#hate to dab and run

[mooningningg]

★ Roomate!Sukuna comes home bruised and bleeding.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, a tub of ointment in your lap, cotton pads and medical tape scattered around you like a make-shift ER, while Sukuna slouches in front of you — shirtless, bruised, and bloody. His back leans against your pink headboard, legs stretched across your comforter like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does. Half of it, anyway.

“You’re bleeding on my duvet,” you say, voice flat as you wipe the dried blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Get a darker fuckin’ duvet, then,” he snaps, eyes narrowing like it’s your fault he's currently held together by spite and butterfly bandages. “Didn’t tell you to play nurse, did I?”

You ignore him. You always do when he’s like this—wounded, stubborn, too proud to admit he’s hurting. You dab at a split on his brow and he flinches.

“Stay still.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Sadistic little brat.”

“You’re the one who got into a fight in broad daylight,” you mutter, dabbing a little harder than necessary. He growls low in his throat. “Over what, again?”

“Tch.” He looks off to the side, jaw ticking. “Some piece of shit cut in line. At the taco truck.”

You stare at him. “You beat someone up over food?”

“It wasn’t just that,” he snaps, shifting his weight like he’s still running hot. “It was the way he fucking looked at me. Smug. Like he thought he could just walk past me like I’m not there. Like I’m not someone who’ll bash his teeth in for breathin’ wrong.”

You dab at a gash on his cheek. It’s not too deep, but angry and red. He winces but doesn’t move this time.

“You know you didn’t have to escalate it to violence, right?”

He scoffs. “Motherfucker said I ‘look like I bark outside gas stations.’”

You blink. “Do you?”

He glares at you. “Try me.”

You snort. “You’re lucky he didn’t have backup.”

“Hah. Wouldn’t matter. None of those bastards can touch me.” He tilts his chin up with that signature arrogance, a cocky grin tugging at one corner of his bruised lip. “I had that fucker on the pavement in thirty seconds. Didn’t even crack my knuckles.”

“You did crack your ribs though.”

He grunts but doesn’t deny it.

And then, without thinking, your hand brushes across his side—gently, just to feel for swelling—and his whole body goes rigid. His muscles tense beneath your fingertips like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t affect him. But it does. The pain. The closeness.

He hates being taken care of. Hates it more when it’s you, because you never ask why he’s like this. You just see the wreckage and grab a towel.

He glances down at you. Your brow is furrowed, lips pressed together as you carefully tape the last bit of gauze to his side. So damn close.

He’d take every punch, every hit, every cracked rib in the world if it meant you’d look at him like this again. Eyes soft. Hands gentle. Worry in your voice, even if you call him a dumbass while doing it.

But of course, he has to ruin it.

“This is pathetic,” he mutters. “You playing nurse like you’re my little girlfriend or somethin’. You got a thing for broken men, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but your voice is quieter now. “I have a thing for people who don’t bleed on my pink sheets every other week.”

“They’re fuckin’ hideous,” he mumbles.

You smile a little.

He sees it. He hates how much he likes it.

“…Still didn’t ask for this,” he says after a beat, but the bite in his voice has dulled. “You didn’t have to patch me up.”

“I know,” you say, brushing your fingers across his cheek again, softer now. The worst of it’s handled. “You never do.”

And you don’t say what you’re thinking. That it’s because you care. That you’re scared each time he comes home limping. That you’ve memorized where to find antiseptic in the middle of the night just because of him.

He watches you gather the trash and stand up to throw it away. His fingers twitch against his thigh like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself.

“Hey,” he says just before you leave the room.

You pause at the door, glancing back.

His voice is quiet, low. “Thanks.”

You smile again. “Don’t bleed on my pillow.”

“Yeah, yeah, brat.”

But when the door clicks shut behind you, and he's left alone in your too-pink room with the smell of your lotion on his hands, he exhales through his nose.

He’d do it all again tomorrow if it meant you’d hold him like that again.

[kxsagi]

Heyy😜

Can we have a hc of blue lock guys (itoshi bros, goatsagi, shidou, aiku, karasu+ whoever you want to add) with a s/o who refuses to hug them after winning a game b/c they're sweaty. It's not that they don't want to hug them it's just that they hate the feeling of it (sweat) yk? I love my boys but I don't want to hug their sweaty ahh😔🙏

“𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐠 𝐚𝐭”

a/n: i love my bf (fiance) too much, isagi still gets a hug even if he’s all sweaty

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, aiku oliver, karasu tabito, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael

itoshi rin

you know rin has no chill, but when he sees you cheering from the sidelines, he finally looks like he’s about to cry from joy. he scored. they won. you’re here. 

he jogs over, breathless, and opens his arms like he’s in a drama. there’s literal slow-mo happening in his head. background music. sparkles. 

 you don’t move. in fact, you take a step back. 

“… don’t hug me.” 

 “what.” 

“you’re sweaty.” 

he literally just stands there like a sim who got cancelled mid-interaction. music cuts out. sparkles gone. 

“i just won. for you.” 

“i know, and i’m so proud, but i don’t want to feel your back sweat.” 

rin turns around and storms off, muttering things like: “i hate this stupid sport.” “why do humans even sweat. this is evolution’s fault.” “i’m gonna buy a new girlfriend on amazon.” 

refuses to speak to you until you let him smush his post-shower wet hair on your cheek. 

still texts you later like: "u rlly chose sweat over love." 

itoshi sae

sae walks off the field like a cover model in a gatorade commercial – sweat glistening, hair pushed back, that half-lidded “i’m too good for this” expression. 

everyone’s cheering, but he only has eyes for you. 

… he doesn’t go for a hug, though. because he knows. he’s lived this. 

“let me guess,” he says flatly, “i’m gross and you hate me.” 

“i love you,” you smile sweetly. “i just hate your… moistness.” 

“you act like i rolled in sewage.” 

“sae, there’s a visible streak of salt down your temple.” 

he tugs his towel off and mimes dabbing himself dramatically, like: “is this better, your highness?” 

you give him a thumbs up. 

he scoffs and mutters “fake fan,” but the next day on his story he posts a pic of you and captions it: “she supports me until i’m damp.” (he puts the 🧂 emoji too.) 

isagi yoichi

isagi is literally jogging toward you like a golden retriever in a romcom. huge smile. arms wide. tears in his eyes. 

you love him. you really do. but his jersey is clinging to his body like plastic wrap. 

“don’t touch me.” 

he STOPS. mid-step. like someone paused the game. 

“huh?? why??” 

“yoichi, your entire chest is glistening.” 

“but that’s because i worked hard for us!! i even scored for you!!” 

you hold up your hands like a traffic cop. 

“i love the goal. i love you. but you’re currently leaking. i can’t do it.” 

he frowns like you just told him santa isn’t real. 

pouts the entire time during interviews. 

tells reporters, “i played well, but my girlfriend hates me.” 

later, after showering, he wraps himself around you like a blanket burrito and says: “i’m dry now. do you love me again?” 

you kiss him. 

he goes, “thank god. i almost cried.” 

shidou ryusei

shidou is sprinting full speed toward you with the most evil look in his eye. 

his jersey is already off. he throws it in the air. 

“GET READY, BABY, I’M GONNA TACKLE YOU WITH LOVE–” 

“NO YOU’RE NOT.” 

you turn and book it like you’re running from the cops. 

he chases you across the turf like it’s tag in hell. 

“shidou, i’m begging you, you smell like hot dog water–” 

“LOVE HAS NO NOSE, SWEETHEART.” 

when he finally catches you, you scream like it’s a horror film. he wraps his arms around you, face pressed into your hair. 

“ew ew ew ew–” 

“mmmm you feel so nice. so clean. so dry. i love you so much, my squeaky lil love sponge.” 

“you’re disgusting.” 

“you like it.” 

you don’t. 

he licks your cheek. 

you punt him into a water cooler. 

aiku oliver

aiku just finished playing like his life depended on it, hair dripping with sweat, jersey clinging to his body in all the right (and wrong) places. he’s grinning like he just won the lottery. 

“babe,” he breathes, walking over, “get over here and give your man some love–” 

you take one look at him and take a full step back. “absolutely not.” 

he blinks. “what.” 

“you’re literally glistening.” 

“exactly.” 

“no, oliver. you look like a glazed ham.” 

he gasps like you just slapped him across the face with a sock. 

“i just gave my all for this team. i am dripping with effort. and you’re rejecting me?” 

“you’re dripping with back sweat, oliver. you’re stewing in your own broth.” 

“my broth is sexy.” 

“your broth smells like damp socks and overconfidence.” 

he places a hand on his heart and stumbles backwards like he’s been shot. 

later, after he’s showered, cologned, and moisturized like a VS angel, you finally open your arms and he collapses into them with a dramatic sigh. 

“i missed you so much. my post-game trauma is your fault.” 

“you’ll live.” 

“barely.” 

karasu tabito

karasu sprints toward you like a man on a mission. he’s covered in sweat, grinning like a maniac, already reaching out for a hug like it’s a reflex. 

you dodge. he skids to a stop. 

“whoa wait. where you going?” 

“away from the damp zone.” 

“damp zone?? this is the zone of victory!” 

you hold out your arms to block him like you’re directing traffic. 

“tabi baby, i swear, if you hug me like that, i’ll feel your sweat soaking through my shirt and i’ll pass out.” 

“so dramatic.” he crosses his arms, sweat literally flying off. “sweat is just spicy water. it’s the seasoning of success.” 

“you smell like a gym sock that fought for its life.” 

he mock collapses onto the field, arms splayed. “and yet i’m still unloved… betrayed in my moment of need…” 

eventually, after he’s showered and put on deodorant, he sneaks up behind you and whispers, “guess who’s fresh, dry, and emotionally needy~” 

you give him a hug. he dramatically whispers, “finally… redemption…” 

nagi seishiro

nagi walks off the field like he just finished a 9-to-5 shift at a coal mine. sweat-soaked, hair sticking to his forehead, jersey sticking to his chest like wet paper. 

he stares at you blankly. “hug.” 

“no.” 

“… why.” 

“you’re sweaty.” 

he looks down at himself like he just now realized he’s moist and miserable. “… gross.” 

“you’re the one trying to hug me while marinating in your own salt.” 

he sighs so hard you think his soul leaves his body. “but i scored and everything. i’m so tired. you’re supposed to reward me…” 

“you can have a reward after you stop being a walking puddle.” 

he flops face-down into the grass like he’s giving up on life. “wake me up when i’m clean.” 

later, he drags himself to the showers, returns with his hoodie on and wet hair slicked back. 

crawls into your lap like a koala. “i’m dry now. gimme love.” 

you finally hug him and he mumbles, “worth the suffering.” 

kaiser michael

kaiser is living for the win. arms raised. soaking in the spotlight. shirt off. hair drenched. 

he’s practically gliding toward you like a greek god with an ego problem. 

“liebling~” he croons, “come give your champion his prize.” 

you point at him like a teacher scolding a child. 

“no.” 

his smile falters. “no?” 

“you’re wet, michael.” 

“yes, with glory.” 

“no, with moisture.” 

he looks personally offended. “this is what peak physical performance looks like!” 

“you look like someone dumped a water bottle on a talking ken doll.” 

he gasps. like actually gasps. 

“how dare you insult me when i’m positively radiant with victory juice?” 

“you smell like the inside of a cleat.” 

he flips his wet hair like a diva and dramatically spins away from you. 

later, after he’s cleaned up and sprayed himself with luxury cologne, he dramatically re-enters your personal space. 

“behold: the sanitized version of your dreams.” 

you finally hug him. 

“hmpf. you don’t deserve me,” he mumbles into your shoulder, “but i’ll allow this.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

warning: yandere and obsessive behavior, mentions of death and violence, possessiveness

Yandere!Angel adored you with all of his heart, worshipping you as his goddess. He abandoned his creator, instead turning to you.

He kissed along your thighs, his strong, large hands holding onto your plump thighs as he spread them open.

He always looked up at you for permission, his chin resting on your leg obediently. Despite the fact he was nearly twice your height, he acted like a needy puppy before you, willing to do anything to please you.

“May I?”

You nodded, sighing happily as his tongue licked your soft, fat pussy, his fingers pumping in and out of you.

As he settled between your thighs, ready to worship his goddess, he began to remember how this all came to be.

He was supposed to be working on earth, helping guide humans to the correct path and keep them from sinning.

Instead, he ended up getting hurt, stranded on the side of the road with a broken wing.

He hadn’t been told how cruel humans could be.

So when you pulled over in your car, running up to him, he attempted to spread out his wings in a defensive display, his eyes shining bright enough to blind a man.

But his eyes dimmed and he yelped in pain as his broken wing moved. He fell back onto the ground, panting softly, looking up at you weakly.!

“Hey, hey…”

You knelt down, reaching out carefully to inspect his wing.

“Don’t touch me!”

You flinched, frozen in fear, his power causing you to be unable to move.

An angel’s command worked only on those pure of heart… so for a moment to examined you.

Soft and chubby with a kind face, like the cherubs he played with in heaven. As you did your best to bandage his wing, you noticed he was nearly twice the size of you… and very handsome.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise. See, it’s feeling better isn’t it?”

The angel watched you, his eyes wide with curiosity and wonder as you dabbed some soothing cream onto his swollen skin. You were being so gentle with him, guiding him back to your car.

The way you kept him flush against you, being as gentle as possible to make sure his wounds wouldn’t be irritated made him feel… strange.

He barely fit in your backseat, having to lie down so you could close the door.

“… thank you…”

He nuzzled softly against you, his undamaged wing flapping. “You saved me… you’re so kind, like an angel… like…”

You turned to see him staring at you, his eyes big. The golden orbs observed with newfound interest, watching as you grabbed a med kit to further clean and treat his wounds.

‘Like a goddess…’ he thought to himself, not daring to say such blasphemy aloud.

As he began to recover, you noticed him staring, following you with his eyes every time you moved.

“Need something?”

He quickly looked away, his cheek flushing a soft pink. His wing fluttered in both nervousness and excitement.

“I… don’t need anything.”

It didn’t take him long to heal, his body was different than any human or animal, but… he still feigned pain when you touched his now healed wing.

“Ah, it still hurts?”

You soothed him, letting him nuzzle into you and look at you with those big golden eyes. He was utterly entranced, wanting to worship and adore you… no one had ever been so kind to him!

So that’s how he ended up like this, begging for you to use him, to order him around and to let him love and protect you for all of time.

The only catch was… he was the only one allowed to worship the temple that was your body.

He pulled his fingers from your wet cunt, his tongue struggling to part with your puffy clit. It wasn’t easy, but he knew from your whines and tugging on his pants that you wanted his cock now.

And he would give you anything…

He pushed his cock past your wet folds, stretching you on him. The first time he worshipped you this way, he cried with you as your body tried its best to accommodate his large size. He hated seeing you in pain…

Your pretty, ample breasts bounced deliciously as he moved his hips, unable to stop himself from fucking you like a wild animal.

God you were perfect, his angel, his goddess… and no one would ever get to see the look of ecstasy on your face when you came.

A warm bath had you sighing in relief after, your angel happily bathing you, kissing your feet and scrubbing your body as gently as possible.

Though it was difficult keeping his jealously at bay… being with him wasn’t too hard. If only you knew how many men he had killed due to his possessive nature…

You’d never even think he was capable. He was an angel after all, with soft blonde curls and the prettiest, most innocent golden eyes.

And he wanted you to remain ignorant to his second nature. He much preferred worshipping you while you were relatively free and happy…

But he’d lock you up if it meant keeping you to himself~

The angel settled you down with him after your bath, covering you with his soft, feathery white wings. He kept you close to his chest, kissing your head.

Everything was just perfect.

For now…

(More?)

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog

[wyniepooh]

Loving him was never enough

you don’t have what logan needs, but he still takes all that he can.

Cage fighter!logan x reader. Mentions of violence. Porn with a little bit of plot. mdni; 18+

thinking about being logan’s plaything in his cage fighting days.

It’s not uncommon for the fighters to have a girl around their arms as they enter the ring, and though Logan usually resists against the fan girls who clamour around him in a frenzy, he figures a sweet thing like you could only do him some good.

Not only does it piss the other fighters off, (they hate to see the king of the cage also have a pretty girl like you beside him) turns out, you’re not half bad for company either.

You’re an anxious little thing, brows furrowed and eyes teary before every match. Logan doesn’t bother telling you that he’ll be fine, that he’s going to win guaranteed, that his punch is as hard as metal. Literally.

He hates to admit it, but he finds it endearing, the way you’re so worried for him. through his nonchalant front, he still wipes away your tears with his large hands before every match and reassures you, cooing, “I’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

When logan gets in the ring, the fight goes exactly as he expects it to go. The other guy is destroyed before logan even shows his true strength. In a spiteful and humiliating position, the fallen guy comments something like, “I’ll fuck your pretty girlfriend dumb.”

Logan hears, of course, and though the guy is already bleeding and sprawled over the mat on the ground in a pathetic display, and though logan definitely didn’t consider you his girlfriend, he throws the announcer to the side and pounces. Through gritted teeth and a bleeding forehead, he catches your eye, shaking his head lightly before knocking the other guy out.

You wait for him in the small public washroom afterwords, arms crossed and pouting. As Logan approaches the door and sees your stiff pacing around the room, he knows you’re mad. And he knows it won’t stay that way.

“‘was so worried, logan,” you practically run towards him, “why’d you have to go after him like that? he could’ve really hurt you.”

He scoffs and flashes you the fresh wad of cash. “Hurt me? Please.”

He stays still for as long as he can bear while you dab at the wound on his head with your sleeve, silently hoping you wouldn’t notice the red cut slowly healing by itself. When you try to touch his face, to run a finger down his cheek and his stubble, he grabs your wrist harshly to stop you.

You’re confused, confused as to why he allows you to trail along to his every fight and wipes your tears with such a gentle hand, but refuses to let you in. He doesn’t give you much time to think, though, because as soon as you part your lips to speak, he’s picking you up from under your arms and sitting you down on the cold sink counter.

there’s an aggressive desperation behind his kiss, probably produced by the adrenaline of the recent fight and triggered by the soft whine he heard from you when his teeth knocked against yours. His hand reaches down between your legs and drags your panties to the side, and before long, you’re biting his shoulder and mumbling, “‘gonna cum, logan, please, let me cum.”

He does, drawing out your short orgasm with a few more pumps of his fingers and a graze over your clit. When he’s done, you’re practically already numb, head limp on his shoulder as you hear the metal clinking of his belt.

“You want this?” He asks, holding your head up by your chin as he tilts his head and raises his brows. “You want me?”

You nod feverishly, half-lidded eyes flickering as you breathe, “yes, logan. need you.” Your head falls back against the mirror, and he looks down with a grin at the sight in front of him.

he hooks his arms around your knees to bring you closer before you take him to the hilt in one go, burying a mewl into his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist. The first thrust burns, always does, but only he can make you forget the pain in an instant. Soon, your hands are tangled in his hair, his beard is rubbing against your neck, and you’re begging, “please, lo, need it so bad. “ Logan fucks exactly like how he fights, thrusting into you so sharply your ass is sliding back on the metal counter with each movement of his hips.

He’s done this enough times to know what makes you whine and dig your fingernails into his back, but he still demands, every time, “that feel good, baby? you like that?” Of course, you don’t have to answer for him to know that it does, that it does feel good, so incredibly good, and that he’s hitting all the right spots in the body only he knows so well.

You aren’t the only one filling the room with lewd noises. Logan is panting too, the echoes of his each and every grunt reflecting off of every corner in the room and into your ear. It only makes your cheeks flush hotter, only encourages your hips to move more eagerly to match his pace.

It’s always when he’s just about there that Logan pulls back and looks down at where the two of you are connected, slowing down his strokes to slowly watch his bulging cock sink deep into your slopping cunt.

It’s the only opportunity with logan that you get to really look at him, to see the raw expression of euphoria on his face, teeth bared and mouth open. Some strands of previously gelled hair are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes rolling back with each press of his pelvis. Your eyes trace the sweat on his shoulder, the hair on his chest peaking from behind his white wife-beater, and the vein on his stomach that connects to the one on his dick.

You gaze flickers back at his face, and you extend a hand to guide his head towards you. He tries to turn away, as usual, and you hate that you know he’s holding back; limiting the noises he’s making, the pace he’s taking.

“Just use me, Logan. I know you want to,” you plead against his lips, inhaling a gasp as you press your lips onto his. You expect him to pull away, to push your head to the side and focus on finishing the other task at hand, but this time, he only pulls you closer, one hand around your waist and the other on the back of your head. He doesn’t give you much time to be shocked before he resumes his previous pace, drilling into you with the same vigor, albeit a bit more sloppy than before.

