#deadly class fic

[innohurrytoshout]

they told me love is patient ᥫ᭡ l. marcus

from the moment you met, something told you Marcus was going to be different–but he’s a Rat, and you don't associate with Rats...right?

who: marcus lopez x prep!reader genre: angst/fluff (comfort) wc: 5,2k content warning: : mentions of parental issues/parental cheating/feeling alone/unsure of how to express emotions/... a/n: sorry for the longest wait in history, please enjoy !!

Your boots scuffed the floors of the hall, they were clean, but they were likely to be dirtied within a few hours. A yawn escaped you as you found your locker, and not even five seconds later came some Rat hollering down the hall. It was too early for that, you cursed under your breath and checked your cellphone, your mother hadn’t replied and there was a string of messages from your father that you didn’t want to answer.

The likely reason was that she had caught him cheating again. But really, who cared? She was probably going through one of her expressive episodes again. Your father had submitted her to an institution a few months back, using the excuse that she was in France visiting her family.

“Stupid politics,” you scoffed under your breath, though, of course someone heard it. A Soto Vato no less.

“What’s wrong? Mommy and Daddy fighting again?”

“Piss off, dog,” you narrowed your eyes and shook your head at him.

A laugh sounded around the group of boys, you couldn’t care less about what some gangbangers thought of you and your family. The only people that mattered–that should have mattered–were you and your parents.

Though, things didn’t always work out that way, did they? There was always someone your father was trying to impress, always someone you had to keep up an image for. What bullshit. 

The group left you in the hall, more students began to pile around and soon chatter picked up. It was February but the sun peeked out through the windows. You smiled into it, loving the warmth you felt on your face–the comfort it gave you, even if it was just for a second.

You gasped, trying to keep your balance, “Hey watch it!” One of the guys affiliated with your legacy shouted, pushing the kid off you.

“Hey,” the kid held his hands up, “it was an accident,” he turned to you, holding a hand to his chest, “I’m sorry.”

You nodded, collecting yourself, “it’s fine.” You didn’t recognize the kid, his black hair curled in whisps at the top. He was cute, he looked Mexican, so maybe he was a Soto Vato? Though the thought that he could also be a new Prep crossed your mind, you were sure word would have spread if you were getting a new member, so that couldn’t be it. “What affiliation are you?”

“Don’t bother,” the guy beside you said, he wasn’t your friend, but to be fair you only stuck to a few people. You preferred being alone most days and you weren’t that socially active. You were typically the last to know about things, in your family, at school–it seemed like you were doomed to be at the bottom of the pyramid forever. “He’s a Rat.”

A Rat. This kid was a Rat? Funny, he didn’t look like the sort, you didn’t know why or what it was, but there was something odd about him. At least that’s what you would normally say if this were a normal high school, but it wasn’t–so perhaps this kid–this boy–would fit right in.

You smiled; a sharp, dangerous thing, and sighed, “I see,” the boy’s eyes twinkled, though he wasn’t smiling. You wondered about his name, you wondered how old he was, and about his birthday. What was his story?

“Come on,” you weren’t friends with this guy, but you followed him anyway.

“See you around, Rat.” You meant it, you hoped to see him around, but of course, you couldn’t just say something like that.

The way he tilted his head, confused, calculating, and partly amused, led you to believe he didn't quite believe your act either. You felt a pull as soon as you were two steps away. You wanted to turn back around and continue talking to him.

It was days like these that had you hating life. Because with people like him, you were reminded that you did not get everything you wanted, regardless of what outsiders saw.

There was a party tonight, thrown by Shabnam, one of the guys in your legacy. You didn’t talk much with him, he annoyed you, really, but you had never outright said anything. When you’d heard he was throwing a party, it was the first time you’d had to take a step back and really reanalyze a person.

You were going, but not because you wanted to get drunk and forget about the world like most of the other students. No, you were going because you were hoping to see him. 

Sure, you saw him at school almost every day–he was in your AP–but almost every day you were a bitch to him when he tried to talk to you. You had no choice, you were always surrounded. 

You wanted to tell him you didn’t mean any of the horrible things you said, and you had said some pretty horrid things. It tore you up inside to humiliate him like that, but what would your parents say? What would your legacy say? They’d turn you out and you’d have to spend the rest of your three years as an outsider–that was worse than being a Rat.

You shuddered at the thought. You hated your situation, but it was yours and regardless of how much you complained about it, you knew how privileged you were, maybe in fewer areas than more, but still. Over the three weeks Marcus–that was his name, you now knew–had been attending Kings Dominion, you had been able to obtain some information about him through the grapevine.

Mostly about where he came from. He was an orphan, though you didn’t know how his parents died, he had yet to share that part. He had been living on the street before coming to school, and he was on the run from the cops because–as you had come to learn his reputation–he set fire to the orphanage he’d been living in. A boy’s home. Just the thought sent a shiver up your spine, it didn’t sound like a fun place.

Music blasted through speakers you couldn’t see. The Dixie Mob had taken over the kitchen table, you rolled your eyes at some of the things spouting from Brandy’s mouth–they were too old-fashioned for you. They needed to wake up, they were in the 20th century and the 21st was right around the corner. But apparently, that was the price of going to school with the future of every live syndicate in existence.

You huffed, noticing a few familiar faces, you blinked when Shabnab ran past you, Lex, a Rat, chasing him with a giant, pink dildo. You had to hold in a snort, what the actual fuck was wrong with the people at this school?

You noted one of your friends near the counter holding bear bottles and plastic, red cups. You didn’t associate with Rats, but Petra–you thought–was alright. You didn’t claim to be friends outright, it would mean social suicide for you and make her “uncool” to her friends. 

Petra didn’t have any female friends, if she did, you would be the only one. But Petra didn’t really think she had any friends. She had the group she associated with, and Billy wasn’t an ass most of the time, but she didn’t consider any of them friends. Still, she smiled slightly when she noted your presence, “did you see–”

“–yeah, it was huge,” you nodded, dragging out the last word as you leaned your back against the counter.

“Hit?” Petra blew smoke from the weed she had in her hand. You waved your hand, declining the offer.

“Any wine?’

Petra laughed, nodding back toward the cabinet, “Just for you.”

“I love you,” you walked around her, spotting the exact bottle she was talking about. A whistle came from between your teeth while you began pouring some into the cup Petra held out for you.

“I know,” she sighed. You didn’t like to get wasted at these kinds of parties. You didn’t like to get wasted period, it was unclassy and well, just stupid. If no one from your legacy was watching you, you might as well be dead, it was as good as being a Rat. It was dangerous.

“So, that new kid, Marcus,” Petra hummed, taking a sip out of a different cup, “what do you know about him?”

She shrugged, “he’s a loser–they all are,” you knew she was talking about the guys at your school, but probably the girls too. You didn’t understand Petra and you didn’t really want to, but she was the realest person you’d ever meet at Kings Dominion.

“Yeah, I know,” you sipped your wine, “but, I mean–what’s his deal? His parents died, he’s an orphan–what else?”

“What else is there?” Petra scoffed.

“I don’t know,” you spoke into your cup, trying to keep your voice from wavering, “there has to be something.”

Petra paused, you heard it when she opened her mouth to respond with one of the usual “Who gives a shit?” replies, but she didn’t. She glanced at you, taking in your attire, your hair, your makeup. You noted the slight raise of her brows and the decision to not ask any questions cross her mind, “do you really care?”

You didn’t know how to respond, here was someone you had never lied to. Someone who was always real with you, someone you would stand up for if the time called for it, albeit subtly, but still–it was Petra.

You bit the inner corner of your cheek, ready to admit defeat when she shook her head, “it wouldn’t matter if you did,” she took another puff of her cigarette.

“Why not?” You raised a brow, your frown deepening.

“He’s into that chick from the Soto Vato’s, Maria.”

“Maria?” You scoffed, “the one from AP?”

“The one and only,” Petra rolled her eyes.

“But that’s Chico’s–”

“How do you think he got that scar on his nose?” Petra’s eyebrows finally scrunched together completely and she shifted to fully look at you, “real talk, have you been living under a rock?”

“Possibly?” You tried for amusement, the truth was, your mother and father had called you back home for a few days. They’d wanted to talk to you–oh and talk they did. They were splitting up. Of course, they weren’t getting a divorce, that would just “...be too messy and with the upcoming elections…” you rolled your eyes at the mere memory. They couldn’t change it. It was inevitable. You knew it was, but still, it broke something in you. You’ve been silently screaming for weeks and ironically, you’d been the quietest you had ever been since learning the news. 

Yeah, they fought all the time and it had already felt like they would never be as happy together as they once had been, but you would’ve never expected them to say it out loud. You forced the tears away, blinking a couple of times as the conversation with your parents rushed to the forefront of your mind again.

You blinked, your attention being drawn to the seen beside you. “What the hell?” Petra muttered. “That’s–”

“What the hell is he doing?” You left Petra at the counter, approaching the kitchen table right as Marcus threw whatever was in his cup at Brandy. Thankfully, you weren’t caught in the crossfire.

“–shithead–”

“Alright, Brandy, give it a rest,” you tugged at her arm, but she yanked it out of your grasp.

“Eugh, get off of me!” Her makeup was incredibly ruined, you felt bad for her–what the hell even happened? 

Where’s Marcus? Your thoughts were overcome by the need to find him. 

There. Your eyes met his, Saya–the leader of the Kuroki Syndicate was pulling him back, it pissed you off slightly, did they know each other? If so, how? You weren’t close to anyone outside of your legacy and you were barely close to any of them. Petra was about the closest you got to any sort of kinship–and even then, it wasn’t okay for you to outright be friends.

Petra was a Rat, so she and Marcus ran in the same crowd, she should have warned him about shit like this, why was he going and causing a scene. First the Soto Vato’s and now the fucking Dixie Mob? Did he have a death wish? He was a character, you’d give him that, but maybe he should pick his battles better.

You stormed forward, angry at everything and everyone, you didn’t know which had you gritting your teeth at the moment though. 

Maybe it was your parents, maybe it was the fact that you liked Marcus and you weren’t supposed to, maybe it was the way you knew a relationship with him wasn’t possible and if you did pursue one, it would be doomed from the start. Or maybe, it was the way Saya was grabbing him–regardless, you were pissed.

“Come with me,” you snatched up one of his wrists and he let you pull him away from the forming crowd, “are you an idiot?” You were spouting, doing your best to ignore the looks being thrown your way, you needed to find an empty room and cool off–he needed to cool off. 

You felt like you were going to burst into emotions you didn’t know how to describe–and there were so many conflicting, you didn’t know which was stronger.

You found a locked room, “dammit,” you huffed, you began walking away, continuing your pursuit, but Marcus grabbed your arm and held you back.

“Wait a minute,” he snatched a clip from your hair and messed with the door for a few seconds. As he crouched down in those few moments, you paused, reanalyzing the situation. 

What were you doing? Why were you here–with him of all people? This was stupid, weren’t you just the one saying Marcus needed to pick and choose his battles better? How would this look? “Opened,” he glanced up at you, looking like a proud puppy.

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, “Don’t expect a compliment.”

“I wasn’t,” though you couldn’t see his hands, you knew he had them up.

“What is this?”

“Oh–gross is this–Shabnam’s parent’s room?”

“Looks like it,” your nose scrunched as you picked up a picture frame and held it closer to your face.

“Thank God I don’t have any of those,” Marcus whispered over your shoulder making a face at the photo.

You snorted and spun around, shoving it into his eyes, “you don’t have any naked baby photos?”

“Auwgh–get that thing away,” he made another face and smacked the photo.

You snorted and set the framed picture back down, “look they have a balcony,” you made your way toward the ceiling glass door, “Shabnab’s parents have money.” You whistled.

“What, like your parents couldn’t afford this?”

“They could,” you assured, “but they wouldn’t be so stupid,” who would waste money on such a tragic design? You shook your head, stepping out onto the small terrace. The city lights were so…evident–to say the least, it was beautiful “This view is amazing.”

“Good job Shabnam’s parents,” his tone was airy and awestruck.

“This–I would pay for this.”

“Oh-ho yeah.” Marcus’ snort led to you laughing uncontrollably.

“Gosh,” you sighed leaning against the railing, “you’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Yeah, I think you’ve said something similar before.”

You frowned, “shut up, I’m being serious for a change.”

He gave in and mimicked your actions, “I know, I know–it seems like all I ever do is,” he shook his head, “fuck shit up.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “you do keep fucking shit up.” He threw you a glare and you held up your hands, “Sorry, I thought we were being honest.”

“Yeah, well,” he turned toward you, using one arm to prop up his head, “if we are being honest, I don’t think you really hate me.”

“I never said I hate you,” you replied, your tone clipped.

He smiled, snickering a bit, “Yeah, you don’t have to, it’d written all over your actions.”

“Then what makes you think I’m not serious?”

Marcus sighed and shrugged, now leaning his back against the railing, “Sometimes it feels like everyone here at this Godforsaken school hates me,” he shook his head.

“Everyone? What about Billy?”

He huffed and pressed his lips together, “Nah, I’m not talking about him–I mean people like,” he glanced at you, “people like you.” You nodded, trying to take no offense to his insinuation. “But then you go and do something like this,” he waved his hands.

“I wasn’t protecting you,” you frowned, averting your gaze. It was a lie. That was exactly what you were doing. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, and those eyes,” he held up a finger, stepping toward you, “there’s something about your eyes.”

You scoffed, “Something about my eyes? Yeah, okay–”

“–I’m serious,” he cocked his head to the side, “I don’t know what it is, you just look so…sad…I mean everyone at this school looks like that even if they don’t know it, but you…” he stared over the railing and clicked his tongue, “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Don’t worry,” you huffed, “I’ll make it easy for you: you don’t have to.”

“No, but I,” he bit his lip, “sure, whatever.”

A trembled laugh fell from your lips and you sighed, a smile attaching itself to your lips despite your harsh words, “...You’re an idiot, Arguello.”

“I know,” Marcus murmured, an uncontrollable grin forcing its way onto his mouth…. “Why do you do that, though?”

“Do what?”

He hesitated only a second before launching into his question, “why do you act like a bitch at school and then do,” he motioned between you two, “this in private.”

You frowned, not really wanting to talk about it, “it’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t seem complicated to me.”

“I know–” you looked away, unable to keep his gaze, “and I’m sorry.”

Marcus sighed, he wanted to keep going, but he could tell you were out of it already. He wanted to make you smile–for whatever reason, and clearly, he was doing the opposite. “Never mind, it’s not that important.”

Though it was…kind of…to him.

You found your eyes rolling out of their sockets when —, a girl a year older than you in your legacy, stopped you in the halls, “What’s up?”

She resigned a small shake of her head and looked down, a frown spreading her lips thinner than they naturally were,  “I just wanted to talk to you about something I’ve heard.”

You sighed, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, “What is it you’ve heard, then?”

She bit her lip and kept pace with you as you began to walk toward your next class. You had AP next, and you were anticipating seeing Marcus, you hadn’t seen him over the weekend. Cops had shown up and crashed Shabnam’s house party. Without thinking, you’d snatched Marcus’ hand and led him down an alley–a shortcut back to school.

You were laughing the whole way, it felt like a movie scene–one where the girl and the guy finally made up or became friends–if they hadn’t been already. You wanted to hurl afterward–though it was all worth it; the thrill in his eyes–it gave you something. Something you hadn’t known you were looking for.

“What’s that smile for?” — asked, your lips reformed a straight line as you huffed a sigh, “You don’t normally smile, I mean, I’ve never really seen you smile like that. You never eat in the cafeteria with everyone else. I’ve told the others in your grade to make you come, haven’t they told you?” You shook your head, stopping outside your classroom door. — glanced at it and recognition washed over her, “You’re in AP?”

“Yep,” you gave a tight-lipped nod.

She bit her lip, her smile fading as she pulled you to the side, allowing the others in AP to pass you without consolation. The AP classes were separated from the others, just another hierarchy within this abnormal education system. “Okay, listen,” she lowered her voice, though there was barely anyone lingering in the halls, “I know you didn’t choose this life–trust me none of us did–but we still have to live it, okay?”

You nodded, unsure of where she was going with this.

“All I’m saying–” she cut herself off as Marcus approached you–seemingly coming out of nowhere.

“Hey,” he waved at you, glancing at — for a brief second.

You smiled–trying to keep the memories of Friday night at bay, “Hi.”

He spared another glance at — before saying, “See you inside,” and heading into the classroom.

It was quiet for a moment, but then — ran a hand through her perfectly styled hair, a red headband holding her curls back, “Look, I care about you, you’re my legacy sister and as your upperclassman, I’m just trying to look out for you.” She jabbed a finger at where Marcus had stood, “He will not do you any good–if only you heard what everyone has been saying. We were born into this life–that kid,” she shook her head, eyes almost popping out of her head, “he earned his way into this place. He chose to be here.”

Your eyes narrowed. You’d heard the stories about Marcus, and you knew his reputation–but still, you hated the way she was talking about him You couldn’t help but look down on her for it. Marcus hadn’t spoken about his past in that boy's home and you hadn’t asked. You weren’t really friends to begin with. You couldn’t be friends with a Rat, you knew that, but sill you bit out, “None of us chose this.”

She gave you a pitying glimpse before stepping back, “You might think that now–but it won’t be forever. What would your parents say?”

Her words were like a slap across the face and as she spun around, her flats clicking on the black-tiled floor as she walked away–you couldn’t help but think, what would Father say?

“Choose partners.” Your first thought was Petra. But Billy stole her, apologizing to Marcus in that tone that suggested he wasn’t at all sorry. You didn’t mean to watch the scene, but you did, and somehow got distracted.

Brandy snickered as you walked past her desk, you couldn't care less about what she thought of you–it was your parents that had your panties in a twist. If Brandy–or anyone in her circle found out–there was no telling how fast they’d get wind of the information–or worse, she’d hold it over your head and make you her slave.

You shuddered at the thought.

“—?” You blinked, turning toward the voice. Marcus chuckled, “Are you gonna sit?” The sound of your name on his lips somehow made the rest of the classroom vanish. You nodded and took your seat, smoothing out your gray pleated skirt before scooting your chair closer to the desk.

As Master Lin began explaining the rules of the project, Marcus leaned over and whispered, “Ignore them.”

You kept your head straight, but your eyes darted down and toward him, “what if I can’t?”

He paused, his eyes illumining slightly–he licked his lips, the action capturing your vision. You felt dizzy and you had to focus back on Master Lin in the front of the class before you said something you shouldn’t.

You heard him scoff, but it sounded like he was trying to hide a laugh. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you playful smacked his thigh under the desk you were sharing. He watched you from the side, propping up a hand to cover the smile that wouldn’t disappear.

He felt lighter–and though he couldn’t possibly know, the girl beside him was falling faster and faster in love with him. 

A gasp escaped your throat as the ringing on your phone echoed throughout the empty hallway. You pulled it from your bag and huffed, debating whether or not you would answer it. It was your father, again. He’d called yesterday and the day before too–always at the same time.

You should have expected it by now, but of course, you didn’t. You clicked the answer button–had you waited any longer, you would have talked yourself out of it.

“Hello, Father.”

“Ah, —,” he sounded as if he was greeting an old friend. “How are you?” You recoiled at the croaky tone his voice took on.

“Fine,” a sigh escaped your mouth and floated through the speakers. You wondered what shocking secret he was going to reveal this time.

“Why do you sound like that? Are you not liking school? You want to come home for a few days?”

Actually, that is the last thing I’d like to do, thank you. You gritted your teeth, and forced out a, “No, I’m alright–just this new project for AP.”

“Oh, I see, well,” he shifted in his seat, you could hear better now that you had the phone up to your ear rather than on speaker. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

“I thought we already had this conversation,” it took everything in you not to slam your locker shut.

“Eh… we did, but uhm, there’s…something else.”

What? What could possibly be worse than the hell you were living at the moment? The life you were being forced to live–it was crushing your heart every second you kept up the act.

“Sweetheart?”

“What is it?” You let out a shuddering breath, “just tell me.”

Just get it out. You felt the tears beginning to pool in your eyes. You had AP right now, but it had been canceled at the last second–something with Saya and her family, or whatever. Maybe you could make it to your room without being seen? You started walking, attempting to hold the tears at bay until you got to your dorm. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Now, your mother might be against this–but…you’re going to be a sister.”

You hung up. The tears were falling, you were trying to use the wall to hold yourself up, but it wasn’t helping. He’d gotten that whore pregnant? He really–you were swiping at the tears now and your wails could not doubt be heard throughout the hall. Students began turning around different corners to see what the commotion was.

Your face burned. You wanted to scream, your chest raged with the need. Marcus was looking for you, he wondered if you were going to study in the library like you usually did when class got canceled. 

His heart fell to his feet when he heard you screaming, he shouldered past a few kids, nosily sticking their heads around a corner. None of them actually cared. No one seemed to care in this school, not even the teachers. But you–you were…something else. He saw it in the way you looked out the windows when you thought no one was paying attention to you, you longed for something more–something better.

Your phone was on the floor, he snatched it up. You couldn’t have gone far, he threw open every classroom door until he found one that was empty. He listened, and there it was. Subtle, but there. 

The darkness you found yourself in hugged you from every side. You didn’t know what you wanted but you knew you didn’t want to think. You didn’t think you wanted to die, but you felt very close to it. You wanted to strangle him and that woman. Could you even call her that? She was a mistress–a homewrecker–a harlot!

How could he call that thing she was carrying in her stomach your sibling? It was a bastard. The closet door opened abruptly, the lighting was dim, but you could no longer say you couldn’t see your feet.

You had your knees pulled up to your chest, your skirt rode up your thighs, but Marcus didn’t notice as he scooped you into his arms. You were sobbing uncontrollably. He didn't know what to do, he didn’t know how to comfort someone, he had never been comforted himself, but somehow, he managed to calm you down, whispering any and everything that came to mind.

He kissed your hair and your forehead a multitude of times, he rubbed your back and his arms tightened slightly every few seconds. You weren’t sure how to react, no one had ever comforted you, not like this. Your nanny had her own children to worry about, though she took you baths and got you ready for the day in your childhood, all of her emotional attention was given to her own.

You didn’t think there was a single emotional bone in either of your parent's bodies. Sometimes you wondered how they ever could have loved each other. That thought had occurred more than once in the past few weeks.

You didn’t know how to say how you felt, but with Marcus, you didn’t think you had to. “Take me,” you murmured into his neck.

“What?” He pulled back slightly.

You nuzzled into him further, refusing to look him in the eyes. How could you? Everyone in your legacy was telling you that you were making a mistake and Petra had said Marcus had a thing for Maria–hell he’d gotten into a fight over her. But you know what? At some point you just had to say fuck it, though, your rendition sounded more like, “Take me far away.”

Marcus paused, considering your words carefully, and a few moments later a smile braved his lips, “Come with me.”

Your laughter mixed with his as you ran through the streets of the city. A car honked at you as you crossed the street without looking. You turned to each other–high off the cold night air–and screamed like you were going to die tomorrow. 

You had stopped at a food booth and ate without paying, and you’d run from the food vendor–the old woman shaking a stick at you–Marcus took your hand in his, pulling you around every corner. The city lights soon grew distant, red, yellow, and green hidden behind tall, oversized buildings that were shadowed in gray and black. The weight on your shoulders fell over the edge of the world and for just a few seconds, you were okay.

“Why are we doing this?” You flipped onto your side, finding Marcus already watching you.

He moved one arm behind his head and looked toward the sky, “because we can.”

“We’re in the middle of the street,” you laughed out, planting your hands on your stomach as you turned to watch the stars with him.

“Yeah, but who cares.” He hummed, reaching for your hand again.

Your cheeks flamed and your eyes burned, you squeezed his palm and he squeezed back. You heard it at the same time, a pickup truck was heading your way, but neither of you moved. You looked toward him, but your head stayed planted on the road, he looked downward, a calming smile stretched across his face.

The truck came, honking–eventually, it swerved to the side, nearly missing Marcus’ head. You knew, then, that you had gotten too close to him. Your heart wouldn’t have dipped and you wouldn’t have tugged him toward you in the last second if you hadn’t.

Fuck. Your face fell, wondering if this is what your mother felt when she first met your father. But we will be different. You thought with assurance–and suddenly, as you gazed into his eyes, the words I love you didn’t seem like enough anymore.

Marcus couldn’t help but question you as he fought the urge to kiss you. What the hell is that look in your eyes? 

a/n: thank you for reading and please let me know what you think !!

[biscuits-and-gracie]

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this one is a very important one: please do not send me requests you have already sent to other people. not only is it downright hurtful but also can be considered plagiarism. i work far too hard on my requests to then have it he considered plagiarism.

i do not and never ever ever will write dub cons, non cons, stepcest, incest, pedophilia or anything else illegal or just downright gross.

i can write female x female, female x gn, male x gn and male x female but im not like educated (?) enough to write male x male. please specify if you want y/n to be gn or female. i do not write y/n as male for the same reason i don't write male x male.

i mainly write for theo and mattheo but if you have any requests for other characters feel free to ask and if im familiar enough with them i might just write your fic xx!

here's a list of characters that ive either previously written for or do plan on writing for either bc i have it as an ask or because i just want to xx

harry potter

theodore nott

mattheo riddle

lorenzo berkshire

pansy parkinson

scream

tara carpenter

sam carpenter

ethan landry

chad meeks martin

mindy meeks martin

anika kayoka

please be kind. if you're rude you will be blocked.

english is not my first language so please don't be rude about it. if you see ive made a mistake please just nicely point it out. i also don't write for real people only characters because, well, they're real.'

thank you so much for taking your time to read this <333 feel free to request! these may seem like a lot but it's really just normal things and almost all requests i get follow this criteria! request as you normally would just keep in my mind the writers are human and that we love getting asks but we don't like having people be entitled or rude! tysm <33

do not repost my work in a different language/a platform. respect original work by refraining from plagiarism. if you use ideas from my post please credit me!! i absolutely love seeing different interpretations but please remember to credit <;33 thats all i'll update it if i remember more stuff <33

hi hello! check out my masterlist here!!

[kaiii-ii]

Fanfic Recommendations

Dc

Doctor who

Sherlock

Marvel

Harry Potter

Witcher

Deadly class

Supernatural

Anime

Jujutsu kaisen

Dragon ball

Naruto

Norigami

Seven deadly sins

Diabolic lovers

Blue exorcist

Demon slayer

Durarara

Chainsaw man

Gintama

Games

Baldurs Gate 3

Stardew valley

Genshin

Persona 5

Street fighter

Final Fantasy

Call of duty

Resident evil

Love And deepspace

Lists will start to appear and more will probably be added

Anyone can interact with my page as it won't just be 18+ content but please respect the boundaries of the authors who are on the lists :)

[always-just-red]

Multi headcanon request please. The LIs touch their s/os' breast for the first time, but it's an accident. However, instead of getting mad, she gently scolds them "save that behavior for when we're alone".

You always give me such great requests tehe, I had the absolute time of my life with this one. Did mini fics again! Featuring this time: a baking class with Xavier 🍰, a check-up with Zayne 🩺, pottery-making with Rafayel 🏺, casino night with Sylus 🎲, and a VERY serious study session with Caleb 📚

Innocent Little Mistakes

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: In which the boys are all menaces, surprising literally no-one 🥰

Genre: Humour

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, inappropriate touching (but make it ✨COMEDY✨), PDA, slight suggestiveness, established relationships

| Word count: 600-750 words each! | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One more strike and you’re out.

You furiously mix the bowl of cake batter under your arm, all too aware of the chef watching you from across the room. You don’t know why he’s looking at you— you’re not the problem. The problem is beside you, measuring out an ingredient you don’t actually need.

“What’re you up to, Xavi?” you ask with a nervous chuckle, trying not to sound suspicious.

He looks up at you, blue eyes as warm as the oven that’s making everything feel too hot. “Measuring,” he declares with a smile.

“That’s great, sweetie.”

Don’t ask. Just leave it.

Every other couple in the class look sickeningly in love— trading ingredients, utensils, and lingering gazes— all in perfect harmony. Meanwhile, you have a ticking time bomb for a partner. First there was the egg incident: a rogue egg from your table had somehow ended up under the foot of the man one counter down from you, slipping him over and twisting his ankle. Then the man from the couple behind you slipped too: on a butter wrap Xavier had sworn he’d thrown away.

Funny how so many of the things from your counter are going on little, deadly adventures.

You shoot Xavier another wary look. He glances up. Smiles. You smile back. When the cake batter’s done, tipped into the tin and tucked into the oven, you move onto the icing. You whip it up in a minute, lifting a spoon from the bowl and dragging a finger through to taste it.

“Xavier,” you say, nudging the bowl across to him, “mind putting a little more sugar in this? I need to start tidying up.”

“Sure,” he beams.

He can’t mess that up, right? You don’t want to exclude him. With a soft sigh, you start to reorganise your work station: making space for the cake you’re going to decorate. Xavier’s voice interrupts you, sweet like the sugar flowers you’re sorting through:

“How’s this?”

You turn, and the moment you do, something cool scrapes your collarbone. Xavier was holding out a spoon— too close— and it tips at your contact, spilling sticky white icing down past the neckline of your apron and shirt. You feel it, inching down your skin, between your breasts.

You’ve been stunned into silence. Xavier is staring down too, lips parted, spoon still mid-air.

“Don’t just stare!” you find it in you to scold, glancing about for something that’ll help you clean up. “Help me—”

That’s when you feel it: something warm on your skin. Your gaze shoots down and Xavier is wiping his thumb through the mess on your chest. He lifts the icing to his mouth. Pops it past his lips.

“Xavier!” you exclaim on a whisper.

His eyes had fluttered closed, but they open again. His lips are still on his thumb as he looks back at you. “Mmm?” he hums around it, like he has no idea what you’re talking about.

That face is so devastatingly innocent, but you’re not falling for it. You cross your arms and glare.

“You want some too?” Xavier translates.

Before you can stop him, his thumb is on your skin again. “Xavi—!” you protest, but then that thumb is in your mouth, overwhelming you with sweetness. Except… it’s not all sweet. You frown as Xavier’s hand moves away, your nose wrinkling with disgust. “Wha— why is it salty?!”

“Wasn’t it salty already?”

“No! Xavier, what did you…? You can’t just—!”

“Are you okay?” Xavier laughs so lightly it’s almost a giggle. “You look… warm. What are you thinking about?”

He’s leaning against the counter now, cheek settled in his hand. He has the countenance of an angel and he knows what you’re thinking about. His free hand plays with a salt shaker on the counter; it doesn’t look anything like the sugar.

Behind you, someone clears their throat.

…

You walk home from the bakery class a lot earlier than planned, having— and you’re quoting verbatim, here— ‘crossed a line’. Xavier’s at your side, a bowl of icing in his hands that no-one dared take from him, and he hums pleasantly to himself as he lifts a fingerful to his lips.

“You did that on purpose,” you grumble, and it’s the first words you’ve said in a while.

He smiles like butter icing wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Zayne ❄️

“Zayne, c’mon… it’s not that bad.”

Lower half cocooned by the blankets of a hospital bed, you give your doctor a lopsided smile. He doesn’t grace your statement with a response— at least, not an intelligible one. There’s a tiny hum, to let you know you’ve been heard. There’s an even tinier frown, to let you know he was not amused.

So you got a little scraped up by a Wanderer— it happens! With your own frown, you regard the pulse oximeter that’s biting the end of your forefinger. You wiggle it, even though Zayne had instructed you to keep still. The tiny screen flashes and flickers. He writes… something down on his clipboard, and it feels needlessly dramatic.

“How would you rate the pain you’re currently experiencing?” he asks.

“Zero. Zilch. Nada. I feel great, actually.”

More scribbles for the clipboard, which means absolutely nothing good.

“I mean it, Zayne. I’m fine, really. I don’t even know why Xavier brought me here. Like, what’s the point of first-aid training if you’re just gonna dump someone in the hospi—”

“Please be still.”

You’d started gesturing, and Zayne stares across at the monitor on your finger. He sighs, which you don’t think is professional, then reaches to press a button on it, restarting its progress. You’re obedient this time: sitting still as he goes back to his beloved clipboard. That sigh sounded tired.

The oximeter bleeps. Zayne glances up. Makes another note.

“There,” he says, his eyes still trained downwards as he reaches across you to retrieve the device, “was that really so—?”

The words stop in his throat when his hand brushes your chest.

Just a graze, but his fingers hover guiltily for a moment before correcting their course: homing in on the oximeter, pinching it open. Zayne doesn’t meet your eyes as he returns to his writing. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks that definitely isn’t professional.

This is amazing. “Did you just—?”

He gives an adorably slight shake of his head.

You gasp anyway, utterly scandalised: “Doctor Zayne! You took an oath.”

“Stop.”

“Here I am, weak from blood loss! Vulnerable!”

“Stop.”

“What sort of an establishment is this, hmm? What other twisted, sordid things go on behind the—” and it’s at this moment you catch a glimpse of a familiar figure— “ah, Doctor Greyson! Doctor Greyson! In here, please!”

The man had been passing through the ward, though he stops at the sound of your voice. “Oh, hello!” he greets, peering around your privacy curtain, “Zayne mentioned you were in! It’s good to see you. Well, not good to see you here, but— you know what I mean! How are you?”

“I’m shocked,” you witter on, because you’ve no time for pleasantries, “shocked, I say! Just now, this man here had the audacity to—”

A cold hand clamps over your mouth.

You are— actually— shocked. You blink at Greyson, eyes wide; even he looks like he’s seen a Wanderer riding a bicycle through the hospital. After a moment of tense, awkward silence, he does that face you know so well. His ‘nope, I’m not going anywhere near whatever this is!’ face.

It’s not a surprise when he backs out, leaving you and Zayne alone once more. Your doctor’s hand is still over your mouth, breaching all kinds of ethics, and oh, how the mighty have fallen. This feels like victory. When Zayne’s hand finally drops, you’re grinning.

“Had your fun?” he asks quietly, looking back to his notes.

“Have you? Or do you wanna have another...?” You waggle a finger at your breasts.

Zayne’s mouth is a tight line, and he doesn’t dare look up. Something is scrawled on the clipboard and you get the feeling it’s a distraction. Your very important doctor is writing very important things. Definitely isn’t scribbling nonsense. He clears his throat, then stands rigidly, his face sombre.

Did you take your joke too far? Your heart starts to have some kind of episode as he walks away, and the stupid machine you’re hooked up to says nothing about it, which is typical.

But Zayne still stops at the curtain. Glances over his shoulder.

“Ask me later,” he says with a gentle smirk.

Rafayel 🎨

“This is just like that old movie.”

Rafayel hums a familiar, vintage tune as his hands cradle yours, guiding them up and down, up and down, as a wet clay vase spins beneath your touch. Everything about your partner is relaxed: his fingers, lazy and precise, and his head, settled comfortably on your shoulder. The song is so close to your ear that it tickles.

How the hell is he so calm? Your eyes are fixed downwards, brow furrowed with the sort of concentration you’d usually save for disarming a bomb. Your fingers feel clumsy and dangerous. Your head hurts. It doesn’t help that every other couple in the pottery class are stealing less-than-subtle glances your way: isn’t that—?

Yep! The Rafayel. Creative genius, ‘Da Vinci of our time’ Rafayel, and here you are, ever a moment away from destroying his latest masterpiece.

“Raf, stop…” you mutter, because he’s still humming away, distracting you.

“Okay!”

The song stops. You don’t think Rafayel has ever co-operated so quickly. Which means…

“Woahhh,” he sings quietly, privately, and right on cue, “my love… my darling… I’ve hungered for your—”

“Stop!” you hiss under your breath, untangling a hand from your project so you can swat at his face.

“A long... lonely— ah! — tiiiime!”

The vase is already folding over on itself, collapsing into a sad, soggy heap as Rafayel half sings, half chuckles, catching your hand so he can launch a counterstrike. A wet finger brushes your nose and you gasp, wrinkling your face in indignance. Then you wriggle your hand free, going in for another swat. The artist’s head has left your shoulder. The arms around you are suddenly attacking.

There’s a kerfuffle of hands, slick and sticky with clay. Slapping each-other. Trying to outmanoeuvre each-other. One lands on your chest with a thwap!

You both go deathly still.

Rafayel has stopped laughing, his body a marble statue behind you; you think his breath has actually gone. When his hand lifts away from you, it’s like a delusional cat slinking away from a crime: if I move slowly enough, I’m completely invisible.

What isn’t invisible, however, is the crude clay handprint he leaves behind. You stare down at it, mortified. “Raf!” you scold, and oh gods you hope nobody saw what just happened.

“I didn’t—” he begins, and he’s staring down over your shoulder, too. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t just sit there!” You shoo him away, one hand hovering in front of your chest like you’re not wearing anything at all. “I need something to—”

“On it!”

He can fix this. He can fix this. He practically falls off the seat you’d been sharing as he unwraps himself from you, stumbling up onto his feet. His hands are on his hips as he catches his breath; it had taken a lot of effort not to end up on the floor.

With a glance about, the artist spies a nearby cloth. You see the ‘aha!’ moment— the relief in his eyes as he turns towards it, on a mission. Your hero.

There’s a soft smack!

Rafayel freezes, pink creeping into his cheeks.

By the time he looks down over his shoulder, eyes widening at the bright, wet handprint on his ass, you’re already salvaging your clay vase— moulding it back into a workable blob as you hum an old song, completely innocent.

Sylus 🩸

“So… what are we spending our winnings on, sweetie?”

“A diamond as big as me,” you whisper.

“Is that it?”

Hmm. “A diamond as big as you.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Sylus chuckles, as rich and intoxicating as the alcohol he swirls in a glass as he stalls before his next throw. No-one would dare rush him. His other hand toys with a pair of dice, turning them over each-other, making them waltz about his fingers. The ministrations are practiced, experienced, and— glancing around the craps table— you’re not the only one who’s noticed.

One woman is utterly mesmerised. She takes a sip of her drink, swallowing thickly, and you like to think (delusionally) that you’ve never quite stared at Sylus as shamelessly as that. It isn’t her fault, though. Every person at the table is fixated on the man beside you, and it’s not just because they’ve got stakes in whatever he rolls next.

Sylus doesn’t own this casino— as far as you know— but he acts like he does. He places his bets. Smiles when he wins and smiles wider when he loses, as though in on a private joke. Everyone wants to know what it is. You inch closer to Sylus. Ask loud enough for them all to hear: “What do we need again?”

We.

“A nine,” he answers.

There’s a soft clack as the dice go still in his palm. He’s staring down the forest-green battleground you both stand at the head of. “Here,” he says, lifting his hand towards you, “blow on—”

He’s misjudged the distance, because his fingers collide with your chest. One of the dice rolls from his palm, tumbling down past the neckline of your dress and into your cleavage. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch. You look down in slow disbelief. Then you look at Sylus.

His crimson eyes are fixed on where the die disappeared. He glances up with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

Oops? Your gaze is a knife at his throat and he thinks if he’s cute enough, you might not use it. You narrow your eyes and purse your lips. Wanna try that again?

Sylus’s laugh is awkward, but he isn’t a coward. “May I just—?”

His hand comes towards you, and though those fingers were never actually going to commit to that little suicide mission, you still slap them away. “No!”

He pouts, splaying the same hand expectantly. With a sigh, your fingers delve beneath your neckline, fishing around for a second. You present the die with an uninspired flourish, and it’s warm when you drop it into Sylus’s open palm. His fingers close around it. He’s smirking to himself as he turns back to the table.

“Lucky die,” he muses under his breath.  

“What did you just say?!”

Louder: “I said ‘lucky—”

“You’re a dead man, Sylus Qin. D-E-A-D. Dead. You hear me? The moment we get home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sylus nods dutifully; he’s not going to argue with that particular judge, jury, and executioner. He tosses the dice across the table and they clatter as they roll— the same, indifferent timbre as the chuckle in his throat. Everyone goes silent when they judder to a stop. Everyone leans in, fractionally.

A six and a three. Nine.

The gathering around you give a tentative applause. No-one really knows what just happened, least of all you and Sylus. You both stare at the dice, eyes wide, as a casino employee slides stacks of chips in your direction. Neither of you move when the dice are passed back, too.

It’s your turn, but Sylus has been throwing for you. He reaches forwards to collect the dice— starts to toy with them idly again, but it’s more pensive than last time. They clack, clack, but his mind is far away from them. Ever so slowly, his gaze inches towards you, pondering a silent question.

He’s not looking at your eyes.

Your arms cross. “Don’t even think about it.”

Caleb 🍎

“A Gelidus Dentis.”

Caleb’s voice makes you jump so much you almost drop your pen. “Huh?”

He’s stood behind where you’re sat, peering downwards. “It’s a Wanderer.”

“Yeah, I know it’s a Wanderer, Colonel Obvious. I meant why’re you talking about it?”

“Because it’s the answer? Duh.” He nods at the open textbook in front of you, and your gaze drops.

You’d practically been falling asleep reading through the practice question: some hypothetical about the aftermath of a Wanderer attack. Somewhere with a cold climate. Victims with ice burns. Multiple lacerations. Blah blah blah— you’ve got the idea.

“Please,” you dismiss as Caleb returns to his seat next to you. “It’s a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord. Easy.”  

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen one of those guys. That’s not it.”

“Oh you’ve seen one? Big whoop. I’ve killed one. Try, like, twenty.”

He tuts sympathetically as he goes back to his own work: some reports that’re definitely way too confidential for a public library. “Then it’s gonna be really embarrassing when you find out that I’m right and you’re wrong, pips.”

You scoff, making a point of writing out ‘Hoarfrost Wyrmlord’ as confidently as you can.

“Gelidus Dentis,” Caleb lilts in a sing-song voice as you flick to the back of your textbook.

You’re gonna shove your correct answer right in his face, you just need to find it. It should be right… here! Section Three. Question Twenty-Two. The Wanderer responsible is most likely a—

Fuck.

“I told you,” Caleb sings quietly again, signing his name on the bottom of a page, then turning it over.

“It was a Hoarfrost Wyrmlord.”

“It really wasn’t, but it’s cute you still hide your mouth when you’re lying.”

Your hand had lifted subconsciously in front of your lips, and you throw it back down on the textbook. “Oh, shush!”

“You shush!” The measureless galaxies of his eyes are back on you.

You slap his arm gently. He slaps your arm gently. You try to slap at his face, which means he tries to slap at your face. Soon enough, you’re both flailing your hands like two cats determined to bop the other.

Caleb’s paw lands on one of your breasts, and he doesn’t have time to regret it. With an indignant gasp, you give his chest a firm smack!

He stares at you in disbelief. You clear your throat, brushing down the fabric of your shirt as if the matter has been settled. Then you pick up your dropped pen. Okay! Question Twenty-Three: You’re called out to answer a distress signal from deep within a tropical rainforest...

