much,” he rasps.

That chill in your palms grow, traces of glacier like tendrils begin to snake up your forearms, and a subtle frost rapidly takes its own initiative to consume the space entirely. Your eyes can’t help but to widen with awe as delicate snowflakes start falling out of thin air and sticking to surfaces like a scene out of a storybook.

“Come inside me,” you beg, smiling past your pitched whines. You long for the moments where he feels this good—feels this free.

“I’m so close, Zayne…I’m—Hah!”

Not another word is able to be spoken before your orgasms rapidly approach simultaneously, numbing shockwaves of bliss making both of you twitch.

For a moment, there’s nothing and no one but you and Zayne left on Earth as his cum rushes inside your fertile womb and as yours marks him with an incomparable ambrosia.

His hips slow while he pumps his heavy load deep, nuzzling his forehead against you until all the tenseness is released once you milk him for all he has.

When he pulls back to look at you, his flushed and content expression is replaced with muted shock from all the intricate patterns of fallen snow that’s splayed across your furniture, hair, skin, and bedspread. He carefully eyes your interlocked hands and still panics even when the frost begins to retract as he comes down from the peak he reached.

“I’m so sorry,” he rushes out. “I failed to notice. Have I hurt you? Why didn’t you tell me—”

“There was nothing to tell,” you cut off his impending worrisome tangent. “If making love to me lets you lose control like this at any given time, I’ve always told you that I can take it. That hasn’t changed.”

Still buried deep in your warmth, he smiles. A real and genuine one, too.

“Thank you. For giving me more than I deserve.”

He asks the device sitting beside your bed how many more minutes does he have before his alarm goes off and when he’s robotically told he has another thirty five, you wished that time could be frozen until you were ready to leave this moment.

“I suppose there’s no point in further delaying the inevitable, then. Good morning to you, Mrs. Li.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Would you be so kind as to get ready for the day with me?”

“Oh Mr. Li,” you cheekily grin. “You didn’t even have to ask.”

♾️ Tags: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @sensual-study @sweetcalebb @asiaticapple @raemanova @awquaz @callads7 @floatinginaer @crimsonsylus @aquarianbeat @inutrasha94 @jadestone2 @lamogliedizayne @sylusqt

Creds to @/junabuggy for the falling snow & @/thecutestgrotto for the z’s and ice!

[wisteriashouse]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 10k

synopsis: pacrim!au. big robot punch big alien monster. khaslana mode phainon. anyway i just wanted to write phainon shouting at me. toots. (i will still eat shaoji if he doesn't come back)

chapters: part one | part two | part three

I. ENTROPY

He finds you in the same jail cell.

An hour and twenty seven minutes. That’s the time that it takes him — from the moment that you’re put behind bars (again) until you hear hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor — to get to this little confinement center at the edge of Marmoreal. Doesn’t pause when he rounds the corner — just moves, long strides eating up the distance between the two of you. He must know this place by heart now.

“They let you in again, huh?” you ask, as he comes to a stop outside your cell. His white hair, muted beneath the shitty lighting of the basement, is slightly damp with sweat, stubborn strands sticking to his temples. Did he run? And, does it matter, even if he did? “Of course,” you tilt your head, propping your chin up on your knee to look at him. “You’re Amphoreus’ darling, after all.”

Twelve drops, fourteen kills. Fourteen kaiju, fourteen cities — it equates to millions of lives saved. He’s the most effective Jaeger pilot on record in history. So it’s no surprise that everyone bends over backwards for him — to them, he’s more than just a man. A symbol, just like the sun tattooed on the side of his neck.

Deliverer, they called him. Still call him now, even though he hasn’t stepped foot inside a Jaeger for three years. Saviour of humanity. Hope of mankind.

The man on the other side of your cell looks nothing like any of those things. Phainon doesn’t speak. Instead he just stares at you through the bars, lips pressed together and arms stiff at the sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His eyes, still too blue even in the murk of the basement, flicker with something that you can’t quite decipher. 

Haven’t bothered to, for quite some years now.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other?” You yawn, slouching against the wall. “Two months?”

Nothing.

“Guess they still haven’t found someone compatible with you, huh? Or you wouldn’t have time to visit a small-time criminal like me.”

Still no response.

“Maybe, next time I’ll ask the guards to bet on—”

Phainon breathes out, and you fall silent. Despite everything that’s happened between the two of you, there’s still a gravity to him. It’s like a law of nature — unlike poles attract, apples fall, and people listen when Phainon speaks. Even you, apparently. 

“How many times are you going to do this?” he says at last. His voice is quiet. Tired.

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “How many times are you going to keep coming back?”

Phainon’s jaw shifts at your words, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He doesn’t answer the question. You don’t think that even he knows the answer, himself.

After a while, he exhales and takes a step back. pulls out the military cap from under his arm, runs a hand through his hair and fits it onto his head in silence. He doesn’t say anything — there’s nothing left to say between the two of you. Phainon has tried, of course, with his whys and hows and pleases. They’ve been exhausted in encounters far earlier than this one. Repeated over and over again.

Nothing ever changes. Your answer, too, has always been the same.

“I don’t need to be saved.”

Phainon turns around. “I’ll speak to Aglaea,” is all he says, before he leaves. You wave to send him off — it’s a long way back, after all — leaning against the bars of your cell as he goes.

“See you around, Phainon,” you call after his fading footsteps, faintly echoing down the corridor.

You hope you don’t.

Pan Pacific Defense Corps: The Pan Pacific Defense Corps (abbreviated PPDC) is an organisation created by the United Nations. The Defense Corps represents an international alliance of twenty one different countries across the rim of the Pacific Ocean and the IPC, bound together by the shared goal of containing, combating and eliminating the kaiju.

You’re usually out within a day or two. Sometimes even hours, if you’re lucky — and that’s without Phainon’s interference, even. He might have his friends in the upper ranks of the military, but you’re not without your own connections down below. Besides, you’re only ever detained under suspicion, never arrested. You like to think that you’re more experienced than to be caught with evidence.

So, you’re understandably startled when the next visitor to your cell eight hours later is not the guard who makes photocopies of your release paperwork, but a tall woman with hair like spun gold and eyes that make you feel like you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun.

She’s dressed in military uniform. The formal kind, not the ugly green fatigues that Phainon sometimes shows up in (as though the kaiju would be fooled by basic military camouflage, but you suppose old habits die hard). Tailored, from the way the dark fabric hugs her figure. With a kind of elegance so potent that it’s straight up domineering.

And there are four gold stars decorating each of her shoulders.

“You’re Aglaea,” you say, before you can stop yourself. She smiles. 

It’s beautiful. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ve heard of me.” Neither here nor there, but the statement is laughable in and of itself. Who in Amphoreus hasn’t heard of the General Aglaea? The entirety of the Okhema shatterdome is under her authority, and by extension every jet fighter, soldier and Jaeger in it. Enough military power to destroy a small country, all vested in a single person. And she's standing here in this dingy little jail cell, doing what — looking for you?

“Is there something I can help you with?” you ask, warily as your brain tries to compute a possible reason why a four star PPDC general would be making house calls to a no-name prison and failing miserably. Whatever it is, it most definitely spells trouble for you.

“I just wanted to see the face of the one who’s been causing my Lieutenant so much trouble.” Your eyes narrow. She’s talking about Phainon. “Three times in eight months? And it’s not even Christmas…” She taps a finger against her lips, smiles. “Either you’re not very good at your job… or you’re deliberately seeking his attention?”

You bristle at that. “Not my fault you gave your hound too long of a leash.”

Aglaea only laughs. The sound makes uncertainty crawl around in the pit of your belly. And the unease only grows when she steps across the cell to take a seat on the prison bench opposite you, crossing one leg over the other under her pencil skirt. 

You glance at the cell door and briefly contemplate making a run for it. You’d have felt safer being locked in here with a rabid tiger — at least it wouldn’t toy with its food like this.

“Three counts of identity fraud. Five instances of dealing kaiju biomaterial to criminal and terrorist organisations. Two counts of murder.” Someone’s done her research.

“Suspected murder,” you correct, folding your arms across your chest. It’s not. “What’s the point of this?”

Aglaea tilts her head to the side, golden curls falling across her cheek. “My point is, it would be easy to make you disappear.” A cold weight settles in your chest, like a sinking stone. She says it with the tone of someone stating a matter of fact, not a threat. You can see it in her eyes — she can, and she would. “You’ve been a distraction to Phainon, you know? Not to mention a PR headache to keep under wraps. Humanity’s most admired Ranger, complicity in releasing a criminal from prison?” She tuts lightly. “Not exactly what people want to see from someone they regard as a deliverer.”

There’s a distinct undercurrent of mocking to her words, pointing the finger of blame at you. “I’ve never asked him to do that,” you grit out. Aglaea raises a delicate brow.

“And yet both of us know that he will, anyway. It’s a fatal flaw of his, isn’t it?” Her eyes are piercing as she looks at you. “Being unable to leave people behind.”

You want to retort, but force your mouth to stay shut. Something about the way the General speaks gets under your skin more easily than you’d like, a needle that knows exactly where to poke and prick. You suppose that’s one of the reasons she became General so young.

Aglaea must be able to tell, too, because she smiles and leans against the wall. “Now, I’m sure that you’ve guessed that I am here for a reason. The reason is this: I have an offer to make you.”

An offer. It almost scares you more than the threat. “It’s not much of an offer when you’re practically holding a gun to my head, is it?” you mutter. She just laughs, holds up both hands.

“What gun?” Her voice is infuriatingly breezy. “But if you’d like me to speak in plainer terms, then I shall oblige. I’m recruiting you into the Jaeger program.”

“I didn’t know the PPDC had started branching into illegal activities. A bit ironic for the military, huh?”

“No.” Aglaea looks at you. “I want you to become a ranger.”

You stare at her for a few moments, scrutinising her expression. Nothing about it reveals that this is a joke. And yet you start laughing despite it anyway, like a hyena barking in ridicule. Aglaea does not respond — she merely waits for you to finish, green eyes imperturbable. Your laughter dies in your throat when you realise that she’s serious.

You cough, wipe the tears from the corners of your eyes. “You’re not joking.” You don’t know which scares you more.

“I’m not.”

“You want me,” you jab a finger at your own chest, “to be a Jaeger pilot?” You can barely keep your voice from rising. For all the preparations that the General made — digging up past records, coming all the way here — this is the plan that she had in mind? “You think the world needs someone like me in a Jaeger?”

Aglaea lowers her gaze. And for the first time, you think you see the briefest flicker of something flash in her eyes.

“No,” she replies, blunt. She’s looking straight at you now. “Phainon is the one the world needs. But what he needs, unfortunately, might just be you.”

Okhema Shatterdome: The Okhema Shatterdome is the primary headquarters of the PPDC in Amphoreus. It is under the authority of the Marshal Cerydra, although General Aglaea has been acting in her stead for the past year and a half. It consists of factories for the construction, repair, maintenance and launch of the Jaegers. All operations, Ranger training and experiments regarding the kaiju are carried out within their respective Shatterdome bases. There are currently three combat active Jaegers stationed in Okhema.

The helicopter is loud. Too loud and moves like it’s drunk when the turbulence hits, not loud enough to distract you from the fact that you’re in a glorified, overengineered tin can fighting the laws of physics every second to stay in the air. You guess it’s not that much different from a plane, in theory. But knowing where you’re headed still makes you want to throw yourself out of the nearest window despite the thousand foot freefall into the ground.

Aglaea explains the rest of her ‘offer’ to you while you’re in the air. She wants you to test drift compatibility with Phainon — as though the entirety of the Ranger program has tried and failed for the past three years. And now, she thinks a handful of childhood memories might somehow make you different from them.

But you’re not in a position to complain. Or refuse. Or do anything other than agree, really. You’re extracted from the confinement center with nary a peep from the guard, and the General just… takes you with her, like a parent picking up her child from preschool. No papers signed, not even a single phone call to make. Fucking Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She’s jumping over every legal line drawn in the sand like it’s an Olympic sport.

You find yourself missing your prison cell when the chopper hovers over what you assume is the Shatterdome. It’s enormous, like take up half the skyline kind of enormous, which should be expected considering that the Jaegers stationed inside are basically small skyscrapers that can throw punches. But you don’t realise just how much until you see the people dotting the runway that stretches along the entirety of Okhema’s coastline, the size of ants.

There must be dozens down there, hundreds or even thousands more inside just to keep a base this size running. All that for three Jaegers. Six pilots. No wonder why people idolise Phainon like he was chosen by God himself.

There’s a small welcome committee waiting for you when the chopper lands on the heli-pad. Aglaea disembarks first, tucks a lock of golden hair neatly behind her ear as she steps off with more grace than her heels should allow. You follow suit, faltering momentarily when the frozen sea air whips at your face like a thousand icy knives. It’s cold.

“Lovely weather we’re having today,” Aglaea comments, before turning towards the pair gathered at the edge of the heli-pad. “Why is the apocalypse on our front porch this morning?”

“Just a bad storm passing through, ma’am.” A tall, slender woman steps forward, tablet cradled in the crook of her arm. Her burnished gold hair is swept back into a tidy bun. “But there is a bigger storm brewing on your desk, I’m afraid — Marshal Cerydra has a few things that you need to get back to her, and I quote her words, ASAP.”

Aglaea sighs. “Wonderful. So long as she hasn’t threatened to bayonet the UN secretary again… thank you, GM.”

Sudden movement catches your eye — a flicker of red darting behind the woman. Your brain stutters. A child? Here? Before you can speak, the girl steps into view, small fingers curled into the woman’s uniform skirt. Wide, curious eyes lock onto yours.

“Is this the new recruit, Aggy?” — Aggy? — she asks, tilting her head upwards to look at you. The top of her head doesn’t even come up to your elbow. Red hair, blue eyes… you squint at Aglaea. Half siblings, perhaps? Cousins? The General smiles at her, reaches down to pat her head.

“If all goes well, hopefully.” She straightens up, glances at the gold watch gleaming on her delicate wrist. “Trianne, be a dear and ask Trinnon to prepare some tea in my office, will you? I’d like to show our guest,” you bite back a snort, “a proper welcome.”

The child beams — a stark contrast to this backdrop of war and military machines. “Of course, Aggy!” She runs off in the direction of the Shatterdome, only to suddenly whirl back with a wave that makes her whole arm bounce. “See you around, Miss New Recruit!” You raise a hand weakly in response, and she darts off again between the stone faced soldiers and armoured jeeps.

Aglaea gestures at you with a wave of her hand. “Come, now.”

People stare. You can feel their eyes as you follow her down the tarmac, past the lines of stationed fighters and military people doing… whatever it is that military people do. Part of you knows that it’s nothing out of the ordinary — an unfamiliar face accompanying the General must warrant some measure of curiosity — but you can’t help the feeling that someone might recognise you. You pull your jacket together around you, duck your head and pick up the pace.

She leads you to an elevator, hits a button at the very top labelled BRIDGE — COMMAND CENTER and waves a keycard over the scanner. The doors shut behind the two of you. 

It’s a long way up, but the elevator doesn’t stop even once. General privileges, maybe? It deposits the two of you into a corridor. And just like the runway earlier, there are people everywhere. It’s like there’s a heartbeat pumping through the entire facility, pushing everything inside it along. Everyone here seems to have somewhere to be, something to do, walking fast with papers in hand. You follow Aglaea to a door at the very end of it.

Marshal’s Office — General Aglaea.

She flicks the same card over the reader and it slides open. There’s a china set laid out neatly on the desk in the center of the room, stacks of files and papers pushed precariously to the sides. Little swirls of steam are still escaping the teapot’s spout.

“Trinnon’s a little shy. You might see her around, if you’re lucky.” Aglaea gestures for you to sit and you do, in a leather chair that seems just a little too big for you. She takes a moment to pour out the tea — flowery and subtly fragrant — into two cups and slides one over to you. You stare down at the coppery liquid in the cup, suspicious.

Aglaea only looks amused. “I wouldn’t waste all that time and effort bringing you here if I wanted to kill you. There are easier ways to make that happen,” she says candidly, before taking a sip of the tea herself. “Ah, a perfect brew. Now, as I was saying earlier, there are three things that I want from you.”

Three? Her demands just keep increasing. “You want me to test drift compatibility with Phainon.”

She nods, tapping a nail against the rim of her cup. “That’s one. The second is this: if the two of you are drift compatible, become a ranger.”

There it is again. Become a ranger. She says it like it’s nothing — as though piloting a giant mech to slug it out with an alien monster that could flatten a city in under an hour is the equivalent of taking a car out for a test drive. As though there aren’t actual soldiers who’ve trained their entire lives to get into the Jaeger program and still fall short. Digging for needles in haystacks, is how Drift-Tech had described it.

And to pilot a Jaeger, you need two.

You lean back in the chair, trying to be rational about this. The odds. “Let’s be real here — what are the actual odds that I’m drift compatible with Phainon? After hundreds of failures?”

“Statistically?” Aglaea asks. “Near zero.”

You hadn’t expected her to admit it so candidly. “Then why waste my time? Why waste yours?”

“Because miracles can happen, unlikely as they are,” she counters, and slides a folder across the table. “Succeed, and you walk away with a Ranger’s commission. Full benefits, hazard pay, the works. Some might even say it pays too well.” She mutters that last part under her breath.

You push the folder back. “You mean a front row seat to getting eaten by a kaiju.”

Aglaea doesn’t even blink. “Fail, and you’ll still get a clean record.” You look up at that, mouth suddenly dry. Clean record? “A new identity in any country you’d like. I heard the Xianzhou has some beautiful scenery. Or perhaps Penacony, if you prefer the nightlife.”

It sounds too good to be true. “There’s a caveat to that, I’m guessing.”

“Phainon can’t so much as hear your name again.” Aglaea’s voice turns steely. “I can’t have him distracted chasing ghosts or getting tangled in…” her eyes sweep over you, “unfavourable associations. The program’s reputation is hanging by a thread as it is.”

Unfavourable associations. Right, that’s how she sees you. “You’re going to a lot of lengths for one washed-up Ranger,” you mutter, crossing your arms across your chest. “What’s he to you?”

“Not to me. To the world.” Aglaea taps on her tablet, slides it over to you. You glance at it. It’s a news feed, showing protestors outside a Jaeger research center. They yell, wave signs around furiously. “Two failed drops in Belobog last month. And after Janus and Georios fell…” Her lips press together in a grim line. “Public approval ratings have never been lower. The Wall Initiative gains traction every day we don’t have a win, and that damn concrete won’t save a single city when the next Cat IV comes through the Breach.”

She sounds like she’s sure. Then you remember, before she became General, she had been a pilot too — for Phagousa, if you remember correctly. And her co-pilot… 

“And you think Phainon can?”

“He’s the symbol this program needs. In the people's eyes, he's the only pilot who’s never lost.” Aglaea laces her fingers together. “Get him back in a Jaeger, and people might remember why we built them in the first place.”

You glance down at the folder on the table again. A clean slate. A blank record. No more hiding, no more looking over your shoulder. Wasn’t that what you’d been working towards, this whole time? And yet… “It doesn’t have to be me inside that Jaeger.”

“If I had other options, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Aglaea says, bluntly. “But at the moment, you’re all we’ve got.”

Oh, joy.

“You’ll keep looking?” you press.

Aglaea’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The second we find someone who doesn’t make the compatibility readers spit error codes, you’re free to go.” She reaches for her intercom. “I’ll have the NeuroSync scheduled for tomorrow. Tribbie will show you to the testing room first thing in the morning.” You exhale, and Aglaea leans forward. “And, while we’re being honest? Don’t even think about trying to escape. It won’t be worth it.”

She doesn’t continue, but the unspoken threat hangs over your neck like a guillotine. I’ll find you, and this time, I won’t be so kind. 

Before you can respond, the door crashes open.

Phainon stands in the doorway, breathing ragged like he’s just sprinted across the entirety of the Shatterdome. The overhead lights catch the blue in his irises — the same eyes that you’ve stared down in every Ranger recruitment poster in Marmoreal. 

Hero. Saviour. Deliverer.

“Aglaea, I heard you—” His voice cuts off abruptly as his gaze lands on you. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, all at once.

You watch as a dozen different emotions flicker across his face — shock, anger, confusion — before his composure slams back into place. It doesn’t look as though Aglaea let him in on her grand plan, which is surprising, considering that he’s the main character in it.

“Ah, Phainon. Perfect timing,” Aglaea says, just a hint too pleasant. She rises, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles from her uniform as she does. “I was just telling (Name) here that the Shatterdome is huge, and not to get lost. Would you show her to the guest quarters?” Aglaea slides a keycard over the table. “She’ll need some rest before tomorrow’s NeuroSync.”

Phainon’s jaw works. He glances at you again. “We need to discuss—”

“That can wait till later.” Aglaea’s voice is smooth as silk, but could cut through steel. “Unless you’d like to explain to Hyacine why our only viable candidate passed out from exhaustion before we even begin?”

The two of them lock eyes for a few seconds before Phainon steps aside reluctantly, movements stiff with barely-restrained tension. “No, General.” He holds open the door for you as you gather your things, but his eyes remain on the ground. He doesn’t look at you. 

You make a point to finish all the tea in the cup before you leave. Aglaea only smiles as the door shuts behind you.

“All the best to you, (Name).”

Ranger: Ranger is the rank given to Pan Pacific Defense Corps officers assigned to the Jaegers. They are commonly referred to as Jaeger Pilots. Prior to piloting a Jaeger, all rangers are required to undergo multiple rounds of psychological evaluation and rigorous military training.

The walk to your quarters is silent. Phainon walks ahead of you without looking back. The silhouette of his shoulders are rigid beneath the dark fabric of his uniform, the golden sun at his neck barely peeking out over the folded collar. It’s clear that he isn’t in the mood to talk.

So you do. Let the quiet stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable before you break it.

“So,” you drawl, deliberately quickening your step to keep pace with him. “How’s it possible that the great Deliverer can’t find a single partner? What, does your charm and pretty face not work in the Drift?”

Phainon’s shoulders tense, but he keeps walking. Maybe even speeds up a little.

You press harder, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “Or is it that no one can stand being in the same head as that hero complex of yours? Must be embarrassing. Aglaea’s scraping the bottom of the barrel so hard that she had to dig me out of a prison cell—”

“That’s enough.” He whirls around so suddenly that you nearly collide face first with his chest. Up close, he’s all sharp angles and controlled anger — eyes almost molten golden under the harsh lights. There’s a hint of a bruise at his jawbone, faint, barely there, but there. 

You don’t remember that from the news reels. What’s he been fighting, the Loch Ness Monster?

“This isn’t some game,” he bites out, voice low enough that the techs passing by glance over, exchange glances and hurry away. “Hundreds and thousands of lives are in danger. People die. Every day we don’t have a Jaeger in the field is another city in Amphoreus on the brink. But no, you wouldn’t—”

“Oh, I understand,” you interrupt, stepping closer. The scent of antiseptic and something faintly metallic — oil? blood? — clings to him. “You need this. The Deliverer title must be getting rusty, huh? That’s why I’m here.”

His breath catches. You see it — the minute fracture in his control, the way his fingers twitch at his side like he’s physically restraining himself. 

“You think I want you here?” His voice is rough, stripped raw. “I didn’t even know Aglaea went to look for you. I didn’t have a—”

“Choice?” You laugh, sharp and hollow and humourless. “You’ve always had a choice, Phainon. You just hate the one that you have left.”

For a heartbeat, you think his composure— that perfect, polished, military composure — might finally snap after all those years. But then his jaw clenches, and he turns on his heel with surgical precision. “Your room,” he mutters, gesturing at a nondescript door like he can’t stand to look at you another second.

The space inside is, at least, a little nicer than what you’d expected. A cot, wide enough for you to stretch out on. Sheets in the same, standard shade of military regulation green. The hint of a lingering sting of disinfectant in the air. Aside from that, the room is bare. Impersonal. Empty.

You sink onto the mattress, springs groaning in protest, and stare at the ceiling. Outside, Phainon’s footsteps fade down the hall.

“Guess I’m stuck here,” you mutter to the blank walls, “because you still can’t stop playing the hero.” As usual, they don’t bother replying.

At least some things never change.

An hour after he leaves, Phainon returns to Aglaea’s office.

She barely glances up from her dossier when he does, takes a sip from the teacup in her hand. “Good afternoon, Phainon,” she says mildly, flipping a page with deliberate calm. Like she’d expected him to show up again. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You brought her here.”

Aglaea doesn’t seem bothered by his accusatory tone. “I did,” she admits easily. “You asked me to get her out of prison, didn’t you?”

Phainon runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, grimacing in frustration. “You know that this isn’t what I meant. A ranger, Aglaea?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Aglaea finally sets down the dossier in her hands, looks at him — really looks at him. She gestures to the wall of monitors displaying report dashboards — kaiju attack patterns, evolving faster than they can keep up, the steadily dropping public approval ratings ever since three years ago. “The numbers don’t lie, Phainon. The Jaeger program is expensive, and the people are not seeing the payoffs they expect. We’re losing this war on two fronts, now.”

Her tone is grim. Behind the cold eyes, the calm exterior, Phainon can see the worry. Everything she says is true, and Phainon wants — needs — nothing more than to be out there in a Jaeger. And yet…

“She didn’t sign up for this.” He’s not sure what means Aglaea used to persuade you, but Phainon is pretty sure that you’re not here by choice.

“None of us signed up for alien monsters to invade our world, but they did anyway.” Aglaea sighs, her expression softening marginally as she rises from her desk. “There are bigger things at stake here than you, or me, or…” she pauses, choosing her words carefully, “your past acquaintance. The people need a deliverer to put their hopes in, Phainon. They need to believe in something.”

Phainon’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his sides. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the sound of the distant thrum of the Shatterdome’s machinery, the muffled buzz of people with things to do to keep the world from falling.

“I know,” he finally mutters. The words taste bitter in his mouth.

Aglaea nods, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal a hint of sympathy. “Just one NeuroSync test,” she assures him, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll let her go unharmed. You have my word.”

The muscles in Phainon’s jaw work as he struggles with his own reservations. Finally, he snaps to attention and offers a sharp salute. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies for my… insubordination.”

Aglaea gives him a faint smile. “Go get some rest, clear your head,” she orders him as she settles back in her chair. “Big day tomorrow, hm?”

Phainon presses his lips together. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the door slides shut behind him, Aglaea sighs and returns her attention to her reports. The display flickers ominously as another red alert pings in from the coast. Strange readings in the seabed, exotic matter, negative mass-energy density readings, blah blah blah. She glances down at her teapot, finds it empty, and switches over to a coffee pot instead.

Just another day, pushing back the end of the world. Doing what needs to be done.

NeuroSync: Jaegers are controlled by two, or rarely, three pilots stationed inside the Conn-Pod through a system called the Drift. To provide a more comprehensive estimate on drift compatibility, Dr Cyrene developed the Neural Handshake Synchronicity (NeuroSync) Scale with Professor Anaxagoras.

The knock on your door comes just after seven. Or 0700 hours, according to the clock next to your cot. Damn military… You’re already awake — the unfamiliar environment and bed had seen to that. You’d spent the night staring at the ceiling fan whirring overhead, replaying every word Phainon had said yesterday in your head, counting down the minutes until this farce began.

Which is now, apparently. You throw your keycard at the door and pump your fist when it hits the scanner, makes a little beep, light flashing green. “Come in.”

Instead of the stone-faced soldier you’re expecting, the door swings open to reveal… a child. She can’t be more than ten, looks uncannily similar to the other girl you’d seen at the runway yesterday — Trianne, was it? — and her blue eyes wide under the brim of a comically oversized PPDC cap. The sleeves of her miniature jumpsuit are rolled up to the elbows, exposing arms dotted with illegible marker stains. 

She beams at you, and it’s like staring straight on into the sun. “Hey!” She waves at you, still sitting on the edge of your bed. “I’m Tribbie, and I’m here to bring you for your NeuroSync!” She announces this like she’s taking you on a field trip to the amusement park and not what will likely be the most violating experience of your life. “I’ll show you to the K-Science department so you won’t get lost. The Shatterdome is huge!”

You open your mouth to question every workplace safety regulation in existence before clamping it shut. You should know better than to question the military by now. “Let me guess — you’re Trianne’s sister?”

Tribbie smiles, wide. It’s… adorable, really. “Yup! There’s three of us — Trianne, Trinnon, and me!” She holds up three fingers. “But Trinnon’s a little shy, so it’s hard to find her sometimes. She hopes you enjoyed the tea she made yesterday, though!”

You follow her through the maze of interconnecting corridors. Every door looks the same, every hallway it opens too looks like an extension of the one just came from. But Tribbie walks through all of it with the easy confidence of someone who knows that they belong here. The janitors pause in their work to return her waves. A grizzly mechanic slips her what looks like a candy from his pocket.

“You’re popular,” you observe aloud. “Did you grow up here?”

Tribbie just shakes her head. “Only since Mama and Papa died. Aggy took us in after Januspolis fell.” She skips ahead to press her tiny palm against a biometric scanner before you can ask any more. 

The scanner flashes green, and the doors to K-Science slide open. There’s a funky smell in the air — chemicals, formaldehyde, something else. The floor tiles, which look like they were once supposed to be white, are stained a permanent yellow. It’s slightly sticky underfoot. Ew.

The lab itself is an organised chaos. Wall screens flicker with rotating kaiju anatomy models — you recognise a few. Cocolia, the Cat III that had attacked Belobog a few years back. They zoom in on Hoolay’s claws, each one as long as a school bus. It had taken two of the Xianzhou’s Mark-3 Jaegers to finally put that beast down, and even then, it’d taken hours and the city of Yaoqing had taken significant damage. Last you heard, they were still trying to repair the Caelorum Venti Pavilion.

You glance at the sides. Specimen jars line the shelves, murky fluids preserving an uncountable range of tissue samples. And at the center of it all, a pink haired woman in a stained lab coat stands over a dissection table, her goggled face uncomfortably close to the wrinkled grey mass in front of her.

“Dr Hyacine! I’ve brought the test subject!” Tribbie announces.

The scientist — Hyacinthia, it says so on her lab coat — doesn’t look up. “One moment, just… there!” There’s a wet squelch, and she straightens up, holding a glistening strand of tissue from the mess. “Beautiful. Tribbie, would you label this for me? Thermoreceptor nerve cluster, sample K-425.”

As Tribbie scrambles onto a stool to reach the labelling machine, Hyacine finally notices you. She pushes her goggles up, leaving a comical ring of clean skin around her eyes. She’s pretty. And cute. Pretty cute. And that blue stuff doesn’t look like kaiju blue, at least… “Oh, you must be the new candidate that Aglaea was talking about!” She holds out a gloved hand, glances down at the mystery mix of chemicals staining the rubber and retracts it.  “Sorry for the mess. We’re prepping samples for the Penacony lab.”

You glance at the dissection table. “Secondary brain? From how well it’s been preserved, must have been a recent one… Terravox?”

Hyacine blinks from where she’s tossing her gloves into the bin. “You know kaiju biology.” She sounds surprised.

You shrug, suddenly awkward. Your experience with the black market harvesters had taught you to identify the valuable parts quickly. “Just a side interest of mine,” you mutter, glancing at the secondary brain again. You wonder if anyone has tried Drifting with a kaiju brain before. “So, um. How does this NeuroSync thing work?”

“Right!” Hyacine claps her hands together. “Well. The NeuroSync equipment’s set up in the clean room.” She gestures to a sealed chamber at the back of the lab. “We’re just waiting on—”

The doors slide open again with a hiss of compressed air. Phainon is standing there, in the doorway. Speak of the devil.

“Phainon!” Hyacine smiles brightly, and you catch Phainon’s lips twitch upwards — he still smiles??? — in response. “Good morning. Ready for your NeuroSync?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” And you count two seconds before his eyes find yours and he just frowns, like it’s instinctive. You square your shoulders and stare back at him, refusing to look away. He doesn’t say hi. Neither do you.

The silence stretches. Hyacine’s smile falters as she looks between the two of you, before she awkwardly claps her hands together. “Perfect timing! Let’s get the two of you started.”

Hyacinthia: Hyacinthia, or Hyacine for short, is a kaiju biologist who works in the K-Science lab of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. She is also the head of the Okhema Shatterdome's Psychology Department, holding degrees in both Neurology and Psychology.

The clean room is anything but. While free of kaiju viscera, the space bears the scars of countless experiments — scorch marks on the console, a patched hole in the ceiling. And there’s a persistent smell of burnt wiring… 

Two medical chairs, like the kind that you’d see at the dentist, sit in the center, headpieces a trailing nest of cables. You eye it suspiciously as you take a seat on the one closest to the door. Not that running would do you any good. But still, it’s the damn principle of the thing.

“Don’t worry,” Hyacine says, as she rushes around to set up, fingers fluttering over the settings on the main console. The screen lights up. “This is just a compatibility estimate. Think of it as mental speed dating.” Phainon coughs. “Or… like a high-five instead of a handshake.” At your blank look, she amends. “A lightweight neural connection. No full drift, just enough to measure potential sync levels.”

Tribbie, upon seeing the look on your face, tries to reassure you, bless her heart. “It doesn’t hurt! Or, well, that’s what I heard, at least.”

You close your eyes and wonder if your health insurance covers brain damage from drifting with your childhood friend turned enemy.

Phainon takes his seat with that same calm composure, his jaw set. Says his pleases and thank yous and even smiles as Hyacine carefully fits the neural sensors to his temples. It’s like they’ve got a whole different man in that chair. 

Only when Hyacine goes back to check the readings on the console that you see his fingers twitch on the armrests — the only outward sign of his discomfort. You stifle a snort. Still trying to play the hero.

“Problem, Deliverer?” you ask, sarcastically.

His gaze flickers over to you, but he doesn’t respond. Just fixes his eyes forward again with that stubborn determination of a man who hasn’t given up for the past three years.

Hyacine steps over to you next, her touch surprisingly gentle as she positions the sensors. The electrodes stick uncomfortably to your skin. “This might feel a little strange at first. Like someone’s standing a bit too close in an empty room. Or like someone’s whispering directly into your ear.”

None of those things sound very attractive or comforting to you, but Hyacine is already stepping away, fiddling with the controls. The system initialises, and you start to feel a low hum building in your skull. It spreads outwards like seismic waves, until there's a high-pitched oscillating whine vibrating through your molars. You barely have time to register the discomfort before it—

Pressure.