Logan pulls back to catch his breath, and at the same time, you clench tightly around him. A low groan escapes him, a noise so animalistic and fervent that you reach your high right then and there, shrieking as your legs begin to shake.

He’s close too, you can feel it in his breathing, so you let him fuck you beyond your orgasm, even if it’s getting to be too much and you’re losing your thoughts by the second.

“nobody— ah— fucks my girlfriend,” he suddenly growls, lifting you up from under your arms and shoving you against the tiled wall. He squeezes your cheeks, forcing you to look into his hazel gaze as he spits, “n-nobody fucks you like I do.”

He plummets into you deep, leaning his lips in and making you swallow one last groan of his before you feel his warm release fill your insides.

When he’s done, Logan is supporting all your weight, your limp arms splayed around his sweaty back. You whimper at the emptiness as he pulls out, feeling his cum languidly drip down your inner thighs.

You’re too exhausted to realize what he just said, to react to what he just referred to you as, and as the fog of pleasure slowly unclouds Logan’s head, he’s glad he fucked you stupid enough to forget.

-

a/n: anyone else feel like they’re incapable of writing good smut? Hey Google how many other synonyms could there possibly be of the word ‘thrust’?

[xoxocher]

𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐘 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

SUMMARY - josh has been unusually handsy all night–lingering touches and whispered jokes against your neck. it’s getting harder to tell if it’s just the alcohol...or if he’s finally giving into what you've both been pretending not to want.

PAIRING/SETTING - fem!reader x bsf!josh washington. no prank au (that timeline hurts too much). no use of y/n. 

WARNINGS - graphic sexual material (porn with plot basically), dubcon(ish?), strong language, & underage drinking.

W/C - 1,876

A/N - hey, hey, heyyy…i’m not exactly “new” to the game, but this is my first work on this page (how exciting)! a full-length josh x reader series is currently in its development stages. until then, enjoy my silly, sappy, smutty one shots ♥︎

joshua washington is a lot of things. persistent, loud-mouthed, and a bit perverted–but ohh does he know how to throw one hell of a party. you hate to admit it, but nothing hits quite like a washington house party at full tilt–too many bodies, not enough boundaries, and the absolute guarantee that you will wake up with glitter in places it should never be. there’s something euphoric about the filthy spectacle. 

you manage to make your way to the kitchen amidst the chaos, converse clinging to the tile drenched in sweat and spilt red solos. there was chris, mystery shot in hand–the two of you had developed this unspoken tradition over the years of ragers–you blithely accept his offer, throwing back the concoction. the faint taste of lemonade and lighter fluid burns the back of your throat. you’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. you jet to the sink, running your tongue underneath the faucet before swishing and spitting. 

“gahh~ what the fuck is that?”

he brings a wagging finger up to your face, “ah-ah-ah, a magician never reveals his secrets.” 

“i’d hardly call that magic,” you retort, eyeing the empty glass. “eugh~” you shiver.

you reach for a paper towel, dabbing away the water that dribbles down your chin, when you feel an unmistakable shift in the air. 

“annnd there she is…” there stands josh washington in all his smug glory, leaning against the doorframe with a beer in hand and that shit-eating grin he wears like a trademark. “tsk, tsk, tsk–and to think i had faith you’d last at least 15 minutes before making such poor choices,” he tuts, stepping further into the kitchen. 

you don’t bother with formalities. “well you can blame chris and his shitty taste in alcohol.”

josh shoots him a finger gun, “doing god’s work, man.” 

chris brings his hands together in prayer, bowing before his best bro, “always a pleasure.”

you can’t help but roll your eyes, “ahem~ losers,” you cough out before turning on heel to make your escape.

suddenly, josh’s free hand is planted on the counter beside you, boxing you in–not enough to trap you, but just enough to make your breath hitch. “and just where do you think you’re going?” he questions, a tinge of devilry curling around his words. 

“i don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a party josh. i’m going to dance, obviously,” you patronize.

he furrows his brows, eyes raking up and down your figure, tongue slowly swiping across his lips before perking up. “well, if that’s the case…” he starts, walking his fingers up your arm and down your spine, hands finding solace on your waist, “mind if i ride along?” 

the cool sweat from his bottle drips down your thigh, sending a slight shockwave through your body. you manage to steady your breathing, “not at all.” 

“sweet,” he spins you round, giving you a small push towards the door before turning back to chris to shoot him a two-finger salute.“peace-out cub scout.” 

as the two of you make your way through the sea of bodies, you become hopelessly aware of josh’s grip on your hips. sure, it wasn’t exactly out of character for josh to get a bit handsy with you, but this felt different, very different. “what has gotten into you tonight?” your tone is light, playful, but his touch caries an edge, far from innocent.  

he leans down—lips hovering mere centimeters from your neck—“mm~ wouldn’t you like to know?”

his breath is hot against your skin, laced with the sharp bite of booze. his tone, low and wanton, sends a pool of warmth to the pit of your stomach. what the hell is wrong with you? 

relief washes over you as you spot an opening in the crowd, a brief, fleeting escape from the dizzying heat of josh’s touch. you turn to face him, fingers sharply pressed into the skin of his forearms as he moves the pads of his fingers to brush over your ass. 

you suck in a breath, eyes now glued to the floor. “you keep touching me like that,” you stammer, just loud enough to be heard over the booming bass of the speakers, “people are gonna start talking.”

he chuckles, low and satisfied. “good. let ‘em.”

you narrow your gaze, half-expecting him to stumble, slur, do something to explain his sudden brazenness. this was new territory–for you, that is. josh washington flirted like it was sport, sure–but this? this felt���focused. intentional. like he had tunnel vision, and you were the prize at the end of it. 

he must be drunk, you tell yourself, a futile attempt at rationalizing his behavior. he brings his beer to his lips, taking a quick swig. a sly smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he swirls the bottle around. “second one,” he says, as if reading your mind. “i’m barely buzzed.” 

your stomach flips. 

so he’s not drunk. not even tipsy. which means every longing look, every teasing word–its all him. clear-headed and in total control. 

you must’ve zoned out for just a second too long–snapped back into reality by a rough tug on your waist as he pulls you in. he cocks his head to the side, “what’s wrong? you’d prefer i was?” he taunts. 

the air around you begins to thicken as the sound of your pounding chest fills your ears. 

“josh i-” you murmur, your voice becoming increasingly shaky as he presses his now painfully obvious hard-on against your body. “tell me to stop and i will, no questions asked.” his gaze doesn’t stray, steady and unflinching. 

you persistently shake your head, throat bobbing as you swallow, “no, don’t stop. please.” 

his pupils blow wide, the last shred of restraint flickering out like a snuffed candle.

“upstairs,” he rasps, “i’ll be up in a minute.”

“promise?” you question sweetly–god, what has he done to you? 

he takes your chin between his pointer and thumb, “ohh~ absolutely.” his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up with a sinful grin. “wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

you make your way up to his bedroom, the familiar scent of his cologne floods your senses. you take in the charming mess before you, and for a brief moment, everything is still. your fingers graze over the soft fabric of his sheets as the door quietly clicks shut behind you. 

josh brings a swift hand up to your hip, swiveling you towards him, the other loosely fisting your hair. 

“miss me?”

you arch into him, positively aching. 

“i’ve got you,” he mutters against your skin, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.

your lips crash into his in a messy, hungry kiss. he tightens his grip onto your thigh, sweeping your other leg from underneath you, forcing you to stumble onto the bed. you gasp against his mouth as he grinds his erection against your clothed heat, allowing his tongue to slip past your lips. 

your hands roam over his chest, desperately twisting at the fabric of his shirt. he takes the hint, swiftly pulling it over his head and discarding it with the rest of his dirty laundry that lays in a pile on the floor. you follow suit, evening out the playing field–but not for long.

he undoes the button on your jeans, arms hooking around your legs as he peels them off. his lips never leave your skin for long–trailing a line of kisses from your jaw down to your inner thigh–until your legs are trembling beneath him and your voice is nothing more than a whisper of his name. 

“god, look at you,” he worships, gently thumbing over your clit. “so perfect for me.” you whine at his words, hips shamelessly lifting off the mattress. he chuckles at your desperation, “sooo needy.” he hooks his fingers around the band of your panties, pulling them down your figure at a painfully slow pace. he’s practically torturing you, and enjoying every second of it. 

“josh–please~” you breathlessly plead. there’s that stupid cheesy smile again, “well, since you asked so nicely…” he dips his tongue into your cunt with all the fervor of a starved man–drawing tight circles on your swollen clit as he coaxes you open. you bring a hand to his hair, tugging at the dark locks, your other grasps onto his navy sheets. his eyes never leave yours, drawing you further in as your climax grows closer. 

“fuck josh, 'm gonna-” 

you’re cut off by the wave of pleasure that crashes over you. 

he lifts his head, a string of spit connecting his swollen lips to your pussy. he runs his thumb along his chin–slick with a mixture of saliva and cum–before sucking it in and out his mouth with an obnoxious pop. it’s a vulgar sight, but the prettiest you’ve ever seen. “so sweet,” he smirks, before pulling you into a sloppy kiss. 

you fumble with the button on his jeans, dragging down his zipper with a satisfied sigh. “impatient much?” he teases, nipping at your bottom lip. you let out a whimper, “mhm~” josh groans, low and guttural, “jesus christ, you’re something else.” he pulls a condom out of his back pocket before hurriedly kicking off the denim. he removes his gray boxers–now stained with precum–soon after, simultaneously tearing at the foil with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his length. 

fuck he’s big. you’re practically gawking, almost wincing at the thought of taking all of him. 

he recognizes the hesitation in your eyes, brushing his thumb back and forth over your cheek. his tone is soft, but his words send a fiery heat to your core, “you’re okay, you can take it baby. be so good for me.” 

you let out a breathy moan as he rubs the tip of his dick through your soaked folds. he begins to push into you, slowly, inch by inch. your moans quickly turn to choked sobs. the stretch stings, but if it doesn’t hurt so. fucking. good. 

“atta girl, let me hear all those pretty noises.” your walls flutter around his cock at the praise. “ohh fuck~” he sputters–head dropping at the sensation–“yeah, squeeze me just like that baby.” 

you bring your legs up to wrap around his waist as he fucks into you, nails clawing down his back at the erratic pace. the sounds of slapping skin and your broken moans–now borderline pornographic–fill the room, drowning out the party just below you. he finds a delicious rhythm, each snap of his hips pushing you closer to the edge. 

“m’fuck josh, please” you plead as he wraps a hand around your throat, giving it a light squeeze. “yeah? ya like that? so-fuck-hot.” your eyes roll back as you are overcome with ecstasy. “come on baby, be a good girl and cum on my dick.” 

with that, you come undone–melting into the mattress as josh continues to use your pussy as his own. he follows just behind you, spilling into the condom with a few more thrusts. he collapses next to you, flushed and fully fucked out. he’s never looked better. 

“best. pussy. ever.” you giggle at your new superlative, but not before reaching for a pillow to smother him with. 

still a total loser.

© 2025 xoxocher | don’t copy, repost, or translate my work

[chamisulgrape]

watch me, watch me party on you 𖤐 [p.sh] pt.1

You and Sunghoon, the faces of two rival fashion brands, can’t stay apart after one night shared in the midst of New York Fashion Week.

part one | part two

pairing → sunghoon x afab reader word count → 6.8k tags → fashion industry setting, model au, nyfw, rivalry, lots of yearning and lust!, models falling in love during nyfw, confessions smut tags → porn with plot, barebacking (unprotected sex), blowjobs and foreplay, lots of spit/biting, squirting, use of petnames aka baby/darling, they're nasty and in love, minor dirty talk/degradation warnings → implied minor and subtle side relationship between sunoo and riki, who are the fashion designers in this au, please do not read if that upsets you in any way. you are not forced to read this in any way! hate comments and anything of the sort will be deleted and you will be blocked. not proofread a/n → hihi! this is a rewrite/revamp of another fic i have written previously on ao3, so if this seems familiar yes it is me! this is also my first time writing on tumblr since 2017-2018 when i wrote for bts, still learning my way around so pls be nice to me :3

♪ hope you walk in the party, cause i threw this party just for you.

minors pls dni.

"Are you nervous?"

You raise your gaze from the tape on the floor with your name on it, to meet Sunoo's calculating eyes. You swallow, and shake your head. "No."

You've trained your whole life for this opportunity. This is the moment they've been working towards for years. Now that it's in their hands, you're not going to ruin it. You're confident in your abilities, definitely, but what you're most confident in is making Sunoo and Riki proud.

"Good," Sunoo says, curt. He nods his head, looking over your suit—a careful and beautiful handcrafted piece, a piece in their latest and most criticized collection that is meant to exceed the norms of gender and all that alike—before calling Riki over. "You're our star. So go out there and make us proud."

Riki rushes over in seconds to peer over Sunoo's shoulder. "Everything good?"

Sunoo nods, brushing your suit off before disappearing to look after the other models.

Riki gives you a once-over just as Sunoo did, before running off and returning with a palette and a small makeup brush. You let him apply a sticky substance over your matte lips, and part them carefully when you're told not to smack. Riki uses his thumb to dab the corner of your lips and smiles. "You're perfect."

"Of course," you huff. "It's your guys' production. I wouldn't expect anything less."

Riki laughs and shakes his head. "That's what we like to hear. Don't tell Sunoo that, though. We don't want his ego skyrocketing any higher than it already has."

A staff member rushes up to them and gives the two of you a thumbs up. "Up in two."

Riki lets out a nervous breath. "You got this. Remember, loose—"

"—but not too loose." You finish. Riki reaches out to squeeze your hand once.

"Don't forget the pockets. And unclench." Riki frets over you some more before running off to find Sunoo.

The nerves don't hit you until there's less than a minute left. You're nervous, as anyone would be, but you're more excited. You want to be out there, showing that this is their brand. This is their debut. This is it.

It's Fashion week, it's New York, and you're going to make XO proud.

You stand tall and straighten your posture when you hear the music play, remembering what Riki said about unclenching and you relax your jaw.

"Go."

You do what you know best: you walk.

It's exhilarating; you live for it.

All eyes are on you—assessing and scanning over your outfit—like they're looking right through you. You can hear the questions already: What is XO? What do they stand for? What do you represent? You answer in the only way you know how.

You prove it by walking.

Like Sunoo said, you're their star. You're the face of XO and the person they specifically chose and nurtured and worked alongside for years, from the bottom of their brand up. You represent XO, and more importantly, you represent Sunoo and RIki.

There were no other candidates or options. From the very beginnings of XO, made in Sunoo and Riki's small studio, you've been there with them. They’ve come so far, to be holding a show amongst famous and respectable brands, and you are more than appreciative to be here with them. There’s nowhere you’d rather be than with the two people you cherish the most, doing what you love the most.

Towards the end of your walk, you spot him.

Sunghoon Park, face of PARADOXXX, sitting in the very front row.

You're not surprised that Sunghoon is here, no, you're more surprised that Sunghoon is looking right at you. Sunghoon isn't trying to look through you, nor is he holding his phone out to record like others are doing. Instead, Sunghoon's gaze is focused solely on you, and you feel as if Sunghoon is capturing the moment with his eyes instead.

Your heart almost stops when you meet Sunghoon's eyes. You look forward, trying not to let your gaze stray, but you can't help the way you keep taking subtle glances back towards Sunghoon. Your eyes are attracted to him, and you can't bring yourself to look away for too long. When your eyes meet for the third time, Sunghoon raises a brow, tilting his head slightly. You can feel your ears get hot, and you curse yourself for being distracted by him, but you can't help it.

Although there are over a hundred eyes on you, you can't feel as though Sunghoon is the only one really looking.

The last time your eyes meet as you near the end of your walk, Sunghoon winks. You make it your mission not to collapse until you get backstage.

"You're perfect! Perfect." Riki pulls you into a hug as soon as you make the turn backstage and then takes your hand to lead you further back and into a makeup chair. Sunoo comes shortly after, resting his hands on your shoulders and squeezing them lightly.

"Amazing, as always." Sunoo says, proud, before turning to Riki. "Retouch his lips."

Riki nods and Sunoo leaves with a kiss on Riki's cheek.

Later, as you watch through the TV to monitor the rest of the show, you notice that Sunghoon doesn't look at the other models the same way he looked at you. Sunghoon doesn't trap them with the same gaze he did you, nor does he look at any of the following models with the same eyes he looked at you with.

You can't get Sunghoon's eyes out of your mind, or the way he looked at you with want. Not a want of lust or greed or sin, but curiosity. A need to know.

Sunoo and Riki host XO's after party at DUMBO house that same night.

You're dressed in another XO outfit, one that Sunoo and Riki designed specifically for this event. They ditch the suit for a loose open blouse and a flowy pair of dress pants, and Riki chooses to do your makeup himself.

They take loads of pictures and videos for XO's social media accounts, and another ton of photos at the DUMBO House photo station before going off to meet the crowd of celebrities and contributors of the show.

"Have fun," Sunoo says, and proceeds to push a glass of champagne into your hands. "You deserve it."

You laugh, before your face falls. "Why does this sound like you're about to run off again?"

Sunoo shares a look with Riki before taking ahold of his hand. "Because we are. Have fun! Mingle!"

Your sounds of protest get lost on your tongue as Sunoo drags Riki away. You sigh, cradling your glass of champagne against your chest before going off on your own as well. You're stopped by various people asking for pictures or to congratulate you on the show today. You spend a few minutes talking to other models of the show and even Jang Wonyoung of IVE, before making your way towards the terrace.

The view from the terrace is breathtaking. You can see the river and the skyline from here, and you opt for setting down your glass to pull out your phone and snap a view pictures of the bridge and night sky. You're going through the photos you took when you're interrupted by someone sidling up next to you.

"Nice view."

You turn to see Sunghoon, in the flesh.

You startle, taken aback by their close proximity. Sunghoon tilts his head again, tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip, and you can't seem to look elsewhere. Unlike earlier during the show, you don't have to force yourself to look away now.

"Yeah, nice." You say, clearing your throat when your voice comes out hoarse.

Sunghoon takes a moment to sip from his own glass of dark liquor before speaking again. "You guys did great today. As always."

Your cheeks warm, and you look away from Sunghoon to down the rest of your champagne.

"Are you coming to our show tomorrow?" Sunghoon asks, and you turn to meet his gaze again. Sunghoon's hand has somehow gravitated towards you, now resting on your lower back.

"And if I don't?" You reply, fingers tightening around your empty glass when Sunghoon's fingers trace the open back of your blouse.

You know you'll be there, there's no way Sunoo and RIki are letting you miss out on a PARADOXXX show. But that's the thing about the game that you two are playing: you're the face of XO and Sunghoon is the face of PARADOXXX, two rival brands.

At the end of the day, the public knows that behind the rivalry and competition they like to fuel, Sunoo, Riki, Heeseung, Jake, and Jay are as close as best friends can be. They've been friends since grade school, and shared the same dream and ideas of opening their own brand with each other. The competition is fun for them, and they use each other as a way to keep their motivation and creative juices running.

(Also because they're all competitive bastards. You think that somehow they get off on winning.)

Still, you want to indulge the game you and Sunghoon seem to be playing by yourselves.

"I'd be disappointed," Sunghoon smiles softly, his hand falling from your back to rest on your waist. "I'd have loved for you to be there."

Your lips part at the sight of Sunghoon's smile. You knew that Sunghoon was pretty, handsome, and everything alike. Hell, you've known since high school, but Sunghoon has only gotten more attractive since, and you crave to know just how beautiful he is on the inside as well.

"Don't be too disappointed, Sunoo and Riki have already planned my outfit for tomorrow. You'll see me there." You grin, and you have to look away once Sunghoon smirks back. Damn you, for always being weak for pretty boys.

"Good," Sunghoon whispers.

"Good." You echo in reply.

They take a moment to bask in the scenery and view and each other, before Sunghoon breaks the silence again.

"Are we done with the small talk?"

Sunghoon squeezes your hand, and you wonder how you missed the fact that Sunghoon started holding your hand in the first place.

"What do you mean?" You tilt your head, feigning nonchalance. "We've only spoken a few words."

"I think a few words is enough, don't you think?"

"What do you really think?" You shoot back, and you know you're dangerously toeing the line between what you should be allowed to do, but it's exhilarating; the same way you feel when you're on the runway, you feel the longer you're in Sunghoon's presence.