“What was that?” Caleb asks.

You sniff. Say under your breath: “Tit for tit.”

“Come again?”

“Tit for tit,” you shrug. “That’s the saying. That’s how it goes.”

From the smile on his face, Caleb’s delighted. “Uh… I don’t think that is how it goes, pipsqueak.”

“Oh yeah? Hope you’re ready to look like an idiot, then.”

With a hmph, you reach for a spare piece of paper. Fold it in half. Write something brief on the outside, then on the inside. Caleb watches your pen move, quietly enamoured. There’s a click as it retracts. You hand the paper over.

Caleb’s face wrinkles, but he still handles it like it’s sacred. “Totally official dictionary!” he reads from the front. Then he opens it, continuing: “Tit for tit. Noun. If Caleb cops a feel in the library, then I get to… hey now—” he frowns— “this doesn’t seem very legitimate.”

“You dare question the authority of the Hunter’s Association?”

“I do,” he nods. “I do dare. Yeah, you see… look at this.”

He scribbles something down in your dictionary, then passes it back to you. You raise an eyebrow but relent, reading the new addition out loud: “Deepspace Fleet. Proper (awesome) noun. Has absolutely every right to question the authority of the Hunter’s Association.” You toss the paper down. “Whatever.”

Caleb sniggers victoriously as you try to get back to your work. When he doesn’t stop, you give his chest another slap. The sniggering dies out. The space between you goes quiet.

Then he reaches— smacks one of your breasts back. You look up, eyes huge.

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I think I’m gonna like this little arrangement.”

[eyekoninurarea]

Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist | next

word count: 4.2k

summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. Even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. But the moment the music hit, everything changed.

authors note: please have mercy on my poor soul. i just want more fics of daniela and watching kdh gave me ideas and i needed to write it immediately. this is total rookie writing✍️. I had to split this into parts because I hit the text limit for tumblr lol 😞. This might be more than 3 parts so 🥰. Also, I'll release part 2 after this so...

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works

You sometimes still feel like you're in a dream.

And it's not even the glittery and sparkly one. Oh no, it was the clowns-are-chasing-me-and-I-can't-run type of dream. Rather than dreaming about swimming in money, you felt like you're dreaming about swimming in shame as you stood in class with your pajamas after mistaking it to be “pajama day”.

But still, it was a dream.

How could it not be? You were supposed to be a songwriter. Just a dork in barely professional clothes writing songs for hot people to perform. And yet, instead of just writing songs in a dark corner, you're thrust into a room with mirror walls, cheap speakers, flickering fluorescent lights, and sweaty movements.

You're still not sure how it happened. You just knew it started with a dare. A drunken dare.

You were two shots into a cheap bottle of soju and knee-deep in a karaoke rendition of “Meant To Be Yours (Heathers) ” when your best friend dared you to send in a demo to Venari Entertainment. They had opened submissions for original songs, apparently hunting for tracks for a “secret girl group project.”

“I bet you won’t,” your friend had slurred, finger wagging.

“Bet I will,” you’d slurred back, totally serious and chewing on a pocky stick like it was a cigarette.

And you did.

You didn’t even have a good mic. You recorded the vocals into your phone and produced it in your pajamas. A soft, slow-burning track called “Ocean’s Jaw.” Lyrics about falling in love with something deadly, something beautiful, something that sang only for you, something that's unapologetically yours

You hit send.

You forgot about it.

Until two weeks later, you got an email that changed your life.

Everything was a blur, if you were going to be honest. You remember thinking it was fake. You thought, At most, they want to buy the song.

Imagine your surprise when one minute you were nervously sipping water in a freezing conference room, wondering if your socks matched, and the next you were standing outside a practice room with a woman who introduced herself as Chae: the creative director of something called Project: Siren5.

You bounced on the heels of your shoes nervously; no one said anything to you, no orientation, no guides, just told you to be here at this time. And as you stared at the peeling mahogany door that Chae started to open, you found yourself with your mouth agape.

When you imagine a dancing room, you imagine a cutthroat, sterile and bright environment made to mold artists and stars to perfection. Yet when you stand there, suddenly painfully aware of your mediocrity, with bass blasting into your ears as four women dance to the lyricless beat, you find yourself out of breath. It wasn't professional at all. It was comfy, roomy, and lived in. There were scattered water bottles, neatly folded towels, cheap speakers, peeling paint, cracked mirrors, loud ass ac, and that damn blinking light. Your eyes darted around the room, wondering if they'd mind if you spent your time writing here.

You accidentally made eye contact with the blonde woman with sharp eyes through the mirror that they were practicing in front of and you found yourself clutching the hem of your ill-fitting button up shirt in sheer gay panic and nervousness. You seriously were about to fucking puke your guts out.

“New dance coach?” she asked, skeptically eyeing your outfit. It honestly made you squirm.

“She’s not tall enough.” the hazel haired deadpanned, reaching for her towel as soon as the music stops

“She’s cute though,” the blue haired girl said from the floor, mid-stretch, blinking at you upside down.

“She’s the songwriter,” Chae said dryly. “We asked her to come in.”

“She dance?” Your eyes darted to the last woman. She seemed calm, like a black haired surgeon.

“Not... really? Maybe in my nightmares” you offered.

“Perfect…” the blonde girl grinned. “...We needed another project.”

And that jump started your hellish training period. Your label wasn't rich by any means, in fact the project was a last ditch effort at making money before they ran out. You still had time to finish your studies, graduating while training to be an idol wasn't part of your plans.

Not that you had any.

You found out that they were trainees for a 10 months before you showed up, you’d learn they were skeptical of you. Why wouldn’t they be? You were this nervous little outsider who stammered through her introduction and said “Hi, I like bread” instead of your name.

The silence was deafening when they stared at you, their eyes blinking owlishly as the tips of your ears began reddening. You actually considered digging a shallow grave with your bare hands and just... vanishing.

Then a snort tore through the silence, it was loud and it was followed by boisterous laughter. It was sudden and sharp, and the blonde immediately crumpled to the floor like someone had hit her with a tranq dart.

“Bread?! That’s your opening line?” she wheezed out, damn near choking with tears.

“I panicked!” you said, mortified.

“Dude.” the hazel-haired one muttered, rubbing her towel over her face, “You could’ve said literally anything else.”

“I mean…” chirped the blue-haired girl, now cross-legged and beaming, “...bread is very likable.”

The last girl, the calm one, the leader-looking one, finally cracked a smile.

“Okay. Bread girl. Let’s start over.” You were sweating bullets as she walked over to you, stretching a hand out as she opened her mouth to speak again.

“I’m Hana. I do vocals and lead things. Try not to be annoying.”

“Cami,” said the blonde, still grinning, “resident menace. I dance. I flirt. I ruin lives. Soon, at least.”

“Amara,” the hazel-haired one said, voice flat but eyes sharp. “I rap. I glare. Sometimes I say things that hurt, don't take it to heart, it's a love language”

“Rina!” the blue-haired girl said brightly.

“Maknae. I eat snacks. I drink blood and souls.” she continued, smiling brightly up at you.

The training began at 6 AM the next day.

Not figuratively. Literally.

You're suddenly in the building with the lights turned on too bright, shoes laced too tightly, Water bottles clearly labeled. Rina tried to climb back into her locker once, sobbing “I’m a mole person!” The trainers pulled her out by her ankle. No one blinked, except you who stared at the scene with a bewildered face.

You were used to late nights, not early mornings. Your body hadn’t exercised since high school P.E., where you once faked an asthma attack to avoid Zumba. So when they said “light cardio” you didn’t expect a 5k run followed by strength circuits and core holds while singing scales.

Your lungs? Betrayed you.

Your legs? Jelly.

Your soul? Left the group chat.

But you felt yourself smiling genuinely, for the first time in quite a few years, you admitted to yourself you're having fun. Even if your body felt like it was in hell.

“Stand up, bread girl. We're not even halfway our schedule yet.” Cami chuckles, only slightly out of breath as she takes a slow sip of her water

“What do you mean?” You choked out, dry heaving into the green grass as Rina pats your back with mild concern, handing you your bottle.

Hana quirks a brow before passing her phone to you, on a wallpaper of her clearly scheduled schedule.

6:00–7:30 AM: Conditioning + Vocal Warmups on the treadmill (yes, while running)

8:00–10:00 AM: Dance Rehearsals (with Chae yelling “YOU’RE A WAVE, NOT A ROBOT!” at you)

10:00–12:00 PM: Stamina Training ft. Chaos™

Lunch

1:00–6:00 PM: Line Dissection, Stage Presence, Character Building (Cami called it “becoming sexy school”)

7:00 PM–???: Solo Practice, Self-Critique, Vocal Journaling (Amara’s favorite part. Your personal hell.)

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You groaned out

“Oh that's not the worst part of it.” Amara spoke out, a slight smirk on her face.

And then out her mouth came the most cursed thing of all:

“SINGING. WHILE PLAYING. SPORTS.”

You thought it was a joke. Like a prank to haze the new girl.

It wasn’t.

It was mayhem.

Volleyballs were flying overhead. You were screaming. Someone was harmonizing while diving for the ball. A staff member did a perfect jump serve while belting an adlib. You got hit in the face mid-chorus. Rina laughed so hard she dropped her mic pack.

But the weird part?

You kept going.

Your voice cracked. Your legs wobbled. You forgot the entire verse.

But the girls cheered anyway.

“Breathe from your diaphragm, not your trauma!” Cami shouted.

“Don’t aim with your face!” Hana barked, her smile amused

“You’re getting better!” Rina chirped, hugging you even as you collapsed.

“You didn’t throw up this time,” Amara nodded. “Proud of you.”

You collapsed onto the mat after training that night, soaking through your third shirt, arms jellied, throat raw.

“This is... a cult,” you gasped out, barely able to move.

Laughter rang out of the practice room that day.

Months passed since that first training and you were slowly getting used to the steep training schedule and you were actually keeping up. Not to mention your vocals were “passable” according to Hana, which to you by then was high praise. Yet you found yourself stumped with the choreography.

Oh god, the choreography has you dry heaving like a choking racoon, the choreography has you tumbling around like a newborn deer in a washing machine. You can't count the amount of tears you shed from frustration and the amount of tears Cami shed from laughter.

She laughed so hard once she had to lie down on the floor.

You cried crocodile tears.

She still cried harder, from laughing.

“Stop sobbing,” she wheezed. “You’re making it funnier.”

But they didn’t give up on you.

Not once.

Hana slowed down the steps for you after hours.

Amara practiced with you in silence, counting the beats with gentle nods.

Rina tried to teach you muscle memory by choreographing a routine to a frog song because, quote, “maybe you need a little bit of amphibian energy.”

And Cami, when she stopped laughing, pulled you close, rested a hand on your hip, and said:

“You move differently. Don't force yourself to fit in, it's not bad. You just haven’t learned how to make it yours yet.” She smirked at you flirtatiously, before guiding, no, she maneuvered your limbs to move to the beat.

You blushed. Furiously.

The first time you stayed late with them like really late, it wasn’t for training.

It was because the pipes in your apartment had burst and Hana had said, “Just sleep at the practice room.” with that signature quirked brow as if what she said was totally common sense

You assumed she meant alone. But then she showed up with her pillow. And then Amara with a box of strawberry milk. Then Cami with a bag of stolen hotel slippers and Rina with her entire plushie collection.

And suddenly, all five of you were crammed together on a makeshift pile of mats and blankets under the fucking annoying flickering fluorescent lights surrounded by Rina's plushie cult.

Rina was drawing on Cami’s arm with a glitter pen. Hana was braiding Amara’s hair. You were staring at the ceiling, quietly debating whether your thighs had exploded from squats or if this was what being twenty felt like.

“We really need to fix that damn thing. It's gonna worsen my eyesight.” You mumbled, absolutely wrecked from the arduous training you just endured

“You're practically blind, darling. I doubt it'll get worse.” Cami teased, turning over to face you as Rina nodded at her words.

You let out a chuckle, turning over to face her as well.

“You’re weird” Cami then said, poking your cheek.

“So are you.” You snapped back, a joyous grin plastered on your mouth

“Yeah, but I make it look hot.”

“You're delusional.”

“And you're obsessed with me.”

You snorted. Back then, you were still getting used to this, the way they touched you without thinking, teased you like they’d always known you, like you weren’t just the awkward girl with decent lyrics anymore.

Because you weren't. Not anymore.

At some point, the conversation shifted.

It always did, when you were all too tired to keep your guard up.

You were fiddling with your phone, playing old vocal takes from a project you abandoned last year, when Hana sat up straight.

“Pause. Who is that?” she spoke sharply, mouth slightly agape.

“Me.” You mumbled, chewing your lip in nervousness

“That’s you?” Amara blinked.

“Yeah?” You're beginning to frown, anxiety filling your veins as your brain kicks into overdrive

“Wait, play that again,” Cami said, suddenly wide awake.

You did.

And the room went silent.

It was raw. A little breathy and raspy. But full… like salt and honey. A layered harmony that you’d built piece by piece, night after night. It was something warm and sad and huge.

“That’s what you sound like when you’re not trying to imitate someone else, when you're not forcing yourself to fit in.” Hana said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“You keep singing like you're trying to sound... soft. Pretty. Delicate. But that’s not what your voice wants to do.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No,” Amara said, sitting up beside her. “It wants to punch people in the face. In a good way.”

You blinked.

“So... what? I should sing like a... hot butch?” You spoke jokingly, tossing a chip into your mouth

Hana shrugged. “I mean, if the shoe fits.”

“Yeah,” you said before you could stop yourself. “’Cause I’m gay.”

A beat.

Then Cami threw her slipper at you.

“BABE. We been knew.” she damn near shrieked, laughing hysterically

“Girl, we are too,” Rina giggled, rolling onto her side.

“I literally call my girlfriend Mommy during phone calls. You thought you were the only gay one? ” Amara said, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a rainbow tattoo on my tit,” Cami declared proudly.

“Okay,” Hana said, smirking faintly. “First of all, ew. Second of all... finally.”

You laughed so hard you nearly cried. It wasn’t even coming out, not really. It was the acceptance that you hadn’t realized you were waiting for. That these girls weren’t just bandmates.

They were like your people.

Your family. No matter how cringe or cliche that sounded.

Since then, you started belonging in ways you didn’t even notice.

You laughed during warm-ups. You stole bites of Rina’s snack stash. You fought Cami over who was more masc-coded in the new choreo. You helped Amara build harmonies. You stayed late with Hana to rewrite the bridge of a new song, not because anyone asked, but because you wanted to. All 5 of you bonded by watching random shows while melting into Hana's couch (Her apartment's the biggest one). Rina would throw popcorn at you and start a food war and then Hana would explode because you dirtied her couch.

But that was only half your battle. Your vocals still sucked and your movements are clunky like a giraffe that's learning how to tap dance.

“I'm pretty sure you won't survive Dream Academy” Cami teased you one time and Rina laughed, even Amara's lips twitch into a smile.

“What's Dream Academy?”

“Oh. My. Fucking. God. Am I about to introduce you to Dream fucking Academy?!”

It was then that the random shows you guys watch on day offs turned into watching Dream Academy and crying whenever absolutely anyone gets eliminated.

“They all deserve to be stars! They all deserve to debut! We deserve to debut!” Rina would sob uncontrollably in Cami's arms as Amara hands her tissues.

You, however, had your eyes trained on one woman, and one woman alone. Daniela Avanzini.

The first time you saw her, your jaw dropped so far that Cami had to manually close your mouth unless you start drooling because Hana would make you all run 5 kilometers if her couch gets dirty again.

Your eyes would sparkle everytime Daniela would appear on screen, and your eyes would immediately snap to her even if she's just in the background. You would stare so intensely at the screen whenever she performed like she was both your muse and your training manual. Cami's teasing was endless, it was to the point that she edited and printed Daniela into photocards just to mess with you, only for you to cry because: “This is the sweetest thing someone ever did for me”

And it was just… printed pictures of your celebrity crush…

It was then that the girls swore that they seriously needed to up your standards.

Not that you'll ever know.

Because the more you watched Dream Academy, the more you watched her perform, your hunger grew. Suddenly, you had a muse.

And really, what's an artist without a muse?

Venari Studios Practice Room. 6:37 am. Training Day 789.

Sweat clung to your back as you stared at the mic. You could see yourself in the mirror, oversized tee, hair tied up into a bun, eyeliner smudged.

Not soft, not cute. But authentic.

You inhaled deep, rolled your shoulders back, and sang.

It was the same verse, the one you'd been practicing for weeks with the girls but this time, you didn’t hesitate. You let the weight sit in your lower register. You bit into the vowels like they owed you something.

You imagined standing there, flashing lights, people screaming your name, but your eyes are only ever focused on her.

The sound that filled the room was rich. Smooth like honey, dark like salted espresso.

And when you hit that high note, your tone didn’t flutter nor did it shake, it jumped out of the ocean like a surfer conquering a huge wave.

“That’s it,” said the vocal coach, stunned, a little breathless. “That’s your color.”

“Holy sh—” Cami choked from her seat in the corner. “I think I just came a lil”

“Disgusting,” Hana muttered, though she was smiling.

Amara merely hummed in approval.

You laughed, shaky with relief. It was like your lungs finally learned how to breathe.

But then you realized, vocals weren't the only thing you struggled with.

Choreography was a whole ass war.

Your groupmates moved like silk, all elegant curves and effortless allure. They were trained to seduce with each step, to smile and destroy with a wink. And next to them, you felt... off.

Too sharp. Too grounded. Too clunky. Not enough float.

You were practically groaning in frustration every move.

The choreographer paused the music and raised an eyebrow at you.

“Why are you dancing like you’re afraid to take up space?” he snaps a little, yet his tone was still gentle. He sounded like an old woman when the neighborhood kids trampled her garden.

You flushed. “Because I feel like a fridge next to a fleet of Ferraris?”

The room laughed, lovingly.

Cami slung an arm around your shoulder.

“Babe, you’re not a fridge. You’re a Tesla. Dangerous. Sexy. Expensive.”

“Please stop complimenting her with car metaphors,” Hana groaned.

“I think it fits,” Rina grinned. “She’s sleek. Strong. Kinda intimidating.”

“A little bit gay,” Amara added.

“A lot,” you corrected.

“And please never refer to me as a tesla again, I might actually puke in disgust. The amount of rage when I see a tesla cyber truck in the wild is concerning.”

The next time the music started, you tried something new.

You didn’t copy their fluidity. You moved with weight. You didn’t melt, you solidified, with sharp jagged edges. Where the others flicked their wrists, you dragged yours with intention. Where they arched like flames, you stood solid like smoke, filling the empty spaces that your girls had.

You weren’t soft. You were sharp, yet somehow fluid.

And somehow, by miracle, it worked.

You didn’t drown in their intensity.

You were a contrast. A pull.

You made them shine, and they made you burn.

The choreographer clapped.

“There she is,” he said, pride dripping from his tone.

“Choke me, mommy.” Cami playfully moaned like a pornstar with her rent due.

Her moan knocked you out of your zone, you choked on your own spit as you felt all the heat in your body rush to your face.

“She's mommy but she's confused.” Rina guffaws, high-fiving Cami as she joins Rina's laughter.

Amara, unfazed, calmly stepped over you like you were furniture. Hana didn’t even blink as she passed you a towel.

“Good form,” she said, her tone monotone but there's a soft look in her eyes that made you grin joyfully.

You were wheezing from a mixture of embarrassment and pride, eyes still wide, brain still echoing “mommy” like a curse.

But your body, your body was still humming from that last run. You were sweaty. Out of breath. Absolutely wrecked. You hoped for a little rest. But Hana just had to open her mouth.

“From the top,” Hana said quietly.

“Wait—” Rina muttered, already out of breath.

“Too late,” Cami grinned, hopping back into place.

Amara rolled her neck, you swear you heard her bone crack.

You stood up pulling your shirt away from your damp back.

The music clicked on. And just like that, they moved, you moved, like waves crashing against cliffs.

A few months later, while your group was once again rehersing like your life depended on it, just outside the room, unseen and unknown, two women stood watching.

The cracked door to Studio B let out just enough sound to spill the track into the hallway.

Chae, arms folded, jaw set. She’d been with them since day one. She knew their rhythms. Their hunger. Their passion.

Beside her, Mirae, Geffen’s A&R rep, stood still, one hand loosely curled around her phone, but not recording. Just watching. In utter disbelief and awe.

Inside, the music looped back into the chorus.

Five girls moved in perfect sync.

Not polished, not poised, but real. Undeniable, uncontrollably feral yet sensual.

“How long have they been like this?” Mirae asked without looking away.

Chae exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath for two years.

“They didn’t start this way. 4 years maybe, give or take. 2 years of breakdowns.”

Mirae nodded faintly.

“They’re not even trying to be a girl group. They simply just are.” She remarked, letting out an exhale she didn't know she held.

“They move like no one’s watching,” Mirae murmured. “They think no one is. They think they’re not worth the audience.” Chae replied.

A pause.

“They’re going to change things…” Mirae said, softly, fingers tapping furiously against her phone.“...A group like this? Queer? Sharp? Messy? Human? They’re going to hit hard.”

Chae didn’t say anything. Just stared through the glass.

“Good,” she thought.

“They deserve it.”

Inside, the girls stumbled to a stop. Their bodies are sweaty, their lungs breathless, half-laughing.

You flopped down to the floor, clutching your towel like a lifeline.

Rina rolled into your side, comfortably laying on your bicep.

Cami dramatically lay flat like she’d been shot.

Hana handed out bottled water with silent efficiency.

Amara leaned against the wall, arms crossed, humming through her cooldown.

Just another day.

Just another run.

Or so you thought.

[innohurrytoshout]

⋆.˚✮ masterlist ✮˚.⋆

marcus lopez arguello

mattheo riddle

[avengxrz]

call it what it was ⁃ bradley "rooster" bradshaw

pairings: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x rival!reader (callsign: raven) word count: 26k words synopsis: you and bradley bradshaw have been in competition since day one, and you both swore you'd never fall for each other. but rivalry turns to tension, tension turns to touch, and one night changes everything, even if neither of you will admit it. warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), soft dom!bradley, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie (multiple), praise kink, light choking, semi-public setting (cabin in the woods post-crash), fingering, pussy eating (with come clean-up), rough second round, soft aftercare, emotionally vulnerable sex, cockwarming, swearing, possessive dirty talk, mention of bruises/injuries, crying (emotional not pain), implied subspace, explicit descriptions throughout. flight log: i am so sorry if the writing feels kinda shitty at times okay my brain is currently clogged with jake seresin thoughts and thirst so i had to pull myself together just to finish this lmao 😭 i swear i’ll post a hangman fic soon to get it out of my system but for now… take this messy, angsty enemies-to-lovers smut and pretend i’m not spiraling over two pilots at once 💀💛 disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist

You had a rule: never come second to Bradley Bradshaw.

He had one too: never let you forget the one time he did.

Unfortunately for both of you, fate had a wicked sense of humor. You were four years younger, but thanks to Captain Mitchell—callsign Maverick—and his signature stunt of grounding Rooster mid-career, you two ended up on the same cursed timeline. Same college. Same degree. Same flight academy. Same Top Gun class. A cosmic joke, really. No matter where you turned, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was there, swagger and all.

The rivalry was instant. Combustible. He walked into your first flight academy briefing like he owned the airspace, broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, legacy stitched into the name on his chest. You? You were the anomaly—young, precise, unnervingly calm, with eyes that didn’t flinch and a brain that ran like a well-oiled turbine. The first time he smirked at you, you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly blacked out. The first time you beat him, he stared at the results board like it had betrayed his entire bloodline.

College had been your playground—you took first place like it was your birthright. You aced every exam, outranked every classmate, including him. But at the Academy, you tied. Somehow. You were both too stubborn, too good, too fueled by the desire to eclipse the other.

The instructors didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. Then came Top Gun, where he finally pulled ahead—barely. Rooster became top of class. You came second. And for a man who once nearly got benched over a low pass, he never let you forget it. Not for one goddamn second.

Now, at North Island, you made it your mission to fix that mistake. Every flight, every mission sim, every stat—they were yours to dominate. You made sure Rooster would always be just behind you, chasing your contrail like a dog with clipped wings. He might’ve had his moment at Top Gun, but that was history. You were the now.

You were Raven. Unmatched, unshaken, unforgiving in the air. You flew like the night—silent, fast, deadly. He was a rooster. Loud. Proud. Predictable.

But he was also the only one who ever kept up.

And maybe that’s why you hated him most of all.

The briefing room buzzed with chatter, boots scuffing polished floors, flight suits half-zipped and lazy with heat. Then your name was called. Raven. Clear, sharp, no hesitation. You rose, indifferent. A few heads turned—Payback raised a brow, Halo smirked. And then—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bradley muttered under his breath.

You didn’t even look at him. Just smiled, slow and mean, like a blade being unsheathed.

“Miss me, sunshine?” you asked, sauntering past him, your shoulder nearly brushing his. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact, but you could feel his glare burning between your shoulder blades like heat from an afterburner.

He followed you out of the room, jaw clenched, strides long enough to keep pace. The second you rounded the corner into the hall, his voice snapped like tension wire.

“Don’t act like this is a surprise,” he said, tone sharp. “They always bring in the second-best to make the top guy look better.”

You stopped in your tracks, slow and deliberate, then turned on your heel. “Funny,” you said, crossing your arms. “I didn’t realize they needed dead weight to make a mission more impressive.”

Bradley scoffed, stepping closer. “You’ve always had that mouth on you. Maybe if you spent half as much time refining your maneuvers as you do sharpening your insults, you’d actually stay on top.”

Meanwhile, you tilted your head and smiled like it was your favorite game. “Maybe if you didn’t fly like a billboard for daddy issues, you’d stop ending up right behind me.”

He laughed, cold and humorless. “Right. That’s why I was first at Top Gun. Remind me again what that felt like, Raven. Oh wait—you wouldn’t know.”

For a moment, the hallway pulsed with silence. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. You simply leaned in a fraction and said, voice low and lethal, “One time. You got me once. The rest? I’ve owned you. And you know it.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was always this thing with him—this righteous anger, this fury that you existed as proof that he wasn’t untouchable. That someone younger, sharper, hungrier had clawed her way to the same sky he thought belonged to him.

Then, just to twist the knife, you added, “Besides, we both know why you were held back. Daddy’s friend clipped your wings for a reason.”

His face darkened instantly. You saw it happen—like cloud cover swallowing sunlight. For a second, you wondered if he’d say something that couldn’t be unsaid. But instead, he smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You can keep circling me all you want, Raven,” he said, “but just like every other bird in the sky, you’ll always be in my rearview.”

You leaned back, slow and measured. “Rearview’s a funny word coming from someone who keeps eating my dust.”

Before he could answer, a voice crackled through the overhead comms, summoning you both to the hangar. You turned without waiting for him, boots striking the floor like a countdown. The mission hadn’t even started yet, but the war?

It never ended.

The hangar doors yawned open as you stepped into the sun-bleached space, the scent of jet fuel thick in the air. Mechanics moved like ghosts in the distance, but the tension followed you like a storm. Rooster trailed just a few paces behind, boots heavy, presence louder than it needed to be. You could feel him watching your back, and it made your jaw clench.

“So what’s the play, Raven?” he called, his voice echoing too loud in the hangar. “You gonna try and pull rank again? Talk your way into lead position like you always do?”

You stopped and spun to face him, expression flat but eyes flashing. “I don’t talk my way into shit, Bradshaw. I earn it. Every time. Just because you think walking around with your chest puffed out counts as qualification doesn’t mean the rest of us are buying it.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You really believe your own bullshit, huh? That little fantasy where you’re better than me?”

“I don’t believe it,” you snapped, taking a step closer. “I know it.”

Bradley shook his head, scoffing as he looked away, hands on his hips like he needed somewhere to put all that arrogance. “God, you’re exhausting. Everything’s always a fucking competition with you.”

“Because it is,” you shot back, refusing to give ground. “Because every time I’ve had to prove myself, it’s been with you breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been coming for me since day one.”

“Because you needed to be taken down a peg!”

His head tilted back, laugh harsh, almost wild. “Right, and you’re the one to do it? Just because you flew cleaner in college? Congrats, you were good at theory and simulations. Try doing it with real pressure.”

“I have, Bradshaw,” you said through clenched teeth. “I’ve done the same shit you’ve done, sometimes better, with less time, less backup, and half the fucking grace you were handed. But I guess it’s easier for you to pretend I’m just riding some lucky streak than admit I might actually be better.”

“Better?” he repeated, scoffing. “You’re a pain in the ass with an attitude problem. You think that makes you elite?”

Meanwhile, your blood boiled, fists clenching at your sides. “You think your fucking legacy makes you better than me? You think Maverick grounding you was the worst thing that ever happened to you? Grow the hell up.”

That one hit—his expression flickered, just for a second. Then he stepped into your space, chest brushing yours, heat rolling off him in waves. His voice dropped, quieter but sharper. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

You didn’t flinch. “I know you’ve been chasing my tail for the last year and pretending it’s the other way around.”

He let out a slow exhale, biting down on the inside of his cheek before replying. “You really are a piece of work.”

“And you really are full of shit,” you said coolly, before turning back toward your jet. “Now get the hell out of my way before I make you look bad. Again.”

You didn’t look back as you walked, but you could feel him seething behind you—burning alive in the wake of your calm. It wasn’t over. It never was.

By the time you reached the rest of the squad, the hangar had started to hum with pre-flight motion. Cyclone’s voice echoed faintly from the tower, and jets glinted under the California sun like loaded promises.

Maverick stood by the briefing screen, arms crossed, aviators on, wearing that smug little expression that made people nervous for reasons they didn’t understand. You’d known him long enough to know he saw everything—especially tension.

Phoenix spotted you first, nudging Bob, who followed her line of sight and visibly tensed when Rooster appeared just a few steps behind you. You didn’t need to see him to feel it—his heat, his scowl, the way his energy invaded whatever space you claimed. It was always like that. He never learned how to stay in his own lane.

Maverick raised an eyebrow behind his shades. “Raven. Rooster. Something I should know about?”

You smiled without warmth. “No, sir. Just friendly conversation.”

Rooster made a noise under his breath. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The others exchanged glances. Payback leaned over to Coyote, muttering something with a grin. Fanboy just mouthed yikes behind his coffee cup. Even Phoenix, unbothered as ever, gave you a look that said, Again?

Maverick didn’t react—at least, not outwardly. He gave you both a slow once-over, like he was mentally calculating how much damage this would cause in the air. “Glad to see the team’s spirit is alive and well,” he said dryly, then gestured toward the screen. “Briefing starts now. Save the pissing contest for after wheels-up.”

You and Bradley moved to opposite ends of the lineup like magnets flipped the wrong way. You didn’t speak, but the air between you practically crackled. Meanwhile, Maverick clicked through the tactical overview, the tone of his voice calm, efficient, utterly detached.

You tried to focus on the mission—two-man formation drills, low-altitude flyby over rough terrain, testing out a new maneuver pattern—but you could feel Rooster’s eyes burning holes into the side of your skull.

Then Maverick added, almost casually, “And for this run, Raven’s in lead. Rooster, you’re her wing.”

You turned your head just enough to see Rooster stiffen like someone had just punched him in the ribs. Phoenix let out a soft, almost-silent “oh shit.”

Rooster didn’t say anything. Not at first. But when Maverick moved on to the next slide, he muttered, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick looked up. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

Rooster’s jaw was tight. “No, sir.”

You didn’t gloat. Not outwardly. But your smile curled at the edges as you reached for your helmet. “Try to keep up, Rooster,” you said lightly. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

He met your gaze for half a second. No smile. Just pure defiance.

“I don’t follow birds that don’t know where they’re going,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, just enough for only him to hear. “Good thing I always fly straight,” you said, voice cool. “Unlike you.”

Phoenix cleared her throat loudly, dragging both your attentions back to the room. Maverick sighed and looked at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every life choice that brought him to this moment.

“Get suited,” he said. “You’ve got thirty minutes. If one of you ends up on the deck, I swear I’ll ground you both.”

You turned on your heel and headed for the lockers, pulse already spiking. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The sky over North Island was clear, cloudless, unforgiving. Your F/A-18 roared as it sliced through the open blue, a beast of steel and fire. The mission was textbook—paired formation runs through low-altitude terrain, staying tight through simulated enemy radar zones. Easy. If it weren’t for the jackass flying just behind your six.

“Raven, your spacing’s off,” Rooster’s voice came through the comms, smooth and sharp like the edge of a scalpel. “You banking left on purpose or just showing off again?”

You rolled your eyes behind the visor and adjusted slightly. “I’d rather show off than fly like a damn drunk pelican. Tighten your spread, Rooster. You’re lagging.”

“Instructor’s notes say I fly clean,” he shot back, heat in his tone. “Can’t help it if you’re allergic to standard formation.”

Meanwhile, Phoenix’s voice cut in, low and dry. “Jesus. You two even breathe without arguing?”

Up ahead, Payback and Fanboy were leading the other two jets in the diamond formation, keeping it tight, professional. Phoenix and Bob flew to your right flank. Coyote and Hangman trailed just behind. Everyone could hear everything, and everyone was listening.

“Copy that, Phoenix,” Bob chimed in, soft and painfully neutral. “We’re all just trying to maintain situational awareness... and peace.”

You smirked, then dipped slightly under a thermal draft, riding the shift like it was part of the plan. “Peace is overrated.”

Rooster cursed under his breath, but it still crackled through. “This is why no one likes flying with you.”

“Correction,” you replied smoothly, flipping a switch with practiced ease as the canyon loomed ahead. “No one likes flying behind me. Because it’s hard to keep up.”

He came in tighter behind you, clearly ignoring Maverick’s earlier warning. His jet loomed just under your tail, too close for protocol. You felt it, a breath behind you. He was pushing. Testing. Typical.

“You keep flying that cocky,” he said, “and you’re gonna eat dirt when your ego clips a ridge.”

You grinned, fingers steady on the throttle. “And you keep flying that close, Rooster, and we’ll be making out mid-air.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone kissed your ass,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you wanted to,” you fired back, before switching channels to direct comms with command. “Raven to tower. Approaching waypoint delta. Beginning canyon descent.”

“Copy that, Raven,” came the response. “Maintain current heading and spacing.”

“See that, Goldilocks?” you said, flicking a glance down at your HUD. “Command likes what they see.”

Rooster exhaled a sharp breath. “You always gotta have the last word?”

You banked into the descent, steady and surgical, skimming the canyon’s edge with textbook precision. “Only when I’m right.”

Above, Hangman crackled in. “This banter’s fun and all, but maybe save it for the locker room, lovebirds?”

You and Rooster answered at the same time.

“Shut up, Bagman.”

Hangman laughed. “Damn. Synchronized now. Should we be worried?”

But you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because Rooster had just slipped too close again—his wing tip flirting with danger.

“Rooster,” you snapped, jaw tight, “back the fuck off. This isn’t a measuring contest.”

He didn’t answer. Just flew tighter. Closer. Like he needed to prove something, even if it got one of you grounded—or worse.

Meanwhile, your heartbeat was steady, trained. But somewhere under that cool surface, your blood ran hot. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him, or kill him straight through the cockpit glass.

The canyon narrowed, rock walls rising like jagged fangs on either side. Your jet sliced through the gut of it with surgical grace, the throttles singing under your palms. You kept your altitude steady—ten feet off the deck, your usual. You’d flown this exact run a dozen times. Hell, you could probably do it blindfolded. But what you couldn’t account for was the hot-blooded maniac on your six.

“Rooster, tighten up your line, not your ego,” you said, eyes flicking from the HUD to the terrain ahead. “You’re drifting into my slipstream.”

“I’ve got you,” he replied, voice clipped. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you muttered, adjusting pitch. “You're the one treating this like a dick-measuring contest.”

Then it happened.

A gust slammed down between the walls of the canyon—stronger than forecasted, bouncing turbulence off the stone like a ricochet. You adjusted instantly, compensating with a small bank right. Textbook correction. Nothing unusual.

Except Rooster didn’t bank.

He tried to stay locked on your six, tried to match your move before committing to it. And that half-second of hesitation? That goddamn stubborn pride? It nearly killed you both.

His jet suddenly surged forward, nose rising fast—way too close.

“Rooster, break off!” you barked, voice sharp through the comms.

But it was too late.

You caught the shift in your peripheral as his wingtip skimmed under your tail. A hair’s breadth more and he would’ve ripped off your stabilizer and sent you tumbling into the rock wall. Your entire jet jolted from the force of his jetwash, alarms screaming in your cockpit like banshees.

“Raven’s bird just caught turbulence—she’s banking hard!” Payback’s voice cracked through the channel, panic loud under the surface.

Your heart shot into your throat as your jet dipped, the nose dropping below safety altitude. A rock outcropping loomed ahead, coming up fast.

You reacted without thinking.

“Raven, pull up!” Bob shouted.

“Shit—I know!” you growled back, already wrenching the stick toward you, throttles screaming as your engines strained under the forced climb. G-forces slammed into your chest like a freight train. Vision blurred. You gritted your teeth and pulled.

The jet screamed upward just in time, skimming the ridge by a whisper. Dust and grit splattered across your canopy as your bird barely cleared the stone.

“Holy shit,” Coyote breathed. “She cleared it by, like, five feet—maybe.”

“Raven, report,” Maverick’s voice cut in, all steel and control.

You panted into the comms, throat dry. “Bird’s stable. Nose got pulled. I’m recovering.”

Meanwhile, your hands shook on the controls, but you held them firm. You’d trained for turbulence. You’d trained for emergency pull-ups. What you hadn’t trained for was flying with someone who’d rather risk a mid-air collision than admit he was tailing too close.

“Rooster, what the hell was that?” Phoenix snapped, tone biting.

“She dipped early,” Rooster argued, but his voice lacked conviction now—he’d seen it, felt it too. He knew.

“Bullshit,” Hangman cut in, sharp. “That was your nose in her business. You clipped her wash and threw off her bird. That could’ve been a fucking fireball.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the sky felt quieter.

Maverick’s voice came in next, low and tight. “Both of you—return to base. Now. Rest of you continue the run. Rooster, you’re grounded until further notice. Raven, if your jet checks out, I want you back in the air tomorrow. We’ll debrief when you land.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You were too busy breathing like you’d just sprinted through hell. Then, finally, you keyed your mic.

“Copy that, Tower. Raven returning to base.”

You didn’t wait for Rooster’s response. You pulled out of the canyon, climbed until the sky opened up above you again, and pointed your jet back toward the tarmac.

Your chest was still tight. Not from the Gs. From the rage.

And somewhere in your peripheral radar, Bradley Bradshaw followed behind—silent, for once. For now.

The moment your boots hit the tarmac, the squad was on you like flies to a flame. Phoenix was first, jogging over with her helmet still under her arm, eyes wide and sharp. Bob followed close behind, saying your callsign like it was a prayer. Hangman whistled low, muttering something about how you’d threaded a needle no one else could’ve even seen. Payback gave you a once-over like he wasn’t convinced you were whole. They were circling you, their voices overlapping—questions, jokes, concern wrapped in sarcasm—but you barely registered the words.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. Your voice cut through the noise like a knife, slicing off their momentum. “Back off.”

Phoenix raised her hands and took a step back. “Alright, alright, damn.”

Jake, surprisingly, didn’t say a word. He just fell in beside you, not smirking, not preening. His usual charm was stripped away, replaced with something quieter. Steadier. He kept pace with you all the way into the building, only speaking once the others peeled off toward the locker rooms.

“You scared the shit outta me, Raven,” he said, not teasing—just honest.

You didn’t answer. Your jaw was clenched so tight it felt like your teeth would crack.

The debriefing room was cold with recycled air and tension. You took your usual seat in the front row, closest to the screen. Jake sat beside you without asking, elbows on knees, unusually still. The rest of the team filed in slowly, murmurs low and clipped. Every eye flicked toward the door, waiting for Rooster. He wasn’t there. Not yet. Of course not. Coward.

Then, finally, the door opened.

Maverick stepped in first, posture stiff with restrained disappointment. Behind him came Bradley Bradshaw, helmet tucked under his arm, face unreadable except for the tightness in his jaw and the guilt he couldn’t quite mask.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at Maverick. Then the team. Then, finally, at you. His eyes dragged across your face and landed on the bruised pride you wore like armor. And when he rolled his eyes?

You nearly launched across the table and throttled him.

“Sit down,” Maverick ordered, voice cold. Rooster obeyed with a grunt, slumping into the chair across from you and Jake. The tension in the room turned solid. Jake shifted slightly, as if to anchor you, but still didn’t speak. That silence of his said more than a monologue.

Maverick didn’t waste time.

“What happened today was unacceptable. Every single one of you should know better. Formation flying isn’t a suggestion—it’s doctrine. But what I saw out there?” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “Was ego flying your birds, not discipline.”

He turned his gaze directly to you and Rooster, pinning both of you under the weight of his scrutiny. “You two should know better than anyone. You’ve flown long enough. You’ve trained longer than most of the people in this room. And that kind of reckless behavior could’ve gotten someone killed.”

“Oh, what, so now it’s both our faults?” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice metal. Jake’s head tilted slightly toward you, but he didn’t interrupt.

Maverick’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Rooster. “I’m not here to take sides—”

“No?” you snapped. “Because it kinda sounds like you are. Maybe it’s easier for you to scold me and keep coddling your golden boy.”

Across from you, Rooster let out a harsh breath. “Here we fucking go.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You almost killed me today, Bradshaw.”

“It was turbulence!” he barked.

“It was your damn pride!” you shouted back, finally turning to face him fully. “You pushed too close, flew too tight, ignored protocol—and for what? To prove that you can ride my ass in the air too?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped, standing suddenly.

You stood too. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see my bird drop because of you. You nearly sent me into a goddamn mountain!”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice boomed over both of you, but you weren’t finished. Not even close.

“Oh, what, am I not supposed to yell?” you threw back, arms wide. “Am I supposed to keep my mouth shut while your precious godson puts me in a body bag?”

“He didn’t mean to—”

“Intent doesn’t mean shit when I’m a split-second from crashing,” you bit out.

Rooster’s voice cracked, rough around the edges now. “You think I wanted that to happen?”

“No,” you hissed, leaning over the table, “I think you didn’t care enough not to.”

“You think I didn’t care?” Rooster snapped, his voice pitching just enough to crack under the fury he was barely keeping leashed. “You think I was just joyriding behind you for the hell of it?”

You leaned across the table, heat boiling up your throat, too fast to stop. “You weren’t flying like someone who gives a shit, Bradshaw! You were flying like someone who wanted to prove a point more than he wanted to finish the fucking mission!”