It shifts, expands. Not against your skin, not against your head, but directly into your mind. Like it’s pressing against the boundaries of your very self. And you feel it there, Phainon’s consciousness on the very edge of that territory, lingering. 

Hesitant.

Before you can figure out why, the drift surges. Like waves beneath your feet, a riptide yanking you out to sea. Your breath catches in your throat. And suddenly, you’re—

— standing in a crowd. Blue and white balloons rain down all around you, in the packed plaza. Cheering so loud, you can’t hear your own thoughts.

A sea of faces in front of you — no, him? — indistinguishable. Phainon grips Cyrene’s hand behind the conference table, feels her pat his sweaty palm reassuringly. His heart is a raging wardrum in his chest—

— You see him, both of them, golden and gleaming in their new Ranger uniforms. The reporter hands him a microphone, you watch his mouth shape words you can’t quite make out. One drop, two kaiju solo, first mission.

His eyes scan the crowd. The reporter asks him a question he doesn’t remember responding to. Surely if you were still alive, then surely, you would—

— The crowd surges, cheering. “Heroes!” You stare up at the stage. Elevated. Unreachable. That hollow feeling in your chest clenching around nothing.

Where are you? Fear wraps itself like a fist around his throat, burns like the sun tattooed into the side of his neck. A reminder. A promise. Please, where are you—

— And then you turn your back on him, on them and—

The memory fractures like glass as you slam your mental defenses shut with enough force to make the neural feedback alarms wail. Your whole body jerks out of the seat as the connection severs with a sound like tearing metal in your head.

Across from you, Phainon gasps, his pupils blown wide. He’d seen it too, that fractured moment of you walking away. But not why. Never why.

Hyacine panics in her mother tongue as three different monitors flatline all at once. “Gods! I said neural high-five, not neural warfare!” Her hands fly over the keys.

Tribbie, wide-eyed and mouth open, points at the main screen where the compatibility readout flickers erratically. You rip your headset off your head, look up to see the results with your heart pounding in your chest.

[NEURAL COMPATIBILITY: 26% — LOW SYNCHRONIZATION]

[SYNC STABILITY: LOW]

You’re panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile, taste copper on your tongue. The afterimage of that press conference, the dirty back alleys that you’d retreated back into, still pulses behind your eyes. The way you’d—

No. That memory stays buried.

Phainon pulls off his own headset, staring at you with something dangerously close to realisation. He doesn’t even look at the screen. “You were there,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His voice is low and certain.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Everyone in Okhema was there, Deliverer.”

His blue eyes burn with an emotion you can’t quite decipher, but he doesn’t press. The not-quite lie hangs between the two of you, thin as the neural gel still dripping from the sensors. He knows. Not the whole truth, not the reasons that still ache like a bruise against your ribs, but too much.

It will always be too much.

You’re really starting to get sick of Aglaea’s office.

It feels like the kind of place where warmth goes to die. And now, you feel like you might just keel over from the trepidation too, as Aglaea studies the results on one of the displays behind her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her expression is inscrutable — you can’t tell whether she’s surprised, excited, disappointed, anything. She doesn’t even speak. 

You decide to break the silence first. “26% scores in the incompatible range,” you manage to scrape up the courage to say. “I did what you said. Now let me go.”

Hyacine shifts uncomfortably next to you. Her fingers twist in the hem of her stained lab coat. “To be honest?” She gestures at the neural readouts. “No one’s maintained a neural link with Phainon for a minute before…”

“Which further proves we’re incompatible—”

Aglaea finally looks up from the display, raising an eyebrow. “Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold.” What? Fuck. She swipes through a few readings, expands a graph that looks like waves and turns it towards you as if you can make sense of any of it. “These readings don’t indicate incompatibility. In fact, the NeuroSync was gaining until this point,” she taps at a drop in the graph, “which shows an active deliberate rejection.”

The blue light reflects in her eyes as she leans forward. “Tell me — is it the idea of seeing into his mind that scares you? Or are you more afraid of what he might see in yours?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to leave crescent marks when you suddenly feel the phantom warmth of a hand on yours — a memory, perhaps? But not yours.

“I don’t want him in my head,” you repeat through gritted teeth, louder this time. “That should be enough. Don’t I have rights?”

“A civilian would, perhaps,” Aglaea concedes, sitting back in her chair. “But you’re not just any civilian, and this isn’t just a civilian matter.” She steeples her fingers. “We’ll try again in forty-eight hours. In the meantime, I advise you to consider taking a walk around the Shatterdome. Perhaps some of the people who work here will inspire you. Tribbie will show you around tomorrow.” The redhead beams, gives you a thumbs up that feels out of place in this grim atmosphere. “You may return to your quarters for now.”

You stand up stiffly. Not like you have much of a choice, now. 

As the door opens, Aglaea speaks one more time. “Think carefully. The world needs Phainon in a Jaeger. And right now, whether you like it or not, you’re the only key we have to make it happen.”

The door slides shut behind you, sealing Aglaea’s decision in like a stone rolled over a tomb. You stare at it for a few seconds before you exhale sharply, rolling the tension from your shoulders — only to freeze when you see him.

Phainon stands against the wall opposite, arms crossed, blue eyes tracking your every movement. He must have been waiting the entire time. For you?

Everyone else barely managed twenty seconds in the Drift with him before the neural feedback knocked them out cold, Aglaea had said. What exactly had been so bad about it? It can’t be because the two of you are actually drift compatible, can it? Or did you just not hit the threshold needed for all his… hero complex trauma to bash your subconscious to pieces?

Neither of you speaks, for a long moment. The hum of the Shatterdome’s machinery fills the silence between you, a low persistent thrum that vibrates through the building, like the breathing of a giant, concrete beast.

And then—

“Would it really be so terrible?”

His voice is quieter than you expect. Not angry, not demanding. Just… hurt. You stiffen.

“What?”

“Having me in your head.” He pushes off the wall, taking a single step towards you. Too close. “You fought the drift like it was poison. Like I was—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I just want to know why.”

The question hangs between you, raw and exposed like a live wire. You don’t have an answer.

Or perhaps you have too many. But the words stick in your throat, choking you. Nothing comes out.

You turn away, towards the hallway’s dim lighting. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”

Phainon’s hand shoots out, catching your wrist before you can leave. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm — enough to make you stop. His skin is warm against yours. So, so warm. He looks at you, something almost resembling pleading in his eyes.

“It matters to me,” he whispers, his voice low and fierce. 

For a heartbeat, you almost believe that. 

Then reality crashes back. Right. Of course it matters to him. Not because of you— not because of whatever broken history you’ve shared between the two of you, but because he needs a co-pilot. Because not even the great Deliverer can save this world alone.

The realisation hits like ice water being dumped over your head. You wrench your wrist out of his grip, his warmth lingering like a molten brand against your skin. 

“Then you should’ve been more compatible with someone else,” you say flatly.

His expression crumples — just for a second, you see hurt behind those blue eyes — before the mask of a perfect soldier slips back into place.

You don’t wait for a response. You turn on your heel and walk away, shoes echoing in the corridor. The hallway stretches endlessly before you, shadows pooling in the corners like ink.

Behind you, Phainon doesn’t follow.

The Ranger baths are one of the Shatterdome’s few luxuries — a concession for the pilots who regularly climb into giant machines to beat up giant aliens in the name of saving the world. Steam curls in thick tendrils along the vaulted ceilings before being sucked out through the vents, a constant hum. The water, treated with salts and minerals to replicate the composition of EdoStar’s famous hot springs, glow faintly blue under the light.

Some swear that the baths have healing properties, that they can leach even neural fatigue from a pilot’s mind. Phainon isn’t sure he believes that — Professor Anaxa certainly doesn’t — but right now, he’ll take any reprieve he can get.

He sinks deeper into the scalding water, letting the heat work its way into his tight shoulders. But no amount of steam or heat can soften the way your words had cut earlier, like a knife sliding between his ribs.

“I don’t want him in my head!”

The memory of your voice, sharp with revulsion, echoes in his skull like a bad neural feedback loop. He exhales sharply, smacks the water with his fist, watching the ripples distort his reflection on the surface.

The door creaks open without ceremony.

Mydei stands in the entrance, dressed in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, crimson tattoos on full display. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Phainon.

“You’re here,” he observes, tone flat as if commenting on the weather.

Phainon attempts a smile of acknowledgement, barely gets halfway before he fails and just kind of… grimaces. Mydei’s other eyebrow joins the first. 

“That bad, huh?” He steps across the wet tiles, a smaller towel draped over one shoulder, and sinks into an adjacent bath with a splash that sends water sloshing over the edges.

For a long moment, the only sound is of the distant hum of the filtration system, and the steady drip of condensation from the vents above. Then Phainon’s watch chimes. A message from Hyacine flashes across the display.

[Second round of NeuroSync scheduled two days from now.]

It’s followed by:

[All the best! Don’t let today get you down!]

Phainon throws his head back, feels the migraine building in his skull. No amount of forced tests will change the fundamental truth: you don’t want him in your head. And the thought of having to coerce you into it sits like a stone in his gut.

“Heard they NeuroSynced you today with someone Aglaea scraped off the streets,” Mydei says, leaning back against the stone edge casually and golden eyes watching him very, very carefully. Phainon sighs, sinks a little more into the water.

“I’d forgotten how fast word travels around here.”

“Thousands of people jam packed into a single building…” Mydei shrugs, sending ripples across the water. “Not like there’s much else happening in the Shatterdome.” His eyes flick to Phainon. “Though the General was… vague, about the results.”

A beat. Phainon stares at the ceiling, where the droplets gather and fall in a slow rhythm. Again and again.

“It didn’t go great,” he admits.

Mydei studies him. “You sound… reluctant. That’s odd. I thought you’d be clawing at the chance to get back in a Jaeger.”

He exhales through his nose, watches the steam curl along the water’s surface. “It’s… complicated.” The word feels inadequate, but nothing else quite fits.

Mydei’s expression shifts ever so subtly — a slight narrowing of his eyes, the barest tilt of the head. He’s always been quick to catch on, to understand. Too quick, sometimes. “Ah.” He leans back against the stone edge, arms spread along the rim. “So it’s that person.”

Phainon grimaces. “Too obvious?”

“You’ve only ever called one thing in your life complicated.” Mydei rubs at the stubble along his jaw. “Can’t say I’m surprised Aglaea went digging for her. With your track record, I thought she’d have better luck finding a kaiju that wanted to drift with you.” That familiar smirk returns. “So? How was drifting with the hero of your heart?”

The old nickname lands like a poorly thrown punch. The hero of his heart. Gods, he had used to think that way of you. You were the reason he’d ever joined the Ranger program in the first place, after Aedes Elysiae had fallen and taken everything he’d known and loved with it. And now… now it all just…

“Pretty terrible,” Phainon murmurs, the confession escaping him before he can think of any other way to put it. “She rejected the neural link before we could even establish a proper sync.”

The memory surface, unbidden. The press conference after that first victory in Kephale, the parade through Okhema’s streets. The desperate, foolish hope that had lodged in his chest, like something fragile pushing through concrete: if you were out there, you would see this. They were on every television screen, their faces plastered across every news report in Amphoreus. You would see them. You would come find them, and—

You hadn’t.

Phainon had only found you years later. 

They’d been rumours first. A skilled kaiju parts smuggler working with the Theoros Lygus, who had been one of Aglaea’s biggest headaches — still is, actually. Just another criminal, they’d said at first. Except this one had a wicked expertise in dismantling kaiju. Except this one was sniffing dangerously close to international levels of crime. Except this one…

Had a name he recognised.

He’d gone to see for himself. The prison’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound like static in his skull. And then, you.

Alive.

The realisation had hit like a shotgun round to the chest. They’d mourned you. Held a memorial with an empty casket just for the two of them — everyone else who’d known you was long gone. And yet, here you sat, on the cold cement floor, face bruised black and blue and still smiling sharp enough to draw blood.

“Phainon,” you’d said upon seeing him, voice so familiar yet utterly changed. It’d wrapped like a noose around his name. “Fancy meeting you here. Seeing each other like this… fate definitely has some sense of humour, eh?”

He’d gripped the bars until his knuckles turned white, trying to reconcile the ghost from his memories with the reality in front of him. The hero of his heart… Where was the kid who’d patched his scraped knees with chimera bandaids when he’d fallen chasing kites? The one who’d pretended not to be scared of spiders to comfort Cyrene as she cried?

The softness was gone, the spaces left behind filled with something sharp, jagged. Leaving behind someone he could barely recognise. Maybe you did die that day Aedes Elysiae fell. Just… not the way he’d thought.

“Look at you now,” you’d said, gestured at him in mock presentation. “All grown up and shiny and heroic. The great Deliverer, gracing us common criminals with his presence.”

The words had hit him like punches. Your eyes — gods, they were the worst part. Still the same colour, but hardened into something cold and glittering. Unrepentant. Unrecognisable.

The words had tumbled out before he could stop them. I can get you out of here. Come— come with me. We can give you a fresh start.

Please.

You’d looked at him then — really looked at him — with eyes that held none of the warmth he remembered. “I don’t need any saving,” you’d answered. “Especially not from some PPDC poster boy playing hero.”

But now, he knows. You’d been there. The drift — however brief, disjointed, fractured it was — had shown him that much. That fractured moment: you, standing at the crowd’s edge, just… watching. Then, turning away.

Why? Why do this? The question burns hotter than the waters, clinging like the steam to his skin. He doesn’t understand.

Mydei’s voice pulls him back to the present. “That’s normal, isn’t it? Not wanting someone in your head.”

Phainon blinks. He’s gotten lost in his thoughts again. “Eh?”

“Drifting is… intimate.” Mydei’s face contorts at the word like he’s bitten into something sour. “I don’t think anyone wants a stranger poking around in their head. Hell, I barely wanted Cassie in mine, when we first started out. That’s probably not something you’re familiar with, considering that Cyrene knew what you looked like in diapers.” Phainon opens his mouth and Mydei holds up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m aware that this one happens to be your childhood friend too. But I wouldn’t exactly call the two of you friends now.”

He’s right. Phainon stares at his distorted reflection in the water for a few moments, watching the way steam warps his features. “How did it go? For you and Castorice?”

Mydei almost grins at that. “I was your typical hothead ranger recruit. Volunteered for the initial test phases of NeuroSync. Cas was a nerd from the Neuroscience department. She was so soft spoken, I thought she’d crack under the pressure.” His smile turns into a smirk, almost proud. “Turns out she has the stubbornness of a kaiju and the patience of a saint. Don’t think we would have made it work otherwise.”

Phainon’s fingers twitch against the tiles. “Still hit 82% sync, though.” He hasn’t seen a number higher than twenty in months.

You have baggage, Hyacine had told him, during one of his monthly psychology evaluations. Gods, he knows. But everyone has some kind of baggage, some way or another. Phainon just needs to find a way to stuff it away, bury it until he can be useful again. There are people out there who need him.

“Eventually. Took some communication and effort, too.” Mydei’s smirk softens into something more genuine. “Wasn’t about liking each other. Just… understanding.” He taps his temple. “She sees the shit up here and doesn’t flinch. I see hers and don’t judge.”

“Guess Cyrene and I had it on easy mode,” Phainon murmurs. They’d been as tight as siblings long before they’d ever stepped foot into a Conn-Pod.

Gods, he misses her. Her easy humour, the teasing. The way she’d known exactly when to push and when to comfort. Cyrene had always been the smarter, more emotionally aware one of the two of them — she’d have had you both laughing over drinks by now. 

She would have been so happy to see you here, too. But the opportunity has passed, sailed on by on the river of time. And there’s no point in crying over something that has already happened. The only thing he can do is what’s in front of him right now.

The silence stretches, only punctuated by the quiet sound of water rippling. Mydei watches him for a few moments, before he suddenly speaks up.

“Fifty credits says I can outlast you in this bath.”

Phainon blinks, and then huffs a laugh. It’s hardly a subtle attempt to take his mind off things, but… “That’s not a fair bet and you know it. I’ve been stewing here since shift change.”

“What’s the matter, Deliverer?” Mydei’s grin turns sharp. “Scared of a little heat?”

The challenge makes Phainon snort. He rolls his eyes, but settles deeper into the water until it laps at his chin. “You’re on.”

For the first time all day, the weight in his chest feels a little lighter.

[malsmind]

hate (love)

𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

contains ➛ ⋆ established relationship ⋆ rough sex ⋆ unprotected sex ⋆ toxic!matt ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ degrading ⋆ pet names ⋆ use of ‘slut’ once ⋆ slapping ⋆ orgasm denial ⋆ pussy eating ⋆

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

word count: 1k

you hate him.

god, you hate him.

sitting there on the couch, scrolling through his phone like you haven’t been pacing the living room for over an hour. like your voice isn’t hoarse from screaming, from begging, from crying so hard your eyes sting. he doesn’t even look up.

“dude,” he says flatly, thumb still dragging across the screen, “can you shut up? ‘cause i really don’t give a fuck.”

you stop cold.

your throat clamps up, the kind of silence that’s born from a heartbreak you’re too used to. there’s nothing left to say. nothing new. you’ve been here before. his words hit you like a punch in the chest, but it’s the way he says them that’s worse—unbothered. cold. like you’re a mosquito buzzing too close to his ear. you stare at him, nails digging into your palms. and god, you wish you could be the kind of person who walks away. you wish you had enough self-respect to pack your shit and never look back. but instead… instead, you’re stepping closer.

because this is what you do.

your eyes burn. your heart aches. and your body betrays you. you march over to him, snatch the phone right out of his hand, and chuck it across the room without thinking. it clatters against the wall, hits the floor. finally, he looks at you.

there’s no fear in his eyes. no anger. just that smug, familiar glint. like he’s already won. like he knew you’d fold eventually.

he raises an eyebrow. “oh, you’re mad mad now.”

it’s like he makes fun of you. you don’t answer. you just climb onto his lap and kiss him, hard. like it’ll fix everything. like maybe if you bite down hard enough on his lip, he’ll feel something for once. he grabs your jaw, holds you still, lets you kiss him until you’re out of breath. when you finally pull away, gasping, he laughs under his breath.

“you always do this, don’t you?”

you slap his chest, but there’s no weight behind it. your body’s already trembling for him. god, it’s pathetic. he knows exactly how to touch you. how to undo you. your shirt’s gone. you don’t remember taking it off. his hands are rough, his mouth colder than his words, and the way he looks at you—like he owns you—makes your knees weak. it makes you dizzy.

and he loves it.

your pants come off somewhere in-between harsh words and sharp glances, his own pulled down to his knees along with his boxers. and he can’t help that smug fucking smirk on his face when a whiny moan leaves your lips as you sink down onto him, riding him like his cock will fix how problematic he is. like it’ll make up for it.

“what?” he says, dragging his fingers down your spine. “this what you wanted? you scream at me for an hour just to get fucked like a fuckin slut on the couch?”

“fuck you,” you spit, though it comes out more like a moan.

he grins. “you’re trying, baby.”

you should push off of him. instead, you grind down on him harder, desperate. needy. it’s shameful how quick you forget everything you were crying about just minutes ago.

“needy little thing,” he mutters, voice full of mock pity as he pulls your hips down harder. “so fucking desperate. all that yelling and crying, and this is what it’s really about, huh?”

you can’t speak. can barely breathe.

he’s rough, unforgiving, letting you feel every ounce of the anger he hides under that cold, unreadable mask with every thrusts of his hips that meet yours as they crash down onto him. fast. messy. your walls clench around him, moans growing louder, back arching. you need this. it’s like the air you need to breathe. it’s fucked up, has been from the start, but this is all you know, all you ever want to know.

he holds you still when you try to chase your high, pulling back with a sharp, cruel laugh.

“nah,” he says. “you don’t get to cum.”

your head lolls back. “what—why—”

he kisses your throat, voice low and cruel against your skin. “because you don’t fucking listen. you think you can throw my phone and ride me like you run shit?”

you whimper. it’s humiliating. you hate how much it turns you on. he pulls out, pushing you back slightly. he doesn’t even give you a chance to speak before his hand moves over his cock with fast strokes, a breathy groan leaving his lips as he finishes on your thigh. a slap lands across your ass right after, making you jolt. he doesn’t apologize. he never does.

this was your punishment. you didn’t get to cum after you’ve pushed all of his buttons, after you fucked him like the game you were playing was yours to win. and you didn’t mind it. because every single time this happens…you’re still curled up against him a second later, your body hot and desperate for more.

and then—like always—he softens.

he touches you like he didn’t just tear you apart five seconds ago. hands gentler now. lips brushing your shoulder.

“…you know i don’t mean it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss beneath your ear. “it’s just how i am.”

your eyes are shut. you’re too tired to fight. his mouth trails lower. warm between your thighs. he tastes you like a man who’s sorry, like he’s trying to fix what’s broken with his tongue, like maybe this time it’ll mean something.

and you let him. you always let him. his voice breaks between eager flicks of his tongue against your clit.

“i love you.”

“i’m sorry.”

“i don’t know why i’m like this.”

but the truth is—he does know. and so do you.

because tomorrow he’ll ignore you again. he’ll walk right past your pain like it’s background noise. he’ll disappear when you need him. he’ll say something that tears you in half. but he’ll always come back. and so will you.

love like this isn’t soft. it’s not romantic. it’s sharp edges and bruised hearts and promises you never believe but always want to. you don’t forgive him. you just forget the parts that hurt for long enough to remember how he tastes, how he feels.

and that’s enough—for now.

a/n: this one’s for my baby @sturnsrecord

[shangchiswife]

clark kent- the letter

summary: you find a letter from lois in clark’s jacket that he never told you about.

clark kent x gn!reader

warnings: none

word count: 1952

....

You were happy.

For the first time in a long time, you felt genuinely happy.

You had been dating Clark Kent for a while now, and it was easily the best relationship you’d ever been in. 

He treated you like you were something precious, like the world slowed down when you spoke. He carried all your bags without a second thought, let you ramble about everything and nothing, and actually listened, like every little detail meant something to him.

It wasn’t just the big gestures either. It was the way he looked at you when you talked about something you cared about, like he was already proud of you. The way he always remembered to bring you coffee just how you liked it. The way his arms felt like a safe place to land, every single time.

With Clark, everything felt easier. Calmer. Like maybe you could actually have a future that didn’t hurt to think about.

You were supposed to meet him for coffee. Just a quick break from work, the kind of little ritual you’d both fallen into. Every day around the same time, no matter how busy things got. Ten minutes to breathe, to smile, to be together.

You’d texted him that you were running late and he replied almost instantly, said, “Can’t wait to see your face.”

You smiled at your phone, pulling on his jacket without thinking. The brown one he always left at your place, the one that still smelled like him. Comforting and clean and warm in a way you couldn’t really explain.

You slid your hands into the pockets, digging around for that stupid gum he always had on him, the kind you liked but could never find anywhere.

Your fingers brushed paper.

You paused, confused, and pulled it out.

A puzzled look tugged at your face. It wasn’t a receipt or some old note. It was a piece of paper, folded twice, soft at the edges like it had been held a few times.

Clark.

That was all it said on the outside.

But you knew the handwriting.

Your stomach dropped.

Lois.

Before you ever came to the Daily Planet, it was no secret that Lois and Clark had been a thing. Everyone knew. It wasn’t messy or scandalous, just one of those office stories people liked to bring up when things got quiet. They broke up before you got there, said it was mutual, no hard feelings.

And when you and Clark got together, Lois was always nice to you. Smiled when she passed you in the hallway, asked about your day sometimes, made conversation like everything was fine.

But every now and then, when Clark would pull you close or say something that made you laugh too hard, you’d catch it. The way her smile slipped just a little. The way she looked at you out of the corner of her eye, frowning for half a second before she looked away.

You never said anything. Neither did he.

So you let yourself believe it was nothing.

Until now.

Until this letter, sitting in your hand like it had been waiting.

You stood there for a second, just staring at it. Your fingers started folding it back without really thinking, moving slow like you were afraid of creasing it wrong. You slipped it into the pocket like it hadn’t just made your stomach twist.

Your face felt hot. Your chest hurt.

You didn’t cry.

You just grabbed your phone, still sitting face-up on the counter, and read the message that had come in a few minutes earlier.

Can’t wait to see your face.

Your thumb hovered over the screen as your throat tightened. Then you locked it and shoved it in your bag.

You didn’t go to the coffee shop. You couldn’t.

You grabbed your keys, slipped on your shoes, and left without thinking, like maybe if you moved fast enough, you could outrun the way your stomach felt.

You walked aimlessly for hours. No direction, no destination. Just you and the sound of your own footsteps and the weight of something you weren’t ready to name.

At some point, your phone started buzzing.

Over and over.

You ignored it for a while. Let it rattle in your bag like background noise, like maybe if you didn’t look, it wouldn’t be real.

But eventually you pulled it out.

Thirty missed calls. All from Clark.

And texts. Too many to count.

Where are you? Did something happen? Please answer me. I’m going out of my mind here.

You kept scrolling.

Jimmy had texted. Hey, you good? Clark’s looking for you everywhere.

Someone from your team had messaged too. Just checking in. Need anything?

Then there was even one from Lois.

Clark’s worried sick. I’ve never seen him like this. Are you okay?

Your thumb hovered over it.

You read it again. And again. Until the words started to blur.

That was when your hands started shaking.

Not just nerves. Something deeper. Your whole body buzzing in a way that didn’t feel right. Your chest was tight and your breaths turned shallow.

You locked the phone. Stuffed it back in your bag like it was burning you.

You went home. Somehow. You didn’t even remember the walk.

When you got there, you threw his jacket over the chair and curled up on the couch, wrapping your arms around your knees, trying to breathe through the nausea twisting in your stomach.

You hadn’t cried. Not really. But you felt wrecked. Every part of you felt like it was vibrating just under your skin.

Suddenly, the windows of your apartment shook and there was a loud gust of wind and a sharp whoosh behind you.

You jumped, already too on edge, your heart leaping into your throat as you turned around.

Clark.

He was standing in your living room, still in the suit, hair tousled from the wind, eyes locked on you like the second he saw you was the first time he could breathe all day.

You didn’t move.

You just stared at him, arms crossed tightly over your chest, shoulders tense, your whole body coiled like you didn’t trust it to stay upright.

He stepped forward, slow, careful.

“I knocked,” he said, voice low. “You weren’t answering. I didn’t know where you were, I was—I was scared something happened.”

Your jaw clenched.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you expected.

He blinked. “Do what?”

But you weren’t listening anymore. Your throat burned and your skin felt too tight.

You let out a bitter laugh. Just one. Short and ugly and full of something you didn’t have the words for.

Clark flinched like you’d struck him.

His whole expression shifted.

“I-I didn’t know something was wrong,” he said, softer this time. “I didn’t understand why you-”

“I found it,” you said, cutting him off.

“Found what?” he stilled, his blue eyes full of concern.

You let the silence hang for a second. 

“The letter,” you said finally, your voice flat. “The one in your jacket pocket.”

Confusion flickered across his face and then it quickly shifted.

You watched the realization hit him and watched him deflate right in front of you.

“I wasn’t looking for anything,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less sharp. “I was just grabbing gum. That pink one you keep on you for me.”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. 

“I forgot it was there.”

That made your chest ache worse.

“You forgot,” you repeated, and the words felt like poison in your throat.

“I didn’t write back. I didn’t even open it again after the first time,” he said quickly, like he needed you to believe it before you could say anything else. “I wasn’t hiding it, I just-”

“You just didn’t think it mattered enough to tell me,” you said, eyes burning now.

Clark stepped forward again, slower this time.

You could see it in his eyes, the panic, the guilt, the desperation to say the right thing but not knowing what that was.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said. “It wasn’t anything. I swear to you, it wasn’t anything.”

You didn’t answer.

Your body was too tired to hold it in anymore.

Your knees gave out completely and you sank to the floor, the weight in your chest pulling everything down with it.

Your breathing was off. Too fast, too shallow, every inhale feeling like it got stuck halfway. Your hands pressed against the carpet like the ground might fall out from under you.

Clark dropped down in front of you immediately. He didn’t touch you. His hands hovered, shaking slightly, eyes wide and frantic.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and tight, “hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

You tried to speak. Nothing came out. Your lungs refused.

Your chest was too tight, your vision too blurred, your heart pounding in your ears.

Clark said your name again in a manner so broken like it hurt him just to say it.

Then you saw the way his eyes filled with tears, the way he looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers. Like all the power in the world meant nothing if it couldn’t fix this.

He looked like he didn’t know what to do.

Like the strongest man in the world had no idea how to help the one person he needed not to lose.

He reached for you again, but gently this time. His hands barely touched your arms, just enough to let you know he was there. That he wasn’t going anywhere.

You were still trembling, your breath coming in short bursts that didn’t feel like enough.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice shaking. “Please… just look at me.”

You blinked slowly, your gaze dragging up to his.

His eyes were glassy. Red-rimmed. There was so much pain in them you almost couldn’t look.

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not of Lois. Not of the letter. But of what it would do to this. To us. I was selfish. I told myself I was protecting you, but I was protecting me.”

Your chest was still aching, but the words started to break through the fog.

“I thought if I pretended it didn’t matter, it would just go away. But it didn’t. And I let you find it. I let you sit with it, alone, and I hate myself for that.”

He leaned forward a little more, his forehead almost touching yours, like he couldn’t help it.

“You don’t know what it did to me, not being able to find you today. Not knowing if you were okay. I’ve flown through fire, I’ve pulled people out of rubble-”

He broke off. Swallowed hard.

“But I have never been more scared than I was today. I didn’t care about anything except getting to you.”

Your breathing was still shaky, but the sharp edge was starting to fade. Your hands unclenched.

His voice softened again.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. Not because you saved me or because you’re good for me. But because when I’m with you, I remember who I am.”

You closed your eyes for a second, your forehead resting against his.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

He shook his head slowly, his voice breaking.

“You didn’t. You never could.”

And when he kissed you, it was wet with tears. It tasted like pain and apology and something deeper than either of you had the words for.

But it was real.

And it was yours.

[w0rm3y]

Malevolence In Spring- R. Sukuna

TAGS: Hades!Sukuna x Persephone!Reader, arranged marriage, forced proximity, kidnapping, True Form!Sukuna, Husband!Sukuna

OVERALL WARNINGS: MDNI, extreme violence, graphic depictions of death, blood, body horror, physical torture, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Lima Syndrome, manipulation, toxicity, cannibalism, suicide, blood kink, spit kink, breeding kink, biting kink, size kink, monster-fucking (That man is a monster, like actually), S&M, marking, stomach/belly bulges THIS CHAPTER: violence, angst, depression, graphic depictions of death, violent death, torture, blood, but also Eros!Gojo :D

WORD COUNT: 5.2k, loosely edited lol, i'll go back and fix it later (edit: omg, I just went back to edit this chapter and holy shit, the typos and pov pronouns were fucked--i'm so sorry. i think I have them fixed now. omg this is actually embarrassing)

SUMMARY: you were taken from your home and forced to become Sukuna's wife.

“The next time you run from me, run fast and run far. Pray that I never, ever find you. If you get away from me, I swear to you, I will not stop looking for you until you’re beside me again. Mortals and deities fear me for a reason, and I don’t mind showing you why they all share that sentiment. Understand, wife?”

|| MIS M.List || > NEUTRALITY > DELICACIES; lichoudiés; λιχουδιές

The first time you had ever heard of his name was the night a raven arrived at your home, bearing a note. Some might call this note a proposal. You, on the other hand, read it as a warning. This overture was nothing more than a demand, lined with threats, sealed with a promise, and signed by the King of Curses.

There was no room for negotiations in this matter. The king wanted a wife–a queen.

Unfortunately, you had been the one to catch his eye. 

While his covenant stripped you of any decision in the matter, at least he was so gracious as to give you a week to come to terms with it. Your mother wept for you; she wept with you, all the way up until that dreadful day when his carriage came to a halt in front of your home.

A guard approached the door, head bowed and silent, not uttering a single word before ushering you toward the carriage. Your mother screamed for you, chased after you, and fought against the guard, but it was no use. After being tossed inside, the door slammed shut, and the carriage began to move. 

You didn’t see Sukuna that night. Or, the next night. Your wedding took place on the third day, and the entire ceremony was nothing but a blur. You had been instructed to keep your head down and your mouth closed, so not even then had you laid eyes upon your husband. 

Shockingly, he didn’t come to visit you that night as most husbands would. After the ceremony, you were quickly ushered to your room by your ladies-in-waiting and left there to rot. They brought you food three times a day, but you didn’t eat it. They bathed and clothed you, but there was no sense in doing so as you were confined to the walls of your new bedroom. 

On the seventh day, you made your first escape, only to be captured before making it out of the castle doors. The punishment was a single lashing, cracked against your back. It did little to sway your persistence, and you found yourself making another attempt that very night. 

This time, you made it to the bottom of the castle steps before they captured you, toting you off to the torture room, where they whipped the bottom of your feet. But the pain only ignited your determination to make it out of there. You gave yourself a day to heal, and while doing so, you procured what you’d need to have a successful escape. 

You almost had it, too. Escaping through the Hunting Grounds, though you didn’t know its name at the time, was shockingly easy. But, as it turns out, the Hunting Grounds were avoided on purpose due to the giant, deadly monsters that prowled there, hunting for their next meals. That night was one you’ll always remember– coming face to face with curses that left you with nightmares. 

While running from the monsters, you stumbled back through the Hunting Grounds and were ultimately caught by the guards. This time, you were brought to the throne room rather than the torture room. They placed you on your knees before the king, instructing you to keep your eyes on the ground.

That was the first time you’d heard his voice, and it came in the form of taunts and sardonic questions before ordering the guards to give you a punishment. That’s exactly what you’d hear for the next week: punishments ordered to the guards by the king for your many attempts to escape this horrid place. 

The last punishment doled out by the guards, you couldn’t help but wonder as they beat your body, and your mind strayed to your supposed husband and how much of a coward he really was. To order your torture and not be the one to execute it? How pathetic.

But after granting you your wish, the first punishment given to you by your husband, per your request, had you wanting nothing more than to return to the physical pain created by the guards. Sukuna was right, he didn’t need to lay a finger on you to get his point across– after all, pain was always the driving force that kept you pushing for an escape. 

You didn’t assume someone as brutal and cruel as Sukuna would choose a less tactile approach when it came to punishment. Your hope had been riling the king up to the point of no return, praying he’d take all his fury out on you and finally end your suffering once and for all. You knew the chances of that were slim– how could a god like himself ever truly lose control? Yet, there was always a chance. 