"I think, Sunghoon starts, before using his grip on your hand to tug you closer until your chests are almost touching. He looks down at you, "That you should get to know me better."

"And you? Don't you want to know me better as well?" You ask, your glass of champange long forgotten as you hook a finger in one of Sunghoon's belt loops.

"I do, but I rather it be in the privacy of my hotel room." Sunghoon still has that wide, sharp grin on his face, and you find that you want to kiss it off of him, feeling the sharp edges of his fangs against your tongue.

Instead, you snort. "Wouldn't that be a headline? I can see it now. Us, faces of rival brands XO and PARADOXXX, seen eloping and spending a night together."

The smile you receive in return is blinding; melting and dripping warmth and love, and your heart threatens to pound out of your chest and into Sunghoon's hands. "Shouldn't we give them something new to write about?"

"Why should we?" You inch closer. You can almost feel Sunghoon's breath on your lips.

"I want you, and you want me. It's that simple." Sunghoon leans in, the tip of his nose barely grazing your own.

You reel back an inch, reveling in the way Sunghoon chases after you with a soft sigh. "Who said I want you?"

Sunghoon snorts this time, shaking his head lightly. "You've never been that subtle."

"And what about the others? I don't think they'll appreciate us leaving early, nonetheless being seen entering a hotel together."

"I don't think they'll mind that much, darling."

It's all you need to close the distance between you two, stealing the last syllable of Sunghoon's reply right off his lips in a chaste kiss.

The drive to Sunghoon's hotel is silent, and it takes everything in you to not jump Sunghoon right there in the back of the car.

You bite your tongue to hold back the small whimpers that threaten to come out as Sunghoon keeps his hand steady on your thigh, massaging the flesh there every so often and teasing over your crotch. Your eyes almost well up in frustration, and you have to dig your fingernails into your palm to keep you sane.

It feels like hours before you arrive at Sunghoon's hotel, coincidentally being your hotel as well.

"We don't have to take this to your room, mine is here too." You say once you're both in the elevator.

Sunghoon gives him a look of amusement. "Would you rather I do the walk of shame tomorrow morning? I have no shame in doing so."

You scoff, cheeks heating. "Shut up, you have. show tomorrow, it's fine. We'll do this in your room."

"You sound as if this is a job." Sunghoon crosses the elevator to take your hands into his, tugging him flush against his chest. "Am I not entertaining you?"

“You—” you huff. “You’re plenty entertaining. Entertaining and insufferable.”

Sunghoon hums, before surging forward to press his lips to yours. He bites down on your bottom lip softly before pulling away, laughing softly at the whimper you let out. “You don’t sound like you hate it.”

“I don’t.” You push Sunghoon off of you when the elevator dings, announcing their arrival to Sunghoon’s floor.

Sunghoon trails after you, catching up to you to wrap an arm loosely around your waist and steering them down the floor and in the direction of his room. When you arrive to his room, he pulls out his keycard to unlock the door. “Last chance to back out. Take one step in here and I’m not letting you go.”

You snort, pushing past him to enter the room yourself. “You’re so insufferable. Hurry up and give me what I came here for.”

“You’re so mean, darling. Here I am trying to sweep you off your feet, and you’re telling me you only want me for sex?” You hears Sunghoon whine as the door closes behind them. “Truly so mean.”

“Sunghoon. Come here and kiss me before I walk right back out that door.” You say, already having made yourself comfortable on the edge of Sunghoon’s bed.

Sunghoon throws his head back with a laugh, before shrugging off his blazer and throwing it elsewhere. He makes his way towards you stopping once he’s kneeling in between your legs, hands running up your thighs before stopping at your waist. “Didn’t know you were this impatient.”

“And I didn’t know you were this annoying.” You huff, frustrated, before grabbing onto Sunghoon’s blouse and crashing your lips together.

It’s more tongue and teeth than lips, but Sunghoon takes it in stride, matching your pace. Sunghoon’s hands stay on your hips, and you whine into the kiss in frustration.

“Sunghoon, when are you going to touch me?” You whine, leaning in to kiss Sunghoon again while reaching down to grab onto one of Sunghoon’s hands. You pout when Sunghoon pulls back, hands leaving you completely.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Sunghoon says softly, before leaning in to nose at your neck. He licks along your collarbone, leaving small kisses as he trails down further.

“Everywhere.” You deadpan, and the laugh Sunghoon lets out in response tickles your skin.

“I’m trying to romance you,” Sunghoon leaves another kiss in the middle of your chest, and for once you're thankful that the blouse Sunoo and Riki put you in is wide open. “Yet you’re complaining.”

“You can romance me another day, Sunghoon. If you don’t get your dick inside me now, I’m going to wither away. Fast.” You sigh when Sunghoon untucks your blouse, and finally presses his palm against your skin. “I’m aging, Sunghoon.”

You can feel Sunghoon smiling against your skin, which frustrates you further. Sunghoon is so slow. You are this close to losing it, when Sunghoon finally stands. “You’ll let me sweep you off your feet another day?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “Yes! I’ll let you romance me whenever you’d like! Whatever it takes to get you to—” You pull at Sunghoon’s belt loop, tugging him closer so you can fumble with Sunghoon’s zipper. “—fucking take off your pants already.”

You hear Sunghoon laugh above you, then feel Sunghoon's hand come to rest on your head, before he runs his fingers down the side of your face. Sunghoon’s touch leaves your skin burning, and you forgets all about wanting to take his pants off when Sunghoon tilts your head up by the chin to run his thumb along your bottom lip.

Sunghoon presses down on your lip softly, the touch so soft, so intimate that your breath gets caught in your throat. Sunghoon is looking down at you with eyes so soft and filled with so much care and affection that your mind fills with static.

“You’re so pretty,” Sunghoon sighs. “So pretty.”

You flush, letting out a flustered scoff. You wrap your lips around Sunghoon's thumb and suck lightly. “Can I suck you off?” You mumble around Sunghoon’s finger, and the way Sunghoon brings his thumb down to press against your tongue almost has you gagging.

“Five seconds ago you were just telling me that if I didn’t get my dick inside of you you’d die. And now you’re asking to suck me off?” Sunghoon chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

“I changed my mind.” You pull your head back, making sure to keep your lips wrapped tightly around Sunghoon’s thumb, and pull off with a pop.

Sunghoon hums, wiping the spit you've left coating his finger on your cheek, and you scowl. You get a laugh in return, and immediately sit up straighter in anticipation when Sunghoon starts to unzip his slacks. Your mouth waters, saliva pooling under your tongue when Sunghoon finally pushes his pants down to his thighs. Your fingers tremble with the urge to reach out and grab onto any part of Sunghoon you can touch—his thighs, stomach, back, ass—but you restrain yourself by fisting your hands into the sheets.

Sunghoon clicks his tongue. “Baby,” Oh. You shiver, body tingling from your toes to the very top of your head at the pet name. Sunghoon reaches out to hold onto your wrists, bringing them to his thighs and exhaling through his nose when you run your hands up his skin. “Nobody said you couldn’t touch.”

You shudder in anticipation and excitement as you finally grope at Sunghoon’s legs freely, feeling the static in your mind spread to your fingertips as you run your hands anywhere you can get your hands on. Sunghoon is standing silently as he lets you touch his skin as you please, and it makes you whimper.

You swallow the saliva that keeps flooding your mouth at the thought of how good and nice Sunghoon is and how you want nothing more than to be good for him, too.

You hook your fingers under the waistband of Sunghoon’s boxers, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you pull lightly. “Please?”

You see Sunghoon swallow and tongue at his cheek, and your toes curl at the sight of Sunghoon twitching in his boxers. God, you want him so bad your body aches, craving Sunghoon’s touch everywhere; your body against his and Sunghoon’s pretty lips and tongue and—You just want so badly to be his, to belong to Sunghoon.

“Oh, baby, you don’t have to ask.” Sunghoon says softly, hand coming up, up, until his fingers are running through your hair. You can’t help the way you squeeze your thighs together to relieve some of your arousal, because nobody’s ever touched you like this before; nobody has ever touched you with so much affection and care and fondness like Sunghoon’s been doing.

You stand up and remove your fingers from where they were teasing Sunghoon’s skin to curl them around the sides of his neck instead, pulling him in for a soft kiss that says too many things at once. Sunghoon’s hands slide around your waist, fingers digging into your blouse lightly. You spin the both of you around, flipping your positions until Sunghoon is the one seated on the bed instead.

Sunghoon sucks in a breath when you disconnect your lips to drop to your knees between his thighs. You leave kisses on his thighs, biting and sucking to leave small marks you knows will be covered by Sunghoon’s outfit tomorrow. Sunghoon’s hand rests in your hair, and you preen when Sunghoon’s fingers tighten when you bite down too hard.

Impatient.

Sunghoon’s voice echoes in your mind, but you're already painfully wet and throbbing under your panties and you think if you wait any longer you’ll go absolutely insane. You waste no time pulling Sunghoon's boxers down, the sight of the gray fabric damp with a wet spot from Sunghoon’s precome shoves the last bit of sanity and patience you have out the window.

Sunghoon hisses as the cold air hits his cock and his voice breaks off into a low groan when you wrap your soft hand around the base, one hand digging crescents into Sunghoon’s thigh and the other holding his cock steady so you can lean down and lick a stripe up the underside. You moan when you get to the mushroom-top head, eyes rolling back at the musky scent of Sunghoon’s precome and sweat finally on your tongue.

You suck lightly, tongue digging into the slit, already addicted to Sunghoon’s scent and smell and taste. Your lips are slick from the drool from your mouth dribbling out the corners of your lips and down Sunghoon’s cock, and you hear Sunghoon let out a shaky breath above you. You take a glance up and are frozen in place at the sight of Sunghoon with his head thrown back and his pretty throat on display. You make a mental note to remember to taste him there later too.

Sunghoon’s head falls forward when you take him deeper into your mouth, and you're obsessed with the way Sunghoon looks when he’s getting his dick sucked—when you're the one doing it. How his brows furrow, how his lips turn pink and raw from being bitten down on, how he sounds moaning your name when you swallow around his cock.

Sunghoon releases his bottom lip, tongue peeking out to run over it as a way to soothe it. You preen again when Sunghoon finally has his eyes and gaze on you, and it makes you think back to the show earlier today, when all of Sunghoon’s focus was on you. God, the thought makes your blood run hot, and you makes it your mission to prove to Sunghoon just how much you like when Sunghoon looks at you—how much you love when Sunghoon makes you feel like you're the only person there.

“So pretty—god, you’re so perfect for me.” Sunghoon tightens his fingers in your hair and uses the grip to pull you further down onto his cock, until your nose is buried into Sunghoon’s finely trimmed hair. You try to express how much you love this—Sunghoon using you and pulling your hair and praising you—but it only comes out as a weak moan that has Sunghoon's hips bucking forward. Sunghoon curses when you gag around him. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You whine and rub your thighs together to relieve some of the ache in your core, fingers tightening where they’re already digging into Sunghoon’s thigh. You pull your head up to swirl your tongue around the tip again before going down, making sure to squeeze Sunghoon's balls ever so lightly and softly as you do, and the throaty moan you get in return has you pulling off to shove your face against Sunghoon’s hip in need.

“Sunghoon—Sunghoon, please. Fuck me now, I can’t take it anymore—please.” You whimper against Sunghoon’s shirt, dampening it with your saliva. “Sunghoon, I want you. I need you so bad.”

You feel Sunghoon shake, tremble, before you're pulled up by the hair and into a rough kiss. Sunghoon tugs you forward so hard that your teeth clash against each other as Sunghoon falls back onto the bed, bringing your body with him.

You moan, needy, as you crawl over Sunghoon’s body to situate yourself on Sunghoon’s thighs. You reach between them to stroke Sunghoon’s cock and swallow down the groan he lets out at the feeling. You suck at Sunghoon’s tongue when it enters your mouth to lick along your teeth and trace your lips. You grind against Sunghoon's palm when he rips your hand away from his cock and presses his palm against your core, instead.

“Off. Take it off,” you pant against Sunghoon's lips and tug at his blouse. You pull back to trail wet kisses down Sunghoon’s neck as he pulls the fabric up, only pulling away to help Sunghoon lift the shirt over his head and diving right back in to lick along his collarbones.

You runs your hands greedily all over Sunghoon’s chest and shoulders, moaning at the feel of his skin. Sunghoon's body is hot and damp with sweat and you can’t resist sucking and tasting every part of him that you can get your mouth on.

“Baby—I have a show tomorrow.” Sunghoon breathes out, sounding just as hot and bothered as you feel. “No marks.”

You whine in response. “But you taste so good.”

“Yeah? Won’t look so good walking tomorrow like this.” Sunghoon laughs, softly, before bringing you back up to pull you in for another kiss. “You’re so cute. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me walking down the runway with your marks on display for everyone to see. Everyone knowing that you did this to me?”

“Want it so bad—want you so bad.” You say in between kisses. You nod, letting out soft exhales into Sunghoon’s mouth as Sunghoon pushes his palm harder against your core, letting you rut your clit against his hand. “Sunghoon, fuck me already.”

“You’re so—”

“—impatient, I know. Hurry, I said please.” You interrupt, and Sunghoon laughs again, the sound ringing in your ears like a symphony. You don't think you’ll ever get enough of Sunghoon. “Sunghoon, now.”

“Are you always this impatient with other people? Or am I just special?” Sunghoon teases, moving to remove your blouse and throw it somewhere across the room. You ignore the fact that Sunoo and Riki would skin you alive if they knew their precious shirt was on the floor of a five-star hotel room while you fraternize with the face of their rival.

You shiver when your chest is completely bare, nipples hardening at the feeling of cold air against your skin. Sunghoon leans down to take one into his mouth, tugging lightly with his teeth. “No—ah—I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want you.”

Sunghoon laps at your nipple, and you keen during a hard suck. He's running his hands all over your back, and you can’t stress enough how addicted you are to having Sunghoon’s hands on you. Sunghoon pulls off with a loud pop, instead moving to leave marks in the middle of your chest. You can feel the way you're dripping into your panties, soaking through the fabric, hips grinding down against Sunghoon's palm.

“That’s cute. You’re so cute. Just for me.”

Just when you're about to get more impatient, Sunghoon reaches down into his pants to pull out a condom. You scoff. “Were you planning this?”

Sunghoon pats your thigh with a hand, and you gets the hint to hop off of his thighs and onto the bed. You crawl further, until the back of your head hits the soft pillows. Sunghoon removes his pants fully, leaving him completely naked, and your cheeks warm at how shameless he is.

“Maybe.” Sunghoon is kneeling in front of your legs, working on getting your pants off. “Asked Jake for it before the after party.”

“Oh.” You frown down at him. “How often do you do this that he just gave it to you?”

Sunghoon smiles, all teeth, before leaning down to press a kiss on your bare knee. “Don’t be jealous, darling. I told him who it was for.”

“And how do I know that you said me? For all I know, you could’ve had it ready for anyone else.” You pout when Sunghoon laughs against your knee. “It’s not funny.”

“Baby, I don’t want anyone but you. I’ve wanted you for years.”

And oh, “Oh.” Your breath hitches at the confession.

Sunghoon hums, the vibrations tickling your inner thigh. He kisses his way up to your stomach, sucking a mark right above the waistband of your panties. Your mind is swirling, thoughts of how long you've wanted Sunghoon, and now how long he's wanted you. They could’ve been doing this much sooner.

“Hey,” Sunghoon’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “We’ll talk about this later, yeah?” You nod, licking your lips. “Eyes on me.”

You haven’t taken your eyes off of him for as long as you can remember, but you nod. God, you think you might love Sunghoon. You don’t think about it for too long, not after Sunghoon pulls off your panties in one go, adding them to the pile of collecting designer clothes on the floor.

Sunghoon exhales, running his hands up your thighs. “You’re so pretty. Fuck.”

You whine, shy. “Don’t stare.”

“Why not? You’re mine, aren’t you?” Sunghoon says, raising a brow when you release more wetness onto the sheets.

“Yeah—I’m yours,” your voice comes out shaky. “Always have been.”

“I know, baby.” Sunghoon leans down to kiss your stomach, before coming up to kiss your lips too. “I know.”

You whimper against Sunghoon's lips, choking on a moan when Sunghoon ghosts the pads of his fingers down your slit. You can feel how wet you are, the wetness making the slide easier as Sunghoon slides two fingers against your clit, moving them slowly in between open mouthed kisses.

You're barely kissing at this point, more panting into Sunghoon's mouth and Sunghoon licking along your lips, but you can’t seem to be bothered when Sunghoon is touching you like this—fingers gently massaging you, rubbing slow circles against your clit—like you're his.

“Good, fuck, Hoon—you’re so good.” You throw your head back, and Sunghoon dives in to nibble at your neck and suck lightly at your jaw. “Can you touch me now? Please?”

“I am touching you.” Sunghoon emphasizes with a pinch to your clit. “More?”

“Hoon, no, here,” you reach down between you two to wrap your fingers around Sunghoon’s wrist—whimpering when Sunghoon’s hand leaves your clit—to push him lower, lower until Sunghoon’s fingers are ghosting over your hole.

Sunghoon inhales sharply, applying the lightest bit of pressure where you need him the most. “God.”

Seconds pass before Sunghoon reels back to rip open the packet of the condom with his teeth, spitting somewhere off the side of the bed. Sunghoon calls for you, “Baby, c’mere.”

You reach for him, arms coming around Sunghoon’s neck and pulling your bodies flush against each other. Sunghoon hoists one of your legs around his waist, firm grip under your thigh.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Sunghoon leans in and noses at your jaw before running a finger down your slit.

You hold Sunghoon tighter when he finally pushes the tip of his finger in, hole clenching around the digit. You moan, voice cracking when Sunghoon slides his finger in deeper, crooking it before adding another.

“Hoon—Sunghoon, add another. I can take it, please.”

Sunghoon kisses your earlobe before pressing his lips against your temple. “I know you can—god, you’re so tight.”

You clench around Sunghoon’s two fingers weakly, pressing your hips down against his hand in an attempt to get him deeper, to feel fuller. You throw your head back when Sunghoon adds a third finger alongside the two, moaning when Sunghoon scissors his fingers.

“I’m ready, Hoon. Please, please, need you now.” You rock back against Sunghoon’s fingers, whining when you feels Sunghoon’s cock twitch against your thigh.

“I barely even stretched you out, baby.”

“Sunghoon, I can’t wait anymore—please,” you beg. “Hurry, baby, Hoon.”

You hear Sunghoon let out a low groan against your temple, and you let out a soft laugh. “Baby? Is that what did it for you?”

“Could say the same to you.” Sunghoon removes his fingers from your hole, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. “It’s just you, I like whatever you call me.”

“Stop being so cheesy—fuck me already.” You can feel your ears getting hot again, and hopes that Sunghoon doesn’t see right through him.

“Hold on, I need to get the condom—”

“No! I’m clean. Wanna feel you inside me, please."

Sunghoon groans against your neck. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“C’mon, Hoon, hurry.”

Sunghoon inhales again, leaving one last kiss against your neck before he pulls back, your arms falling onto the bed. Your stomach churns with anticipation and arousal, and you can already feel the pool of wetness you've left under the both of you. Sunghoon isn’t doing any better, and you can feel the sticky spot of precome he’s left on your thigh as well.

You reach down to run two of your fingers through the mess on your thigh before bringing it to your mouth, sucking around your fingers and moaning at the taste. Sunghoon’s lips part, and then he’s surging forward to taste his own precome off your lips.

“You’re so hot, god, I’m so lucky.”

You whine, wrapping both of your legs around Sunghoon’s hips to cage him in. You moan in unison when Sunghoon’s cock brushes against your clit, and your mouth waters at how thick and warm and heavy Sunghoon feels against him.

You reach between them to wrap your hand around Sunghoon’s cock, guiding the head to your slit to rub it against yourself a few times before pushing the tip into your hole, barely, still teasing.

“Fuck.” Sunghoon moans, and you can’t resist pushing the head completely inside.

You keen, throwing your head back against the headboard as you feel Sunghoon finally entering you slowly, stretching you and filling you up just how youwanted. You moan at the feeling of being so full.

“Ah! Sunghoon—feels so good, so big,” Your head lolls to the side, tongue slipping out when Sunghoon finally bottoms out.

Sunghoon’s thumb swipes against your lip, pushing the spit that’s dribbled out from the corner of your lips back into your mouth, keeping the tip of his thumb inside. Your eyes roll back when Sunghoon moves, slowly, pulling back until the head of his cock catches against the ridges and walls of your entrance and slamming back inside in one go.