Phoenix stood up, eyes flicking between you both. “Okay, both of you, just—take a second.”

“I don’t need a second,” you barked, shrugging off her voice like static. “I need him to own what he did instead of throwing out excuses like a goddamn child.”

Rooster stood again, pushing the chair back with a screech against the floor. “Excuse me for not rolling over and letting you win like everyone else does. But we all know you love being the only one with teeth.”

“And we all know you love being Maverick’s little shadow,” you spat, unable to stop. “Flying with that name stitched to your chest like it’s supposed to mean something. Like it makes you fucking untouchable.”

“Hey!” Maverick barked from the head of the room, finally standing too. “Watch it.”

You whipped toward him, all the restraint you had left crumbling like ash. “No. You watch it. Because every time he screws up, you’re right there ready to sweep it under the rug like it’s not your own guilt bleeding all over the rest of us.”

“Raven, enough—” Jake said, voice low, hand starting to reach for your arm, but you weren’t hearing anyone anymore.

“Is that what this is, Rooster?” you sneered, turning back to him. “Trying to earn back the ghost of a man who’s never coming back?”

His face changed instantly—color draining, jaw tightening, fists curling so tight his knuckles went white. The silence was deafening. You saw it. You felt it. The moment your words sliced through something far deeper than ego.

“Don’t you dare—” he started, but his voice broke.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You almost killed me just to hear someone say your name louder than his. You want the legacy so bad, you’re choking on it.”

Rooster’s chair flew back as he stood so fast it clattered to the floor. “Shut the fuck up!”

You stepped forward, fists curled, ready. “Or what, you gonna finish what you started and crash me into a wall on foot this time?”

“Bradshaw, stand down!” Maverick shouted, cutting across the room, but Rooster didn’t budge. His chest was heaving, eyes wild, like he was one second from lunging.

Jake was already on you, stepping in, grabbing your arms, pulling you back hard. “Hey—hey! Raven, stand down. You’ve said enough—”

“Let go of me!” you snarled, trying to wrench out of his grip.

“Not happening,” Jake bit out, arms locked around you like a vise. “You are not throwing hands in a damn debrief.”

Meanwhile, Payback and Coyote had moved toward Rooster, corralling him back toward his chair. He was seething, hands trembling, lips pressed into a line so tight it looked like it hurt to keep them shut. But his eyes never left yours. They burned with something worse than rage.

Betrayal.

“You crossed the fucking line,” Rooster said hoarsely, voice shaking.

You glared right back. “Then draw a new one. One where you don’t almost kill me, maybe.”

Maverick slammed his hand on the desk, making everyone flinch. “That’s enough! Both of you—outside. Now. Separate hangars. I don’t care. I don’t want to see either of your faces until you’ve cooled the hell down.”

But your eyes were still locked with Rooster’s. Your pulse was still thunder. Your lungs were still catching fire.

This wasn’t over.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

“Fuck you, Bradshaw. I hope the next time you wanna prove something, you crash into a fucking mirror instead of me.”

And then you were gone—out of the debriefing room, the door slamming behind you with enough force to rattle the hinges. Your boots struck the hallway floor with clipped, sharp steps, each one a punch against the storm still raging in your chest. You didn’t care if they were watching. You didn’t care if Maverick shouted after you. You didn’t care if Rooster burned in that seat until the damn sun exploded.

Somewhere behind you, you heard another pair of footsteps—slower, steadier. Jake.

You didn’t turn around.

“Raven,” he called, voice quieter now, less Hangman and more Jake. “Just—wait.”

You stopped, just outside the locker room, shoulders rising and falling like your body was still inside that cockpit, still gripping the stick, still moments from being scattered across canyon walls. Then you said, without turning around, “Back off, Jake. I swear to God.”

There was a pause. Then silence. He listened. You heard his steps fade away.

You pushed the locker room door open with your shoulder and stepped inside like you were walking into a war zone. No one else was there yet. Good. You didn’t want witnesses.

Then, without hesitation, you slammed your helmet down on the bench, popped open your locker, and hurled your gloves inside with a force that knocked your flight logs to the floor. Your hands were trembling. Not in fear—no, never in fear—but in that tight, brittle way adrenaline bites into your nerves after it’s done keeping you alive. Like your body didn’t know what to do with the leftover electricity.

You leaned forward, bracing both hands on the edge of the open locker door, breathing hard. The metal was cold beneath your fingers. Grounding. Anchoring. It helped. Barely.

Meanwhile, your brain was spinning like your jet had never landed. The flash of canyon walls, the shriek of alarms, the sudden loss of lift—the drop. It had been seconds. Maybe less. But you remembered the exact shape of that ridge. The color of the stone. The moment your bird’s nose dipped and you felt gravity claw at your ribs like it wanted to drag your bones into the dirt. You remembered the way your breath had caught in your throat—not fear, not exactly. Just... reality. The sharp, clear realization that you were seconds from dying. Again.

Because you knew what that felt like. Too well. Once was enough, but it had never just been once. You had survived things people didn’t walk away from. Your body carried it in the twitch of your fingers, in the steel in your spine, in the way you never flinched when the world tilted on its axis.

But this? This one had been close.

You stared into the dark metal of your locker like it might give you answers. Then you blinked. Once. Twice. No tears fell. You wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not for him. Your throat was tight, your chest burning—but you kept your eyes dry, kept your face hard, and forced the storm to stay where it belonged: behind your teeth.

No one would see you break. Especially not him.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, forehead nearly touching the inside of your locker, chest still heaving like you’d run a goddamn marathon with your ribcage on fire. Your gloves were on the floor. Your gear was half-stripped. Your thoughts were a mess of sharp edges you couldn’t dull.

The door creaked open again, and for a second, your body tensed, bracing for Rooster—maybe another round, maybe more yelling, maybe just the final straw that would push you into swinging.

But it wasn’t him.

“Hey,” came the soft voice. Bob.

You didn’t look at him, just let your eyes close for half a second. Then you muttered, “If you’re here to play mediator, don’t.”

“I’m not,” he said simply, like truth was the easiest thing in the world. “I just... wanted to check.”

You sighed, finally turning your head toward him. He looked like he didn’t want to take up space. Like he was trying to shrink himself smaller than usual—which was saying something. In his hands were a water bottle and a small protein bar. Classic Bob move.

You blinked at the offering. “What is this? A bribe to keep me from committing murder?”

“Maybe,” he said, gently stepping forward and placing the items on the bench beside you. “Though if you do murder him, I’ll deny I helped you hydrate first.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your nose—something half a laugh, half a bitter huff. “God, Bob. I want to kill him. I want to break his nose. Then shove him into an afterburner and salute his crispy ass.”

Bob gave a small shrug. “I mean, I wouldn’t stop you, but we’d definitely lose flight privileges.”

That time, the laugh came easier. Small, tired, but real. You sank down onto the bench and grabbed the water, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers you hoped he didn’t notice. He didn’t mention it. He just sat beside you, close but not crowding, presence warm and grounding like a campfire on a cold night.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you took a small bite of the bar, swallowed hard, and said lowly, “He almost killed me, Bob. Like—not just ‘oh no, I might’ve lost the lead’—like dead. Stone-cold, splattered-on-a-rock, body-bag kind of dead.”

Bob nodded slowly, like he understood without needing to say much. “I know.”

“And he just rolled his eyes in the debrief,” you went on, voice rising slightly. “Like I was being dramatic. Like my life is a fucking inconvenience to his ego.”

Bob didn’t respond right away. Then, carefully, he shifted just enough to let your shoulder touch his. You let it. You didn’t lean, not at first. But a few seconds passed, and your body moved on instinct—slowly lowering your head until it rested on his shoulder, the flight suit crinkling under your cheek. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just sat there, letting you exist next to him, like he knew you were holding too much in and didn’t want to make you carry it alone.

“I would’ve pulled you out of that canyon myself if I had to,” Bob said after a long pause, voice low, sincere. “Just so you know. You’re not alone up there. Not with us.”

You blinked once. Twice. The tears didn’t fall, but they were close—burning behind your eyes like smoke after a crash. Still, you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t give the universe that satisfaction.

“Thanks, Bob,” you said eventually, voice quiet. “But next time... just keep a shovel ready. I might need to bury a body.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Noted. I’ll bring gloves.”

The next morning, the hangar smelled like jet fuel, old coffee, and the kind of silence that followed a storm no one wanted to mention. You walked in with your flight suit already zipped, collar stiff, hair twisted into a no-nonsense knot that screamed do not even try me today. Your helmet dangled from your hand, your boots hit the floor in a rhythm as sharp as your jawline, and no one—not even Hangman—said a damn word.

The squad was already gathered near the whiteboard, Maverick standing at the front with a marker in hand. His expression was unreadable, which was somehow worse than when he looked disappointed. You caught Phoenix’s eye for half a second. She gave a small nod—acknowledgment, maybe apology, maybe just quiet respect—and then looked away. No one mentioned yesterday. Not directly.

Jake glanced your way but said nothing. He was back to his usual lean-against-the-wall posture, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it might keep him from talking too much. But his eyes tracked you, subtle and steady, like he was waiting to see whether you were made of steel or glass today. You didn’t flinch. You were both.

Meanwhile, Bob stood close to Phoenix, but he offered a small smile when you passed by him, a silent reassurance that hadn’t dulled overnight. You took the spot next to him, brushing his sleeve briefly with your shoulder—not on purpose, not for comfort, just a quiet thank-you that didn’t need words.

Rooster was already seated. Of course he was. Head slightly bowed, hands resting on his knees like he thought playing the calm card would earn him moral high ground. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He didn’t deserve your eyes.

Maverick cleared his throat, bringing the squad to attention. “Today we’re running mixed pair maneuvers. You’ll rotate partners mid-air. Simulating damage, loss of communication, change in command. You don’t get to pick who’s in your backseat or on your wing.”

The room shifted slightly—spines straightening, glances darting. A tactical shake-up. You knew what this was. A reset. A forced one.

Then, Maverick looked straight at you. “Raven, you’ll start with Coyote. Rooster, you’re with Payback. We’ll rotate in pairs after two passes. Got it?”

You gave a single nod. Coyote grinned and bumped your shoulder as you walked past. “Try not to show me up too hard, ace.”

“Just try to keep up, cowboy,” you said without smiling.

As the briefing wrapped up, Maverick called after the group. “And Raven—hang back a minute.”

Your stomach tensed, but you didn’t let it show. You waited until the rest had filed out, until it was just you, Maverick, and the weight of yesterday hanging like fog in the room.

He crossed his arms, staring at you like he was searching for the right thread to pull. “You need to get your head back in the cockpit.”

“My head never left the cockpit,” you said sharply. “Ask anyone. My bird’s fine. My flying’s fine.”

“But you’re not fine,” he said, voice firm. “And I’m not gonna pretend like I didn’t hear what you said yesterday.”

You met his gaze, jaw clenched. “What part? The truth?”

Maverick didn’t blink. “I get it. You were pissed. He was reckless. But there’s a line, Raven, and you flirted with the edge of it. Don’t let your anger compromise your control.”

You inhaled deeply, exhaling through your nose. Then you muttered, “I almost died yesterday. You telling me to smile through it now?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m telling you not to let him take more from you than he already almost did.”

You didn’t respond. You just nodded once—sharp, cool, finished. Then you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, already rolling your shoulders back, already bracing for the weight of the sky.

The sun had barely burned through the coastal haze by the time you and Coyote taxied out onto the runway. The sky was wide and blue and blinding. You pulled your oxygen mask into place with a practiced snap, eyes flicking over the instruments with calm, clinical rhythm. Everything read green. No faults. No noise. Just the low hum of your own heartbeat reminding you that this time, you were in control.

“Raven, Coyote—cleared for takeoff. Tower requests altitude cap at twenty-five hundred ‘til cleared past traffic,” the voice crackled in your comms.

“Copy, Tower,” Coyote replied, his tone light despite the stiffness you could hear under it. “Raven, you good?”

“Affirm,” you said, adjusting your throttle. “Wheels up in five.”

You rolled down the tarmac in perfect sync, your jets carving twin shadows over the concrete like two wolves in lockstep. The second your wheels left the ground, you pulled into a clean climb, leveling at twenty-five hundred just as the tower cleared you to push to flight level 180. You and Coyote settled into your holding pattern while Payback and Rooster joined formation from the west, flying tight, their vector steady. The sky was quiet but tense, the kind of hush that makes your skin crawl.

“Alright, team,” Maverick’s voice came over the squadron channel, steady and clear. “You’ll run the switch maneuver on my mark. Raven, you’ll initiate. After break, Rooster’s team takes lead.”

You tapped twice on the yoke, hands steady. “Copy, Raven ready.”

“Coyote, ready.”

“Payback ready.”

There was a long pause before Rooster’s voice cut in. “Rooster. Ready.”

You ignored the way his voice landed in your ear like a knife pressed flat against skin. Not cutting—just reminding you it was still there.

Maverick continued. “At the break, Raven and Rooster trade wingmen. Simulate a failed comms link mid-run. Visual confirmation only.”

You took in a slow breath. Visual confirmation. No radios. Just hand signals and formation cues. You hated that. You hated giving him any reason to get that close again.

“Three. Two. One. Break.”

You peeled hard left as Coyote shot right, engines screaming as the two teams split and crossed, the mid-air ballet executed in a clean, sharp arc. You banked until you saw Payback fall into position behind your jet, his angle crisp, his nose tucked right where it should be. From your peripheral, you caught Rooster sliding in near Coyote, just as planned.

The maneuver was smooth. Technical. Precise. But your hands were still tense on the stick, muscles locked, ready for anything. Rooster’s recklessness lived like a ghost in the back of your skull—no matter how clean the flight looked on radar, you remembered what it felt like to almost not land.

You kept your eyes forward, scanning the terrain below. The simulated enemy radar was mapped across the ridges like invisible tripwires. You adjusted trim slightly and gave a quick flare of your tail fins—a signal to Payback to tighten up. He responded instantly, his jet tucking in.

Meanwhile, the comms remained quiet. Everyone knew the drill. No chatter unless you were shot down or spotted something. The silence felt louder today.

You dove low, cutting through the ravine like you were threading a needle, banking left, right, then pulling into a quick climb that pressed Gs down your spine. The F/A-18 held steady beneath you like a trusted blade. This bird never failed you. Only people did.

Then you glanced up—just for a second—and spotted Coyote and Rooster in a mirrored maneuver above you, their jets banking to intercept the simulated radar arc from the south. You couldn’t hear his voice, but you knew Rooster was barking orders in his cockpit, probably overcorrecting just to feel like he had control. It made your jaw clench.

You turned back to your own run, preparing for the next switch. In ninety seconds, you’d be paired with him. You’d have to fly side by side, nose to nose, wing to wing. No barriers. No separation. Just muscle memory and fury.

Your breathing deepened, steady, mechanical. You could do this. You had to do this

The timer ticked down in your HUD, blinking red: SWITCH IN 00:05:00.

You steadied your grip, knuckles white beneath your gloves. Payback gave a short signal—a flash of his wingtip—then peeled off smoothly to the left, heading toward Coyote to complete the partner rotation. You eased into a right bank, leveling out just in time for Rooster to slide into place beside you.

His jet hovered there, too close for comfort, too perfect to be accidental. He was making a point, probably trying to prove he could fly tight without clipping you this time. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even twitch. You just locked into formation, spacing at textbook distance, throttle adjusted by instinct.

“Visual confirm,” Maverick’s voice crackled over the channel, watching from above like a hawk. “Raven, Rooster—you’re now a pair. Complete the radar sweep together, then punch vertical for final maneuver.”

You didn’t answer. You just toggled your comms twice—your silent acknowledgment.

Rooster’s jet matched your speed. Matched your pitch. Matched everything. It made your skin crawl.

Meanwhile, the canyon ahead narrowed, and you dipped into it first, leading the dance. Rooster followed, your jet casting a brief shadow across his canopy before the sunlight hit again. You descended quickly, just feet off the deck, your altimeter screaming warnings you ignored out of muscle memory. He stayed close.

Too close.

The bastard was mirroring you exactly, like a reflection you couldn’t shake. You pulled left to test him, dipping toward the ridge. He followed, perfect. Then you spun right, sharp, watching him catch the roll just a millisecond behind.

He was trying to prove something. That he could match you. That yesterday meant nothing.

It made your blood boil.

You flared your speed brakes for a heartbeat, forcing a tiny gap between your jets, then surged forward again. Rooster matched the move again—but this time, a little slower. You caught it. You knew he’d flinched.

“Altitude drop in ten seconds. Hard bank left. I’ll take point,” you finally said, breaking radio silence.

There was a pause. Then his voice cut in—calm, too calm.

“Copy. Following your lead.”

You wanted to scream. That tone. Like he hadn’t almost sent you to your death. Like this was just another drill.

Instead, you dove.

Your jet dropped fast, gravity grabbing you with open arms. You leveled just above the ridge line and sliced through the simulated radar zone like a blade. Rooster followed, sharp and silent.

Then, suddenly, he shot forward—too fast, closing the gap again. Your proximity alarms chirped.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you growled into the comms, forgetting the protocol.

“Helping you finish the run,” he shot back, voice like gravel.

You grit your teeth so hard your molars ached. “You want to help me, Bradshaw? Try not being glued to my goddamn ass.”

“You want distance? Say the word. I’ll give you miles.”

Your hand hovered near the throttle, tempted—so tempted—to punch forward and leave him in the dust. But you couldn’t. Not with Maverick watching. Not with the mission clock ticking down.

So you stayed. Tight. Focused.

The final maneuver was a vertical climb followed by a snap roll, simulating a break from enemy lock. You hit the climb first, engines roaring, Gs pushing down on your spine like a tidal wave. Your stomach dipped, your blood felt like static, and for a split second the sky narrowed to tunnel vision. But your hands never wavered.

Rooster was still with you—slightly off angle now. Probably realizing too late that you were willing to fly higher, faster, and harder just to get away from him.

You broke off after the maneuver, wings leveling above the clouds. Rooster pulled up beside you, but you didn’t turn.

You just stared forward, lips pressed into a thin line, heart hammering like war drums in your chest.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Landing procedures were routine—at least, they were supposed to be.

You kept it textbook. Your descent was smooth, airspeed clean, alignment perfect. Rooster was still flying your wing, and you could feel it like a pressure on your neck, like a weight on the back of your helmet that wouldn't lift until the wheels were down and you were clear of him. He said nothing over the comms, and you didn’t even acknowledge his presence. The tower guided you in, and you hit the deck like a damn professional, your bird settling onto the tarmac with grace you didn’t feel.

“Raven, cleared taxi Bravo to North Ramp,” came the controller’s voice. You responded with a clipped, “Copy,” and turned toward the line, watching the ground crew marshal you in with orange batons and dead eyes. The moment your canopy popped, the sound of the engine winding down filled your ears like a slow exhale, but it didn’t help. Not really.

You climbed down without looking at Rooster’s jet. He landed seconds after you and taxied in beside you, as if nothing had happened. You didn’t even spare his aircraft a glance. The second your boots hit the ground, you unclipped your helmet, ripped off your gloves, and started toward the hangar, heat still radiating off your skin like you were burning from the inside out.

Coyote met you halfway, helmet in hand. “You alright?”

You nodded once, jaw locked. “Yeah.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. “You were clean up there. Even with... that.”

“I know,” you said, already brushing past him. “I always am.”

Bob was waiting by the lockers again, arms folded, back to the wall like he’d been holding the whole place together in your absence. When you walked in, he straightened up immediately.

“I saw the tail cameras,” he said quietly, as you tossed your helmet into the locker with a metallic clang. “You flew perfect.”

You didn’t answer, just started stripping out of your gear. Your zipper caught on your collarbone, and you yanked it harder than you needed to.

“I mean it,” Bob said, taking a step closer. “He was pushing. Too close. You didn’t break formation once.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “He was trying to get in my head.”

“And he didn’t,” Bob said, voice firmer now. “That matters.”

You finally looked at him. His gaze was steady, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed but ready—like he knew you were still barely holding it together and wouldn’t let you snap alone.

“I don’t trust him,” you said. “I don’t. Not in the air. Not anywhere near my six.”

Bob nodded. “You don’t have to. You just have to outfly him. Which you did.”

There was a pause. Then you muttered, “I wanted to leave him in the damn sky.”

Bob gave the smallest smile. “Yeah. I figured.”

You sat down on the bench, elbows on knees, still simmering beneath the surface. Bob lowered himself beside you, offering that same steady presence you’d grown to count on more than you’d ever admit.

For a long moment, you just sat there—gear half off, sweat cooling on your back, heart still kicking in your chest like it hadn’t landed with the rest of you. Meanwhile, Bob pulled out another water bottle, cracked it open, and held it out without a word.

You took it.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“No problem,” he said, his shoulder just barely brushing yours. “I’m always in your corner.”

The locker room door creaked open just as you were pulling your undershirt over your head, hair damp with sweat, flight suit peeled halfway down to your waist. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

You felt him before you saw him.

Rooster.

He stepped in with the kind of slow, careful walk that said he knew he was stepping on a live minefield—but did it anyway. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because he was a stubborn, overgrown man-child with the emotional intelligence of a wet sponge.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

Bob stiffened beside you immediately, shifting subtly like he was ready to put himself between you and Bradley again. You didn’t need protection. You needed blood.

“I came to—” Rooster started.

“Oh, fuck right off, Bradshaw.”

Your voice cracked through the space like a sonic boom. Sharp. Loud. Immediate.

He blinked. Paused in the doorway. You still hadn’t turned to face him, but you heard the silence settle thick around his shoulders. Good. Let him carry some weight for once.

“I’m serious,” you said, standing now, turning slowly, flight suit hanging at your waist, tank top clinging to your spine. “Whatever you're about to say? Shove it. Right up your self-righteous, overhyped, chicken-shit ass.”

Rooster frowned, jaw ticking. “You really want to do this again?”

You stepped forward, water bottle still in hand, grip tight like you were debating whether to throw it at his damn head. “Do what, Bradshaw? Get almost killed by your recklessness and then have to listen to you pretend you were doing me a favor?”

His hands went up in mock surrender, but you saw the edge in his eyes, that infuriating smirk trying to claw its way through his guilt. “I wasn’t trying to outfly you.”

“No,” you snapped, voice rising. “You were just trying to remind everyone that you're still the golden boy—even if you have to drag me into the dirt to prove it.”

“I followed the maneuver.”

“You crowded my tail. You pushed inside my safe zone, and if I’d made one wrong correction, I’d be a splatter on canyon rock. That’s not flying, that’s fucking arrogance.”

Rooster’s voice dropped. Low. Defensive. “I had you covered.”

“Bullshit. You had your ego covered,” you spat. “You had your little redemption arc playing out in your head like some goddamn Top Gun fantasy where everyone claps for you and forgets you almost killed me.”

Bob finally stood between you both, hands raised, voice careful. “Okay. Time out. This isn’t the place.”

“No, Bob, let me.” You shoved your finger toward Rooster’s chest. “You think just because you wear his callsign on your sleeve, you get to fly like him too? Hate to break it to you, rooster-boy, but you don’t have the instincts, and you sure as hell don’t have the discipline.”

Rooster’s brows shot up. That stung. Good.

“You’re really gonna throw that at me?” he asked, voice rising.

“You’re damn right I am,” you hissed. “Because I’m tired of watching you make reckless calls and act like your intentions are enough to clean up the fallout. You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.”

The tension was so thick now it felt like the walls were closing in. Rooster stared at you like he’d never really seen you before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe all he ever saw was competition.

“Say what you really want to say,” he said finally, his voice a low challenge.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t trust you. And I don’t forgive you. And if it were up to me, you’d be grounded until you grew the hell up.”

You stared at Rooster, chest rising and falling like you were still in the cockpit, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were back on solid ground. The locker room felt small now, claustrophobic, the kind of space where someone either walked out or a fist got thrown.

Bob glanced between you both, visibly uncomfortable, clearly torn. He opened his mouth, maybe to calm things down again, maybe to step in. But you beat him to it.

“Bob,” you said, your voice low and flat, not cruel, not loud—just final. “Get out.”

His brows furrowed immediately. “Raven…”

You turned to him, sharp. “Please. I need him alone.”

Bob hesitated, glancing at Rooster like he was considering whether it was a good idea to leave you two unsupervised. Like he wasn’t sure Rooster would survive it. He looked at you again, weighing the fire in your eyes.

Then, slowly, he gave a single nod. “I’ll be just outside.”

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t look back. The moment the door clicked shut behind Bob, the air dropped about ten degrees, even though the heat was still pounding in your chest.

Rooster crossed his arms, leaning back against the row of lockers like he was pretending to be casual, like you hadn’t just ripped into him in front of half the squad. But his jaw was tight, and he couldn’t quite meet your eyes for more than a second.

“You done yet?” he asked.

You took a step closer. “Not even close.”

His eyes flicked to yours, defensive again. “You made your point.”

“Oh, no, Bradshaw,” you snapped. “I made a point. But I haven’t even started making the point.”

Rooster scoffed, looking away like he was trying to summon some patience from the ceiling tiles. “You just love being pissed at me, don’t you?”

That did it.

You stalked closer, boots heavy on the tile. “You almost got me killed, and you think I’m doing this for fun?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Meaning doesn’t matter up there,” you cut in, voice sharper now, hotter. “Intentions don’t count for shit at Mach 1 when I’m flying with someone I can’t fucking trust.”

Rooster stepped forward now, matching your energy, the cocky smirk finally gone, replaced by something darker—wounded, maybe, but not apologetic. Never that.

“I’m not the only one flying aggressive. You banked us into that canyon.”

“And you didn’t leave me space to recover if it went wrong. That’s the difference between flying aggressive and flying like a goddamn liability.”

“You think you’re so perfect,” he muttered.

“No, I think I’m alive,” you said, breathing hard. “Which is more than I should be, thanks to you.”

He flinched, but you didn’t give him time to come back from it.

“You don’t get to act like the victim here, Bradshaw. You’ve been trying to outfly me since day one. Like my existence is some kind of personal insult to you.”

He threw his hands up. “Because you walk around like you invented Top Gun!”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, fury boiling just beneath your voice. “I walk around like someone who earned it. Like someone who bled for it. Unlike you—who was gifted the legacy and still can’t fly without dragging someone else down to feel tall.”

That hit him. You saw it.

He clenched his jaw again, looked away—then looked right back at you, eyes hard now, fire catching.

“You don’t know shit about what I’ve earned.”

“Bullshit, I don’t,” you said, spitting the word like venom. “I’ve been next to you this whole time. Same academy. Same airspace. Same course. I’ve seen what you do when you’re not the golden boy. You crash. You choke. You fuck up. And then you hide behind your last name like it’s supposed to mean something.”

The silence that followed was different. He didn’t speak. He just stared. Like no one had ever said that to him before. Like it landed somewhere deep. But not deep enough to humble him.

Not yet.

You could see it in his eyes—that flicker of shock, that brief stutter in his breath when your words hit just a little too deep. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t even pause. You saw the crack and you pushed.

“You want to talk about what you’ve earned?” you said, voice low, poisonous. “Fine. Let’s talk about the first time I almost died because of you.”

Rooster stiffened, brow furrowing like he hadn’t expected that direction. Of course he didn’t. Men like him never do.

You took another step forward. You could hear your pulse in your ears now, but your voice stayed level—cold, surgical.

“Flight school. Third year. T-38 Talon. You remember?”

His silence was answer enough.

“I was flying lead. You were supposed to be my goddamn wingman. We were in a mock intercept and you decided to cut the corner, to ‘gain advantage,’ you said. But what you really did was cut me off, broke formation, and forced me into a nose dive to avoid clipping wings. You remember now?”

His mouth opened, closed, like he was trying to fish for the right excuse. You weren’t giving him time.

“I went down. Thirty-two seconds of dead air, no control. Ejected at the last second and fractured two ribs when I slammed back to Earth. And you—you—stayed in the air like nothing happened. Didn’t even check your goddamn radio until it was over.”

“That’s not how I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare try to rewrite it, Bradshaw,” you snarled, finally jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve lived every second of that flight. I still wake up in the middle of the night hearing that wind ripping past my canopy as I dropped like a stone. I remember begging my bird to respond while you were busy trying to win a pissing contest that no one was even judging.”

Rooster backed a step, but you followed. You weren’t done. You were finally letting the venom out of your veins.

“And you know what’s worse?” you said, voice quieter now, sharper. “You never apologized. Not once. I got pulled from the flight roster for six weeks while you went on like nothing happened—still grinning, still cocky, still thinking your halo was just a little shinier than everyone else’s.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he muttered, guilt cracking through his words.

“Bullshit you didn’t,” you snapped. “They told you. Maverick told you. The whole damn base was talking about how the ‘hotshot godson almost took out the prodigy.’ You knew, Bradshaw. You knew and you just... moved on. Because it was easier to pretend I bounced.”

He said nothing.

You inhaled sharply, chest rising with the weight of that memory. Then, voice thick with the kind of cold restraint that only comes after years of swallowing fire, you said, “That’s the difference between you and me. I never forget the people I almost killed. You forget the people you almost did.”

Rooster’s jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. The weight of your words landed, but instead of backing down, he finally snapped.

“Jesus Christ, Raven,” he growled. “You act like I meant for any of that to happen. You think I wanted to screw you over? You think I haven’t carried that shit, too?”

You didn’t flinch. You waited, arms crossed, eyes locked on him like crosshairs.

“I made mistakes,” he said, voice rising now. “Yeah, I fucked up in flight school. Yeah, I flew too close yesterday. But I’ve been trying to prove myself every damn day since then, and you—you treat me like I’m the enemy. Like I’m just waiting to take you out.”

“You said it,” you muttered. “Not me.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve owned up to my shit. What about you, huh? You ever think maybe you’re not invincible? That maybe you fly like you’ve got something to prove, too?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “You’ve been carrying this grudge for years. I fucked up once and now I’m the villain in your whole damn narrative.”

You stared at him for a long, breathless second.

Then you said, “Because I know how dangerous this job is, Bradley. I know what I signed up for. But it was my dream. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The words echoed off the locker walls, cold and soft and breaking.

“But I wasn’t ready to die,” you added, voice quieter now, but sharper, slicing through whatever protest he was about to throw at you. “Not then. Not now.”

Rooster froze. His breath caught. But you kept going. This wasn’t about flying anymore.

“I still want to live. I want to fly until I can’t. I want to grow old without a helmet on my head. I want—fuck—I want a house, Bradshaw. Somewhere in North Island, but not too close to the beach because the salt messes with the hinges. White picket fence. Big-ass windows. A porch swing.”

You laughed again, but it was a hollow, broken thing.

“I want kids. A family. I want to come home to someone who makes me feel safe. You ever think about that? That maybe I didn’t come here just to prove I’m the best—that maybe I came here to build something when I’m done?”

Rooster was still. His expression had shifted—no more anger, no more fire. Just... something raw. Something crumbling.

But you didn’t stop. You weren’t done bleeding.

“I can’t do any of that if I’m dead, Bradley,” you said. “And you? You almost ended all of it before it could even start.”

Bradley didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, rooted to the floor like your words had struck somewhere he didn’t know existed until now. His arms had dropped to his sides, fists unclenched, the fight bleeding out of him.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice low and hoarse. “That you wanted that.”

You shook your head, scoffing bitterly. “Yeah, well, maybe you would’ve known if you ever looked at me as more than your fucking scoreboard.”

“That’s not fair.”

You turned to him fully now, eyes blazing. “No, Bradley. What’s not fair is that I have to plan my life around not dying because of you. What’s not fair is watching everyone treat you like you walk on air while I’m just trying to land with my own damn wings.”

“I see you,” he said, quietly this time. “I’ve always seen you.”

“Then you’re blind,” you snapped. “Because if you did—if you really did—you’d fly like it. You’d have flown with me, not against me. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have nearly killed me. Twice.”

Bradley took a cautious step forward, like he was reaching for something invisible between you. “Look, I’m trying, alright? I know I’ve been a dick. I know I’ve let my pride get in the way. But that wasn’t about you. That was me trying to prove I wasn’t just some legacy pilot riding a dead man’s wake.”

You scoffed again, shaking your head, voice tight. “Don’t you dare make this about your daddy issues.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m serious, Bradshaw. Don’t. You. Dare.”

His jaw flexed. He swallowed hard, but stayed rooted where he was. “I just... I don’t know how to make this right.”

“You can’t.”

The words came out fast, final, like a slammed door.

“You can’t make it right. You can’t go back and undo the times I almost fucking died trying to dodge your shadow. You can’t take back the fact that every time I go up now, I hesitate. I hesitate, and I never did before you.”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him, but you weren’t done.

“You know how dangerous that is? To fly with doubt? To wonder if the guy next to you is gonna screw up again?”

He opened his mouth, and you cut him off before the first word left.

“And I don’t want your guilt, Bradley. I don’t want your puppy-dog eyes and your sad-sack remorse. I want my safety. I want the one thing I’ve earned, which is to not feel like I’m one mistake away from a fucking memorial flyover.”

Bradley looked like he’d been carved down to nothing. But that was his problem now.

You were done holding it in.

The silence after your last words hung heavy—thick and final, like the air after an explosion, where nothing stirs and everything aches.

Bradley didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at the spot where you’d been looking straight through him, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to speak but knew better. His hands hung useless at his sides. No fight left. No defense worth giving.

You blinked slowly, jaw tight, chest still rising and falling like you were back in the jet, like you hadn’t come down at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Then, without another word, you turned.

Boots against tile. Echoes trailing behind you like ghosts.

You passed him without looking. You didn’t want to see his face. Not like this. Not when it was finally registering just how badly he’d fucked it all. You reached for the locker room door, pulled it open with a sharp tug, and stepped out into the hallway where the air felt different—cooler, quieter, distant.

Behind you, he didn’t follow. Good. You didn’t need him to.

You walked steady, shoulders squared, eyes forward. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you refused to let him see that it did.

You weren’t ready to forgive. And he wasn’t ready to be forgiven. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And if he had anything left to say, he’d have to say it to your back. Because for now, you were gone. And you weren’t looking back.

- Bradley, Rooster -

The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence hit like Gs in a flat spin.

Bradley didn’t move. Couldn’t. It was like every molecule in the room had frozen with your exit, like the fire you'd lit still lingered in the air, crackling around the lockers and burning under his skin. His jaw was clenched tight, arms stiff at his sides, but it wasn’t anger holding him together now—it was shame.

You’d told him everything. Every brutal, ugly truth he'd been too proud or too stupid to see for himself. He hadn’t just failed you in the sky. He’d failed you years ago. And the worst part? He’d forgotten it. Buried it so deep that it had stopped feeling real to him. But not to you. Not ever to you.

“I wasn’t ready to die.”

The words looped through his head like comms feedback, sharp and constant and impossible to ignore. He thought he could walk in, take the heat, say sorry in that way people like him always said sorry—tight-jawed and low-voiced, a little too late and never loud enough. He thought maybe, just maybe, you’d give him the benefit of the doubt again.

But you’d looked at him like he was a loaded gun pointed at your chest.

And damn it, maybe he was.

He sank down onto the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. All it gave him was the image of you, standing there in your half-zipped flight suit, fire in your eyes, telling him you wanted a house. A family. Kids. A white picket fence somewhere on North Island, not too close to the beach, but close enough to feel the breeze. You said it like it hurt to say, like you hadn’t dared believe you were allowed to want things like that.

And he’d almost taken all of it away. Again.

The first time—Jesus, the first time—he remembered now. The Talon. The maneuver. The way you spun out and the ground came up too fast. He’d heard the report. Read it. Knew you walked away with busted ribs and bruises down your spine, and he hadn’t said a damn word. He told himself it was a fluke. A training accident. Nothing he needed to carry.

But you’d carried it.

You always did.

He leaned back against the locker, head hitting the cool metal with a dull thunk. The ceiling swam above him, but all he could see was your face—tight with rage, eyes too bright, voice cracking around the edges but never breaking. You didn’t cry. Of course you didn’t. That would’ve given him something soft to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him the truth.

You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.

And the worst part? You were right.

You always fucking were.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble catching under his palm, like pain might jolt him back to reality. But no. You were still gone. And everything you’d said still rang in his ears like a damn bell he couldn’t unring.

Bradley had always known you were sharp. Known you were faster, colder under pressure, more precise with a stick than anyone else in the room. But he never realized how long you’d been flying with a target on your back—his target. And now? He didn’t know how to separate pride from shame anymore. It all just blurred.

You were four years younger. Everyone knew that. The prodigy. The talk of your class. The one who made instructors blink twice during debriefs and had the rest of the academy scrambling to keep up. And yeah, at first, it was envy. That tight, stomach-clenching envy that burned right behind his ribs when he saw your name climb above his on the board. It wasn’t supposed to bother him, but it did. Every. Damn. Time.

So he’d tried harder. Pushed further. Flew faster. He told himself it wasn’t about you—it was about proving he deserved the callsign. That he wasn’t just a name stapled to a legacy. But deep down? He knew.

It was always about you.

It was about the way you rolled your eyes when he smirked. About the way you flew past him in formation like you didn’t even see him in your six. About the way you made him feel small without ever saying a word.

He hated that. And somehow, he hated that he needed your approval even more.

And now—God—he hated himself for ever thinking this competition was harmless. That you were unshakable. Untouchable. Like you didn’t want the same things he did. A future. A home. A life.

He’d never pictured you wanting all that. Not because he thought you didn’t deserve it—he just... didn’t let himself imagine it. Didn’t want to put soft edges on the one person he needed to keep sharp in his head. But hearing it from you, out loud, in that furious, breaking voice—it gutted him.

He’d flown like an idiot. That much was clear. You were on his wing, and instead of holding formation, instead of watching your six, he dove in like a hero in a movie he wasn’t qualified to star in. And for what? Some imaginary point? To prove he could still be top dog?

You could’ve died. Right there. Mid-air. A flash of fire, a blackout screen, and a headline with your name.

And then what?

What the hell would he have done then?

He exhaled again, this time shakier. His fingers dug into the edge of the bench, gripping it until his knuckles went white. He wished he could go back. Say something different. Fly different. He wished he could stop being the guy who hurt you. Who scared you. Who nearly killed the one goddamn person who could ever meet him head-on and still leave him in the dust.

But wishes didn’t mean shit in the Navy.

And you were gone.

It hadn’t always been like this.

He remembered the first day he met you—flight school orientation, crisp khakis, sun glaring off the tarmac, everyone fresh-faced and hungry. You’d stood a few rows behind him, already with a name people whispered about. “The Raven,” some muttered, not even your callsign yet, just the reputation. The kid prodigy. Top of her undergrad class. The one who flew solo before most people learned how to park a car.

Bradley had looked back and seen you smiling politely at some poor bastard who asked if you were actually here for pilot training. You answered with grace, a little tilt of your head, voice soft and sweet. You didn’t even roll your eyes. And that made him mad.

He didn’t know why. Not then. But it pissed him off—the way you were so damn calm about it. The way you acted like being better than the rest of them didn’t come with weight. Like you weren’t carrying a whole spotlight on your back and somehow making it look effortless.

And when you introduced yourself? All handshakes and "nice to meet you," eyes warm, tone gentle? He shook your hand and said something stupid. Something sharp. Something like, “Well, let’s see if you can keep up, sweetheart.”

You had blinked, just once, like you were weighing whether to clap back or let it slide. But you didn’t. You just gave him a smile so polite it almost stung and said, “Hope you brought your A-game, Bradshaw.”

And then you beat him. Over. And over. And over again.

At first, it was little things—sim scores, formation grades, instructor praise. You never gloated. Never rubbed it in. You offered to study together once, back when you still thought maybe you were on the same side.

He’d scoffed. “I don’t need tutoring.”

You’d nodded, like you expected that answer. Like you were used to boys like him reacting that way. And then you left him alone.

But you never stopped shining. You never stopped rising. And he never stopped resenting the way people gravitated to you like you were gravity itself.

It became muscle memory. Resent you. Compete with you. Cut corners when you were near because losing to you felt worse than losing to anyone else.

And all the while, you just kept flying.

Meanwhile, he tried to tell himself that you weren’t that good. That maybe you were just lucky. Maybe someone up the chain had a soft spot for prodigies. Maybe if he flew riskier, faster, harder, he’d outrun your shadow.

But even now, looking back?

He remembered the day you got your first perfect solo evaluation.

And he remembered how much he hated you for it.

Not because you didn’t deserve it, but because you did.

He still remembered the day the Top Gun scores came out like it had happened this morning. The sun had been brutal, baking the runway, sweat collecting under his collar even before he saw the board. The squad was gathered around it, jostling for space, hearts in throats and egos on the line.

And then someone shouted his name.

“Bradshaw—first. Holy shit.”

It echoed like an explosion in his chest. He didn’t believe it at first. He blinked, stepped closer, read it again. Bradshaw, B. At the top. Number one. Above you.

He turned before he could stop himself, already seeking your face in the crowd. And there you were—calm, composed, unreadable, just like always. Standing a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, your expression neutral. Too neutral.

And for one brief second, he swore he saw it. A flicker of something behind your eyes. Disappointment. Pain. Like you hadn’t expected to lose. Like maybe for the first time, you were struggling to breathe.

You hadn’t said anything. You just gave him a tight nod and walked away.

Meanwhile, everyone else was clapping him on the back, congratulating him like he’d just saved the world instead of barely outscoring someone who usually left him in the dust. They called it a win. They called it proof. But in the pit of his stomach, something soured.

Because deep down? He knew.

You flew better that week.

Your runs were cleaner. Your shots tighter. You pulled out of the low-alt maneuver smoother than he ever had. But you got docked points for something small—a missed comm, a second too late in your roll—and suddenly, that was the margin. That was how he won.

He told himself he deserved it. Told himself he worked harder. That maybe you needed to be knocked down a peg.

But God, he could still see your face. Blank. Distant. Like you were already a hundred miles away from this place. And he hated how empty the win felt without your respect stamped onto it.

He’d joked about it later, played it off like he always did. “Hey, first time for everything,” he’d said with a smirk, leaning on your locker as you stripped off your flight suit. You didn’t even look at him.

“You flew well,” you said, voice flat. “Enjoy it.”

Then you walked away. Again.

And he held onto that one win like it was carved in gold. Because he knew it would probably be the last.

The Hard Deck was loud, like always. Laughter echoed off the walls, music humming from the jukebox, and the familiar clatter of bottles and boots filled the space like static. The others were already halfway into their drinks—Phoenix tossing peanuts into Fanboy’s glass, Coyote nursing a whiskey, Jake leaning smugly against the bar like he owned the damn place. Bradley slid in like a ghost. Quiet. Disconnected.

He didn’t want to be here. Not really. But showing up was easier than sitting in his apartment, staring at the wall, replaying your voice in his head like a damn flight tape on loop.