Until that, too, had been ripped away from you when he subjected you to the mental torture of sucking another person’s blood off of his fingers. For two weeks, those guards had spent beating your body black and blue in hopes of breaking you down into a mindless shell. But, as it seems, all of their efforts had been in vain. Sukuna was doing more to destroy your psyche in a matter of minutes than the guards had this entire time. 

As much as you wanted to spite the man who calls himself your husband, as much as you wanted to prove him wrong and continue to make your escape out of there, you couldn’t. You feared he’d do something worse than having you clean his hands of the blood he’d spill. 

Like forcing these stupid feelings into your chest while subjecting you to the most dehumanizing and humiliating form of punishment known to man, granted, they were almost microscopic zings of warmth, but still, they were there. 

And it was sickening. 

As your handmaiden, Hatsuyo, brushed through your hair, she offered you gentle compliments and subtle praise to soothe you. It did very little, but you appreciated the effort nonetheless. 

“Your hair is taking on a brighter shade, my queen.”

Emotionlessly, you replied, “How lovely, Hatsuyo.”

Your handmaiden sighed, taking note of your tone–or lack thereof-and asked, “Any particular hairstyle today? You are accompanying the king to a hearing; that’s a big deal. Lots of people show up to these, so maybe you’d like to dress up. It could lift your spirits-”

“Thank you, but I do not think there is much that will lift my spirits unless it’s a carriage ride home. Do not put yourself out to make me feel better. Your efforts will always be in vain.”

She was quiet for a moment, looking at you through the mirror you sat in front of before releasing another sigh. “The usual style, then, my queen?”

“Please.”

Just as she was putting the final touches on your attire, the atmosphere shifted into something colder before the door swung open, startling both you and Hatsuyo.

“I–oh, my king!” 

As Hatsuyo addressed him, bowing down, your gaze dropped to the floor, and you turned to face away from him. You had not forgotten what he said about the blindfold, so you quickly scrambled to find it. 

“I apologize, my king! The queen is almost finished, but she does not have her mask on yet!”

His icy voice was so cold as he said, “I instructed you to have her ready half an hour before the hearing.”  

Your hands wrapped around the maroon silk as you tied it behind your head, shielding your vision from both of them. Still, you did not raise your head.

“And I am ready now. Will you be escorting me to the hearing, my king?”

“Indeed.” 

His arm curled around your bicep as he dragged you out of your chambers and into the cold hallway. Shivers cascaded across your spine as his hand trailed down your arm, settling around your waist. Your fingertips were then guided to the soft fabric of his haori. 

“You may grab onto my clothing for guidance.”

Your fingers gripped the clothing tightly, and when you felt it start to go taught, you began following beside him. His pace was rather fast, so you lengthened your strides to keep up with him.

The air breezing past him hit you in the face, filling your senses with the smell of him; incense smoke with a hint of something darker, yet sweet–something one could equate to the recently deceased.

Fitting, isn’t it?

Because why would this god of the dead smell like anything else?

“I am not one to do so, but I would like to commend you,” he began, voice tapering off into a purr of sorts.

“Why is that, my king?”

He hummed, seemingly satisfied. “For starters, I appreciate the properly reciprocated honorifics as of late. After your first two weeks here, I thought this lesson would take more time to teach you, wife.”

Your jaw clenched. “Have I impressed you, husband?”

He exhaled, sated with your compliance. “That you have. I’d also like to mention that your lack of escaping–or, trying to escape, I should say–has not gone unnoticed. For both of these, you shall be rewarded.”

“You are too generous, my king.”

“Nonsense. You deserve it.” 

After a few more paces, his steps came to a halt as his hand slid out, pressing into the softness of your belly when you walked into it. Upon the startling contact, you gasped, jolting away from his touch. 

“Careful,” he warned gently, just in time for the grating sound of the doors being slid apart to echo through the room in front of you. 

The tightness in your lead was your signal to begin moving again. Once your shoes sank into the familiar-feeling carpet, you could only assume that you had entered the throne room. You flinched when the doors roughly slid shut behind you, a movement that did not go unnoticed by the king. 

He released a breathy chuckle, asking, “Are you nervous?”

“A bit,” you gritted out, fingers curling tighter around his haori. 

When you made it to what you assumed was the end of the aisle, his hand curled underneath the back of your thighs as he raised you into the air. The feeling threw you off kilter, and to steady yourself, your hands shot out to reaffirm your grip on his clothing.

You felt as though you were flying as he carried you up the steps, and when he allowed your body to slide to the floor again, you felt like you were free-falling. You swayed as your feet touched the floor, but he was quick to catch you before you fell. 

It had been weeks since you’d last seen him in person, but if there was one thing that you remembered about him, it was his staggering stature. At the very least, he had to be over seven and a half feet tall, which was absolutely towering over your much shorter frame. 

“You will sit at my feet during the hearing.” His large hand pushed down on your shoulder, silently giving you the command to lower yourself to the ground, which you did. “Don’t speak, don’t scream, don’t move–not until I say so, understand?”

“Yes, my king.”

His hand settled on the top of your head. He gave you a pat before his fingers slid from your hair and back down to his side when he said, “Repeat those rules back to me.”

“Don’t speak, don’t scream, don’t move. Not until you say so.”

“Good. Make sure to follow them exactly. I’d hate to lose you before you get to see your reward.” His words sent icy horror through your whole body, bringing chills to speckle your skin and your mouth to dry out completely. “Bring him in,” he commanded the group that was apparently in front of you.

You heard the shuffling of their feet before the sound of scraping wood and unlatching locks. Soon, a cold breeze overtook the throne room, followed by an odd thumping sensation from the ground. Seconds passed as the vibrations got harsher and louder. 

When you heard a deep, baritone growl, you understood the need for Sukuna’s rules.

“You may remove your blindfold, wife.”

You swallowed thickly, whispering as quietly as possible, “Yes, husband.” With trembling fingers, you reached behind your head and pulled the knot out of the ribbon, allowing it to fall from your eyes. The scene in front of you was like no other, something one could only equate to a night terror that developed out of a restless fever dream. A horrid feeling settled in the atmosphere of the throne room.

Your eyes were drawn to the nightmare in the corner of the room, bound in chains and seemingly calm. When you came across this specific curse on the hunting grounds, this tame of a beast was not one that you remembered. What you expected to see from him was gnashing teeth, snapping at the ones who so bravely brought him into the room via the giant door that led outside, yet the curse merely swayed back and forth.

Wind from the cold winter air brushed in through the giant doors that were being drawn shut, pushing the permeating scent of the curse to you, and churning your stomach with fervor. If the scent of death that lingered on Sukuna was enough to nauseate you, the putrid odor from this beast brought tears to your eyes. Your hand moved to your mouth to hold back the impending gag.

Bloody slobber dripped from the three-headed monster’s mouth, pooling on the floor in thick pink puddles. Scattered in the viscous liquid were fleshy chunks of whatever his last meal was. It was all too sickening.

Your eyes scanned the rest of the room, taking note of all the people who were bowing in front of you, paying no mind to the beast that was only a few feet away from them. You jumped when you felt Sukuna’s hand pet against the top of your head.

“You remember what I said about your eyes, don’t you?”

“Yes, my king.”

You already knew that the removal of your blindfold in that moment was only temporary, and looking at him was still forbidden.

He gave you one last gentle pat before removing his hand. “Good.” He then spoke to the crowd in front of you. “While the effects of the sedatives wear off on my pet, we shall begin the hearing. Who is first?”

Thus began the cycle of people stepping forward to ask Sukuna for his help in various things, not without a form of payment, of course. It soon became apparent to you that while Sukuna considers himself a god, he did not accept his worship from mortals as the other deities did. He did not allow them to pray from afar and answer them. No, he wanted to see their worship first hand–to hear their begging prayers with his own ears. 

The sight was something he found to be entertaining, if his grumbling laughter was any indication. The first few queries were simple–more grain for their livestock in exchange for meat after the slaughter, a horse or two to travel far and search for goods in exchange for some of those goods, firewood to warm the home of a pregnant wife in exchange for the newborn after the birth. 

However, the last one did not go over well with the king. 

“You’d hand over your newborn in exchange for firewood? Am I hearing you correctly, mortal?” Sukuna spat, bearing disdain, thickening the tension in the room. 

The shivering man nearly crumbled from the prying question. With his head cast down to his feet, he nodded. “Yes, my king. This winter season is proving to be too cold for my wife-”

“What would I do with a newborn?”

“Whatever you wish, my king. It will be yours.”

“And if I decided that I wanted to eat it, what then?”

The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Then so be it.”

Sukuna clicked his tongue, repeating the man’s words back to him before asking, “Does your wife know you’re here, bartering away her unborn child to me?”

“Yes, my king.”

Behind you, Sukuna chuckled, almost humorlessly. It was a sound that raised the hair on the back of your neck.

“Wife?”

Your blood went cold as he finally addressed you. “Yes, husband?”

“What are your thoughts on the matter?”

He was asking you? He wanted you to give your opinion during a hearing?

“I think it’s foolish and otherwise disgusting to trade the life of your own flesh and blood before it’s even seen the light of day, my king. For wood, no less.” Your jaw clenched as you watched the man who was bowing below the throne start to shiver in fear, making your heart lurch. “But I find his bravery to stand before the king and ask such things for the benefit of his wife to be a little courageous.”

Sukuna barked out a laugh. “You think he’s courageous?”

“To step before you. Yes, I do.”

“Am I so fearsome?” he coyly asked. 

Your jaw ticked, clenching tightly to keep from muttering curses under your breath. “Not to me,” you spat, earning a few quiet gasps from the crowd. “But to that man down there, clearly you are. He is frightened.”

“He should be after offering me something as ridiculous as an unborn child. As if I couldn’t make one on my own.”

The man whimpered, muttering, “I apologize, my king-”

“Silence,” Sukuna commanded him, voice steady and eerily calm. “Wife, what would you have me do? How should the ruling for this proceed?”

Another one of your opinions?

He was sick in the head for suggesting his child in the first place, but to send him back empty-handed, to freeze all winter with his pregnant wife–you couldn’t imagine a more miserable death.

“Give him what he asks for.”

“And what do you suggest I do with a newborn?”

“Let them keep it. As you said, you can create one of your own.”

He hummed, fingers wrapping around your long braid, tugging on it gently. The action sent shocks of satisfaction down your spine and across your skin. 

“You’re aware of how newborns are made, correct? Are you suggesting something?”

Your face warmed. “N-No, my king–I-”

“If I let them keep it,” Sukuna interrupted you, something you were immensely grateful for. “What’s in it for me?” He directed his question toward the man. 

“I do not have anything else to offer, my king.”

“Hmm,” Sukuna trailed off, grip tightening on your braid, unfortunately creating more sparks on your body. “Where are you from, mortal?”

“The village in the east, right along the river.”

He kissed his teeth, shifting in his throne again. “Since your queen is so generous to send firewood to your home, and since you have nothing else to offer me besides your life, you’ll give me just that.” 

Before anyone had time to comprehend what was about to happen next, you watched a thin red line form across the man’s throat. He looked to you, addled by what just happened to him, and brought his hands to his neck, feeling the red line that had begun to seep little droplets of blood. Rivulets of the red liquid intensified until it was apparent that his head had been entirely severed from his neck and was just resting there. 

Your stomach rolled with nausea as the man wordlessly fell to the ground, landing with a sickening thud, now dead. His head rolled a couple of feet away toward another one of the townsfolk, who was still bowing to the man behind you as if they didn’t know one of their own had just been decapitated right beside them.

There was a tug at your braid again as Sukuna asked, “How was that?” When you opened your mouth to speak, all that you could produce was a quiet, raspy squeak before you forced your mouth shut in an attempt to swallow the rising bile in your throat. “Does this count as dirtying my hands with blood? After all, it was me who took his head, even though I didn’t touch him. Did you know I could do that, wife?”

A single tear dripped out of your eye as the fear of who you were now married to truly began to sink in. Of course, you’d heard stories of the man who could wreak havoc on an entire village with a simple swipe of his hand, but you’d thought they were fables–mere rumors parents created to keep their children from wandering alone at night. Now that you’d seen the truth of it firsthand, the terror set in.

You knew your lack of answer irritated him when he yanked on your hair, forcefully bringing your head back to smash against the edge of the throne. 

“I want to hear your voice; did you know I could do that?”

Shakily, you breathed, “No.”  

“How pathetic,” Sukuna sneered, though you know it was geared toward the headless man on the floor. “He’d rather hand his child off to someone like me in hopes of warming his wife instead of offering himself up in the child’s place. Tsk, tsk–not very courageous now, is he, wife?

The tears that streamed down your face tasted salty once they hit your tongue. You couldn’t find your voice as you watched the blood continue to seep out of that man’s throat, in streams so thick and red, filling the room with a metallic hint. You almost forgot that he’d asked you a question until he gave your braid another tug, this time more harsh than before.

“Answer me.”

“N-No, no–he is not…courageous.”

He made a sound, chest rumbling with satisfaction as he eased his hold on your braid, instead opting to pat your head again, mumbling, “Good…”

No one uttered a word as the corpse continued to pump out blood for what felt like hours. It was as if Sukuna was giving you the chance to witness how disgustingly violent he could be, to act as a warning, maybe.

“Uraume, if you would,” he muttered to someone on the other side of his throne. If you weren’t absolutely terrified, you might’ve been curious as to who he was talking to. Though you didn’t have to wait much longer as you watched a white haired boy in a monk’s robe step forward to begin cleaning up the mess. When he was finished, he dragged the body away, which prompted Sukuna to address the crowd again. “Who is next?”

As your heart finally started to slow after watching the morbid acne that happened in front of you, a man approached the throne. However, this man was different. He did not bow his head and even offered you a small smile when his eyes caught yours. 

He’s going to die, you thought. 

Your heart dropped at that upsetting realization that you were going to have to watch yet another person be decapitated right in front of you today. But, as he continued venturing forward, even after eyeing the man on the throne behind you, his body remained intact. Not even Sukuna stirred or chastised him for not bowing down. 

Perhaps this was another friend?

No, that couldn’t be. This man was too kind-looking, too innocent and friendly to ever be friends with a monster like Sukuna. His bright blue eyes were wide with confidence, and his short white hair dipped down into his line of sight, creating such boyish charm.

You thought he looked rather handsome, too handsome to die.

“Sukuna,” he greeted, bowing his head for a moment before bringing his attention to you, acknowledging you with your name. 

Before you could greet him back, Sukuna began speaking. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised to see you here. What’s a god doing in one of my hearings? This is for the begging mortals, you know?”

A fellow god, one of the same rank as Sukuna, so, of course, he would greet the king as an equal.

But still, you wondered who he was.

“I’m here to offer a proposition that will be advantageous to both of us. I figured this would be the easiest way to talk to you. I know how busy you must be as newlyweds.”

“Not as busy as you might think.”

The god in front of you seemed a little shocked as his cerulean eyes widened. “Is that so? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Sukuna chuckled, “Your arrows aren’t necessary. I can manage on my own. Besides, she’s yet to consume the ambrosia. She’s still a mortal, isn’t that right, wife?”

The one in front of you smiled, and somehow, even in this position, the smile was so welcoming and comforting that even you could feel it on your skin. 

“Yes, husband.”

“We can consummate the marriage when she’s immortal.”

You froze as those words slithered out of his mouth. 

“Interesting,” the one in front of you began. “Why not have her eat the ambrosia at the wedding ceremony? It’s usually expected, isn’t it?”

“She just turned 18 this spring. I’d rather not have to bed a teenager for the rest of my existence, so I decided to hold off on doing so for a couple of years. Besides, twenty is the perfect age to bear healthy children.”

Your brain went silent after that, shutting down to process the new emotions flowing through you. The way they were talking about you as if you weren’t even there, as if you were only a piece of property meant to be owned–it made you feel sick.

“...now, I have a gift for my wife.”

That’s when you were drawn back into their conversation, realizing you’d missed all of it, only able to catch the tail end. The god in front of you bowed kindly at Sukuna’s dismissal and resumed his position in the crowd. Once again, your husband’s fingers wrapped around your braid as he began twisting it around his wrist and hand, pulling on it in a calming way. 

“Are you excited?” he asked quietly.

“Ecstatic,” you spat, pulling against the hold on your hair. 

“Bring them out,” he commanded the small group of guards, who swiftly moved to the doors of the throne room before opening them, and shuffling in a group of men, all of them blindfolded and naked. You sat still as they were lined up before the throne. “Do you recognize these men?”

Your eyes flitted to each of their faces, none of them looking familiar. 

“No, my king.”

“These men were in the group that was sent out to find you the last night you tried to escape. I ordered them to retrieve you and to bring you back to me, safe and uninjured.”

You swallowed thickly, knowing where this was going. “These men did not drag me here. The man who did it is already dead–I am wearing a part of his uniform as a blindfold-”

“Correct, but your knees are still bruised. Had these men fought harder to find you, perhaps you wouldn’t have ended up injured. This entire shift of guards has been sentenced to death.”

“What?”

“Let this serve as a reminder to the other men-at-arms; my wife, your queen, is the second-highest-ranking entity in this room and deserves to be treated as such. Now, apologize.”

Your hand moved backward to keep yourself supported upright, but rather than hitting the floor, you grabbed onto his shoe and quickly retracted. You didn’t realize he was sitting so close behind, and that thought in itself was frightening. 

But not as frightening as watching those grown men bow to you, muttering their apologies for an act they had no part in. 

“My king, th– this is not fair!”

“What did I say about speaking without permission in this hearing?”

Your fingers gripped his shoe tightly as tears pooled in your eyes, threatening to escape. “My king, please, I do not-”

However, the rest of your words were suffocated by a massive hand cupping over your mouth as he dragged you back and up onto his lap. You fought against his hold, heart thumping out of control, but the resistance was useless. 

Especially when he leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Do you know how delicate you are in my hands, wife? Gods, how easy it would be to snap your pretty little neck right now. I could do it so fast, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” Your movements ceased instantly while you panted into his hand. He made a sound of approval. “There we go,” he condescendingly cooed. 

You swallowed harshly and relaxed into his chest as he pulled you back. The fact that his scent–no, his entirety, catered to a certain feeling inside of you was terribly heartbreaking. You hated this man; he was your captor, your tormentor, yet he still had the ability to make you feel things you’d never want to feel about a man like him. 

“Let’s begin!” 

Oh, gods, all these men were about to be decapitated right in front of you in a slice so quick. However, the cutting never came. Instead, the men were forced onto their knees by the guards as Sukuna whistled sharply, the sound echoing off the walls. 

It was then that you realized why the men were not losing their heads. Sukuna had no intention of putting these men out of their misery so quickly. No, he had something much more petrifying in mind. 

With wide eyes, you looked over when you heard the sound of shifting chains in the corner. The beast shook all three of its heads, slinging slobber through the throne room. As it blinked away the droopy look in its eyes, it honed in on the men lined up in the middle of the room. 

“Remember those rules, wife?”

You nodded your head, too scared to speak. 

After making sure you knew the rules, Sukuna raised his hand, signaling for the guards that were holding the chains attached to the curse to drop them. As soon as they did, the slobbering fiend morphed into the one you’d come across on the hunting grounds. 

The curse gnashed his teeth at the first man, picking him up and biting down on his head with a horrifying crunch. Another beastly mouth grabbed onto the man’s lower body and pulled. The two heads began to play tug of war with the corpse until finally, it split in two, splattering blood all over. 

You flinched back when a big spray of it coated the floor in front of the throne. The halved man was harshly chewed up and swallowed before the monster moved onto the next man in line. 

After the fifth man you witnessed get ripped to pieces, you shut off your brain, entering an emotionless state that made this nightmare bearable. And this is where you intended to mentally stay for the rest of your existence here.

|| MIS M.List || > NEUTRALITY >

confused by what you just read? Malevolence In Spring's Guide

[lumosflairr]

can you pleaseee write for ron where he's been trying to ask out reader for ages and somehow he keeps on getting interrupted until one day he has had enough and he kisses her in the Gryffindor common room!!

love your work btww 🥰😫

(ps this is my first time writing a request)

𝐑𝐨𝐧 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝟓 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐮𝐭.

summary: Ron keeps trying to ask you out, fails every time—until he finally kisses you in the Gryffindor common room.

warnings: use of y/n like 3-4 times.

word count: 1.3k

taglist: @aouoo @plumbum4 @iluvhrj @divineani @lilians17

this idea is so cute! Im so happy you enjoy my work, and I hope you enjoy reading this <3

Ron Weasley had always been terrible at feelings.

He could handle a chessboard like a pro, knock a Bludger straight into Malfoy’s smug face, and devour a full plate of roast beef in under five minutes—but when it came to you, he was all thumbs and second-guessing.

And that was saying something. Because he’d known you since second year. Sat next to you in Charms. Shared study notes. Laughed until he cried after Fred and George turned your ink purple for a week.

But somewhere between laughter and late-night common room chats, things had changed. His stomach flipped every time you touched his arm. His ears burned red when you leaned over his shoulder. And Merlin help him when you called him “Ronnie” during that Care of Magical Creatures lesson last spring.

It was hopeless.

Still, he had a plan.

Just… ask her out. Simple.

Except nothing at Hogwarts was ever simple.

⸻

Attempt #1 – Transfiguration Disaster

It was right after McGonagall dismissed class on a rainy Thursday, and Ron saw his window. You were stuffing your books into your bag, the strap of your satchel slipping off your shoulder. You looked tired, but pretty—he noticed that now. How the candlelight always made your eyes look softer somehow.

Ron’s heart was pounding in his ears.

“Hey, Y/N?” he asked, stepping up beside you and trying to sound casual.

You turned to him, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Yeah?”

“I was wondering if maybe—like, if you weren’t doing anything next weekend, maybe we could—”

CLANG.

An entire bottle of ink came crashing down from above, splattering black across his hair, down his face, into his shirt collar. The gasp that left your mouth was more dramatic than anything he’d ever heard from you.

“Oh my God—Ron!”

Ron stood frozen, blinking black out of his eyes. He looked up. Peeves was floating above them near the rafters, howling with laughter.

“OH-HO! Just trying to clean up the Weasel! Thought he needed a bit of polish!”

Your wand was already out as you began to clean the ink from his face, your fingers brushing under his chin gently.

Ron was only vaguely aware of what you were saying—something about “stupid poltergeist” and “thank Merlin it wasn’t acid”—because all he could think about was how soft your hands were, and how he’d almost asked you out.

Almost.

⸻

Attempt #2 – The Library Ambush

A week later, Ron found you tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, bent over your notes with a quill twirling in your fingers. The sunlight filtered in through the high windows, catching the dust motes in the air around you.

He paced outside the aisle for a full minute, mumbling to himself.

“You can do this. You’ve fought Death Eaters. This is one girl. Just go.”

When he finally approached, you looked up and smiled like he was the very person you’d been hoping to see. His stomach flipped.

“Hi, Ron,” you said. “Looking for a seat?”

He nodded mutely and slid in across from you.

“So, er… I was thinking,” he started, gripping the edge of the table a little too hard. “That maybe you and I could go to Hogsmeade next weekend. Not for, like, sweets. I mean—we could. But I meant, more just—us.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly.

Just as you opened your mouth—

“RON!”

Hermione appeared around the corner with a towering stack of books wobbling dangerously in her arms.

“There you are!” she huffed. “You said you’d help me carry these after dinner!”

Ron flinched. “I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

She looked at you and gave a polite nod before yanking Ron out of his seat by the sleeve.

“Hermione, wait—I was—”

But she was already dragging him out of the library. You sat there, blinking in confusion, and then shook your head with a little smile.

⸻

Attempt #3 – Quidditch Mayhem

After practice, the pitch still hummed with energy, the sky streaked pink and purple as the sun began to dip low. Ron was sweaty and flushed from the drills, but as he spotted you waiting by the stands with your scarf wrapped around your neck, he swore you were glowing.

He jogged over, hair damp and chest heaving. “Hey! You stayed!”

You smiled, hugging your cloak tighter around yourself. “Of course I did. I like watching you play.”

That earned a bright blush. “Thanks. So, um, I’ve been thinking…”

He reached for the words carefully this time.

“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend? Just you and me? Sort of… not as friends?”

The smile that touched your lips was soft—until a sharp crack made you both whip around.

“Harry!” you shouted.

Your best friend was lying on the ground, moaning, a few feet from where a rogue Bludger had smacked into his ribs mid-flight. The rest of the team was sprinting over already.

Ron let out a groan and ran after you, watching his moment vanish like steam.

(And Harry, bruised but grinning later, had the audacity to wink and say, “Timing’s rough, mate.”)

⸻

Attempt #4 – The One with the Exploding Cauldron

This time, it was Potions. Slughorn had ducked out to his office, and the room buzzed with end-of-class chatter and the occasional puff of smoke.

You were scrubbing your cauldron clean, elbow-deep in foam, sleeves rolled up past your elbows. Ron watched you for a second too long before stumbling over.

“Y/N,” he started, wiping his hands on his robes. “Can I ask you something? It’s kind of important.”

You turned, brows raised. “Of course.”

And right as he opened his mouth—

BOOM.

The explosion was so loud half the class hit the floor. Green smoke burst from Seamus’ cauldron and rained boiling potion everywhere.

You shrieked and yanked Ron down behind your desk as people screamed and Slughorn came barrelling back in with his wand raised.

Ron just lay there, heart pounding, potion goo in his hair, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe fate really hated him.

⸻

Attempt #5 – The Final Straw

Which leads him to tonight.

The common room was quiet, wrapped in that gentle, sleepy hush that only came after a long day. The fire had burned down low, casting a warm amber glow across the walls and flickering shadows along the floor. The distant wind outside howled softly through the castle stone, but inside, everything was still.

You were curled up in your favorite armchair by the hearth, a blanket wrapped loosely around your legs, the glow of the flames painting golden hues across your skin. Your book lay open in your lap, one hand lazily turning the pages as your eyes scanned the text—but Ron could tell you weren’t really reading. You looked peaceful. Content. Like you belonged there.

He stood at the top of the dormitory stairs, frozen. Just… looking at you.

You always looked beautiful to him, but in that moment, you looked almost unreal. Maybe it was the firelight, maybe it was the quiet, or maybe he was just too far gone. But he knew then and there—he couldn’t wait another bloody second.

Ron muttered to himself under his breath. “Okay. No Peeves. No Hermione. No Seamus blowing anything up. Just say it.”

His feet carried him forward like they had a mind of their own, the soft soles of his slippers brushing across the rug as he approached. You heard him coming, and when you looked up, your lips curled into a sleepy, familiar smile.

“Hi, Ron,” you said softly.

He sank down beside you on the armrest, the warmth of your body already creeping into his side. He smiled back, but his heart was racing—his mouth dry. He tried to gather the words he’d been holding in for what felt like forever.

His voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “Y/N…”

You tilted your head slightly, your book forgotten.

“I’ve been trying to ask you out,” he said, eyes fixed on the fire, then on his hands, then finally back to you. “For weeks, actually.”

You blinked, amused. “I know.”

That threw him. “You do?”

You gave him a look—fond and teasing. “Ron, you’ve asked me like six times. You just never got to the end.”

He groaned and buried his face in one hand. “Bloody hell, I’m pathetic.”

“No,” you said gently, brushing his hand away so you could see him. “Just a bit cursed, maybe.”

He laughed, but it was nervous. “I didn’t mean to mess it up so many times. But something always happened, y’know? Peeves. Hermione. Exploding cauldrons..”

Ron let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I meant it. Every time. I just wanted to say… I like you. A lot more than I know how to explain. And I want to take you to Hogsmeade, and walk you back, and maybe—I dunno—kiss you. Once. Maybe more. Probably a lot more.”

Your lips quirked. “Just once?”

He chuckled nervously. “Okay, yeah. Definitely more.”

Your hand slid down to his, fingers threading through his warm, calloused ones. “Good.”

And that was it.

No interruptions. No explosions. No bloody chaos.

Just you. And him.

He leaned in—slowly, hesitantly—but you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft at first, like testing the edge of something delicate. His lips brushed yours, unsure, almost like he didn’t quite believe it was really happening. But you responded instantly, your hand curling into the front of his jumper as you deepened it, pulling him closer.

And once you kissed him back—really kissed him—Ron stopped thinking altogether.

His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as though you were something fragile and precious. He tasted like spearmint and nervous hope, and you thought—finally. The world faded around you. There was only the warmth of the fire, the sound of his breath, and the soft little noise you made when he kissed you like he meant it.

When you finally broke apart, both of you slightly breathless, your noses brushed. Your eyes fluttered open, and you stared at him with the softest look he’d ever seen.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered, lips still barely touching his.

He rested his forehead against yours and laughed, cheeks pink, heart thundering. “Yeah,” he breathed. “But it was worth it.”

And then, without hesitation, he kissed you again—once, twice, three times—slow, lingering kisses that made your toes curl and your fingers twist in his jumper like you never wanted to let go.

Because maybe, after all this time… you wouldn’t have to.

[skzficdump]

Even If You Close the Door

paring: roommate!hyunjin x fem!reader

gender: smut

word count: 850

warnings: voyer, sub!perv!hyunjin, obssesion, oral sex (fem reciving)

Hyunjin has been in love with you for two years.

But not like you love a best friend. No. Theirs was something else.

Theirs was insane.

He looked at you when you thought you weren't. He slept cuddling a pillow you used. He looked at your photos before sleeping, his hand closed around his crotch, whispering your name between muffled moans. And every night he felt more like yours. Although you didn't know it.

Until you did.

That night wasn't special. Nothing out of the ordinary. You had argued with your current crush and asked Hyunjin to stay the night. Like always.

Your best friend. The sweet one. The one who said "Do you want me to hug you?" when he saw you sad. The one with pretty hands and soft lips. The one who slept on the mattress next to yours whenever you needed him.

But you didn't know that this time he didn't sleep.

He just looked at you. All night. That T-shirt of yours, so short. Your bare thighs, your soft gasps as you moved in your sleep.

When you woke up, Hyunjin wasn't on the mattress anymore. But he wasn't gone.

He was behind the door. Watching. Biting his lip. With his hand inside his pants.

He wasn't touching himself. Not yet. He was just squeezing. He was just suffering. He was only obsessing over the image of you stretching out, half asleep, your nipples poking out beneath the fabric.

And then you touched yourself.

Maybe without realizing it.

Your hand went down between your legs as you yawned. Your fingers began to move gently, unconsciously, with the need still half-filled.

Hyunjin covered his mouth with his hand. He moaned softly, like a child sick of you. His penis was already hard, hot, throbbing.

And you… you didn't even know. Or so he thought.

Until you spoke.

"How much longer are you going to look before you enter?"

The door trembled.

"H-Huh…?" he stammered from the other side.

"I know you're there, Hyunjin. I've known for weeks. Every time I left the door ajar… I did it for you."

Silence. Only his heavy breathing.

"Aren't you coming in? Or would you rather keep touching yourself while you watch me?"

The door opened.

Hyunjin was red-faced, trembling. His lips parted, his eyes wide like a trapped deer's. His erection was protruding through his pajama pants. His hands were shaking.

"I… I didn't want to… it's just… you're so…"

"Do you jerk off thinking about me?"

He closed his eyes. He lowered his head. He nodded.

"All the time," he whispered, broken. "I touch myself with your name on my tongue. I can't help it. I like no one like you. No one obsesses me like you do."

You moved toward him, and his body tensed as if you were going to kill him.

But you kissed him.

And Hyunjin moaned.

It was a pathetic sound. Painful. Grateful.

"If you're going to watch… you're going to participate," you whispered, taking him by the neck. "I want to see how badly you want me, Hyunjin. I want you to crawl for me. Like you do in your head."

And he did.

He dropped to his knees.

He pulled down your panties with both trembling hands and kissed the inside of your thighs as if they were sacred.

"God… you smell like I imagine you every night," he whispered, licking slowly. "I always thought this. That you'd taste sweet. That you'd moan softly. That you'd let me beg you."

His tongue touched your clit and lingered there. Slow. Devoted.

He ate you out with a mixture of devotion and desperation. Licking with sick little noises, drooling on you, whispering things he never should have said:

"Your pussy is mine. Even if you don't say it. Even if you fuck other people, you're still mine. Right?" "You'd let me sleep between your legs, wouldn't you? Lick you until you couldn't think." "Tell me you like having me on my knees. Tell me, please…"

You pulled his hair hard.

"Keep eating me out like the pervert you are."

Hyunjin moaned against you, his eyes glassy. He did it to you until your legs were shaking and your voice wouldn't come out.

And when you finished, when your body collapsed on the bed, he stayed there, his face dripping, not moving.

"Can I…?" he whispered. "Can I cum?"

You looked at his aching erection, slashed, wet at the tip.

"Do you think you deserve it?"

He looked at you, almost crying.

"No. But I still cum for you every night. With or without your permission."

You laughed, cruel.

"Do it."

Hyunjin touched himself desperately in front of you. His moans were clumsy, childish, dark.

"Thank you… thank you, thank you… I love you so much, fuck… you're my everything…"

And he came on the carpet, with your name on his lips.

The door was closed. But it didn't matter anymore. Because now you knew Hyunjin wasn't just your best friend. He was yours. On his knees. And he was never going to leave.

[bunny-1111]

Hey girl, got a request!

Jealous Theo who is betrothed to you and you guys are in the same friend group but avoid each other because you both feel forced by your parents. Secretly like each other and secretly trying to make the other jealous until Theo can’t handle it anymore 😍🥰😋

I LOVE this sssssm i had so much fun writing, I hope you enjoy darling x

word count: 2.7K

Slow-burning lovers arranged marriage trope

Warning: Mild language, Sexual implied but not explicitly stated

also unedited, spelling and grammar is defiently off but its 2;30 am and I cbf re-reading and editing lmao.

Reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated. <3

...

You know that it's not normal to be betrothed at seventeen.

You know that it's not normal to not talk to your finance.

You had both been told of the wedding plans over tea on an arbitrary Tuesday morning, you and your parents on one side of the table, Theodore and his on the other.

You didn't know if you had choked or spat out your piping-hot English Breakfast; maybe it was both, but what you do remember for certain is that Theodore didn't flinch.

That's what frustrated you most about him, his cold, gargoylish face always so unflinching, so unfeeling, it told you nothing, it never had in your whole existence of knowing Theo.