You wail, and Sunghoon pulls his thumb from your mouth so he can hear the sounds better. “Fuck, fuck—oh my god, Sunghoon, baby,”

“Yeah? You’re so tight. You feel so good around me—god, could fuck you like this every day.” Your moans rise in pitch with each thrust Sunghoon delivers, and by the end of his sentence, you're practically screaming. “You’re so fucking loud, you want everyone on the floor hearing you get fucked like this? Hearing you getting fucked by me, moaning like a bitch, hm?”

Your mind goes blank. All you can hear and feel and taste is SunghoonSunghoonSunghoon.

Sunghoon groans, throwing his head back when you tighten and clench around him. “All the people who saw you walk today don’t even know that their precious model cries and moans like a whore in bed. All for me, just for me.”

You're delirious. “Yes! Yes, Hoon—oh god, just for you! I’m yours, all yours only yours—”

“You’ve never been anyone but mine. Wanted you so bad for so long, now that I have you I’m not letting you go.”

You let out a loud sob, nodding your head vigorously. It sounds so tempting, so delicious—the thought of being owned by Sunghoon—being Sunghoon's own personal model. Just Sunghoon's and no one elses.

The thought has you seizing up, and before you know it, you're squirting all over Sunghoon's cock, fluid splashing against the sheets and spilling down Sunghoon's balls. Sunghoon moans loudly at the sensation of your walls fluttering but doesn’t let up. His thrusts and rhythm don’t falter, instead, he seems to get rougher, fucking you harder through your orgasm to milk you through it.

You whine in sensitivity, each thrust has Sunghoon’s cock abusing the spongey spot in your cunt, and you can't help the way you shake, releasing small spurts of wetness out around his cock.

Sunghoon hikes your legs higher, the angle causing his cock to hit deeper, filling you up even better than he did before. Your eyes well up with tears; the overstimulation hurts so good.

“Fuck, you look so pretty crying with a cock inside you.” Sunghoon curses, hands coming to hold your hips, using the grip and the new angle to piston his hips faster into your hole. “‘m close—gonna fill you up how you wanted, yeah?”

You nod, hooking your ankles around Sunghoon’s back and pulling him closer, deeper. Sunghoon groans, one hand coming up to wipe at your lashes where your tears are collecting so prettily for him. “Sunghoon, baby, fill me up. Want your cum inside me—want it inside, cum inside. Wanna feel you inside me for days.”

Sunghoon pulls you in for a kiss, all tongue and teeth before pushing his hips flush against yours, burying himself deep inside of your hole as he finally cums.

The warmth of Sunghoon's cum inside of his hole has you shuddering, finally content at the feeling of Sunghoon filling you up to the brim.

“Wish I could plug you up, have you come to my show tomorrow all plugged up with my come still inside of you. You’d like that, huh?” Sunghoon says against your lips, and you clench around Sunghoon’s cock, causing you both to moan lowly. “Next time, baby.”

The kisses turn soft, and you melt against the pillows at the feeling of Sunghoon's lips against yours. You sigh against Sunghoon’s mouth, hands holding his jaw to keep him close.

After a few minutes, Sunghoon moves to pull out. You whine, trying your best to clench to keep Sunghoon and his cum plugged inside of you.

“Baby,” Sunghoon chuckles. “We can’t stay like this forever.”

“Please?” You tug him back down and onto the sticky mess between you, grimacing when it smears against both of your skins. “It’s fine, we can clean tomorrow.”

“No.” Sunghoon fights back, but makes no move to get up or pull out.

“Baby, please?” You beg, voice soft, and your eyes widen when you feel Sunghoon’s cock twitch inside of you. “Sunghoon!”

“You’re just so—” Sunghoon lets out a breath, rolling his hips slowly. You full-body shudder, and blame Sunghoon for the way white hot arousal shoots throughout your body again. “Can’t get enough of you. Want you like this every day.”

“Sunghoon,” you sigh when Sunghoon pulls out an inch before rolling his hips forward, the head of his cock rubbing against your abused walls lightly with each thrust.

It’s slow and sensual and intimate, and after a few minutes you're brought to your third orgasm of the night, another load of Sunghoon's cum filling your hole up.

“God, you don’t know what you do to me. I think I like you too much.” Sunghoon says after you’ve both bathed and are lying in bed. Sunghoon’s arms are wrapped around you and your head is resting on his shoulder.

You look up at him, only to find him already looking at you. This time, it’s your turn to say:

“I know.”

Sunghoon laughs softly, lips curling up at the corners in a soft grin before he leans down to press his lips against your forehead.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You grin back. “Wouldn’t that be a headline? Sunghoon Park, death by love.”

“And who said that I love you?” Sunghoon raises a brow, amusement and fondness and everything swirling in his eyes.

“You’re not that subtle, Sunghoon.” You lean up to kiss him softly, once, twice before burrowing your head into Sunghoon's chest.

Sunghoon pulls the covers over your shoulders and pulls you closer to him, as if you weren’t already as close as you can be. “Wouldn’t you know?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Wouldn’t I know?” You repeat after him.

The two of you fall asleep like that minutes later, legs and limbs tangled together. You think your poor, weak heart has already jumped out of your chest and into Sunghoon’s welcoming hands a long, long time ago.

XO sunoo and riki's brand PARADOXXX heeseung, jake, and jay's brand DUMBO house soho house's third nyc club, located on the edge of the east river + where a designer named peter do hosted his after party during nyfw 2 years ago!

a/n: my first fic here is done! listened to party 4 u the whole time while writing this, it almost made me insane. thank you so much for giving this a try if you did! pls reblog/leave me asks or anything :3 that would make me very happy! part 2 will be out soon hehe

masterlist

[hancorys]

h.ts — you bleed, i break

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, suggestive themes pairing: underground boxer!taesan x afab!reader wc: 1153 warning: mentions of physical violence, blood/injuries (cuts, bruises, stitches), emotional distress, fear of loss, mild codependency themes, hurt/comfort dynamic listen: no. 1 party anthem — arctic monkeys

it always starts the same way.

a knock at the door — not loud, not urgent, just... familiar. three soft taps, spaced apart, like he’s giving you time to prepare for what you’ll see when you open it.

you never are.

you swing the door open and there he is — bruised, bleeding, barely standing. he tries to smile, but it tugs at a split lip, and you immediately step aside to let him in, your heart slamming against your ribs like it wants to escape the moment before it breaks.

“don’t say anything yet,” he says, voice rough. “let me shower. i’ll be easier to look at after.”

you don't answer. you just nod, throat tight, and grab a towel while he drags himself toward the bathroom.

you hate this part — the waiting. the sound of the water running as it washes away blood you didn’t get a chance to clean. the way your hands shake as you lay out gauze and antiseptic and stitch kits like it’s routine. like you haven’t cried over this exact setup more times than you can count.

he steps out fifteen minutes later, hair dripping, body clean but riddled with fresh bruises. a deep purple welt blooms across his ribs, and there’s a long, angry gash above his eyebrow that still seeps a little blood. he's got a towel around his waist and tired eyes locked on yours.

“sit,” you say, voice flat, pointing to the bathroom counter. you’re too tired to yell. too scared to fall apart.

he obeys.

you press a clean cloth to his wound, just a little too firmly. he winces but doesn’t move away.

“you’re gonna get yourself killed one day,” you say. your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. smaller.

“i’ve had worse,” he mutters.

your hands freeze.

"that’s not the point, tae.”

he sighs. “i know.”

“no, you don’t. because if you did, you wouldn’t keep doing this. you wouldn’t come home every other night with new wounds and old ones ripped open again. you wouldn’t keep making me wonder if the next time the door knocks... it’ll be someone else telling me you didn’t make it.”

the words hang heavy in the air, thick and shaking. he stays silent.

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop it from trembling. you dab at his brow, slower this time, careful. “you don’t have to break yourself to be enough.”

he looks down at his hands. his knuckles are torn open — fresh from tonight. “it’s all i know. fighting… it gives me something. i feel like myself in the ring. it’s the only place i know who i am.”

“and who are you when you’re not bleeding?”

he looks up, startled by your question.

you’re not angry anymore. just aching. tired in a way that sleep won’t fix.

“when you’re here,” you say, voice soft, “with me… who are you then?”

he stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly. “i’m yours.”

you nod slowly. “then act like it. stay. stop choosing pain over peace. stop making me watch you fall apart just so you can feel whole for a few minutes in a ring.”

“i can’t just walk away from it—”

“i’m not asking you to quit,” you say quickly. “i’m asking you to survive.”

he looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn't. instead, he lets you tend to him — your fingers gentle now as you clean the gash and close it with small, precise stitches. you dab antiseptic over his knuckles, wrap them carefully, and by the time you’re done, your hands have stopped shaking.

but your heart hasn’t.

“you don’t have to do this alone,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. “you don’t have to keep hurting just to prove something.”

his hand reaches out, shaky and hesitant, and finds yours.

“i’m scared,” he admits.

“of what?”

“of being nothing if i’m not fighting.”

you step between his legs, cradle his jaw with both hands, and lean your forehead against his. “you’ll never be nothing. not to me.”

he pulls you into him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. your arms wrap around his neck as his settle on your waist, and suddenly it’s too much — the fear, the relief, the way he still smells like blood and sweat and safety.

you kiss him — soft, slow, like you're stitching him back together with your lips. it’s not rushed, not desperate, just… tender. the kind of kiss that says i see you. all of you. and i’m still here.

your lips brush against his once, twice, a gentle question, and when he kisses you back, it’s like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. like he’s been starved for something only you can give. his hands tighten at your waist, not to pull you closer — you’re already as close as you can be — but to ground himself, like the feel of you is the only thing tethering him to this world.

his breath shudders against your cheek, and your thumb traces the line of his jaw, careful not to press against any bruises. his skin is warm beneath your fingers, flushed from the shower, from the fight, from you.

you feel it in the way his lips linger — how they tremble just a little when you deepen the kiss, how he sighs softly into your mouth like he’s finally letting go of everything he’s been holding in.

your fingers slide into his hair, still damp, and he tilts his head just enough for the kiss to deepen, mouths moving together in a quiet, aching rhythm. it’s not about passion, not really — it’s about presence. about showing him that he’s more than the blood, the pain, the fight.

when you pull back, just a breath away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. his eyes are closed, lashes damp, and he looks so young like this. like the boy underneath all the bruises is still learning how to be loved.

you press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the cut above his brow. “you’re okay,” you whisper between each kiss. “you’re here. you’re home.”

his hands cup your face then, rough knuckles brushing your skin so delicately it makes your chest ache. he opens his eyes and looks at you like he’s never seen you before — or maybe like he’s finally seeing you the way you’ve always seen him.

“don’t go,” he whispers.

you lean in again, pressing your lips to his in an answer. slow, certain, full of every silent promise you’ve ever made him.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you breathe. “not as long as you keep coming back to me.”

and in that moment, with bruises still darkening and your hands still stained from cleaning his wounds, he feels whole — not because he’s healed, but because you’ve made space for every broken part of him.

© hancorys, 2025.

[bloodstainedsapphic]

becoming ellie williams' personal nurse was absolutely not part of your grand plan. in fact, being ellie williams’ anything hadn’t crossed your mind until an unexpected run-in left you the only one available to patch her up after a rough patrol. you’d spoken fewer than ten times before that, but after that night, ellie unilaterally decided you were the only person allowed to help her when she got injured. you didn’t fuss as much as maria, or dina, or anyone else—and that was enough for her. or at least, that’s what she claimed. it certainly didn’t hurt that you were cute.

that's how you found yourself falling into a routine—ellie 'just happening' to show up at your door, flashing those worn green eyes and grumbling about how "it's not that bad" to garner enough pity until you inevitably caved and fixed her up, sparing her yet another lecture from maria.

tonight was no different. she lingered outside, shifting her weight like she was debating whether to knock. but since this had become clockwork, you were already pulling the door open, and she shuffled inside uttering a, “don’t make a big deal out of it.”

you sighed, already moving to nab your ever-growing stash of first-aid supplies as she dropped into your desk chair. ellie had tried to clean herself up beforehand, but it was fruitless—her green jacket, the one now being hastily shrugged off, had been covering the worst of it. a deep gash on her arm, the lingering traces of a nosebleed, fresh cuts along her cheek. she’d been through hell and back.

"ellie," your voice carried a warning as you approached, reaching out to cautiously inspect her wounded arm. "this isn't just some scrape." ellie exhaled sharply through her nose, taking the accosting while settling in the chair she'd visited many times already. "it's nothing. i don't want maria finding out and pulling me off patrols."

your lips pressed into a thin line, but you didn't protest further. you knew how much patrol meant to her—how she needed it. how ellie seemed to rely on it to feel like she provided something useful to jackson. so instead, you got to work, gently cleaning the cuts along her forearm. ellie winced as the antiseptic hit raw skin, her fingers twitching against her thigh. unfortunately, the cut had grazed her tatted arm. you made a valiant effort to be delicate enough to mend the cut without disturbing the tattoo—luckily, it had missed the chemical burn ellie said she'd gotten on that arm years ago.

"oh, stop whining," you chided over her complaints. "shouldn't you be used to the pain by now? little masochist. and what's with you aiming for this poor arm so much? you've got two to work with, you know.” ellie scoffed at your chastizing, biting the inside of her cheek as her expression shifted to annoyance but not full offense. "right, lemme plan my injuries better next time."

you dabbed at a shallow abrasion beneath her cheekbone. ellie's eyes flickered up, trying to capture yours, but you wouldn't budge from the injury. she bit her crimson-stained lip, like she was weighing her next words wisely. "you keep patching me up, though. makes me wonder... i mean, i dunno..." ellie stilted her delivery, partly out of nerves, partly to grab your attention. "maybe you like seein' me all banged up," her tone took on a pitchy lilt as she kept peeking up at you.

the way she said it—less of a tease, a tad second-guessing, trying to dare a reaction out of you—made your stomach do something stupid.

"a better patient would stop causing such a distraction," you shot back, deliberately avoiding her gaze while keeping with the 'strict nurse' facade. you couldn't suppress a hint of a smirk though, briefly wiping your mouth to try and shield the small break over her nervous attempt at flirting. you just hated how right she was—no one was forcing you to do this, to put up with her maddening stubbornness and save her hide time and time again. all ellie had to do was bat those ridiculously pretty greens, and your defenses crumbled.

ellie huffed, pleased with your accidental admission but now more determined to coax more from you. she shifted slightly—and that's when you felt it. the light press of her fingers against the dip of your waist, like she had just meant to steady herself but forgot to pull away. her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt, sending a shiver up your spine. you said nothing, pretending not to notice. maybe she hadn't even meant to. you'd both insist, later, it was simply the sting of the antiseptic anyway, as if she hadn't weathered worse injuries before. neither of you moved.

ellie couldn't disguise her beaming when your strict charade allowed the gesture. she swallowed, like she was trying to decide whether to try her luck. her fingers tapped your side, hesitant.

“i think you're helping me all the time 'cause you've got a soft spot for me."

your breath hitched, warmth creeping up your neck, but you weren't about to let her win that easily. with a little head shake, you willfully regained your composure and lightly patted ellie's uninjured cheek before schooling your expression. "hush. you're being disorderly. i can't fix you up with all this blabbering."

ellie let out an exaggerated hiss, scrunching her eyes shut dramatically. your stomach clenched in brief panic, helper mode reigniting—until you realized she was full of shit, twisting her head like she'd been mortally wounded when, in reality, you had barely touched her.

"you're impossible," you muttered, smacking her good arm lightly in playful retaliation. "your life is in my hands. don't forget that." ellie leaned forward just enough to close the space between you, her voice dropping. "yeah, yeah, and every time i show up like this, i'm choosing to put my trust in you."

she wavered briefly, then added, softer still—only brave enough to say it now because she was already committed to the bit—"and that’s also why you won’t look at me."

you froze, and the second you met her gaze, it was over—long lashes framing those round green eyes, a smattering of freckles, some loose auburn strands that had escaped her barely-held-together bun sticking to her skin from the leftover sweat of patrol. with scraped skin and blood-streaked face, ellie was a proper mess—and yet, here you were, fighting every aching urge screaming at you to throw yourself on top of her.

you swallowed hard. the unassuming, bashful, loserish ellie was nowhere to be found. replaced by an ellie probably still riding the adrenaline of her close call with a horde of infected earlier, caring a little less about the consequences of her words and even further fueled by your easily cracked stoicism.

ellie seized your defeated, flustered silence to keep going. "also, as my nurse, i'm surprised you don't know the best cure for any injury."

you inhaled to brace for whatever nonsense was about to come out of her mouth. "oh, yeah? what's that?"

".....a kiss."

a drawn-out groan escaped you. "jesus," you muttered, cheeks burning. but fine—just this once. you weren't giving in completely, but you leaned in, pressing a fleeting peck to the tip of her nose.

the way ellie's face immediately split into a stupidly giddy grin was almost worth it. almost. her whole expression flushed a rosy pink, too.

"oh, on the nose? that barely counts," ellie teased, her voice dipping into something softer, more expectant. definitely hoping she hadn’t pushed her luck too much.

"deal with it, williams," you murmured, but your mind was already betraying you.

despite your best efforts, you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would be like if you really gave in. if you disregarded all medical safety and climbed into her lap and kissed her senseless, letting your hands explore each other in desperation and recklessly savoring the taste of metallic red left on her soft lips.

snapping yourself from that less-than-holy thought, you deflected under the guise of needing to retrieve more supplies for another small cut you had overlooked.

when you came back, ellie was still watching you, something unreadable in her expression. you hesitated for a moment, then finally gave her a little glimmer of hope to cling to.

"tell you what," you started. "don't be an idiot—which i know is hard for you—and let everything heal," you let the jab sit for a second to build suspense, "and i’ll grant you the other half of that kiss."

ellie's smile widened triumphantly, though her posture was beginning to laze as exhaustion from the day's chaos caught up with her.

"anything for the nurse."

"yeah, yeah. now hold still so i can finish fixing you up."

and, for once, ellie williams actually listened. pic creds @/elliesgalaxy

[gojover]

SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⭑ 02. THE CAPITOL.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: profanity, mentions of forced prostitution, mentions of death & violence. — word count: 9.1k

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The train was too clean.

Satoru hated it: the sterile shine of the floors, the glassy sheen on the windows, the faint scent of synthetic citrus pumped through the vents. Everything about it made his skin itch. It was nothing like the salt-slick wood of his old home, nothing like the creaky floorboards of Reiko and Ren’s kitchen, where the kettle always screamed before boiling and the walls were yellowing from too much sun.

He didn’t remember standing. One moment he was lying on the cot in his cabin, staring blankly at the ceiling, fingers wrapped tight around the mockingjay pin burning a hole in his pocket. The next, he was walking down the corridor, urged by some inexplicable force—resentment, maybe. Or your voice in his head, sarcastic and furious, telling him to go ahead and starve if he wanted.

He didn’t want to starve. But he didn’t want to eat, either. His stomach roiled unpleasantly.

The dining car was draped in Capitol excess, down to the velvet curtains and the marble-effect table. You were already there, face drawn, picking listlessly at a piece of bread. Across from you, Coral was mid-sentence, droning about how dreadfully boring the off-season was in the Capitol. Satoru’s stomach turned.

“Do you never get tired of running your mouth?” he said, tone flat and venomous.

Coral blinked at him, clearly unimpressed. She sat reclined, long legs crossed elegantly, a half-finished glass of crimson wine in one hand. Her curls gleamed under the artificial lighting and her nails—painted a garish shade of turquoise—tapped idly against the crystal. She didn’t stop smiling.

“Oh, Satoru,” she sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking. It’s so unbecoming. You’ve been given such a rare opportunity. You should be thanking us.”

He stared at her, blankly. “For what, exactly? Watching a man get shot in front of his grandkid? Being yanked from our homes and shoved into this freak parade of a train like pigs on the way to slaughter?”

“You’re so crude. No wonder your little tributes didn’t get any sponsors last time, what with their mentor being so despicably uncultured. It’s a shame even the Career districts don’t seem to—”

“That’s enough,” you interrupted, finally looking up from your untouched plate. Your voice was hoarse; Satoru suspected it had been all day. 

“Oh, you’re both so moody,” the escort drawled. “It’s a wonder they selected either of you. The Gamemakers won’t like that sulking thing you do.”