So he grabbed a beer. Didn’t even taste it. Just held it in his hands like it gave him something to do.

Nobody asked about what happened.

Not directly.

There were glances, sure. Halo caught his eye once and gave him a small nod. Not quite sympathy—more like, you good? He didn’t nod back.

He leaned on the edge of the pool table, watching Payback line up a shot, pretending not to notice how many empty spaces there were in the room. How your spot at the bar, the one two stools down from Phoenix, was vacant. Untouched. Like everyone had the sense not to sit there.

He didn’t ask where you were. Didn’t look around. Didn’t let his eyes scan the room like they wanted to.

But Bob, soft-spoken and way too goddamn perceptive, wandered up beside him and murmured, “She stepped out. Took a call ten minutes ago.”

Bradley’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t ask,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“I know,” Bob said, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t dropping a depth charge in the middle of Bradley’s already fraying nerves. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

Bradley took a sip of his beer. Still didn’t taste it.

Ten minutes. That meant you were probably gone. Maybe pacing outside. Maybe already halfway home. Maybe you just needed space—which was fair, considering how close he’d come to ruining your entire future twenty-four hours ago.

He should’ve apologized.

He should’ve chased after you when you left that locker room.

But what the hell was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I nearly got you killed again, and also sorry that I made your dream feel like a death sentence instead of a calling? There weren’t words big enough to patch that kind of damage.

So instead, he stood there, shoulder pressed against the table, pretending he wasn’t scanning the door every few seconds.

And pretending that ten minutes didn’t feel like a goddamn eternity.

Bradley slid his beer onto the bar, half-finished and sweating. No one noticed. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he eased away from the table and headed toward the door. The jukebox kicked into a Tom Petty track just as he slipped out, the air outside cooler, quieter, sharp with salt and sea.

Only one person noticed—Bob. Sitting near the window with a seltzer and his usual unreadable expression. Their eyes met for a split second. Bradley gave him a nod, subtle. Bob didn’t say anything. He just went back to his drink.

Outside, the wind was soft, brushing past like a whisper. The night had a haze to it, moonlight bleeding across the sand. And there you were.

Down near the shoreline, pacing slow, bare feet sinking into the damp sand. Your flight suit was tied at your waist, tank top catching the sea breeze, and your voice—light, polite, controlled—drifted through the dark like a radio signal.

He stopped a few yards back, just behind a dune, out of sight. He wasn’t proud of it. But something about the curve of your shoulders, the way you weren’t pacing fast or frantic, but with this eerie kind of calm—that had him frozen.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you were saying. Your voice was low but clear, just loud enough for the waves not to drown it out. “No, I just needed to step out for a bit. Long day.”

Bradley felt something squeeze in his chest. He couldn’t tell if you were talking to a boyfriend, family, someone back home. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. But there was a warmth in your voice that he’d never heard aimed at him. Not once.

You stopped, turned toward the water, and exhaled. “Yeah… I still think about it. Sometimes. The house. The stupid fence. I know it’s dumb.”

Bradley’s breath caught. Your voice had shifted—smaller, quieter, like you were pulling the edges of yourself in.

“I just thought, maybe someday. You know? Somewhere off-base. Near town but not too far. One of those little ones with the blue shutters and a fence so white it hurts your eyes. Not a big place. Just something that’s… mine.”

There was a pause. A silence so thick it muffled even the waves. Then you said, almost too quietly:

“Guess it’s not really realistic anymore.”

Bradley’s stomach dropped.

You weren’t angry now. You weren’t screaming or glaring or spitting fire. You were disappointed. And somehow, that hurt worse.

You shifted the phone to your other ear. “No, I’m okay. Really, Mom. Just tired. I’ll be back soon.”

He backed away then. Slowly. Like he’d intruded on something sacred. Because that version of you—the soft one, the dreaming one, the one who still believed in white fences and front porches and safety—that wasn’t meant for him.

And maybe it never had been.

It had been three weeks since you last yelled at him. Three weeks since your voice had laced through the Ready Room like razor wire. Since you told him—told the whole damn room—that you weren’t ready to die. That you wanted a house. A fence. A life.

And you hadn’t said a word to him since.

No snarling. No cursing. No storming out of locker rooms. No fire, no fight. Just silence. Cold and clean, like the distance between two aircraft flying the same path but refusing to sync up. You sat on the far side of the room now, same row as him, but two chairs over. Always two chairs over. Just far enough to make it clear that whatever fragile thing had cracked open between you was now buried.

He looked at you now—just a glance. Your arms were crossed, jaw set tight, eyes forward as Maverick stepped into the room, flight suit half-zipped and clipboard in hand. The tension in the air shifted as everyone straightened up.

“All right,” Maverick said, voice firm. “Mission brief starts now. Eyes up.”

The screen behind him flickered on, showing a grainy aerial map with tight, looping canyons stretching across a hostile zone overseas. Words blinked in red: OPERATION IRON DAGGER.

“We’ve been tapped for a coordinated strike package—high-risk, high-payoff,” Maverick said, clicking the remote. “Our objective is a hardened weapons facility buried within this canyon system, located in disputed territory. Intel confirms it’s manufacturing advanced ballistic systems outside international regulations. The brass wants it gone.”

He pointed to a choke point on the map, a narrow zig-zag of cliffs and blind corners. “The airspace is saturated with radar. SAM sites along the ridge lines, anti-aircraft guns in fixed bunkers, and a rotating patrol of enemy fighters—likely fourth-gen models, MiG-29s or Su-35s. That means we stay low, fast, and quiet.”

Phoenix let out a soft breath. “So it’s another sneak-in-sneak-out scenario?”

“Exactly,” Maverick said. “You’ll be flying below radar detection. Altitude will stay at or below 300 feet AGL for most of the route. That’s less than a football field. One mistake, one overcorrected pitch, and the SAMs light you up like a Christmas tree.”

Bradley shifted in his seat, glancing at the others. Payback was leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin. Fanboy scribbled something in his notebook. Bob was stone still. And you—of course—you didn’t flinch.

“The target itself is buried in reinforced concrete,” Maverick continued. “You’ll need to hit it with precision. Double payloads. Two rounds of tandem penetrators. One pass only. There’s no second shot.”

Hangman raised an eyebrow. “And what about air patrols?”

“Two enemy patrols confirmed,” Maverick said. “One operating south of the ridge, one on the far east flank. You will be seen on exit. That’s a guarantee. Which means your egress window is tight. Rooster, Raven, you’re team lead. You’ll fly point, drop first, and punch the gap.”

Bradley blinked. He looked toward you. You didn’t even glance at him.

“Seriously?” Hangman scoffed. “Them? Flying lead? Together?”

“It’s not up for debate,” Maverick said flatly. “They’ve both logged more canyon-flight hours than the rest of you combined. They’re our best shot.”

Bradley’s mouth was dry. The silence was crushing. Still, you said nothing.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “What’s our comms protocol post-bomb drop? In case we get separated.”

Maverick clicked again. A new slide appeared: CALL SIGN FREQ CHART.

“You’ll be split into pairs. Phoenix and Bob, Hangman and Coyote, Payback and Fanboy. Comms will be encrypted. After drop, you switch to alt-freq Zulu-3 to rejoin at Rally Point Echo. Time from target to extraction is under three minutes. If you’re not at RP Echo by then, exfil will proceed without you.”

Bradley swallowed hard. He could feel the weight settling across his shoulders. The same creeping dread he felt before every mission that went just a little too real.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“What’s the eject threshold altitude post-impact?” you asked, tone razor-sharp. “Assuming a hit during egress. Jet compromised. No time to climb.”

Maverick didn’t blink. “Two-fifty AGL minimum. Any lower, and the chute might not fully deploy. But you already know that.”

You nodded once. Your expression didn’t change.

Bradley felt the chill then. The clinical way you asked it. Like you weren’t afraid to die—just prepared.

He hated that it came from him. That silence between you had taught you how to be this detached.

Maverick scanned the room, pausing just long enough to let your question settle. Then he clicked again, switching to a diagram of the canyon run. Every inch of the terrain was unforgiving—jagged ridgelines, sudden drops, hairpin turns. One screw-up, and you'd be scraping metal off the walls.

“You’ll hit your ingress point at oh-four-hundred,” Maverick continued. “Weather forecast shows minimal cloud cover, wind from the north at twelve knots. Good visibility, but that means the enemy’s got it too. We can’t guarantee a clean in-and-out.”

Bradley caught the shift in Bob’s posture—rigid, focused. Next to him, Phoenix gave a quiet nod. Hangman leaned back with his arms crossed, trying to play it cool, but his jaw was locked. Even Payback had stopped chewing his gum.

“Raven and Rooster will lead the first strike pair,” Maverick said, like it was already carved in stone. “Phoenix and Bob, you’ll follow. Hangman and Coyote, you’re on air cover once the payloads are dropped. Payback and Fanboy, standby team—watch our six.”

Bradley could feel it now. The weight pressing down on everyone. But none of it hit harder than the fact that you hadn’t even twitched when Maverick said his name next to yours. Three weeks ago, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Scoffed. Bit out a sarcastic “figures.” Now? You didn’t even blink.

He hated this version of you. Not because you were cold—but because he’d made you cold.

Maverick took a step toward the screen again, tapping a highlighted route. “This section here—Bravo to Delta—is your most dangerous leg. It’s a ninety-degree turn at speed with less than 250 feet of vertical clearance. That’s where the last drone strike attempt failed. They clipped the wall and never made the drop.”

Bradley’s pulse kicked up. He’d flown turns like that before. Once. In training. And even then, it damn near made him black out.

Hangman whistled low. “So we’re supposed to make a laser-precise drop at Mach 1 while threading a needle at canyon depth. Nice.”

“You’ve done worse,” Maverick replied dryly. “And I’m still here to remind you.”

That pulled a small chuckle from Payback, but it didn’t last long.

“What about alternate evac?” you asked suddenly. “If RP Echo’s compromised. We get pinned down by enemy patrols—what’s plan B?”

Bradley turned slightly, trying not to be obvious about it, but he looked at you. You were sitting forward now, elbows on your knees, focused in that lethal, surgical way you always were when things got real. No trace of fear. No hesitation. Just mission mode.

Maverick clicked once more. A backup route appeared—longer, more exposed. “Evac option B is RP Whiskey. Takes you thirty klicks off the canyon system, but it’s out of the radar net. If you’re forced to break formation, that’s your window. You get there, you get out.”

“And if we don’t?” Phoenix asked quietly.

Maverick looked her dead in the eye. “Then you better hope to hell your chute opens.”

A heavy silence followed. The kind where nobody moved. Nobody even breathed. Just the dull hum of the projector and the distant whine of jets on the tarmac outside.

Bradley’s hand twitched against the armrest. He wanted to say something—ask something—but he didn’t even know what. All he could think about was the last time he saw a jet go down. The smoke. The screaming. The sick, twisting silence afterward.

And now you were flying point with him, because of course you were.

Maverick let the silence breathe for just a beat longer, then set down the clicker and folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t sugarcoat it. This mission’s tight, dangerous, and one misstep away from turning into a goddamn funeral procession. You’re the best we’ve got. That’s why you’re here. But this isn’t about glory—it’s about precision. About trust.”

At that last word, Bradley felt his stomach tighten.

Trust.

Right.

He chanced another glance toward you. Still silent. Still composed. But he knew better now. Knew that silence was never blank—it was armor. And you were wearing it like a second skin.

Hangman leaned forward, tongue in his cheek. “Sir, with all due respect—if we’re pulling Mach 1 through canyon turns and going against SAMs and fourth-gen fighters, we should at least be equipped with newer countermeasures. These birds are running old-gen flares. We flying or praying out there?”

Maverick didn’t flinch. “New systems are en route. You’ll be flying with upgraded ECM pods—jamming capabilities, enhanced decoys, everything short of invisibility. And praying doesn’t hurt either.”

Coyote chuckled under his breath. “Guess it’s time to hit church.”

Payback nudged Fanboy. “You still carry that lucky coin?”

Fanboy patted his chest pocket solemnly. “Always.”

Bradley let the chatter roll for a second, but his focus was still zeroed in on you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken again since your evac question. You were watching Maverick, your expression unreadable.

Then you leaned back in your chair, voice low and measured. “Do we know if the enemy’s updated their radar since the last recon pass?”

Maverick looked straight at you. “Not confirmed. Last sweep was two weeks ago. Intel says no. But you plan like they have.”

You gave a single nod, that sharp, exact motion you always used when you were filing something away. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment. Cold. Calculated.

Phoenix shifted beside Bob, who was scribbling notes with his usual quiet intensity. “And how long do we have on target?”

“Fourteen seconds,” Maverick said. “From entry point to payload drop, max. You get in, you stay steady, you release. Raven, Rooster—you’ll have to mirror each other’s flight paths exactly. No deviation. If one of you pulls off-axis, you’ll both miss.”

That landed like a lead weight in the room. Bradley didn’t need to look to feel it. You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

Because three weeks ago, you would’ve called him reckless. Said he couldn’t hold a formation if his life depended on it. But now? You weren’t even wasting the breath. You’d just fly the damn line and pretend he wasn’t there.

Maverick grabbed the last slide, a table of call signs and order of operations, then set the clipboard down. “We launch at 0400. You’ll be wheels-up before first light. Flight briefings and aircraft assignments go out in thirty. Dismissed—unless you’ve got questions.”

Bradley sat still. Part of him hoped you’d say something else. Start a fight. Call him out. Anything to break this cold front between you.

But you just stood up, straightened your flight suit, and walked out.

He caught you outside the hangar thirty minutes later, just as the squad began to scatter across the tarmac, filtering toward lockers, briefing rooms, and checklists. The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the concrete, throwing gold over everything but you.

You stood near the fence, arms crossed, posture tense like a coil ready to snap. He hesitated for a beat—long enough to consider backing out—but then he forced himself to move.

“Hey,” he said quietly, like testing the wind before a hurricane. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t look at him. For a moment, he thought you’d ignore him entirely. But then you gave the smallest nod, turned halfway toward him, and muttered, “Five minutes. That’s all.”

Bradley stepped in, suddenly aware of how loud his boots sounded against the pavement. Everything about you looked like a wall—rigid spine, clenched jaw, eyes locked on some distant point just past him.

“I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he started, voice already shaking. “For what happened. That flight—three weeks ago. I wasn’t looking. I got reckless. I thought I had the shot—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in sharply, still not looking at him. “You didn’t have the shot, Bradshaw. And I almost paid for it with my fucking life.”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer, voice low and raw. “I know that. I live with that every day, and I hate myself for it. I keep going over it in my head—I should’ve peeled left, should’ve watched the damn six, but I—”

“But you what?” you snapped, finally turning toward him with fire in your eyes. “But you thought you knew better? You always think you know better. You’re so goddamn obsessed with proving yourself that you never stop to think about the people flying next to you.”

Bradley flinched. Your voice cut deeper than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true. You had always known how to find the soft spot beneath the armor.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” he said, but the words felt hollow. “I just—I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You weren’t,” you said, and your voice cracked just a little. Not in volume, but in restraint. “You don’t get to nearly kill me and call it a mistake.”

He felt his breath catch. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.” You stepped in now, just barely, but enough for him to see how tightly your fists were clenched. “You always do, whether it’s the air or the ground. You can’t stand it when I’m ahead of you. You hate it. You’d rather burn the whole damn sky down than see me beat you.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, voice rising. “That’s not—God, that’s not fair.”

“No?” Your laugh was bitter, humorless. “Tell me then. Tell me why every time I pull ahead, every time I get recognition or lead the squad, you act like I stole something from you.”

Bradley shook his head, jaw tight, trying to keep the emotion from cracking wide open. “Because I respect you. Because you push me. Because when I see your name ahead of mine, I want to be better.”

You scoffed, stepping back. “That’s a lie you tell yourself to sleep at night. The truth is, you hated me from the moment I showed up. You couldn’t stand that the ‘golden boy’ wasn’t always number one.”

“Jesus Christ, you think I give a shit about rank?” he snapped.

“Yes!” You shouted it now, full volume, no restraint. “Because you always did. Because the one time you beat me—Top Gun, remember?—you never let me fucking forget it. You carry that one win around like it’s your damn dog tags.”

Bradley looked down. Swallowed hard.

You stepped forward again, voice lower now, but far more dangerous. “You almost got me killed, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to figure out if I hate you more for that, or for how easy it was for you to walk away from it.”

He looked up at you, eyes bloodshot. “I didn’t walk away from it.”

“You sure as hell didn’t face it either.”

The silence between you burned hotter than the shouting ever could. Wind from the airfield swept past, kicking up the scent of oil and smoke and sun-baked concrete.

You glanced at your watch. “Time’s up.”

He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came. You turned on your heel, walking back toward the hangar without a single look back.

And Bradley just stood there, the sunset throwing his shadow long across the asphalt, knowing he’d fucked it up again.

The hangar felt colder than usual that morning, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The sky outside was still bleeding from night to morning—hints of gray and violet brushing the horizon, the sun nowhere in sight. Inside, the air was thick with silence, only broken by the occasional zip of a flight suit or the metallic clink of gear being prepped.

Bradley sat on the bench beside his locker, boots planted, elbows on his knees, helmet between his hands. He stared at the same floor tile for what felt like ten minutes, but time wasn’t real anymore. Not today. Not when every tick brought them closer to wheels-up.

Around him, the squad moved like ghosts. Phoenix didn’t crack jokes. Hangman wasn’t strutting. Payback and Fanboy spoke in hushed tones, and even Coyote—usually the first to throw sarcasm into the air like confetti—was quiet. And Bob... Bob looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He kept checking his watch, then his checklist, then your empty locker across the aisle.

You hadn’t shown up yet. Not late. Just... not there yet. And it made something twist in Bradley’s chest, tight and sharp.

This mission felt different.

And not just because of the SAMs or the canyon or the fact that the egress window was barely wide enough to squeeze through without brushing death. No, it was you. It was knowing you’d be flying beside him again, trusting him again—whether you wanted to or not. And after everything he said, everything he did or didn’t say... the idea of that trust made him feel even sicker than the mission itself.

“Hey.”

Bradley looked up. Maverick stood there, arms crossed, flight suit zipped, expression unreadable. Just the same calm he always wore when the storm was about to hit.

“Got a second?”

Bradley stood, nodding, following Maverick a few steps down the corridor where the others couldn’t hear. It felt like walking into a confessional.

“I know what this mission is,” Maverick said, voice low. “I know how it looks on paper. I know how it feels in your gut. I’ve flown enough of them to know when someone’s not just afraid of dying—they’re afraid of watching someone else not come back.”

Bradley didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just stared past Maverick, eyes fixed on a vending machine that had been broken since last winter.

Maverick stepped closer. “You’re not afraid for yourself, Bradshaw. You’re afraid for her.”

Bradley finally looked at him. His throat was dry. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter.”

“I screwed it up,” he muttered. “I almost got her killed. And I—God—I haven’t even said what I should’ve said. Not really. And now we’re flying this death trap together and she’s acting like I’m invisible and maybe I deserve that, but if something happens—if I lose her today—”

Maverick shook his head. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Maverick admitted. “But I know her. And I know you. And I know what it looks like when someone’s in love and too damn proud to admit it.”

Bradley let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think she wants to hear that from me.”

“Maybe not,” Maverick said, voice softer now. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t owe it to her. If this is the last mission you ever fly together, don’t let it end with silence.”

Bradley nodded, slowly. Then faster. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to say. Or how. But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity—

He couldn’t lose you today.

And when he turned back down the hall and saw you finally walking in, flight bag slung over your shoulder, eyes sharp and distant as ever, his heart damn near stopped.

You were here.

And he had one last chance not to fuck it up.

The call came over the PA—crisp, no-nonsense, final. “All pilots, suit up. We launch in fifteen.”

That was it. No more waiting. No more chances. Whatever Bradley thought he might say to you before takeoff dissolved in the roar of movement—flight suits zipping, lockers slamming, helmets in hand. Everyone moved with quiet urgency, the weight of what they were about to do keeping the usual pre-mission chatter at bay.

He watched you from across the room as you tied your hair back, methodical and cold. Your expression hadn’t changed since you walked in, jaw locked tight and eyes unreadable behind that icy shield you’d perfected. You didn’t look at him once—not while you strapped on your vest, not when you checked your gloves, not even when you passed within three feet of him heading to the tarmac. Just silence.

And honestly, that hurt more than yelling ever could.

Meanwhile, Phoenix gave Bradley a short nod as she slid her gloves on beside Bob, who looked like he wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words. Hangman was unusually quiet, flexing his hands and staring down at his boots as he walked. Coyote gave him a quick pat on the back, unspoken support in the gesture, while Payback and Fanboy jogged ahead, already in full pre-flight focus mode.

Out on the tarmac, the jets sat like beasts in cages, lined up and gleaming under the rising sun. Ground crew moved like clockwork around them—last checks, fuel lines, engine calibrations. There was no more time to think, no time to doubt. Just action.

Bradley pulled on his helmet, adjusted the chin strap, and walked toward his bird—his legs heavy but sure. As he passed your jet, he caught sight of you climbing the ladder, moving with absolute precision. Not a hitch, not a tremble. You were in it. Mission mode. And the fact that you were flying lead with him again, after everything, made his stomach twist with something close to guilt—and fear.

He climbed into his cockpit, settled into the seat, and began flipping switches with muscle memory as his only guide. The radio check crackled in his ears, Phoenix calling out her confirmation, Bob’s voice clear behind hers, then the rest of the squad checking in one by one.

Then your voice cut through the comms.

“Raven, checking in. Let’s get this done.”

Bradley exhaled slowly. That was the only time you said his name—or rather, his call sign. But it was something. It meant you were still here. Still fighting. And for now, that had to be enough.

The engines roared to life one by one, the ground vibrating under the jets as they powered up. Canopies lowered, cockpits sealed. The tower gave them the go.

“Dagger Team, you are cleared for launch. Wind is calm. You are green for runway zero-nine.”

Bradley’s heart pounded as he taxied forward. The jet responded to his touch like it had been waiting for this, eager to rise. He glanced to his left as your aircraft pulled up beside his. Even with the helmets on, he knew your eyes were forward, unflinching.

Then the tower crackled again.

“Dagger One, Raven. Dagger Two, Rooster. You’re up.”

He pushed the throttle, wheels beginning to roll. The runway stretched out before him, long and narrow, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Behind him, the rest of the team lined up. Bob. Phoenix. Coyote. Hangman. Payback. Fanboy.

But it all came down to you and him.

And God help him—he wasn’t ready.

The nose of his Super Hornet surged forward, and Bradley felt the familiar pressure slam into his chest as the jet took off—wheels leaving the ground, gravity falling away beneath him. Beside him, your jet matched speed perfectly, sleek and steady, climbing into formation like you’d done it a thousand times. And you had. But not like this.

Not after everything.

The early light turned the clouds amber and gold, washing the squad in something almost holy as they rose through it, punching toward altitude. One by one, the rest of Dagger team joined them, locking into formation with practiced grace. The comms stayed clean—just call signs, coordinates, altitude reads. No jokes. No distractions.

“Dagger One, leveling at Angels twenty. Adjust heading one-eight-zero,” Maverick’s voice came through clear in the comms. “Maintain visual. Prep for descent in thirty.”

“Copy,” you said, your tone sharp as a blade.

Bradley echoed, “Copy.”

And that was it.

Meanwhile, Phoenix and Bob pulled into place behind them. Hangman and Coyote took high cover. Payback and Fanboy trailed the rear, scanners running hot. It was tight, controlled, and tense as hell. Every second they flew deeper into enemy airspace, every knot they pushed, brought the danger closer.

Bradley adjusted his throttle, eyeing his instruments, stealing a glance at your bird. You were holding formation with surgical precision, every move by the book, every turn crisp. But he knew you. Knew the way you flew when you weren’t on fire with anger. This was different. You weren’t just sharp—you were locked down. Like you’d built a cockpit inside your cockpit and sealed yourself in.

He wanted to say something. Hell, he almost keyed his mic. But the words jammed in his throat. What was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I shattered whatever was left of your trust—now let’s go dodge missiles together?

Right.

Ahead, the canyon yawned open beneath them, jagged and waiting. The target zone lay past its edge, buried deep in shadow and surrounded by SAM installations that could shred a jet in seconds. It was beautiful in that terrifying, cruel way war always was.

Maverick’s voice cut back in. “Approaching descent marker. Final checks. This is it.”

Bradley ran his eyes over the console one last time. Fuel: green. Weapons armed. ECM online. Heart rate—fuck, he didn’t want to look. Then he flipped the intercom to your channel, hesitated, and finally spoke.

“Raven… you good?”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Stay in your lane, Bradshaw. That’s all you need to worry about.”

It stung. Even through the helmet. But he swallowed it, flicked the switch back to squad comms, and nodded to no one.

“Dagger Two ready.”

Below, the canyon loomed.

And there was no turning back now.

The ridge line appeared on the horizon like the edge of the world. Steep, jagged, dusted with shadow, and unforgiving. Below it, the narrow canyon path curved like a blade, waiting to slice them in half if they dared to hesitate.

“Dagger team,” Maverick called out, voice cool but firm in the comms, “committing to canyon run. Adjust altitude to Angels 2.5. Weapons hot. Keep spacing tight.”

One by one, call signs answered, low and focused. “Copy that.” “Dagger Three committing.” “Dagger Four on your six.” “Dagger Five locked in.”

Bradley’s jet dipped low, throttle steady beneath his palm. The descent pressed into his ribs like a second heartbeat. He saw your bird sliding into place ahead of him, crisp and deadly in your movements. No hesitation. No overcorrection. Just pure, cold skill.

You always made it look easy.

He tightened his grip on the stick. “Rooster, committing. On Raven’s six.”

The canyon swallowed them whole.

Instantly, the sky disappeared. Walls rose up around them, tight and jagged, like flying through the ribs of some ancient beast. Every turn required perfect alignment. Every twitch of the wrist had to be calculated. There was no margin for ego here—only instinct, only execution.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. The Gs started to kick harder with every turn. And yet, through the chaos of motion and comms, all Bradley could focus on was the distance between his nose and your tail.

You flew like you didn’t care about him at all.

And maybe you didn’t.

“Two klicks to primary target,” Bob’s voice broke through, cool and sharp.

“Radar’s still clean,” Fanboy added. “No bandits yet.”

“Jinx it one more time and I’m ejecting you myself,” Phoenix muttered under her breath.

Ahead, the canyon narrowed again. Maverick’s voice snapped through. “Coming up on choke point. Two-hundred-foot clearance. Watch your damn wings.”

Bradley dropped just beneath the turn, matching your movement, feeling the canyon press closer, like the world was trying to squeeze them into vapor. Dust kicked up along the walls. The sound of wind grew sharper. His HUD flickered slightly—but steadied again.

And still, you didn’t say a word.

He swallowed. “Raven, you copy?”

You finally replied, clipped and cold. “Focus on flying, Rooster. Don’t get sentimental on my six.”

The bite in your voice was acid. He wanted to curse back. He wanted to defend himself. But instead, he took a breath and locked into formation tighter. Because there was no room for anything else now—not anger, not guilt, not regret. Only the mission.

“Coming up on target marker in one klick,” Maverick called out. “Get ready. We only get one shot at this.”

Bradley checked his systems again. Everything lit green. His pulse was a metronome in his ears. His eyes never left you.

You led them forward like death couldn’t touch you. And all he could do was follow.

The target marker lit up on his HUD like a warning flare. Thirty seconds to drop. The canyon veered sharply left, then cut back to the right, narrowing so tight he could feel the pressure in his teeth. Maverick’s voice crackled through, taut with command.

“Approaching strike point. Line it up, Raven.”

Your voice was steady, almost too calm. “On it.”

Bradley fell into perfect sync with your path, his breath shallow behind the mask. You leveled the jet, armed your payload, and held that line like your bones were carved from steel. He barely blinked.

And then—you released.

The target erupted in a flash of light and smoke, the bunker collapsing beneath the strike with a thunderous boom. The canyon walls shook. Dust exploded upward, choking visibility. Static hissed in the comms.

But it wasn’t over.

“Missile lock! Two o’clock high!” Fanboy’s voice snapped through, panicked.

Bradley’s HUD screamed red—enemy radar pinging like mad. “Break! Break! Break!”

Jets scattered in all directions, peeling out of formation. Bradley turned hard, pulling Gs sharp enough to crush breath from his lungs. “Shit—shit!”

But you didn’t break.

You turned late. Just a second too late. He caught a glimpse of your bird banking upward to dodge, trying to shake the lock, and for a heartbeat—he thought you were going to make it.

Then everything went white.

A missile slammed into your jet’s undercarriage with a deafening explosion. The fireball was instant, blooming like a sunburst just feet in front of him. Debris spun out wildly—metal, smoke, parts of your tail—and the shockwave slammed into his jet so hard it rattled the entire frame.

“Raven’s hit!” Phoenix yelled. “She’s hit!”

“I’ve got no visual—shit! Shit—there’s no chute!” Hangman barked, voice rising.

“Raven, do you copy?” Maverick called, but it was dead air.

Bradley’s throat closed. He was spinning, trying to level out, scanning every inch of sky through the haze and static. Nothing. No chute. No signal. Your aircraft plummeted below the canyon line, and there was nothing.

“Do we have eyes on her?” Bob shouted.

“I—I saw the hit, but I didn’t see an ejection!” Payback said, his voice cracking.

“Raven, come in! Come in!” Bradley was yelling now, his voice wrecked with panic. “Eject, eject—fuck—do you copy?!”

But there was nothing but static.

“Abort,” Maverick barked. “All Daggers, abort! Pull out and RTB—now!”

“No—no, we can’t—” Bradley’s grip shook. His eyes were still searching, darting across every corner of the sky. “She might be down there—she might’ve made it out, we didn’t see—”

“Rooster, that's an order. Fall back!” Maverick snapped.

But Bradley was already banking his jet, against every protocol, against every rule. His hands moved on instinct, shoving the throttle forward. He wasn’t leaving you down there. Not again.

And then—

“Missile lock!”

Another tone. Another beep. And he knew he was out of time. He pulled the handle. The ejection sequence ripped him from the cockpit in a violent jolt, the sky turning end over end as he shot upward. Then—silence.

His jet exploded behind him. And all he could think was—Please let her be alive. Please.

The first thing he felt was cold.

Not the kind that prickled the skin—but the kind that punched straight through to the bone, hollow and unrelenting. Snow crunched beneath his back. His body ached. His head was pounding like someone had dropped an engine block on it. The second thing he felt was pain—a burning, sharp throb in his left shoulder and ribs.

Bradley opened his eyes slowly, blinking against flakes of snow drifting down from a gray, heavy sky. The forest around him was quiet, like death was holding its breath. Tall, naked trees stretched upward like spears, their branches coated in frost. The wind whispered low through them, a ghost with teeth.

He groaned, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt like they’d been filled with cement. His parachute was tangled behind him, half-buried in the snow, torn on a branch above. He reached up and unhooked the harness with trembling fingers, gritting his teeth when a bolt of agony shot through his shoulder.

“Shit…”

His voice was hoarse. He coughed, and blood slicked the corner of his mouth. Great. Internal bruising, maybe a cracked rib or two. But he was alive. Barely.

And then the memory came flooding back.

The canyon. The hit. The explosion. You.

He pushed himself upright, ignoring the ice that stung every exposed inch of skin. His helmet was gone. His gloves were torn. He had no radio—just the emergency beacon strapped to his vest, blinking red like it knew help wasn’t coming fast enough.

Bradley looked around. The snow was fresh, but something about it felt… wrong. It wasn’t just cold. It was unfriendly. The kind of terrain that didn’t want visitors. The kind that made sure you stayed lost. Visibility was low, and the forest twisted in every direction like a maze designed by God on a bad day.

But none of that mattered.

You might be down here.

He forced himself to his feet, staggering at first, but managing a few slow steps forward. He scanned the treetops, the sky, the snow-crusted floor. No smoke. No wreckage in sight. But he’d seen where your jet went down. Somewhere east—maybe northeast, judging by the angle before he punched out.

He turned that way. Started walking.

Every breath he took turned white in the air. Every step sent a fresh bolt of pain up his spine. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“C’mon, Raven,” he muttered under his breath. “Be out here. Be alive.”

Branches cracked under his boots as he moved through the trees. He passed a shattered piece of metal—a chunk of his own jet, scorched and half-buried. No sign of yours. No sign of you.

He kept going. Snow began to fall harder. And somewhere, beneath the aching cold and the rising dread, was a single thought echoing in his skull:

I can’t lose her. Not like this.

The snow was falling harder now, thick wet flakes that clung to his lashes and blurred his vision. The forest didn’t end—it just kept going, tree after tree, shadow after shadow, like a cruel joke. Bradley’s boots dragged through knee-deep powder, legs stiff, back screaming. His left arm had gone mostly numb, pain radiating from his shoulder with every step like a lit fuse.

He should’ve stopped. Sat down. Waited for pickup, assuming the beacon was even working through the storm.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

What if you were more hurt than he was? What if you hadn’t ejected in time? What if you were lying somewhere alone, freezing, bleeding, maybe already—

No. He wouldn’t let his brain finish that sentence. So he kept moving.

Then his foot caught on something—maybe a root, maybe nothing—and he pitched forward into the snow hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The impact jarred his ribs. He let out a strangled groan and stayed there for a second, cheek pressed into the cold, white ground.

He closed his eyes. His body begged him to stay down. Just for a minute. Maybe five. Maybe forever. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, faster and louder than the wind in the trees. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.

But then, he saw your face.

Not in front of him. In his head. That glare. That fire. The way you rolled your eyes when he made a joke. The way you bit out his name like it offended you just to say it. The way you screamed at him in the locker room. The sound of your voice on the comms today—steady, unflinching, strong.

If you were down... if you were out here...You’d never forgive him for stopping.

Bradley forced himself up. Hands shaking. Chest tight. Snow stuck to the bruises on his face, but he didn’t care. He used a tree to steady himself and pushed forward again, limping harder now. He wasn’t even sure which direction he was going anymore—just that it felt right.

Then he saw something in the snow ahead. Black against white.

He stumbled faster. Closer. It was a panel. Torn metal. Jagged edges. Burned black. From your jet. His heart kicked hard in his chest. He scanned the area, breath catching, and—there. Tracks. They weren’t clean. They were shallow, staggered, like someone dragging their feet through the snow. Like someone hurt. Bradley broke into a limping run. You were out here. Alive. And he was going to find you if it killed him.

The trail of blood in the snow was faint but unmistakable—small dots at first, then streaks, smeared like someone had stumbled and tried to crawl. Bradley followed it with panic rising in his throat, the cold forgotten, his injuries numbed by pure adrenaline. His breath came in ragged clouds. His shoulder burned. But his eyes were locked ahead.

Then he saw it.

Your body—curled up against the base of a tree, half-covered by windblown snow. You were slumped sideways, limp, pale, your helmet off but your flight suit zipped tight. One arm was tucked beneath you at a strange angle, the other loosely draped over a pack marked with a red cross. Your emergency bag. Your boots were scraped and muddy, your lips slightly parted. You weren’t moving.

“Jesus—no, no, no, no—” Bradley dropped to his knees beside you, his hands clumsy and frantic as he reached out. “Hey—hey, come on. Come on, Raven, don’t fuckin’ do this to me.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

A pulse. Weak. But there.

He nearly collapsed with the relief.

“You stubborn little shit,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your frozen forehead. “Goddamn you, you better wake up and scream at me. You better.”

Meanwhile, the wind cut sharper, and the snowfall thickened. Bradley knew this was a race now—not just against the dark, or the cold, but against time. You were alive, but you wouldn’t be for long out here. Neither of you would. Not without shelter. Not without heat.

He hoisted your emergency bag over his shoulder, then maneuvered your unconscious body slowly onto his back. The pain that tore through his ribs was blinding—he bit down on a shout, staggering under the weight. You were bleeding. Heavy. And your suit was soaked through from the snow.

“Hang in there,” he muttered, his voice barely audible through gritted teeth. “I swear to God, you better wake up and punch me in the face for this.”

Step by step, he pushed through the forest, following the only path he could see—the one that looked like it might go anywhere but here. Time blurred. His legs trembled with every stride. His boots slipped on ice. At one point, he fell to one knee and stayed there for a moment too long, snow creeping under his collar, exhaustion clawing at his spine. But the weight on his back kept him grounded.

Then—like some goddamn miracle—he saw it.

A cabin. Nestled between trees like it had been waiting for someone to come back. The windows were fogged over. The front steps were buried in drift. But the door was intact.

He stumbled to it, kicked it open with the last of his strength, and nearly collapsed onto the wooden floor. Inside, it smelled like old pine and dust. The furniture was rustic, untouched for months. A single bed sat near a stone fireplace. Firewood stacked in a basket nearby. A metal kettle on the stove. Someone’s vacation home. Abandoned.

Thank God.

He gently set you down on the bed, heart in his throat the entire time. You didn’t stir. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, but there. He grabbed a blanket off a nearby chair and threw it over you, then tore through the emergency bag—gauze, trauma scissors, a pressure bandage, thermal wraps, adrenaline injectors. Enough to stabilize you.

He worked quickly, cutting away the worst of the blood-soaked gear and dressing your shoulder, your ribs, your side. He moved like a man possessed. Meanwhile, he stripped off his own vest and outer jacket, hanging them near the fireplace as he loaded logs and struck a match with shaking fingers. The flame caught. Heat finally breathed into the room.

And through it all, he kept glancing back at you.

Still out. Still too quiet.

He sank down next to you, resting his forearm on his knee, staring at your face like it might flicker back to life if he willed it hard enough.

“You better wake up soon,” he murmured. “You better scream at me, or throw something, or tell me I fly like shit. Because if you die after all that yelling... I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

The wind howled outside. The fire popped gently. You didn’t move.

Bradley sat back against the side of the bed, exhaustion crashing into him like a wave. But he didn’t close his eyes. He just watched you. Waiting.

The fire crackled softly now, casting golden light that danced across the wooden walls of the cabin. The heat finally pushed back against the cold that had sunk into his bones. Bradley sat on the floor beside the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on your motionless form. He couldn’t feel his left shoulder anymore. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But none of that mattered.

You were still breathing.

He glanced down at the emergency bag you’d somehow managed to drag out of the wreckage with you. Classic you—organized, stubborn, always prepared for shit to go sideways. Inside, tucked neatly in plastic compartments, was everything they should’ve packed in his kit. Mylar blankets, antibiotics, tourniquets, even a collapsible kettle and water purifiers. Hell, you had caffeine gum and glucose tabs.

He exhaled, almost laughed. “Always the overachiever, huh?”

Then, suddenly, you twitched.

Not much—just a wince, a shift of your hand—but Bradley shot upright so fast the pain nearly knocked him over again. You let out a soft, cracked sound, low and pained, like your body was waking up before your mind could catch up.

“Hey,” he said quickly, moving to the side of the bed. “Hey—easy. It’s okay, you’re alright. Don’t move.”

You groaned again, brows tightening, mouth parting in discomfort.

He reached for the bag, pulling out a bottle of saline and a clean cloth. He soaked it and carefully dabbed it against the shallow gash on your temple, wincing at how cold your skin still was. You flinched, just barely.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know. I’m trying to go easy, okay?”

Then he checked the dressing on your ribs, peeled the edge of the gauze back slowly to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Still clean. Still holding. He replaced it gently, then adjusted the blanket to cover more of your shoulder.

Meanwhile, he grabbed one of the emergency mylar wraps, shook it open, and tucked it over your body, tucking it under your chin like some kind of broken-winged nursemaid. His hands shook the entire time.

You shifted again, your lips forming a faint grimace.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You're in a cabin. You crashed. I found you. You're safe.”

No answer. Just more stillness, more shallow breaths. But at least you were reacting now.

Bradley rose slowly, ignoring the sharp jab in his side, and returned to the fireplace. He fed in another log, using the lighter from your bag to ignite one of the long-burning starter cubes. The flames snapped higher, dancing shadows across the wall.

He sat back again, arms resting on his knees, glancing between you and the fire. You hadn’t screamed at him yet. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. You’d probably say bad.

“I meant it, you know,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You better fucking wake up. I didn’t drag you through the snow just for you to lie there looking peaceful like some angel who never called me a cocky dipshit.”

Your head tilted slightly. Another soft breath escaped your lips. Still no words. But it was something.

So he stayed by the fire. Tending it. Tending you. Waiting for the storm to pass.

The fire cracked beside him, throwing long shadows across the cabin walls, but all Bradley could hear was the slowing beat of your breathing. Shallow. Uneven. Too slow.

He moved to your side in a flash, heart leaping into his throat. His hands hovered over your chest, over your wrist, over the fragile pulse that fluttered there like it was threatening to disappear.

“Shit,” he muttered. “No, no, no—not now. Come on, Raven, don’t fucking do this.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck again. The pulse was faint. Too faint.

His chest caved. All the tension, all the fury, all the sharp-edged pride cracked right down the middle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, gripping your arm like it might anchor you to this world.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, do you hear me?” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to go out like this—not after everything, not after all the shit we’ve been through.”

His breath hitched, and suddenly it was like all the air in his lungs turned into water. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop it, but the tears came fast and hot anyway, burning tracks down his dirt-streaked cheeks. His shoulders shook.

“I should’ve been faster,” he choked. “I should’ve stayed closer—I should’ve been there before that missile—before the goddamn canyon even curved—” He paused, gasping, eyes red, lashes wet. “This is my fault. Again.”

Outside, the storm had turned brutal. The wind screamed against the walls. Snow clawed at the windows like it wanted to bury the whole fucking world.

“I know you hate me,” he whispered. “I know you think I’m a reckless, selfish asshole. You were right. I’ve been a goddamn coward. And you—you’re the best fucking pilot I’ve ever seen. And the strongest person I know. And I swear to God, if you wake up, I’ll stop trying to one-up you, I’ll stop acting like I’ve got something to prove. I’ll shut up for once. I’ll listen. I’ll—hell, I’ll slam my head into the wall like you told me to that one time if that’s what it takes.”

His hand slid into yours, desperate, pleading.

“You always said I couldn’t handle you, right?” His voice cracked again. “But the truth is I need you. I—I need you more than I ever wanted to admit. And if you die out here before I get to say that to your goddamn face—”

You moved.

Not much. A flicker. A twitch. A low groan from deep in your throat.

He froze.

Your lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before your eyes slitted open—just a fraction. Your mouth barely moved, lips cracked and voice dry as sandpaper.

“God,” you rasped, low and croaky. “You really are an idiot.”

Bradley’s breath caught hard—somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He dropped to his knees at your side again, grabbing your hand in both of his, knuckles white.