Fast forward to now, you feel everything so deeply nowadays, every sense, every temperature, every sound, every sensation by tenfold. As you look down at your hand weakly resting on the great hall dining table, you can't avoid the rock on your finger; no one can really.

You hear it all the time, you were surrounded by teenage romantics after all, the girls would stop you in hallways and squeal over the shining thing that decorated the finger beside your pinky.

It seemed like everyone stared at your ring, except the one who gave it to you.

When he slipped it on your hand, he didn't smile; his hands steady below your own, his eyes only meeting yours for a second.

You can't blame him, since the two of you were put in this arrangement, you had both pulled desperately away from each other.

How could either of you continue a friendship knowing that you're bound for life.

So that's how it continued, you would both sit on opposite sides of the couch when in the common room, Pansy, Draco and Blaise filling the space between you two.

You would walk into the library, scan the aisles of books, and find Theo browsing for his own. You turned on your heels and left; it was easier that way, you thought. He thought so too.

You thought about him too much for someone so distant, but that was the trouble, having the same friends, growing up together, forced proximity, you could only avoid him so much. There was no limit on how much you could think about him though, your brain couldn't shut him out or off, more than you could ever admit to yourself.

You lie facing the dark green ceiling of Pansy's bedroom, entranced in a daydream, that is of course, until you feel your hand aggressively yanked up by Pansys not so soft hand. "Look at the size of this thing", She laughed "I'll never understand how you got so lucky" she huffed

"Lucky, Lucky" you laughed in return, sitting upright "What's lucky about this?" you continue

"Yes, lucky honey, if it all turns sour, this ring will get you at least one hundred thousand galleons from a shady store in Diagon", she laughed

"Mhm" you hum, your mind occupied

"So have you guys, you know-" Pansy pries, elbowing you gently

"Pans, we don't speak, let alone" you pause and elbow her back

"I bet you want to" she smiles

"Pansy!" You almost scream, throwing a pillow in her direction

She's too quick catching the pillow and returning it to you with force "He's your finance! You should be doing all that and more", she retaliates

"And would you look at that, you're so blushing and you so want him" she continues

you felt your cheeks on fire, hiding your face into her pillow

you mutter a response into the pillow, she rips it from under you, demanding you repeat what you had said

"I said I don't know what to do, Pans! Besides he's always flirting with girls in front of me, there's something that's hidden deep in my heart"

She looks at you blankly, before her face erupts, "I knew it, I bloody knew you had in fact have something for him, and you didn't tell me until now?" she shrieks

"Pansy, I just admitted it to myself, literally as the words just left my mouth" You huff, "I don't know what to do" you almost frown

"test the waters, tease him a little" she explains

"Tease him how?" you question wide eyes looking as clueless as ever

"Oh my lovely innocent duckling, flirt with someone else in front of him and if he reacts, then you know he feels the same, you've never played the game back" Pansy praised her hand gently brushing your hair with her fingers

"Maybe with Enzo?" you suggest

"Yes! Exactly with Enzo, Merlin Theo is going to rage, our best friend Lorenzo and his fiancée," She giggles, sprinting into her wardrobe she begins to throw clothes your way shouting from a distance "Wear something of mine, something short, Oh my, could this get any better it's Enzo's birthday tomorrow, a Randevu with the birthday boy, Perfect, just perfect! at his party you need to..." Pansy rambled on and on you take a deep breath losing focus of her words, instead you picture a certain someone shutting your eyes tight, you tried to squeeze his face out of your imagination.

...

The next night, the common room is glowing green with enchanted lanterns, loud with music and louder chaos. Draco spiked the butterbeer, and Blaise has his wand extended as he runs through the road, levitating cake through the air, slapping pansy ass with his free hand as he passes

"You look edible. All you have to do is exist near Enzo, and Theo’ll combust.” Pansy says over the music

You open your mouth to reply, something sarcastic, maybe some reluctance, but your breath hitches instead.

Because Theo is already flirting.

He’s seated on the far couch, his legs man spread with a girl draped on the arm beside him. Ravenclaw, you think you recognise her, but your eyes squint as you watch her nails tracing the edge of his sleeve as she leans into his shoulder.

You feel it immediately a sharp, dizzy twist low in your stomach. Like jealousy poured into your body and absorbed into your ribs.

Your stomach churns with a sharpness you couldn't ignore this time.

Pansy clocks it instantly. “Oh. Oh. He’s trying to get a reaction.”

“Well, he’s about to get one,” you mutter, already scanning the room for Enzo, you feel Pansy adjust your skirt even higher than it already is.

Just as you move, Pansy grabs your hand. “Wait. Let me try it on.”

“What?” you blink.

“The ring. Just for a second.” She holds out her hand dramatically, already a few drinks in, eyes glittering. “Come on, I'm gonna go show Blaise how good I'd look with one on, maybe he'll pop the question on the spot" she pokes her tongue out

You roll your eyes but pull it off, hesitating just a moment before she snatches, slipping it onto her finger. It feels naked. Your skin misses it immediately, as if it were never meant to come off at all.

Pansy slips it onto her finger with a mock gasp. “Look at me,” she sighs, lifting her hand towards Blaise,

You don’t laugh. You can’t.

Instead, you turn, heels clicking toward Enzo.

You stumble through the crowd, Enzo at the drinks table, already halfway through something deadly-looking. His smile spreads wide when he sees you.

“Birthday boy,” you sing, running a finger lightly up his arm. “How lucky am I to spend your birthday with you?” you smile widely

“Is this sweetness my birthday present?” he grins, playing along instantly, as his own hands trail up your waist “Now what about your fiance, you remember him sorta my best friend, would sorta kick both our asses”

You lean in, letting your lips graze his jaw. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Setting your eyes toward Theo, your hand slowly makes its way to cup Enzo's face, eyes still glued to Theodore as Enzo entertains this forthcoming and dangerous game.

You want him to see every inch of it.

But when your eyes flick back to the couch,

He’s gone.

You return your gaze to Lorenzo, who is smiling up a thunderstorm, before you can even straighten up, a familiar hand curls around your arm.

You’re yanked back with a roughness that makes you gasp, the drink nearly slipping from your fingers.

You hear Enzo laugh in the distance, but it's all happening too fast.

“Theo—” you start, but he’s already pulling you away from it all, through the throng of people, past a very pleased Pansy and out into the corridor.

He drags you through the room like a man possessed. Through the bodies, through the music, through the haze of alcohol and flickering light.

The common room door slams shut behind you.

And suddenly it’s just you and him in the corridor, you suddenly feel the cold of the night shiver down your spine

Your pulse is thudding against your throat.

“What the fuck was that?” you demand, yanking your arm back

He spins to face you, chest heaving. “Where’s your ring?”

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. Where. Is. Your. Fucking. Ring.”

You’re stunned silent.

He’s never spoken to you like this. Never looked at you like this.

“Pansy asked to try it on and-” you almost stutter through your words, he's never been so close to you

“And you gave it to her?” he interrupts

You're breathless. “It’s just a ring.”

His face twists. “Don’t say that.”

“It is,” you snap. “You never even looked at it before. You flirt with girls in front of me like I don’t exist, so don't act like it matters or that we're in a real relationship, ok, don't pretend now you suddenly care that I’m not wearing it-" your pleading broken eyes are betraying the coldness in your voice

“I chose you!”

The words ring through the corridor like a spell.

You freeze.

“What?”

His fists fidget and clench at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands like he's fighting his all to not out them on your hips to stabilise himself.

“My parents wanted me to marry Daphne Greengrass,” he grits out. “That's who they suggested first, but I refused"

You swallow your heart in your throat.

“I told them it would be you or I wouldn’t be anyone. That if it wasn't you that their bloodline ould die with me” he stops himself, jaw locking. “Our families have always been close so I convinced them and fucking hell it wasn't easy. My father owed Daphnes father a favour; he would've returned it with an engagement but my parents and your parents get along so well, they came to agreement”

Your breathing picked up at a pace you couldn't control

“I wanted you,” he says. “I have always wanted you.” he inches closer

You stare at him, barely breathing. The corridor seems to shrink around you.

"Do you know how much I've missed our friendship Theodore?" you hiss

"I know and I-" he begins

"No, you pushed away completely, I thought you hated me, it was killing me" You couldn't control yourself, you began to shove his chest hard yet completely ineffectivly

"You wanted me? You never- fucking- showed- it" you continue with your pathetic attempts of aggression, until his hands so disciplined and sturdy grabbed hold of your wrist, halting another push

“Because the second I touch you-” his voice breaks, his eyes wild“I won’t be able to stop. I’ve spent months trying to keep it together. Do you have any idea what it’s been like, watching you avoid me, watching you pretend I’m not in the room, while I’ve been trying to be decent-?”

You step forward before you can stop yourself

“You don’t have to be decent anymore.”

The air between you trembles.

He looks at you like he might come undone.

“You’re mine,” he whispers as your foreheads fall together to connect

“I know,” you say, voice shaking, not brave enough to look into his eyes

“And you’re not taking that ring off again.” you feel his head shake in disapproval

You nod, slowly desperately. “I'll go get it"

"Don't move alright, stay here" his hands in yours unwillingly part as he disappears back into the party. You look around for the first time since arriving in the corridor, and before your can take a healthy breaht into your lungs, Theodore's hand is on your back, stealing your oxygen again.

"Shit-head fucking Pasny" he mutters as he toweres over you

He slides the ring back onto your finger with trembling hands, his breath ragged, his gaze locked on yours like it would kill him to look away.

And then?

He kisses you.

Not soft. Not sweet.

But hard, and angry, and starved. Like he’s putting the choice into your mouth, reminding you who you belong to and exactly why.

All tongue and teeth and months of swallowed rage. He kisses like he fights you, consuming, ruthless.

Your back hits the wall of the corridor, and he presses his whole body into yours, like he needs you under him, around him, everywhere all at once. You gasp into his mouth, and the sound makes him groan.

“I hate that you made me watch that shit you pulled with Enzo,” he growls against your lips, biting down softly before kissing you again, harder. “I hate that you knew I’d snap.”

“I wanted you to,” you gasp.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, eyes blazing once again, chest heaving like he's watched it all again in his blink. “You wanted me to drag you out of there like a fucking animal?”

“Yes,” you breathe, desperate, pulling his face back close to yours “I wanted you to see me. Theo”

“I’ve always seen you,” he hisses, his hand gripping your thigh, hiking your skirt higher. “I’ve seen you since we were twelve. I saw you before my parents said your name. I picked you before I even knew I could.”

You whimper, and that’s it, you've broken something in him. He doesn’t care about the corridor anymore, or the party happening on the other side of the wall, or the fact that anyone could walk out and see.

He turns you around fast your cheek pressed against the cool stone, his body flush behind you, one arm tight into you hip, the other bracing the door shut so nobody can walk out and see you like this beneath him.

“This what you wanted?” he growls into your ear. “To drive me mad?”

You can barely speak. “Yes”

“To make me jealous?”

“Yes, Theo, please”

He pushes your hair aside and mouths at your neck, biting down just enough to leave marks, to stake a claim. His voice drops, dark and low and dangerous:

“Then don’t cry when I show you what happens when you’re mine.”

You gasp, a soft sound muffled by the stone. His breath is hot against your neck, his hand still locked around your hip like it’s the only thing anchoring him to sanity.

“You’re so fucking lucky,” he hisses, lips pressed to your ear, “that you weren’t wearing that ring when you pulled that shit with Enzo.”

His hand tightens on your waist, dragging you back harder against him. You gasp—he doesn’t care.

“If I’d seen that ring near his jaw,” he growls, voice shaking with rage, “if your finger even brushed his face, while wearing our fucking rin-”

He cuts himself off, exhaling sharp through his nose.

“I would've shattered it. His face. His jaw. Your hand with it if I had to.”

You open your mouth to say something in return, but you can't

"Put your hand to my face, baby", he practically begs in a low whisper

You oblige, your shaky hand settles on his cheek, and he could cry.

His own hand meets yours, fingers tracing the ring like it’s a vow.

In the distance you hear Pasny calling your name, Theo mutters all sorts of filth towards the floor, if she comes through the doors this moment is over, the moment you both waited so long for

"Theo, I need you", you let out, your frantic eyes lock with Theo's, silently begging him to not let her take you away from him right now.

He understands immediately, picking you up and leading you both away from the chaos, towards his dorm.

His pace so quick that you tighten your grip on him so you don't fall, as his door creaks open then shut, you have no idea whats waiting for you.

...

Part 2 ???

Reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated. <3

[andy-15-07]

Hi love! Can you do one of Joaquin x ex widow! reader where they came back from a mission with Sam that was exhausting and she tried to lightening the mood but Joaquin snapped at her. She got hurt and was avoiding him for almost a week. ( I love your work. You are amazing!!)

Soft Target

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1077✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

The debrief droned on forever , overhead lights buzzing, a stale pot of coffee you’d stopped bothering to drink hours ago, Sam’s voice steady while everyone else blinked through exhaustion.

When the glass doors finally swung open, you stepped out into the hallway next to Joaquin, shoulders brushing his. He looked dead on his feet , scraped knuckles, a bruise on his jaw, dried blood at his temple he hadn’t let you clean off yet.

You were bone tired too, but you’d learned long ago that silence could kill you faster than a bullet. You’d spent years trained not to flinch, not to laugh, not to talk. Now you filled every empty space with words, warmth, anything to push the old version of you further away.

So you nudged his elbow, soft. “Hey, at least you got a cool new scar for your collection. Makes you look tough.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking, boots echoing on concrete. You pushed again , light, teasing, hoping for that crooked grin that made your ribs loosen.

“C’mon, Lieutenant , you know you look hot all banged up. Gonna get fan mail from half the base again,”

“Can you just not right now?”

It came out sharp , louder than it should’ve been, bouncing down the empty corridor like a gunshot. You stopped so fast you nearly stumbled. Joaquin turned on you, eyes dark with something you didn’t recognize.

“I’m serious. Just, don’t. I don’t wanna hear it, okay? Not tonight.”

You stood there, heart slamming against your ribs , a muscle memory of old training screaming don’t show it hurts. So you didn’t. You bit the inside of your cheek, forced your lips into something neutral.

“Okay,” you said, voice so small it made you want to punch a wall. “Got it.”

He opened his mouth , like he might say something else , but he didn’t. Just ran a hand through his hair, turned on his heel, and stalked off toward the barracks.

You watched him go until the echo of his boots faded , and for the first time in a long time, the hallway felt as empty as that old Red Room cell.

He texted you later that night. Hey. You up? You let the screen go dark. Next morning: Eat with me? You left him on read.

When he found you sparring with Sam in the training room, you just ducked Sam’s swing, shot Joaquin a half-smile, and wiped your nose with your glove like nothing was wrong. He didn’t push you in front of Sam. Of course he didn’t.

You’d spent years surviving on don’t react, don’t flinch, don’t feel. You hadn’t thought you’d have to use it on him.

Almost a week later, you were alone in the rec room , legs tucked under you on the couch, an old black-and-white movie flickering on mute while you scrolled aimlessly through your phone.

You heard the door swing open behind you but didn’t look. You didn’t have to.

He didn’t speak at first , just stood there. You could feel him, like a storm rolling through the empty space.

Finally, his voice, rough and low: “Hey.”

You didn’t look up. “Hey.”

Silence. Then the couch dipped under his weight when he sat down, close but not touching. You kept your eyes on the flickering TV.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“Nothing to talk about.” You flicked to the next thing on your phone, your thumb trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t see it.

He huffed a breath, the kind that always meant he was working up to something. “I was a dick.”

“Yeah.” You didn’t sugarcoat it. What was the point?

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you. I shouldn’t’ve,” He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face. “I just, I fucked up.”

You laughed , but it came out more like a crack in the wall you’d been patching for days. “Don’t apologize because you feel bad, Torres. You were tired. You were pissed. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he snapped , then softened instantly when you flinched. He reached out, then stopped himself. His hand hovered over your knee but didn’t land. “Fuck, I hate that look. I hate that I put it there.”

You swallowed, forcing your eyes to stay on the TV. The movie flickered , two actors in black and white pretending at forever while your chest felt like an open wound.

“You know what it costs me to do this?” you whispered. “To say dumb shit. To joke. To be… normal? I wasn’t trained for normal. I was trained to shut up, keep my head down, break people if they made me feel too much. I don’t wanna be her anymore.”

The words fell out before you could stop them. You felt him watching you , felt the ache in your ribs that said don’t cry in front of him.

Then you felt his palm cover your knee , warm, grounding, real.

“I know,” Joaquin said, voice wrecked. “I know you don’t wanna be her anymore. I don’t want you to be her. I want you. The dumb jokes. The terrible flirting. The way you make everything feel lighter when the world’s gone to shit.”

You finally looked at him. His eyes were soft and raw and wide open, that crooked grin nowhere to be seen , just him, stripped down to the bone for you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, thumb brushing over your knee like he could erase the hurt. “I’ll never throw it back at you again. I swear.”

You hated him a little for how easy it was to believe him. You hated yourself more for wanting to.

“You hurt me,” you whispered.

“I know.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours. “Let me fix it. Please. Let me try.”

You didn’t move , not for a heartbeat, not for two , and then your phone slipped from your fingers as you curled into him, your knees bumping his thighs, your arms winding around his shoulders like they were made for it.

He pulled you in without hesitation, buried his face in your neck, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Not you. Never you.”

And for the first time since the Red Room, since the blood and the orders and the silence , you let yourself believe that maybe softness wasn’t weakness after all.

[honeyhotteoks]

₊ ⊹ ⟡ aiming to please (최산 ♡ c.sn)

you beg for his hand on your throat in the middle of sex. and san isn't ready for that, not yet, not until he does a little research.

style: bullet drabble pairing: non idol!san x fem!reader word count: 2.5k tags/warnings: smut, pwp, breath play / choking, kink research, body worship, mirrors, pussy obsessed choi san, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, rough sex / passionate sex, creampie, discovered desires, two kinky idiots in love notes: this one was a request from my bestie, carrie. i know, i know, i need to write more of boyfriend choi san!! i hope this does the prompt justice~ [masterlist]

Of the two of you, you’ve always been the kinker one. San knows this. 

It’s part of what makes you so magnetic to him, part of the physical pull that yanks him back into your orbit day after day. 

It’s not just about the sex, it’s about everything. The way you know what you want, the way you say it, the way you feel everything, deep in your marrow. 

He never has to guess with you, never has to wonder if you’re happy, or tired, or feeling like sushi, or if whatever he tried in bed worked or not. You tell him, he knows. 

Despite your appetites, your intensity, you’d never push him past his comfort zone. You’ve always made that clear, but no matter what, San is sweet. San is open, San is quite frankly fucking obsessed with you, and he always wants to try. 

So when you beg for his hand around your throat in the middle of sex, frantically chasing your orgasm, and you feel him freeze up, you don’t push for it or demand it, you just guide him. 

He’s never choked anyone before, he’s never even really thought about choking someone before. 

But you’re panting under him with that look on your face, your hands in his hair as you lift your hips to meet his thrusts, and like all the other times, he wants to try. 

You drag his hand up from your hip, over your waist and skimming along your ribs, a drag of his sweat slick skin over your sternum, settling his palm over your throat. 

And he freezes. 

“There,” you gasp, “San, please, please,” 

He looks at you like you just cracked the earth open beneath him. 

And - 

He leaves his hand there, that’s all he can do. 

His palm spread over your throat, no pressure, no grip. Nothing to take your breath away, just the warm weight of it where you needed it. 

It still makes you moan. 

“Is,” He pants, still rolling his hips, “Is this okay?” He’s uncertain, and he’s completely overwhelmed. 

You nod, mouth open and eyes wide, something pulling in your expression that is so desperately needy that it hits him - You want this. You really, really want this. 

He keeps his hand there, soft, a placeholder. It’s a promise he doesn’t quite know how to keep yet, but he sees your hunger, and at least for now he acknowledges it. 

He makes you come like he always does, his cock thick and warm inside you, fingers rubbing tight little circles between your legs, his lips everywhere, breath hot on your skin. 

He leaves his left hand on your throat the entire time. 

And you fall apart under him, shaking, moaning and utterly satisfied, but if you’re being honest there’s still that piece missing, that thing that would make you feel fulfilled. 

For the first time in your long relationship, he sees it. 

After, you say nothing. You kiss the underside of his jaw and tell him you love him, and you step away from that kink as just another in a list of things you don’t want to pressure him too much for. On this one, you stay quiet. You fold it back into yourself and keep it for your alone time, your porn preferences, something to fantasize about when he’s away. 

San spends the whole night tossing and turning, playing over the scene in his mind. 

The way your eyes crinkled up, the way you felt wetter than you’ve ever been. 

He’s hard again just thinking about your face like that, the way you clenched around him. 

Your desperate “please”,  and his name, it plays on a loop and it just won’t go, no matter how much he tries to think of other things. 

In the morning, he lets regular life things distract him. 

He makes you breakfast, he goes to the gym, he runs a few errands and sends you countless texts that have nothing to do with your needs, even with sex, just normal relationship stuff like what you want for dinner and if you saw this funny video. 

In the back of his mind though, it’s there. Your pupils blown wide, mouth open, breath tight. 

So when he gets home and he’s alone, he finds himself on forums. Message boards, sex-positive kink blogs, the deeper he dives the more he finds. Pressure points, risks, techniques, safety checks. 

He’s shocked at how much information there is, he’s shocked at how many people love this. 

He’s shocked at how hard he is sitting at his desk trying to pretend this is just research. 

He practices with his hand on his own throat, finding the soft sides that control blood flow and how too much pressure on the front of his neck makes him need to cough, clear his throat, and take a long sip of water. 

He learns fast: thumb and forefinger, collarbones, trachea, carotid artery. 

He thinks he should be going to medical school for all the things he’s learned about blood flow and oxygen to the brain, but he catalogues it all. 

He doesn’t bring it up the next day, or the one after that. 

You feel it in the way he looks at you though, something in the quiet focus behind his eyes. You don’t know what he’s been wondering about, but he’s been thinking constantly, and his eyes have been trained on you now more than ever. 

It shifts on a random Thursday, after dinner on the couch and the end of the new drama you’ve been watching together. He kisses you like he always does, and then he touches your hand, “Come with me,” 

You follow him, drawn to the back bedroom with him, unsure of what he’s been thinking until he stops you in the middle of the room. 

Your eyes glance to the bed, expecting sex, expecting where you always go. 

With warm hands he turns your body until you’re facing the full length mirror. 

Something pulls low in your belly. 

His hands rest on your shoulders, and his breath is warm against your ear, “Take your clothes off,” he says, “I want to watch.” 

Your heart stutters, but you obey, slow and silent, peeling off your trousers from work, unbuttoning your blouse. 

He watches the whole time, eyes fixed on your hands. 

When you’re down to your underwear and you pause he nods, “All of it, baby,” 

You strip the rest, wetness pooling in your core already. 

Kissing your shoulder, then your neck, his hands soft on your hips, and then his eyes flick up to catch yours in the reflection. 

“The other night,” He kisses again, slow, “you asked for something new,” 

You freeze, your breath quickening. 

He takes in your expression, and you see the curve of a smile on his mouth as he lets his lips travel to your shoulder, then back up, “I didn’t know what to do then,” he admits softly, “but I do now.” 

Your breath catches. 

San wraps his arms around you, bringing you back into his broad chest, and then slowly he reaches around, his hand coming to rest warmly over your heart. 

“If this is something you want,” He brushes against your skin with his thumb, “I can do it,” 

“Y-yes,” You nod, eyes blown wide with want, “I want it,” 

His hand slips up and rests over your throat, “Tonight?” 

“Yes,” You answer clearly, unequivocally. 

“Okay,” He kisses your temple, and squeezes his hand just once, just enough to make your breath skip and your knees go weak. 

He doesn’t fuck you right away. 

He takes his time, he worships you. 

You know the promise of it is coming, but for now he takes you apart the way he likes. 

He guides you to the bed and works your cunt with his mouth like he was made to do it, the only man who’s ever made you forget your own name with his tongue inside you, lips on your clit. 

He warms up you with the kind of passionate obsessive kisses you’ve grown to love from him, until you’re rutting your cunt on his thigh and begging him to do the thing he promised he would do. 

It’s then that he lifts you, turning you in his hands like you weigh nothing, pushing you right to the edge of the bed with his body seated behind you, knees spread wide around your body caging you in. 

He draws your eyes up, and you see yourselves reflected back. 

“Look,” He whispers it, nipping your ear, “Look how much you want it,” 

You can only manage a nod

He hooks your legs over his, fucking you with his fingers slow and deep, rubbing you over and over until the sound of your messy cunt in the room has you moaning, gripping his thighs for purchase. 

His free hand stays steady at your throat, and then slowly he presses. 

Your mouth falls open, eyes rolling, your body melting back into his arms as you shudder. 

You make a tight, needy sound, your voice vibrating against his fingertips. 

“I got you,” He promises, eyes locked with yours in the mirror, “just let go,” 

Your orgasm hits you so hard, completely without warning, your thighs snapping shut and your body wrenching in his arms as you shake, melting into boneless tremors. 

The second your breach catches funny, his hand releases, and he slides you both back onto the bed. 

His fingers smooth back your hair

“Jagi, Jagiya,” His voice rough, “you okay?” 

You tell him it’s perfect, you tell him it was everything, and Choi San just laughs. 

A wide grin as he hugs you, kisses peppered over your hair. 

Tipping you back into the bedsheets, lips on yours, stealing your breath another way - 

“I’ve been thinking about this,” He confesses, nuzzling your nose with his, “I wanted to make it perfect for you,” 

“It was,” You breathe, “God, San,” 

As you reach to him, he catches your wrist with gentle pressure and pins it back to the mattress, “Let me,” 

You go still. 

You melt. 

He presses one kiss to the inside of your wrist, and then trails his mouth lower, teasing, getting you wetter and needier until you’re pulling at the front of his shirt and begging. 

“Sannie, please,” 

“There it is,” He sighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “you sound so pretty, baby,” 

Your stomach flip flops, muscles tense and aching for more, and then his hands fall to his belt and you shiver. 

“Are you ready?” He pulls the leather loop free and tosses it aside before sliding down his zipper, his cock straining against the fabric. 

“Yes, god,” You shiver as he pushes his pants down enough to free himself, “you’re so fucking hard,” 

“I’ve been picturing this all week,” He laughs, confessing it honestly as he settles himself between your splayed knees, “I feel like I’ve been hard for days,” 

Your breath catches when his cock nestles between your folds, but you blink up at him, “You liked it?” 

He nods, lip caught between his teeth as he sinks the head of his cock inside you, “Liked it,” he nods, “liked the way it made you fall apart more,” 

“Oh, fuck,” You grip the sheets, “baby,” 

“I’m… I’m going to try to take my time, but jagi,” He sinks his cock in, shuddering at the feeling of your warm, tight walls, “I need you,” 

“Me too,” You breathe, “please, just fuck me, we’ll figure it out later, I just need,” 

He sinks forwards before you can finish your babbled sentence, and his cock pushes in deep, his hands closing around your wrists and maneuvering you so that both are held tightly in one of his hands, interlocked over your head. 

“Oh,” Your hands clench, body jerking with nowhere to go. 

“Tell me you need it,” He nods, sweat beading on his brow. 

“I need it,” You beg him, your voice sinking into thready want, “please, please, San, I can’t,” 

His eyes close, a warm exhale from his lips. 

“I can’t,” You whisper, barely sure of what you’re saying. 

But San knows, like he always does, he sees the way your eyes prick with tears and the way your chest is heaving under him in fits and starts, he knows. 

“You can,” He murmurs, “I know you can,” 

He kisses you so sweetly it nearly undoes you, but when your lips part, his free hand finally slides up and over your throat. 

“Oh god,” You nod, mouth falling open, “please,” 

He squeezes, careful and measured, and the sound it pulls from your chest makes him groan. 

“Oh, baby,” He whispers, watching you relax under his hands, flushed and panting and his. 

He holds your wrists together over your head with one hand, the other still wrapped perfectly around your throat, and his thumb strokes against your pulse. 

Your breath catches, hips twitching under him. 

“You look so good like this,” He says, his voice trembling, “god, you don’t even know,” 

Your cunt clenches around him, and you know you’ll come fast, he can feel it. Your thighs are still trembling, hips tilting up to chase sensation. 

Finally, he leans in, forehead pressed to yours, and his hips roll deep and slow. 

“I just want to make you feel good,” He pants, “you’re everything,” 

You whimper, your eyes going glassy. 

His hand around your throat presses, perfect pressure on either side of your throat, your head buzzing. 

Pleasure arcs up your body, and you move together. 

Your hips jutting up to meet every thrust, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets. 

His hand stays a steady controlled pressure on your throat, not too much, not too little. 

Your breath is thin, dizzy pleasure rolling through your mind. 

“Come for me like this,” He begs, watching your expression turn soft and pliant, “let me feel it, come on my cock just like this,” 

Your orgasm hits so hard you lose your breath entirely, a headrush taking you under until you’re crying out, body locking up and jerking against his tight hold. You arch, shaking as you crack open, chanting his name on  your lips. 

“Oh, fuck,” You hear through the haze, “I’m, baby, I’m right there,” 

You take a hitched, pleasured breath, your walls clenching around him and then he’s coming too. 

He moans into your neck, collapsing over you, his hand releasing pressure but never leaving your throat while the other loses its grip on your wrists, clinging to the sheets as he pumps into you hard, chasing his release, staggering out his pleasure as your hips connect again and again. 

You gasp, your lungs finally filling with fresh air, chest shuddering beneath him. 

He’s shaking above you, but he kisses across your face, gathering you close, “You okay? Did I hurt you?” 

You shake your head, gripping the back of his shirt, “Perfect, so perfect,” 

He exhales hard in relief, a firm kiss to your forehead, “You’re okay?” 

“I’m–,” You feel your body limp in his arms, “so good, I don’t, I can’t,” 

He smiles, kissing your lips just once, “So we can do this again?” 

You smile, your hand tracing a line down his cheek, “Yeah, baby,” you breathe, “we can do this again.”

[taetebebe]

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺ DRIVER’S EDGE ༻˚₊‧✩ੈ

Pairing: non-idol!Riki x f!reader

He said he’d teach you how to drive—not how to crash headfirst into feelings.

Word count: ~2k

Author’s Note: This was inspired by someone. I hope she knows that Riki would be proud of her like I am <3 - Requests and taglist are open (pls refer to pinned post)

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

You weren't exactly sure how it started.

One second, you were panicking in the front seat of your mom’s old car, foot hovering dangerously over both pedals, and the next - Riki was there. Slouching in the passenger seat like this wasn’t the third time you’d stalled before even backing out of the driveway.

"Okay," he said, voice calm despite the chaos you'd just caused. "Let’s try that again. Slowly."

You glanced at him. Riki’s face was unreadable except for the ghost of a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

"Are you sure you don’t regret offering to help?" you muttered, gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles were white.

He leaned his head against the headrest, looking sideways at you. “Not yet. But the day’s young.”

You snorted - your first real laugh since you’d sat down in the driver’s seat. His eyes twinkled like he’d won something.

Riki had always been just… around. A neighbor. A classmate. The boy who skateboarded past your porch at 3 a.m., hoodie over his head, music in his ears. You'd never talked much, never had a reason to - until you'd made a stupid joke about never passing your driving test, and he'd shrugged and said, “I can teach you. If you want.”

You’d agreed, mostly because you didn’t want to look scared. And now here you were—absolutely terrified.

"Okay," Riki said again, shifting slightly to face you. He had this way of moving, like he was in no rush, like the world would wait. "Foot on the brake. Put it in reverse. And just... breathe."

You did. Kind of. The air felt different with him so close, like every breath took twice as much effort. You could feel the warmth of him through the small space between you. You tried not to notice it. You failed.

The car jolted backward.

"Brake!" he said quickly, and you slammed your foot down, flinging both of you forward. He caught himself on the dash with a laugh, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

"I think I broke the car."

"No," he said, grin widening, "but I might need another seatbelt."

You stared at him. He looked completely unbothered - annoyingly calm, like nothing rattled him. He caught your gaze and smiled, that lazy, crooked kind that made your stomach flip.

"Don't look at me like that," you grumbled.

"Like what?"

"Like you think this is funny."

"It is funny."

You tried not to smile, but failed miserably. There was something about the way he said things - half-tease, half-truth - that made it impossible to stay frustrated.

You finally eased the car back into place, hands still tense on the wheel.

"Let’s try going forward now," he said, nodding encouragingly. “We’ll take it slow. You’ve got time.”

You tried not to glance at him again, but the urge was magnetic. Riki wasn’t exactly what you’d call warm, but he was… steady. And kind. In his own quiet way.

Every silence between you hummed with something unspoken. Every brush of his fingers against yours - when he reached over to adjust your grip on the gear shift - lingered a second too long. Every laugh you shared bounced around your ribs like it was trying to stay there.

You didn’t know what this was. Just that you didn’t want this lesson to end.

“Left,” Riki said, tapping the window. “We’re taking the long way.”

You squinted at the narrow road ahead. “That’s not the long way. That’s the haunted forest detour that kills beginners like me.”

He shrugged, clearly unbothered. “I like the trees. And there’s no traffic. Less chance of you accidentally driving into a mailbox.”

You glared at him. “That was one time.”

“And the trash bin,” he added, smirking. “And almost my foot.”

You gasped. “Your foot was nowhere near- !”

He lifted both hands in surrender, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Relax. You’re doing fine. I haven’t died once.”

Despite your embarrassment, your lips tugged into a smile. You didn’t like driving. You didn’t like losing control, or the way your hands got clammy the second the car moved. But with Riki next to you, everything felt… less terrifying. As if the danger couldn’t touch you when he was in the passenger seat.

He leaned over a little, pointing at the mirror. “Adjust that - yep, just like that. You don’t want to be surprised by someone coming up behind you.”

“Like you?” you teased.

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t sneak up. I just... show up.”

That was true. Riki was like that. He never demanded attention, but somehow, he was always there. Every time you turned around - leaning against his bike outside your porch, sitting under a tree headphones in, or catching your eye across the hallways like he knew something you didn’t.

You hadn’t really noticed him until you started looking. And now? You couldn’t stop.

“Take it slow here,” he said, voice quieter as the road narrowed. Trees arched overhead, golden sunlight flickering through the leaves like the world was blinking. The tires crunched softly over gravel.

“This is kinda pretty,” you admitted.