Satoru watched as you ladled some soup into a bowl and set it down across from you. He looked away. For a second, he thought he might actually lunge across the table and do something truly stupid—punch Coral, maybe. Rip the wine glass out of her hand and shatter it against the floor.

“They shot an old man in front of his grandson,” he said again, like it would make this air-headed Capitol bitch see sense.

“They did,” Coral agreed coolly, dabbing at her lipsticked mouth with a silk napkin. “And now here you are—alive, handsome and controversial. The Capitol eats that up, you know.”

Satoru felt something ugly lurch inside his chest.

Alive. He was alive. And she wasn’t.

Reiko and Ren’s mother was a good woman. She was the only adult who had looked at him after his Games without flinching, who had given him second helpings when he was a child and scolded him like he was her own. She had given him the pin with shaking hands, and said it belonged to his mother. His mother. He hadn’t even had time to ask her how she got it. She’d smiled at him, and then a Peacekeeper struck her so hard, her head hit the stone.

He hadn’t seen her get up.

Satoru gripped the back of a chair hard, knuckles bone-white.

“You should eat,” you said to him, not unkindly.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“Then don’t eat,” you snapped. “Just stop acting like a whiny little piece of shit.”

Satoru scoffed, bitter and humourless, and dropped into the seat. The soup in front of him steamed faintly, rich and full of spices. He stared at it. Picked up the spoon. Put it down again. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Do you children always argue like this, or is it just foreplay?” Coral said.

You stiffened. Satoru didn’t bother replying.

“President Snow is going to love you,” she added. “So tragic and rebellious. Just a hint of young, doomed romance. It’s positively Shakespearean.”

Satoru grit his teeth. You hunched your shoulders, tearing the crust of your slice of bread to pieces, over and over. The air inside the dining car was stifling—the cloying smell of rich food, the hum of the train tracks, the faint perfume Coral wore that reminded him of expensive flowers left too long in stagnant water. He still hadn’t taken a bite of his food. 

Coral leaned back again, lazily inspecting her cuticles. “Well, you’d better find your spirit soon. We arrive in the Capitol tomorrow morning, and it will be televised. And unlike your precious little fishing town, image actually matters there.”

Satoru stood up so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor, harsh and metallic. He didn’t say anything—just took his bowl, still full, and dumped it into the disposal chute without a word. Then he turned and walked out, fists clenched at his sides.

The hallway felt colder now. He walked past mirrored panels and velvet-lined walls, down and down until he put as much distance as he could between himself and the dining car. The windows blurred past wilderness and darkness and nothing that resembled home. He didn’t stop until the hallway ended, and even then, he simply stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass.

His face looked like his father’s, who had drowned in a boating accident when he was an infant. His eyes, bright and startlingly blue, were like his mother’s, or so he’d been told. He’d never actually met her. She died while giving birth to him. Satoru had been raised by his neighbours until he was old enough to do odd jobs here and there, helping out the fishermen and earning a livelihood from it. Then, he’d been reaped, and he had to watch his fellow tribute—Amanai Riko, the smartest and kindest fourteen-year-old he’d ever known—get shot through the head.

The Capitol was still miles away, but already, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The pin in his pocket dug into his thigh when he moved. He took it out again, and turned it over in his palm. It was an old thing—worn, with the gold a little tarnished—but unmistakable. A mockingjay in flight.

He remembered the way the pin had felt in his palm: warm from Midori’s skin. And then the crack of the Peacekeeper’s hand across her face. And then the sound of his own scream.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He wasn’t going to be able to save anyone.

“Satoru—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t bother turning around. “You told me to starve, so I’m just following orders.”

You cursed under your breath. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

He heard you step forward anyway, the hallway narrow enough that even your silence felt like intrusion. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just kept his eyes on the blurred lights outside the train window like if he stared long enough, he could will himself out of this life and into another one.

“I was angry,” you said. “We’re all angry.”

“They killed her,” he said. “She was the only person left who gave a damn about me, and they didn’t even hesitate.”

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to lose people?” you said, shifting to stand next to him, hand tightening around the brass edge of the doorway. “To watch them die and not be able to do a single thing?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant.”

He turned to you then, finally. His expression was thunderous, eyes rimmed red like he’d been crying—or maybe like he wanted to and didn’t know how. “You think you know me? You think just because we’re stuck on this nightmare train together, you get to play therapist? Screw that.”

Your voice shook, but you didn’t raise it. “You think I want to be here with you? You think I want to be picked as some Capitol pawn, paraded around with a guy who hasn’t said a kind word to me since I was reaped five years ago? You’re not the only one who lost something.”

“Don’t twist this—”

“I’m not!” you snapped. “But you’re not the only person in the world who’s hurting, Satoru. We all are. I’m just not throwing a tantrum about it every five seconds.”

He laughed, sardonic and joyless. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is my grief inconvenient for you? Maybe I should’ve just smiled for the cameras, like a good little martyr.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You sure about that?” he said, voice rising now. “Because you sound a hell lot like Coral right now. ‘Tragic and rebellious’—isn’t that what she said? Maybe I should lean into the aesthetic. Sell myself to the Capitol. At least that way, someone might survive.”

You looked like he’d slapped you. “That’s not funny,” you said, quieter now. “Don’t talk like that.”

But he was shaking, eyes wild. “What else is there to talk about? Do you want to hear about the Games? About how I didn’t sleep for months because every time I closed my eyes I saw Riko’s face? Or maybe about how my best friend got reaped the year after me and I had to watch him die while you stood and did nothing? Or maybe about how Reiko and Ren’s mom died simply because she gave me a pin?”

He was shouting now. You let him.

“I was a kid. I was a kid, and they made me kill for their entertainment. And now they want me back. Again. Again. And you’re telling me to calm down. To eat. To behave. To get it together because the Capitol doesn’t like messy tributes.”

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you said, and he didn’t even realise tears were streaming down your face until he looked at you properly, chest heaving. “Fuck you. They killed my parents, too. They used my body year after year, every single time I was sent with you to the Capitol as a mentor. President Snow made me coerce secrets from their mouths with the use of my hands touching their skin.”

Satoru froze—no more words, no more rage. He simply stood, blinking like he’d walked into a wall.

You dragged in a shaky breath, shoulders taut, fists trembling by your sides. “I did nothing?” you repeated. “You think I had a choice?”

Satoru’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. You pressed on.

“They made me watch,” you said, your voice cracking. “They made me memorise names, families, weaknesses. You were the golden boy—District Four’s prodigy, our great bloody hope. But I was the one they broke open, again and again, year after year, because I had pretty eyes and a warm touch and they liked how easily people talked to me.”

Silence fell like a blade. Only the dull hum of the train beneath your feet remained.

You wiped your face roughly with your sleeve, as though you were angry at yourself for crying. “I did everything I could to protect our tributes. I smiled for the cameras and kissed the sponsors and sweet-talked the Gamemakers. And every time I closed the door behind me, I screamed until my throat bled. But sure, Satoru, tell me again how I stood and did nothing.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t ask.”

That hurt, and you knew it. He flinched like you’d thrown something.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” you went on, quieter now, the rage ebbing to something exhausted and spent. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. But don’t you dare pretend you were the only one who lost something.”

Satoru exhaled, long and slow. The silence between you stretched again, but it was different now. He was still breathing hard, eyes glassy, but the fury had dulled into something heavier.

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the roots. “I’m scared.”

“I am, too,” you admitted.

Satoru’s shoulders dropped a little. He looked away, ashamed. “I didn’t mean what I said. About you doing nothing.”

“Didn’t mean what I said either,” you said, shrugging. “About starving.”

His laugh was dry. “We’re a pair of fucking disasters.”

“President Snow’s favourites,” you agreed.

The train slowed to a crawl the next morning.

Satoru felt it before he saw it, like the very oxygen shifted the moment the Capitol came into view. The glass of the windows shimmered under the harsh gaze of too much light, too much colour, too much control. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until the screech of metal on metal echoed down the tracks, and the train eased to a halt.

He didn’t move.

Outside the Capitol sprawled like a wound that refused to scab. Towers of glass and gold cut into the sky like knives, their angles too clean, their beauty too deliberate. The streets below swarmed with people in grotesque, glittering costumes—some with skin dyed cerulean, some with implants under their flesh that pulsed like veins full of starlight. Feathers. Jewels. Artificial wings. Faces that barely resembled people anymore.

They were all smiling. Satoru hated that he remembered what it was like to be in awe of it. He hated more that some part of him still was.

You brushed your shoulder against him once, standing by the door. He nodded. He could do this. He had done this. But it didn’t get easier—not with the Capitol’s scent already curling in through the cracks: roses and blood and something chemical, sweet, and sharp enough to sting his eyes.

The train doors hissed open.

The moment he stepped out, the world exploded in colour. Cameras flashed. A Capitol woman shrieked his name from somewhere in the crowd, her voice high and warped by excitement. Someone else held up a sign that read “Satoru: Our Second Coming”, glitter glued in thick, uneven letters.

He swallowed bile.

“Smile, darlings,” Coral hissed through gritted teeth. Satoru tensed. He didn’t know when the escort had shown up, but she was behind him now, trailing that scent of that sickly-sweet perfume she used and her face powdered blue. 

Satoru didn’t turn to look at her. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, spine locked into something almost regal—if only to spite her. The cameras loved that posture, and so did the Capitol. The Victor they remembered wasn’t allowed to look small, or scared, or tired.

He was a symbol. A trophy polished to perfection. So he smiled.

Not the soft kind. This was the Capitol smile: sharp at the edges, glittering with menace. His lips curled like he knew something they didn’t, like he liked the attention, like he was their second coming.

Beside him, you didn’t smile at all. He didn’t need to look at you to know this. Coral didn’t seem to notice, or she did and didn’t care. She was already waving, stepping out onto the platform, her dress of coral-pink feathers trailing behind her like smoke.

Peacekeepers flanked the entrance, white uniforms spotless, helmets reflecting the overhead lights like polished bone. One of them nodded once. That was the only greeting they ever got from them.

Satoru scanned the platform. Still, the cameras flashed. He heard his name again. Then again, and then louder.

“Satoru! Look here—just a quick wave!”

“How does it feel to be back?”

“Tell us about the lucky girl! Are the rumours true?”

His stomach churned. Lucky, they said, as if being chained to memory and the Capitol’s golden leash was some kind of blessing. As if winning the Hunger Games hadn’t broken him into pieces he still didn’t know how to glue back together.

He kept smiling. 

He reached the car, which was sleek, black and armoured, though you wouldn’t know it unless you’d ridden in one before. You opened the door before the Peacekeeper could. Satoru ducked his head, and slid in without a word. You slid in after him, careful to avoid Coral’s train, which caught in the door and earned an irritated noise from her throat. She snapped something at you, but you didn’t reply.

The car drove away from the platform like it had done a hundred times before, tires humming against the smooth black road with mechanical perfection. The doors sealed with a hiss, insulating them from the frenzy outside—but not completely. Not even the Capitol’s best engineering could mute the roar of spectacle.

Satoru let his head fall back against the seat. The leather was too soft. The kind that cost more than most families in the districts made in a year. The kind they gave to Victors because comfort was currency here—another way to keep them quiet.

He could feel the static of the cameras still clinging to his skin, like spiderwebs. Like ghost hands.

The Capitol blurred past the tinted windows, too saturated, too symmetric to be real. Every building was a statement; geometry turned violent. The sky split with spires of glass that caught the light like they wanted to blind him, all chrome and gold and shimmering edges. Below, the streets crawled with people like insects in silk, each more grotesque than the last.

One man wore a suit of mirrors that fractured the sunlight into shards, throwing it across the asphalt like confetti. A woman walked a pair of cats with scales instead of fur, their tails split like serpents. A child skipped across a plaza in stilts shaped like wings, her giggles echoing through a speaker embedded in her throat.

Everything was noise. Everything was too much.

And still—God, still—some part of him felt that flicker of wonder. That traitorous, sick little spark remembered the first time he saw it, before the arena, before the blood. When he was just a boy, pulled from a grey world into a place that glittered so brightly, it felt like dreaming.

He hated that boy. He hated that he could still remember what it felt like to hope.

You sat across from him, quiet, your hands folded in your lap. Your posture was tight, controlled, but your gaze drifted—to the window, to him, then back again. He could see it: the calculation, the exhaustion. The way your shoulders sank half an inch lower when you thought no one was looking.

Coral babbled on across from you, scrolling through her Capitol-issued tablet like her life depended on it. She rattled off times and locations with a breathless efficiency, fingers fluttering like the feathers stitched into her ridiculous sleeves.

“Meeting with President Snow at noon. Tribute rehearsal at fourteen-hundred. Full prep schedule locked in by sixteen. We’ll need to trim that hair, obviously,” she added, glancing at Satoru like his pale curls were a personal insult.

Satoru said nothing. Instead, he watched the skyline twist as they turned a corner, the whole city unfolding like a living organism. The air smelled like roses. Not real ones—the chemical kind, the ones that clung to everything in the Capitol like perfume and rot. It was too sweet; too sharp. A scent that made his nose sting. It mixed with something else, too. Smoke. Ash. The faintest hint of ozone.

He remembered that smell. He remembered breathing it in as he watched Riko die.

Outside the window, a billboard flickered. His face stared back at him, a younger version—hair slicked back, eyes fierce, jaw set. A crown of fire had been edited into the shot, curling above his head like he was some kind of deity.

“SATORU GOJO: THE STORM THAT SURVIVED.”

“They love you,” you said flatly.

He turned to look at you, the Capitol’s reflection dancing in your eyes. “They love their idea of me.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you looked out the window again, and your fingers curled into fists.

“Must I remind you to smile again?” Coral sang, catching your silence with the lilt of her voice. “President Snow won’t be pleased if you’re sulking.”

You both ignored her. The car slowed again.

They were approaching the Presidential Tower’s annex. It was all columns and balconies, soft blue lighting and manicured hedges sculpted into the shapes of snakes and songbirds. Satoru thought it looked like a mausoleum.

The car stopped. A Peacekeeper opened the door. Satoru stepped out, and the Capitol swallowed him whole again.

Everything felt thinner here: the air, the silence. Like even the space between his bones had to be approved by Capitol decree. He felt eyes on him already, from the windows above, from the cameras he couldn’t see. From the insects masquerading as stylists and sponsors and hosts, watching from the glittering towers.

Each step towards the building felt like the ground recognised him, like it remembered his blood.

He was back. The boy who won. The man who never really left.

Somewhere behind him, you followed—just as you always had. Just as he had once asked you not to.

But here you both were, again, just like the Capitol wanted.

The elevator ride up was silent. Not the kind of silence that soothed, but the kind that gathered in your lungs and settled like ash. Every second ticked by like the loading of a gun. Satoru stood rigid in the mirrored walls, his reflection splintered from a dozen angles, all of them wearing the same grim expression.

You were beside him, close but not touching. Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t anything to say. The doors opened with a sigh into the top floor of the Presidential Tower, the highest place in all of Panem.

It was colder up here, though Satoru couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the lack of colour. The entire corridor was white—white floors, white walls, white marble polished to an unnatural sheen, as if even dust had been outlawed here. The air smelled of antiseptic and roses, so thickly perfumed that it made Satoru’s throat itch.

Guards lined the halls, motionless in gold and black. Their visors reflected Satoru and you as you walked past, giving him back no expressions or names. Just hollowed-out silence in humanoid shape.

At the end of the corridor, beyond the skeletal archway of thorn-shaped beams, was President Snow, seated like a spider in the centre of his web.

The office around him gleamed with deliberate elegance—glass-paned walls looking out across the Capitol skyline, a blood-red carpet beneath his desk, and behind him, a flowering wall of roses, growing in unnatural white and red, vines crawling like veins.

The president smiled before he even approached.

“Ah,” he said, standing. “Our victors.”

His voice slithered across the room like fog: low, papery, always polite. He gestured with a skeletal hand. “Please, sit. You must be tired after your trip.”

Satoru remained standing. You didn’t budge an inch, either.

Snow tilted his head, still smiling, like someone indulging a pet. “No? Very well. Let’s get to it, then.”

He folded his hands behind his back. 

“You two have caused quite the stir,” he drawled. “Young minds are so… impressionable. All it takes is a single phrase, a single image, and suddenly the Capitol is flooded with whispers. Symbols.” His smile widened. “Martyrs. And you know what happens to martyrs, don’t you?”

Satoru said nothing.

The President turned slightly, studying the Capitol through the glass like it was a snow globe he’d built himself. “I find it… fascinating,” he said, “the way stories spread. A flicker becomes a flame, and suddenly there’s smoke in places it doesn’t belong. District Four. District Eleven. Even whispers from Twelve, and we all know how dangerous whispers can be.”

He turned to face you both, face still smooth, voice still gentle. “You are not martyrs,” he said. “You are actors. You perform. You smile. You play the part we assign you.”

Satoru’s throat felt dry, but he forced his voice to remain steady. “Everything we said was true.”

“Truth,” Snow echoed, amused now. “Truth is irrelevant. Believability is power. You’re lucky. We’ve spun something from this mess. A story the Capitol can digest. A romance. A tragedy. A pair of haunted lovers forced to return to the arena—but this time, together.”

His eyes gleamed. “The people are already eating it up.”

You shifted beside Satoru, the slightest hitch in your breath the only indication that you were listening.

“But I’ll be clear,” Snow said, taking a step closer. “If either of you deviate from the narrative—if you hesitate, or slip, or speak one wrong word—I will end the story myself.”

He reached up and adjusted the rose on his lapel, the petals shining blood-red in the artificial light. 

“And not with dignity.”

Satoru wanted to scream. To lunge. To shove every inch of marble and rose and power down this sick man’s throat, but he knew he couldn’t, because he knew the stakes.

Snow circled slowly back to his desk and sat once more. “You will go to hair and makeup after this. You will hold hands. You will cry, if you must. You will kiss, perhaps.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever it takes.”

Then, almost as an afterthought: “Oh. And remember to thank me during the interviews. For giving you a second chance at love.”

The words stuck in Satoru’s spine like needles. The President turned away, already finished, and said, “You may go.”

The guards didn’t move, but you did: a single step, steady. You didn’t look back. Satoru followed you out into the hall, his feet like lead, his heart a roar beneath his ribs.

The prep team arrived two hours later—or maybe earlier; time didn’t pass properly in the Capitol. It stretched and buckled like melted sugar. One second, he’d been lying stiff on the too-soft bed in the penthouse suite; the next, the door had slid open and in they came, all perfume and sequins and chirping voices.

“Satoru!” cooed Lume, her eyes rimmed with rhinestones and something vaguely reptilian about the way her lips curved too far. “Oh, we’ve missed you so much. Didn’t we say he’d look taller in person, Davi?”

Davi—a man whose eyebrows were replaced entirely by a row of sapphires—clasped his hands together as if seeing Satoru was akin to witnessing the birth of a star. “Taller and paler,” he sighed. “He’s like a marble statue.”

“Mmm, delicious.” The third one—Krin—circled him with a tablet in hand, analysing angles. She had fins today, literal ones, shimmering gill-like extensions curling from the sides of her neck. “Still lean. So perfect.”

Satoru said nothing, because they didn’t expect him to, anyway.

The prep team didn’t speak to people so much as at them, monologues wrapped in cotton candy and electric laughter. They fluttered and hovered and gestured, and eventually ushered him towards the marble-tiled bathroom where the true transformation began.

It started with the clothes. Off, first. They made a show of not looking, but they always did—covert glances as they peeled the shirt from his frame, as they noted the new scars like collectors inspecting a rare coin. Satoru let them. Resistance was worse.

“Still no body hair,” Krin muttered, almost disappointed. “Is it natural, or—”

“Don’t ask,” Lume interrupted, slapping her hand away from his chest.

They scrubbed him raw. Water that smelled faintly of flowers and bleach poured over him, too hot. Hands moved with choreographed precision: one lathering his hair with a shampoo that tingled like mint and metal, another scraping calluses of his palms with something sharp. A third held a mirror up to his face, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the near-imperceptible tremble in his jaw.

“He’s not sleeping,” Davi whispered, scandalised. “That won’t do. Coral will throw a fit.”

“No need to worry,” Krin said cheerfully. “I’ll send for the white drops. They’ll brighten the sclera, just enough to fake vitality.”

Fake vitality. That was all the Capitol ever wanted, wasn’t it?

By the time they were done with his skin—lotions, creams, serums with names he couldn’t pronounce—he felt scraped clean. Empty. A mannequin waiting to be assembled.