“Jesus Christ—you’re awake.”

You didn’t even look at him. Just kept that same, tired smirk. That barely-there, half-dead glint in your eye. Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Crying over me like a little bitch.”

Bradley let out a breath like he’d just broken the surface after nearly drowning.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he whispered, voice shaking, eyes bright. He squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him now. “I swear, if you pull this dying shit one more time—”

“Then what?” you mumbled, one eye cracking open a little more, lazy and unimpressed. “You gonna propose?”

He blinked at you. You blinked back. Slow. Exhausted. Still very much bleeding.

And then—despite himself—he laughed. It was breathless. Shaky. Like something had snapped loose in his chest. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you or collapse right there on the goddamn floor.

“You are the worst,” he murmured, brushing your hair gently back from your face.

You groaned faintly, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Takes one to know one.”

Bradley stood slowly, his knees cracking as he rose from the floor beside you. His body felt like a crumpled aircraft schematic—nothing where it should be, everything either bruised, strained, or screaming. He held his side as he moved to the emergency bag again, pulling out one of the compact medical kits and a pair of trauma shears. With a grimace, he peeled off his flight suit from the waist up, revealing the deep, dark purple bruising that ran across his ribs and shoulder like spilled oil beneath the skin.

He muttered a soft curse as he cleaned the abrasions on his side, gritting his teeth while wrapping the gauze tightly. The adhesive tape tugged at his skin, and the burn of antiseptic made him suck in a breath. Still, he worked methodically, like going through the motions might keep his brain from short-circuiting again. Then he checked his arm—nothing broken, just swelling and stiffness. Probably sprained. Maybe worse. He didn’t care.

When the bleeding was managed and the trembling in his hands eased just enough, he pushed himself toward the small propane stove tucked in the corner of the cabin’s kitchenette. He pulled one of the ration packs from your emergency bag—of course it was alphabetized and vacuum-sealed in perfect, obsessive order—and set it to heat in the small metal pot. The smell of chicken and rice rose with the steam. It wasn’t gourmet, but right now, it was goddamn salvation.

He glanced back at you.

You were still in bed, eyes barely open, your breathing raspy but steadier now. Your fingers twitched slightly under the mylar blanket, adjusting it more snugly against your chest. You watched him with the same kind of look you used to throw across briefing rooms and cockpit huddles—half amused, half daring him to say something stupid.

He turned back to the food.

“Y’know,” he said, voice hoarse but casual, “this emergency bag of yours might’ve actually saved our asses.”

You didn’t miss a beat, even with your voice still ragged. “God forbid a woman be prepared.”

Bradley let out a short, huffed laugh. He shook his head, stirring the rations with a spoon you’d also somehow managed to pack.

“Guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me five,” you croaked, eyes narrowed slightly. “One for the canyon, one for the crash, one for dragging me through a forest like a sack of potatoes, one for sobbing like a rom-com lead, and one in advance for whatever dumbass thing you’re gonna do next.”

Bradley looked over his shoulder at you, lips tugging upward despite the exhaustion heavy in his bones. He didn’t argue. You were right.

He finished heating the meal, split it between two reusable plastic bowls from the pack, and limped over to your side. He sat down carefully at the edge of the bed, handing you one of them.

“Don’t spill it,” he warned. “I’m not cleaning shit up tonight.”

You took the bowl with a shaky grip, staring down at the steaming food. Then you raised an eyebrow at him.

“You heated it wrong.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

But you were both smiling now. Just barely. Just enough. The cabin groaned quietly as the storm raged on outside, but inside—there was warmth. A little silence. A little breathing room. And for once, you weren’t yelling. Yet.

The food sat warm between them, mostly untouched now. The first few bites had been out of necessity, but after that, neither of them had the appetite to keep going. The adrenaline was gone. The cold was gone. What remained was silence—slow, fragile, and heavy. The kind that settled into your bones when there was no more screaming left. No more fire to throw.

Bradley sat beside you, hunched forward slightly, his bruised ribs flaring with every breath. His bowl rested on his knee, cooling fast. He hadn’t looked at you in a minute. Not really. Just stolen glances, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

The fire crackled gently behind them.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were soft. Barely more than breath. But they landed with the weight of an avalanche. You didn’t look at him at first, your eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Your hands gripped the edges of the blanket, fingers tight and white.

“I mean it,” he continued, his voice cracking around the edges. “For everything. For Top Gun. For pushing too hard. For flying like I had something to prove. For the canyon. For the first time I almost got you killed. And for the second.”

You still didn’t say anything, but your jaw clenched. Your throat bobbed like you were trying to swallow down something sharp.

Bradley exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I thought if I was first, it would matter more. That it would mean something. But all it did was piss you off. And hurt both of us. And I just—I didn’t know how to stop. You made everything harder. You always have.” His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating, hopeless. “And easier. At the same time.”

Finally, you turned to look at him.

Your face was pale, streaked with dried blood, your eyes bloodshot and half-lidded from exhaustion. But when you looked at him, really looked at him, it made him feel like the floor had dropped out.

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered, voice gravelled and tight. “For never letting up. For fighting you on everything. For...for that day in the hangar. For what I said.”

He shook his head, quick and pained. “No. You had every right. I was reckless. I almost got you killed.”

“And I was scared,” you admitted, the confession like glass dragging across your throat. “I knew what this job meant. I knew it could end like that. But I—I didn’t think it would almost end like that. Not with you.”

Your voice cracked, and you looked away. The tears started quietly, slipping down your cheeks without warning. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. You were too tired. Too done pretending it didn’t matter.

Bradley set his bowl aside. Then he turned toward you fully, his good hand reaching for yours again. He didn’t take it, not yet. He just let it hover there.

“I couldn’t breathe when I saw your jet go down,” he said, voice raw and trembling. “I thought—I thought I lost you. And I realized I would’ve traded every ‘first,’ every top score, every kill, just to get you back. Just to hear you insult me again.”

You let out a choked laugh that sounded like a sob. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I know.”

Then you slid your hand into his, and it was the gentlest thing either of you had done in years. He gripped it like it meant everything—because it did.

And finally, you both cried. Together.

The fire kept burning. The storm kept raging. But in that little cabin, two stubborn hearts started to thaw—slowly, painfully, and with everything they’d never been able to say before now.

The silence between you stretched, no longer bitter, no longer cold—just full. Full of everything left unsaid and everything that had already been spoken in ways neither of you were ever brave enough to admit. The air felt thick, like it had shifted from smoke and frost to something warmer. Denser. And when your fingers curled around his, it wasn’t just forgiveness. It was surrender.

Bradley looked at your hand in his, then up to your face. Your lips were chapped, bruised in places, dried blood at the corner. Your cheek was swollen from where your helmet hadn’t caught the brunt of the crash. You looked like hell.

You looked perfect.

Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you like a pulse—hot, aching, and inevitable. Maybe it had always been coming to this. Maybe all the insults and shouting matches had been foreplay in disguise. Maybe somewhere between trying to outfly each other, you'd started orbiting too close. And now here you were. Burned. Broken. Breathing.

He leaned in slowly, not to test the waters—but to let you stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched just once. Then your eyes flicked down to his mouth. And that was all it took.

Bradley closed the distance, his mouth crashing into yours like it had been fighting gravity for years. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw—like a gasp, like a scream, like everything they hadn’t been allowed to feel until now. Your hands tangled in his flight suit collar, dragging him closer with a desperation that nearly unmade him. He felt the sting of your busted lip against his, the scrape of a healing cut across his cheek as your palm slid up to cup his jaw. He didn’t care. He leaned into it.

Meanwhile, the fire flared behind you both, casting long, molten shadows that flickered across your faces. The heat didn’t come from the flames anymore.

Bradley groaned softly against your lips, like he’d been holding it in for years, like he’d just let go of something heavy that had been dragging behind him. Your fingers curled tighter, and he felt your body arch slightly, broken ribs be damned. He caught you with one arm around your back, mindful but firm, grounding you in his hold.

Then, finally, you broke the kiss. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to let your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling.

“I fucking hate you,” you whispered, but your voice was trembling and your mouth brushed his when you said it.

Bradley smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

You leaned in again, slower this time, lips pressing to his with something more like reverence now. The heat was still there, simmering just beneath the surface—but it wasn’t fury anymore. It was fear. Relief. Longing.

Maybe even love. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer. But in the space between breath and burn, you both knew something had changed.

The kiss didn’t end so much as dissolve—like it had melted into your mouths, slow and heavy, as heat curled low in your belly. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, throwing shadows across the walls, but the burn between your thighs was hotter. Bradley didn’t pull back. He didn’t stop to ask again. He just held you tighter when your breath hitched and your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his flight suit, your touch gentle but need begging just beneath it.

He moved like it hurt—because it did. He winced as he knelt beside the bed, his body aching from impact, scraped raw from the crash. But that pain barely registered when your eyes flicked up to meet his, half-lidded and dark, when you whispered “Are you sure?” with a voice that already knew the answer. And he nodded, chest rising and falling like he was winded just from looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “I just… I need to be inside you. That’s all I want right now.”

You pulled at his shirt with trembling fingers, tugging it off like unwrapping something sacred and ruined. His skin was mottled with bruises, dirt still smudged across his collarbones, but your hands didn’t hesitate. You ran your palms down his chest, your thighs pressing together as arousal coiled tight in your gut. Bradley watched your pupils blow wide as he stripped, your gaze raking down his body like you were already picturing how it’d feel when he finally filled you up.

He slid into bed beside you, and you rolled to meet him, teeth clenched against the soreness in your ribs. But the ache of your injuries couldn’t drown out the ache between your legs. Your hand drifted down his stomach, brushing over the trail of hair below his navel, fingers curling around the thick length already straining against his boxers. He hissed at the contact, hips twitching. “Jesus,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your thumb teased the head, already leaking, slick and hot against your skin. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching the muscles in his stomach tighten with each pass. “You’re shaking,” you whispered. He smirked, breath ragged. “So are you.”

His hand slipped beneath the blanket and cupped your heat—no preamble, no teasing—just his fingers pressing into your soaked panties and groaning when he felt how wet you already were. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice gone low and rough. “You’re dripping for me. All that from a kiss?”

You nodded, breath hitching, thighs parting for him. “I’ve been wet since you touched my waist.”

That made something snap in him. He shoved the blanket down and yanked your underwear aside with one hand, baring you to the cool air. His fingers slid through your folds, slick and messy, before two plunged inside without hesitation. You gasped, back arching, hand still wrapped around his cock. He curled his fingers expertly, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

You moaned, louder this time, grinding down against his hand. Your grip on him tightened, pumping his cock harder now, your wrist flicking with every stroke. The bed creaked under the weight of your need, the scent of sex already thick in the air.

“Condom?” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. “No. Need to feel you. Need to be raw with you. Please.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was finger-fucking you, not with the way your orgasm was already building—tight and hot and ready to blow. You pulled him on top of you, whispering, “Then do it. Fuck me, Bradley. I want to feel you come inside.”

He growled at that—an honest-to-God growl—and lined himself up with trembling hands. He pushed in slow, agonizingly slow, watching every second of your face as his cock sank into your dripping heat. You were soaked, and still it stretched—thick and overwhelming, making you bite down a whimper as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, forehead resting against yours. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good.”

He pulled back and thrust again—slow, deep, filthy. The wet slap of skin echoed in the cabin, joined by your gasps, your curses, his ragged breaths. He fucked you with reverence and hunger, hips grinding in a rhythm that was somehow both tender and obscene.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, forcing him deeper. His pelvis ground against your clit every time he bottomed out, and your moans turned to whines, breathless and needy. “Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he panted, his voice wrecked. “I’m gonna fill you up. You want that? Want me to come inside you, leave you dripping full of me?”

You nodded frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Bradley. Please.”

He started thrusting harder, faster, but still holding himself back enough not to hurt you. Your bodies moved like you were built for this—like you were made to survive and then fuck each other back to life. He kissed you through it, tongue sliding into your mouth, catching your moans and swallowing your cries. You were close—so fucking close—and he felt it in the way you clenched down around him, fluttering with every stroke.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice raw. “Want to feel you come on my cock. Come, baby.”

You shattered. Loud, messy, back arching and hips jerking as you came around him, gushing slick down his thighs. He didn’t even make it a full thrust after that—he plunged deep, groaning loud into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped back out around him.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Bradley collapsed onto you, still inside, still pulsing weakly. You were shaking. He was shaking. His face buried in your neck, your fingers in his hair, both of you panting like you’d just run miles.

He kissed your temple. “Still hate me?”

You laughed, breathless, sated, ruined. “Ask me again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll let you do that again.”

His laugh was broken and full of wonder. The fire popped, the world outside frozen, but inside that bed you were burning alive.

And finally—finally—he let himself sleep. Still buried in you. Still holding on.

Bradley didn’t sleep for long. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Just long enough for the sweat to dry on your skin, just long enough for the fire to settle into a low, pulsing warmth around you both. He stirred against you, brow furrowed like his body refused to believe it was over. You were already awake, eyes half-closed, thighs sticky where his release had started to seep out of you and onto the sheets.

You shifted slightly, and that tiny movement—just the drag of your bare thigh over his hip—made him groan low in his throat. His cock twitched where it still rested, soft but thick, pressed against your inner thigh. You weren’t sure who moved first, but soon enough his mouth was at your neck again, slow kisses turned wet and open-mouthed, his hand creeping down to your ass to pull you closer.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin. “I’m still hard for you. Didn’t even mean to be.”

You smirked, pressing your hips forward just enough that his length slipped against your slit, catching in the mess he’d left inside you. “You didn’t pull out,” you whispered. “I’m still full of you.”

That made him groan—deep and broken—and he pulled back to look at you, eyes blown wide and dark. “Say that again.”

You leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, voice all silk and sin. “You came so deep inside me, Bradley. I can feel it dripping out every time I move. You gonna fix that?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your hips, rolled you onto your stomach, and pulled your ass up into the air like it was instinct. You gasped as your cheek pressed into the pillow, arms tucked beneath you, body still sore but aching in a whole new way now. He slid behind you, spreading your thighs with rough hands, and let out a choked moan when he saw the slick mess between your legs—his come still leaking from your swollen pussy, glistening in the firelight.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at that. Look at what I did to you.”

You tried to lift your head, but he pushed it gently back down. “Stay just like that, baby. Let me clean it up.”

You expected his fingers. You got his tongue.

Bradley dove in without warning, mouth sealing over your cunt as he licked his own cum out of you with slow, filthy precision. His tongue lapped through your folds, circling your clit before dipping back in, tongue-fucking you while groaning into your pussy like it was his last meal. You cried out, hips bucking, hands clutching the sheets as your body lit up all over again.

“You taste like us,” he muttered between licks. “So fucking sweet and dirty. Bet you’d let me keep you like this, wouldn’t you? Keep you leaking for days.”

You whined, breathless, wrecked. “Bradley, please—fuck, please, I need you again.”

He pulled back, spit-slick and shameless, and stroked his cock—already fully hard again, glistening at the tip with fresh pre-come. “Yeah?” he panted. “You need me to fuck it back in? Fill you up again until it’s running down your thighs?”

You nodded, dizzy with it. “Yes—God, yes, do it, don’t be gentle this time, just fuck me—”

He didn’t hesitate. He lined up and shoved back in with one deep, brutal thrust that had you crying out into the pillow. The sound he made—guttural, lost—was pure filth. You were already so wet, so open, he slid in to the hilt in one stroke, and then he started moving.

No slow build-up this time. No worship. This was raw and carnal, fast and mean. His hips slapped against your ass as he pounded into you from behind, one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. You were babbling now, words slurring into moans, your pussy fluttering around him with every thrust.

“You wanted this,” he growled, leaning down to bite at your shoulder. “Wanted me to ruin you. Wanted me to fuck my come back into you like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you gasped. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m so yours, Bradley.”

He snapped his hips harder, angle brutal, tip hitting your cervix with every thrust. “Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“You gonna let me breed you?” he snarled against your ear. “Let me fuck you full until it takes?”

You came so hard your vision went white.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body convulsing around him as your pussy clenched down hard, milking him with wet, obscene sounds. Your scream was muffled by the pillow, and Bradley wasn’t far behind.

“Shit—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—”

He slammed in one last time, burying himself to the base and spilling inside you again. Hot, thick, endless. His cock twitched deep in your cunt, pumping rope after rope of come into your already-filled pussy, and neither of you could breathe.

When he finally collapsed, it was on top of you, still deep, both of you sticky and shaking. His lips brushed your ear.

“That’s twice,” he muttered. “You really want me to ask you again in the morning?”

You groaned, completely fucked-out. “Ask me before breakfast. I might be ready for round three.”

And in the faint, smoky light of the dying fire, Bradley laughed—low and satisfied—and kissed your spine like you were the only thing left in the world worth surviving for.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time you both stopped shaking. The room smelled like sex and smoke, like sweat and survival, like the kind of love that doesn’t ask for forgiveness because it never needed to. You stayed tangled together, his cock still nestled deep inside you, warmth spilling from between your thighs with every breath.

His chest rose against your back, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other curled protectively around your thigh like he didn’t trust the night not to steal you. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Because whatever this was—this wreckage, this worship, this filthy, fevered clinging to each other in the middle of nowhere, you didn’t bother pretending it was anything else. 

Call it what it was: raw, relentless, and real. And maybe a little ruined, but it was yours.

[spiderfunkz]

BLOWN A WISH

pairings. cho hyun-ju x f!reader

cw. established relationship, fluff, kisses, hyun-ju forgets reader's birthday, this takes place long after the games (they all survive and get a fair share of the money yay).

author's note: i have two more fics for hyun-ju in my drafts, please keep requesting for her! she's such a dear i love her so much RAAAH

to be fair, birthdays weren't a big thing in your house.

it never bothered you, well, sometimes it does. only when you were little, you used to get invited to birthday parties, then, you realized how much it mattered at that age. but no matter how much you protested to your parents, they denied every single request.

you matured though. you realized that it was just a reminder of the time passing since you were born. ever since then you never mind it.

and well, as you got older, you had bigger things to worry about. school, classes, studies, college, jobs, work, bills, bills, bills.. so many bills. to be covered in debts you are unable to pay, the thought of your birthday never crossed your mind ever again.

but after some, not so pleasant events, you managed to get back on your feet. you managed to pay your debts, find a job, a nicer apartment, and a very, very, nice woman.

cho hyun-ju had her struggles as well. you talked to her only once throughout the deadly games, but soon you were reunited during a stressful night at a convenience store. you soon grew a bond together, sure it was bonded by trauma— but it was amazing to have someone close by.

you two grew closer everyday. after some time, she moved into your apartment. it was everything you could ever imagine. things were great. you went on dates, talked everyday, cooked together— hyun-ju is an amazing cook you noted, and everything seemed perfect.

everything is perfect. but recently, jobs have been piling up, specifically hyun-ju's. your time and her time kept getting disrupted by sudden meetings, paperwork, and nagging clients.

soon, the coffee table by the couch was filled with unorganized files. you could only shower hyun-ju with reassurance and motivating words, making her coffee from time to time, and giving her forehead kisses before going to bed early.

you respected her work. so you never bothered her. besides, you got your own things to settle.

not long after, your birthday came.

hyun-ju had planned everything beforehand. she'd come back from work earlier, she'd cook your favorite meal, and she'd give you a present she had already prepared (a handmade gift and a letter for you). she also bought a big bouquet of flowers that were meant to be picked up—

two days ago?

the date on her phone made her eyes widen. did she just miss your birthday? she couldn't believe it. surely this was some glitch in the matrix or something!

she realized you weren't home yet, right, you are currently out buying groceries. how much time does she have left to cook you dinner? she didn't care to check the time again, she went to the kitchen to cook a quick yet delicious meal. it was your favorite.

hyun-ju had become a witch running against time, your favorite meal was ready in no time. after plating it, she quickly called a shop to get flowers sent right away, then, she took a break to ease off for a bit.

the handmade gift and letter is in a box under your bed, she knew for sure. after inhaling a glass of water, she grabbed it and put a ribbon as a finishing touch. she was very proud of it.

she waits rather impatiently for the flower to arrive,

and almost in an instant, the doorbell rings.

she ran to open it, only to be met with your beautiful face, holding a bunch of paper bags filled with all kinds of needs.

"hyun-ju, ah, i forgot my keys, see." you gestured to your empty pockets. hyun-ju basically froze in place, "could you please help me with these." you laugh awkwardly, she grabs the paper bags immediately.

she mentally facepalms herself, "oh and. this came by the lobby, said it was for cho hyun-ju, so i grabbed it since i was going up. i figured you were still doing paperwork." you motioned to the bouquet of flowers that was hidden behind the paper bags.

you have to be kidding me.

hyun-ju sighs, "let me bring those bags in for you first." she puts the paper bags on the counter, you close the door with your feet, your arms holding the remaining paper bag and the bouquet of flowers, placing it beside the rest.

"so, um," hyun-ju starts, "that bouquet was actually for you."

you tilt your head in surprise, smiling. "really?"

hyun-ju nods. "see, it was supposed to be delivered two days ago, for your birthday. but gosh- i'm so sorry. i was so busy with work i forgot to pick it up. it's probably starting to wilt as we speak, so i bought a new one and called to get it delivered right away."

before you could respond she continues,

"and i know it is no excuse to forget your own girlfriend's birthday, i had everything planned out, you know. i was going to cook your favorite meal, and then surprise you with the flowers and the gifts i've prepared. but, i don't know what happened. time just flew by and i just realized earlier today," she catches her breath, "but do not fear, i cooked the meal just in time, it's right on the table ready for us. and well, you've seen the flowers so it's no longer a surprise but, there's one more thing."

she quickly runs off to grab the box under the bed before coming back to you in your confused state. "i made this. it's special, just for you."

she hands it to you, the words 'for my one and only :)' written neatly on it, sparkled with glitter and stickers.

"oh, hyun-ju! you shouldn't have," you smile widely.

"i'm really sorry for forgetting, i don't know how i can make up for it," she frowns.

"you know i don't usually do birthdays. this is the most i've ever gotten in my entire life. i'm very grateful for you, hyun-ju."

you give her a kiss, a very sincere one.

"thank you so much, i really mean it."

she smiles, brushing off how her cheeks are turning red. "come on, let's eat, the foods gonna go cold. i made you your favorite."

"my favorite's right here, what do you mean?" you tease, pointing at hyun-ju's now red face.

[elikajinnie]

I Let The World Burn For You - N.R | Part 1

P: Serial Killer!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions, Murder, Manipulation, Attempted Murder, Injury/Blood, Teasing, Angst, Obsessive Behaviour, Mind Games, Ni-ki is a nerd.

Synopsis: You’ve always loved crime shows, captivated by the mystery and mind games, but you never expected to live in one. When a killer develops an unsettling obsession with you, you’re thrust into a deadly game where you’re not just a target—you’re the centerpiece.

Wordcount: 27k

a/n: HELLO! TUMBLR!? Since i cant have more then 1k blocks i had to split this in 2 parts! LET ME WRITE LONG FICS! PLS! ugh.. (i kept replaying the apparation by sleeptoken while writing :p) hope yall enjoy another dark romance with obsessed yet super whipped Ni-ki! ( he kinda a red flag)

See request here

--

You’ve always had a fascination with crime shows. The ones without too many jump scares or unnecessary gore—you could do without that. What hooked you wasn’t the blood or the screams; it was the puzzle. The way the police pieced together scattered fragments of a life, how they followed the tiniest trail of evidence to unravel the truth. Every crime media you could find, you devoured it all.

At school, it wasn’t unusual to find you with your nose buried in a crime or mystery novel. Whether it was during lunch, in the corner of the library, or even in the few precious minutes before class started, the worn pages of your current read were always in your hands. Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, modern thrillers—you read them all.

Your classmates noticed, of course. They’d whisper about it in passing, sometimes teasing you for being "obsessed with murder books." But you didn’t care. If anything, you found their reactions amusing. They didn’t get it, didn’t understand how fascinating it was to try to outsmart the characters or piece together clues before the story revealed its secrets. Even your teachers started catching on. Your literature professor once quipped, “If I ever go missing, I’ll trust you to solve the case,” while glancing at the battered mystery novel lying atop your open notebook.

But it wasn’t just about books or shows anymore. Over time, the skills you picked up seeped into your daily life. You’d notice things—details others overlooked. A friend’s new haircut no one mentioned, the faint smell of smoke lingering on someone’s jacket, or the way people’s stories didn’t quite line up. You’d trained your brain to analyze, to question, to search for answers.

You didn’t really have anyone to share your interest with, but that didn’t bother you much. Most people at school had their own cliques, their own hobbies, and their own little dramas to focus on. You didn’t fit neatly into any of those circles, but you were fine with that.

Besides, there was something satisfying about keeping to yourself. It gave you the freedom to observe without distraction. People-watching became second nature—catching snippets of conversations, noticing who avoided who in the hallways, or piecing together which classmates had paired off in secret. It was like the school was its own crime scene, full of tiny, inconsequential mysteries that no one else even thought to notice.

You had your theories about everyone, from the student council president who always left early on Thursdays to the quiet kid in the back row who seemed to have a different excuse for every missing assignment. None of it was malicious, of course—it was just your way of passing the time.

But every so often, you’d catch someone watching you. A fleeting glance from across the cafeteria or a pair of eyes lingering a little too long in the hallway.

But every time you tried to figure out who it was, the moment would pass too quickly. You’d glance up, scanning the crowd, but no one would be looking your way. It was frustrating in a way that didn’t make sense, like trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

And yet, the gaze itself was never uncomfortable. It didn’t feel like the sharp, judgmental stares you were used to when people whispered about your “murder books.” No, this one was different. It was soft, almost curious, like whoever it was didn’t want to disturb you. Instead of making you uneasy, it left a warmth in its wake, a strange flutter in your chest that lingered long after the moment passed.

You started to notice it more often. In the cafeteria, during assemblies, even on the rare occasions when you’d glance up from your book in the library. It was subtle, just a sense that someone was watching, but every time you turned your head to catch them, they were gone.

It became a mystery of its own, one you couldn’t quite let go of. You tried to piece it together the way you would in a show or a novel. Who sat near you at lunch? Who crossed paths with you between classes? Who could have that kind of presence without you noticing until it was too late?

But no matter how much you thought about it, you came up empty. And the strangest part was, you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to solve it. Because, in some inexplicable way, that gaze felt… safe. Like someone had taken the time to notice you—not as the “girl with the crime books,” but as you.

Still, the curiosity gnawed at you. One day, as you sat in your usual spot by the library window, lost in a particularly tense chapter of your latest read, you felt it again. That quiet, steady gaze, warm and unhurried.

This time, you didn’t look up right away. Instead, you waited, letting the feeling settle over you like a blanket. You turned the page of your book slowly, pretending to stay engrossed, all while your pulse quickened in anticipation.

And then, with deliberate calm, you lifted your head and scanned the room.

At first, it seemed like every other time. Just a sea of faces, none of them focused on you. But then, in the far corner, you caught it—a pair of eyes meeting yours before quickly looking away.

Your heart stuttered. You knew that face.

You knew that face because it belonged to Nishimura Ni-ki. Quiet, unassuming, always with his head buried in a textbook or his notebook. You hadn’t talked much, only exchanging a few words in the classes you shared or the brief, awkward apologies after he accidentally bumped into you in the hallway, scrambling to pick up his scattered books. He wasn’t exactly invisible, but he never drew attention to himself—not in the way others did.

But you also knew him for another reason. Nishimura Ni-ki was the campus prime target for bullying.

You hated seeing it. The way some of the guys would shove him into lockers, muttering cruel things under their breath loud enough for him to hear. The way others would snatch his things, throw them across the hall, or crumple his assignments into balls of paper. Worst of all was the day you saw someone snap his glasses clean in half, right in front of him, leaving him standing there, helpless and humiliated.

Without even thinking, you had stepped in. No hesitation, no second thought—you just swung. Your fist connected with the guy’s face, the sickening crack of his nose breaking echoing in the hallway. Everything had gone silent. People stared as you shook out your knuckles, glaring down at the guy as he clutched his face, blood pouring between his fingers.

Sure, you got suspended for a few days after that, but it had been worth it.

From that day on, you’d kept an eye out—not just for Ni-ki, but for anyone being harassed. You couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the way some people seemed to think they had a right to make others miserable just because they could. But with Ni-ki, it was different. Something about the way he’d looked at you that day—wide-eyed, stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe someone had stood up for him—it stuck with you.

After that, you noticed him more often. Sitting alone in the library, his hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled notes. Walking to class with his close-knit group of friends, smiling faintly at something one of them said. And now, you realized, he was quietly watching you.

Your stomach flipped as your eyes locked with his for the briefest moment before he quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the open book in front of him. You hadn’t even realized he knew who you were, let alone that he’d been the one watching you all this time.

For a moment, you sat frozen, unsure what to do. Then, on impulse, you stood up, tucking your book under your arm as you made your way across the library.

Ni-ki didn’t notice you at first. He was scribbling something in the margins of his notebook, his brows furrowed in concentration. But when you stopped in front of his table, he glanced up, and his eyes widened.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your voice low to avoid disturbing the others. “Got room for one more?”

His gaze darted to the empty chair across from him, then back to you. For a moment, he looked like he might say no. But then he nodded, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quiet but steady. “Sure.”

You slid into the seat, setting your book down on the table. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like an unspoken question. But it wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt… comfortable.

You sat there for a while, the silence punctuated only by the faint scratch of Ni-ki’s pencil against his notebook and the soft rustle of turning pages. But your curiosity wouldn’t let you sit still for long. You closed your book, leaning forward slightly.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, keeping your voice low.

Ni-ki looked up from his notes, his pencil pausing mid-word. His expression was cautious, unsure, but he nodded. “Yeah?”

“Why were you looking at me earlier?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “It’s not the first time, is it?”

His eyes widened, and a faint flush crept up his neck. “Oh, I—uh…” He trailed off, fumbling for words. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off or deny it entirely. But then he exhaled and gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I’ve seen you reading crime novels. A lot. And… I like them too.”

You blinked, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded, glancing down at his notebook like he was embarrassed to admit it. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t talk about it much, but I’ve always been into them. Mysteries, thrillers, true crime… all of it. I guess I just noticed because you’re always reading them too.”

A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Seriously? I didn’t think anyone else here cared about that stuff.”

Ni-ki’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Yeah, well… it’s not exactly the kind of thing people talk about, you know? But I’ve always thought it was cool—how detectives figure everything out, all the little clues coming together.”

“Exactly!” you said, leaning forward a little more, your excitement bubbling over. “That’s the best part. Like, the story’s great and all, but the process of solving it? The way everything clicks in the end? It’s so satisfying.”

His smile widened, and for the first time, he looked genuinely at ease. “Right? And when you figure it out before the characters do? That’s the best feeling.”

You nodded eagerly, the conversation flowing effortlessly now. You started swapping favorite books and shows, debating the best fictional detectives and the most clever twists you’d seen. Ni-ki talked about his love for true crime documentaries, how he’d binge-watch them whenever he had a free weekend. You shared your obsession with whodunits, confessing how you’d pause episodes just to try to solve the case before the big reveal.

Time slipped by without you realizing it. The library around you faded into the background as you talked, your usual quiet demeanor replaced by the spark of shared enthusiasm. Ni-ki was surprisingly easy to talk to, his reserved nature melting away as the two of you bonded over your mutual love for crime stories.

At some point, you glanced at the clock and realized lunch was almost over. You sighed, reluctantly closing your book. “Guess we’ll have to pick this up later. I’ve got class.”

Ni-ki nodded, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—disappointment, maybe? It was subtle, but you caught it.

“Hey,” you said as you stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “We should talk more about this sometime. Maybe… tomorrow?”

His gaze snapped up to yours, and for a moment, he just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were serious. Then he nodded, his smile small but genuine. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You grinned and gave him a quick wave before heading toward the door.

The rest of the day felt oddly brighter. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why, but something about that conversation with Ni-ki lingered with you. Maybe it was because you’d finally found someone who shared your interest, someone who didn’t just dismiss it as “weird” or “creepy.” Or maybe it was because, for the first time, Ni-ki hadn’t seemed like the quiet, distant figure you’d always known him as. He felt… real.

The next day, you found yourself scanning the library during lunch without even thinking about it. And sure enough, there he was—sitting at the same table, his notebook open in front of him, scribbling something in his neat handwriting.

You hesitated for a moment, suddenly feeling a little nervous. What if he thought yesterday was a one-time thing? What if he wasn’t expecting you to actually show up? But then he looked up, and the moment his eyes met yours, his face lit up with a small but unmistakable smile.

That was all the invitation you needed. You crossed the room and slid into the seat across from him, setting your bag down beside you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“Hey,” he replied, his tone soft but warm.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to pick up where you’d left off. You talked about the book you were reading, how the protagonist was struggling to crack a seemingly unsolvable case. Ni-ki listened intently, occasionally chiming in with his own thoughts or theories. When it was his turn, he shared about a true crime documentary he’d started the night before.

As the days went by, it became a routine. Every lunch break, you’d find each other in the library, your conversations growing longer and more animated. What started as casual chats about crime novels and documentaries quickly expanded into other topics—favorite genres, books you’d loved as kids, even the little quirks you’d noticed about your classmates.

Ni-ki opened up more than you ever expected. You learned that he loved puzzles, that he had a knack for spotting patterns and solving problems. He admitted, almost shyly, that he wanted to be a forensic scientist someday, to solve real-life mysteries.

You told him about your fascination with detective work, how you’d always loved the idea of uncovering the truth. You joked that maybe you’d end up as a detective yourself one day, solving cases while he analyzed the evidence. He laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that you realized you wanted to hear more of.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

You looked up, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I just… I wanted to say thanks,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes. “For, you know… sticking up for me. Back then. And now.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Ni-ki. No one deserves to be treated like that.”

He nodded, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his bag. “I know, but… it meant a lot. And so does this. Talking to you, I mean. It’s… nice.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, the same kind you’d felt every time you caught him watching you. “It’s nice for me too,” you admitted, offering him a small smile.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his expression soft and almost… hopeful. Then he nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

“Of course,” you said, already looking forward to it.

--

You and Ni-ki walked side by side down the hallway, the buzz of students heading to their next class filling the air. He was carrying a few books in his arms, his notebook precariously balanced on top, while the two of you chatted about your plans for the day.

“I’ve got a project due for history,” you said, groaning. “I’ll probably be stuck in the library all afternoon. What about you?”

“Studying for the calculus test,” Ni-ki replied with a faint smile. “Though, knowing me, I’ll still probably bomb it.”

“You won’t,” you assured him. “You just need to stop doubting yourself so much.”

He chuckled softly at that, and the sound was warm—genuine. You had started to notice these little things about him, the way he opened up a bit more when it was just the two of you.

As you reached your classroom door, you slowed to a stop, turning to face him. “Alright, this is me. I’ll see you at lunch later?”

“Yeah, I’ll—”

Before Ni-ki could finish his sentence, someone shoved him hard from behind. He stumbled forward, dropping his books as he fell onto his knees. His notebook skidded across the floor, pages fluttering.

“Oops,” the voice sneered mockingly from behind. “Didn’t see you there, nerd.”

You whipped around, your blood instantly boiling. It was one of the usual suspects—one of the guys who seemed to make it his personal mission to make Ni-ki’s life miserable. His smug smirk widened as he stood there, hands in his pockets, his posture radiating mock innocence.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, your voice echoing in the hallway.

The guy raised an eyebrow, shrugging nonchalantly. “Relax, it was an accident.”

“Accident, my ass,” you shot back, stepping forward. “You’ve got the brainpower of a rock, but even you know how to avoid people in a hallway.”

A few students nearby paused to watch, their conversations trailing off as they sensed the tension.

The guy’s smirk faltered for a second, his eyes narrowing. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” you challenged, crossing your arms. “You’ll try to push me too? Let’s see how far you get.”

He opened his mouth, likely to hurl an insult your way, but before he could get the words out, a stern voice interrupted.

“Is there a problem here?”

A teacher had appeared at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you, Ni-ki, and the bully.

The guy immediately straightened, his smugness replaced with a fake innocence. “No problem, sir. Just a little accident.”

The teacher’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, skeptical but unwilling to escalate without proof. “Then I suggest you keep moving before you’re late to class.”

The bully muttered something under his breath and stalked off, throwing one last glare over his shoulder. You glared right back until he disappeared into the crowd.

With the hallway clearing, you turned back to Ni-ki, who was still on the ground, gathering his books with a quiet, resigned expression. You knelt down beside him, helping him scoop up his notebook and a few loose papers.

“You okay?” you asked softly, handing him the last of his things.

He nodded, though his cheeks were flushed, not from the fall but from the embarrassment of it all. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You stood and offered him your hand. He hesitated for a moment before taking it, and you pulled him to his feet.

“Don’t let jerks like that get to you,” you said firmly, your voice softer now. “He’s just miserable with his own life, so he’s trying to make you feel the same way. But he doesn’t get to win.”

Ni-ki’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles as he adjusted the books in his arms. “I’m starting to think you like fighting my battles more than I do.”

You laughed, nudging his arm lightly. “Someone’s gotta have your back.”

The bell rang just as you and Ni-ki made your way to your separate classes.

You sank into your seat, the dull buzz of the classroom settling around you as your mind wandered back to what had just happened. You hated seeing that side of Ni-ki dimmed by people who had nothing better to do than pick on someone who kept to himself.

Your teacher walked in, and the usual routine of class began. You tried to focus, taking notes, participating when necessary, but it was hard to shake off the image of Ni-ki being knocked down again. Even harder, was knowing that no matter how much you tried to defend him, the cycle would probably continue.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the way people like that bully operated—people who picked on others because they could, because it was easier to tear someone else down than deal with their own problems. What pissed you off was that Ni-ki never seemed to ask for help. He didn’t fight back, didn’t make a scene, and kept everything buried under that quiet, almost invisible demeanor of his.

You didn’t know why you cared so much. Maybe it was because he was finally someone who shared your interests, someone who didn’t see you as weird or obsessive for reading crime novels or binge-watching shows about detectives. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, you found someone you didn’t mind looking out for.

The rest of class passed by in a blur, and when the bell rang again, signaling the end of the period, you packed up your things quickly, eager to catch up with Ni-ki.

You hadn’t seen him on your way out, but he wasn’t hard to find. When you stepped out into the hall, you spotted him near his locker, his back slightly hunched as he rifled through his bag. He looked like he was in his own world, eyes focused on something only he could see.

You walked up to him, your footsteps steady.

“You good?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Ni-ki turned slightly, startled for a moment. When he saw it was you, the tension in his shoulders visibly loosened. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, his voice soft but steady. “Thanks again for earlier. You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “It’s not a big deal. He’s just a jerk. Besides, if no one stands up for you, who will?”

Ni-ki didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you for a moment, as if weighing your words. After a long pause, he gave a small, almost shy smile. “I guess… I’ve never really thought about it like that.”

“Well, now you know,” you said with a grin. “If you ever need backup, I’m around.” You tried to keep your tone light, but there was a quiet sincerity in it.

Ni-ki nodded, his expression softening, as if he were grateful, but unsure how to show it. “Thanks. I… I appreciate it.”

The bell rang, signaling the start of the next class, and you both turned to head in opposite directions. You glanced back at him before walking away, feeling that familiar pull of wanting to make sure he was okay.

Over the next few days, you found yourself in more and more situations where people were picking on Ni-ki, or even just others around campus. It wasn’t always the same faces; sometimes it was a random group, sometimes it was a repeat offender. But every time, you couldn’t just walk by.

One afternoon, you were heading toward the library when you spotted a couple of guys standing by the lockers. One of them had his hands shoved into Ni-ki’s chest, laughing as he made some cruel remark about Ni-ki’s glasses being too big for his face. Ni-ki’s eyes were lowered, his shoulders tense, his voice barely a whisper as he tried to back away, but the guys weren’t letting him go.

Without thinking, you rushed forward, your heart pounding in your chest. “Hey!” you called out, your voice cutting through the laughter. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The guys turned to face you, their expressions mocking. “Oh, look, it’s the weird kid who’s always reading those detective books,” one of them sneered. “What, you gonna cry for him too?”

You didn’t flinch. “I’ll cry if it means you get a reality check. You think picking on people makes you cool? It doesn’t.”

The bully smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe you should mind your own business, huh? No one cares what you think.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you snapped, standing your ground. “I do care. And I don’t let people get away with treating others like crap. So if you’ve got a problem with him, you’ve got a problem with me.” You took a step forward, matching his arrogance with a calm confidence. “Go ahead, say something back. I dare you.”

The guy’s face twisted in frustration, but before he could retort, another voice interrupted.

“Is there a problem here?” A teacher had appeared, walking briskly down the hall with an authoritative presence.

The bully shot one last glance at you, a sneer still hanging on his lips, before muttering, “Whatever, it’s just a joke.”

“Then keep your ‘jokes’ to yourself,” you said, watching as he slinked off with his friend in tow.

As the tension cleared, you turned to Ni-ki, who was standing there, still looking a little shell-shocked. He didn’t speak for a moment, just staring at you like you had just pulled him out of the depths of something he didn’t know how to escape.

“You alright?” you asked quietly, your voice softer now.

Ni-ki nodded slowly, though he still looked like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I—I’m fine. Thanks again. But you really didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” you said, giving him a smile. “I don’t let people get away with stuff like that. You deserve better than being treated like that, and so does everyone else.”

Ni-ki’s eyes met yours for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind them before he spoke. “Maybe… maybe I don’t know how to stand up for myself the way you do.”

“That’s alright,” you said with a shrug. “Not everyone does. But it’s not too late to start.”

As the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, you both began walking toward your next classes. You could feel his presence beside you, his quiet thanks still lingering in the air, but it didn’t feel awkward. You had his back, and that was what mattered.

You didn’t always receive praise for standing up to people. You didn’t always get the support you might’ve hoped for. Sometimes you’d get the sneers and judgment from those who didn’t understand, those who thought that letting things slide or keeping their heads down was the easier way to go.

But you didn’t care.

You didn’t care about the sideways glances, or the occasional whispered insults behind your back. You couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

And if that meant dealing with the backlash, so be it. You’d rather face that than let someone else feel alone.

A few days later, you woke up feeling off—head throbbing, throat scratchy, and your body aching like you'd been hit by a truck. You groaned, pulling yourself out of bed only to immediately collapse back under the covers. The thought of going to school was unbearable, and you knew you needed rest more than anything else.

The absence of the usual noise from school made everything feel stiller, emptier. It was a strange feeling, knowing you wouldn’t be there to keep an eye out for Ni-ki, to have his back in the way you had grown accustomed to.