He glanced sideways. “Told you.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. It never really was with him. Just… soft. The kind of quiet where your heart could breathe.

You weren’t even sure when it started happening - the way his voice started sounding familiar in your head. The way your hands shook a little less when his shoulder was beside yours. The way every time he leaned over, your brain short-circuited a bit.

You cleared your throat. “So why are you even helping me?”

His fingers drummed gently on the edge of his seat. “Because you looked terrified.”

You blinked.

“I don’t really like being bad at things,” you mumbled, eyes flicking back to the road.

“That’s okay,” he said softly. “I do. Sometimes it’s fun.”

“Fun?”

He leaned back, arms folding behind his head. “Means there’s nowhere to go but better.”

You drove in silence after that, but it wasn’t empty.

Your hand slipped on the gear shift at one point, and he reached over without thinking, guiding your fingers gently back. His hand was warm, ringed with faint scars on his knuckles - quiet stories you hadn’t asked about.

Your pinky grazed his.

Neither of you moved away.

It started with a cloud.

Then a drop.

Then the sky cracked in half.

You were halfway through your best drive yet when the heavens opened up and dumped everything they had. The windshield wipers shrieked in protest, barely keeping up. Riki squinted through the downpour, then pointed.

“Pull over. Gas station. Turn.”

You turned, slightly panicked, and eased the car under the awning of a half-closed station. The moment the car came to a full stop, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath since the sky cracked open.

Rain slammed down on the roof.

“Wow,” you muttered, heart still racing. “That escalated quickly.”

Riki laughed beside you, running a hand through his now-mussed hair. “You didn’t crash. Progress.”

You turned to him, laughing breathlessly. His face was flushed, his lips parted with something between surprise and joy. You were soaked just from the quick sprint to cover, and so was he - but something about the moment felt warm anyway.

“Your voice actually went up a full octave when you said ‘turn,’” you teased.

“I had a near-death experience,” he said with mock-seriousness. “Let me recover.”

You stared at him for a second too long.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, it was suddenly quiet.

Too quiet.

His eyes found yours again. Dark, unreadable. Steady.

You looked away first.

“What’s the worst part of driving?” he asked, voice softer now.

You considered it. “Feeling like I’m the only one who doesn’t get it.”

He leaned back, stretching one leg up onto the dashboard. “You’re not. But even if you were, I’d still pick you as my student.”

He said it like it didn’t mean anything. But it did.

You were starting to think everything he said meant more than he let on.

After the rain, you didn’t drive. You let him take the wheel, just this once.

He played music, windows cracked open to let the petrichor in. His playlist was as chill as he was, mostly mellow beats and the occasional guitar loop.

“I could fall asleep to this,” you said, staring out the window.

“You’ll miss the view.”

You turned to him. “You like driving.”

He nodded. “It’s quiet. It’s mine.”

You rested your chin on your hand. “You ever teach anyone else?”

“Nope.”

“Then, why me?”

He glanced over, lips twitching into something dangerously close to shy. “Because you make it interesting.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Silence returned, and it was louder than before.

You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it was just the car or the way your hands brushed sometimes, the way you always ended up looking at each other too long.

But instead, you said nothing.

You were getting better.

Fewer stops. Fewer near-crashes. Riki no longer flinched every time you turned the wheel.

“You’re almost too good now,” he joked one afternoon, after you parked perfectly on your first try. “I might lose my side job.”

You smiled. “We could still go for drives. Even if I pass.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“I mean… only if you want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the keys in his lap, then back at you.

“I’d want.”

And that was the first time something really cracked open.

The day before your test, he brought you coffee in a to-go cup with a tiny doodle on the lid. A badly drawn car and the words “you got this.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

You didn’t even care that the coffee was cold by the time you were done.

That night, you texted him.

you know, even if i fail tomorrow… i think this was the best summer i’ve had

 He replied a few minutes later.

me too. not because of the driving tho lol

you typed, hesitating.

yeah? 

Him:

yeah. you made everything else slower. in a good way.

You stared at the message, heart thudding.

Typing…

Then it stopped.

Then typing again.

Then:

let’s keep driving. even after you pass

You passed. Barely.

When you walked out of the DMV, license in hand, Riki was leaning against your car, tossing keys between his fingers.

He saw the look on your face and grinned.

“You did it.”

You nodded. “You’re free now.”

He pushed off the car and came closer. “You think I wanted to be free?”

Your throat went dry. “I don’t know. Maybe you just liked the challenge.”

He looked at you—really looked. “No. I liked you.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t offer to teach you because I’m patient. I offered because you scare me in a way I like. Because every time you panic, I want to be the one sitting next to you. Because every awkward silence made me want to fill it. With you.”

You were speechless.

“I don’t want this to end with your license,” he said, stepping closer. “I want more drives. More late nights. More of your terrible reverse parking.”

You laughed—nervously, breathlessly. “You’re seriously into someone who nearly killed you in a parking lot?”

He smiled. “I’m seriously into you.”

You stood there in the quiet, the weight of everything between you finally crashing forward.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s keep driving.”

And he leaned in, smile brushing your cheek like a secret.

“Passenger princess?”

“Driver’s seat,” you whispered.

And you both laughed as you climbed in—side by side, no more lessons, no more fear. Just one road ahead.

Together.

© taetebebe 2025

𖤘𖤘𖤘 - @stormlit-pages @laylasbunbunny

[barnesonly]

Illegal

mob!bucky barnes x fbi!reader

summary: You’re an FBI agent sent undercover to get close to the most dangerous mob boss in the city. But the deeper you go, the harder it gets to remember which side you’re really on.

word count: over 9k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! for all the tags/warnings, please check series masterlist since it may contain spoilers. smut in this chapter; dirty talk, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.

Chapter Two — „Feelings” | Previous

It’d been fifteen days.

Fifteen days of velvet booths and expensive wine. Of candlelit dinners where he leaned in closer every night. Fifteen days of him texting you every morning—Good morning, sweetheart—and kissing you like he meant it. Fifteen days of silk sheets and slow fucks and pretending not to notice the gun he was sometimes carrying with him.

You had a drawer now.

A goddamn drawer in his penthouse.

It was a joke.

He kissed your shoulder when you got out of the shower. He poured your coffee without asking how you took it. He curled an arm around you like it was instinct, like his body already forgot what it felt like to be without you.

And yet—despite all that closeness, all that softness—he hadn’t given you shit.

Not about his “business.” Not about his associates. Not about the money trail or the names or the bodies buried in the cracks between his charming little empire.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t loose-lipped.

You knew men like him were smarter than they looked. He played casual well. Played it cool. “I just do business,” he kept saying with that same half-smile, fingers grazing your bare thigh like punctuation. That had been his only answer.

You tried searching the penthouse again last night while he was in the shower.

Found nothing.

No files. No drives. No hidden safes behind artwork. No random locked drawers. Nothing suspicious at all, except for the pristine, too-clean feel of the place. Like someone knew what not to leave behind. Like it was designed to be a dead end.

He didn’t leave you here alone. Ever.

Even when he left in the morning for “meetings,” he insisted on driving you home first or waiting until you were already up and dressed. You hadn’t even seen his office yet. He kept those doors shut.

He was careful. Paranoid, maybe. But not careless. Which meant you needed a new angle.

Still, there was progress. You were in his bed. In his world. He wanted you. Trusted you—at least in the way men like him did.

That was something.

He didn’t suspect you. Not yet.

But this wasn’t about feelings. You didn’t like the way he laughed at your jokes, or how he looked at you like you were worth something. You weren’t getting soft. This wasn’t real. This was strategy. Access. Work.

Tonight, you’d try again. Maybe you’d press a little more. Ask about his day. Joke about how mysterious he was. Pretend to be curious without looking too curious. Make him want to tell you things.

Make him need to.

———

He claimed he wasn’t a good cook. He burnt a french toast just two days ago. Then said he needed to redeem himself with a dinner.

This time it was perfect. Steak. Medium rare, seared with butter and rosemary, plated like it belonged in a Michelin-star restaurant. He hadn’t even let you lift a finger—just poured you a glass of red wine and told you to sit while he cooked. And now he sat across from you at the long, dark table in his penthouse, sleeves rolled up, collar undone, watching you eat like you were the main course.

You set your fork down gently, tilting your head. Candlelight flickered along the sharp line of his jaw. “So,” you said, as casually as you could. “How was work today?”

His eyes flicked up from his plate. “Work?”

“Mhm.” You smiled, a soft tilt of your lips. “You know, that mysterious thing you disappear to do all day and refuse to tell me about.”

He smirked faintly and leaned back in his chair, bringing his wine glass to his lips. “It was fine.”

“Just fine?” You arched a brow, swirling the wine in your glass. “Not even a little interesting?”

“Nope.”

You let out a soft breath of a laugh and rested your chin in your hand. “You’re so secretive, it’s suspicious.”

“Am I?” he asked, eyes glittering with amusement now. “And what exactly do you suspect me of, sweetheart?”

You hummed dramatically. “Well, you don’t have a nine-to-five. You don’t tell me where you go. You only take phone calls when I’m in the other room.” You leaned forward just enough to keep his focus on your eyes. „I think you might be a spy.”

Oh wow, very creative of you.

He chuckled. „Not a spy.”

You took a slow sip of wine to hide the pulse in your throat. “So what do you actually do then? Besides running that club and trying to cook from time to time?”

He paused—not for long, but long enough to mean something—and then said, with a familiar softness, “I told you already. I just do business.”

You leaned back again, lips twitching. “You know that tells me nothing, right?”

“That’s the idea.” He grinned, eyes on yours. “The less you know, the better.”

But I’m here to know, you thought, your smile never faltering.

“I can handle secrets,” you said lightly, stabbing a piece of potato with your fork. “I’m great at keeping them.”

“I’m sure you are.”

You held his gaze, playful on the surface, digging underneath. “Still not even a little detail? Just one clue?”

He tilted his head, running a thumb along the rim of his glass. “What if it would scare you off?”

You blinked once—just once—and then gave him a soft little shrug.

“Guess we’ll never know until you tell me.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t laugh like he usually might. Didn’t even offer you a clever deflection.

He just looked at you, expression unreadable, and brought the wine glass slowly to his lips. Took a long sip. Swallowed. And then casually went back to cutting his steak, like you hadn’t asked him anything at all.

You didn’t push. Couldn’t.

You blinked once, let your smile remain soft and unfazed, and shifted in your seat, changing the subject with a little sigh as if you were already bored of the game.

But inside your head?

Fuck.

Fuck him.

Fuck his quiet little secrets and that smug mouth and that damn club and whatever the hell he’s hiding in that office you still haven’t seen.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

He was so stubborn. So careful. Always two steps ahead. Always saying just enough to keep you interested, but never enough to get him caught. And the worst part?

He made you like him.

You were fucking impressed.

The charm, the warmth, the way he made you feel like you were the only person who existed when he looked at you—it was all an act from your side, and you knew it. You knew. And still, there were moments it almost felt real.

Almost.

You blinked again and took a sip of wine, letting it warm your throat while you swallowed your frustration.

You’d get him to slip. Eventually. No one could keep up the act forever.

And you weren’t leaving this city until you figured out exactly what kind of man he really was.

———

The bathroom lights were low, tinted with the same golden warmth that filled the rest of his penthouse. You stood in front of the mirror, brushing your fingers through your hair, your reflection looking back at you in that black lace you knew he loved—the kind that hugged your curves like a secret weapon.

It was the kind of lingerie meant to be peeled off slowly. Worshipped.

You looked good.

Too good for a man who still hadn’t told you a damn thing.

Fifteen days.

Fifteen days of dinners and drinks and secrets. Days of playing sweet, of curling into his side at night, of making him fall a little more—if he hadn’t already. You weren’t even sure if he could fall. Maybe he just liked the idea of you. Of owning you, in a way.

Your fingers curled tight against the marble edge of the sink.

You hated that you were still here—still waiting, still locked out, still no closer to the truth than the night you first walked into that club.

You took a breath.

At least the sex was fucking worth it.

You stepped into the bedroom a moment later, the door clicking shut behind you, and his eyes were on you instantly. He was sitting back against the headboard, shirtless, one arm thrown casually behind his head.

The second he saw you, his expression shifted—softened and darkened all at once.

“Well, fuck,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You trying to kill me tonight?”

You smiled slowly, sauntering toward the bed. “Just brushing my teeth,” you said innocently.

He chuckled—low, greedy. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

You crawled onto the mattress, his hands already reaching for you. One grazed your thigh, then your waist, then up your back, pulling you closer until you were straddling him—those lacy straps still clinging to your skin like a promise.

“You know I do,” he muttered, voice roughening as his fingers ran along the curve of your hip. “I fucking love it.”

You leaned down, kissing the edge of his jaw—slow and soft—just to hear the way his breath hitched.

Then your lips brushed his ear, and you whispered, “Then show me.”

And god, did he ever.

His hands gripped your thighs, tugging you down onto his lap, and he kissed you like he was starving—deep and slow and tongue-slick. His mouth moved down to your neck, your chest, until he had you laid out beneath him, black lace peeled aside, and his mouth was everywhere—teasing, tasting, taking.

And for a little while, just a little while, you let yourself forget.

Forget why you were here. Forget what he was. Forget what you were doing.

Because the way he fucked you?

It was addictive. The kind of deep, aching rhythm that made your mind go blank and your heart stutter and your body scream more.

———

The scent of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with warm toast and whatever ridiculously expensive cologne still clung to his skin from the night before. You sat at the small table by the window in his penthouse, a sliver of sunlight cutting across your bare thigh, your plate half-finished as you sipped slowly from your mug.

He stood across from you—already dressed, all sleek black and gold watch, the top buttons of his shirt left undone just enough to be distracting.

You watched him scroll something on his phone, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Work.

Always work.

You finished your coffee in silence and rose from your chair, disappearing into the bedroom to get dressed. Not because you wanted to. Because you had to. Because he always insisted on dropping you off. And never—never—let you linger in his place alone.

The whole thing made your jaw clench.

So today, you took your time.

Deliberate, slow, thorough—from brushing your hair to reapplying lip gloss, all while he waited near the door, checking his watch and shifting his weight like some bored boyfriend.

Eventually, he called out, voice strained but still trying to be sweet.

“Babe, I’m gonna be late.”

You stepped out, sliding your bag onto your shoulder with a casual shrug. “Late for what?” you asked, feigning curiosity but letting just enough of that edge slip through. “I don’t even fucking know what your job is.”

He stilled, barely blinking. “We’ve been over this.”

“Have we?” you shot back, walking past him, grabbing your coat from the hook. “Because all I get are vague answers and bullshit. You’re always gone. You don’t even leave me alone in your place. You disappear for hours, come back tired, pissed, and I just smile and let it go.”

He tilted his head, watching you now. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” you sighed, turning to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest, “I don’t even know you. It’s been weeks now. I’m here almost every night. You fuck me like you mean it. You treat me like your girlfriend. And still? I know nothing. Not even your goddamn title.”

Something in his jaw flexed.

You saw the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides—not angry at you, but contained. Like he wanted to say something and had to physically hold it in.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally, quieter now. “I’m keeping you out of it for a reason.”

You raised a brow. “Then tell me the reason.”

He looked away, just for a second, dragging a hand through his hair.

You waited. You wanted to wait. You were patient when it counted—and this counted.

But still, nothing. Just silence. And then finally, he said. „It’s better this way.”

That did something cruel to your chest. You weren’t sure if it was you—or your cover—that was genuinely stung by that.

You exhaled through your nose, biting back something bitter, then brushed past him and headed for the door.

You went down the elevator with him next to you without saying a word. Then you got into his car. The silence that followed was sharp enough to sting. The engine purred to life beneath you, and he pulled the sleek black car out onto the main road without a word. No music. No conversation. Just the low hum of tires gliding across pavement and the muted rhythm of your own heartbeat ticking in your throat.

You sat angled slightly toward the window, your arms crossed, face unreadable.

But you could feel him glance at you. Once. Then again.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

He gripped the wheel tighter. You could see it in the flex of his knuckles, the way his wrist shifted when he turned—like even that small motion carried frustration. Or restraint.

It wasn’t until you hit the first red light that he finally spoke.

“You know this isn’t easy.”

You turned your head slowly, lifting a brow. “Which part? The lying? The secrecy? Or the part where you treat me like I’m yours but won’t even tell me your fucking job title?”

He glanced at you, jaw tight. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you act like this is something it’s not.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Right. Because it’s just sex, isn’t it?”

Silence.

The light turned green. He didn’t move.

His hand shifted to the gear, but he still stared ahead, like his thoughts were miles away.

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not just that.”

Your stomach did something sharp. You hated it. Hated how much of that felt like a real confession. Like something genuine. You almost felt sorry for him.

You looked back out the window.

“You still won’t tell me,” you murmured.

“I’m not trying to insult you,” he said, finally starting to drive again. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

Another silence.

You were so fucking sick of those.

You crossed your legs, knee bouncing slightly in agitation.

He pulled the car up to the curb outside your apartment, glancing at the time on the dash.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

You paused. You didn’t look at him when you answered.

“Yeah,” you said. “If you’re not too busy with your… mysterious life.”

He didn’t reply right away. You felt his eyes on you, like he was trying to search for something in your expression.

But eventually, he just nodded. „I’ll text you.”

You got out, closed the door softly behind you, and didn’t look back.

Not even when he lingered at the curb for another long second before finally driving off.

You watched the taillights disappear at the end of the block, engine fading into the city noise. Then you finally exhaled.

The apartment door shut behind you with a soft click, and you stood in the middle of your living room, still dressed from the night before. Still sticky with his touch. Still smelling faintly like him.

Fucking great.

You peeled off your jacket and grabbed your burner phone from the drawer, thumbing through your contacts until you hit the one labeled Mike.

Two rings.

Then his voice came, clipped and tired. „Talk.”

You dropped onto your couch, one leg tucked under you, the other bouncing faintly as you leaned forward.

“Still no intel,” you muttered. “Two weeks in and I’ve got nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice sharpened. “You’re living in his goddamn penthouse.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t exactly hand over his ledgers with breakfast,” you snapped. “I’ve barely been left alone for two minutes. And if he’s laundering money, storing shit, selling weapons—I haven’t seen a trace. Not a phone call, not a document. He’s clean. At least on the surface.”

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough.”

“I’m telling you, Mike. He’s careful. Way too fucking careful.” You rubbed your fingers across your temple. “He’s paranoid. Doesn’t talk about his ‘business,’ barely leaves a trail, and whatever he’s hiding, it’s locked up somewhere I haven’t been yet.”

“You mean the office?”

You went quiet.

Mike scoffed. “Jesus. You still haven’t gotten in?”

“Not once,” you said bitterly. “I told you. He never leaves me alone. And the office’s locked—I tried to open it once when he was taking a shower but I didn’t have the key.”

Mike huffed, then was silent for a few, long seconds, “And him?”

“What about him.”

“Is he getting… attached?”

You leaned your head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. „Yes.”

“And you?”

You closed your eyes.

There it was—that little pause. The hesitation. The doubt.

“No,” you said finally. “I’m doing the job.”

“You better be.”

“I am.”

He let that hang there for a moment.

„Stick to the plan. If you can’t find anything soon, we’ll have to consider pulling you out.”

“No,” you said immediately, sitting up straighter. “Don’t. Not yet. He trusts me more every day. He trusts me more than anyone. He just needs to slip. I can feel it.”

Mike sighed. “You’ve got five more days. We need something. A name. A location. A weakness—anything. I won’t be able to convince our boss for more without a single trace.”

And then he hung up.

Fuck.

You stared at the screen until it dimmed, your reflection faint against the black glass.

Five days.

You set the phone down on the coffee table like it weighed more than it should. Then you just sat there.

Your apartment was quiet in that too clean, too temporary kind of way. The fake life you’d set up for this mission felt paper-thin now—bland furniture, unopened books, untouched mugs in the cabinet. You hadn’t slept here anymore much. You barely remembered what it smelled like.

You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped tightly under your chin. You were still warm from the morning’s argument. Still reeling a little from the way he’d kissed your forehead before you got up from bed.

You scoffed under your breath.

What a fucking mess.

He was too good at this. Too controlled. He didn’t talk, didn’t show. Even when you pushed—even when you picked a fight, even when you played the worried girlfriend so well it almost felt real—he didn’t crack.

And that pissed you off.

You slumped further into the couch, biting the inside of your cheek.

The worst part? You’d be back there tonight. Same bullshit. Same arms. Same fucking routine.

You just had to keep playing it right.

———

You checked the time again.

7:59PM.

You were ready, dressed in something simple but soft. Casual enough to feel effortless, flattering enough to make him look twice.

And still, your fingers itched. You’d reapplied your lip balm three times already. You told yourself it was boredom. Not nerves.

Not guilt.

Not that strange twist in your chest that had started after you got his text.

James | 3:31PM

“Be ready at 8. Don’t make me wait again… please.”

And then another, softer:

James | 3:31PM

“Miss you.”

You hated how your stomach fluttered.

When the knock came, it was gentle. Three short raps. You hesitated only a second before you opened the door.

There he stood—black coat, freshly shaven, scent clean and expensive, and in his hand?

Your favorite flowers. Not store-bought and plastic-wrapped, either. Tied with twine, a bit uneven like someone actually picked them with thought.

You blinked.

“I wanted to…,” he said quickly, a small smile twitching at his lips. „I wanted to apologize. For this morning.”

He held the bouquet out to you, tentative. You shouldn’t have taken them. But you did.

And you shouldn’t have smiled, either. Not the soft, helpless kind that cracked the edges of your mouth before you could stop it.

But you did that too.

“They’re beautiful,” you said quietly.

His eyes lingered on yours. “You were right.”

You blinked again. “About?”

“This morning. You said I treat you like my girlfriend.” He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about that. All day, actually.”

Your throat tightened.

He looked back at you, slower this time. His voice dropped. ��It’s because I care about you. And this is not just sex.”

The words shouldn’t have hit like they did. But they nestled somewhere right between your ribs and stayed there.

You opened your mouth—no plan for what you were about to say—but the words didn’t come. Instead, you stepped back, letting him in. Still holding the flowers. Still trying not to look as affected as you felt.

He stepped in, slowly. Let the door close behind him with a soft click. You stood there in the quiet, the scent of the petals brushing up toward your face like they were trying to talk you down from whatever edge you’d been walking all day.

And then he said it.

“I know we… we didn’t really name what we are,” he started, his voice low. Uneasy. “But I’ve been thinking. And I want to.”

You looked up at him, startled.

He swallowed, hands in his coat pockets now, like he was grounding himself.

“I want you to be my girlfriend.”

Your breath caught.

“I want you to trust me,” he went on, taking a careful step closer. “I know I keep things from you. I know that drives you crazy. But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s the opposite.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t yet.

“I want you to know,” he said, looking right into you now, “that I do it for your safety. Because if something ever happened to you because of me…”

He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t live with that.”

Your gaze softened before you could stop it.

Damn it.

That heavy look in his eyes, the way he said it—it cracked something open in your chest. Just for a second. Just enough to remind you that you were still a person, beneath all the practiced lies and rehearsed charm. That someone could get to you.

But you pushed it aside. You had to. So you shifted, put your role back on like second skin, and looked at him with something gentler now—measured but sincere.

“I care about you too,” you said quietly. “That’s why I want to know. Because I worry about you.”

You saw it land. Saw something in him tighten, then soften, like he didn’t expect to hear it from you.

He didn’t speak.

He stepped forward slowly, watching you like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. His hand brushed up, knuckles trailing along your jaw, and then his palm settled gently at the side of your face, thumb resting just below your cheekbone.

And then he kissed you. Soft, unhurried, lips brushing yours like he didn’t want to rush it, like this moment actually meant something.

His mouth was warm, familiar now—too familiar—and his other hand came to your hip, pulling you gently into him. He kissed you like he was careful not to break you. Like he’d been thinking about doing it all day. And you let him.

Your hand came up to his chest, not to push him away but to steady yourself, to keep control of the rhythm as his lips moved deeper into yours.

You were aware of everything.

The clean scent of his cologne. The soft rustle of his shirt against your fingers. The way his thumb brushed your skin in slow, absentminded strokes, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Your heart didn’t flutter. Not really. Your stomach didn’t twist. There was no rush of giddy warmth or aching softness.

Just control. Calculated movements.

Right?…

That was all it was—carefully measured touches, soft sighs, a well-practiced look in your eyes that said just enough and never too much. You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hand curling around the back of his neck as if you couldn’t help yourself.

He responded with that same intensity, mouth parting, hand splayed at your waist.

And when you pulled back just slightly, lips brushing against his, you whispered like a quiet confession. „I missed you.”

It made something in him shift—his grip tightened at your hip, a soft groan escaping from the back of his throat before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time.

You moved toward the bedroom, your bodies already flushed and tangled with heat, and god—you didn’t want to think. Just for a while.

Just let the lie feel real.

He walked you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed, his hands never leaving your body, his mouth never far from yours. Your breath caught when his fingers slid under the hem of your top.

He didn’t rush. He never did with you.

His hands dragged the fabric up your torso, slow and deliberate, watching every inch of your skin as it was revealed. You lifted your arms for him, letting the shirt fall somewhere to the floor. His eyes raked over your chest, already bare beneath, and god, the way he looked at you—

Like he was starved.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, voice low and reverent.

He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss between your breasts, then another just above your heart. His hands found the waistband of your pants, pulling them down, leaving you in nothing but underwear.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he said, voice rough as he tossed the last bit of clothing aside. “The way you sound. The way you taste…”

His fingers curled around the delicate waistband of your underwear, his knuckles brushing your hips.

He looked at you again—like he needed to take you in one more time—and then slowly, almost teasingly, he began to slide them down your legs. The lace dragged against your skin, hot and electric, and when he finally dropped them to the floor, he let his hands trail back up the insides of your thighs—slow and warm and possessive.

And then he sank to his knees in front of you.

You didn’t even have time to brace yourself—his mouth was on you like he’d been starving for it. A slow, deliberate lick through your folds that had your head falling back with a soft gasp. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, holding you still, as his tongue worked you with lazy precision. Not rushing. Just savoring.

“Oh, fuck—” you breathed, one hand sliding into his hair.

He hummed at the sound, pleased, and the vibration went straight through you.

His mouth moved lower, teasing your entrance before sucking gently on your clit, just once—just enough to make you whimper and tug at his hair. He looked up at you with those dark, hungry eyes, like he could stay there all night, like making you fall apart on his tongue was the only thing that mattered in the world.

“You taste like heaven, baby,” he murmured against you. Then he dove in again—deeper, messier, determined now, tongue circling your clit as he let his right hand slide from your thigh to between your legs, slipping a single finger inside you, curling it just right.

“J—James…” you gasped, your voice catching on a moan as your fingers tangled tighter in his hair.

God, why did he always do this to you?

Why did he always make you feel so good?

You hated the way your stomach flipped at the sound of his breath, the way your thighs shook around his shoulders, the way your hips moved without permission—seeking more, always more.

But he only smiled against you, mouthing at your clit with soft, reverent kisses before licking a slow stripe up your slit again. His voice was low, rough, filled with something you didn’t want to name.

“I wanna show you how much you mean to me, sweetheart…” he murmured, right against your skin, lips brushing where you were soaked for him.

Your breath hitched. Your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.

His finger curled again inside you, this time with more intent. Deeper. More deliberate. And he added a second one without warning, stretching you with such aching tenderness you could’ve cried. His tongue didn’t stop either—slow, steady flicks over your clit like he knew exactly how to undo you, how to make you forget everything else.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered, voice hoarse now, desperate in its own way. “Just let me—”

You couldn’t stand hearing him say that. Couldn’t stand what those words did to you.

Your fingers gripped his hair and you tugged—hard enough to make him groan, to make him rise from between your legs and follow the pull until he was back up, lips glistening and flushed. You crashed your mouth to his, moaning into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as he let out a low, guttural sound—hungry, unrestrained.

He laid you down against the sheets like he owned the moment. Like he was giving himself to you completely. His body pressed flush to yours, thick and heavy, the heat of him everywhere.

You knew exactly what would break him right now. What would cause another crack in whatever this relationship was.

You reached up, let your hand rest against his cheek, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I love you.”

His whole body froze.

It hit him like a blow to the chest. You felt it—the way his weight stilled over you, the way his lips parted but no sound came. His brows drew together in disbelief, in something deeper.

Like it broke him. Like no one had ever said those words to him and meant them.

You leaned in close, thumb brushing over his jaw. Soft. So convincing. So real.

“I love you,” you said again—repeating so he could believe it—gentler this time. Measured. Tender.

His breath hitched, and for a second, it looked like his eyes might water. Like all the defenses he’d ever built were crumbling, and you were the reason. The girl who he thought saw him. Who loved him. Who touched him like he was something more than a weapon or a ghost.

He dropped his forehead to yours, swallowing thickly.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he rasped. His voice was trembling. “I’ve never—” He cut himself off with a broken breath. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”

You just nodded, lips barely touching his. You ran your fingers down his spine, grounding him, anchoring him to you.

Even as your heart tried to stay cold. Even as your mind whispered: This is the job. You’re doing good.

Still, you let yourself sigh softly as he kissed you again—deeper this time, fuller. Desperate.

“I wanna show you how much you mean to me,” he murmured against your lips. “Let me. Please.”

He kissed you like a man wrecked. Like those three words had undone him completely.

His hands skimmed down your sides, slow and reverent, like he needed to relearn every inch of your skin now that he knew you were his girl. His.

He pulled of his pants quickly and when he pushed into you, he did it with a softness you hadn’t expected. A careful, steady roll of his hips that made your breath catch, your fingers curl into his back.

“God—James,” you gasped, head falling back against the pillow.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispered against your neck. “Not gonna rush. Not tonight.”

Each thrust was deep, measured, made to last. Like he was trying to tell you something with the way he moved—how much he felt. How much you meant.

Your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pulling him closer. The weight of him, the heat, the sound of his breath catching when you moaned his name—it was all-consuming.

He kissed your throat, your jaw, your mouth. Over and over, like he couldn’t get enough. Like he needed the taste of you to stay alive.

“You feel so good,” he murmured into your skin. “So fucking perfect, my sweet girl.”

You let yourself sigh his name over and over, soft and breathy, nails digging gently into his shoulders as he moved faster—deeper. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut, completely lost in the moment.

You had him. Completely.

And fuck… the way he was looking at you… it was almost too much.

“You’re everything,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Your throat tightened, your body trembling beneath his, and still—your mind stayed sharp beneath the haze.

This was working. He believed you. But god, the way he touched you made it hard to remember that it was all a lie.

He shifted, angle hitting something devastating inside you, and your whole body arched, gasping his name again.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice thick with praise. “Let me take care of you, baby. Let me love you.”

And so you let him. You let him love you like you were his whole fucking world.

Even if your heart was never in it.

You could feel it rising—deep in your belly, slow and hot and all-consuming. His pace never faltered, steady and perfect, hitting that devastating spot again and again until your legs were trembling around his waist.

“James,” you gasped, voice breaking as your back arched beneath him. “I—fuck—I’m close…”

“I know, baby,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, eyes heavy and so full of something you couldn’t afford to name. “I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight.”

You buried your hands in his hair, holding on like he was all that kept you grounded. He was everywhere—his hands, his mouth, the sound of your name leaving his lips like a prayer.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he breathed, voice rough and coaxing. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna know I’m the only one who makes you feel this good.”

That did it.

Your whole body tensed, then shattered. The orgasm ripped through you like a wave, pulsing and overwhelming and so fucking good it had you gasping his name again and again like it was the only word you knew.

He kissed you through it, swallowing your cries, whispering things you barely processed—good girl, so perfect, mine, mine, mine.

Your walls fluttered around him and he groaned, thrusts losing rhythm as the feeling of you—hot, soaked, desperate—pushed him right to the edge.

“Fuck, you feel so good when you come,” he growled into your neck. “Can I—? I need to…”

You nodded, still dazed and breathless, and he buried himself deep with a broken sound, hips stuttering as he came hard inside you.

His body collapsed gently over yours, still trembling, still catching his breath. One of his hands found yours and laced your fingers together, holding them against the mattress.

The sheets clung to your legs, warm and a little damp with sweat, twisted from how hard he’d held you. You were on your side now, one hand resting on his chest, the slow rise and fall of it grounding—rhythmic. James lay there, half-lidded and flushed, still catching the last of his breath.

His arm curled around your waist. Protective. Like he couldn’t help it.

You knew better than to speak first. You let the silence settle for a moment, heavy but comfortable, before he finally broke it.

“…You meant it?” he asked, voice hoarse and quiet. “Do you really love me?”

Your chest tightened. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t let anything slip. You just looked up at him with soft eyes, letting your fingertips trace idle circles over his sternum. “Of course I meant it,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. Not from anger—no, it was emotion. Something deep and raw and hard to hide.

“I’ve never had that,” he murmured, like it hurt to admit. “Not real. Not like this.”

You didn’t answer right away. You knew your silence would say more than words ever could. Knew it made it easier for him to fill in the blanks himself.

“I think about you all the time,” he went on, almost to himself now. “Even when I’m working, even when I shouldn’t be. I’ll be in a meeting or walking into the office and I’ll catch myself wanting to text you. Or wanting to come home early just to see your face.”

You swallowed around the lump in your throat.

God, he was making it so easy and difficult at the same time.

He turned his head slightly, eyes meeting yours in the dim light. “I know I’ve been keeping things from you. But it’s not because I don’t trust you—it’s because I do. I trust you enough not to drag you into that part of my life.”

“That part,” you echoed softly, as if the words could just float there without being questioned.

He nodded. “You don’t need to know the specifics to know what kind of man I am.”

But you did need the specifics. You needed evidence. Names. Proof.

Still, you let yourself tuck in closer, resting your cheek on his chest like you belonged there.

And you whispered, so gently, “I just worry about you.”

“I know,” he breathed, kissing the top of your head. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

You didn’t reply. You’d ruin the perfect little illusion you were building. So you switched the topic.

“You really never had this?” you asked, your voice low, lazy. The kind of sleepy-soft tone that came only after sex and secrets.

James let out a breathy chuckle, the sound rumbling under your cheek. “No,” he said simply.

You tilted your head to look at him, lips brushing his collarbone. “How come?” you asked, feigning a teasing lilt. “You’re literally handsome and rich… I don’t believe you’ve never been in love before.”

Another laugh, quieter this time. “Guess being handsome and rich doesn’t guarantee much.”