Then came the clothing. Today’s look, they informed him, was a study in tragic resilience. His stylist hadn’t yet arrived, but the outfit had been couriered ahead of time: a tailored suit in stark white, lapels lined with metallic thread that glinted like sunlight bouncing off the ocean’s waves. Beneath it, a high-neck shirt the colour of sea-foam. A single silver pin sat in the shape of a rose. Satoru wanted to throw up when he saw it.

“It’s so… haunted,” Lume said breathlessly, helping him into the jacket. “So wounded-boy-meets-iconic-messiah. Very in this season.”

Satoru stood still, arms out, as they fastened the cuffs.

He stared into the mirror.

The boy in the reflection was not a boy. Not anymore. He looked sharp enough to cut—his hair pushed back from his forehead, revealing his cheekbones; his skin unnaturally smooth, his lips touched with the faintest hint of colour.

He looked like someone who could inspire revolutions. He looked like someone they’d shoot on sight.

The prep team was still fussing, adding final touches—powder here, a dab of gloss there. They argued about whether or not to conceal the scar on his temple.

“Leave it,” Satoru said hoarsely.

They all turned. It was the first thing he’d said all morning.

“...Of course,” Krin replied quickly, nodding. “Yes. Of course.”

They said nothing else after that.

Lume smoothed the shoulders of his jacket and smiled too brightly. Davi handed him a small flask of something herbal “for the nerves,” which Satoru tucked into his pocket without looking. Krin stepped back and made a note on her tablet.

They left Satoru alone.

The room shimmered with Capitol excess—dripping chandeliers, crystal vases full of genetically modified orchids, and a wardrobe larger than his old house in the District. Everything smelled like artificial lemon.

Satoru’s mind was somewhere else.

Back in the Victor’s Village. Back on the train. Back to you, with your trembling hands and your resolute voice. The things you’d said. They want a hero, he thought, but he was never that. He was just a survivor.

He smoothed his jacket. Straightened his spine.

Coral would be here any minute to lead him down to the Tribute Parade. The cameras would start rolling. The world would be watching. 

He looked one last time in the mirror, and let them see what they wanted to see. Let them believe the lie.

Satoru stepped out of his suite and closed the door behind him with a gentle click, then stood there for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides. Hearing the sound of soft footsteps, he turned before he even heard your voice.

Your outfit matched his in almost every detail—the same pearlescent fabric, the same oceanic shine in the metallic thread that edged your cuffs and collar. Only yours had a veil. Translucent and whisper-thin, it hung from a small comb tucked behind your ear, falling like frost over your shoulders. You didn’t bother lifting it.

They’d done this on purpose. He could see it now, how calculated it all was. The paired whites, the blue accents, your stupid veil. A wedding aesthetic without the ceremony. The Capitol didn’t need to announce your love. It was already in the details, and anyone watching would assume it. Would need to.

Satoru’s hand curled into a fist at his side, the other smoothing down the line of his jacket, more out of habit than vanity. The tension in his shoulders was a low, coiled thing. 

“Snow has a sick sense of humour,” he muttered.

Your lips quirked behind the veil. “What gave it away? The matching outfits or the part where we’re supposed to pretend to be in love on national television?”

“Take your pick.”

“He’s serious about this,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked over your shoulder down the hall, then back at him. “So. What do we do?”

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it. His hands found the edge of his sleeves, fiddling with the cufflinks. The hallway lighting threw shadows beneath your eyes. Maybe they’d tried to cover them up. Maybe they’d left them there on purpose, for the tragic appeal.

“We play along,” he said.

“You mean—”

“I mean we pretend,” he interrupted, “until we figure something else out. We’ll give them what they want. They love a good story.”

“Funny,” you said. “You’ve never been much of an actor.”

“Neither have you.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you glanced down the corridor where Capitol handlers were no doubt waiting just beyond the next corner, armed with cameras and microphones. The Peacekeepers would follow soon after.

“Do you think they’ll believe it?” you asked sardonically. “That Satoru Gojo, the Capitol’s golden boy, suddenly fell in love with the girl he’s spent years hating?”

“Hating you was easy,” he said. “Pretending not to will be harder.”

You turned your face to him fully then, veil catching the light as it shifted like water. “Then maybe don’t try too hard. Your disgust might pass for passion if you squint.”

Satoru didn’t know why he stepped closer. Maybe it was instinct, that old, ruthless Capitol instinct to perform—to charm, to command a room, even when the room was empty. Maybe it was something else, something far less useful and far more dangerous. But he didn’t let himself dwell on it.

From this close, he could see the faint shimmer dusted across your cheekbones. He could also see the stubborn glint in your eyes, that familiar spark he’d hated the moment he saw it all those years ago in the Training Center, the spark that said you’d rather go down swinging than even let someone else win.

“Hold still,” he said quietly, almost low enough to be mistaken for tenderness.

Your brows rose behind the veil, but you didn’t move when he lifted one hand and let it hover in front of your face. His fingers hesitated for a heartbeat too long before he gently pinched the fabric near your temple and adjusted the comb just slightly, letting the veil fall a bit straighter. There—less crooked, more symmetrical. Picture-perfect.

He told himself it was about optics. Always optics.

“There,” he said. “Now you look fit to be a bride.”

His joke was in poor taste. You didn’t thank him. Of course, you didn’t. You tilted your head slightly and looked at him through the thin mesh, studying him with the same wariness you always had—like you were waiting for the knife behind the compliment.

He wished it annoyed him. It used to.

Before he could say anything else, Coral’s heels clicked into the hallway. But even after she reached them, even as she began her chirping monologue about camera angles and choreography, Satoru didn’t look away from you.

He didn’t like you. That part hadn’t changed. You were reckless and infuriating and always two steps ahead of him in ways that didn’t make sense. He remembered the first time you’d beat your fellow tribute, Suguru Geto, in a sparring match. You’d won not because you were stronger, but because you were meaner, cutthroat in a way he hadn’t expected. It had rattled something in him. 

That was the problem. You rattled him.

Even now, arm looped with yours, as Coral guided you both down the corridor, he could feel it—the gnawing hum of something pulling taut under his skin. Not attraction, not exactly. More like gravity. Something unpleasant and inevitable.

Satoru Gojo did not fall in love. But he did play the game, and if the Capitol wanted a love story, they were going to get one so dazzling they wouldn’t know where to look.

The elevator doors opened. He let you step in first. As the doors slid shut behind them, sealing off the world beyond, he looked at your reflection in the polished paneling. The veil shimmered. Your lips were pressed into a grimace.

He wondered, not for the first time, if you could put on an act convincing enough to fool President Snow, too.

He hoped so. He really, really hoped so.

The staging hall behind the Remake Center was cavernous and cold, the kind of cold that wasn’t from temperature but from gleaming walls, sterilised floors, and that metallic scent of too much money. Gold and glass chandeliers hung above the waiting area, casting warped halos over everyone beneath them. Like the Presidential Tower in the City Centre, and the penthouses in the Tribute District, it was too bright, too perfect, and too quiet.

Satoru stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that was entirely performative. He didn’t glance at the cameras tucked discreetly into the corners of the room, but he knew they were there, humming softly, hungry for any flicker of tension or weakness. He’d learned long ago that Capitol cameras didn’t blink. They just watched, and waited.

You stood beside him, slightly angled away like you couldn’t stand to be too close. Not that he blamed you. The veil still hung from the comb behind your ear, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the way it moved when you breathed—shallow, steady. Controlled.

You were always so good at that. Controlled.

There were already a few pairs gathered in the hall—other victors summoned back to die for the Capitol’s amusement in this sadistic Quarter Quell. Some Satoru recognised instantly. Some he hadn’t seen since they stood on podiums with blood on their faces and flowers in their arms.

He saw Kento Nanami, standing near one of the pillars like he’d rather be anywhere else. Satoru wasn’t surprised he was here. District 11 hadn’t produced many victors in the last few decades, but Kento had been a quiet legend in his own right: clever, composed, and ruthless in the arena when it mattered. Rumour had it he’d won his Games with a broken rib and a shattered wrist. The Capitol had tried to dress him afterward, sculpt him into something shiny, but even now, years later, Kento still looked like someone who didn’t quite belong in these rooms.

His uniform was darker than most, muted bronze with a charcoal sash over one shoulder. He was speaking in low tones to his district partner, who Satoru didn’t immediately recognise. Probably a younger victor. A new lamb for slaughter.

“You think if I throw up before the parade, they’ll cancel it?” someone piped up cheerfully nearby.

Satoru turned to see Yu Haibara, from District 7, beaming at him with a sort of unshakeable optimism that made Satoru’s teeth hurt. The kid was barely older than twenty, his brown curls slightly mussed by the stylists, his uniform stitched from dyed bark and deep green velvet. A nod to his lumber roots, no doubt.

“If it’s on camera,” Yu added brightly, “I might get extra sponsors.”

“You’d better empty your guts dramatically then,” Satoru drawled, slipping easily into Capitol charm. “Preferably mid-spin.”

Yu laughed. “Maybe you can catch me if I faint too. Really sell the tragic romance angle.”

Satoru flashed a grin. “Sorry. I only catch people I like.”

“Oh? Then she’s lucky,” Yu said, gesturing loosely towards you.

You didn’t smile. Not even a twitch. Satoru could practically hear the words you were not saying through the veil. But you stepped just slightly closer to him, shoulder grazing his, and for the Capitol’s invisible audience, it was a performance worth millions.

“Do you think Snow’s going to make us dance next?” Yu asked after a beat. “Like, literally dance? Before he lets us kill each other?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Kento said, walking up to you three. He offered a stiff nod to Satoru, then to you. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were tired. “Though if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll send the mutts in before the waltz.”

“Have to keep the pacing up,” Satoru murmured. Mutts, or muttations, normal animals genetically modified in the Capitol’s labs into creatures more grotesque than he could ever imagine, were the least of his worries. “Wouldn’t want the audience to get bored.”

“God forbid,” Nanami replied dryly.

Satoru’s smile faded just slightly. There was a hollow spot behind his ribs that hadn’t stopped aching since the reaping. 

Yu reached into his sleeve and produced a bright red candy. “Want one?” he offered Satoru. “Tastes like synthetic strawberries. Or so they say. I’ve never actually had strawberries before.”

Satoru blinked at him, then took the candy and popped it into his mouth.

“Very sweet,” he confirmed. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d tasted in the Capitol. That title still belonged to whatever poison they called oysters.

Kento’s eyes flicked from Satoru to you. “How long do you plan to keep this act up?”

Satoru tilted his head, smiling like the answer didn’t matter. “As long as we have to.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Kento rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push. Not here, where every word was being catalogued, where even the smallest twitch of tension could be repackaged and broadcast in high definition.

You spoke up then, voice quiet but clear. “It’s what they want, isn’t it? A star-crossed twist. All’s fair in love and war, and whatever other fuckery goes on in their heads.”

“You guys sound fun at parties,” Yu said.

“We used to be,” Satoru muttered.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened with a sudden, echoing click. A handler in Capitol lavender beckoned them forward. The chariots were being prepped. The parade was about to begin.

Satoru sighed once, long and shallow. He extended a hand towards you, palm up. Your fingers were cold. Or maybe his were. Either way, they fit too easily.

Yu winked as he passed. “Try not to upstage the rest of us, lovebirds.”

“No promises,” Satoru said, walking forward with you on his arm, every step a silent, glittering lie.

The Avenue of the Tributes stretched out before Satoru like a burnished mirror, polished till the cobblestones shone. Spotlights hovered above on silent rails, casting pools of white-gold light that tracked each chariot as it rolled through the wide boulevard, flanked on either side by rows and rows of screaming Capitol citizens.

Satoru stood at the front of the chariot, spine straight beneath the pearlescent jacket that shimmered in the light. Every movement made the fabric catch on itself—blue, then green, then silver—like he was wearing the ocean on his skin. At his side, you stood just as poised, your hand tucked loosely into the crook of his elbow, veil trembling slightly in the wind.

Your other hand was hidden between you, fingers curled around his. For balance, you’d said when you climbed into the chariot. You hadn’t let go since.

Cheers echoed through the corridor of lights and screens. The hover-cams whirred softly as they zoomed in, projecting close-up feeds of each pair onto the giant curved panels looming over the avenue. On one, Satoru caught a glimpse of his own face—mask-like, unreadable—and yours beside it, half-concealed by your veil. Together, you looked like the climax of a fairy tale, right before everything fell apart.

Good. That was the point.

“They’re eating this up,” he murmured, not turning his head.

Your voice floated back just as quiet. “You sure it’s not the outfits?”

“I think it’s the misery.”

You let out a faint huff that might have been a laugh. Or maybe a sigh.

Ahead of your chariot, the chariot from District 3 turned the final bend, where the wide boulevard narrowed into City Centre. From here, Satoru could see the Presidential Tower rising like a blade of glass into the night sky. All the light in the world seemed to pool at its base—cold, brilliant, all-consuming.

He hated that tower.

The chariot began to slow.

Coral had instructed him to do something big when they reached the end. “A gesture,” she had said, fluttering her manicured fingers. “Something iconic. They need to fall in love with the idea of you two.”

Satoru had nodded absently. He knew how this worked. He knew what sold.

He also knew that every camera would be trained on you and him in the next sixty seconds. President Snow would be watching from his perch, eyes like twin chips of frozen steel. Every Capitol citizen and every grieving mother in Panem would be holding their breath, ready to believe in the lie if he made it beautiful enough.

So when the chariot began to slow, and the crowd’s screams peaked into something shrill and hysterical, he turned to you.

Your eyes met his behind the veil, and just for a second, everything stilled. He saw the fatigue carved beneath your lashes. The way you held your chin just high enough to not look scared. The way your mouth parted slightly like you were about to say something—then didn’t.

Satoru reached up, slowly, and pushed the veil back.

It slipped over your hair like mist, pooling behind your shoulders, baring your face to the cameras. Gasps rippled through the crowd. You flinched, almost imperceptibly.

Satoru stepped closer, one hand still in yours. The other lifted to your cheek, resting there with the barest pressure.

“This is a terrible idea,” you said, breath brushing his lips.

“That’s what makes it romantic,” he said, and kissed you, not softly or chastely.

He kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the story with his mouth. Like if he kissed you hard enough, the Capitol might forget what this parade really was. Like maybe he could forget, too.

Your lips parted beneath his. You didn’t pull away.

The crowd screamed. Fireworks ignited above the tower in bursts of crystalline white and glittering crimson. Cameras whirred. Screens flashed. Satoru closed his eyes against all of it.

When he finally pulled back, your lipstick was smudged and your expression unreadable. The veil fluttered behind you, untethered. Your fingers were still tight around his. He forced a smile, something charming and rakish, for the Capitol. You didn’t smile back, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

The chariot rolled to a halt in front of the Tower. The anthem swelled, deafening now, but all Satoru could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat and the whisper of your breath against his collar. He stood there, hand still cradling your cheek, eyes on the President’s balcony, where a single white rose gleamed in a crystal vase.

He wondered what the Capitol saw at that moment. Their golden boy and his beloved? Or just two more corpses with pretty faces and perfect timing?

Let them choose, he thought bitterly. Let them believe whatever version of the lie they liked best. He could play this role until the end. He had to.

The applause didn’t fade so much as shift, muted behind the tall glass doors of the Training Center as the chariot peeled away into the underground corridors. The quiet was jarring, sudden, like someone had clamped a hand over the Capitol’s glittering mouth.

Satoru released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The veil was still pushed back, your fingers still tangled loosely in his, a quiet echo of the performance you’d just sold to the entire nation. He loosened his grip before you could pull away first. You didn’t look at him as you adjusted the comb in your hair. He didn’t expect you to.

Coral’s voice chimed in beside him—overly chipper, as though she hadn’t just watched you both broadcast a staged kiss to millions of viewers. “Darlings, you were stunning. President Snow’s aides are going to be in a frenzy by morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if he requests an exclusive interview before the interviews. Now, you two will—naturally, of course—be sharing a suite with a single bedroom. Lovebirds, and all that pizzazz.”

Satoru muttered something noncommittal and let her guide him down the main hallway. The Training Center was the same as always: gleaming floors, ceiling panels aglow with sterile light, the soft scent of something floral piped in to cover the antiseptic undertones. Every year, he remembered it being too quiet. Too polished. Like the building was pretending not to be what it was.

Prison. Vault. Mausoleum.

The elevator opened with a soft chim, and Coral stepped in with you, instructing the Peacekeepers to wait below. District 4’s floor was near the top, just underneath a few high-scoring districts. The doors slid open into a carpeted hallway lined with glass doors, each suite labeled in a metallic script. He hadn’t even reached his assigned room before a voice called out from the end of the hall:

“Satoru! Hey!”

Satoru turned to see Yu again, grinning as brightly as he had back before the parade, his dark curls windswept. He was still in his tribute outfit. Beside him, Kento leaned against the wall, eyes flicking between you and Satoru with a kind of calm interest.

“District Four’s really making a statement tonight,” Yu said, jogging up. “I knew you’d pull something like that.”

“Glad to give the people what they want,” Satoru replied easily.

Yu shot a teasing glance at you. “He always this romantic when cameras are off?”

“Worse,” you said, not missing a beat.

“Theatrics aside,” Kento said, walking over, “it was well-played. You’ll be the Capitol’s sweethearts by tomorrow.”

“Is that a good thing?” Satoru asked.

“Only if you don’t mind being watched,” Kento said. “Constantly.”

Another door opened down the hall.

Yuki Tsukumo stepped out barefoot, wearing an oversized black robe that barely grazed her knees. Her hair was still styled from the parade—loose curls and golden embellishments tucked behind one ear—and she walked with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t mind being the centre of attention in the room.

“Ah,” she said, eyes lighting up as she caught sight of your little congregation. “The lovers of the hour.”

Satoru barely had time to brace before she was in front of him, eyes dragging over the details of his still-buttoned jacket and the faint trace of lipstick smudged near his mouth.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Gojo,” she crooned, tilting her head. “I always thought you were more of a solo act.”

He offered her a smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“True.” Yuki stepped closer, unabashed. “But I’d love to find out.”

From the corner of his eye, Satoru caught sight of your shoulders stiffening just slightly. He said nothing.

Yuki’s hand reached up, smooth fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “Nice stitching. Did your stylist tailor it just for you?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“I like a man with taste.”

“And I like a woman who doesn’t waste time,” he replied, stepping just out of reach. “But unfortunately, I’m spoken for now.”

He reached for your hand before he could second-guess it.

Yuki’s eyebrows lifted, clearly amused. “Well, how tragic for me.” She turned her gaze to you, lips curled. “But lucky you. If you ever get bored of the Capitol’s golden boy, let me know.”

You smiled. “If I ever get bored, I’ll be too dead to care.”

Yuki laughed and lifted two fingers to her brow in a mock-salute before sauntering back to her suite. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Yu let out a low whistle. “District Two really doesn’t believe in subtlety, huh?”

“She’s just bored,” Kento said simply. “She’s already won once. Flirting’s just another way to stay sharp.”

Coral clapped her hands, clearly uncomfortable with the whole exchange. “Alright! Let’s get you two settled in. Training begins tomorrow, and I’d hate for either of you to look anything less than breathtaking at breakfast.”

You let her drag you towards the suite, your fingers slipping out of Satoru’s grip somewhere along the way. Yu yawned and pressed the button for the elevator, before waving goodbye and stepping inside. Kento, however, stayed where he was.

Satoru glanced at him.

Kento’s voice was low. “Keep your eyes open, Gojo. That kiss was a declaration—not just to the Capitol. To the other tributes as well.”

“What of it?” Satoru didn’t look away.

“You better be careful.”

Satoru said nothing.

When he finally stepped into the suite and the doors closed behind him, the noise of the hallway faded; all he could think of was that kiss, the way your breath caught against his cheek, the soft tremble he hadn’t imagined. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew they were all watching now.

He wasn’t sure he could afford a single mistake from here on.

You didn’t enter the bedroom at all that night.

Satoru padded barefoot into the common lounge, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, hair still tousled from tossing against Capitol pillows that, though soft, offered him no comfort. You sat on the low couch near the window wall, knees tucked to your chest, gaze fixed on the glowing skyline of the Capitol.

You didn’t turn at the sound of his footsteps, though you’d clearly heard them.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Didn’t know you were capable of whispering,” you said back.

He smirked, but didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the opposite end of the couch and lowered himself onto it slowly, stretching one leg out and letting the other rest lazily against the floor. His elbows found his knees. 

“That kiss…” you said. “You really sold it.”

“You kissed me back,” he said.

“We’re playing a role.”