That afternoon, the day passed slowly, and you spent most of it in and out of sleep. When you checked your phone again later, you saw that Ni-ki had sent another message: "Is everything okay? Haven't seen you today."

You smiled at his concern, typing back, "Yeah, just sick. I'll be back soon, don’t worry."

The next few days were rougher than you’d expected. What you thought was just a mild bug turned into a fever that left you bedridden. You tried to keep up with school through messages from classmates and the occasional email from teachers, but your energy was practically nonexistent.

Ni-ki checked in on you every day, like clockwork. His texts were short and to the point, but they carried a warmth that made you smile despite your pounding headache.

"Feeling any better today?" "Don’t push yourself, okay?" "I can drop off notes if you need them."

You’d chuckle at the last one, imagining Ni-ki walking up to your door with a stack of papers and books. "Thanks, but I’ll survive. Just focus on yourself," you’d reply, even though you appreciated the thought more than you could express.

Despite his reassurances that everything was fine, you couldn’t help but worry. Ni-ki wasn’t exactly the type to tell you if something was wrong, especially when it came to the bullies. The thought of him being alone, enduring their usual torment without you there to step in, gnawed at the edges of your mind.

By the third day, your fever started to break, and you felt well enough to sit up and respond to messages without immediately passing out. You sent Ni-ki a text: "How’s school been?"

A few minutes passed before his reply came in. "Same as always. Don’t worry about me."

You frowned. That was exactly the kind of response you’d been expecting—and dreading.

"You sure? No one’s bothering you?"

The three little dots indicating he was typing popped up, then disappeared, then reappeared again. Finally, he sent: "I’m fine. Just come back soon, okay?"

You stared at the screen for a long moment, conflicted. On one hand, you knew Ni-ki well enough by now to recognize when he wasn’t telling you the whole truth. On the other hand, pushing him for answers over text wouldn’t get you anywhere.

"I will," you typed back. "Just hang in there."

When you finally returned to school a few days later, you felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. As much as you hated being away, a small part of you worried about what you’d find when you got back.

Walking through the hallways felt like stepping into a space that had shifted slightly in your absence. You noticed the usual groups clustered together, their laughter echoing through the halls. But as your eyes scanned the crowd, you couldn’t find Ni-ki anywhere.

When you reached your locker, you spotted one of his friends—someone you’d occasionally seen him study with. You hesitated before calling out, “Hey, have you seen Ni-ki?”

The guy looked up, his face shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place. “He’s in the library,” he said after a moment. “He’s been there a lot lately.”

You nodded, thanking him before heading in that direction. The library was quieter than usual, the muffled hum of voices and the faint rustle of pages filling the air. It didn’t take long to spot Ni-ki, sitting at a table in the far corner, his head down as he scribbled something into a notebook.

“Ni-ki,” you called softly as you approached.

He looked up, and for a split second, relief flashed across his face. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual reserved expression. “Hey,” he said, closing his notebook and sitting up straighter. “You’re back.”

“I am,” you said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “What’s been going on? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because I know that’s not true.”

Ni-ki hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the corner of his notebook. “It’s… not a big deal,” he finally said, his voice low. “Just the usual stuff.”

Your jaw tightened. You’d expected as much, but hearing it still made your blood boil. “What happened?”

He sighed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “They’ve just been… pushing things a little more since you weren’t here. It’s fine, though. I’m used to it.”

“Used to it doesn’t make it okay,” you said firmly. “Did anyone step in? Tell a teacher? Anything?”

Ni-ki shook his head. “No one really noticed. Or if they did, they didn’t care.”

Your fists clenched under the table. It was exactly what you’d feared, and it only made you more determined. “Well, I’m back now,” you said, your voice steady. “And they’re not getting away with it anymore. Not while I’m around.”

Ni-ki looked at you, a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe—crossing his face. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” he said quietly. “Standing up for me all the time. It’s not your responsibility.”

“It’s not about responsibility,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “I want to stand up. And no one deserves to feel like they’re alone in this.”

“Thanks,” Ni-ki said eventually, his voice barely above a whisper.

You gave him a small smile. “Anytime.”

--

It started out subtly—so subtle, in fact, that you almost missed it the first few times. You’d grown so used to being the one to step in, to speak up, to push back when people crossed the line with Ni-ki, that it became instinctive. But recently, before you could even open your mouth or move to intervene, something in Ni-ki’s demeanor had started to change.

The next time someone shoved him in the hallway, you caught it. The twist in his face.

It wasn’t the usual resignation or silent frustration you’d seen before. No, this was different. His jaw tightened, his eyes sharp and focused, his posture just a fraction straighter. He still stumbled when they shoved him, still dropped his books, but there was a flicker of defiance there—a spark you hadn’t noticed before.

“Watch where you’re going, idiot,” one of the bullies muttered, smirking as they turned to walk off.

But before you could even step in, Ni-ki straightened up, brushing himself off. His voice was quiet but firm as he said, “Maybe you should watch where you’re going.”

It wasn’t loud, and it certainly wasn’t a full-on confrontation, but it was enough to make the bully pause for a moment, glancing back over their shoulder with narrowed eyes. Ni-ki didn’t flinch. He just stared at them, steady and unyielding, until they scoffed and walked away.

You stood frozen for a moment, caught off guard. This wasn’t like him—not the Ni-ki you’d grown used to protecting, the one who usually avoided confrontation at all costs.

“Ni-ki,” you said, catching up to him as he bent down to pick up his books. “What was that?”

He glanced up at you, his expression unreadable. “What was what?”

“That,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway where the bullies had just left. “You… you stood up for yourself.”

He shrugged, tucking his books under his arm. “Yeah, well… I figured I might as well try it.”

You blinked, surprised by how nonchalant he sounded. “Try it?”

He paused, glancing at you with a small, almost shy smile. “I’ve been watching you, you know. How you don’t let people push you—or anyone else—around. It made me think… maybe I could do that too.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You felt a strange mix of pride and worry bubbling in your chest. Pride, because seeing Ni-ki finally stand up for himself felt like a victory. Worry, because you knew how cruel people could be when they were challenged.

“Well,” you said finally, your voice soft, “I’m glad you’re trying. But you know you don’t have to do it alone, right? I’ve got your back.”

He nodded, his smile growing a little. “I know. But… it feels kind of good. Not letting them have all the power.”

From that day on, you started noticing it more often.

The next time someone muttered something cruel under their breath as Ni-ki walked past, he didn’t just look away. He turned, his voice steady as he asked, “What did you just say?” It wasn’t a shout, wasn’t a threat, but the sheer confidence in his tone was enough to catch them off guard.

And the next time someone knocked his books out of his hands, Ni-ki didn’t just bend down to pick them up. He straightened up first, meeting their gaze with an icy calmness that made them hesitate before walking off.

You watched it all unfold with a mixture of admiration and concern.

One afternoon, after class, you found yourself walking with him again, the two of you deep in conversation about one of the crime novels you’d both been reading. As you turned the corner, you saw one of the usual suspects—one of the guys who’d made Ni-ki’s life a nightmare for as long as you could remember.

The guy stepped into Ni-ki’s path, blocking his way. “Hey, got a minute?”

You tensed immediately, ready to step forward, but Ni-ki held up a hand, stopping you.

“What do you want?” Ni-ki asked, his voice calm but firm.

The bully smirked, leaning in closer. “Just wondering how long it’ll take before you crawl back into that little shell of yours. You think you’re tough now? That you’ve got people to back you up?”

Ni-ki didn’t even blink. “I think you’re wasting your time. Find someone else to bother.”

The smirk faltered for just a second, and that was all it took. The bully muttered something under his breath before walking away, clearly annoyed that Ni-ki hadn’t given him the reaction he was hoping for.

As soon as the guy was out of earshot, you turned to Ni-ki, your eyes wide. “Okay, what was that? Who are you, and what have you done with the Ni-ki I know?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I told you, I’ve been watching you. Guess I finally got tired of being the guy everyone picks on.”

You couldn’t help but smile, your chest swelling with pride. “Well, I’m glad you’re finding your voice. Just… don’t get yourself in too much trouble, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his smile soft but confident. “I know you’ll be there to save me if I do.”

You chuckled at his confidence, feeling that familiar warmth bubble up inside you. “Of course,” you replied. “But remember, you don’t have to rely on me all the time. You’ve got this, Ni-ki.”

He met your gaze, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like gratitude, but with a touch of pride as well. “Maybe. But it feels good knowing I’ve got someone watching my back.”

You nodded, feeling your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t just about protecting him anymore—it was about seeing him stand up for himself, to fight back against the people who tried to bring him down. And even though you still couldn’t shake the worry that the bullies would target him more now, you had a feeling that Ni-ki would be okay.

The days that followed were a mix of small victories. You’d catch glimpses of him, the way his posture had changed, the confidence in the way he carried himself. Even when the bullies tried to get under his skin, he seemed to hold his own. And when they tried to escalate things, Ni-ki would either meet them with sharp words or simply walk away with his head held high, no longer letting their insults stick to him.

--

The day started like any other—until you got to school.

The usual buzz of the morning crowd was replaced with an eerie silence. Police cars lined the front of the building, their lights casting flashes of red and blue against the gray morning sky. Students clustered in small groups near the gate, whispering to each other, their faces pale with unease.

You tightened your grip on your bag as you stepped closer, curiosity gnawing at you. Something had happened—something big.

Spotting Natty near the lockers, you hurried over, catching her arm gently. “What’s going on? Why are the police here?”

Natty turned, her expression somber and anxious. “You didn’t hear?”

You shook your head, your stomach twisting. “No. What happened?”

She glanced around nervously before leaning in closer. “Two students have been reported missing,” she said in a low voice.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Missing? Who?”

Natty hesitated, her voice dropping even lower. “It’s those two guys… you know, the ones who usually mess with people. The ones who—”

“The ones who pick on people” you finished for her, your voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her expression grim. “Yeah. Them. Apparently, they didn’t come home last night. Their parents called the school this morning, and now the police are involved.”

You stood there, processing her words. The two bullies—known for tormenting Ni-ki and plenty of other students—were missing? The news left you unsettled, a mix of emotions swirling in your chest.

“What do you think happened to them?” you asked, your voice cautious.

Natty shrugged, glancing over at the police officers. “I don’t know. Everyone’s talking about it, but no one seems to know anything for sure. Some people are saying they might’ve run away, but…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“But?”

She leaned in closer, her voice barely audible now. “But people are also saying it doesn’t feel like that. They’re saying it’s... suspicious.”

You frowned, your mind racing. Suspicious. The word lingered in your thoughts like a dark cloud. You couldn’t help but think about Ni-ki—the way he’d started standing up for himself, the way the bullies had been pushing back harder in recent weeks. And now, suddenly, they were gone?

“Do they have any leads?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Natty shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard. The police are just starting their investigation.”

You glanced around, your eyes scanning the crowd. Your thoughts immediately went to Ni-ki. Had he heard about this yet? How was he feeling? You knew the bullies had made his life miserable, but even so, this was… extreme.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” you said, already stepping away.

Natty called after you, “Where are you going?”

“To check on someone,” you replied over your shoulder, your mind set on finding Ni-ki.

You searched the usual spots—the bench near the library, the quiet corner by the art room—but he was nowhere to be found. Finally, you spotted him by the vending machines, standing alone with his hands in his pockets.

“Ni-ki,” you called softly as you approached.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Hey.”

“Did you hear?” you asked, lowering your voice.

He nodded, his gaze dropping again. “Yeah. Everyone’s talking about it.”

You studied him for a moment, trying to gauge his emotions. He didn’t look shocked or upset—just… thoughtful.

“How are you feeling about it?” you asked gently.

He shrugged, his voice quiet. “I don’t know. It’s... weird. They were horrible to everyone, but this? It’s… I don’t know.”

You nodded, understanding the conflict in his tone.

“They’ll figure it out,” you said, more to reassure yourself than him. “The police are here, and they’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Ni-ki glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”

You walked side by side with Ni-ki, the buzz of conversations and murmurs about the missing students fading into the background. He didn’t seem as unsettled as you would’ve expected. In fact, he looked… composed. Too composed. There was a calmness about him, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before.

It wasn’t like he didn’t care—at least, you didn’t think so. But he wasn’t fidgeting or avoiding the topic like you might have imagined. Instead, he walked with his head held high, his steps deliberate.

You glanced at him, trying to gauge his mood. “You seem… okay about all this,” you said carefully, not wanting to come off as accusing.

Ni-ki shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “It’s just… two people are missing. People who used to make your life hell, and you don’t look… bothered.”

He stopped walking for a moment, turning to face you. His lips curved into the faintest smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Should I be?”

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, unsure how to respond. “Well, I mean… it’s weird, right? They’re still people. Even if they were awful, it’s not like they deserved to… you know, vanish.”

Ni-ki held your gaze for a moment longer before looking away, his expression unreadable. “I guess I’ve just learned not to waste my energy on people like them,” he said, his voice steady. “They made their choices. It’s not my job to care.”

You frowned, his words sticking with you as you both continued walking. There was something about the way he spoke—calm, measured, almost detached—that made you uneasy. But you didn’t push him further. Ni-ki had grown a lot lately, standing up for himself in ways you hadn’t expected. Maybe this was just part of that change—his way of not letting the past hold power over him anymore.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice how his posture seemed different now. Straighter, more self-assured. He wasn’t the same Ni-ki who used to avoid eye contact in the hallways or flinch at the sound of the bullies’ voices. This Ni-ki was someone who carried himself with quiet confidence, someone who looked like he had nothing to fear.

And yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Something he wasn’t saying.

You wanted to ask, to press him for answers, but something stopped you. Maybe it was the way his expression remained calm, as if daring you to question him. Or maybe it was the realization that you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

“Anyway,” Ni-ki said, breaking the silence, “what’s your plan for the rest of the day?”

The abrupt shift in topic caught you off guard, but you decided to go with it. “Not much,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Probably just try to catch up on homework and maybe watch something later.”

He nodded, his smile softening into something more genuine. “Sounds good. Let me know if you find a good mystery to watch.”

“Will do,” you replied, smiling back.

As you parted ways and headed to your respective classes, you couldn’t help but glance back at him. The way he walked, the way he carried himself now—it was almost like he was a completely different person.

And though you didn’t say it out loud, the unease lingered. There was something about Ni-ki that had changed, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. And as much as you wanted to believe it was just confidence.. a small, nagging part of you wondered if it was something more.

After school, you found yourself lingering by the gate, waiting for Ni-ki. You weren’t even sure why. Maybe it was just the need to talk to him again, to see if you could get a better read on what he was thinking.

He appeared a few minutes later, his bag slung over one shoulder and his usual calm expression in place. When he spotted you, his lips twitched into a small smile.

“Waiting for me?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Just thought we could walk together.”

“Sure,” he said, falling into step beside you.

The walk home started out quiet, the kind of comfortable silence you’d gotten used to with him. But as you neared the park, you couldn’t hold back your curiosity any longer.

“Ni-ki,” you began carefully, “I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “What about it?”

“About not caring. About how it’s not your job to care about... people like them.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “It just feels like... I don’t know, you’ve changed a lot lately. You’re more confident, and that’s great, but... it’s like you’re not bothered by anything anymore.”

Ni-ki didn’t respond right away. He kept walking, his gaze focused straight ahead, his expression calm. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders rising and falling.

“I guess I just realized there’s no point in letting things get to me,” he said, his tone measured. “People like them... they’re not worth my time. They never were.”

You frowned, your unease growing. “But... don’t you think it’s weird? That they just disappeared like that?”

He stopped walking, turning to face you. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something behind his calm exterior. Something darker.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Your breath hitched, caught off guard by the sudden intensity in his gaze. “I’m not saying anything,” you said quickly, though your heart was racing. “I’m just... curious. That’s all.”

Ni-ki studied you for a moment longer before his expression softened, the faintest smile returning to his lips. “It’s probably nothing,” he said. “People like that... they always have enemies. Maybe someone else decided to deal with them.”

The way he said it sent a chill down your spine. He didn’t sound defensive, or even particularly concerned. If anything, he sounded... amused.

You forced a smile, not wanting to push him further. “Yeah, maybe,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

Ni-ki started walking again, and you followed, your mind racing with questions you didn’t dare ask.

As the two of you walked further down the quiet street, Ni-ki suddenly turned toward his dorm building, stopping just before the steps. He looked at you with a hint of hesitation, but there was also that hopeful glint in his eyes that always managed to make your heart soften.

“Hey,” he said casually, though his tone had a shy edge. “Do you… maybe want to come up? We could study together or something. I know exams are coming up, and it’s easier with company.”

You hesitated, clutching the strap of your bag. “I don’t know… I should probably just head home and get some rest.”

Ni-ki’s face dropped slightly, and for a second, he looked like he was bracing for you to turn him down. But the way he glanced at you—hopeful and a little nervous—made something inside you falter.

“Are you sure?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably. “It’ll be quiet. I promise I won’t distract you too much.”

You looked at him, at the way his bangs fell slightly into his eyes and the way he fidgeted with the strap of his own bag. He looked cute, and there was something so innocent about the way he asked, as if he genuinely just wanted to spend more time with you.

“Alright,” you finally said, relenting with a small smile. “I’ll stay for a little while.”

The way his face lit up made it all worth it. A broad smile spread across his lips, and before you could react, he reached out, his hands gently finding their way to your waist as he guided you toward the door. His touch was firm yet careful, his hands warm even through the fabric of your jacket.

“Come on,” he said, his tone suddenly brighter as he led you inside the building. “It’s not too messy, I promise. Well… not that messy.”

You laughed softly, letting him lead you into the lobby and toward the elevator. There was something about the way he was acting—lighthearted and a little goofy—that made your earlier unease fade just a bit.

When the elevator doors opened, Ni-ki stepped aside to let you in first, his hand briefly brushing against your lower back. He pressed the button for his floor, glancing at you with a grin. “I’ll even let you pick the first topic we study. Fair deal?”

“Deal,” you said, shaking your head at him.

As the elevator climbed, you realized that, despite your earlier hesitation, you didn’t really mind being here with him. There was something comforting about the way Ni-ki treated you, like you were the only person who really mattered to him in that moment.

The elevator dinged, and the two of you stepped out into the hallway. Ni-ki led the way to his room, opening the door with a flourish before stepping aside to let you in.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, gesturing around with a playful smile.

You stepped inside, taking in the neat but lived-in space. His desk was cluttered with notebooks and textbooks, and there were a few random items scattered around—headphones, a hoodie draped over the back of a chair, a half-empty mug on the windowsill.

“It’s cozy,” you said, setting your bag down by the door.

Ni-ki grinned. “That’s code for ‘small,’ isn’t it?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No, I mean it. It feels… nice.”

“Good,” he said, closing the door behind you. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab us some water, and then we can get started.”

As he busied himself in the corner of the room, you took a seat at his desk, letting yourself relax.

And as Ni-ki returned with two glasses of water and a bright smile, you couldn’t help but think that maybe this was exactly what you needed.

Ni-ki handed you a glass of water, his smile warm and genuine, and you took it with a grateful nod. As you both sat down at his desk, the atmosphere felt surprisingly comfortable. The earlier tension had all but faded, replaced by a quiet energy between you two that made everything feel easy.

“So,” Ni-ki began, pulling a notebook toward him, “what subject do you want to start with?” His eyes flickered toward you, waiting for your answer.

You considered for a moment. “I guess… let’s tackle history first? That’s the one I’m struggling with the most.”

“History it is,” Ni-ki agreed, and there was a brief moment of silence as he pulled out his own materials, flipping through pages in his textbook. You glanced at the way he studied—focused but relaxed, as if he’d done this a hundred times before. His brow furrowed just a little when he concentrated, and you found yourself studying him without even realizing it.

He noticed after a second, a slight shift in his posture. “What? Is something wrong?” he asked, glancing up from his book.

“No, no, I was just… thinking.” You gave him a small smile, hoping to ease whatever concern he might have had. “You’re a good study buddy. You’re very… focused.”

Ni-ki chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “I try. It’s just easier when you actually care about what you’re learning, you know?”

You nodded in agreement. The two of you dived into your history notes, bouncing ideas back and forth, helping each other fill in the blanks on a few tricky subjects. The more you talked, the more you realized how much you enjoyed this.

As the hours passed, you found that time seemed to slow down in Ni-ki’s presence. Every now and then, he’d glance up from his book and shoot you a little smile, making it hard to focus on anything else.

By the time you looked at the clock, it had already gotten late. You hadn't realized how much time had passed, so engrossed in studying and talking.

“We should probably call it a night,” you said, stretching your arms above your head.

Ni-ki nodded, though his expression was a little reluctant. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Time really flew by.” He stood up, walking over to the desk and gathering his things. He paused for a moment, glancing back at you. “Thanks for hanging out tonight. It was… really nice.”

You smiled at him, your heart warming at his words. “Of course. I’m glad we did this.”

Ni-ki walked you to the door, his hand brushing yours for a brief moment as he reached for the handle. He opened the door, and as you stepped into the hallway, he stopped you.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice softer than usual.

You turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in question.

“I just wanted to say…” He paused, as if thinking carefully about his words. “I’m glad you’re… in my life. You know, you’ve really made things a lot easier for me.”

Your heart skipped a beat. The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and you weren’t sure how to respond.

“I’m glad, too,” you managed, your voice a little quieter than intended. “I think we make a good team.”

Ni-ki’s lips curled into a small, genuine smile, and something about it made your chest feel lighter. He stepped closer, his hand briefly brushing your arm as if he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You both stood there for a moment, before Ni-ki spoke again, his tone soft but teasing.

“See you tomorrow, then?”

You nodded, feeling the smile tug at your own lips. “See you tomorrow.”

The music in your ears drowned out most of the world around you as you walked through the dark streets, the beat lightening your steps as you bopped your head and hummed softly. It was one of those evenings when the city felt alive but distant, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows against brick walls and sidewalks.

You didn’t notice the loud voice at first, too lost in the rhythm, but as it grew louder, it cut through the music, making you glance to your left. There, leaning against the wall of an old corner store, was a guy from your school.

You recognized him instantly. He was one of those guys who thrived on making others miserable. A bully. Loud, brash, and unapologetic about it. He was talking on his phone, his voice carrying through the quiet street.

When his gaze flicked toward you, you realized you’d been staring for too long. His face twisted in annoyance, and he barked, “What the hell are you looking at?”

Startled, you quickly shrugged, averting your gaze and picking up your pace. You didn’t have time for his nonsense tonight. The plan was simple: get home, maybe text Ni-ki, and bury yourself under your covers.

But you hadn’t made it more than a few steps when the street suddenly fell silent.

It was strange, almost unnerving. You frowned, pulling out one of your earbuds and glancing back over your shoulder.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The guy was still standing there, but something was wrong. His body was stiff, his shoulders trembling, and his head was tilted downward as if he were staring at his chest. Blood. Dark and glistening, it spilled from his mouth and dripped onto the pavement. His phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground.

Your instincts screamed at you to run, to do anything but stay frozen, but your feet refused to move. You could only watch in horror as his wide, terrified eyes met yours.

He tried to say something, his lips moving, but all that came out was a wet, gurgling sound.

And then you saw it.

Behind him, a figure emerged from the shadows, tall and menacing. They wore dark clothes, a hood pulled up to obscure most of their features, but what stood out—what sent chills racing down your spine—was the white mask. A smooth, expressionless face with hollow, soulless eyes staring straight at you.

In their gloved hand, they held a knife, the blade dripping with fresh blood.

Your heart pounded in your chest as panic set in. You were about to scream, about to do anything to snap yourself out of the shock, but the figure stepped forward, their movements deliberate and calm, as if they had all the time in the world.

The bully’s body crumpled to the ground, his lifeless eyes still locked in an expression of pure fear. The blood pooled beneath him, staining the pavement a deep crimson.

The figure didn’t move toward you—not yet. They just stood there, tilting their head slightly as if studying you, waiting to see what you would do.

Every instinct in your body screamed for you to run, but your legs felt like they were made of lead.

This can’t be real, you thought. This can’t be happening.

But it was. And now, the figure took one slow, deliberate step in your direction.

Run. You had to run. Now.

Your body finally responded, adrenaline flooding your veins as you stumbled backward, nearly tripping over your own feet. You turned and bolted down the darkened street, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The earbuds still dangling from your ears blasted music, a sharp contrast to the pounding of your heartbeat and the terror consuming you.

You didn’t dare look back.

Your feet hit the pavement hard, the sound echoing in the empty streets as you raced forward, unsure of where you were going. The only thought in your mind was get away. The quiet of the street felt suffocating, broken only by the occasional flicker of a streetlight.

But then you heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, and eerily calm.

Whoever they were, they weren’t running—they were following you. Like they knew you couldn’t escape.

You risked a glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped. The figure was still there, their white mask glowing faintly under the dim streetlights. They weren’t far, and their steady pace somehow made it worse. They didn’t need to run. They knew they had the upper hand.

“No, no, no...” you whispered to yourself, your voice shaky. You turned a sharp corner into a narrower street, your eyes darting around for any sign of help—a lit window, a passerby, anything. But there was no one. Just endless shadows.

You spotted an alley up ahead and ducked into it, pressing yourself against the wall as you tried to steady your breathing. You ripped your earbuds out, desperate to hear every sound around you.

For a moment, there was silence. The footsteps had stopped.

You strained your ears, listening for any hint of movement. The sound of your own breathing felt deafening in the stillness.

And then, softly, the unmistakable scrape of a shoe against the pavement.

Your heart nearly stopped as you realized they were close—too close.

The figure stepped into the mouth of the alley, their tall silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of a distant streetlight. They turned their head slowly, scanning the space.

You pressed yourself harder against the wall, willing yourself to disappear. Please don’t see me, please don’t see me.

But then they tilted their head, and you knew they’d found you.

A sharp wave of panic crashed over you, and before you could think, your legs moved on their own. You bolted deeper into the alley, praying it would lead somewhere—anywhere—but as you reached the end, your heart sank.

A dead end.

You spun around, your back pressed against the cold brick wall as the figure approached, their movements unhurried, deliberate. The knife in their hand gleamed faintly in the dim light, still slick with blood.

“W-what do you want?” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hands shook as you clenched them at your sides, trying to mask the terror in your chest.

The figure didn’t answer, their masked face tilting slightly as if amused by your fear. The silence between you was suffocating, the sound of your ragged breathing echoing in the narrow alley. You pressed yourself harder against the wall, your body trembling as their slow, deliberate footsteps brought them closer.

“Please,” you tried again, your voice cracking. “I won’t tell anyone. Just—just let me go.”

Still, no response. They stopped just a few feet away, the knife glinting under the faint light. The blade wasn’t just bloodied—it was still dripping. Fresh.

You swallowed hard, your mind racing for a way out. Running wasn’t an option. The alley was too narrow, and they were blocking your only escape.

Then, the figure did something that made your stomach drop. Slowly, they reached up with their free hand and tapped the edge of the mask—right where the mouth would be. A deliberate, mocking gesture.

The message was clear: Don’t scream.

Your body froze as dread sank into your chest.

Your breathing hitched as the figure suddenly surged forward, their free hand grabbing your wrists and slamming them against the cold brick wall. You winced at the force, the impact sending a sharp sting up your arms.

"Let go!" you cried, struggling against their iron grip, but it was no use. Their hands were strong—too strong—and no matter how much you writhed or twisted, you couldn’t break free.

The knife gleamed dangerously close to your side, but it wasn’t moving. Instead, the figure leaned in, their mask mere inches from your face.

“Why are you doing this?” you hissed, your voice shaking but desperate.

They didn’t answer. Instead, they tilted their head, as if observing you up close, and the silent scrutiny sent a shiver down your spine. Their breathing was steady, calm—eerily so, given the situation.

You turned your head away, refusing to meet their hollow gaze, but their grip on your wrists tightened, forcing you to look back at them.

“Stop,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper now. “Please.”

They leaned in even closer, the blank mask filling your vision. The faint scent of something metallic—blood—wafted into your nose, and you froze completely, your body trembling under their hold.

You could feel the faint pressure of their breath through the mask, warm and unnervingly slow.

Then, they did something that made your stomach twist. They tilted their head down slightly, as if inspecting you more closely, and the knife in their other hand gently traced along the brick wall beside your face, the sound sharp and deliberate.

“Why are you so scared?” they finally murmured, their voice low, distorted, and almost playful. The modulated tone sent a chill through your entire body. Your eyes widened at the sound. “Who are you?” you managed to croak, but they ignored your question.

They leaned even closer, their voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ve been watching people. Reading their actions. Studying them.”

Your heart stopped. How could they possibly know that?

The knife stopped moving, the tip resting against the wall now as they tilted their head again, as if amused by your reaction.

“You’re just like me,” they murmured, their voice soft but laced with something dangerous. “Aren’t you curious about what happens next?”

The words struck you like a blow, and you felt the air leave your lungs. “I’m nothing like you,” you spat, trying to summon any ounce of courage left in you.

The figure chuckled softly—a sound that was more unsettling than anything else—and finally stepped back, releasing your wrists. You crumpled slightly against the wall, your hands trembling as you pulled them to your chest.

They stood there for a moment, watching you. And then, without a word, they turned and walked away, their figure disappearing into the darkness once more.

You didn’t move, your body frozen in place as your mind raced. Their words echoed in your head.

You’re just like me.

What did they mean?

For a moment, you stood there, too stunned to move, your legs shaking beneath you. The silence in the alley was deafening now, the absence of their presence almost as terrifying as their arrival.

Finally, your body caught up with your mind. You bolted.

You ran down the street, not caring where you were going, your feet pounding against the pavement. Every shadow felt like it was reaching for you, every flicker of light a reminder of that gleaming knife.

When you finally stopped, you realized you were standing in front of your building. Your hands trembled as you fumbled for your keys, barely managing to unlock the door before stumbling inside.

You slammed the door behind you, locking it quickly and leaning against it as you tried to catch your breath. Your heart was still racing, and the image of the masked figure burned into your mind wouldn’t leave.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, your back pressed against the door, fighting to steady your breath. The air in the hallway was suffocating, the stillness unnerving. Your pulse thudded in your ears, too loud, too fast, as you struggled to ground yourself in reality.

The sound of your own heartbeat felt like a drum, drowning out every other noise. You closed your eyes for a moment, willing the panic to subside, but the image of the masked figure—those hollow, unfeeling eyes—kept flashing in your mind. You could almost still feel the coldness of their grip on your wrists, the steel of the knife pressed against the air between you.

No, no, you couldn't think about that. You had to focus on something else.

Your hands were shaking so badly that when you tried to take off your shoes, you nearly tripped over them. You steadied yourself against the wall, reaching for your phone in your pocket. Your hands felt clammy as you unlocked it, eyes scanning the screen. You thought about calling someone—anyone—but who could you even call? You had no idea what just happened, who that person was, or why you were targeted.

You tapped your messages, but the familiar names on your screen did little to comfort you. Your fingers hovered over Ni-ki’s name for a moment, but you hesitated. You didn’t want to scare him. What would you even say?

You knew he’d be worried, and maybe that’s exactly what you needed. But not yet.

You let out a long, shaky breath, and after a moment of indecision, you tucked the phone back into your pocket. You needed to calm down. You couldn’t let yourself spiral.

Your eyes flicked to the window, the dim glow from the streetlights casting long shadows into the room. Every movement, every flicker of light outside seemed to twist your nerves tighter. You felt like you were being watched.

Was it paranoia?

You couldn’t stay locked inside forever. But you couldn’t leave either. Not now.

You walked to the window and pulled the blinds slightly aside, peering out. The street below was quiet, eerily so. But there was something off about it now. Something unsettling.

Was this your fault? Was it something you'd done or seen that made you a target?

You flinched as your phone buzzed in your pocket, snapping you out of your thoughts. Your heart skipped a beat, but when you checked, it was just a message from Yuna—nothing urgent. You let out a breath of relief, your hands still trembling slightly.

You wanted to scream. To make sense of it all. But something told you that doing so would only make things worse.

--

The next morning, you woke up to a sense of dread still hanging in the air, the events from last night haunting your every thought. You had barely slept, every small noise in the dark sending your heart into a frantic beat. As you stumbled out of bed, you tried to shake the feeling off, but it lingered like a shadow.

You grabbed your phone, your fingers trembling slightly as you scrolled through your notifications. And then, your stomach dropped.

The headline was everywhere.

Student Found Murdered in Alley; Police Investigating

You stared at the screen, the words blurring as you read and reread the article, your hands shaking. They had found the body of the guy from last night—the one who had been leaning against the wall when the figure had attacked him. Blood had poured from his mouth just before the figure disappeared into the shadows.

But now he was dead.

The report didn’t offer many details yet, but the police were investigating, and they had a few leads—seeing if they found any potential witnesses. You clenched your fists, a sick feeling bubbling in your stomach as you read the lines again, trying to steady your nerves.

You were a witness.

You were standing right there when it happened, not even ten feet away. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell anyone. The thought of speaking up made your stomach churn. What could you even say? That you’d seen a masked figure with a bloody knife standing over the body, and then you’d just run? That you’d been too scared to do anything but watch?

No, you couldn’t. It felt wrong. Almost like you were too close to the danger.

For a moment, you thought about calling Ni-ki. He’d want to know. He’d be concerned. But even the thought of telling him made you hesitate. You didn’t want to burden him with this. And besides, you didn’t even know what to say to him. How would he react?

Something inside you whispered that it was better to stay quiet. For now, at least. You didn’t know why. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was guilt. But you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that speaking out would only make things worse.

As you turned off your phone and got ready for school, the weight of the secret pressed down on you like an iron fist. The urge to tell someone gnawed at you, but something—maybe self-preservation, maybe the fear of the unknown—stopped you from speaking.

You didn’t know what kind of person that made you, but at that moment, all you could think about was survival.

And that meant staying silent.

You spotted Ni-ki waiting for you near the school gates, his back leaning casually against the wall. At first, you almost didn’t recognize him. Gone were the oversized hoodies and the unassuming posture. Today, he wore a sharp black jacket, his shirt tucked in, and his usually messy hair was swept back, revealing more of his face. The change was striking, and it caught you off guard.

When he saw you approaching, he straightened up, slipping his hands into his pockets with an easy confidence you’d never seen before. There was a glint in his eyes that made your stomach flip.

“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, his tone lighter than usual. His gaze swept over you briefly before he added, “You look cute today.”

The comment hit you like a bolt out of the blue, and you felt your cheeks flush instantly. “W-what?” you stammered, staring at him wide-eyed. Ni-ki wasn’t the type to flirt—or, at least, you didn’t think he was.

He chuckled at your reaction, his lips curling into a small, amused smile. “Relax. I’m just being honest.”

You ducked your head, pretending to fumble with your bag to hide the warmth spreading across your face. “Well… thanks, I guess,” you mumbled, trying to compose yourself.

The two of you fell into step together, chatting idly as you walked toward the school building. Ni-ki seemed so at ease, more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.

But as the two of you passed through the crowded hallway, you noticed something—every time someone called out to him, a snide remark or a mocking laugh in their tone, Ni-ki’s shoulders would stiffen ever so slightly.

“Hey, Ni-ki, looking sharp today!” someone sneered from behind, the tone far from genuine.

“Trying to impress someone? Not like anyone cares,” another voice added with a laugh.

You glanced over at him, expecting to see some hint of his reaction—annoyance, discomfort, maybe even the faint twist of hurt you used to notice in his expression when he was picked on. But before you could catch anything, Ni-ki turned to you with that same easy smile, his voice light and unaffected.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” he asked as if nothing had happened, steering the conversation effortlessly away from the taunts.

You frowned slightly, feeling like something was off. His smile was convincing, but you knew him well enough to sense that it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something guarded behind that mask of confidence, a wall he didn’t want you—or anyone else—to see behind.

“Are you okay?” you asked carefully, your voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Ni-ki’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—brief, almost imperceptible. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied smoothly, tilting his head at you like the question itself was unnecessary.

You wanted to press further, but the bell rang, cutting off any chance of continuing the conversation.

As you headed to class together, you couldn’t help but steal a few glances at him. Ni-ki had changed—there was no denying that. He seemed stronger, more confident, even… untouchable in a way. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still carrying the weight of what he’d been through.

And as much as you wanted to believe his smile, something in you knew that the Ni-ki you were walking with now wasn’t the same one you’d first met.

The days passed, and Ni-ki’s transformation became even more apparent. He wasn’t just confident now—he was bold, almost playful in the way he interacted with you. And you couldn’t deny the effect it had on you.

“Morning,” he greeted one day, appearing behind you so suddenly that you nearly dropped your books. You turned to glare at him, clutching your chest as your heart raced from the surprise.

“Ni-ki, can you not sneak up on me like that?” you huffed, glaring half-heartedly.

He smirked, leaning down to your eye level, far too close for comfort. “What, can’t handle a little excitement in the morning?” he teased, his voice laced with a softness that made your cheeks burn.

You looked away, muttering under your breath, but it only seemed to amuse him. Without asking, he reached for your bag, slinging it over his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey! I can carry my own bag,” you protested, grabbing for the strap.

Ni-ki dodged your hand effortlessly, his smirk growing. “I know. But I want to. Let me be a gentleman for once,” he said, winking at you.

You huffed again, but the way your cheeks warmed betrayed how much it flustered you.

It wasn’t just the small gestures like carrying your bag that got to you. Ni-ki always seemed to know just how to toe the line between teasing and sincere, making your heart race in ways you hadn’t expected. Sometimes, he’d lean casually against the locker next to yours, his proximity far too close to be casual.

“Have you ever read this one?” he asked once, holding out a crime novel you hadn’t even heard of. “I thought of you when I saw it.”

You blinked at the book in his hands, touched by the gesture. “You thought of me?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “Well, yeah. It’s about solving crimes. Sound familiar?”

You tried not to blush at his words, but his teasing gaze made it impossible.

The more time you spent with him, the more you noticed the little things he did—bringing you snacks during breaks, texting you links to new crime documentaries, and inviting you over to his dorm room for movie nights.

Those nights were some of your favorite moments, even if they made you nervous. The two of you would sit close together on the small couch, a bowl of popcorn between you as you watched horror movies. Inevitably, you’d end up dozing off halfway through, only to wake up hours later, cuddled up against his chest.

The first time it happened, you’d pulled away so quickly you nearly fell off the couch. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Ni-ki just laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It’s fine. You looked comfortable,” he said, his tone so gentle it made your heart ache.

Still, the memory of waking up to the sound of his steady heartbeat, feeling the warmth of his arms around you, stayed with you long after.

You couldn’t deny how Ni-ki made you feel. His presence was becoming something you looked forward to—his teasing, his warmth, his surprising thoughtfulness.

He was always there—waiting for you by the gates in the morning, walking you to your classes, and staying by your side during breaks. His confidence had grown, but so had his charm. He seemed to know just what to say to make your heart skip a beat, leaving you flustered and unsure how to respond.

One afternoon, the two of you were walking out of the library. Ni-ki was carrying your books again despite your protests, and the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the campus.

“So,” he began, his voice casual but laced with that teasing edge you’d come to expect, “are you ever going to admit you like spending time with me, or do I have to keep carrying your books until you do?”

You turned to him, startled by his boldness, and saw the playful smirk tugging at his lips. “I—what?!”

Ni-ki chuckled, leaning in slightly as he walked beside you. “You heard me,” he said, his voice soft but teasing. “You don’t have to be so shy about it. I mean, I am pretty great company.”

Your face burned, and you looked away, clutching your bag tightly. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, though your tone lacked any real bite.

His laugh was soft but warm, and it only made your cheeks grow hotter. “I’m just saying what’s true,” he said, his voice lowering as he added, “You’re cute when you get flustered, you know that?”

You didn’t respond, too busy trying to keep your heart from pounding out of your chest.

Later that evening, you found yourself at his dorm room again, another movie night he’d somehow convinced you to attend. As usual, he’d picked a horror film—one of his favorites, he said.

The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the TV the only source of light. You sat next to him on the small couch, your knees almost touching.

Halfway through the movie, a particularly tense scene made you jump, and without thinking, you grabbed onto Ni-ki’s arm.

“Scared?” he asked, his tone teasing but not unkind.

You quickly let go, crossing your arms over your chest. “No,” you said stubbornly, though the way your heart raced said otherwise.

Ni-ki laughed softly, leaning closer to you. “It’s okay to be scared. You can hold onto me if you want,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make your breath catch.

You glanced at him, your cheeks burning again, and quickly looked back at the screen. “I’ll be fine,” you muttered, trying to ignore how close he was.

As the movie went on, though, the tension eased, and the warmth of Ni-ki’s presence lulled you into a sense of comfort. Before you knew it, your eyes were growing heavy, and the soft sound of his breathing beside you was the last thing you remembered before you drifted off.

When you woke up, the TV was off, and the room was quiet. You blinked groggily, realizing you were leaning against Ni-ki’s chest again, your head resting just over his heart. His arm was draped lightly over your shoulder, holding you close.

You froze, your face heating up as you tried to process the situation. Slowly, you sat up, careful not to wake him, only to find him already awake, his eyes half-lidded and watching you with a soft smile.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

“I—I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you stammered, pulling away completely.

Ni-ki just shrugged, sitting up as well. “It’s fine,” he said, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You looked comfortable.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning softly. “This is so embarrassing…”

He chuckled, reaching out to gently nudge your shoulder. “Relax. I told you, it’s fine. You can fall asleep on me anytime.”

His words only made your blush deepen, and you quickly got up, mumbling something about needing to leave. Ni-ki walked you to the door, still smiling in that soft, knowing way that made your heart ache.

--

It was a typical day in the cafeteria, the loud hum of conversation filling the air as you sat with your friends, idly picking at your food. The topic of discussion ranged from schoolwork to weekend plans, and you were halfway through telling a funny story when the sound of a tray nearly crashing to the ground caught your attention.

You looked up to see Ni-ki, standing awkwardly as he tried to steady himself after nearly colliding with a group of girls near the lunch line. His tray wobbled precariously, but he caught it just in time, flashing the girls an apologetic smile before quickly stepping aside.

The girls giggled, whispering to one another as Ni-ki walked off, looking slightly flustered. You could almost see the faint hint of red on his cheeks, though he composed himself quickly and made his way toward his usual spot.

“That’s Ni-ki, right?” one of your friends, Natty, said, nudging you with her elbow.

You blinked, realizing your friends were now watching him. “Yeah,” you said nonchalantly, though your gaze lingered on him as he passed by.

“He’s gotten so handsome lately,” another friend chimed in, resting her chin on her hand as she stared after him. “I mean, look at him! The hair, the way he’s dressing now… I swear, it’s like he had a total glow-up overnight.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you quickly looked down at your plate, hoping no one would notice.

“He’s always been cute,” Natty said, shrugging. “But now? It’s like… he’s confident. And confidence is hot.”