You smiled faintly, but your heart thudded in your chest.

“I just—” He paused, searching the ceiling like the words might be written there. “I wasn’t lucky. Not with women.”

You felt him shift a little under you, arm tightening slightly around your waist.

“They were always after something,” he said. “My name. My money. The status. Whatever the hell else came with me.”

He wasn’t looking at you anymore, and you didn’t push it. You just stayed quiet, let him talk. That always worked.

“I’ve never had something like this,” he admitted. “Never had someone I could actually be with, you know? Where it wasn’t about anything but… this. Us.”

Us.

You swallowed hard.

Fuck.

Why did your throat feel tight?

Why did your chest twist like that?

Why did he have to say shit like that in that voice, all low and unguarded and honest?

You blinked slowly, steadying your breath, because this was good. This was what you needed. He was trusting you. He was opening up. You were winning.

And yet…

“I’ve never had someone I could actually be with.”

You couldn’t stop your fingers from tracing over his skin, like you were trying to comfort him.

Get a grip.

You’re not here to comfort him. You’re here to uncover him.

Still—you played the role, shifting your head up to press a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, because that’s what he needed to hear. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He looked down at you then, something in his eyes that made your chest ache.

“No,” he murmured. “But I have you now.”

God.

Focus.

Your jaw tensed the tiniest bit, but you didn’t let it show in your eyes. Instead, you smiled—gentle and affectionate and every bit the girl who loved him.

He reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear, eyes full of something dangerous—real.

You pressed a kiss to his lips before he could say anything else.

———

It was nearly 2AM.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the faint glow of city lights bleeding through the curtains. James lay asleep beside you—on your bed, for once. One arm draped across your waist like he didn’t want to let go even in sleep, breath warm at the back of your neck.

You were supposed to go out for a dinner but well… things ended differently.

You could feel the heat of him. Could still feel him inside you, your body humming with the aftermath of everything he’d given you just hours ago.

And still—your mind was elsewhere. It always was.

You’ve got five more days. You had to do something.

You stayed perfectly still for a moment longer, making sure his breathing stayed even, deep. The weight of his arm didn’t shift.

You slowly—carefully—slid out from under his hold. One breath. Two. Still asleep.

You stood barefoot, barely clothed, and scanned the floor until you spotted them—his dark slacks.

There.

You padded across the floor like a ghost, not daring to breathe too hard, and reached into the pocket.

There it was. His phone.

Your heart kicked into overdrive. This was your chance. You padded to the bathroom, shut the door without a sound, and locked it with a quiet click.

Then you sat on the edge of the tub, screen glowing up at you like a challenge.

Enter Passcode.

Of course. Of course he had a fucking code.

Who didn’t?

You stared at it. Four numbers.

Your fingers hovered over the screen as your brain worked overtime, running through possibilities.

Was it a birthday? A year? A pattern?

Try something.

You typed in some basic combinations first—1234, 2580, 1111– it didn’t work.

You tried something else.

Nothing.

You inhaled slowly, trying not to panic. This was a one-shot thing. If he woke up and saw his phone was missing—if he caught you in here—

You tried his birthday.

Still nothing.

Fuck.

Your hands curled around the phone tighter, jaw clenched.

He trusted you. He had just told you he’d never had anything real. He said you were different.

And here you were, locked in a bathroom, trying to get past his code like some desperate spy.

Which—of course—you were.

And you were so close. You couldn’t screw this up now. Your eyes scanned the screen, mind racing.

Think. Think, think…

Then a quiet thud made your blood run cold.

You froze.

From the other side of the door—a shift in the bed.

Did he wake up? Did he know?

You held your breath, barely daring to move.

“Babe…?” His voice was groggy, thick with sleep, like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not. But it hit you like a gunshot all the same.

Your heart stopped. Panic surged through you in a blinding wave and your hand flew to cover your mouth as if that could quiet your entire existence.

Shitshitshitshit—

Your voice came out higher than usual, a little rushed, a little forced. “I’m here! Just had to pee…”

Silence.

Then you heard the mattress shift again. The rustle of covers. His deep, sleepy sigh as he settled back in.

You exhaled. Barely.

Your legs felt weak as you looked back down at the glowing screen in your lap, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Okay. Okay, you still had a shot.

You typed in another code, slower this time—his sister’s birthday. He mentioned her once. You were almost sure of the numbers.

Enter.

Wrong.

One more try.

You sat there trembling as your thumb hovered again over the screen. You knew this was risky, you knew you were pushing it—but fuck, this could be the moment. Everything could change.

You tried another code—his year of birth—you tapped it in and the screen blinked red.

Too many attempts. Try again in 10 minutes.

You stared at the message, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Your whole body tensed like a wire.

A sigh pushed out of you, deflated and bitter.

“Of course,” you whispered.

You rested your head in your hands for a second, clutching the phone loosely, not sure whether to scream or cry or both.

Ten minutes.

It might as well have been forever.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror, catching the ghost of your reflection—wild hair, skin still marked faintly from his mouth, his hands.

This was your job. This was supposed to be easy.

So why did it feel like you were the one getting fucked?

Oh—wait—maybe because you were.

You waited. Two minutes. Five. Seven… Eight…

Your leg was bouncing. Hands clammy. Eyes glued to the screen like it held your entire life in its glow. Almost there. Just two more minutes and—

Knock knock.

You jumped. The phone nearly slipped from your hands.

“Are you okay in there?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His voice was closer now. Awake. Concerned. Still low and a little hoarse, but clearer than before.

Shit. Shit.

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes darted toward the door, toward the locked handle, toward the glowing screen that still read:

Try again in 1 minute.

He knocked again, softer. “Babe?”

You slapped the phone screen off and scrambled to bury it under a towel on the counter. Your voice cracked as you shouted back, “Yeah! I’m—uh—fine! Just… gimme a minute!”

Your reflection stared back at you, wide-eyed and guilty, like a thief caught mid-act. You could still taste him on your tongue, still feel the bruising way he touched you like you meant something. It made you sick.

No. Focus.

“Everything alright?” he asked again, still right outside the door.

What do I do? What do I do what do I DO?

You flushed the toilet for effect. Turned the faucet on, splashed your face—think.

You needed to buy time.

You unlocked the door slowly, peeked out with a sleepy, barely-there smile, faking a yawn. “Sorry, I just… got a little dizzy. Head rush, maybe. Think I was dehydrated.”

He blinked at you in the darkened hallway, his eyes still hazy but a frown starting to tug at his mouth. “You okay now?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just needed a sec.”

His gaze lingered, like he didn’t quite believe you—but then he stepped aside and reached out, brushing his fingers gently across your cheek. “Come back to bed. You’re cold.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Okay.”

You let him guide you, trying not to look back at the bathroom. The phone was still under the towel. Still waiting. One minute away from the truth.

He reached for a bottle of water that was standing on the nightstand and handed it to you. „Here.”

„Thanks,” you muttered quietly, then took a sip. Still thinking about the fucking phone.

But for now, you were being pulled back into his arms. Arms of the man you were meant to be betraying.

———

Over an hour passed. Maybe more. You weren’t sure.

You’d been lying still, your body curved against his, your thoughts loud. His arm draped lazily over your waist, his chest warm against your back, every slow breath he took pressing into you like a reminder: he was still here.

You weren’t sleeping. Not even close.

Your eyes had been glued to the ceiling. To the shapes in the dark. To the invisible line between what you felt and what you were supposed to do.

And that damn phone? It was still in the bathroom.

You hadn’t even thought about what the fuck to do next, because the moment you’d returned to bed and let him pull you close, you’d realized the trap you were building for yourself was getting harder to escape.

But now?

Now your chest was tight. Your legs stiff. Your brain screaming. You need to put it back.

You shifted. Slowly. Delicately. As if getting out of bed was the same as cutting a wire on a bomb. Any wrong move and—boom.

His grip loosened. You slipped out from under his arm, carefully pulling the sheets back over him, your feet soft against the floorboards. Just get it over with.

Just get in, hide it, and go back to playing perfect.

But when you turned toward the hallway, you felt it. A pair of eyes on you. You froze.

He was awake. Blinking slowly. Looking at you through the dark, voice thick with sleep.

“You okay?”

You blinked too, caught off guard, but tried to smile. Light. Casual. “Yeah. Just… need to pee again,” you said with a soft laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Too much water now.”

He gave a sleepy nod, already shifting onto his back. “Yeah, okay…” He didn’t sound suspicious. Just tired. Comfortable.

Too fucking comfortable.

You walked to the bathroom as calmly as you could, heart in your throat, and once you slipped inside and closed the door—

You exhaled.

The phone was still there. Hidden under the towel where you’d left it. You grabbed it quickly, clutching it like it was hot, like it might burn your fingers if you held it too long. You thought about unlocking it again—but…

No.

There were too many combinations. Too many ways to mess up. You didn’t even know if there was anything useful on it. And if he caught you?

You didn’t want to think about that.

Just put it back.

You turned it off, made sure the screen was dark, and tiptoed back into the bedroom. His pants were still on the floor, half-forgotten where he’d thrown them earlier. You crouched down, quietly, slowly, and slid the phone back into the pocket like you’d never touched it.

Like none of this happened.

When you climbed back into bed, he was already dozing again.

That was so fucking close.

You barely even breathed as your thoughts began to unravel.

What the hell were you actually thinking? You could’ve gotten caught. You almost got caught.

One wrong word. One second too long in the bathroom. One flicker of suspicion in his eyes and it would’ve been over.

Everything.

You need to be more careful.

Your fingers curled in the sheets. You didn’t move, didn’t let the panic show on your face, didn’t dare make a sound—but inside, you were pacing.

You told yourself you were good at this. Better than this.

But somewhere between the fucking and the way he’d whispered your name… somewhere between the softness in his laugh and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered—

You forgot the rules.

And now? Now you were buried in it. A warm body beside you. A fake smile on your lips. A lie under your skin.

You swallowed, steadying yourself. This wasn’t love. This was a job. This was leverage. You had to remember that. Get your head back on straight.

———

The kitchen was quiet. Early morning sunlight filtered through the half-open blinds, striping gold over the countertops. The coffee machine hummed low in the background, filling the space with the warm, bitter scent of brewing grounds.

You leaned against the counter, fingers curled loosely around your mug. Still warm. Still untouched.

James moved behind you, quiet but present—always present. He brushed past, you felt graze of his hand over your back.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

You nodded. “Morning.”

Your heart was beating in your throat.

Four days left.

Mike’s voice still echoed in your head from last night’s call.

„Five days. We need something. A name. A location. A weakness—anything.”

Now it was four. Just four.

You glanced at James.

Barefoot, shirtless, hair still messy from sleep. He looked so real in the morning light—so ordinary and kind. The kind of man who bought your favorite flowers. The kind of man who kissed you slow and held you after. The kind of man who trusted you.

You took a sip of coffee and forced it down.

You need to find something. Anything.

Something to make this worth it. Something to justify the lies you’ve wrapped yourself in.

James took a sip from the mug you’d set down for him, leaning one hip against the kitchen island as he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

Then he made a face. A little grimace.

“You make a terrible coffee for a barista.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around your own mug. What the fuck was he talking about?

“What?” you asked, too quickly.

He raised an eyebrow at you, teasing. „I’m just saying,” he chuckled.

Your stomach dropped. Right. That story. The one you gave him on your first… date.

You forced a laugh, light and careless, even as panic scratched behind your ribs. “Oh. Right. Yeah… I guess I got fired, didn’t I?”

James smiled, completely unaware of the cold sweat threading down your spine. “Damn. Their loss. But maybe don’t open your own café anytime soon.”

You smiled back. Tense. Hollow. “Noted.”

He turned away to check something on his phone, and you let your eyes drop to the floor, heart pounding in your ears.

Why are you so reckless? You were never like this. Not on jobs. Not in the field.

You’d been trained to compartmentalize. To slip in and out of identities like silk gloves. No attachment. No softness. Nothing that could be used against you.

And yet here you were, laughing off your own lie like some rookie, letting cracks show, forgetting your own made up stories.

You used to be better than this.

Why are you so off-guard next to him?

You clenched your jaw. Your hands. You tried to find a thread of control again, but everything just kept slipping.

The night flashed through your mind in fragments—the heat of his body, the way he’d touched you like he knew you, like he believed in you, the fucking way he looked at you like you were something he could finally trust.

It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

You’d told yourself that already, over and over. The adrenaline. The high from playing your part so well. The sex—okay, yeah, it was good, great even, the kind that stayed under your skin—but that didn’t mean there were feelings.

Right?

You swallowed hard. Bit the inside of your cheek. You couldn’t afford to fall for this. For him.

This was a mission. Just another name. Another cover. Another persona built for one purpose.

But… Was it?

Was that really all it was?

Or had some part of you—some stupid, bleeding, human part—started to want something from him?

You glanced at the bouquet he gave you, standing now on the countertop in a vase.

He knew what your favorite flowers were.

Not because you told him. Not because you made a show of it. Just because he noticed. Because he remembered. That one day when you were on a walk and passed by the little stall on 5th and you lingered a second too long by the flower shop, looking at them. He didn’t say anything then. But the next day he brought them to you.

He cooked for you. Not that he was a good cook, but he tried. Romantic dinner with candles and wine and the kind of food that felt like comfort. The kind that made your chest ache because no one’s ever done that for you before. Not since… god, not since you could remember.

And the band—the fucking band. Your favorite. You mentioned it once. Once. When that song came on the radio in the car and you hummed along. Didn’t even say the name. Just a half-laugh, a mumbled “Oh, I used to love this one,” and moved on.

But he remembered.

He found the album. Played it the next night while you were eating takeout on the couch like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean everything.

He fucking cared.

Actually cared and no one else did that before.

Not in this job. Not in this life. Not really.

You blinked, hard. Shook your head like you could physically shake the feeling off of you. This wasn’t happening. You weren’t doing this. You were not cracking.

You couldn’t crack. Not over him.

You knew who he was. You knew what he’d done—his record, his past, the kind of men he’s worked with, the kind of blood on his hands.

You knew what this job was. You knew what you were supposed to be doing.

But when you glanced at him again—standing barefoot in your kitchen, shirt rumpled, hair still a mess, pouring himself a second cup of coffee like he belonged here…

Your gaze softened.

You didn’t break him. He broke you.

Chapter Three soon… 💸

series tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you—you’re crossed out—it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @muchwita @its-in-the-woods @taqmari @opheliabbarnes @rabknowstheend @pineapplechuncks @infinitepersuasion @sweetesharley @adalvsseb @miss-chuchu @nandanandada @globetrotter28 @whorunthemfworld-girls @madlyinlovewmattmurd0ck @ruexj283 @xamapolax @bloodmocha @castawaycreature @wakemeornot

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[zorostitties]

Weak Point; 4

⤕ It's crazy how life can turn upside down overnight. In your case, life took a 180º turn the morning you discovered you were the weakness of the most powerful creature in the world.

From a normal citizen, you become Jujutsu Society's most coveted target. In a world where everyone wants your head on a silver platter, plagued by secrets of the past and struggling to balance what remains of your “normal” life, you are trapped in a situation you cannot escape.

And yet - amid the chaos, you slowly realize that you might be his weak point in ways that have nothing to do with sorcery.

pairing: gojo x (f) reader

genre: romance, fluff and humor, angst, forced proximity, slow burn, eventual smut, "oh no we have to live in the same house" trope, fix-it fic (kinda)

warnings: violence/blood, explicit sex (in future parts), grief, smoking, alcohol consumption, explicit language, me trying to be funny

rating: 18+

word count: 5k

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

You didn’t sleep the first night, which already felt like a bad omen.

People that work in emergency have a unique talent: the ability to sleep anywhere. You’d slept on the floor. You’d slept sitting in your car. You’d slept standing in a packed train once. You’d slept that time in a bar, too, with loud music and loud people, and you hadn’t even drank anything. You’d slept in the shower. You’d slept on the toilet once. In short — it really was an ability you had mastered.

And yet, when you laid in that comfy bed with the best smelling sheets and pillow you’d ever seen (note to self: check what softener brand they use), you could not shut your eyes at all.

There was way too much to digest and your spiritual digestive system seemed to have contracted a really bad infection. Fuck, you had a metaphorical tummy ache at the moment. Deep down in some hidden corner of your mind, there was a group of denialist neurons questioning everything. There is no such thing as sorcery or curses or cursed energy or techniques. Everyone is lying to you. This is a huge fucking prank. Your suffering is being livestreamed right now and thousands of people are laughing maniacally in the chat.

But you’d seen enough.

Unfortunately, you had physical proof that it was all very much real — and perhaps that made it all worse. Made the fear worse. Because Gojo wasn’t home.

He stayed until a little after nine, then left with a poor tired Ijichi. He still had to work, apparently. You tried not to freak out. You were still trying not to freak out, imagining the most horrible scenarios — another group of curse users invading the house, hurting Fushiguro and Mayu, kidnapping you again before Gojo could come—

You rolled on the bed again. The silver bracelet was warm against your skin. You didn’t dare to take it off. Sure, Gojo had shown the house’s protections (how was it called? Curtain?), explained that it’d burn intruders alive, but what if it failed? What if it wasn’t enough? What if he couldn’t come back in time—?

You sat on the bed.

That’s it. I’m not sleeping tonight.

You had taken a 24 hour shift on your mother’s death anniversary to not think too much about it. And now, you would clean this fucking bedroom to not think about the shitshow that your life became.

You let Mayu take the empty room (the better, the bigger) upstairs because you felt bad about involving her in this whole situation. She didn’t complain, obviously (she loved it), which meant you took the guest bedroom downstairs that had been used to store stuff. It was packed with your boxes and theirs. Gojo said that you could take everything to the basement (of fucking course this house had a basement), but you decided to do it the next day because you thought you’d be able to sleep at that moment.

Well, not anymore.

The house was dark and dead silent. The living room was just around the corner; next to your bedroom, the guest bathroom, and the door to the basement at the end of the corridor. You tried your best to not make much noise, turned the lights of the corridor on and began to work. Old boxes, bags, carriers — everything to the basement. Downstairs, upstairs, carrying weight. Great cardio. Great way to not think about anything. Great great great.

It was still hot, even at night. After a while, you tiptoed to the kitchen to take a cup of water.

The tatami room’s lights were on. 

You found Mayu laying there. Sprawled on the floor as if she’d been shot.

That took you back to reality very quick. You could — and you did — run away from your own mind a lot. You could overwork yourself to pretend everything was alright. But you couldn’t run from Mayu. You’d never run from her.

You laid on your back as well, mimicking her position.

It was silent for some moments.

“It’s nice here.” She finally said in a quiet, raspy voice.

“Uh-Hum.”

Silence. The breeze played with the trees out there. The way the walls and branches blocked the street view was a bit eerie; made it feel like you were in an isolated bubble, a parallel dimension, not a busy metropolis.

“Was the tatami room from the old house like this, too?”

Of course she was thinking about it, the way you were thinking about it. Dad said he’d like to bring her back someday, the same way you talked about coming back to mom. He went as far as promising to come back… but that was before he got sick.

“Smaller. And less fancy.” Your voice was raspy, too. “But yeah. Similar.”

Silence.

“How was grandmother’s house?”

You gulped.

She had never asked you this before.

Dad didn’t talk about grandmother. Mom didn’t talk about grandmother. You didn’t talk about grandmother. This made you realize she knew even less than you.

“It was huge.” Your memories came like yellowed pictures. “Very traditional. Had a central atrium and all. With a koi pond.”

“Bigger than this one?”

“Yeah.” You tightened your eyes slightly. “I remember thinking it was cool how everyone wore kimonos there. Made me feel like I was inside a period drama.”

Masamichi Yaga’s voice echoed in the back of your mind. Hosokawa is a sorcerer family.

The Hosokawa Family is kinda important, you know? Big traditional household.

You’d been there. Not many times as far as you remembered — but you’d been there. Even if you were just a kid, how didn’t you notice something strange was going on? Something supernatural?

“Sounds pretty cool.” Mayu said.

“Oh, it wasn’t. Not at all.” You waved your hand dismissively, an annoyed frown creeping up your features. “They didn’t let me do anything. All that space, but I couldn’t run or play or even talk. And grandmother—” You rolled your eyes on instinct. “—she was a witch. I get why mom almost never took me there. I wouldn’t let my child around someone like her, either.”

You didn’t let Mayu around her.

It felt like a quiet, unintentional, embarrassing confession. 

Silence.

“What did she want with you?” There. That’s where she was trying to get all along. You already knew it. “Does she have anything to do with your… case?”

You hesitated.

You didn’t want to run from Mayu. You didn’t want to lie. But you hadn’t understood properly everything that had happened; it was too fresh, too confusing. Mayu had to understand that she was in danger indeed, so she wouldn’t act recklessly. But at the same time… she didn’t have to know the entirety of it. At least, not yet.

You’d explain the whole thing some time. But not now.

So you decided to summarize the truth.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with it.” The bitterness in your voice was surprising even to you. “But she wanted to offer help.” You chuckled dryly. “Can you believe that?”

“And d’you tell her to fuck off?” 

“Not with these exact words, but yeah.”

Mayu gulped. “You should have. You should’ve told her to fuck off. With these exact words.”

Both of you giggled, even though there wasn’t anything funny about it. 

“You’re…” Mayu turned her head to look at you for the first time. “You really aren’t going to tell me what’s going on?”

You sighed and looked at her. “I can’t, Mayu. What Gojo-san said… he’s right. The whole thing is under secrecy. The less you know, the better.”

“You know how hard it is to believe that?”

“I know. Not even I get what’s going on. But it’s the truth.” You pointed around with your index finger. “Why else do you think I’d accept to leave our apartment like that?”

She pouted thoughtfully and frowned. “You’re not, like… running from a loan shark or anything, right?”

“No.” You chuckled. “‘Course not.”

Mayu looked at the ceiling again. So did you.

Silence.

“I’m sorry for going to the festival behind your back.” Her voice was quiet. Bashful. You sighed.

“You know I don’t mind you going places, Mayu. It’s not like I don’t expect you to do things people your age do. I just don’t want you to be stupid about it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you in front of strangers.” It was your turn to apologize. “Next time you do dumb shit and I find out, I’ll yell at you in private.”

Mayu chuckled and quirked her eyebrow at you. “Are they really strangers, though?”

You looked at her again. “Yes. What do you mean?”

“You know… you and Blindfold-san…” she trailed off, tightening her eyes.

“Gosh, no.” You huffed and waved your hand dismissively once more. “I barely know the guy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Mayu. Why do you think I’m lying to you?”

“I don’t think you’re lying. It’s just that it looks like you already know each other.”

It was your turn to frown. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Silence. “It’d be a level up from Ren, you know.”

You crossed your arms. “Ren’s not ugly.”

“I’m not saying he’s ugly. It’s just that it’d go from an 8 to a 10.”

A ten, she said. You took Mayu’s opinion on men’s appearances very seriously, as she was not attracted to them. If she said someone was “a ten”, it usually was true.

A ten. 

His stupid bright blue eyes. His infuriating dimples and smirk and stupid white hair—

You shook your head and grimaced as if you’d slurped a very sour lemon. Stop right there!

“What are you even talking about?” You groaned defensively. “I already said that I don’t even know the guy. Don’t make it awkward for me.”

“Okaaay. My bad.” Silence. A lighter one, this time. More comfortable. Easier. “Can I have my phone back?”

“Nope.”

“Uuugh.”

Male around 40 years old. Civil construction worker. Fell from a height of approximately 4 meters. Unconscious. Brought in by EMS, wearing a cervical collar on a spinal board. Labored breathing. Scalp laceration. Glasgow coma scale: 8.

Usually, it wouldn’t be you to take the lead. You’d assist. But there was a storm outside, the ER was in chaos, and Tanaka-san — head physician, chief of your team — was already busy with another case.

This man couldn’t wait for him.

There wasn’t time to question your abilities, to be nervous, to hesitate. You’d seen Tanaka-san, other physicians and professors doing this a thousand times; you’d assisted a thousand times. You knew what to do. 

“BP 90/60, HR 120, Sat 89%, still unresponsive,” the paramedic pushing the stretchers shouted.

You stepped forward before the mere possibility of fear appeared. 

“I’ll take the lead. Full trauma protocol. Let’s go— ABCDE.”

He was quickly led into the red zone. Nurses and technicians awaited you. They looked up to you for orders, for orientation. 

It was like you put your brain in full autopilot mode. No time for emotions. No time, no time.

Lead. Lead. You are the leader. This man will die if you fail. He is dying, quickly.

“Keep his neck neutral. Don’t let go.” You ordered the nurse at the head of the bed before leaning over the patient. “Sir, can you hear me?”

He did not respond.

“He needs to be intubated immediately. Prep the kit — 8.0 tube, suction, laryngoscope with a Mac 3 blade.”

The team scrambled quickly, trained to exhaustion, sharpened like a blade — just like you. Your eyes passed by them for recognition; that new nurse you didn’t remember the name. Another nurse you weren’t familiar with. Watanabe-san, Maeda-san — the experienced technicians were assisting Tanaka at that moment. Fuck, it was just you and the newbies to stabilize the situation.

You are the leader. They need to trust you. They need confidence.

Everyone surrounded the bed. Etomidate and succinylcholine were injected quickly. You took the laryngoscope while the assistant kept the patient’s head still.

You allowed yourself a shallow breath within the mask before proceeding.

Blade in. It cut his skin with ease. Tongue swept. Epiglottis visible. There — vocal cords.

The tube slid in smoothly.

“Tube in at 22. Inflate cuff. Bag him.” Your voice came calm but firm. CO2 detected. Bilateral breath sounds confirmed. “Airway secured.”

A: done.

Clear breath sounds. Equal expansion. No immediate signs of pneumothorax. Saturation rose.

“Lungs are clear. Keep ventilating.”

B: done.

His pulse was rapid and thready. You did not take your eyes off the patient. “Get two large-bore IVs. Let’s start with a liter of warm saline. Crossmatch for blood. Someone draw labs — gas, CBC, coags, electrolytes.”

The new nurse pressed gauze against the scalp wound; it looked shallow, not life-threatening. No other visible bleeding anywhere in his body. 

C: done.

You opened his eyelids with your index finger and thumb; his pupils reacted to the light of the small lantern. Yet, no movement on any limb. This made your stomach feel cold with apprehension. No no no no. No time for apprehension.

The monitor beeped with stability — but you didn’t know for how long.

“Possible spinal fracture injury. Keep him fully immobilized.”

D: done.

You watched as a nurse cut his working uniform with ease, careful to not move his spine a centimeter. There was a small sting in your heart when you spotted a tattoo on his forearm: 2010-09-02 ♡ Sana. Was it his daughter’s birthday? Was it his wife and their wedding date? You had no idea. You didn’t really want to think too hard about it, not at that moment.

No other major injuries found.

E: done.

You and the rest of the team stayed, focused on keeping him stable, on watching any change in his vitals. You stayed until you became aware that his ICU bed was being prepped and the CT scan was successfully requested; until a resident from neurosurgery arrived. Only then did you finally step back.

The autopilot switch was off.

You let yourself breathe. You let yourself notice how hot it was, unsure if it was due to the actual weather or your nerves. You got rid of the stained gloves. No movement. Sana’s father — or husband — could’ve had brain damage. Or quadriplegia. Or he could still die.

You did what you could, what you were trained to do; you knew that. And yet, a part of you — the part what awakened the moment you discovered that some people in this world could heal with their bare hands — asked quietly:

What’s the point?

Tanaka-san arrived after a few moments. He, too, just got off his own patient. The middle-aged man patted your shoulder softly and nodded.

“Good job, Mori-san.” 

That made you feel a bit better. A bit proud of yourself, maybe. If this had happened a week ago, you would be beaming. Tanaka wasn’t one to give anyone compliments. If he did, it was earned.

But your world, your knowledge of reality itself, had shifted drastically four days ago. Ieiri Shoko could’ve saved that man on the spot. What she said about “reverse cursed energy” (whatever the fuck that meant) only working on sorcerers — it didn’t make anything easier to deal with. Didn’t make one of the most important parts of your life, medicine, feel any less useless.

So you had to stand in the back of the room and hear that voice echo inside your head.

What’s the point?

The first days are shit, as expected.

You’re a complete, constant, utter mess of anxiety and fear despite Gojo’s calm confidence that you’re gonna be fiiiine, nothing’s gonna happen to you. It was hard to believe him when he was barely home at all. He texted all the time — he’s insufferable — but you go full days without seeing him. 

You go full days without seeing Fushiguro, too. Except he was home all the time. He just chose to stay locked inside his bedroom.

Mayu stayed locked in her bedroom as well. You did see her, however, because you had the right to tear her door open, flick the lights on and off until she yelled at you to stop, throw a pillow or two in her head, talk shit about that stupid vampire teen series she was binge watching — you know, the usual stuff. You felt bad that she’d have to stay at home all the time right when summer break started; Mayu was always very social. It was even a bit impressive to see a teenager preferring to go out than bed rot or play video games all day. 

In the end, you were the only one that even transited inside the house. Well. You and Countess. But Countess hated you, so whenever you crossed paths, she’d immediately change rooms.

Bitch.

Work was the same, except it wasn’t.

Your tasks were the same, of course. You went back to work fearing being fired when you were called to talk to HR (because technically you had vanished an hour and half before your actual leave time), but turns out the hospital feared you. Investigation led to the conclusion that the “explosion” happened due to a gas leak, i.e.: the hospital’s fault. HR was frightened that the employees would sue them (and they would probably win), so your boss talked to you in the calmest, nicest voice you’d ever heard. 

And yet, that wasn’t even what caught you off guard.

Himeda-san, head of HR, had a worried (empathic?) expression when she said quietly:

“We’ve been informed about your case. We want you to know that you’re a valuable professional who we appreciate and support in our hospital. Security has been informed as well, and they’ll keep an eye on you. We’ll do anything we can to help you.”

You didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.

Your case. She definitely didn’t know about the sorcery stuff, but they had a police report with them. It made you curious to know what Gojo — or Jujutsu High, whatever — told them. You just smiled, nodded and thanked her. 

So, yeah. Work was the same. Except you could see that there was a strange, translucent “dome” around the entirety of the hospital complex with a slightly different color than the normal sky; a protective curtain, apparently. Except a part of you was frightened of attending new patients now, even if they were unconscious or elders or children, because this part kept whispering, what if they’re curse users in disguise? 

Except you couldn’t go anywhere unattended. You couldn’t drive. You couldn’t take the subway. Which might sound good (you could nap in the backseat the whole way), but your routine was restricted. You couldn’t have a drink after work with your colleagues, or stop at the supermarket, or eat at that Italian restaurant near the hospital you loved, because you were being constantly tracked and you couldn’t leave your pre-designated daily route. It was home-work-home-work, no stops, no breaks.

Ijichi was usually the one to drive you; if it wasn’t him, it was Nitta — the other blonde cheerful assistant manager. As far as you knew, their job was not to just drive people around, so you felt bad that they had to tend you like a child despite their other tasks. Upon hearing this, Ijichi just chuckled nervously and shrugged.

“Don’t worry about us, Mori-san. It’s part of our job. Besides, Gojo-san is paying me extra,” though that last sentence was spoken under his breath; he didn’t expect you to hear it. 

Well. It still made you feel bad, because Ijichi specifically always looked stressed and tired. Despite your unstable work hours, he was never late. It became a habit of yours to buy him donuts everyday as a small compensation (the hospital’s cafeteria sold the best donuts you’d ever tasted in your life). It wasn’t much, yet Ijichi looked about to cry the first time you gave him a box full of cream and chocolate donuts.

At least your work was hell as usual. But that’s the hell you chose, not one imposed to you. The type of hell that made your brain burn, your adrenaline levels stay high, the one that kept you busy and made you feel alive. You liked it. You needed it.

After a week of this new-but-same life, you already felt that you were going insane.

You took the night shift. When you got home, it was six in the morning and the kids were still sleeping (Mayu was definitely sleeping; Fushiguro was a morning person, so he probably just chose to stay locked). The house was as empty and lifeless as usual. 

Usually, you’d shower and go straight to bed. But the weather was nice and you decided to torture your brain a little bit longer. You slipped into that green short sleeved pajama top (but put pants instead of the shorts that matched. You’d been avoiding to wear anything too short inside the house. Your stay at home shorts were short. I-can-see-half-your-buttcheeks type of short), put a green relaxing face mask on, cracked a freezing cold beer open and sat in the tatami room alone. No phone, no TV. Just beer, overexhaustion and an empty head.

“What’s the concept behind the all green?”

You almost spat out your heart.

Gojo. Of course. This son of a bitch teleported to the house, he almost never used the front door — so you almost never heard him coming.

You turned around to see him leaning by the door with his arms crossed. It’d been five days since he’d been home. He wore a light blue dress shirt tucked into his pants, had its sleeves rolled up and two buttons opened. His usual jacket hung from his shoulder. Instead of the blindfold, Gojo wore a pair of elegant rectangular sunglasses. His hair was down.

Infuriating. He looked infuriating, and you looked like freshly spat phlegm. Great.

“You— don’t you have manners?!” You rested your hand over your pounding heart. “Why can’t you announce yourself like a normal person?”

Gojo raised his eyebrows slightly as if you said something unexpected.

“Uh… I’m home?” 

“Welcome home.” You said between gritted teeth. “See? Was it hard?”

He smiled.

Why did he look happy?

Gojo got rid of his fucking huge blue slippers and plopped down on the tatami as well. He threw the jacket over the table carelessly. You noticed how he couldn’t keep his crossed legs under the table like you because they still were one kilometer each. He took a bit of the chips you were eating and eyed the can in your hand with judgemental eyes.

“So? Is there a reason why you’re green?” He pointed at your shirt, your face mask, the green headband pushing your hair back. “Also — is it healthy to drink at six in the morning?”

“I worked all night. Don’t care if it’s healthy or not.” You took one more sip. “And about the green thing: Mori. Duh.”

Gojo paused. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Why do you think Mayu’s hair is green?”

Well, maybe the combination of green you had at the moment was unintentional, but it’s true that you and Mayu had an obnoxious amount of green things. It was an inside joke dad started. Mori is pronounced exactly like forest. He used to call you sprout when you were a kid, and did the same thing with Mayu. It became a small tradition: green birthday cakes. The outside of your old house was painted green. All of your graduation dresses were green. You caught yourself buying things just because they were green. The whole green thing became a bit stronger after he passed.