“Sure,” he said. “You still kissed me back. You don’t have to be afraid, you know.”

You turned to him, eyebrows lifted.

“I mean,” he continued, leaning his head back against the couch, “not of me. If you want… I can sleep on the couch tonight. You can take the bed.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You seemed on edge. I figured having someone else awake nearby might help.”

Satoru didn’t have to tell you what he was actually referring to. He thought about your argument on the train more often than he should have, something dark and ugly and twisted slithering about in his chest every time he remembered your words. He wanted to kill all those fucking sponsors who’d touched you, tear their limbs off one by one—he didn’t like you, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to protect you. Suguru would have wanted it.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “Just offering.”

a/n: thanks for reading! and thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading :) comments are appreciated!

art credit: _3aem

[magpiepills]

Put It In, Coach

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Joel Miller x f! Reader

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: you are an 18 year old high school senior on the cheerleading team, and Joel is the beloved and successful football coach. He helps you with some stretching after practice.

Warnings: SMUT!! The girthiest age gap (18 & 56), consensual but extremely unethical sexual relationship, pervert Joel, power imbalance, dubcon (due to said power imbalance) but I assure you reader is of legal age and enthusiastically consents. piv, oral (m receiving) fingering, dirty talk, semi-innocent reader, blackmail, creampie, twist ending, possibly dark Joel.

A word from the author: This is a repost! Listen, I know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. That is fine. Please don’t feel obligated to interact with this fic even if we are friends. It will be fine. I am posting this without making eye contact with anyone.

What is more important in a small Texas town than the high school football team?

Nothing, if you asked most anyone, including of course, head Lions football coach, Joel Miller- Coach Miller, that is. He had lead the team to numerous state titles, securing donations to the football program and filled display cases with trophies and framed team photos. Several former players had even gone on to play in the NFL.

Yeah, Coach Miller is a big deal.

You feel lucky when during your senior year the cheerleading team has to share practice space with the football team. Honored when Coach Miller helps your squad with conditioning. While the football team runs drills, he’s monitoring your time on the treadmill, checking your form during lunges, and helping you really lean into your stretches. He’s so helpful and encouraging. “That’s it, girls, get those knees up! Hustle!” He yelled as he watched you run by in your little shorts and sports bra. The one you took to wearing when you knew he might see.

Coach Miller knew a thing or two about cheerleading too, and he helped your coach to develop a cheer routine. You always blushed when his rough, steadying hands gripped your bare legs or circled your waist to help direct you. You saw how the other girls exchanged looks, but

Coach Miller had experience, he obviously knew enough about cheer. He knew what got crowds excited and lifted team morale. You beamed when he clapped and tucked his clipboard under his arm as you balanced on your teammates shoulders, one knee lifted high, both arms aloft, Pom-poms rustling in the hot Texas breeze. You felt butterflies that fluttered from your stomach down to your throbbing pussy. “Atta girl. You got it!” He praised.

The fawning newspaper articles never mentioned how handsome Coach Miller is. He’s probably in his fifties but you didn’t care. The other girls rolled their eyes, called him an old man. You liked the gray in his hair and beard. You liked the way his body was still so broad and strong, even if his belly was a little softer than it used to be. You liked the way his forearm flexed as he lifted the whistle to blow and get everyone’s attention. “Alright, boys go hit the showers, girls you stay and finish stretching.” Your cheer coach was busy with Megan and Lindsay and Tiffany, so you did your best to go through the regimen on your own.

You stood and twisted at your waist, first to one side, then the other. You spread your legs wide and bent deep to touch your toes, keeping your spine loose. You wanted him to see. “Ugh. He’s watching us.” You heard behind you. “He’s such a creep. He’s like a hundred years old.” “Yeah and you remember what happened with Monica. Nobody’s going to say shit to him.” You listened to the other girls talking, and tried to ignore them. Of course there were rumors about Coach that passed though the girls at school. They were probably just mad that he wasn’t giving them the time of day.

It was easy to forget the other girls and their hateful gossip when you saw that handsome man across the field. You stood and dabbed your shoulder. You winced and rubbed it, drawing the attention of Coach Miller. He jogged over, the muscles of his thighs rippling under his khaki shorts, belly rounding slightly under his royal blue polo shirt, and whistle bouncing as he made his way to you. “What’s ’a matter, sweetheart?” Care and concern painted his dark features, furrowing his brow. “It’s just my shoulder, Coach. I don’t know, it just is pretty sore.” You pouted up at him, giving him your best helpless face. He hummed and nodded. “You girls go on and get cleaned up, we’re done for today. I’ll let your coach know. I gotta deal with this.” He gestured to you, and you bowed your head sheepishly. The rest of the girls scoffed and muttered as they gathered their bags, shooting you looks of disdain and perhaps pity. Good riddance to them.

“Thank you Coach.” You said softly, bashfully. “C’mon, I got an ice pack in my office. Can’t let our rising star get hurt, can we?” You relished his attention. The hallways leading to his office were dark and empty, at 5:30 on a Friday, everyone had gone home. Once inside his office you sat on his desk, cluttered with papers and Gatorade bottles. You swung your legs and leaned back on your palms, letting the hem of your top ride up to expose a sliver of your belly. You hoped he would notice the way it was snug against your breasts. His office smelled like sweat and Lysol, but photos and framed newspaper clippings covered the walls. You used your phone to cover the framed photo on his desk of him and his wife and kid.

When Coach Miller returned with the ice pack, he found you innocently playing with the hem of your short cheer skirt. He hesitated, taking in your long, bare legs, smooth and pretty. He followed the line of them up to where they disappeared under that damn skirt, he wondered what he might find if he flipped it up. Wondered if you had on those little white panties he had seen once when you were practicing cartwheels with the other girls. He wasn’t stupid man. He knew that some of you young girls had little crushes on him. He'd be a liar if he said it didn’t stroke his ego or that he hadn’t jerked off more than a few times behind his locked office door. He would never, ever admit to a few consensual dalliances with a few girls. Always over 18, but always so young and beautiful and eager to please. Was it wrong? When they wanted him? Joel preferred to think of it as a perk of the job.

“Where’s it hurtin’, honey?” Coach Miller asked, his voice much more tender than he ever used with the boys on his football team.

“My shoulder, coach. It’s sore.” He made a sympathetic sound and slowly, carefully began to run his big hands over your arms. “Can you hold ‘em up for me? Good girl.” You held your arms out to the side and he palpated your shoulders, stepped back to look you over, checking for you didn’t know what. It didn’t matter. Your shoulder didn’t really hurt.

Joel frowned. “What is it coach? Is it bad? Your voice was small and wavering.

“No, darlin’ it’s just that I can’t get a good feel for your rotator cuff cause your shirt’s in the way.”

“Oh..”

“Well, here’s the thing, you know we got that big game comin’ up and your coach won’t let ya cheer if you’re hurt. Really would be best if I could just check it out. If nothin’s wrong we ain’t gotta worry your coach over it.” He winked at you conspiratorially.

“What if I just…I could just take this off.” You tried to sound casual. Like it was the most normal thing for an eighteen year old to be topless in a room alone with a 56 year old woodshop teacher/football coach.

“That’s what the boys all do, sugar. Ain’t a big deal, but I don’t want to make ya uncomfortable. I can just go get your coach and she can check ya out.”

There was no way you wanted your coach thinking you were injured. Not when you were gunning for a cheerleading scholarship. Missing any games now was out of the question.

“We don’t need to bother her, Coach Miller. I trust you.”

Joel nodded. “Alright, I’ll tell ya what- I’ll give ya a towel to cover up with. How’s that?”

“Sounds good, Coach. Just, could you help me unzip?” You gave him a little smile over your shoulder and held your hair out of the way for him to drag the zipper down.

Joel stifled a groan when he realized you didn't have a bra on under your little top. His cock was already beginning to swell in his shorts. You shrugged off the blue and yellow top of your uniform and clutched the tiny towel he handed you to your chest. “Is this good, Coach Miller?”

“Yeah that’s good. Real good. Arms straight up, now. Gotta check your rotator cuff.”

You did as he asked, and the towel slipped to your lap and he rubbed and squeezed at your shoulders, peeking over to catch a glimpse of your bare tits. They were so pretty, your hard little nipples making his mouth water.

“Good news. I don’t think it’s anything serious. A little massage and rest is probably all ya need. Couple ibuprofen.”

You thanked him, half heartedly bringing the towel to cover your chest again.

“Just one thing though, I noticed there’s not a current physical on file for you. You know, they take that stuff real serious. I know you’ve been workin’ real hard all year, I think you’ve got real potential and I’d hate for you to throw that away over a little form. If you want, I can give ya a quick check and it’ll be our little secret.”

“Gosh, Coach. You’d really do that for me?”

You knew damn well your physical was on file. You had taken it to the office yourself. It was something you’d been doing every year since you started playing sports in junior high.

“Yeah, won’t take but a minute. Don’t want ya getting in any trouble.”

You sighed gratefully. “Thanks Coach Miller. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Go on and hop up on my desk and I’ll make this quick and easy.”

He moved your arms one at a time, feeling for proper movement. He had you step on a scale and measured your height and weight, commenting that you were “full grown.” He had you bend forward and touch your toes, sliding his fingertips up the length of your spine to check for scoliosis, but taking the opportunity to admire the way your skirt rode up to expose just a bit of your panties, just barely brushing his hard cock over your ass. “Oops!” You dropped the towel, dramatically covering your tits with your hands, squeezing them together.

Joel looked at the form he was half-assing and scribbled on it, before sitting it aside and clearing his throat. “You uh, you do your regular self exams?”

“Self exams?” you blinked at him innocently, hiding the smirk that threatened to break through.

“Breast exams, sweetheart. Gotta make sure everything is like it’s supposed to be. Real important to check. Maybe I better show you how. Why don’t you lay down there and put your arms over your head for me?”

You did as he asked, lying back on his desk and didn’t bother hiding your lustful stare and he slid both hands up your rib cage to cup the underside of your breasts. He squeezed gently, kneading the supple flesh. “You’re doing great, baby.” You whined as he worked his way around your nipples, watching intently as they hardened. “Almost done.” He pinched at your nipples, making you squirm, he pulled gently, and rubbed them under his thumbs before squeezing your tits once more. “I think that’ll do.”

But he didn’t take his hands from you. He ran them over your chest, down your sternum, over your belly to the band of your skirt. He gripped your hips through the rough fabric, forgetting himself, or dropping the act. Either way, he found himself staring at the wet spot on your exposed panties. You bent your knees and rested your heels on the edge of Coach Miller’s desk. “Let’s see if he can resist this!” You’d thought, delighted with the way your plan was working.

Joel had his fair share of girls throwing themselves at him over the years, but you certainly took the cake. In half an hour you’d gone from a shy school girl to a sex starved slut right on his desk. It had been so easy, maybe too easy. Give you a little attention, some praise you weren’t getting at home, some touches like he knew the dumbass boys on his team weren’t going to learn about for another eight to ten years. Joel loved it when his plans worked.

“Something you need, baby?”

“Mhm. My backs kinda stiff. Maybe you could help stretch me. Get me loosened up.”

“This help?” Joel placed his hands on your knees and pushed them up, gently rolling your lower spine as he stood between your legs.he lowered them, letting your covered pussy brush against his rock hard cock, then repeated the motion, pushing your knees a little further each time.

“Feels so good, Coach.” You breathed, hands gripping the sides of his desk.

“Gonna open your hips up, you’re bein’ such a good girl.” He pushed again, letting your knees fall to the side, spreading you wide open. You could feel the way your panties clung wetly to your aching pussy, rendered nearly transparent by the slick that started seeping from you the minute you entered Coach Miller’s office.

Joel couldn’t play this dumb game with you anymore. He squeezed your plush thighs and pushed them down, dragging his thumb over the soaked gusset of your underwear. “I think ya got a bigger problem than a stiff back. Looks like you’re really hurtin’ right here. How long has this pussy been needin taking care of?”

Finally! “All day, Coach. I really need help to make it feel better.”

Joel’s finger slipped under the fabric to slide over your puffy lips.

“I got some other massages and stretches that’ll make this all better. Do you want that?”

“Yes, please! Please Coach.” You nearly shouted at him. If he didn’t do something soon you’d have to try to climb on top of him and just take what you needed. It’s not like you couldn’t see how hard his cock had been since the minute you got your tits out. He was a creep and everybody knew it, but he was too handsome to resist and if his bulging erection was any indication, well…

“Gotta get these panties off.” You lifted your hips for him to slide them off, then stretched your legs and demonstrated your flexibility by pulling your ankles down and holding your legs wide open for him. “Goddamn. Look at this. You do want this, don’t ya? Got so damn wet on my desk from just gettin your tits touched. Are all the girls on your team so slutty?” He marveled at how wet you were, slipping his fingers from your entrance up and around your clit, tapping your pussy firmly with the flat of his hand and groaning at the sticky slapping sounds.

His index finger teased at your opening while his thumb rubbed over your clit. Flames licked at your belly. “Just slutty for you, Coach. Need a real man.”

“Yeah? You need a real man?” He emphasized his words by sinking two thick fingers into you, “I’ll show ya what a real man can do for you, but you ain’t ever gonna be happy with a boy again.” He pumped his fingers into you and to your shock, dripped spit directly from his mouth to your clit. The slip made the sensation even more intense, and you squeezed his fingers as your orgasm crested. “Good, huh? Well, we ain’t done. I got a little more stretching for this tight little cunt.” You’d never heard anyone talk so crudely. You loved it. “Fuck yes, Coach, please. Please!”

Joel’s eyes snapped up from where he was watching his fingers disappear into your pussy. “Watch your language.” You whined and bucked your hips, eager for what you hoped was coming next. Joel worked a third finger into your pussy, the stretch stung and radiated, but faded into a pleasant feeling of fullness you’d never experienced before. Not with your inexperienced conquests.

Satisfied that he’d prepared you well enough, Joel hastily unbuckled his belt and let his shorts fall to the floor, weighed down by his wallet and keys. You watched as he tugged his turgid member, the biggest you’d ever seen. “C’mere. Get on your knees a minute. I know you know how to do that.”

“You want me to suck your cock, Coach Miller?”

He huffed at you, amused at your innocent act.

“Open your mouth.” You opened wide and took him deep, gasping and bobbing your head over his tip, hollowing your cheeks. You looked up at him and took him as deep as possible, relishing in the look of devastation that washed over him as you gagged and drooled.

Joel muttered something you didn’t hear before he pulled you off his cock by your hair. “Bend over the desk. Come on.” You did as he asked, and he slicked his cock with your abundant arousal, slapping the head on your ass a couple times, then held the base of his cock in one hand, and gripped your hip with the other. Slow and steady he pushed into you, taking his time until he was fully sheathed, hips flush against your ass. He waited there, leaning his forehead against your back and reaching under you to grab your tit.

“So fucking tight. Tightest pussy I think I ever felt. You’re not a virgin are you?” You shook your head. You weren’t a virgin. He was your third. He was your biggest and best. It would be hard to top him, you mused until he dragged his length out of you and slammed back in with more force. He did that a few times- pull out slow, slammin hard. Slow, hard, slow, hard. Then he switched it up, pushing your knee up into the desk he favored slow, deep strokes so he could watch how your pussy gripped him and sucked him back in, wetting his cock with your slick, so wet it dripped down to his balls.

He smacked your ass, leaving handprints on the unblemished flesh. “Fuck yeah, baby. Just like that. Taking this cock so good. Feel ya squeezing me so tight. Cock hungry little slut making me fuck her. Fuckin beggin for this dick.” He gritted filth through clenched teeth. You reached down to rub your clit, and let your hand wander further, feeling where your bodies joined, stretching your fingers to catch his balls as he pounded mercilessly into you. He smacked your ass hard, then reached up to hold your shoulders and his movements became uneven. “Coach, please! Please, come in my little pussy!” You’d heard that in porn and thought it sounded good.

Joel’s eyes squeezed shut tight as he let go, filling you with rope after rope of cum. You moaned, feeling him pulsing deep inside.

There was no kiss afterward. No hugging, no cuddling. Joel handed you the little towel to clean up with, Carter he watched his spend drip out of your wrecked pussy and onto the fabric of your skirt. He wished he had a picture of it. You wiped away what you could and put your shirt back on, your panties had disappeared and at 6:15 there was no time to look for them now. Coach Miller promised he would find them for you. You gathered your phone and backpack. He squeezed your shoulder as he walked you out to the main hallway and cleared his throat. “You know, if anyone found out about this, it could ruin your shot at any kind of scholarship. You might not even get into college at all. Now, I know you young girls make mistakes and I’m not going to tell anyone as long as you keep up your grades and your practice. If I hear about ya being a slut, though, I’ll have to inform the principal for your own good. Don’t make me do something we would both regret, sweetheart. Ya understand?”

“Yes, Coach. I understand.”

Joel breathed a sigh of relief. He had seven years until he could retire. He wasn’t sure how many more pretty little seniors would come sniffing around, but he thought maybe he should try to stop giving in to every doe eyed little slut that came along. Oughta try other ways of keeping his dick wet.

On Monday Joel was at his desk, drinking coffee, making out a supply request form for his woodshop lesson plan when his phone chimed. A message from an unknown number had sent an attachment. He squinted at the screen, and froze in horror when he saw his own face looking back at him, he was perfectly framed in the shot, a still from a video, and there you were, smiling at the camera underneath him. The message that followed was short. “See you after practice, Coach.”

[beautifulplaceofyouth]

SHUT UP AND JUST KISS ME

Synopsis : Based on the main story cutscene in Skyhaven of Caleb getting mad at you as you get injured after sneaking out of the house and get attacked by wanderers so he treats your wound, talking about him getting a collar for you(which clearly doesn't happen). The argument ends with him leaving but you beg him to stay. (3.5k) Pairing : Yandere!Caleb x Reader Genre : Angst! Childhood friends to lovers! Au? Warnings : 17+ Angsty argument, a slight smut, Caleb’s protection basically means locking you up and destroying everything else, heated conversation with lot of angry outbursts, gravity evol usage for surrender, somewhat happy but hate ending? with hot makeout session against the wall (marking his territory with his teeth) and Caleb's protectiveness & possessiveness ends with his fingers inside you as a punishment (non-concessional at first) female!receiving. At the end of the day, you're his good girl. a/n : a little something so I don’t starve. I’m obsessed with him, clearly.

The audacity. The infuriating, galling, breathtaking audacity of the man.

I sat there, perched on what I’m sure was a ridiculously expensive bed in his ridiculous apartment, a monument to wealth so obscene it made my teeth ache, and simmered.

The clouds themselves seemed to mock me, pressed against the panoramic windows like a taunt. He'd flown me here in his private aircraft, his black Colonel uniform starched and pristine, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

As if I hadn't nearly been ripped to shreds by some genetic monstrosity. As if he hadn't dragged me here, bridal-style, like some… prize.

And then, the nerve. "Sit first. We need to treat your wound." An order, barked out with the same clipped authority he probably used to command troops.

"Are you ordering me right now as a Colonel, or are you worried about me as Caleb?" I snapped, the question laced with venom.

He actually knelt. Knelt in front of me, on what I assumed was a silk rug, and took my knee in his hand. His hand. The possessive, forceful grip that sent a shiver down my spine, a shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with rage.

I tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold, his purple eyes burning into mine.

And then came the story. A story about a stray cat. A goddamn stray cat.

"When I was a kid, there was a stray cat in our backyard, and he was injured." He launched into the tale, his voice low, a deliberate attempt to soothe, I supposed.

"That cat always tried to run away when I wanted to tend him for its injuries and always came back to the backyard when no one was paying attention to him. That way he couldn't fully recover." he continued, his gaze fixed on my knee, his fingers already probing gently, assessing the damage beneath the torn fabric of my trousers.

I watched him, a knot of apprehension tightening in my chest. Where was this going? What strange analogy was he trying to draw between me and a stray cat?

"What's that got to do with this? If you're comparing me to a stray cat, I don't want to listen to this." I yanked my leg again, harder this time.

He had no right. No right to manipulate me with his childhood stories, no right to compare me to a mangy, unwanted animal.

But he wouldn't let go. A force, a damnable, infuriating force of will radiated from him, pinning me in place. His fucking gravity evol.

His glare intensified, a silent warning that brooked no argument. Pulling my leg firmly back towards him, he locked eyes with me, his gaze intense, probing. “Do you know what I did in response?” he asked, the question hanging heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken implications.