“I heard he’s been helping out in some of his classes too,” another friend added. “Like, tutoring and stuff. Smart and good-looking? Talk about the whole package.”

You tried to focus on your food, but the conversation buzzed around you, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange twinge in your chest as your friends continued to gush over Ni-ki.

“Hey,” Natty said suddenly, leaning closer to you. “You’ve been hanging out with him a lot lately, haven’t you? What’s that about?”

Your head shot up, eyes wide. “What? No, we’re just… friends,” you said quickly, waving off her question. “He likes crime novels, and we talk about them sometimes. That’s all.”

“Just friends?” Natty teased, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because he definitely looks at you like you’re more than just a friend.”

Your heart skipped a beat at her words, and you frowned, shaking your head. “You’re imagining things.”

But even as you said it, you couldn’t shake the memory of Ni-ki’s lingering glances, the way he leaned closer when he spoke to you, or how his hand would sometimes brush against yours when he handed you something.

Across the cafeteria, Ni-ki had taken a seat by himself, but before he started eating, his eyes flicked in your direction. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to make your stomach flip.

Natty noticed too, smirking as she nudged you again. “See? I told you. He’s totally into you.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Can we please change the subject?”

Your friends laughed, but they eventually let it go, moving on to other topics. Still, you couldn’t help but steal a glance at Ni-ki again, only to find him smiling softly to himself as he ate.

And for some reason, that little smile made your heart race even more than it already was.

The day had dragged on, the sun was low on the horizon as you started your walk home, the familiar path quiet except for the occasional car passing by. You had just popped in your earbuds when the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the music.

Frowning, you glanced over your shoulder, only to see Ni-ki sprinting toward you, waving one arm while clutching his bag with the other. His glasses were slightly crooked, his hair a little disheveled from the run, but he wore that familiar smile that seemed to make your day just a little brighter.

“Wait up!” he called, slightly breathless as he closed the distance between you.

You stopped, giving him time to catch his breath. “You okay there, track star?” you teased as he bent over, hands on his knees, trying to steady his breathing.

“Yeah,” he panted, straightening up and flashing you a grin. “Just… didn’t want to lose you before I asked.”

“Asked what?” you said, tilting your head.

He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Do you want to come over and study? I mean, if you’re not busy or anything. I thought we could go over some of that exam stuff together, maybe watch something after…”

You raised an eyebrow at him, suppressing a smile. “You ran all the way here to ask me that?”

Ni-ki shrugged, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as he looked away. “Well… yeah. It seemed important.”

You chuckled softly, noticing how his glasses were sitting askew on his face from the sprint. Without thinking, you stepped closer, reaching up to gently adjust them. “There,” you said, your voice softer now. “That’s better.”

Ni-ki blinked at you, clearly startled by the gesture, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. For a moment, he just stood there, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place—something warm, something soft, something that made your heart skip.

You cleared your throat, stepping back and turning toward the direction of his dorm building. “Alright, let’s go,” you said, trying to ignore the sudden heat rising to your face.

Ni-ki followed after you, his footsteps light but quick, and you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you as he walked behind. There was a small, almost shy smile on his face, one he didn’t bother hiding now that you weren’t looking.

By the time you reached the building, the sky had darkened, the streetlights flickering on. Ni-ki held the door open for you, letting you step in first, and as you made your way toward the stairs, you felt his presence behind you—quiet but steady.

“You’ve really got a thing for last-minute plans, huh?” you said, glancing back at him with a teasing smile.

“Only with you,” he replied smoothly, his tone light, but there was a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes that caught you off guard.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see if you can actually focus on studying this time.”

Ni-ki just grinned, following you up the stairs, his heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the earlier sprint.

The moment you stepped into Ni-ki’s apartment, you were greeted by the faint scent of laundry detergent and something sweet—probably the remnants of whatever he had for breakfast that morning.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, slipping off his shoes and gesturing toward his room.

You followed him in, setting your bag down on the floor.

“Alright,” Ni-ki said, plopping down onto the floor and pulling out his notebook. “Let’s get this over with before my brain decides to shut off completely.”

You laughed, sitting down across from him and pulling out your own notes. “You’re the one who wanted to study, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, flipping through his book. “Just don’t let me slack off too much.”

For a while, the two of you worked in relative silence, the sound of pages turning and pens scratching against paper filling the room. Every now and then, one of you would ask a question, leading to brief discussions as you helped each other out.

“Wait, is this right?” Ni-ki asked at one point, sliding his notebook over to you.

You leaned over to take a look, your brows furrowing as you scanned his work. “Almost. You forgot to carry this number over here,” you said, pointing it out with the tip of your pen.

Ni-ki groaned, dropping his head onto the desk dramatically. “Why is math like this? What did I ever do to deserve this kind of suffering?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his theatrics. “Come on, it’s not that bad. You’re just overthinking it.”

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled, lifting his head to look at you. “You’re like a human calculator.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of this,” you teased, nudging his notebook back toward him.

He gave you a mock pout but picked up his pen again, dutifully fixing his mistake.

A little while later, you were both leaning back against the bed, taking a break as you sipped on the canned drinks Ni-ki had grabbed from his fridge.

“Okay, serious question,” Ni-ki said, turning to you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

You raised an eyebrow, wary but intrigued. “What?”

“If you had to choose between being stuck on a deserted island with me or having to solve a murder mystery with me, which one would you pick?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the random question. “Uh… I don’t know. What kind of murder mystery?”

“The really dramatic kind,” he said, leaning closer with an exaggerated serious expression. “Lots of twists, lots of danger. Like, we’d be running for our lives half the time.”

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “In that case… definitely the murder mystery. At least then I’d have something to keep me entertained.”

Ni-ki gasped, clutching his chest like you’d just mortally wounded him. “Wow. I see how it is. I’m just boring company on a deserted island, huh?”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “That’s not what I said!”

“Sure, sure,” he said, grinning as he took another sip of his drink. “I’ll remember this the next time you need my help with something.”

The banter continued as you both returned to studying, the playful energy making the work feel less tedious. Ni-ki had a way of turning even the most mundane moments into something fun, and you found yourself smiling more often than not.

At one point, he leaned over to steal a glance at your notebook, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Are you sure this is right?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Yes, it’s right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You can double-check it if you don’t believe me.”

He smirked, leaning closer. “Nah, I trust you. You’re too smart to get it wrong.”

The compliment, paired with his proximity, made your cheeks heat up, and you quickly looked away, focusing on your notebook to hide your reaction.

Ni-ki noticed, of course. He always noticed. But instead of teasing you further, he simply chuckled and went back to his own work, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

After a while, Ni-ki let out a long sigh, dropping his pen dramatically onto his notebook. “I’m officially done. I can’t stare at numbers and letters any longer without my brain exploding.”

You glanced at him, amused. “You’re giving up already? I thought you wanted to study.”

“I did,” he said, flopping onto his back like a starfish. “But now I want to do something fun. Come on, let’s play a game.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A game? Like what?”

He sat up quickly, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “On my console. I’ve got a few multiplayer games. We’ll do a couple of rounds—you’re not scared to lose, are you?”

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes as you stood up to follow him to his console setup. “You’re the one who should be worried.”

He smirked, grabbing two controllers and handing you one. “We’ll see about that.”

As the game loaded, you both got comfortable on the floor, sitting cross-legged with a pile of snacks within reach. The first match started, and immediately, the competitive energy between you two ignited.

“Ni-ki, what are you doing?” you teased as his character fell off the map for the third time in a row. “You’re not even trying, are you?”

His ears turned red as he adjusted his glasses, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. “I-I’m just warming up! Wait until the next round; you won’t even stand a chance.”

You grinned, loving the way he stumbled over his words. “Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

The next match started, and this time Ni-ki was clearly putting in more effort. He managed to take the lead, and when you lost the round, he leaned back with a triumphant smirk.

“Looks like you’re the one who should be worried,” he said, his tone dripping with playful confidence.

You felt your face heat up as you avoided his gaze, grumbling under your breath. “Lucky shot. I wasn’t even trying.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, leaning a little closer to nudge your shoulder. “Excuses, excuses. Just admit I’m better.”

You turned to glare at him, but the way his eyes sparkled with amusement made it hard to stay mad. Instead, you shoved his arm lightly. “Don’t get too cocky, Ni-ki. I’ll destroy you in the next one.”

The back-and-forth continued as you played match after match, the teasing only escalating as the wins and losses stacked up on both sides. Every time you won, Ni-ki would blush and fidget, either pushing his glasses up his nose or tugging on the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Seriously, how are you so good at this?” he muttered after losing another round, his voice a mix of frustration and awe.

“I told you, you should’ve been worried,” you said, grinning as you leaned back, basking in your victory.

But then Ni-ki got his revenge in the next game, and when you lost, he didn’t hold back.

“Aw, what happened?” he said, his voice dripping with mock concern. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

You huffed, crossing your arms as your cheeks burned. “I just… got distracted, that’s all.”

“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “Keep telling yourself that.”

The teasing was relentless, but you couldn’t deny how much fun you were having. Even as you tried to avoid looking at him after his jabs, you could feel his gaze on you, warm and amused.

When the final match ended—Ni-ki winning by a narrow margin—you let out a dramatic groan, flopping onto your back. “Ugh, I can’t believe you beat me.”

He laughed, leaning over you slightly. “See? I told you I’d win eventually.”

You looked up at him, your pout fading as you saw the way his eyes crinkled at the corners from his smile. For a moment, you forgot all about the game, too caught up in the way he looked so happy and carefree.

“Well,” you said finally, sitting up and brushing some imaginary dust off your pants. “Don’t get used to it. Next time, I’m coming for that win.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, his voice softening slightly.

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you busied yourself with tidying up the controllers and snack wrappers.

You glanced out the window and froze for a moment, realizing how dark it had gotten. The streetlights outside cast long, flickering shadows along the quiet road. Your heart dropped when you checked the time on your phone: 9:57 PM.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, hurriedly grabbing your things and stuffing them into your bag. You barely noticed Ni-ki watching you, his head tilted curiously as he leaned back on his hands.

"Leaving already?" he asked, his tone light, though something in his voice felt... reluctant.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, giving him a quick, apologetic smile. "Yeah, I didn’t realize how late it got. I need to get home before it gets any darker out. I’ll see you Monday, okay?"

Ni-ki opened his mouth as if to say something, but then stopped himself, giving you a small nod instead. "Alright, be careful."

You waved at him, muttering a quick, "Bye!" before rushing out of his dorm room and into the hallway.

The building was eerily quiet as you made your way outside, the cool night air hitting your face the moment you stepped through the door. You tightened your grip on your bag, glancing around the street. It was unsettling how empty it felt, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

You walked quickly, your footsteps echoing on the pavement. Normally, you’d pop in your earbuds and listen to music to keep yourself company, but tonight, the thought of not hearing what was around you made your stomach twist. Instead, you kept your ears open, alert to every little sound.

The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint hum of a car in the distance. Still, the shadows seemed to move differently tonight, stretching and shifting in ways that made your pulse quicken.

Your pace quickened as well. The faster you walked, the closer you got to home, where you could lock the door and feel safe.

Your heart leapt at the sound of footsteps echoing behind you. They were uneven, dragging slightly against the pavement. You froze mid-step, your breath catching in your throat, and slowly turned around.

A man stumbled a little ways behind you, his silhouette illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlamp. His gait was unsteady, his head lolling slightly to the side, and in his hand was a beer bottle, half-empty and dangling precariously.

The strong stench of alcohol hit you even from a distance, and your pulse eased slightly. Just a drunk guy, you told yourself.

Still, something about the way he moved unsettled you. His eyes seemed unfocused, yet he kept glancing up in your direction, like he was aware of you but trying not to be obvious about it.

You tightened your grip on your bag and turned back around, walking faster now. The sound of his footsteps didn’t fade; if anything, they seemed to quicken as well.

Your stomach twisted, and you glanced back again. The man was closer this time, his lips curling into a sloppy smirk.

“Hey!” he slurred, his voice loud and grating. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”

You ignored him, your heart racing as you picked up your pace.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!” he called out again, louder this time. You heard the sound of glass clinking, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him waving the beer bottle at you.

Panic bubbled in your chest. You debated breaking into a sprint, but you didn’t want to show fear—or worse, give him a reason to chase after you.

Instead, you ducked your head and turned sharply down a side street, hoping to lose him.

But the footsteps followed, faster now.

“Hey! Don’t walk away from me!” he shouted, his voice taking on an edge of irritation.

Your breathing quickened, your mind racing as you glanced around for an escape. The street was too empty, too quiet. There was no one to call for help, no open stores, no witnesses.

“C’mon, woman!” he slurred, closer than before. “Just talk to me for a second!”

He made your skin crawl, and without thinking, you broke into a run.

“Hey!” you heard him shout behind you, his footsteps pounding against the pavement as he gave chase.

You turned a corner sharply, your chest heaving as you pushed yourself to go faster. Your legs burned, your bag bouncing against your back, but you didn’t dare slow down.

When you glanced back over your shoulder, your stomach dropped. He was still following, his face twisted into a drunken snarl.

Your heart thundered as you looked ahead, desperately searching for somewhere—anywhere—to hide. That’s when you saw it: a narrow alleyway, tucked between two buildings.

Without thinking, you darted into it, pressing yourself against the wall and holding your breath. The shadows swallowed you whole, and you prayed he wouldn’t notice where you’d gone.

The sound of his footsteps grew louder, then slower, until finally, they stopped.

“Where the hell—” you heard him mutter, his voice slurred and irritated.

You peeked around the corner just in time to see him scratching his head and muttering to himself before walking away.

Relief flooded through you, and you let out a shaky breath, your back sliding against the wall as you sank to the ground.

Your hands trembled as you fumbled through your bag, desperately searching for your phone. After a frantic few moments, you realized with a sinking feeling—you’d left it at Ni-ki’s place.

“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath, running a hand through your hair. You were too shaken to think straight, but you needed your phone. It wasn’t safe to be out here without it.

With a reluctant sigh, you pushed yourself off the wall and started walking back toward Ni-ki’s dorm. The streets felt even quieter now, the darkness pressing in around you. Every step you took echoed loudly in your ears, and your heartbeat hadn’t fully calmed from the earlier chase.

You were halfway there when a sudden shout split through the silence, followed by a loud, sickening thud.

You froze in place, your head snapping toward the source of the sound. It came from an alley just a few steps ahead.

Instinct told you to keep walking, to pretend you hadn’t heard anything. But curiosity—morbid and insistent—had you inching closer to the alleyway. You peered into the darkness, your breath hitching as your eyes struggled to adjust.

At first, there was nothing. Just the oppressive blackness of the alley. You were about to turn away, deciding it wasn’t worth it, when you heard a faint shuffle.

And then he stumbled out.

The drunk man.

Your stomach churned at the sight of him—his steps were unsteady, but it wasn’t alcohol this time. No, it was the knife protruding from his chest, the hilt gleaming faintly under the dim streetlights. Blood poured from the wound, staining his shirt and dripping onto the ground in thick, steady splatters.

Your mind blanked as you stared, your body frozen in place. He staggered a few steps closer before collapsing onto the pavement, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.

You opened your mouth to scream, but the sound died in your throat as your gaze flicked upward.

He was there.

Standing in the shadows of the alley, his white mask almost glowing against the darkness, he tilted his head at you in that familiar, unnerving way, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel his eyes locked on you.

"Ah, sweetheart," his voice drawled, smooth and almost teasing. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

Your heart nearly stopped. Without thinking, you spun around, ready to run—but you weren’t fast enough.

Before you could take more than a step, his hand shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking you back with a terrifying amount of strength. You barely had time to gasp before he twisted you around, pinning you against the cold, rough wall of the alley.

You struggled, kicking and thrashing, but he caught both your wrists in one hand, pressing them firmly behind your back. His chest pressed against your back, trapping you in place, and you could feel the heat of his breath as he leaned in close to your ear.

“He deserved it,” he whispered, his voice low and almost intimate. “Didn’t you see the way he was looking at you? Following you? Touching you with his eyes like you were something he could take?”

You tried to protest, to tell him to let you go, but your voice refused to cooperate.

“You should be thanking me,” he murmured, his tone laced with dark amusement. “If it weren’t for me, who knows what that disgusting piece of trash would’ve done to you?”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but the way he said them—like he truly believed he’d done you a favor—made your stomach twist.

“You should give me a reward, sweetheart,” he purred, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. “I’ve been so good to you, haven’t I? Taking care of all the people who hurt you.”

“L-let me go,” you managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

He chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, but I’m not done yet,” he said, his grip on your wrists tightening slightly. “Not until you say it.”

“S-say what?” you stammered.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice still teasing but with an edge that made it clear he wasn’t joking. “Go on, sweetheart. Say thank you to your savior.”

You writhed in his grip, twisting and struggling to free yourself, but his hold was unyielding. Every movement you made only seemed to amuse him further.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tutted softly, like a parent scolding a misbehaving child. “What’s this, sweetheart? Fighting me when I’ve done so much for you? That’s not very nice.”

“Let me go,” you hissed, your voice sharp despite the tremor in it.

Instead of responding, he shifted closer, his body pressing against yours as his free hand moved. You flinched, expecting the worst, but he simply brushed his gloved fingers against your neck, gently pushing your hair aside. The motion was slow, deliberate—almost tender.

“You really don’t know how to behave, do you?” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with something darker. “Here I am, protecting you, keeping you safe, and you don’t even say thank you. Instead, you fight me. Struggle against me. Like I’m the bad guy.”

The words sent a chill down your spine, the weight of them sinking into your chest.

“I didn’t ask for this!” you snapped, trying once more to pull your wrists free, but his grip only tightened.

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, sweetheart,” he said, his tone almost playful. “You didn’t have to. I wanted to do it. For you.”

His fingers trailed lightly over the nape of your neck, sending a shiver through your body that you couldn’t control.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, leaning in closer until his masked face was right beside yours. “I see you. Every single day. You’re so… perfect. So pure. And they’re not. They don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

“You’re insane,” you spat, your voice shaking.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a dark chuckle. “But I’m your kind of insane.”

His hand slid down, brushing over your shoulder in a mockery of comfort. “Say it,” he murmured again, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Say thank you. That’s all I want to hear.”

Your throat tightened, and you bit your lip, refusing to give him what he wanted. You wouldn’t play into whatever twisted game he was orchestrating.

But he sighed, the sound carrying a hint of disappointment. “Still being stubborn, huh?” he mused. “That’s okay. I like a challenge.”

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face slightly to the side. Though you couldn’t see his expression behind the mask, you could feel his gaze burning into you, his intensity unnerving.

“You’ll come around,” he said softly, his voice dripping with certainty. “One day, you’ll see that I’m the only one who truly cares about you.”

Before you could respond, he pulled back slightly, his grip on your wrists loosening just enough for you to jerk free. Without looking back, you bolted, your heart pounding as your feet hit the pavement.

But even as you ran, his voice echoed in your mind, smooth and haunting.

“One day, sweetheart. You’ll thank me.”

You didn’t stop running until the bright lights of the police station came into view. Your chest burned, your breath coming in ragged gasps, but the overwhelming need for safety pushed you forward. Bursting through the station doors, you stumbled inside, drawing the attention of a few officers.

“I need help!” you blurted out, your voice trembling. “There’s been a... a murder. And I saw him. I saw the killer!”

The room went silent for a moment as the officers exchanged quick glances before one of them, a tall man with a kind but serious face, approached you.

“Alright, take a deep breath,” he said, guiding you to a chair. “Let’s get this sorted. Where did this happen?”

You described the location of the alleyway, your voice shaky as you recounted the events. The officer nodded, gesturing for another officer to dispatch units to the scene immediately. Within moments, two officers left the station, heading toward the area you described.

“Okay,” the tall officer said, sitting down across from you with a notepad. “We’re going to need a full report from you. Start from the beginning—everything you saw, everything you experienced.”

Your hands shook as you clasped them tightly together, trying to steady yourself. You closed your eyes for a moment, forcing yourself to recount every detail, no matter how horrifying.

You told them about walking home, the drunk man, and the sounds that had drawn you to the alley. You described the killer in as much detail as you could: the mask, the knife, the dark clothes. You hesitated when you got to the part where he cornered you, his words still ringing in your ears.

“He... he grabbed me,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Pinned me against the wall. He said he was protecting me. That I should... thank him.”

The officer’s pen paused briefly on the notepad, his brows furrowing.

“He said he killed the man for me,” you continued, your throat tightening as you forced the words out. “That he was doing it because he cared about me.”

The officer leaned back slightly, his expression a mix of concern and disbelief. “Did you recognize him? Anything distinctive about his voice, his build, his mannerisms?”

You shook your head, feeling a wave of frustration and helplessness wash over you. “No. He wore a mask, and his voice... it was muffled. But he was tall, and he moved... like he was confident. Like he’d done this before.”

The officer nodded, jotting down your words. “You did the right thing coming here. We’ll have officers sweep the area, and we’ll add this information to the ongoing investigation.”

--

You sat in the station for what felt like an eternity, the hum of conversations and ringing phones fading into the background as your nerves took over. Every second that passed felt like it stretched longer than the last, the events of the night playing on a loop in your head.

Finally, the door swung open, and a pair of officers walked in, their expressions grim. One of them leaned in to speak with the tall officer who had taken your statement. After a brief conversation, he turned back to you and gestured for you to come over.

“They found the body,” he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with tension. “It was hidden behind some trash cans in the alley. The killer’s gone. But there’s something you need to see.”

Your stomach dropped, but you forced yourself to follow him to a desk where a computer screen was lit with grainy black-and-white footage.

“This is from a nearby CCTV camera,” the officer explained, clicking to play the video.

You leaned forward, your heart pounding as the footage started. There you were, walking down the street, your bag slung over your shoulder. You saw the drunk man trailing behind you, stumbling slightly, clutching the beer bottle. Your pulse quickened as you watched yourself pause and glance back before speeding up, the man still following.

The video cut briefly to another angle. The drunk man was now heading back down the street after you’d run. Suddenly, a shadow emerged from the alleyway. A figure stepped out behind him, silent and deliberate. The killer.

You watched, frozen, as the killer grabbed the man and pulled him into the alley in one swift motion. The man barely had time to react before disappearing into the shadows.

The screen flickered and you appeared, cautiously approaching the alley and stopping as if trying to decide whether to investigate. Then, just as you remembered, you turned and began walking away—only to get dragged in.

The next part made your blood run cold.

The camera caught the moment the killer stepped into view, just as you ran off-screen. He stopped in the middle of the street, standing there like a statue, watching you flee. Then, slowly, his head tilted upward, and he looked directly at the camera.

Even through the grainy footage, the gleaming white mask was unmistakable.

The killer stared into the camera for a long moment, tilting his head like a predator examining prey. Then, without any sense of urgency, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

The officer paused the video, his jaw tight as he glanced at you. “The way he looked at the camera… it’s almost like he wanted us to see him.”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat felt dry, and your hands were clammy as you clutched the edge of the desk. The image of the masked figure burned into your mind was now accompanied by that chilling motion—the way he’d looked at the camera, unafraid, almost playful.

“Do you know him?” the officer asked gently, his tone careful.

You shook your head quickly, maybe a little too quickly. “No. I—I don’t know anyone who’d…” You trailed off, your voice faltering.

The officer studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he said finally. “We’re going to keep investigating, and we’ll need to keep in contact with you. If anything—anything at all—comes to mind, you let us know.”

You nodded, your mind still racing as the image of the killer’s mask lingered.

The officer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “For now, we’ll have someone escort you home. You shouldn’t be out there alone.”

Home. The thought of being alone right now was terrifying, but staying here with the memory of that footage wasn’t much better.

As an officer prepared to walk you out, you glanced back at the frozen frame on the screen. The mask, the tilted head, the casual way he’d turned and walked away.

He wasn’t just watching.

He was toying with you.

The car ride was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the silence as you stared out the window, your mind racing with everything that had happened. The officer glanced at you occasionally, likely noticing your pale complexion and tense posture.

As you neared your neighborhood, you suddenly remembered your phone. "Wait," you blurted out, sitting up straighter. "Can we stop by my friend's place? I left my phone there earlier."

The officer hesitated but nodded. “Alright, just make it quick. What’s the address?”

You rattled it off, and within minutes, the car pulled up in front of Ni-ki’s building. You quickly unbuckled your seatbelt, mumbling a soft, "I’ll be right back," before stepping out and jogging up to the building. Your stomach churned with unease as you entered and climbed the stairs.

When you reached Ni-ki’s door, you paused, glancing back down the hall. It was quiet, almost too quiet. Taking a deep breath, you raised your hand and knocked.

It took a few moments, but the door finally opened.

Ni-ki stood there, his damp hair pushed back messily, droplets of water still clinging to his neck. He had clearly just stepped out of the shower, wearing a loose hoodie and sweatpants that hung lazily on his frame.

“Hey,” he greeted with a soft smile, his eyes lighting up when he saw you. “I was wondering when you’d come back for this.” He held up your phone, which had been sitting on his desk.

You gave him a sheepish smile, reaching for it. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I got distracted earlier and completely forgot.”

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe as he handed it to you. “No problem. You okay, though? You seem… tense.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, clutching the phone to your chest. “Just—uh, long day. Thanks, Ni-ki.”

Before he could say anything else, you turned and started walking back down the hall.

“Wait—” Ni-ki called after you, his voice tinged with concern. “You sure you’re okay? You’re acting weird.”

You ignored him, speeding up your pace. “I’m fine! See you Monday!”

“(Y/N)—”

You didn’t stop, practically jogging back to the police car. You climbed in, shutting the door behind you and exhaling deeply as the officer glanced at you in the rearview mirror.

“Got what you needed?” she asked.

“Yeah,” you muttered, not meeting her gaze.

The drive home was just as silent as before, the weight of the night pressing down on your chest. When the officer pulled up outside your apartment, she gave you a small nod. “Stay inside tonight. Lock your doors. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, stepping out and heading to your door.

Once inside, you locked the door behind you, sliding the chain into place for extra security. You leaned against it, exhaling deeply as your heart continued to race.

You glanced at your phone, still clutched tightly in your hand, and felt a pang of guilt. Ni-ki had been nothing but kind to you, and you’d brushed him off so abruptly.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the killer, about the way he’d spoken to you, about the way he’d looked at you. It was like his presence still lingered, even now, haunting you.

With a sigh, you set your phone down and headed to your room, determined to push the events of the night out of your mind. You needed sleep—desperately.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts. You glanced down, seeing a message from Ni-ki.

Ni-ki: Hey, you okay? I know you were in a rush earlier… If you need someone to talk to, I'm here.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you couldn't quite shake off the tension in your chest. You quickly typed back.

You: Yeah, I’m fine. Just… been a weird day, you know?

You stared at the screen for a moment before adding:

You: Would you mind calling me? I could use someone to talk to…

It didn’t take long for him to reply.

Ni-ki: Of course. I’ll call you now.

A few moments later, your phone rang. You swiped to answer, bringing it to your ear.

“Hey,” Ni-ki’s voice came through, calm and warm, despite the underlying concern. “You doing okay now?”

You leaned back against the wall, feeling a sense of relief just hearing his voice.

“Yeah,” you replied softly. “Just… everything feels a little off tonight. I’m glad you messaged.”

He was quiet for a moment, and you could almost picture him thinking.

“I’m glad you reached out,” he said finally. “You don’t have to go through stuff like this alone. I know it might seem like everything’s chaotic, but you’ve got me. You can always talk to me.”

His words had an unexpected comfort to them, and you felt some of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I really appreciate it, Ni-ki.”

“I mean it,” he replied with a soft chuckle. “Anytime, seriously. If you need a distraction or just someone to listen, I’ve got you.”

You smiled to yourself, grateful for his kindness.

“Maybe we can talk more tomorrow, huh? I’ll make sure to check in on you again. Don’t want you feeling like this all night.”

You felt a slight pang of guilt but quickly pushed it away.

“I’ll be okay. And… thanks again. I’m just gonna try to get some sleep.”

“Sounds good. Get some rest, and if anything comes up, just text me, alright?”

“I will. Goodnight, Ni-ki.”

“Goodnight,” he said, the sincerity in his voice making you feel a little lighter.

As you ended the call, you leaned back into your pillow, feeling a bit more at ease.

--

The doorbell rang again the next morning, pulling you from your thoughts. You blinked, confused, before walking over to the door and pulling it open. To your surprise, there stood Ni-ki, looking as effortlessly stylish as ever, wearing a relaxed smile.

“I’m taking you to the mall,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at him for a moment, your eyes widening. “Wait, what? You’re... what?”

Ni-ki chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction. “I figured you could use a little break. You’ve been cooped up here long enough.”

You glanced at the clock. It was a bit earlier than you expected. “But I—”

Before you could protest any further, you heard the sound of your own feet hitting the floor as you dashed towards your bedroom. “Give me a second! I need to get dressed!”

Ni-ki didn’t seem to mind. He just chuckled again, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

You quickly pulled your clothes out of your closet, racing against the clock to change, but as you did, you could hear the soft sound of Ni-ki sitting on the couch, the hum of his phone as he likely scrolled through something. Even as you hurried to change, you couldn’t help but feel a little nervous—he was waiting for you.

After awhile, you stepped out, having finally gotten dressed in something comfortable but still cute enough for a day out. You were still adjusting your jacket when you caught sight of Ni-ki, his attention fixed on his phone.

“You ready?” he asked, glancing up from his phone when he noticed you stepping into the living room.

You nodded, feeling a little bashful but excited at the same time. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Ni-ki grinned and stood up, tossing his phone onto the couch. “I knew you’d be ready in no time.”

Ni-ki led the way out of the apartment, holding the door open for you. The cool air greeted you as you stepped outside, and for the first time in a while, you felt a sense of calm settle over you

As you both walked to the car, Ni-ki kept his usual easygoing demeanor, flashing you an occasional grin, but his eyes held a warmth that made you feel at ease.

Once you got to the car, Ni-ki opened the door for you with a dramatic bow. “After you, milady,” he teased, his smile playful.

You laughed, stepping into the car. “You’re a dork,” you said, shaking your head.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the car pulling out of the parking lot as he hummed along to the song on the radio. The drive was smooth, with Ni-ki chatting casually, asking about how you’d been feeling lately, if you were still swamped with schoolwork, and if you had any specific things you wanted to do at the mall.

“I’m just along for the ride, really,” you said, feeling a little more relaxed with each passing moment. “I’m happy to just hang out.”

Ni-ki glanced at you, his lips curving upward. “Good, ‘cause I was planning on getting us some snacks, trying on some clothes, and maybe finding something ridiculous to make you laugh.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I’m down for that,” you agreed.

The ride went by quickly, with the two of you talking and joking about random things, from bad fashion choices to the latest crime drama episode you both had watched recently. When the mall came into view, Ni-ki parked the car, giving you a quick glance. “Ready to have some fun?”

You nodded, your smile wide. “Absolutely.”

You and Ni-ki wandered through the mall, hopping from store to store, trying on ridiculous hats and laughing at each other’s choices. He picked out a bright pink beanie with oversized ears, putting it on your head and grinning mischievously. "You should totally rock this look," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

You rolled your eyes but played along, giving a dramatic twirl. "Do you think it brings out my eyes?" you joked, striking a pose.

Ni-ki’s smile widened, and he leaned in slightly, as if seriously considering the question. "Honestly? It definitely makes your eyes pop. Maybe not in the way you think, though."

You burst into laughter, nudging him playfully in the side. "You’re ridiculous," you said between giggles. But you didn’t mind—it felt good to laugh, to feel normal for once.

After some time, you both left the store, each with a few new items in hand, and wandered into the food court. Ni-ki, ever the expert in decision-making, immediately made a beeline for the bubble tea stand. “You want your usual?” he asked, already pulling out his wallet.

“Of course,” you said with a grin. “You know me too well.”

As you waited for your drinks, Ni-ki leaned against the counter casually, his expression relaxed. “This was fun, right? I’m glad you decided to come out with me today.” His tone was light, but there was something behind it—an undercurrent of sincerity that made you pause.

You smiled back at him, grateful for the day. “Yeah. I needed this... more than I thought.”

The bubble tea arrived, and the two of you walked over to a nearby table, settling in with your drinks. Ni-ki took a sip of his, then glanced over at you, his brow furrowing just slightly. "So, how have you been holding up? I know everything’s been... a little crazy lately."

You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to drag the mood down, but knowing Ni-ki would probably notice if you didn’t say something. You took a deep breath, sipping your tea as you tried to find the right words.

"I’ve been okay," you said, after a beat. "Some days are better than others, but... it’s easier when I’m with people I trust. Like you."

Ni-ki gave you a soft smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. I’m glad I’m one of those people,” he said, his voice gentle.

You both fell into a comfortable silence, sipping your drinks and occasionally exchanging a few words.

Afterwards you were strolling through the aisles of the store, enjoying the soft hum of the background music and the peaceful atmosphere, when something caught your eye—a shelf full of adorable plushies. You couldn’t resist, and you found yourself picking up a cute little bear, smiling at how soft it was. But in that moment of distraction, you didn’t realize that Ni-ki had wandered off somewhere else in the store.

A few moments later, you heard the voices.

At first, they were distant, but slowly they grew louder, the tone dripping with mockery. You turned to see a group of familiar faces from school—some guys and girls who were known for their snide remarks.

“Wow, look at this,” one of the guys sneered. “All grown up, and still playing with toys?”

You felt your stomach tighten, but you didn’t let it show. You had heard this all before. Still, the words felt heavier today.

“You know, you should really grow up,” another girl added, laughing with the rest of them. “It’s kind of embarrassing, don’t you think?”

Normally, you’d brush it off with a sarcastic remark or a clever comeback, but today was different. You just couldn’t summon the energy to fight back. Instead, you gave a quiet, “It’s just a plushie,” and shrugged, turning to walk away.

But that didn’t stop them.

“Really, you’re such a child. It’s honestly pathetic,” the girl said, her voice mocking.

You stopped in your tracks, taking a deep breath. You were about to walk away again when she added something that made your blood run cold.

“You’re just as pathetic as Ni-ki. He probably doesn’t even care about you?”

The words were like a slap to the face. Without thinking, your eyes snapped toward her, your glare icy.

“You don’t know anything about us,” you hissed, your voice low and sharp. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of judging others.”

The girl’s expression faltered, but she wasn’t done. With a malicious grin, she raised her hand, ready to slap you across the face.

But before she could, a strong hand shot out, gripping her wrist firmly.

“Don’t even think about it,” came a low, dangerous voice.

You looked up in surprise to see Ni-ki, towering over the group. His usual relaxed posture was gone, replaced by a stance of quiet fury. The others fell silent, their eyes wide.

Ni-ki’s grip on the girl’s wrist tightened, and she yelped, trying to pull away. But Ni-ki didn’t budge.

“They can make fun of me all they want,” he said, his voice cold and low, each word laced with intensity. “But if you ever, ever make fun of her again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The girl blinked up at him, looking stunned, but Ni-ki didn’t release his hold. He was a completely different person now, standing tall that made it clear he wasn’t going to let anyone make fun of you—not now, not ever.

The group shifted uncomfortably, clearly not used to seeing him like this. Ni-ki’s gaze never wavered from the girl, who was still trying to wriggle out of his grip. He spoke again, his words cutting through the tension like a knife.

“If I hear you even think about messing with her again, I’ll make sure it’s the last time. Got it?”

The girl’s face went pale, and after a moment, she finally pulled her wrist from his grasp. She didn’t say anything else—she didn’t have to. Ni-ki had made his point clear.

As the group scattered, you stood there in shock, your heart pounding in your chest. You weren’t sure whether to feel relieved or overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

Ni-ki turned to you, his expression softening slightly, though there was still a hint of that protective edge. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

You nodded, still processing everything. “Yeah… Thanks. I guess I owe you one,” you said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a shrug, his usual smile returning. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

With that, the two of you continued your walk through the store.

--

The rain poured down heavily, a soft, constant drumming against the window as you sat at your kitchen table. You were absentmindedly eating your cereal when the sound of the TV caught your attention. The news anchor’s voice was steady but the words were jarring.

“A group of teens, including some local college students, have been reported missing. Authorities are investigating their whereabouts, but no leads have been found as of now.”

You froze, the spoon in your hand slipping from your grip and clattering to the floor. The world around you seemed to freeze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat. It took a few seconds for the words to register—teens, a group, missing.

You couldn’t help but feel the creeping dread settle in your chest. You quickly stood up, your movements rushed and frantic.

You put your bowl down with shaking hands, grabbed your phone, keys, and bag, not even bothering to grab a proper breakfast. You yanked on your jacket, grabbed your umbrella, and rushed out the door, the sound of the rain growing louder as you fought against the storm.

When you finally reached the school grounds, the rain hadn’t let up. You were drenched, but it didn’t matter. You immediately zeroed in on Ni-ki’s tall frame, his head down as he rifled through his bag, clearly looking for something.

You took a deep breath and made your way toward him, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

"Ni-ki!" you called out, stepping forward.

He jumped in surprise, his body stiffening as he spun around to look at you. His wide eyes softened when he saw you, though there was an edge of confusion in his expression.

“Hey,” he said, his voice still heavy with sleep, probably because it was so early. "You okay? You’re all wet.”

You nodded quickly, shaking your umbrella as you stood in front of him. "Yeah, I’m fine. I just—" You paused, your heart hammering in your chest. "Did you hear about the missing teens?"

Ni-ki’s face went still for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair, as if processing everything in his head. “Yeah. I heard. I don’t know… it’s weird, right? Some of them were people from school.”

You nodded, feeling a pit grow in your stomach. “Yeah. It’s just… strange, with everything that’s been happening lately.” You bit your lip, trying to read his face. He wasn’t showing any obvious signs of worry, but then again, Ni-ki had always been good at hiding his emotions when it suited him.

Ni-ki paused, his expression hardening for a moment. “I know. But we don’t know anything for sure yet. I’m sure the police will figure it out.”

You studied him for a moment, watching how composed he was despite the situation. He was always so calm, but today it was different. You noticed how his shoulders were just a little stiffer than usual, his gaze just a little more distant, though he quickly returned his focus to you.

“Come on,” he said after a moment, his smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s get to class.”

You nodded, following him, but the unease that had settled in your chest refused to leave. Something felt off.

The entire day felt off, like there was an invisible weight pressing on you, pulling your attention in a thousand directions. As you sat in class, your fingers kept scrolling through your phone, searching for any new information about the missing students. Every news site you checked had the same vague updates, all of them repeating the same information—the authorities were still investigating, but there were no leads. The unease grew heavier in your chest with each passing minute.

You didn’t even realize you weren’t paying attention to the lesson until the teacher called on you, pulling you back to reality with a jolt. You hastily tried to catch up, your mind racing with thoughts about what might be happening. The missing students. The weird, unsettling feeling that something was wrong.

As the bell rang for the next class, you absentmindedly packed up your things, your mind still elsewhere. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t notice Ni-ki sitting next to you, watching you with a careful, intense gaze.

It wasn’t until he spoke that you realized he’d been looking at you for a while. His voice was low, almost dangerous in its calmness.

“You haven’t been paying attention all day,” he said, his tone not accusatory but focused, like he was analyzing every little thing. “What’s going on?”

You looked up, surprised by the directness in his tone. Ni-ki’s eyes weren’t his usual playful, teasing self—they were sharp, focused, and a little darker than usual. There was something in them that made your heart race, something you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to tell him what you were feeling, or if it was just your imagination running wild. The tension in the air seemed to thicken as he waited for you to respond, and despite everything, you felt the need to be honest with him.

“I don’t know…” you trailed off, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “It’s just… something feels wrong, Ni-ki. There’s this whole thing with the missing students, and it doesn’t feel like it’s over. I keep thinking about all of it. I can’t stop.”

Ni-ki’s gaze never left you as you spoke, and he gave a slight nod, as if he understood. The tension in his eyes didn’t fade, though—if anything, it seemed to grow.

“You’re not the only one who feels it,” he said quietly. “But you’ve got to be careful. People don’t always show their true faces. And sometimes, the things that feel wrong are just the beginning.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into you. There was something about the way he said it—like he knew more than he was letting on. You wanted to ask him more, to press him for details, but the way he looked at you made you think better of it.

Instead, you gave a small, uneasy nod. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you replied, though you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were already caught up in something much bigger than you realized.

Ni-ki turned his gaze away after a moment, but not before his eyes flickered down to your hand, which you had been fidgeting with absentmindedly. He seemed to think about something for a second, and then, without warning, he reached out and gently brushed his fingers over yours. The simple touch was enough to send a jolt through your body, but when he met your eyes again, his expression had softened, almost reassuring.

“Don’t let it consume you,” he said, his voice more tender now, as if trying to comfort you in his own way. “We’ll figure it out, together.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure what he meant by together.

After school, you had made up your mind not to stay out too late. You just wanted to get home, rest, and focus on the things you needed to catch up on. The bus ride was uneventful, and you felt a small sense of relief as you stepped off and made your way home. The familiar walk up to your building gave you a little comfort, and you entered quickly, glad to be out of the rain.

Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, tossed your bag onto the couch, and went straight for the bathroom to wash away the stress of the day. The hot water from the shower was soothing, and you stood there for a while, letting it run over your shoulders as you closed your eyes, lost in the sensation of warmth and calm.

When you finally stepped out, wrapped in a towel, you dried off and got dressed in something comfortable, and started studying, but a few hours later your stomach growled loudly, a reminder that it had been far too long since you’d eaten.

You sighed, glancing at the clock. It was already late, and you had hardly eaten all day. You stood up from your desk, stretched, and made your way to the kitchen to see what you could scrounge up. As you opened the fridge, you found a few things—a block of cheese, some leftover rice, some random vegetables—but not nearly enough to make a decent meal. Your eyes landed on the empty shelf where you normally kept the essentials like eggs, bread, and a few other things.

You cursed under your breath.

You hadn’t gone grocery shopping in a while, and it was becoming apparent just how low on supplies you were. You’d been putting it off for days, but now you were paying the price. You pulled out your phone to make a quick list of the things you needed to pick up: eggs, bread, some fresh produce, and whatever else would make an easy dinner. You threw on a jacket, grabbed your phone and keys, and headed back out the door.

The chill of the evening air hit you as soon as you stepped outside. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, the rain still lightly falling from the sky. The store wasn’t too far, but you’d be walking through puddles, and you could already feel the dampness creeping into your shoes. Still, you needed the food, so you picked up your pace and headed in the direction of the local grocery store.

By the time you reached the entrance, you had that familiar grocery store smell—the faint scent of freshly baked bread mixed with the cool air of refrigeration—and you pushed open the door, ready to get what you needed and get back home.