But you weren’t going to get into detail with him.

“You’re clearly committed, huh?” 

“Yeah. And you can’t judge me. You’re always wearing or carrying something blue.” You pointed at his shirt.

Gojo pushed his glasses down the bridge of his nose and blinked prettily. “Oh, but I can’t help wanting to highlight those eyes, can I? Wait— don’t look at me!” He immediately pushed his glasses up again. “Phew, you almost got another nosebleed.” 

You rolled your eyes whilst chuckling. He chuckled, too. He’s funny, okay? I’m not gonna act like he isn’t. “When will you stop talking about that?!”

“Never.”

“Ugh. It could be something serious, okay? I should get a tomography.” You offered him a beer absently.

“Nah, I’m sure your brain was just shocked to see such a beautiful creature for the first time.” You unoffered the beer. He shrugged like a child. “I didn’t want it anyway.”

“More for me.” You chugged down more beer.

Gojo rested his elbow on the table and leaned his cheek over his knuckles, checking his phone with the other hand absently. 

You tried really, really hard to not look at it directly, because something told you that he’d notice even if you were sly.

But that oversized jacket of his did a great job at disguising his physique.

The dress shirt wasn’t even tight, yet his biceps were practically yelling at you through the fabric. The shocking part — he was relaxed. He wasn’t flexing them. The volume of his well defined chest was there, too, and the traps that were completely hidden when he wore that jacket. Gojo wasn’t lanky at all. That was the body of someone that exercises regularly and heavily.

Jesus Christ.

He got even more infuriating.

After some moments of checking his phone, he put it on the table and looked at you — which gave your brain a slight electric shock.

You drank more beer.

Silence.

“You’ll keep staring at me in silence? It’s getting weird.” You side eyed him.

Gojo clapped his hands once and straightened his back.

“So.” You didn’t like his tone. You hated his tone. It meant something bad was coming. “I’ve been avoiding the subject because I’m a reeeally nice, sensitive guy. I take the feelings of others in consideration, you know? God, I’m such an empath. And strong. And handsome.”

“And humble.”

“Right?” He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in a fake surprised expression. “I keep telling everyone this, but no one agrees with me!”

“Oh, I wonder why.”

You both cackled.

Half of your neurons were giggling. The other half was side eyeing the giggling half.

Ahem. 

You gulped more beer. “What is it?”

“It’s about something you told your granny.” He scratched his head. His hair looked so fluffy. Infuriating. “It’s been stuck in my head ever since… well, the whole thing has been stuck in my head, to be honest — respectfully, I never liked your granny, so it was nice to see someone put her back in her place—”

“Get to the point.”

“Your mother’s death anniversary was on July 17th. Your technique ‘activated’ on July 18th. Don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence?”

No neuron was giggling anymore.

You took another hard chug of the beer and set the can on the table. 

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

You blinked nervously. “Gojo-san, I’ve been awake for longer than I can remember and slightly intoxicated. You’ll have to be more explanatory if you want me to understand anything.”

Gojo pouted. “You can drop the san, I don’t mind it.”

“Focus, please.”

He shifted in place. Gojo still had that carefree attitude, but you noticed how he got more serious. “One day, you live a normal life. The next day, your technique awakens. All that following your mother’s tenth death anniversary. And there’s something else, too— you said curses didn’t perceive you?”

“...Yes.”

“Curses go feral the moment they realize you can see them. They are attracted by people with significant cursed energy reserves like you. Yet, you said they never interacted with you. That doesn’t make sense.”

You remembered the way the mutant rat tried to attack you when you told it to shut up. It had never happened before.

You passed your hand over your face, but had forgotten it had a face mask on. Your hand came green. You groaned and angrily scrubbed your face on the towel that had been resting over your shoulder.

“Do you think— do you think my mom had something to do with it?”

“I’m not saying she did. I’m saying that it’s too big of a coincidence to not investigate.” Gojo pursed his lips. “Your face’s still green, by the way.”

“Whatever.” You threw the towel over the table. “But— it might be just a coincidence. Maybe my technique chose a random day to appear.”

He held his chin and pouted again. Fucking glossy lips. Infuriating. “Uh, that’s near impossible, sweetheart. Techniques don’t show up at random. They blossom from 4 to 6 years old.”

“But if I had it since I was a kid, my grandmother would’ve known, right?”

Gojo pointed a finger gun at you. “Correct! Very insightful!” Some neurons went yayyyy. “That’s just one of the things that don’t make sense about you, my dear green friend, because I should’ve noticed you at the hospital, too. Megumi was right. He didn’t see your cursed energy and I didn’t see it, either.”

You frowned. “But we never crossed paths in the hospital. I don’t remember meeting you.”

Gojo smirked and dropped his glasses down the bridge of his nose again. “These eyes see far, sweetheart.”

You frowned even more. “You can see through walls?”

“It really was like you were a non-sorcerer.” He ignored your question and pushed his glasses up again. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“You can see through walls?”

“Why are you repeating that?”

“Well, now I’m worried about living with the guy that sees through walls.” You crossed your arms protectively. Gojo rolled his eyes. It was a bit shocking to see him roll his eyes. 

“I’m not a pervert, Mori. And that’s not even how my eyes work.”

You frowned slightly. “How do th ey work? What is even your technique, by the way? No one explained to me yet.”

“I know I’m such an interesting person that conversations usually orbit around me, but right now you’re the subject, sweetheart.”

Your shoulders dropped. You chugged the last bit of the beer. 

“Okay. Do you have any clue of what’s going on?”

“I was hoping you’d have a clue.” 

“How would I have a clue? I’m completely clueless about pretty much everything going on around me.”

“Yeah, but you knew your mother.” The shift in Gojo’s voice and behavior was subtle, but you saw it anyway; a bit more serious. A bit more hesitant. “And you know how she passed.”

Silence. 

For the first time, you avoided his gaze, lowering your eyes on the table. The whole lighthearted atmosphere was gone. 

Gojo wasn’t stupid. He knew this wasn’t an easy topic. Yet, he asked anyway: he had to.

“Do you remember anything… strange or worth noting from the day she passed?”

You tapped your fingertip over the empty can in a constant rhythm.

It’d been ten years; you were able to talk about it with some sort of “normality” now. However, it still wasn’t something you’d willingly talk about. Not at all.

“Mom died in a car crash.” Your voice was quieter. Tiredness mixed with the sorrow you couldn’t hide whenever you talked about it. “I was in the car with her.”

Gojo raised his eyebrows slightly. This information seemed to take him by surprise. The way you scratched your forehead nervously and your dry, bitter chuckle took him by surprise, too.

“Fuck. The more I think about it, the more your theory makes sense.” You met his gaze again. “I don’t remember the car crash at all. If it was a concussion or a trauma response… I don’t know. I never wanted to know.”

Gojo was serious now. Not even the shadow of a smile on his face — and that was a bit shocking. You hadn’t seen him actually serious before. The slight frown of his brows, the tightness of his jaw; it’s like you could see his brain working furiously, trying to connect the dots.

“So this period of time is blank in your mind?” You nodded. Gojo hummed. “Anything could’ve happened to you in the meantime.” 

“Yeah.”

Gojo crossed his arms and tapped his index finger over his lips. He was planning something. His analyzing gaze over you was a bit overwhelming.

“I know someone who could try to look into your head. But it’s not gonna be nice or easy for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Messing with memories is complicated. Especially painful memories.”

You sighed heavily. Just this short conversation was already taking too much from your brain prowess and your already fucked up emotional state. But at the same time… there were way too many strange things about you, and you were as eager to discover the truth as he was. More than he was, in fact.

So you nodded. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Gojo nodded and immediately took his phone again. “Okay. I’ll call her.”

You massaged your own thighs under the table nervously. “So… how’s it gonna be? Are we going somewhere? I’m gonna get changed—”

Gojo waved his hand and shook his head. “Relax, sweetheart, it won’t be today. I’m gonna book her on your day off, okay?”

You didn’t know who the fuck “she” was and you didn’t feel like asking. You cracked another beer open and huffed. “Good luck with that. I don’t even know when my next day off will be.”

“Oh, what a busy woman! A workaholic! I should be thankful that she’s gracing me with her presence right now!” There he was, with his silly sarcasm again. 

You didn’t know Gojo that well, but there were a few things you already got about him. The way he tried to brighten the mood despite the shittiest situations. The way he’d act silly and carefree, so you (Mayu and Fushiguro to an extent) wouldn’t freak out. He was definitely arrogant — the way he boasted about himself most times wasn’t jokingly, you noticed — yet, at the same time, you noticed it was a tad bit intentional. It’s like he was trying to distract everyone. 

That was nice of him. It really was.

And it unfortunately worked on you, because you were smiling again while drinking more beer.

“Says the guy who hasn’t been home in five days.”

Gojo looked up from his phone for a moment and wiggled his eyebrows. “What? Missed me too bad?”

“You have no idea.” You got up from the floor, carrying the cans in your hands. “Now, excuse me… I don’t wanna get another nosebleed.”

Gojo cackled while you walked out of the room — and a truth you had to admit to yourself is that you liked the idea of making him smile.

A/N: I really want to focus on the doctor aspect of her life. She practically lives inside the hospital so it wouldn't make sense to not add what she's doing there lol. Doing research on medical procedures is being so fun!!! By the way, I apologize in advance if you're an actual doctor/student and spot anything too inaccurate, I'm trusting a few sketchy sources to write this lol Originally this ch would have some action, but it wrapped up nicely, so I decided to keep it short :D As usual, feedback is MUCH appreciated! If you read it this far, don't forget to leave a comment <3 See you!

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Synopsis: You work the circus — painted smile, broken jokes, the same old balloon dogs for kids who’ll forget you by sunset. Life drags in loops until she shows up: a runaway sleeping behind the generator, sharp-tongued and impossible to ignore.

Word Count: 8,129

Giselle X Male Reader

“…There we go!” you grin, sweat sticking to your clown makeup as you twist the final knot.

“Here’s your dog balloon, kiddo”

“Wow! Thank youuuu, clown guy!” the little girl squeals, eyes wide with joy.

“You’re very welcome! Enjoy the rest of the circus,” you say with a rehearsed cheer, waving her off before your smile fades the second she’s gone.

You sigh, lips still painted into a happy arc. Behind the makeup, you feel like static — loud, drained, hollow.

“Hey, Y/N. You’re on break,” someone mutters, a staff member passing by without so much as eye contact.

“Alright,” you reply flatly.

You walk the back path of the amusement park, dodging busted popcorn bags and loose bolts on the wooden planks. You buy a sandwich, sit alone in the backstage corner — half-lit, half-forgotten — where the scent of either elephant or lion shit clings to the air like punishment.

No one sits with you. No one ever does.

You take one bite.

“Hey, Y/N,” your boss says, head poking through the rusted door. “Break’s over. Get back to work.”

“What? I just sat down,” you protest, sandwich still cradled in your hands, barely touched.

“It’s either work or get out of here.”

You stare at him for a second, tired. Not angry. Just… done.

“Alright,” you say, voice low. You shove the sandwich into your bag and toss it into your locker.

Then under your breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear:

“This life’s getting fucking repetitive. I should’ve studied. Left this country already.”

You’re out front again.

The sun is blistering, your makeup is smudging, and for some cosmic reason, every kid only wants a dog balloon.

Another one walks up. Big eyes. Popsicle stain on his chin.

“Hey kid, wanna balloon that never dies?” you say with fake enthusiasm.

He squints at you. “Isn’t a balloon already dead?”

You blink.

“…But if you believe it’s alive, it will be,” you say, desperation creeping into your smile like a crack in glass.

“Eh. Nah. Weirdo,” the kid shrugs and turns away.

Something in your brain snaps. Just a little.

“Listen here, kid,” you call out, pointing your squeaky-gloved finger like a curse. “One day, you’re gonna realize life isn’t just games and snacks. One day, you’ll crawl for scraps just to survive. And guess what? Balloons don’t help.”

The kid stares.

You diThen he starts crying.

“Hey! Have some class!” the parents bark, rushing over. “You can’t speak to children like that!”

You don’t even blink.

“Fuck it, Fuck you.”

Gasps ripple. The mother covers the child’s ears.

You let the balloon float into the sky and walk off — slow, deliberate, like a man set on fire but too tired to run.

Not even an hour passes before your boss approaches, sunglasses still on, clipboard under his arm.

“Office. Now.”

You don’t argue. You expected this.

You follow him through the faded hallway — past the peeling posters and the rusted lockers — until you’re inside the cluttered manager’s office. He motions for you to sit.

“Look, Y/N…” he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I can’t keep defending you.”

You stay quiet. Your clown makeup’s half gone. Sweat and shame do the rest.

“Badmouthing a kid? Swearing in front of the crowd? You’re not just some random worker — you’re part of the face of this park. I want to keep you, I really do, but you’re ruining the image.”

Still, you say nothing.

He leans forward, voice softening, like he’s doing you a favor.

“My brother’s got a packing company in Valenzuela. Maybe you could—”

A staff member interrupts, knocking halfway through the door.

“Uh—sir? There’s… a girl. Sleeping next to the generator behind Tent Three.”

Your boss groans. Looks at you.

“You wanna keep your job, right?”

You nod. Silently. Clown makeup smudged, uniform wrinkled.

“Then go handle it. Please.”

You don’t say much. Just:

“Alright.”

And you leave the office — unaware that behind the generator, your whole world is about to shift.

The sun’s already starting to bleed out of the sky when you get there — past the edge of Tent Three, behind the stacked crates and electrical cables, where the grass turns to gravel and the only sound is the low hum of the generator.

And there she is.

Curled up on the ground. Hoodie pulled over her head. Face hidden. A duffel bag under her arm like a makeshift pillow. She doesn’t flinch when you approach. Doesn’t even pretend she isn’t trespassing.

You clear your throat.

“Ma’am. You can’t stay here.”

No response. Just a long pause — then a low voice muffled by her sleeve:

“Do I look like I care?”

Not exactly what you expected.

“This is private property. If security finds you, they’ll call someone.”

She lifts her head slowly — and that’s the first time you see her face. Dirt-smudged cheek. Faint bruising under one eye. She’s young. But not helpless.

“Then why didn’t you call them?”

Her eyes narrow, like she’s testing you. Measuring.

“I’m not security. I’m a clown.”

She huffs, a half-scoff, half-laugh.

“Figures.”

You gesture to the generator.

“It’s not safe back here. You could get electrocuted. Or crushed if a crate tips.”

“So leave me alone before one of those things happens. Win-win.”

Her tone — bitter but exhausted — sounds familiar.

“What’s your name?”

She looks away.

“Giselle.”

It sounds made up. But you don’t push.

“Alright, Giselle. You can’t sleep here. You’ll get kicked out. Hard.”

”…So what now? You gonna throw me out yourself, clown boy?”

You glance over your shoulder. No one’s watching.

“Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got ten minutes before someone comes looking. And you look like you haven’t eaten in longer than that.”

She studies you for a second — like she doesn’t know if you’re a threat or a joke.

Then finally, she stands. Slinging the bag over her shoulder.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

And you both walk off — not knowing that ten minutes is going to stretch into something far more complicated

You lead her to the far edge of the crew lot — behind the costume trailer, where no one looks unless they’re sneaking a cigarette or hiding from their shift. The wind smells like burnt oil, sawdust, and melted sugar.

She drops onto an overturned crate like she’s sat here before in some past life.

You sit across from her, back against the trailer wall. You reach into your coat pocket, pull out a bent cigarette, and light it with a practiced flick. The smoke curls around your clown makeup, half-smudged from the heat.

She watches you for a second.

You pull out your half-eaten sandwich — still wrapped in greasy paper, squashed and a little warm — and hand it to her without looking.

She hesitates.

“You sure?”

“Wasn’t gonna finish it anyway.”

She takes it. Peels back the wrapper like it might bite her. Then she eats — slow at first, then like she hasn’t in days.

You take a drag. The smoke sits in your lungs like a secret you’ve forgotten how to share.

“You always eat alone back here?”

“Better than with people I hate.”

She nods. Wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

“Same.”

For a while, there’s only the sound of the generator humming. The faint clatter of metal. Distant laughter from a ride still spinning even though nobody’s really enjoying it anymore.

“You’re not gonna ask why I’m here?”

You ash your cigarette onto the gravel beside your boot.

“You’re here. That’s enough for now.”

She glances at you again — brief, unreadable — then goes back to eating.

You take one last drag, flick the cigarette away, and let your head rest back against the metal trailer wall.

The sky is fading to purple now, and the circus lights are starting to buzz back on. But back here, in the shadows, it feels like you’ve both slipped out of time.

And for the first time today, no one’s pretending to smile

She finishes the last bite in silence. Wipes her hands on her jeans. Doesn’t thank you — not directly. Just stands up, pulling her hoodie over her head again.

You don’t stop her. You don’t ask where she’s going.

She slings the duffel bag over her shoulder.

“I’ll be out of your hair. Thanks for the food..”

You nod once. Like that’s all there is.

She walks off without looking back. Disappears behind the rows of trailers, swallowed up by the low light and laughter and the plastic shimmer of the midway.

You stay for a minute longer. Then push yourself up. Brush dust off your pants. And head back inside.

The office light’s still on.

Your boss doesn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“Handled?”

“Yeah.”

“She gone?”

“I got rid of her. Do I have my job back?”

He scribbles something, nods absently.

“Don’t make me regret it, Y/N.”

You don’t answer. Just walk out.

But all the way back to your locker, you keep thinking about how she didn’t look back.

And how that shouldn’t bother you.

But it does

You walk home in silence.

The city buzzes in the distance — neon signs flickering above convenience stores, taxi’s sputtering past, dogs barking at ghosts. The lights of the circus fade behind you, replaced by the pale yellow of broken street lamps.

You didn’t even notice someone on the street as you walked up — a child tugging at his father’s sleeve, pointing.

“Why’s the clown sad, Dad?”

The father didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

But the question sticks to you like humidity.

And you sit there, in silence, thinking:

You don’t know how to answer it either.

You reach your apartment — fourth floor, no elevator. Paint peeling from the walls like it’s trying to escape too.

Taped to your door is a note in permanent marker, your landlord’s familiar handwriting:

“RENT’S DUE. LAST CHANCE.”

You crumple it in your hand without reading it twice.

Inside, it’s worse. Dim, cramped, hot. No aircon. The fan ticks like a dying clock.

You check the fridge: a half-drunk bottle of water. One apple.

That’s it.

You don’t bother changing. Don’t wash up. You’re still in your costume. Clown makeup smudged, drying around your jaw, flaking in the corners of your eyes. You sit down at the edge of your mattress on the floor, staring at the wall.

You sit there, unmoving. The silence in the apartment isn’t peaceful — it’s loud, like it’s trying to fill in for the life that used to be here.

The fan ticks.

The fridge hums.

Nothing else breathes.

You take the apple from the counter. It’s soft. Almost bruised. You don’t eat it. Just roll it between your hands, staring at it like it might give you a reason to still be doing this.

And then — for no real reason — it comes back.

A memory.

Your family’s old kitchen. Warm lights. The smell of garlic and fried egg.

Your mother laughing at her own jokes, trying to teach your dad how to dance between the sink and stove.

Your little sister stealing the last piece of longganisa when no one’s looking.

You, sitting at the table — full, happy, whole.

“Y/N, do your clown impression!”

You puff your cheeks, fall dramatically onto the floor.

They laugh. Your mom claps.

You’re not wearing makeup then. But you’re smiling.

You blink.

The apple’s still in your hand.

The room is dark again.

No laughter. No food. Just peeling walls and silence.

You set the apple back on the table and lie down without a blanket. Still in costume. Still in makeup.

Somewhere outside, fireworks go off — cheap ones from the night carnival.

You don’t look.

You just close your eyes, wondering if maybe you were happiest back when you were pretending for fun — not survival.

The next morning, you wake up sore.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Don’t remember dreaming, either.

Just the fan spinning above you like a lazy planet, and the dried streaks of makeup still stuck to your face.

You wash up, barely. Throw your costume back on. Ride the jeep back to the edge of the lot where the tents rise like tired monsters. You clock in without a word. No one greets you. You don’t expect them to.

By noon, you’re back at the front of the crowd — red nose on, oversized shoes squeaking against the wooden platform, hands twisting balloon dogs for children who all ask for the same damn thing.

“Wow! How did you make that disappear, mister clown?”

“Magic,” you say, palming the coin that’s obviously hidden under your sleeve.

The kid squints.

“I saw that.”

“Then you’re very smart,” you reply with your painted-on grin. “Now go tell your parents before they forget you exist.”

You spin another balloon, hand it off, and wave goodbye like you care. You don’t.

Same tricks. Same forced laughter. Same sun stabbing you in the eyes.

By the time your break rolls around, you’re back in your usual spot — the dusty patch behind the costume trailer, half in shadow, half in boredom. You light a cigarette, the smoke curling into the dry air like a ghost you forgot to bury.

You unwrap a sandwich that tastes like regret. Again.

Somewhere nearby, two crew members are arguing loud enough for the whole lot to hear.

“You think I didn’t know? You were sleeping with him while we were still together!”

“We were on a break!”

“That was yesterday!”

You watch them out of the corner of your eye, completely uninterested.

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Flick your ash to the ground.

“Couldn’t be me,” you mutter.

And then you see her.

Just barely — from across the lot.

Sitting under the bleachers, hood up again. Same duffel bag beside her.

Like she never left.

She’s there.

You spot her under the bleachers, hoodie pulled low, head down, like she’s trying not to be noticed — or maybe just doesn’t care if she is. Same duffel bag. Same chipped nail polish on her fingers.

Like she never left.

You stare for half a second.

Then look away.

You’ve got enough shit on your plate. You’re behind on rent. You’ve got clown shoes that don’t even fit right. You’ve got three more hours of balloon dogs and fake magic and a boss that treats you like a cracked prop.

You finish your cigarette. Toss the butt into the gravel. Wipe the grease off your fingers and push yourself up.

Back to work.

The tent groans in the heat. Kids scream in delight over rigged games and melting snow cones. Someone nearly trips over a loose extension cord and blames you for it. A mom yells because her kid didn’t get a blue balloon. You apologize with a voice you don’t recognize anymore.

It’s late afternoon when you see her again.

You’re dragging a box of balloons back toward storage when a flash of motion catches your eye near the food tent. Quick hands. Hoodie. Duffel bag.

Giselle.

She moves like she’s done it before — snatching a half-eaten corndog, a wrapped sandwich off the edge of a table, stuffing them into her bag before anyone notices. Almost.

“HEY!” one of the vendors yells. “She stole from the cart! Someone stop her!”

Your boss turns to you, snapping his fingers.

“Y/N. Go. Now.”

You drop the box. Start walking. Not fast. Not loud.

You find her behind the ticket booth, crouched down, unwrapping a sandwich like she has all the time in the world.

She doesn’t look scared when she sees you. Just annoyed.

You stop a few feet away. Hands in your pockets.

“You know,” you say, voice flat, “you can ask me if you want food. But oh well.”

She shrugs. Takes a bite.

“Didn’t feel like asking.”

“Didn’t feel like chasing.”

She glances at you, chewing. You turn around and walk off before anyone else sees you together.

Back at the food tent, your boss looks at you expectantly.

“Well?”

You shrug.

“Didn’t catch her.”

He groans, mutters something about useless staff, and waves you off.

You go back to stacking balloons.

And from the corner of your eye, far across the lot, you see Giselle again — sitting on the curb, eating your boss’s sandwich like she owns the place.

You smirk once. Just barely.

Then go back to work.

The day starts wrong.

It’s in the heat. The way the sky presses down like a lid. The way the sun isn’t just hot — it’s angry. You’re sweating through your clown suit before the gates even open. Makeup already smudging near your eyes. The zipper on your left boot’s broken again. You tape it shut with a piece of duct tape someone left in the locker room.

By noon, you’re running on half a bottle of water and a hangover of exhaustion. The balloon lines don’t end — kids screaming for the same damn dog. One grabs your nose and nearly rips it off. You don’t react. You just hand him his balloon and mumble, “Enjoy the show.”

Then it happens.

Screaming — high, sharp, real.

You turn just as a crew member sprints across the lot, red-faced and wild-eyed.

“Where’s the lion!?”

Another staffer yells, “He’s gone! Cage’s empty!”

You blink. Balloon half-twisted in your hands.

You look past the crowd toward the animal pens.

Chaos.

The lion’s trainer is yelling into his walkie, voice cracking. A supervisor’s waving his arms like that’s going to make a 400-pound animal reappear. There’s shouting in at least three different languages. One of the acrobats climbs on top of a shipping crate just to get a better look.

Someone screams again. You watch a woman lift her toddler off the ground and run.

“EVERYONE STAY CALM!” your boss says into the PA, voice stretched thin. “It’s under control. Just a small mistake. Show will resume shortly.”

Small mistake.

Right.

You’re told to keep performing.

Like nothing happened.

So you go back to the front tent, balloon in hand, fake smile in place. Parents keep one eye on their kids, the other on the exits. The air is too still. Too sharp. Even the music sounds scared.

You bend a balloon into a limp-looking poodle.

A child looks up at you, nervous.

“Is the lion gonna eat me?”

You crouch down. “Only if you skip brushing your teeth. Lions hate bad breath.”

The mom doesn’t laugh.

You stand again. Keep twisting shapes. Keep juggling. Keep pretending.

Then you hear it.

Yelling — again. Different this time.

You glance left and see two women — one in heels, one in flip-flops — arguing in front of the snack booth. Loud. Vicious.

“You were eyeing my husband, you cheap bitch!”

“Your husband gave me his number, you psycho!”

Kids start crying. Popcorn flies. A soda can is thrown and hits the ground near your feet, fizzing violently. One of the vendors tries to separate them and gets shoved. A crowd forms. You hear your name being called through a walkie, but you don’t answer.

A security guard finally steps in, grabs one of the women by the elbow. She screams bloody murder. Someone shouts, “LET HER GO!” Another swing. A slap. And then it’s full chaos.

You back away. Slowly. Balloon poodle dangling in your hand like it just saw a murder.

The fight fizzles out only after three more staff arrive. One woman leaves with a bloody nose and no cotton candy. The other leaves screaming, dragging her kid by the arm. A clown — one of the newer ones, the smiley guy — tries to make a joke to lighten the mood.

No one laughs.

You stumble backstage during your break, hands trembling slightly.

You’re thinking about the lion. About the fight. About how this place is slowly turning into a warzone wrapped in neon lights. You don’t even want food — you just want to sit.

You open your locker.

And stop.

Empty.

Not just “oh someone borrowed my charger” empty — but gutted.

Your last clean shirt? Gone.

The leftover sandwich from yesterday? Gone.

But worst of all — the photo.

That worn, soft-edged picture you tucked behind the metal panel, hidden behind a note that used to smell like home. Your sister with her dorky smile. Your mom with her apron still on. You, maybe thirteen, trying to do a goofy face before dinner.

Gone.

You check again.

Check under the bench. Behind the door. On the floor.

Nothing.

Your hands start shaking. Not out of panic — but something deeper. Heavier.

You slam the locker shut.

Hard.

It echoes off the walls. A few crew members look up. One of them opens his mouth like he might ask what’s wrong.

He doesn’t.

No one does.

You walk outside. The sky’s a pale yellow-gray now. Storm clouds forming at the edge of the horizon. Still too hot to feel like real rain.

You light a cigarette. Lean against the metal side of the trailer, exhaling slow. Trying not to break down. Not in public. Not in makeup.

You keep thinking about the photo.

How you never made a copy.

How your sister used to say, “Keep that with you so you don’t forget who you are.”

And now?

You’re sitting in your usual spot behind the costume trailer. Your second cigarette burns low between your fingers. The clown makeup is half melted from sweat and time. You’ve stopped caring about cleaning it off. You don’t even bother hiding how wrecked you look anymore.

Your back aches. Your stomach growls. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.

You’re so far gone in your own head that you don’t hear her approach.

You only notice when a shadow drops near your foot — and a hand slides something across the ground toward you.

A photograph.

Your photograph.

You stare at it for a second. You don’t move.

Then Giselle crouches in front of you, like it’s nothing. Like she’s done this before.

She takes a bite of something — a candy bar, maybe — and looks at the picture while chewing.

“You have a cute sister.”

Your eyes flick up to her.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend to be friendly. She just says it.

You grab the photo back. Not fast. Not grateful. Just… instinct.

You slide it into your chest pocket. No words.

She watches you. You don’t look at her directly.

“I also stole your sandwich.”

You shrug.

“Figures.”

“Tasted like cardboard.”

“Then we’re even.”

She leans back against the trailer wall beside you. She’s close enough to hear your breath, far enough that she could vanish again at any moment.

There’s a silence between you now — not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Just… there. Like two people watching the same fire burn from different windows.

You take a drag of your cigarette. She finishes the candy bar and wipes her hand on her jeans.

“You gonna tell your boss I broke in?”

You flick ash to the gravel.

“No point. He’d just ask why I had a sandwich in there instead of clocking out on time.”

She huffs a little, like it might’ve been a laugh.

Another pause.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

You exhale. “Takes one to know one.”

She picks at the thread on her sleeve.

You sit in silence again. No eye contact. No trust. But no distance now, either.

You didn’t ask for her to return the photo.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness.

And maybe that’s the closest either of you gets to something real.

It’s after hours.

Most of the crew’s gone home, or passed out behind trailers. The rides are off, tents zipped. Even the generator sounds quieter — like the whole circus is holding its breath.

You’re walking past the animal tents, cigarette lit, mind on nothing, when you see her.

Giselle.

Sitting cross-legged on the edge of a crate, hunched slightly, flicking something small through the bars of the lion’s cage.

Bread.

Old scraps. Like she found them in the trash behind the churro cart.

She tosses another piece in, slow and casual, like she’s feeding a pet that isn’t there.

You stop a few feet away. Say nothing.

She doesn’t look at you. Just asks:

“Where’s the lion?”

You take a drag. Exhale through your nose.

“Oh. Thing is…”

“They did catch it.”

“But I guess even a ton of tranquilizer’s overkill.”

She stops mid-throw.

The air is dead still. No wind. Just the metallic stink of cages and dirt.

She glances at you — only briefly — then looks back into the empty space behind the bars.

You keep talking, tone flat.

“I think it was sick anyway. They didn’t say it, but I heard one of the trainers arguing. Something about infection. Weight loss.”

Another drag.

“After they got it back, they put it down. Said it was too dangerous. Too unpredictable.”

Giselle leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Tosses the last bit of bread in — soft and quiet.

It lands without sound.

“All that strength. Still ended up in a hole.”

You nod.

“That’s life, huh?”

She doesn’t respond.

You both stare into the cage. Empty. Rusting. The straw bedding already trampled and cold. The chain they used to use still lying in the corner, snapped at the middle.

“I used to hate that lion,” you say.

“I’d walk past and it’d lunge at the bars. Just for fun. Scared the hell out of me the first week.”

Giselle tilts her head slightly.

“And now?”

You look at the cage like you might see yourself in it.

“Now I miss it.”

Silence again. Heavier now. Not grief. Not nostalgia.

Something worse.

Recognition.

You flick your cigarette into the dirt. Watch the ember die.

“Don’t suppose you’ll cry for it.”

“Not the crying type,” she mutters.

Then:

“But maybe it was just tired.”

You both sit there a while longer.

Not speaking.

Not moving.

Feeding ghosts.

The lion cage is behind you now.

The sky’s turning purple-blue, streaked with smog and stars you can’t name. The circus is sleeping — or pretending to. Only the humming generator and a distant squeaky wheel from the ferris ride still moving in the wind.

You’re sitting on a metal crate near the back fence, smoking the last of your cigarettes, legs stretched out in front of you.

She’s there again.

No hoodie this time. Just a T-shirt faded from too many washes and jeans with a hole in one knee. She’s sitting on the grass, arms wrapped around her legs like she doesn’t trust the ground.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then she says it — softly, like she’s asking the air.

“Why do you stay?”

You blow smoke out slowly.

Let the silence roll out before answering.

“Because I’m scared I’ll leave and find out this was the best it ever gets.”

She hums like that answer doesn’t surprise her.

“That’s honest,” she says.

“Sad. But honest.”

She leans back, hands pressing into the grass behind her. Looks up at the sky like she’s expecting it to fall.

“Do you know where I’m from?”

You glance at her.

“You gonna tell me?”

“You gonna care?”

You take another drag.

“I might.”

She smiles — but it’s faint. Not coy. Not dramatic. Just… tired.

“Tokyo. But not the rich part. The part that looks like someone forgot to bulldoze it. My mom’s half-Filipino, moved there to marry a man who wasn’t worth her name. I grew up in a shoebox apartment with roaches and broken heaters. Left at seventeen.”

She shrugs.

“Didn’t want to become my mom. Didn’t know what else to become either.”

You nod. Quiet.

“She ever try to stop you?”

Giselle laughs. Bitter. Dry.

“She cried. But not for me. For the neighbors. ‘What will they think?’”

You grunt. “Sounds about right.”

She turns to look at you. This time, really look.

“What about you?”

You exhale through your nose.

Flick ash to the dirt.

“There’s no big story. I just… stopped trying one day. Didn’t leave. Didn’t stay. Just ended up here. The circus was hiring. I was broke. Now I wear clown shoes for minimum wage and get yelled at for not smiling enough.”

She tilts her head.

“And your family?”

You pause.

Then:

“Split. Quietly. One day I woke up and the apartment was just me and my mom. Then it was just me. Then it was just the noise.”

The silence stretches again.

She hugs her knees. Picks at the grass. You light another cigarette, but don’t offer her one. You don’t think she smokes.

Then she says:

“You know what scares me?”

You glance sideways.

She’s not looking at you. Just the fence. Just the dark.

“Not dying,” she says.

“Getting forgotten. Like I didn’t even dent the place I left.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You know that fear.

You live with it every day.

The generator hums louder for a moment. The wind rustles some loose tarp. In the far distance, a firework goes off — leftover from someone else’s celebration.

Neither of you flinch.

You just sit there in the dark, two people no one’s looking for, sharing silence like it’s the only thing you still own.

You don’t expect her to still be there in the morning.

Most runaways run again. But when you round the corner of the back lot, past the rows of trash bins and the half-lit ticket booth…

There she is.

Sitting on a tilted bench, one leg tucked under her, unwrapping something from a crumpled brown paper bag like she’s done this a hundred times.

“You’re late.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know I was expected.”

She tosses something at you — low and underhanded.

A lukewarm bun wrapped in foil.

You catch it one-handed.

“What’s this?”

“Char siu bao. Vendor left his cart unattended. I took it as a sign from the universe.”

You peel the foil back. It smells better than anything you’ve had in a week.

“What’d the universe leave you?”

She bites into her bun, speaking with her mouth full.

“Pineapple bread. A little squished. Still good.”

You sit down beside her. Not close. Not far. Just there. The same way people sit next to each other on long bus rides — knowing the world doesn’t end in fireworks, just shared silence.

You eat. She eats.

A comfortable nothing stretches between you.

Then:

“You’ve got something on your face.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“No, the other side.”

You wipe again.

She sighs, reaches over, and smudges your cheek with her thumb.

A slow, brief touch. Warm fingers. Dry skin.

You don’t flinch.

She doesn’t make a big deal of it.

She leans back.

“You ever wipe off that clown paint properly, or just let the tears do it?”

“I let the rain decide.”

She snorts. You swear it’s almost a laugh.

Later, as you walk side by side toward the big tent — her hoodie pulled low, your costume half-zipped — she speaks again.

“So… what’s today’s gig?”

“Balloon dogs. Face paint. Probably get screamed at by a mom who thinks glitter’s the devil.”

“Fun.”

“What about you? What’s your job today?”

She shrugs.

“Thinking about reorganizing the inside of my duffel bag. Maybe stealing a soda.”

You nod like that’s a serious task.

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

She bumps your elbow with hers.

Just once.

No words.

You both keep walking.

The crowd’s already forming when you tug the zipper of your clown suit up to your neck and smear the last streak of white across your cheek. You’ve been running this same set for months — balloon tricks, sleight of hand, fake flowers from your sleeve. It’s muscle memory now. Even your fake laugh is worn smooth from overuse.

You pull the curtain back slightly to peek at the audience.

Kids buzzing. Parents annoyed. Heat. Noise. Another routine day.

You don’t notice her at first.

But she’s there.

Giselle. Half-tucked behind a pillar of prop crates. Hoodie down. Arms folded. Hair messy. She’s not hiding — not really — just not supposed to be there.

And yet… she stays.

You don’t let your eyes linger.

You step out onto the stage.

Cue the music. Cue the fake cheer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Ever seen a dog made of air?”

You twist a balloon into something sort of dog-shaped. A kid laughs. One throws popcorn. You catch it mid-air and stuff it in your pocket.

You move through the set.

The card trick. The flower sleeve bit. The clumsy juggling you mess up on purpose because kids love when you look stupid.

The crowd laughs more than usual.

You don’t realize until halfway through that you’re smiling for real.

Out of the corner of your eye, behind the curtain edge — Giselle watching. Chin resting on her knee. Not mocking. Not bored.

Watching.

And for once, you don’t feel like a joke in paint.

You feel like someone.

After the show, you slip behind the curtain, peeling your gloves off, sweat sticking to your back.

She’s gone.

You think maybe you imagined her — until you find a half-eaten peach on one of the prop boxes.

Wrapped in a napkin with a note scrawled on it in blue ink:

“Not bad, clownboy.”

“Still wouldn’t pay for it tho.”

You smile.

You don’t even try to hide it.

It’s late again.

The tent’s quiet now, just the muffled thrum of a generator and some bored laughter from across the lot. You’re sitting on a crate, clown paint smeared and half-wiped, working your way through a can of expired pineapple juice you found in the vending machine trash bin.

Then she shows up again.

No announcement. Just presence. Like smoke.

She walks over, dragging her duffel bag behind her, drops it unceremoniously at your feet.

Then she stands up straight — clears her throat like she’s about to make a grand announcement — and holds up a bent balloon she clearly fished from the ground.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, voice flat but dramatic, “watch closely as I pull… absolutely nothing… out of my empty sleeve.”

She wiggles her arm with forced grace.

Nothing comes out.

You blink.

“What the hell was that.”

She smirks. “Art.”

Then she bows — badly. Almost falls. Straightens up again.

“Wait. Hold on—this part’s important.”

She reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out a crumpled napkin.

Unfolds it dramatically.

Inside? A half-melted lollipop and a broken pencil.

She holds them out like treasure.

“Taa-daa.”

You can’t help it.

You laugh.

Not a scoff. Not a snort. A real, short laugh that sounds strange coming out of your own mouth.

She grins like she’s won something.

“See? I could totally be a clown. I’ve got tragic energy and poor life decisions. I’m halfway there.”

“You’re missing the permanent damage.”

“Give me time.”

You shake your head. “That was the worst magic act I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, but it worked.”

“How?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“You laughed, didn’t you?”

You go quiet for a second. Look at her. Really look.

No one’s made you laugh like that in… you don’t know how long.

“Yeah,” you say, soft.

“I guess I did.”

The rain hits fast.

You’re mid-shift, dragging tired feet across the gravel near the back trailers, when the sky just gives up. No warning drizzle. No slow build. Just a full, open-throated downpour that drenches everything in seconds.

You run for cover — one of the old canvas tents, unused now, storage for busted props and costumes nobody fixes anymore. You duck inside, breathing hard, water dripping off your sleeves.

She’s already there.

Giselle.

Soaked. Hoodie clinging to her shoulders. Hair stuck to her forehead. Breathing quiet, but sharp.

You stare at her. She stares back. For once, neither of you says anything stupid.

Then she nods toward your face.

“Your makeup’s melting.”

You glance down — white paint dripping in milky streaks across your jaw and neck, smearing into the collar of your suit.

“Good,” you mutter.

“Saves me the trouble.”

You sit. She stays standing, pacing a little. Hands stuffed in her pockets.

The rain roars against the tent roof. Thunder somewhere distant.

The silence between you builds. Not comfortable, not unbearable — just charged.

Then she says it.

“You’re not fine.”

You don’t answer.

She says it again.

Softer. Sharper.

“You’re not fine, Y/N.”

You grit your teeth.

“Neither are you.”

She steps closer. Water pools around her boots.

“So? You gonna keep pretending, or what?”

You stand up.

You don’t even know why. Maybe the sound of her voice. Maybe the fact that you’ve had no one talk to you like this in years. Maybe it’s the way the rain feels like it’s pressing the whole tent down on your back.

You’re standing inches from her now.

Clown paint running down your face. Rain dripping from your chin.

She looks up at you.

Eyes hard. Tired. A little afraid, but not of you — of herself, maybe.

And you—

You kiss her.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not sweet.

It’s a collision.

Teeth and breath and soaked cotton. It’s angry. It’s reckless. It’s everything you’ve both been holding in finally slamming into something that won’t look away.

She kisses you back just as hard.

Grabbing your jacket. Pushing you against the crate behind you. Mouth hot and sharp and alive.

You pull her closer. She doesn’t resist. Her fingers dig into your shirt. Yours tangle in the wet fabric of her hoodie.

And for a few messy, breathless seconds — there’s no circus. No clown. No runaway. No boss. No lion.

Just you.

And her.

And a thousand things neither of you knows how to say.

You break first. Breathing hard. Foreheads nearly touching.

She laughs — not because it’s funny, but because it’s so damn much.

“What the hell was that?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know.”

You both stand there. Dripping. Shaking. Alive.

The rain keeps falling.

And for once, you don’t want to run.

The sun’s out like nothing happened.

Tents are dry. Kids are screaming again. Someone’s playing a broken calliope tune near the front gates.

But you?

You’re somewhere between blank and wrecked.

You sit at the usual bench during break — same spot, same half-warm sandwich, same view of cracked pavement.

And across from you, sitting like nothing happened, is Giselle.

Hood up. Legs crossed. Picking the sesame seeds off a stolen bun.

She hasn’t said a word.

Neither have you.

You both know.

You both feel it.

The memory of last night hangs between you like fog that hasn’t burned off yet. The kiss, the heat, the breathlessness — the way she held your shirt like she didn’t want to let go.

You clear your throat.

She doesn’t look up.

You try to speak.

“About—”

“Don’t.” Her voice is quiet.

Not cruel. Just… scared.

You stop.

Go back to chewing your sandwich.

She pulls her legs up on the bench, arms around her knees.

“I didn’t mean for it to be weird.”

You nod.

“It’s not weird.”

Even though it is.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We won’t.”

And that’s that.

Nothing fixed. Nothing broken — just filed away.

But the world doesn’t leave things buried.

It’s around 4PM when it happens.

You’re restocking the balloon cart when you hear your name shouted from the main tent.

“Y/N. OFFICE. NOW.”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t even ask why. You just walk.

The second you step into the back trailer, the door slams behind you. Your boss is already pacing, red in the face, holding a clipboard that doesn’t even matter.

He throws it on the table.

“A runaway?”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

“You’ve been helping a runaway?”

You freeze.

Say nothing.

He steps closer.

“You think I wouldn’t find out? That she could just hang around backstage every day and I wouldn’t notice?”

Still, you stay silent.

“You know what that is, Y/N?”

“It’s a liability. It’s trespassing. It’s a fucking lawsuit if she gets hurt.”

You open your mouth — only barely.

“She’s not hurting anyone.”

He laughs. Bitter.

“She’s not on payroll. She’s not on insurance. She doesn’t belong here.”

And then, a beat later:

“You don’t, either.”

That hits harder.

Silence.

Then:

“So this is how it’s gonna be,” he says.

“You get her out of here. Gone. Or you both are.”

You walk out of the trailer.

The circus sounds loud again.

You spot her in the distance — sitting on the steps near the lion cage, peeling an orange. Looking peaceful. Like she hasn’t just been made your impossible choice.

You light a cigarette with shaking hands.

And for the first time since you met her…

You don’t know what to do.

You find her by the lion cage again.

But this time, she’s standing.

Backpack already on. Hoodie zipped. Eyes sharp — too sharp.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says before you even speak.

You freeze.

“You heard him.”

She nods. Doesn’t flinch.

“Every word.”

Her voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that hides shaking hands.

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger. Not yet. Just panic disguised as frustration.

“So what, you’re just gonna leave?”

She shrugs.

“Not like I was supposed to be here anyway.”

You step closer.

“That’s it?”

“After all this — after the food, the bun, the lion, the fucking kiss—you’re just walking off like none of it mattered?”

That hits her.

She looks away, jaw tightening.

“What did you expect me to do?” she snaps.

“Stay? Watch you lose your job over me?”

“Maybe I would’ve if you’d asked.”

She blinks.

“So I’m supposed to let you throw your whole life away just because we had one bad kiss in the rain?”

That stings.

“Bad?” you echo, voice cracking.

She doesn’t answer. Just folds her arms and looks like she regrets saying it.

You take a step back, hands in your hair.

“You think this is easy for me?”

“You think I’ve got something worth protecting? This job? This costume? I sleep in a roach box and eat half a sandwich a day, Giselle!”

She flinches — not from volume, but from truth.

“Then why stay?” she fires back.

“Why do you stay in a place that kills you every goddamn day?”

And there it is.

The heat breaks in your chest.

“Because the only thing that’s felt real in months—

—is you.”

Silence.

Her arms drop.

Your breathing is loud now. Both of you look at each other like strangers wearing familiar skin.

Then she says:

“I didn’t mean the kiss was bad.”

You swallow hard.

“I know.”

She steps forward — just a little. Barely enough to close the space.

“I just didn’t think it was allowed to feel like that.”

“Neither did I.”

She steps forward.

Grabs your shirt.

And kisses you like she’s trying to find her own heartbeat in your mouth

It’s still dark when you leave.

No fanfare. No final bow. Just you — duffel bag half-zipped, still wearing your faded clown shoes because screw it, let them remember who you were.

You walk past the animal tents, the rusting rides, the balloon cart where you used to kill time twisting air into fake joy.

You don’t look back.

But before you go — you stop by the trailer.

The boss’s office. That cheap little room where they yelled, where they threatened, where they said she was the problem.

You slip the envelope under the door, but not before taping a used balloon animal to the front. A sad-looking dog. One leg deflated.

Inside is the letter.

Handwritten. No edits. Just rage.

“To the boss,

Hope you’re happy, dumbass.

You got what you wanted. The freak’s gone. No more liability. No more runaway hiding in your tents. No more clown screwing up your illusion of a family-friendly fun-land.

But let’s not pretend you ever gave a shit.

You pretend this place is magic? It’s rotting. Just like your morals.

By the way, tell the gymnast I said hi. Or maybe tell your wife first. Up to you. I’m sure she’d love to know how many “late night rehearsals” you’ve been supervising.

Keep smiling for the cameras.

— Y/N”

You step outside.

No parade. No applause. Just the sun rising over rust-colored tents and your shadow getting longer behind you.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know you’re not coming back.

And somewhere — maybe across town, maybe still asleep in her stolen hoodie — Giselle will wake up and realize you’re gone.

The night swallows you.

The circus lights are long behind you now. Your boots crunch against gravel, and the bag slung over your shoulder feels heavier with every step — not from weight, but from everything you’ve left behind.

Clown shoes inside. Crumpled uniform. An old photo. Sandwich wrappers.

Your face paint’s still on — smeared by tears and rain and time. You didn’t bother to wipe it off. Maybe you wanted the city to see what the world did to you. Or maybe you didn’t want to forget just yet.

You turn down a side street.

Dim alley lights. The distant echo of a train.

And then you hear it — soft laughter. And coughing. And hunger.

You follow the sound.

A patch of concrete tucked behind a dumpster, half-covered by cardboard and tattered blankets. Five or six kids, maybe younger than ten. Some barefoot. One holding a plastic bottle of rainwater like it’s champagne.

They’re sitting in a circle, playing with broken bottle caps like they’re coins. The smallest one’s wearing a plastic bag as a cape.

You freeze.

They see you.

Clown makeup. Wild hair. A bag slung over your shoulder like a hobo magician.

They stare.

No screams. No fear. Just tired, cautious curiosity.

One of them stands — maybe the oldest — and says:

“Are you a real clown?”

You should say no. You should walk away.

But instead…

You set your bag down. Pull out one of the last good balloons you’ve got.

Twist. Twist. Fold. Squeak.

“You like giraffes?” you say.

The little girl in the back gasps.

You hand it to her with a flourish. She smiles so wide her missing teeth show.

Then you do another.

And another.

No music. No lights.

Just the soft snap of balloon rubber and the sound of real laughter.

You pretend to pull a coin from one kid’s ear. Let another tug endless ribbons from your sleeve. You trip on your own feet and let yourself fall, just hard enough to make them burst out laughing.

For a moment, you are the circus.

But not the broken one that chewed you up.

This is a better stage.

And this time… you mean every joke.

Later, as the kids huddle back under their shared blanket, you sit on the curb. Makeup streaked. Fingers sore. Breath fogging in the air.

One of the boys turns to you and says:

“You don’t smile like other clowns.”

You nod.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not like other clowns.”

He frowns.

“Why’s the clown sad?”

You look up at the sky.

Think of Giselle.

Think of everything you lost. Everything you gave. Everything you still have left.

“Because sometimes…” you say quietly,

“…the world laughs too hard, and forgets who it’s laughing at.”

The kids don’t get it.

They don’t have to.

They’ll remember the clown who showed up when no one else did.

A long road. City lights blur into soft halos. You walked alone, bag over your shoulder, clown makeup streaked like warpaint. No one claps. No one watches.

Just steps.

And silence.

And a future that hasn’t arrived yet.

“Some people… they enter your life like accidents. Broken glass on a sidewalk you weren’t supposed to be walking. Sharp. Sudden. Messy. And somehow, unforgettable.”

“Giselle was that.”

“The girl sleeping behind the generator. The thief with crumbs on her hoodie. The echo in my chest I thought I buried years ago.”

“She didn’t ask for my help. She didn’t want to be saved. She just wanted to be seen. And I saw her.”

“In a world where I was nothing but a painted smile… she looked at me like I was still someone worth knowing.”

You kept walking. Past a flickering streetlamp. Past a neon motel sign. Past a child holding a balloon shaped like a dog.

“I never got to say goodbye. But if you’re hearing this — know I didn’t leave because I stopped caring.”

“I left because I couldn’t lose you and myself at the same time.”

“But one day… when I’ve figured out how to stand tall without the paint… I’ll find you again.”

“I promise.”

“In whatever tent. Whatever city. Whatever version of you is still left after the world tries to beat it out of you…”

“I’ll be there.”

“And maybe that time, we won’t have to run.

“We’ll laugh, not the fake ones we put up, but the real ones we can’t

[shangchiswife]

clark kent- and they were roommates

summary: clark, your roommate, has been jealous of your boyfriend for a while. Then he cheats, and one night changes everything.

clark kent x fem!reader

warnings: smut

word count: 4366

....

Clark Kent never considered himself a jealous man.

Not until you started dating him.

You and Clark had been roommates for a while now.

It was supposed to be temporary. He had just landed the Daily Planet job, you were finishing grad school, and rent in Metropolis was brutal. But it worked. Nights stretched into mornings, and eventually, he stopped thinking of it as your apartment and more like… home. Because you were there.

You were always there. When he came back from long shifts, half-sore from saving the city, you’d be curled up on the couch, feet tucked under you, eyes bleary from whatever article you were editing. You used to make two mugs of tea, one for you, one for him. You used to ask how his day was, even if he never gave you the full truth.

And maybe that was the problem. He never told you how he really felt.

So you met someone else. And Clark watched it happen in slow motion, like a scene he wasn’t supposed to interrupt. You’d leave the apartment humming under your breath. You’d come home smiling in that soft, faraway way. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t have to.

It was in the way you stopped making two cups of tea. The way your voice got quieter when your phone lit up. The way your laughter shifted. Lighter, but never around him.

He told himself it was fine. That as long as you were happy, that was enough.

But then he came home one night, soaked from the rain, with his curls damp against his forehead. And there you were, curled up on the couch with him. Head on his shoulder, blanket thrown over both your legs like it was just another night.

You looked up when the door opened. Smiled at Clark like everything was fine. Like nothing had shifted.

You even patted the seat beside you.

But he just shook his head, that familiar smile tugging at his mouth, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then he turned and walked straight to his room without another word.

And something in his chest pulled tight. Because you used to leave that spot open for him.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if you knew. If you had any idea he would’ve done anything to be the one making you laugh like that.

If you knew, would it have changed anything?

He wasn’t sure. Maybe. Maybe not. But the truth was, Clark hated him.

He hated the way your boyfriend acted like he had all the answers, like being loud somehow made him right. Hated how he touched you in front of people like it was for show, like it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with being seen. Hated how he talked over you, called your ideas “cute” like you weren’t brilliant, laughed at your dreams like they were a joke.

It had been building for a while. Clark saw the changes before you did. Maybe before you were ready to admit they were there.

He watched you drift further away, bit by bit. The way you laughed less around the apartment. The way your clothes started to change, more muted, more careful. The way you flinched, barely, when your boyfriend put his hand on your waist like he owned you.

Clark noticed all of it. Every little change. Every word you swallowed down. Every smile that looked more like muscle memory than anything real.

So he said something. Just once.

It was late. The apartment was still. Your boyfriend had left in a rush, something mean slipping from his mouth as the door closed behind him. You stood at the sink rinsing a mug, your back to Clark. He leaned against the counter, hands gripping the edge like he needed something to anchor him.

“I don’t like the way he treats you,” he said, voice quiet. “It’s not okay.”

You didn’t respond.

“He’s always late. He cuts you off. Makes those comments that aren’t really jokes. And you… you don’t laugh the way you used to. You barely speak when he’s around.”

You still wouldn’t look at him and it killed him.

“You’re not you,” he said, softer now. “You’ve been getting smaller around him. And that’s not who you are.”

You froze for a second. Then shrugged, brushing it off.

“He’s just blunt,” you murmured. “It’s not that deep.”

Clark didn’t push. He didn’t say the rest.

How he saw the way you flinched a little when your boyfriend touched you, how your clothes had started to change, how your laugh had lost its ease. 

He didn’t say how much it hurt him to watch you bend around someone who never noticed when you were breaking.

He just stood there, watching you force a tired smile, and disappear down the hall.

….

It didn’t happen all at once. The jealousy built up, until the worst part was the nights he couldn’t block out.

He would lie there, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched in the sheets, trying not to hear the way your bed creaked just a wall away. The soft thud of your bodies moving. The breathy sounds you made. 

He knew what it sounded like when you were faking. And you were faking. For him.

Clark hated it. 

Hated how clear everything became when the lights were off and the apartment was still. Hated how his enhanced hearing picked up every shift, every sigh, every time your boyfriend chased his own release and didn’t care if you came with him. He never paid attention to what you needed.

And Clark knew. He knew, because he had heard what it sounded like when you weren’t pretending.

That night still lived in his head. The one where you thought you were alone. Your door had been cracked open just enough. He hadn’t meant to hear, but he did. 

The way your breath caught. The soft sounds you made when it was just you. With no one watching and nothing to fake.

You hadn’t said his name. But he wished you had.

He had closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and stayed frozen on the couch like moving would make it worse. He hated how badly he wanted you then. Hated the way it burned. Hated how later that night, alone in his bed, he wrapped his hand around his cock and came to the sound of your voice in his head.

Now, all he could do was lie there. Listen to you give yourself to someone who didn’t deserve a single piece of you.

And pretend it wasn’t breaking him in half.

….

Some time had passed since then. The nights still weighed on him, but he’d learned how to carry it.

Clark had just gotten home. The air still clung to his coat, the wind trailing behind him from the walk back. A curl fell over his forehead, damp from the drizzle. He stepped inside, tired, holding a bag of Thai food he picked up because he knew you liked it.

He barely made it two steps before he saw you curled up on the couch with your face blotchy and your eyes red. 

You weren’t crying anymore. You just looked done.

He dropped the food on the table and crossed the room in seconds, kneeling in front of you without a word. His voice was soft.

“What happened?”

You blinked. 

“He cheated on me,” you said, your lips trembling.

Clark didn’t move.

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting. “He said it like it didn’t matter. Like I should’ve seen it coming. Like it was nothing.”

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He stood suddenly, pacing a few steps like there was too much in him, too much heat, too much fury to keep still. His hands shook, and you noticed.

“He had you,” Clark said, his voice rough. “And he cheated.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him.

“He tore you down. Made you think you were too much. Convinced you it was your fault when he stopped trying. And now-” He stopped himself. Shook his head like the words were too sharp to let out.

When he turned back to you, something in his expression splintered. You could see how hard he was breathing, how much he was holding back.

You didn’t say anything. You looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time in a long time, something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders. The way his hair curled against his forehead. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he was still standing there, breathing hard, looking at you like he wanted to destroy every version of your ex that ever made you feel small.

You reached for him. And he didn’t hesitate.

He dropped back down, closer this time, his hands cradling your face like he was afraid you’d shatter. His touch was warm and it made your chest ache.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You didn’t deserve that. Not any of it.”

Your fingers curled around his wrists. You weren’t crying, but your throat felt too tight, your pulse too loud. He was so close. So impossibly close.

His thumbs brushed gently across your cheeks. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

Your breath caught.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth. Just for a second. Barely there. But you felt it.

And for some reason, you wanted him to.

You didn’t know what that meant. You didn’t know if it was the pain still sitting in your chest or the way he was looking at you like he couldn’t breathe.

But you wanted to kiss him.

And he wanted to kiss you.

You both felt it.

Clark leaned in just slightly, forehead resting against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“I want to,” he said, barely audible. “God, I want to. But not like this.”

You nodded. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.

He stayed like that for a moment with his hand still holding your face. His was body close enough that you could feel the warmth of him everywhere.

And then, slowly, he pulled back.

He sat beside you instead, his arm brushing yours, your hand still tangled in his like neither of you wanted to let go yet.

Nothing else was said.

But something had changed.

And both of you felt it.

…..

It hadn’t been the same since.

A few days passed. Then a few more. Clark had been trying to avoid you as much as possible.

He started leaving earlier than usual. He skipped breakfast, said he wasn’t hungry. Some nights he didn’t come home until late, long after you’d gone to bed, and when he did, he was quiet and barely even looked at you. One afternoon you caught him standing in the kitchen, saw him notice you walking in, and he grabbed his keys and left without saying anything at all.

So yeah. He was avoiding you.

You let it slide at first. You told yourself that he just needed time. But the silence kept stretching, and eventually, it just started to piss you off.

So you waited. 

You had turned off the lights and sat on the kitchen counter and waited for him to come home, phone in hand, pretending you were just up late doing something normal.

When the door creaked open and his footsteps hit the hallway, you called out before he could duck into his room.

“Clark.”

He froze.

Then slowly turned the corner and saw you perched there, legs swinging slightly, eyes on him like you’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You raised a brow, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Ha. Gotchu.”

He opened his mouth like he had something to say and then closed it again.

You hopped down, taking a few slow steps toward him.

“We’re going to talk now,” you said, like it wasn’t even a question.

Clark’s heart started beating fast.

He hadn’t planned for this. Not tonight. Not like this. His eyes dropped for a second, like maybe if he stared at the floor long enough, it would swallow him whole.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. The way your breath hitched. The way his hands felt on your face. The way you looked at him, like maybe you wanted him too.

And then he had pulled away. Because he had to. Because you were still hurting and it would’ve been wrong.

But now you were standing in front of him, arms crossed, waiting.

He didn’t even know what to say.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” you commented, tilting your head to the side.

“I haven’t-” he spoke as he rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting toward the floor. 

“You have,” you said.

He didn’t argue.

He just stood there with his pulse loud in his ears, the silence stretching so thin it almost cracked.

You stepped forward. Not touching him but close enough to make his breath hitch.

“Why?”

Clark’s voice came out quiet. “Because I didn’t know how to be around you.”

Your face softened, just slightly. And he hated how much that made him want to close the space between you.

“After that night,” he said, eyes still fixed somewhere near the floor, “I didn’t know where we stood. And I didn’t want to push you.”

You looked at him, really looked. “You didn’t push me.”

That made him blink as his gaze finally lifted to meet yours.

“You pulled away,” you added, quieter now. “And I think that kind of hurt more.”

Clark’s chest went tight. 

His hands curled at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he didn’t know if he should step closer or keep standing exactly where he was.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he said. “I still do. But it didn’t feel fair.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just stared at him, breathing quietly. You could feel the air shift again. Something about the way he said it. The way he meant it.

And then, before you could answer, he spoke again. All at once.

“I’ve liked you since the day we met.”

Your breath caught.

He looked down, shook his head like he was embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to say it like that.

“At the Daily Planet,” he said, quieter now. “I was new, I didn’t know anyone. And you just… you let me in. No hesitation. You made everything feel easier. Like I belonged.”

His voice cracked a little and he cleared his throat.

“And I’ve been holding onto it since then. I tried not to. I told myself we were just friends, that it was better that way. But it kept getting harder. Especially when you started seeing him.”

He glanced up at you, and his eyes were so full of it, you didn’t know how you hadn’t seen it before.

“It hurt,” he said. “Watching you be with someone who didn’t even see you. Who didn’t listen. Who never asked about your day, never remembered the things you cared about. He didn’t look at you like he knew how lucky he was.”

Clark exhaled, slow. His voice dropped lower, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard.

“But what hurt more was watching you try to be okay with it. Watching you shrink around someone who never deserved even a piece of you. And I couldn’t say anything. I just had to sit there and act like it wasn’t tearing me apart.”

You felt something pull in your chest, deep and hard.

He met your eyes, steady this time, like he meant every word he hadn’t said yet.

“I never wanted to be the reason you hurt more,” he said. “But watching him break you-”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your fingers curled into his tie and you pulled him in fast.

His mouth crashed into yours before he could think, and the second it happened, something in both of you snapped.

His hands grabbed your waist like he’d been waiting forever to touch you. You kissed him like you meant it, like none of the silence, none of the pretending, ever stood a chance.

Then you pushed him back.

He landed on the couch with a breathless laugh, eyes dark, lips already swollen. You climbed into his lap like you’d done it a hundred times. His hands slid up your back, his fingertips tracing your spine like he didn’t want to miss a thing.

You didn’t wait.

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your hands found his hair, tugged gently, and pulled him closer. He let out a quiet sound against your mouth like he was already gone for you.

He always had been.

Your fingers slipped under his shirt, dragging over his chest. His mouth barely left yours. He kissed you like he needed to, like air didn’t matter unless it came from you.

When you rolled your hips, he groaned.

You felt everything.

The tension, the years of restraint, all the moments he’d bitten his tongue and held himself back. It was all right there in the way he touched you now.

His grip tightened at your waist, his mouth moving slower, deeper, like he couldn’t stop if he tried.

You pressed your forehead to his, breathing hard, lips still brushing his.

“Is this okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “More than okay.”

It didn’t sound like him. It sounded like everything he hadn’t said out loud until now. You didn’t even get a word in before his mouth was back on yours, urgent and certain.

His hands pulled you closer like he didn’t want to let go. Something had shifted. You could feel it in the way he kissed you with no hesitation and restraint. Just him, all of him, finally.

Then his hands slid under your shirt, warm and careful, and he paused.

His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his voice barely a breath.

“Can I?”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes and gave him a look, deadpan and a little amused, like he should’ve known better.

“Obviously.”

He let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh, half like relief, then tugged your shirt over your head. His eyes stayed on you a second too long. And when you reached for his, neither of you looked away.

The second his shirt came off, your jaw nearly dropped.

His chest was insane. Defined lines down his stomach, strong shoulders, arms that looked like they could hold the world without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t just the muscle, it was the way it looked on him, effortless, like it had always belonged there.

“Okay, seriously,” you muttered, eyes still locked on him. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

Color rushed to his cheeks. He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy in a way that made your stomach flip.

“I mean… not intentionally.”

You grinned, wide and a little breathless. “You’re unreal.”

He didn’t get a chance to answer.

You stood just long enough to slide your pants down and kick them aside, and something in him shifted all over again.

Clark’s breath caught. His jaw tightened. His eyes dragged over you like he couldn’t look away, like he was already somewhere else entirely.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice low, full of something that made your whole body ache.

The way he looked at you, like you were something rare, like he couldn’t believe you were standing there in front of him, made your heart pound hard against your ribs.

You swallowed, suddenly unsteady. “Clark…”

He didn’t move. Just kept looking at you like he needed to remember every inch of you, like he didn’t want to miss a single second.

“I mean it,” he said quietly. “You’re everything.”

Then he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you down onto the couch, flipping you in one smooth motion until he was on top of you.

His mouth found yours again, rougher this time, like something in him had finally broken free.

His hands moved down your sides, skimming over your waist and hips with a kind of certainty that made your whole body tense, like he already knew exactly how you felt beneath his hands, even if he’d never touched you like this before.

He pulled back just enough to trail kisses down your neck, each one slower than the last, soft and warm and full of something that made your stomach twist. It felt like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, every sound you made.

When his mouth brushed along your collarbone, then your breasts, you couldn’t help the quiet moan that slipped out of you.

Clark groaned against your skin, like that sound alone nearly undid him.

He kept going, his lips moving down your torso, each kiss making your breath catch as heat spread beneath your skin.

When he reached the waistband of your panties, he paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, his chest rising fast like he was trying to hold something back.

“I’ve heard you with him,” he said, voice low, steady, like the words had been sitting in his chest for too long. “I know what it sounds like when you fake it.”

Your body stilled as his words hit, your heart thudding hard as your breath tangled in your throat.

The room felt too quiet all of a sudden, too still, like the weight of what he said had filled every inch of the space between you.

Then he leaned in again, his mouth brushing just beneath your ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper that sent chills skimming down your spine.

“You’re not going to have to fake anything with me.”

Your breath caught as you looked at him, something hot and electric twisting deep in your stomach, and all you could think, through the haze of heat and disbelief, was where the hell did this confidence come from?

You didn’t know. But it was doing things to you. 

He slowly peeled your panties off and when he finally saw your glistening pussy, something inside him went feral.

“You’re soaked sweetheart and I haven’t even touched you,” he looked at you in awe.

“Clark, please,” you whimpered, hardly holding it together.

He obliged immediately, his lips grazing you as your hand flew to his hair.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, collecting every drop of wetness before he ate you out like a starved man.

Your back arched, breath hitching as he adjusted his grip on your hips, anchoring you in place.

“Oh my god, Clark,” you moaned, closing your eyes with bliss as he sucked on your clit.

He worked with maddening patience, alternating between long, steady laps and licks that made your stomach twist in the best way.

You whimpered again, the sound caught somewhere between a gasp and his name, and he groaned in response, the vibration sending another shockwave through you.

His eyes flicked up for just a second, catching the way your chest rose and fell, the way your mouth parted as if you could barely breathe.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Every stroke of his tongue had you unraveling, the kind of slow, delicious ruin that made your legs tremble.

You reached down, fingers threading through his hair again, and he leaned into your touch like he belonged there. Like this was where he was always meant to be.

When another moan slipped out, Clark groaned again like it physically hit him. His eyes were still on you, dark and focused, like he couldn’t believe this was real. 

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his breath hot against your dripping pussy. “Let me take care of you.”

You barely managed a nod, fingers tightening in his hair as your whole body tensed. The pressure inside you built fast as every nerve lit up and burned under his touch. 

And then everything snapped.

Your release crashed over you like a wave, stealing the breath from your lungs as you came on his tongue. Your back arched, a choked moan spilling from your lips as your thighs trembled around him. 

When he finally slowed, he pulled back with his lips glistening and his cheeks flushed. He looked wrecked in the best way with his pupils blown wide and chest rising. 

Then he licked his lips, slow, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

You stared at him, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Clark just gave you a lopsided smile, still between your thighs like he had every right to be there.

“So freaking sweet,” he murmured, and before you could even think of a response, he was already moving, settling over you again, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t care about anything else.

And you kissed him back like you felt the exact same way.

His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, his mouth hovering just above yours, breath warm and steady. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, like he needed you to hear it, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

Your pulse jumped, heat rising as your fingers curled into his shoulders. 

Your hand drifted lower, fingers hooking in the edge of his belt.

“Kinda weird you’ve been fantasizing about your roommate this whole time,” you said teasingly as you flashed him a grin.

Clark’s cheeks flushed, and he let out a quiet laugh that was so him it made your chest tighten.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really weird.”

You tugged at the belt slowly, pulling him even closer to you.

“Good thing I’ve been fantasizing about mine too.”

Clark’s breath caught. His hands found your waist and he leaned in close, a smile brushing against your mouth.

“I’m never gonna survive this, am I?” he said quietly.

And you kissed him like you didn’t want him to.