You grabbed your essentials—some vegetables, some rice, and a few other ingredients to make the dinner you had planned.

You walked out of the store, the cold evening air hitting your face as you carefully balanced your bag of groceries. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you pulled it out, glancing at it absentmindedly as you began to make your way back to your apartment. You swiped through a few messages and notifications, barely paying attention to the route you were taking.

But when you finally looked up, you froze.

The street around you didn’t look familiar at all. You glanced back, realizing you must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Your surroundings had shifted from the usual city bustle to an unfamiliar area with dilapidated houses lining the street. The buildings looked old, their windows boarded up, and the paint on the walls was chipped, peeling away from years of neglect. The street was quiet, almost eerily so, and the air felt still in a way that made your skin prickle.

You checked your phone to see your location, but it didn't help much. You could have sworn you’d taken the right path.

You stood for a moment, considering whether to retrace your steps or try to find another route back home. That’s when the sound reached your ears—a sharp, blood-curdling scream. Your heart skipped a beat. It echoed through the quiet, a cry filled with terror and desperation.

Your mind screamed at you to turn around, to keep walking and get back to the familiar streets. But something inside you stirred—a compulsion you couldn’t shake. Another scream, followed by a cry for help, rang out, louder this time. The desperation in the voice pulled at you like an invisible thread.

Without fully realizing it, you started moving toward the sound. You glanced around nervously, double-checking that you weren’t being followed, but all you could see were the looming, abandoned houses. The streetlights flickered sporadically, casting long, haunting shadows over the cracked pavement. The atmosphere felt heavy, suffocating.

You set your groceries down carefully on the ground, the sound of the bag crinkling in the quiet making you pause for a moment. You slowly made your way toward the large house where the screams had come from. It stood at the end of the street, a large, imposing structure with peeling paint and broken windows. It looked almost like a mansion at one point, but now it was barely standing, with decay eating away at its foundation.

You hesitated, but that instinct in you, the one telling you to keep moving, pushed you forward. You approached the front door, cautiously reaching out to try the handle. To your surprise, it turned easily, creaking as the door slowly opened with little resistance.

The inside was just as unsettling as the outside. It was dark, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlights outside, filtering through the broken windows. Dust clung to every surface, and the air smelled stale, like it hadn’t been disturbed in years. You hesitated for a moment, then pulled out your phone and turned on the flashlight. The small beam of light illuminated the eerie interior, casting long shadows along the walls.

You walked quietly, each step careful, your heart hammering in your chest. There was an unsettling silence now, the kind that makes every creak of the floorboard seem like an alarm ringing.

As you moved through the rooms, you found only remnants of the house’s former life—old furniture covered in dust, paintings half-faded with age, and broken mirrors hanging crookedly on the walls. It didn’t feel right, like the house itself was hiding something.

You continued forward, your pulse racing, until you saw the stairs. The narrow staircase creaked under your feet as you started to climb, the air thick with tension. You took each step slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The further you climbed, the more oppressive the silence became, making you feel like you were intruding on something dangerous.

At the top you found another hallway, dark and seemingly endless. The hair on the back of your neck stood up as you slowly moved forward, the sound of your breath heavy in your ears. You didn’t know what you were expecting to find, but with each step you took, the feeling of dread only deepened.

You were too far in now. Something had drawn you here, and no matter how much you wanted to turn back, you couldn’t.

You continued down the dark hallway at the top of the stairs, your flashlight flicking over the faded wallpaper and old doors that creaked slightly with the movement of the house. The air was thick with dust, and the floorboards groaned beneath your steps as you moved forward, every creak seeming louder in the stillness.

But despite the eerie surroundings, there was nothing—no signs of anyone being here, no more sounds of distress. The rooms you peeked into were abandoned, just like the rest of the house. Some were empty, their floors covered in broken glass or debris; others held old furniture, now falling apart with age.

You moved cautiously, stepping lightly to avoid making noise, but your mind was beginning to feel like it was playing tricks on you. The urgency that had pushed you to come this far was fading, replaced by a strange, unsettling feeling.

Your flashlight beam swept over more rooms—empty, forgotten, silent. You checked the windows of each room, but they were all boarded up or shattered, the light outside barely filtering through the gaps. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. The only sound was the slow rhythm of your own breath and the occasional rustle of your shoes against the old carpet.

The stairs seemed endless, but you couldn’t stop now. Something was pulling you forward, urging you to climb higher, even though you knew deep down it might be a mistake.

You reached the next floor, your heart racing with each step. This floor, just like the others, was coated in layers of dust and neglect. You didn’t dare touch anything; you just scanned each room quickly, hoping for a clue or something to justify your presence. But still, there was nothing.

You stood in the center of the hallway, a small sense of dread growing in your chest. There was no sign of anyone, no one to help. The house was as empty and cold as ever.

You sighed in frustration, about to turn and leave, when you noticed something different. A door at the end of the hall—a door that looked… newer, as though it hadn’t suffered the same wear as the rest of the house. Something about it caught your attention. It wasn’t the same peeling wood or faded paint. It was almost as if the door had been replaced, but not the rest of the house.

You slowly moved toward it, your hand hesitating on the doorknob.

You turned the knob, and the door creaked open.

On the other side was a small, dimly lit room. It was sparsely furnished—just a single chair in the center, facing a tall mirror that seemed too clean, too pristine in this neglected space. The rest of the room was dark, the corners shrouded in shadows.

But in the reflection of the mirror, you saw something that made your blood run cold.

A figure standing behind you.

You spun around, your breath catching in your throat, but the room was empty.

You turned back to the mirror, only to see your own wide-eyed expression, the flashlight still trembling in your hand.

Was it a trick of the light?

You couldn’t tell, but the sense of dread intensified, and every instinct you had screamed at you to leave.

Your heart raced in your chest as you hesitated in the hallway, the silence around you thick with dread, you stood frozen, unsure whether to retreat or continue forward. But the distant cries for help, desperate and pleading, pushed you onward.

You slowly climbed the last set of stairs, careful with every step, your breath shallow as you tried not to make a sound. The air seemed heavier here, colder, as if the building itself was alive with something sinister. Each creak of the floorboards under your feet was unnervingly loud in the silence, but you forced yourself to keep moving.

At the top of the stairs, the floor seemed different—newer, almost cleaner than the rest of the house. You could hear faint whimpers, like someone in pain. Your stomach churned, a wave of nausea washing over you, but you ignored it. You needed to know what was happening, needed to help whoever it was.

You crept down the hall, pausing only when you reached the door at the end. It was barely ajar, just enough to allow a glimpse of what lay beyond. Hesitantly, you peered through the crack, your heart nearly stopping when the scene before you registered.

It was a girl—someone you knew well from school. The same one from the mall, the one who had tried to hit you just days ago. But now, she was in a different state entirely. Bound to a chair, her body covered in blood, her eyes glazed with pain and fear. Her hair matted with sweat, her clothes torn and stained. It was a sight so revolting it made your stomach turn.

You gasped softly, the breath catching in your throat. The scene felt surreal, as if you were watching some horrible nightmare. The blood, both dried and fresh, had stained the chair she was tied to, the dark red splotches contrasting against the pale, almost sickly white of her skin. It was a haunting sight.

A few moments of stunned silence passed as your mind struggled to comprehend what you were seeing. Then, something inside you clicked—instinct, maybe, or the sheer desperation to do something. You couldn’t just leave her like this. Not after everything you had already witnessed.

You quickly opened the door just enough to squeeze through, the sharp creak of the hinges making your heart race even faster. As you stepped inside, your feet almost felt like they were dragging on their own. You moved toward her cautiously, afraid of alerting anyone who might be nearby.

Her breathing was shallow, but she was still alive. She winced, a painful sound escaping her as you approached, her eyes struggling to stay open. You couldn’t help but feel a surge of sympathy for her—no matter the past between you two, no one deserved to be in this state.

With trembling hands, you carefully assessed her wounds. The blood was coming from several places, mostly on her legs and arms, but there were deeper gashes across her torso. It was hard to tell how deep they were, but they were certainly serious.

You quickly pressed against the worst of her wounds. She let out a pained groan, weakly trying to shift her body, but she couldn’t move much. The bindings kept her in place, and all you could do was try to stem the flow of blood.

Her body tensed at the pressure, and she let out a strangled cry. You couldn’t bear to think of how long she had been like this, how much time had passed since she’d been brought here.

As you worked, a noise caught your attention—a soft mumbling, almost unintelligible. Your blood ran cold as you turned your head toward the sound, your eyes locking on a partially open door to another room, connected to where you were. The figure of someone moved within, their back to you.

You didn’t need to see their face to know who it was.

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end as panic surged through you, but you forced yourself to remain calm. You looked back at the girl, who was still breathing heavily but seemed barely conscious.

You couldn’t leave her. You couldn’t.

But you also knew that the moment the killer came back in, you’d both be in even more danger. You had to act fast.

Carefully, you stood and slowly, almost silently, backed away from the girl, your heart pounding in your ears. You closed the door behind you as quietly as possible, the faintest creak echoing in the silence of the house. You took a breath, holding it as you peered through the crack in the door.

Just as you thought you were safe, you saw the killer reappear in the room, the door creaking open. His cold gaze flicked to the girl, who was still bound to the chair. Without even glancing around, he stepped forward, his hands moving to adjust the knife in his grip.

You sucked in a breath, watching in silence as he leaned down, brushing his fingers over her bloodied face.

The knife glinted under the dim light as he loomed over her, speaking in a low, almost amused tone.

And then, your body tensed—your instincts screamed at you to leave, to run before he noticed you.

The moment you stepped back, the sharp crunch of broken glass beneath your foot was like a thunderclap in the otherwise silent house. Your heart froze in your chest, you lifted your foot, eyes immediately widening.

Your breath caught in your throat as you heard a slow, deliberate creak from behind the door. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled. Without even thinking, your gaze snapped toward the crack between the door and the frame. And there he was.

The killer. His white mask was the only thing visible, but it was enough. You could feel the weight of his gaze through the small sliver, cold, calculating. The mask seemed almost too calm, too collected. He hadn't even flinched at the noise. No, he was waiting. He was waiting for you to realize the mistake you'd just made.

The cruel, teasing voice that followed was enough to freeze you in place.

"Well, well," he purred from behind the door, his tone dripping with amusement. "Looks like we've got a curious little mouse here, don't we?"

Your stomach dropped as the fear, the raw terror, finally gripped you. You felt your pulse thunder in your ears as he slowly, almost deliberately, tilted his head, eyes still hidden behind that mask.

Before you could even think, before your body could process anything else, you screamed. The sound was torn from your throat, pure panic flooding every fiber of your being. You scrambled backward, your feet slipping slightly on the old wooden floor as you scrambled toward the staircase, your heartbeat pounding so loud in your chest that you could hardly hear anything else.

Your mind screamed at you to move faster, but your legs felt like they were made of lead. Every step you took seemed to echo in the vast, empty space, and you could already hear his footsteps behind you—closer, too close.

You shot a desperate glance over your shoulder as you reached the stairs. The killer was still there, stepping into the hallway, his slow, deliberate pace making your heart race even faster. His mask was almost inhuman in its stillness, but there was a look in his posture—predatory, like he was enjoying the chase.

You stumble down the creaking, narrow staircase, your breath coming in ragged gasps as panic claws at your chest. Tears blur your vision, streaking your face as the blood on your trembling hands smears across the banister. You don’t dare look back. You can’t.

Above you, his voice echoes through the decaying walls, low and mocking, sending chills down your spine.

“Run all you want,” he calls, his tone light, almost playful. “You know I’ll catch you.”

Your foot catches on a loose board, nearly sending you sprawling, but you grip the railing and push yourself forward. His words follow you, slithering into your ears like poison.

“You can’t hide from me. You know that, don’t you? I’ll always find you. Always.”

The air is heavy with the smell of dust and mildew, but it does nothing to muffle his voice.

“You and that little curiosity of yours,” he sneers, his footsteps steady and unhurried. “That’s what got you into this mess. You wanted to see what was behind the curtain, didn’t you?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, your legs screaming in protest as you take the steps two at a time.

“No one else deserves you,” he continues, his voice dipping into something darker, more possessive. “Only me. And if I can’t have you…”

You swallow back a sob as his words twist, their meaning sharp as a blade.

“…then no one can.”

Your foot hits the landing, and you dart into the next corridor, the peeling wallpaper and flickering lights a blur around you. Still, his voice lingers, wrapping around you like a noose.

“You’ll be mine in the end. You know it. Why keep running, darling? Why deny the inevitable?”

You bite down on your lip to stifle the cry threatening to escape. The hallway stretches endlessly before you, and the sound of his steps—slow, deliberate—echoes closer, as if he’s right behind you.

Your chest burns as you push forward, forcing your legs to move despite the overwhelming ache. The hallway feels endless, the dim, flickering lights above casting warped shadows that seem to close in on you. Each creak of the floorboards behind you makes your heart skip a beat, his taunting voice dripping into your ears like acid.

“You can’t run forever,” he hums, his tone like a lullaby meant to unsettle. “Every step you take just brings you closer to me. Don’t you see? This is fate. You were made for me.”

A sob escapes you before you can stifle it, your body betraying the terror that threatens to consume you whole. You glance frantically over your shoulder, but the staircase behind you is empty. He isn’t there, and yet his voice sounds as if it’s just over your shoulder, like he’s breathing down your neck.

You shove open a door at the end of the hall, the old wood groaning on its hinges as you stumble into what looks like a storage room. Rusted tools hang on the walls, their edges sharp and unforgiving, glinting faintly in the pale light from a single bare bulb swaying overhead. Your breath catches as you scan the room, desperately searching for a way out.

“There you go,” he purrs, his voice impossibly close now, like he’s whispering directly into your ear. “Hide, if it makes you feel safer. I like when you play hard to get. It makes it so much sweeter when I finally catch you.”

You slam the door shut and lock it, your shaking hands fumbling with the rusted bolt. The sound of his footsteps grows louder, heavier now, deliberate in their approach. You back away from the door, your eyes darting around the room. The windows are boarded up, thick planks of wood nailed across the frames, no hope of escape.

Your breathing is shallow, uneven. Your hands curl into fists, fingernails biting into your palms as you try to will yourself to think. Focus. Focus.

Then, silence.

The footsteps stop. His voice is gone.

Your heart pounds in the stillness, the quiet almost worse than his taunts. You strain your ears, listening for anything—any sign of movement, any sound that could tell you where he is. But there’s nothing.

A soft knock on the door shatters the quiet, making you jump back with a gasp.

“Are you scared?” he asks, his voice calm now, almost tender. “You don’t need to be. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make this quick.”

The doorknob jiggles. Once. Twice. Then, a violent bang as he slams against the door, rattling the frame.

You scramble backward, your hands blindly reaching for anything, and they land on something cold and solid—a wrench, heavy and covered in dust.

Another bang. The bolt starts to bend under the pressure.

“I’m coming in, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a sickening glee. “Let’s end this little game, shall we?”

The door bursts open, and there he is, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway, his figure towering, his shadow stretching across the floor like it’s ready to swallow you whole.

But you’re ready this time. Your grip tightens on the wrench, and as he steps into the room, you swing.

Part 2 here

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Taglist: @totallynotj3zz @starfallia @jiryunn @yangjungwonnie

@miainthestarsss @caithefly @hhyvsstuff @kkamismom12

@ilyunjina @xiaoquanquans @heeseungspookie @flwwon

[yanderedrabbles]

My list of ideas, requests and fics that you can expect soon.

Yandere Roommates [dubcon] With your boss mysteriously firing you and your job applications getting lost in the mail, it's no surprise that you can't afford rent this month. Lucky for you, your roommates have a very generous offer.

Yandere Wild West Sheriff: Ain't you just the sweetest lil thing?

Yandere Dictator:  He's a high ranking member of the ruling party, with all the wealth and power denied to the working class. And when he says he wants you, that's exactly what he gets.

Dairy of a Vampire:  You've found a strange book in your husband's library, and on closer inspection, realise every entry is all about you. [Sequel to Letters from a Yandere Vampire]

Yandere Aztec Warrior x Āhuiyani Reader:  His body is sworn to war and yours to pleasure. How strange, that you find comfort in each other.

Yandere Sugar Baby:  It's not uncommon for a wealthy, older woman to take a younger lover. But the way he looks at you isn't normal at all.

Yandere Witch Hunter x Witch Reader: In a last ditch effort to save yourself from execution, you cast a love spell on the town's witch hunter.

Yandere Aliens [noncon] Human women are the most prized slaves in the galaxy, and when your ship crashes on an unknown planet, it's inhabitants are keen to find out why.

Yandere Southern Gothic Cowboy: He doesn't come to church and you never see him out in the sun. Who exactly is this stranger?

Yandere Rockstar: He's a rockstar punk who wants to fight the whole damn world. But all his songs seem to be about one special person.

Yandere Dragon x Princess Reader: This fairytale isn't what you expect.

Yandere Slasher [noncon] With all your friends dead and no way to escape, you offer the killer something else in exchange for your life.

Yandere Ex-boyfriend [noncon] You wake up to a ship over five hundred million kilometres away from your home planet and an ex desperate to prove his love.

Yandere Pirate x Mermaid Reader: You've seen her time and time again, leaning against the stern and staring out at the horizon. She always seems so melancholic. Maybe a song will help?

Yandere Soulmate: So what if you don't always get along? So what if he leaves bruises on bad days? You're meant to be his and he's not letting you go.

Yandere Firefighter: You owe him your life. Aren't you going to repay that debt?

Yandere Stripper: Beautiful, confident, deadly. When she says she wants you, she won't take no for an answer.

Devil Dogs always bite: A green card marriage to a US Marine ends badly. [omegaverse]

Yandere Harpy: Didn't your mother warn you that birds like shiny things?

Yandere Carnie: The only redeemable part of spending holidays with your distant and erratic father is the amusement park. You've loved it since you were a kid, but sinister disappearances and mysterious letters lead you to believe the carnival isn't quite as fun as it seems.

[Requested by @/saltyearthquakedeer and based on Stephen King's Joyland]

[sashi-ya]

Hi, hi! for the emo boy event can I request a Byakuya fic? f! reader please, and nsfw 💞

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗸 𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻. kuchiki byakuya x f! belly dancer! reader. nsfw

a/n: hi anon! sure! I hope you enjoy a sudden idea that came up while I was listening to some Arabic music to relax 💙 tw: +18 mdni. our reader is a belly dancer on a "dancing house" you can say it is something like a brothel since she can be "bought", so if you are sensitive towards prostitution or related topics please be aware of this. sexy belly dance (i'm not saying that's the whole purpose of belly dancing, please keep that it mind). masturbation. nipple play kinda. byaku becomes a little savage, so kiiiinda hard sex. creampie. wc: 3.5k masterlist

The Kuchiki clan, where powerful men decide and brag fortune. A group of men dedicated to keeping the Soul Society’s history, and to be rich… stupidly, disgustingly rich. So rich, even their clothing and accessories are worth more than a mansion… 

“Get ready, you are dancing tonight… for very important people. You were personally requested… the best odalisque!” you get informed; the tone filled with both seriousness and a pinch of envy. 

You roll your eyes; you don’t mind if the people you are dancing for are important or not, you are only there to dance. 

Covered in fine silks, your “uniform” looks impeccable. The chains and jewels tingle with each motion, and the more they do, the better. Your exposed belly gets a little cold, as tonight winter seems to be taking over every corner of your city. 

The sound of chariots and a subtle bustling outside catches your attention; you watch several men entering the dance house from your window. All of them are dressed like they are indeed very wealthy people. 

You only know them as a part of history, since they don’t live in your lands, but rather far, far away. You also know their clan leader became a widower a few years ago yet still know nothing about his appearance nor any characteristic. 

 The drums begin to play, soft music comes from the dining room area, they must be filling their never hungry bellies with the finest delicacies your chefs are able to prepare. 

You also prepare to be devoured by their lustful eyes; you are used to; men, no matter their social class, are all the same. Right? 

“The clan leader will be here as well, try to please him… even if they say it is pretty difficult to do so…” one of the backup dancers whispers. Maybe she is trying to cheer you up, or maybe she is trying to put more pressure on you. 

You nod, sighing. Your hips will do the best they can to follow the musicians; you are sure that “old geezer with lots of money” will enjoy the show. 

The lights begin to dime; the music to slowly growth in rhythm, and the darbuka to peal. Your body drags towards the scenario, with the motions of a cobra; sexy as a deadly snake, ready to imbue their bloods with the passionate venom of a lustful dance. 

You cover your face from your nose down, letting your irises scan the faces of each man watching you dance. Old guys, some wearing metallic hair accessories, and white coats. 

Old guys, and a young one. From them all, he is the one whose eyes seem to be drunk in superiority and arrogance. 

“He must be the youngest of them all, perhaps one day he will become the leader…” you think. “He is probably the grandson of the leader; that guy with a moustache looks like an old version of him”

In any case, you don’t care; you just need to dance. Your muscles move with the beats of the drums, your hips accompany you well, your belly like sea waves show the great expertise and why you are called “the best dancer”. 

And you can tell they are indeed enjoying it by the looks of hunger and drooling dressed up as smirks. They drink while they watch you own the wooden floor with your naked feet. The anklets jingle to their movement, as well as the hip belt. 

You can see every single man smirking, pleased with your performance. Every single but the youngest of them. He hasn’t smiled once, yet his eyes were unable to divert from your body. He seems to analyze, to mentally record every motion, every dance move you make. 

You still have the grand finale, the sexiest dance of them all; the one where you get down the scenario and dance closer to them… so close, that, as much as you wish to, they can interact with you. 

But the one who is interacting tonight, will be you. You, for some strange reason, feel the desperate need to rip a smirk from that youngster… from that handsome man.

You take some air before the last dance; slowly, slowly the music goes as slow it could go while you get down from the scenario. 

Every man tenses, interested. They think you are dancing for them, but you are certainly not. Him, the one exuding haughtiness, has become the main target. The scarf around his neck will be especially useful for the grand finale. 

You slither his way, shaking your hips closer and closer. So close the tip of his nose can almost touch your stomach. 

That man won’t move; the more you dance next to him his eyes only focus on one single thing; your eyes. It’s almost intimidating; such serious frown, with night-coloured sharp eyes burning holes into your orbs.

But you won't let him win, you aren’t done just yet. Sexily and slowly, you snatch the scarf around his neck, entangling all your body with it as you pull. His long onyx hair graces the back of your hand… how silky… 

His frown changes; his expression is now a little more on the insulted side. On perhaps, the “how dare you touch me?” side. 

You giggle underneath the expensive silk you just stole from him; it smells so good, clean but still with a hint of manly bodily scent. You can tell he’s been sweating. Has he been feeling hot? 

You turn your back to him, the lights filtering through your figure and in between the tiny pores of his scarf while flowing in the air. 

Byakuya’s lips separate just a little; a tiny gasp comes right after. The beauty of the moment, just like a living piece of art, seems to blow his mind… she is alluring. 

Your movements are like liquid gold, each step precise and deliberate, yet flowing with a natural grace that captivates every onlooker. The room is silent, save for the rhythm of the drums, guiding you every motion.

As you spin, the scarf dances along like a serpentine companion. You can sense the weight of your target’s gaze, intense and unyielding. Yet, you don’t mind, it only fuels your show; you want to see him break, to see the facade of indifference crack under the pressure of your enchanting hips. 

With a final flourish, the scarf gets thrown in the air, falling on you like a veil, running down your skin. It slips, as if, that fine silk yearned to kiss all of your flesh. 

You bow, stepping back right after, surrounded by the stolen stole. Your eyes are still locked with his, challenge him; invite him. 

Byakuya remains still, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a spark of something raw and unrestrained.

You know, deep inside, you’ve won. You’ve struck a chord. Now, the performance was really a success. 

You offer a sweet smile before turning away, leaving that man with the echo of your dance, the memory of your delicate touch, and without his scarf. Perhaps, like a trap, you use it as a bait… come and get it by yourself, Mr. arrogant. 

You run to your room, flopping down your bed. Still covered by that scarf, you take a couple of seconds to inhale the perfume before it gets taken away. Because you know, you can feel him getting closer… his aura; is he a Shinigami? 

The knock on the door, announces some minutes after, he is indeed there to claim what’s his. And maybe, all of the rest as well… including you. 

“The scarf” he simply says, standing right by the entrance as you open the door. He seems, once again, filled with conceit and disgust towards anyone but him. 

“Would you like me to clean it, sir? You see, we always try to interact with the publ-“ you want to keep on explaining something he doesn’t really care about, getting interrupted by his gloved hand lifted slowly in the air. 

“And what would you know about cleaning such expensive fabrics?” he asks, visibly more annoyed than before. Even if his cheeks were becoming slowly pink the more he looks at you. 

You smirk; you might be wealthy, but not -yet- my owner. 

“You are most definitely right, Sir… uh, what’s your name? I’m not a cleaning lady; I am a dancer. The best from my region” you answer back, tinting your speech in at least a small amount of his arrogance. 

His eyes squint, his frown intensifies; is this some kind of disrespect crusade towards him, the Kuchiki clan leader? 

“You don’t know my name? haven’t you ever heard of Kuchiki Byakuya? you really don’t know who you stole that scarf from? Weren’t you informed of who was coming here tonight?” he asks, coming closer to you in a menacing, powerful way, but still calm and collected. It seems to you as if he were fighting to keep his real self, tamed. 

You blink, looking up at him, taking small steps backwards. 

“The Kuchiki clan leader and family” you murmur.

“And who do you think the clan leader is? Mh? Why don’t you guess?” he asks, grabbing the scarf in between his index and middle finger. 

You swallow; why is he getting this mad? 

“I… I don’t know, Sir… I- that man, the old man with a moustache? I know the clan leader became a widower some years ago, so it must be him? You look similar to that man, so I’d say that’s your father or your grandfather” you let him know. 

Byakuya does a little head shake, confused. 

“That’s indeed my grandfather, and yes, he WAS the leader. Now, I AM the clan leader; I am the widower…” he corrects you. 

You gasp; a widower at such a young age? No wonder why he seems so embittered. 

“I am sorry, Kuchiki-sama” you immediately change the way you refer to him. “Can I compensate you with a special, unique, private dance?” you continue, offering him something to cheer him up -and maybe, like Sherezade, a reason to distract him from wanting to kill you-

Byakuya lets the scarf go; he has been holding a pinch of it in between his fingers but never once tried to pull it away from you. He thinks; and while he does he looks at you from above and slightly to the side… ah, what an annoying -ethereal and beautiful- creature.  

The noble, whose eyes show the desperate need to say yes, takes his sweet time to cover up his real desires. Yet, ultimately, he says yes to your proposal. It didn’t take much for him to accept, as your eyes became almost a hypnotic instrument to control that man. 

“Sit down, please” you command, turning him around, feeling the electricity on the palms while you touch his arms. 

Byakuya, impassible, sits down in your bed and crosses his legs; a clear sign of his undeniable arousal that he might want to conceal… at least for now. 

An old music player from the world of the living, brought by a Shinigami that visited your lands a few years ago, starts playing one of your favourite songs; that song you use to dance alone, just to practice and to enjoy the musical notes flowing through your body like the blood in your veins.  [a/n: listen to the song here]

Your hips begin to move, up and down, to the beat of the drums. It starts slow, increasing the rhythm little by little when the rest of the instruments join the melody. 

With closed eyes at first, you don’t need to look at him while you dance; you can already tell he’s been bewitched by the sloughy flow of your flesh. 

To Byakuya it is more than sensual; it’s daring. You dare, you challenge him to break a self-imposed celibate, to enjoy the lust of watching a woman dancing for him, and only for him. 

So much he enjoys and gets lured to be a part of your sensual dance that his gloved hands reach for your body. His fingertips search for your skin in between the flowing scarf you dance with. 

You get closer and closer, allowing his hands to finally land on each side of your waist. The contrast of his cold palms with your warm hips makes you get little bumps all over. Though it is most probably because of the delicate and still dominant grab of a man so handsome. 

Unhurried, Byakuya pulls you closer to him, receiving you on his lap. 

You straddle your hips on his legs, with his scarf on your shoulders. Stretching your arms and back, moving side to side like an ophidian woman, you throw yourself backwards as his fingertips travel from your chest down to your belly. 

Oh, and how good this feels to him… you can feel his hardness growing, with the vengeance to penetrate, to impale. 

Byakuya can’t hold back a minute longer; his hands pass through your waist and serve as support for your back. He bends forward, kissing right where your sternum ends. And then up and down, leaving a trail of wet pecks on your skin. 

You reach his head, brushing back his beautiful dark hair. Smooth, soft, silky; you wish to witness it rain down his nude back. In fact, you wish him to be naked, desperately. 

And as desperately as you, that’s exactly what Byakuya wants; to have you naked in between his arms, onto that bed, laying your delicious anatomy back for him to devour. 

He turns you around, throwing you -now with less delicacy, forgetting maybe his noble status- back into the mattress. 

Byakuya crawls in between your legs, spreading them, looking so manly and dominant. His eyes have become sharper, imbued in lust and desire, only focused on one thing… ripping your beautiful dancing clothes off. 

Like claws, his hands pull down the semi-transparent top that only covers your breasts, exposing them. About to gloat, you can hear a manly grunt leave his silent lips. It makes you shiver; an aura of pure superiority forces you immediately to submission. 

The head clan lifts your leg up to his waist, passing his hand through the cut on your harem pants. 

“Is this included in the private dance?” he asks, with his lips grazing yours. You can tell he is about to break; the level of arousal in his voice, on the way he exhales so agitated… 

“This might need for you, Leader Kuchiki, to buy me” you whisper back, as agitated, as needy, and desperate as he is. 

Byakuya smirks; if there is something he can do is exactly that; buy you, acquire you. 

“I’ll pay anything” he answers before his lips crush with yours in such a concupiscent kiss it could scandalize the mere snake that tempted Eve in Paradise. 

Ah, and speaking of paradise, that’s exactly what awaits you from now on.    

Your nails carve on his neck, scratching his skin yearning for his clothes to finally slide down his body. You crave his nudity, as well as his sex deep inside your womb. 

Byakuya unties the sash around his waist; it all gets loose except his muscles and dick. You are now able to pull his fabrics down, exposing what you have already been imaging; a lean, pale, perfect and velvety bareness. 

You are so tempted to bite such precious flesh, but the weight of his hand getting around your neck stops you right away. 

The noble’s fingers curl and carve on your mandible, holding your face down, unable to move. You lay your head and hair on his scarf, giving you a frame worthy of  comparing you with “The Birth of Venus.” 

“You look so beautiful resting on my Ginpaku” Byakuya murmurs, who would have thought he could be romantic during the heat of the moment? 

You bite your lower lip and look to the side; it takes a lot for a man to make you flush and this one has made it possible. 

“Look at me…” he continues, forcing you to fix your sight on his, while his free hand works its way towards your panties. 

A tiny triangle covers your sex; a tiny triangle now dampened in arousal and sweat, exactly like Byakuya’s. He doesn’t care, in fact, all he wants is to take it off. 

He does, pulling them to the side to allow his index to slide right in. He moves in and out, so painfully slow, it drives you crazy. His thumb makes his big entrance then, when it lands on your clit. It traces circles, just to push you to hell and ascend to heaven right after. 

In reality, Byakuya is simply preparing your entrance, getting a little taste of what his sex will soon experience; the warmth of your insides, the spasming of your walls around his dick. All and everything at expenses of your pleasure, a perfect deal for a business man like him. 

“I’m in great need of fucking you, now” he grunts, after biting your right nipple. 

Your back arches; the way his beckoning fingers masturbate you, the way he nibbles on your breasts, the straightforward words coming from his delicious mouth… 

Shivering, you are only able to nod. Your legs quiver, soon climax will arrive; soon, very soon. 

You grasp from his black hakama, pulling them down completely the best you can, exposing an exquisite dripping hardness. Just like him, his sex is; impetuous, straight, even violent in a deadly sharp daintiness. 

Your harem pants get ripped as well, that man isn’t playing about being in “great need.” Your legs, get arranged by him to be resting on his chest; apparently Byakuya enjoys going deep from the very beginning. And who you are to contradict the Kuchiki clan head leader? 

With your ankles on each side of his face, and his long hair tickling on the bridge of your feet, Byakuya guides his sex into your overflowing sex. Both moan and close your eyes during that first slide that feels so good. 

You instinctively try to close your legs, but he won’t let you just yet. Byakuya’s body bends forward, going even deeper on each ram; are those hips made of what? How is he able to fuck you this hard? 

Grunting and moaning mix in one; you can feel his dick reaching your limit. Yours, but not his. The slap of his thighs against your legs becomes louder as he fucks you harder. 

His forehead gets bathed in sweat, your skin burns. Eventually, Byakuya allows your legs to join not before kissing the instep of your feet; only to push them to the side then and keep fucking you that way. 

Your hands grip to his scarf that still lays, all wrinkled, under your head. He smirks; your cheek also gets pressed against it as you turn your face to the side in pure raptured distress. 

You feel your orgasm coming, opening your eyes to let him know, only by your look of pleasure, you are about to come. 

Byakuya catches it quite well, as he maintains the rhythm just the same. “Come… come” he pants, with sloppy eyelids and his own climax right around the corner. 

You nod, pulling him to kiss you while you do. The kiss only lasts for as long as you can endure coming without gasping and wheezing. Panting he inhales and enjoys, as the very last drop of fuel needed for his own explosion. 

And an explosion is what it is; you can feel his cum flooding your womb, filling it up with throbbing intervals of white release. Seed overflowing, with pressure and hot, hot temperature… 

With not much to say, both flop into that bed that’s now covered in sweat despite the freezing winter of the outside. 

“I hope this made up for taking your scarf, Byakuya-sama ~” you purr, as he pulls you to rest on his chest. “I’m not over yet… my precious dancer”

The morning after. 

You wake up, still tired, with sore muscles and the scent of that man still lingering in the air. Yet, you are alone there; he’s gone. 

“And here I thought he was going to buy me for real…” you mutter, turning around to discover a little surprise of what temporarily had been his side of the bed; his scarf perfectly folded with a paper on top written in perfectly calligraphy.

𝐾𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛; 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟. 𝐴𝑙𝑠𝑜, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤. - K.B.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ➡ TO BE CONTINUED. 

yes! there is a following fic that will fulfill another request; basically the next one will be a continuation of this one! being then, the same "reader" (I know I said one per character, but you know we love byakuya here)

[birchbow]

i really like everything you've done with the concept of troll gender in pof, but i was wondering if you've given thought to why/how they developed the concept of gender as a not really sexually dimorphic species? and who exactly assigns them genders as wrigglers? like are they getting the concept from the lusii? also i was wondering how they can tell each other's genders without asking directly. i know the clowns indicate that with their paint usually, but what about everyone else? i would love to hear any thoughts you have about this!

Okay so. This is only somewhat represented in the actual fic, mostly because I started writing it more than a decade ago when I was a little weenie with no gender imagination, but the grand scope of the xeno loadout I'm contemplating is thus:

in the same way that Lord of the Rings was theoretically a localized+translated legend from another language. PoF is a translation of a troll society that is in some ways localized by its translator (me lol).

THIS IS TO SAY: gender isn't gender. Pronouns are a self-declaration of "the role I take in my use to the Great Hive of The Empire". Trolls we translate as "male" and "female" are just roles of Use To The Hive that a human translator maps to "he" and "she".

If the mother grub, the drones and the trolls are all the same species, I find it delightful to imagine that insofar as trolls have a physical sex, it's BEING "trolls"; "troll"="the farmed ones/caretakers/(trollspecies) servant class" who provide and care for the mother grub.

Some of said class focus more into social violence not intended to kill+loud and posturing to drive away enemies+big emotions for Care About Hive. Because humans are, to quote troll xenonecroscholars, "obsessed with assigning mammal genital configurations to things", humans have dictated these trolls are "men". Some trolls focus more energy into stronger psionics+no patience for posturing/straight for the kill+hone and reinforce the inner strata of the hive. Humans refer to these individuals as "women".

I'll be shorthanding these roles as "masc" and "femme" because I use way too many words already, but just know that's an oversimplification haha.

FIG 1: Karkat by this standard? Very masc, but his insistence that he wants to be the leader/in charge is idiosyncratically femme of him. *cishet bioessentialism voice* Football player repeatedly goes out for ballet.

FIG 2: let's be clear Karkat telling Tavros to "stop playing games for girls" after he got jumped off a cliff was Karkat/Homestuck being classic 2010s shitty. But it doubles in this as "you decided to play with the Scourge Sisters (Deadly High Femme), you moron, you're lucky you're not dead".

how people figure out which one they initially go by... tbh it seems like schooling is pretty much via computers. I feel like you could easily just get like. A module on reproduction, and then a module that's essentially a fucking. quizilla quiz. Assigned pronouns at government-required school module.

Recent chapters have started making characters 'they/them' until the POV character gets a hint what their preference is--in this theoretical setup there would be quite a lot of sussing it out. "Gender presentation" would be a loose constellation of traits with a lot less certainty! The webcomic was not made with this in mind but I do find it fun to willfully reframe the pretty generically human-gendered characters we get.

FOR EXAMPLE!! Long/big hair as a peacocking flair/brag, often by old or powerful classes, or people who are powerful enough psionics they don't have to give a shit about a very grabbable liability in a fight. Trolls whose vocational pronouns translate as "female" often specialize in straightforward impersonal murder and social engineering more than brawling, so longer hair wouldn't be a liability and therefore is correlated, but only loosely.

Feferi has long hair, but so does the Grand Highblood. Equius (reads quite masc to humans) has long hair (nobility fle%), but Kanaya (the most overtly human femme) does not (practical middle-class brawler)! I don't think that's on purpose but I AM taking advantage of it lol.

'They/them' is the equivalent of the "joker" title I made up already for Clown Church--somebody with multiple skillsets, mixed roles, or fields of influence. My gender is undeclared college major. My gender is Jack Of All Trades.

Verato's transness isn't really about his switch from one gender to another--it's more because he plays a "femme" role in society but uses the "masc" pronoun for himself. His self-consciousness about it is more similar to a nonbinary or bisexual human who's used to being told to "pick one" and being told which one they "seem like" or "should be".

Meanwhile the Behemoth's 'it/its' in English stands out as a pronoun usually used for objects, but in Alternian it would be the pronoun trolls use to refer to DRONES. "(Trollspecies) made for thoughtless violence/enforcer/culls the weak". Chilling!!

I would have to go through and edit huge chunks of the fic to drag all half a million words into line with fun xeno shit alongside the clown church worldbuilding I already got in there, but damn if the concept isn't tempting some days.

[hana-no-seiiki]

This is generally such a stupid ask but I feel like it would be.. Chaotic? At the very least amusing

Anyways

Batfam x Nicole from Class of 09! Reader

Do what you want (etc make it romantic or platonic, doesn't matter)

Just the batfam (yandere ofc) dealing with a chick who loves to ruin lives for her amusement and sometimes for revenge

Istg she'll just bully them at any chance she gets

~ 🕒

I just binged watched Class of ‘09 and all its endings/choices for you non. I don’t think I can fully depict how brash wittiness of Nicole is but here I go! (I am so traumatized) Didn’t know that’s where “No I’m flirting with you flash me a tiddy bitch” came from no wonder Nicole sounded so familiar.

btw if people are interested in watching class of ‘09 just be warned it’s basically a VN version of Degrees of Lewdity but the mc is actually a minor (without the sex/r*pe mechanic though) and it depicts a lot of just… pedophilia, necrophilia, assault, su*c*de, school shootings, racism??, BE WARNED.

The following content above ^ might be mentioned in this fic but in passing. MASSIVE DDDNE WARNING.

I don’t think I’m comfortable writing stepcest/incest in this blog so despite how perfect it’ll be to make Bruce your step father considering Nicole’s mom has divorced like a hundred times…maybe ask me in @yoru-no-seiiki and I’ll be down for it.

THIS IS ADMITTEDLY TIM + DAMIAN CENTRIC

“Do you even care? Do the results of your actions mean anything to you?”

“Yeah when they affect me, sure.”

You were a bitch. There was no denying that. But you were a pretty one. One many would grovel to be under.

You were used to this, ever since you reached a certain age people just looked at you different, acted in a way that… made you think they were boring, utter losers.

One of those losers was Tim’s friend.

Like all the stupid, horny men in your life, you hung out with him once and he spilled everything there was that you could share.

To the entire campus, the internet, even the news.

And because you were pretty, you got off scot-free. Those morons didn’t even check to see what you’ve been doing the past decade.

Except Tim. Timothy Drake. You only knew that his dad was super rich, and as much as it was tempting to sink your teeth into him and get a load of that daddy’s money, you knew better.

He apparently didn’t.

You see there was one thing every batfam member couldn’t resist. Well, two things. The first was saving people.

The second? Fixing them.

When Tim first approached you he was confused.

You were quite the popular figure in Uni. He heard the rumors. He fully expected to be cussed out to hell and back.

But you were… nice. Agreeable at most really. Brash was an understatement. But you were witty. Your comebacks were swift and deadly.

The more he studied stalked you the more he realized that the two of you were the same.

Two bright people stuck with dull idiots.

And Tim? Tim interested you enough for you to not to completely drop him after the first week. That and most of your bullying probably wouldn’t bode well towards the son of a billionaire.

He was smart, even more so than that nerd friend of his that you destroyed the life of. But more importantly he actually had some tact, and was surprisingly packed underneath all those baggy clothes.

Tim had to admit he was kind of forgetting his entire purpose of ‘fixing’ you.

Until you manipulated yet another guy into jumping off a school building for you. Thankfully he survived because Red Robin happened to be there to apprehend him but still!

And what’s worse, you met up with him afterwards talking about how that Red Robin ruined all your plans of crippling a r*pist.

Wait, a r*pist?

Tim looks through your past victims once more. Admitted he only did a surface level job of studying them in comparison to his PhD level knowledge on everything about you specifically.

And…you were right. Every guy you’ve harassed was being pushy with you in the first place, if not people with authority a decade older.

Fuck.

Well now he had no excuse. He had to make you his.

Meanwhile…

“Ugh, Damian. Can’t you tell your brother to like, fuck off or something? I can feel my social standing totally plummet every second he’s around. How do you handle being related to him?” You groaned. You weren’t fucking stupid. You knew Tim was stalking and drooling all over you lately. You hated it. He was ruining your chances with your new victims.

“Jeez [Y/N]. And here I thought you were like, into him.” Jessica, your actual crush and best friend, commented as she filed her nails.

You being the emotional stunted adult you were only replied with an (admittedly softer) “Eat a sandpaper cock and die bitch.”

Damian stared at you, the words die before they crawl out of his mouth. His hands clenched underneath the lunch tables.

Guess he had another thing to steal from his brother this time.