He reached for a bag, a medical kit, and his movements were precise, controlled, infuriatingly competent. He produced a cotton pad, doused it in some antiseptic cream, and began to dab at the wound on my knee. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost tender, considering the controlling undercurrent of his words and actions.

"I got a collar with a bell. I put it on the cat. That way, it couldn't escape me without being noisy." He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw a flash of something that might have been guilt, but was probably just smug satisfaction.

He continued dabbing, ignoring my simmering rage. Removing the used cotton pad, he dropped it into a small metal tray on the floor with a soft clink.

His hand, warm and firm, wrapped around the inside of my knee, the casual possessiveness of the touch sending a tremor through me. “If I had that collar right now…” he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper, the words laced with a dangerous undercurrent of implication.

His eyes dropped to his hand, tracing the curve of my knee, the slow, deliberate movement sending shivers of awareness along my leg. His touch shifted, sliding downward, his fingers brushing lightly against my skin, each contact sending a fresh wave of tremors through me.

He descended further, his hand reaching my ankle, his grip tightening, possessive. “I should make you wear it, right?” he finally asked, his gaze lifting to meet mine, the question less a query and more a statement of intent.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken desires and power struggles.

I felt the tremor in my own leg, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil. This wasn't kindness. This was a statement.

"Is this how you protect people? By gluing them to your side like pets?" The words were bitter, laced with disappointment. I balled my hand into a fist in my lap, trying to contain the rising tide of anger.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He took my hand in his, his grip warm, strong, trapping me. "I know it's unfair. But…"

He reached into the bag again and produced a metal bracelet. A bracelet? Was he actually serious? He gently fastened it around my wrist, and a hologram sprang to life, displaying my health status: 'Infection risk'.

"Because of that monster, your wound got infected. Is there a way for you to run around without getting injured?" His voice was firmer now, laced with an edge of steel.

He held my hand between us, a tangible symbol of his control.

I tried to twist my hand free, but his grip was unyielding. "Why are you treating me like a stranger? I thought protecting me meant standing by my side to face danger together, not ordering me around like this."

Finally, I managed to wrench my hand away. He simply stared at me, his expression unreadable.

In a way, she was right.

He was being controlling. He was trying to dictate her actions, to limit her freedom. But was it selfish to want to protect her? To want to shield her from harm? To make sure no one hurt her like that again?

"I've had enough of your 'protection'. At least not like this." I looked down at my lap, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

He remained kneeling, his fists clenched against his propped knee. I could practically see the internal battle raging within him. He took deep breaths, fighting to keep his temper in check.

It was hard to see him like this, struggling to contain his rage. He wanted me to rely on him, only him. To trust him implicitly.

I watched him, trying to compose himself with a shake of his head and a sad scoff,” If being with me only brings you pain…then put up it with it more three days. Now, it’s not safe to run around.” The words were cold, almost to the point of rage. Standing up, he moved away from me.

"Where are you going?" The question escaped me before I could stop it. A sliver of hope, a foolish, desperate hope that he wouldn't leave, flickered within me.

He stopped, his back to me. "To tie up loose ends. And then…just try to endure it three more days 'til you can go back to Linkon."

Each word was a hammer blow, shattering the nascent hope within me. He was leaving. He was actually leaving me here.

With that cold dismissal, he started walking again, the heavy tread of his boots a death knell to my fragile composure. Away from me. The thought was a physical pain, a twisting knot in my stomach. I couldn't let that happen. I wouldn’t.

"Don't you dare," I whispered, the words a frigid breath on the air.

They were barely audible, a plea masked as a threat. But he heard me. He always heard me. The sudden, sharp halt of his footsteps was the confirmation I desperately craved.

He was listening.

I continued, the words gaining strength, fueled by a rising tide of panic and defiance. "Don't you dare walk away from me right now."

He remained silent, a statue carved from granite. But the tension radiating from him was palpable, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface.

Rising shakily from the bed, a sharp stab of pain shooting through my knee, I limped towards him. Each step was an act of rebellion, a refusal to be discarded.

His back remained stubbornly presented to me, a barricade I was determined to breach.

When I finally reached him, I stopped just inches away, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. He looked down at me, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, the uniform casting him in an unfamiliar light.

The crisp lines and severe angles of the military garb seemed to amplify the distance between us, reinforcing his authority, his control.

But beneath the mask of duty, I saw the familiar flicker of torment in his eyes, the tight line of his lips, the furrowed brow. He was still pissed off. At me, at himself, at the world. It was something.

"Step aside. You're still hurt," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, a curt order barked from a superior officer.

I shook my head, a small, defiant gesture that felt monumental. I was done playing his games, done being a pawn in his twisted protection racket.

Stepping closer, I closed the remaining space between us. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking furiously, as I placed my palm against his chest, feeling the rapid, frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. It was a fragile connection, a desperate attempt to anchor him to me.

"I don't want to argue with you right now, pipsqueak, so don't let me use my evol to make you stay put," Caleb gritted out, leaning down, his face a menacing mask.

He was trying to intimidate me, to scare me back into submission. But I stood my ground, refusing to flinch as his face drew closer, his breath hot against my skin. I knew him too well. It was a bluff, a desperate attempt to maintain control.

"You'll just lock me up again? Is that your solution to everything? Your way of controlling me?" The accusation hung in the air between us, heavy with resentment and disappointment.

"If I have to," he murmured, the words laced with a reluctant admission.

"What's the reason, Caleb? Why would you protect me like that? Do you want me to hate you? Where is my Caleb in this uniform, in this charade?” The question was a raw, aching plea for the man I knew, the man who had somehow gotten lost beneath the layers of duty and responsibility.

Caleb didn't answer with words. He stepped even closer, crowding my space, forcing me to retreat. He advanced on me, relentless and unforgiving, until my back met the cold, unforgiving surface of the wall. He pinned me against it, trapping me, his presence a suffocating weight.

He fisted his mechanical hand, the cold metal a brutal contrast against the warmth of his skin beneath the glove, and softly slammed it against the wall beside my head, the force of the impact reverberating through me. He had caged me, both physically and emotionally.

"Your Caleb has always been here. He never changed," he said, his voice low and intense, the words vibrating against my skin. "And hate me if you must, I'm doing this to protect you. Is that really so selfish of me?"

"Yes," I whispered, the word a choked sob. It was selfish. It was suffocating. It was tearing us apart.

He stared down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that echoed in the confined space.

"Then I guess you'll be very happy when I disappear from your life. That way, you won't have to see me again." He began to pull back, the movement a gesture of finality, a silent severing of ties.

A sudden burst of emotion flooded through me, a torrent of fear, anger, and a desperate, terrifying longing. I couldn't let him go. I wouldn't.

Reaching out with a desperate surge of strength, I grabbed his tie, the silk rough against my fingers, and yanked him back. His towering frame bent down to my level, the sudden movement throwing him off balance. Our breaths mingled, hot and ragged, the air thick with unspoken desires and unspoken fears.

"Don't you dare leave me," I threatened, the words a desperate hiss. "I'll lock you up myself."

Caleb was momentarily speechless, the surprise evident in his widened eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for my nape, his gloved hand wrapping around the back of my neck, the pressure both possessive and threatening.

He brought my lips towards his in a snarl, his eyes burning into mine.

"Didn't you say you hate me? You don't want me protecting you?" The question was a challenge, a dare, a desperate plea for me to push him away.

The air crackled with tension, a volatile mix of anger, desire, and fear. But only one thought consumed me, a thought that was terrible and wrong, a thought that threatened to unravel everything. But I couldn't stop it.

"Shut up and just kiss me."

The command was a surrender, a desperate plea for connection, a reckless abandonment of all pretense.

The surprise flashed across his face, a fleeting flicker before it was swallowed by something far more intense. He didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back. His mouth crashed down on mine, a savage, desperate claiming.

This wasn't a gentle embrace, a tender expression of affection. This was anger, jealousy, a primal need to possess. It was a kiss born of frustration and desperation, a need that burned like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. I tasted the salt of barely restrained tears on his lips, the metallic tang of blood from where he'd bitten his own tongue.

He kissed me with a ferocity that both terrified and exhilarated me. It was the same possessiveness that had always simmered beneath the surface, a protectiveness so fierce it bordered on madness.

He pulled back slightly, his breath hot against my skin. "You told me you didn't need me," he growled, his voice a ragged rasp. Then his mouth was on mine again, silencing any protest.

This time, the kiss was deeper, more demanding. He forced my lips apart, his tongue plunging inside, staking his claim. I met his aggression with a matching fervor, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

"But you want me, don't you?" he muttered against my lips, his voice thick with triumph and a hint of something wounded. "You want me this much."

He was right. And I was a liar. A pathetic, desperate liar. I wanted him more than I wanted air, more than I wanted my next breath. The admission choked me, a bitter pill I couldn't swallow.

"Don't," I whispered, the word barely audible.

He tore his mouth from mine, his eyes blazing as he stared down at me. "You drive me insane," he confessed, the words raw and unfiltered. "Since we were kids, you've been under my skin. Every thought, every breath… it's always been you."

He kissed me again, harder this time, conveying all of his emotions with each heated touch.

"And after those…those monsters dared to touch you…" He shuddered against me, holding me tighter, his voice cracking with barely suppressed rage. "I thought I was going to lose my mind. I wanted to tear the world apart."

He kissed me again, a desperate, pleading kiss.

"I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt," Caleb said, his voice laced with a vulnerability that both warmed and unsettled me. "And I hate that you deny me a chance to protect you. You are always pushing me away, even though I would do anything for you. You are too stubborn to see it."

“Caleb, I…”

“There will always be someone after your power. They all should just disappear,” his voice was cold as he cut me off.

His grip tightened, his knuckles white against my skin. He kissed me then with a possessiveness that bordered on desperation, and I drowned in it, meeting his passion with my own.

"I can take care of myself," I told him, even though my voice shook slightly," "It's my job, Caleb. I'm a hunter. This is what I do. I can't just hide away, letting others fight my battles."

He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed in the night. "You think you can? You nearly died out there tonight. If I hadn't come along..." His voice trailed off, and he shuddered again.

"But you did come," I said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "And I'm okay. I'm here, with you."

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension remained, a silent battle raging between his need to protect me and my need to be independent. "That's not enough," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I want you safe, always. I want you where I can see you, where I can keep you from harm. Skyhaven is not safe for you."

"And what about what I want, Caleb?" I challenged, pulling away slightly, the familiar frustration rising to the surface. "I can't just sit on the sidelines, waiting for you to rescue me. That's not who I am."

"I will protect you, whether you want me to or not, and if you still don't listen to me," his voice dropped, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone, "I will make you listen."

"What do you-"

He silenced my protests with another kiss, a kiss that was both a punishment and a promise. It was a brutal, demanding kiss, his lips crushing mine, his teeth scraping against my skin. He tasted of fear and desperation, of the wild, untamed desire that burned within him. As he kissed me, his fingers traced the curve of my hip, dipping beneath the waistband of my pants.

My breath hitched in my throat. The kiss stole my ability to think, to reason, to resist. My body responded to him instinctively, arching against him, craving his touch. I knew this was wrong, that he was trying to manipulate me, to force me into submission. But a traitorous part of me reveled in his power, in the intensity of his desire.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes dark and possessive. "I don't want to do this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust. "But you're not leaving me any choice."

Panic flared within me, a cold wave washing over the heat of desire. "Caleb, stop," I managed to choke out, my voice trembling. I pressed my hands against his chest, trying to create some distance between us, but he was unyielding, a solid wall of muscle and intent. “Please.”

His fingers continued their slow, deliberate exploration, inching lower, closer to the forbidden territory I had only dreamt of him touching. He was pushing boundaries, testing limits, and I was terrified of how easily I was crumbling.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered again, his voice a low, guttural plea that sent shivers down my spine. It was a test, a challenge, and I knew I had to pass it, for both our sakes.

"Stop," I said, the word barely audible, lost in the maelstrom of my emotions. "Please, Caleb, don't."

But my pleas seemed to fuel him, to embolden him. His fingers, calloused and strong, brushed against the lace of my underwear, lingering there, teasing, tormenting. I gasped, my body betraying me with a surge of heat and longing.

He ignored my feeble protests, his touch becoming bolder, more intimate. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly how to break me down, to leave me breathless and begging for more. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding the soft skin beneath, and I cried out, a small, involuntary sound that was swallowed by the night.

I had no chance to do anything when his fingers brushed my clit, a shockwave of pure, unadulterated pleasure ripping through me. My muscles clenched, my breath caught in my throat, and I was lost, completely and utterly lost, in the sensation. It was an invasion, a violation, but God, it felt so good.

"This is all your fault," he seethed, his breath hot against my ear. "You fight me every chance you get. You push me to the edge, baby. Maybe I'm pathetic, selfish, but your safety is my first priority. You have to understand that."

"Stop, ah..." I gasped, the word fragmented, lost in the rising tide of sensation.

"Too late," he murmured, his voice thick with a possessive hunger that both terrified and thrilled me.

His fingers continued their relentless assault, skilled and knowing, drawing me deeper and deeper into the vortex of pleasure. He bit my neck, hard enough to leave a mark, a tangible sign of his ownership, and I whimpered, a sound that was half protest, half surrender. I hated it, hated the way he was manipulating me, the way he was taking control. But God, I loved it too. I loved the intensity of his touch, the raw power that radiated from him, the feeling of being completely consumed by him. It was wrong, I knew it was, but I couldn't seem to stop myself from wanting more.

Finally, as the last shudders racked my body, he pulled back, leaving me trembling and breathless in his arms. He stared down at me, his eyes dark and possessive, his face etched with a mixture of triumph and regret. "Good girl," he whispered, the words a brand seared into my soul. "You're mine to protect, baby. Don't you ever forget that."

[antinousletmehit]

˚₊‧꒰ა Chapter 18 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

୨୧┇pairing: Telemachus x reader

୨୧┇warnings: panic attacks and descriptions of bruises and etc

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ──── ───

Y/N staggered through the hallways, trying to hold back sobs. She had nothing, no one. She was utterly alone. Telemachus was away at sea, Antinous hated her, the suitors had resorted to mocking and humiliating her. For the first time in years, she felt powerless and weak. She racked her brain with who to go to. The servants hated her and there isn’t a suitor in the castle who truly cares about her. Telamachus’s words rang through her head.

“And if you need someone..go to my mother. Knock on her door 4 times.”

Penelope.

There was no chance the woman no less than despised her. She had humiliated her, humiliated her son and his honor, and was the sister of the most awful suitor in the palace. But what did she have to lose? She couldn't take this alone any longer. She crawled up the stairs to Penelope’s room, her body aching with every step. She didn’t even want to know how disheveled she appeared. When she reached the correct floor, she moved through the corridor, not caring how messy her steps echoed through the palace. She stood in front of Penelope’s door, staring at it like she was walking into death itself. She couldn’t bring herself to knock on the door.

“Why would she help me? After everything I’ve done?”

She debated walking away. Going back to her room feeling empty. For some reason, she didn’t turn away but instead lifted her hand to the wooden door.

Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock

The queen opened the door, her tone sharp, “Y/N.” Her voice then fell off when she saw the state she was in. Her messy hair and slumped posture. The bruise forming on her eye and the blood trickling from her lip. The tears in her eyes were still flowing and staining her cheeks.

“Come in, come in.” Penelope quietly said, ushering her inside. She put her hands on the young girl’s shoulders and sat her down in a wooden chair. Penelope looked horrified as she examined the girl's face.

“What happened Y/N?” Penelope breathed out, running to grab a rag and some water. Pandora desperately tried to swallow the tears that threatened to surface once again.

“Antinous and I…we’ve been arguing. He said he wouldn’t protect me from the suitor’s anymore…and they took that to their advantage.” She softly said, her voice broken and her pride bruised. She wasn’t sure why she had told Penelope anything, the words just came flowing out.

“Poor thing..” Penelope whispered, moving to her knees to gently grab her chin. She carefully dabbed the rag on the girl’s split lip, and softly apologized when she winced. They sat there in silence as Penelope carefully took care of her.

“It should heal in a few days..” She softly said, getting off of her knees and putting the water and rag back in the spot where she had retrieved it from, “The bruise on the other hand I’m not so sure about.”

For some reason, y/n had stood up in the middle of the room. When Penelope turned around again, she saw the girl looking back at her.

“Why are you helping me?” She shakily said, “I’ve done everything to destroy your life. I don’t deserve your care.”

Penelope’s face softened as she looked at the girl. She slowly moved closer, now being able to see the tears in her eyes. All Penelope could see was a young Helen. Confused and overwhelmed.

Her motherly instincts took over and she wrapped her arms around y/n’s shaking frame. She was stiff at first before relaxing against her touch and wrapping her arms around the queen.

“..Because I can tell you’ve been through a hard life. You’re not the product of Antinous. You’re Y/N. And I need to give that a chance.” Penelope whispered, stroking her fingers through Y/N’s hair.

A soft sob left her lips, “Everything’s falling apart…My brother hates me…Telemachus is away...I’m alone.”

Penelope only held the girl tighter, “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She moved her face away from the crook of Penelope’s neck, “You should hate me.” She sobbed, trying to sniffle her tears away.

Penelope sighed, looking down at Y/N’s teary rich eyes, “My son loves you…that means I love you as well.” Her eyes widened. She had never heard any mother figure say that to her in her life. It was a foreign concept. She let out another sob, resting her head back into the crook of her neck. Penelope only held her closer before moving them to the bed and laying down with y/n curled up in her arms.

“I wish he would come home.” She cried, her voice mumbled.

Penelope only sighed, gently rubbing her back, “I know.” They stayed throughout the night, fulfilling the comfort that they both equally needed.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Antinous stormed down the halls of the palace, his vision blurred by anger and guilt. Each step he took felt heavier, his chest constricted like a vice. The sound of his boots echoed against the stone walls, but his mind drowned it out with the pounding of his own thoughts.

Slamming the door to his room, he let out a guttural yell, his voice raw with frustration. He grabbed the nearest object—a wooden stool—and hurled it against the wall, the crash reverberating through the room as it shattered into pieces. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he continued his rampage, swiping books off his shelves, tearing down curtains, and upending furniture.

“She doesn’t understand!” he shouted to no one, his voice cracking. “She doesn’t know what I’ve done for her! I’m in the right!” His fists slammed against the desk, splintering the wood beneath the force.

His anger spiraled, a storm he couldn’t control. He picked up a vase, one of the few items left unbroken, and hurled it against the wall, the shards scattering across the floor like tiny stars. His hands shook as he grabbed at his own hair, pulling at the roots in a futile attempt to ground himself.

“You’re just like Mother.”

Her words echoed in his mind, louder and louder, until they drowned out every other thought. With a roar, he turned to the mirror hanging on the wall and punched it with all his strength. The glass shattered, fragments cascading to the ground like glittering rain. His knuckles dripped blood, crimson streaks staining the shards at his feet. He stood there, panting, his chest heaving as he stared at the broken reflection of himself. But it wasn’t his face he saw.

In the jagged pieces of the mirror, her face stared back at him. His mother’s cold, angry eyes. Her twisted smirk. The same sneer she wore when she beat him down, when she broke him piece by piece.

“No…” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hands trembled as he clutched the frame of the shattered mirror, his blood smearing across the glass. “Do I… Do I look like her?” His breath hitched as he stared at the reflection, his face warped by the uneven shards. The resemblance was undeniable—the fury, the disdain, the cruelty. He saw it all.

Antinous stumbled back, his legs giving out as he collapsed onto the floor. The room was silent now, save for his ragged breaths and the faint drip of blood from his knuckles. He looked down at his hands, scarred and bloodied, and felt an overwhelming wave of disgust.

“Have I… always been like this? Did I always have that mole on my cheek..?” he murmured, his voice breaking.

The weight of it all crushed him—the years of bitterness, the anger, the way he had treated his sister. He leaned his head back against the wall, tears streaming down his face as he closed his eyes. All he could see was her face, younger and frightened, looking up at him for protection. And all he could hear were her words.

“You’re just like Mother.”

“You’re just like her.”

“You’ve become her.”

Antinous sat motionless on the floor of his room, his head leaning against the cold wall as his chest heaved with silent sobs. His bloody knuckles stung, but the pain felt distant, like a whisper compared to the storm raging in his heart. Slowly, memories he had buried deep began clawing their way back to the surface, dragging him into the past. He was no older than ten, his body still small but sturdy for his age. The dim candlelight flickered in the cramped kitchen as he stood in front of his mother, his tiny fists clenched tightly at his sides. Behind him, six year old Y/N cowered on the floor, her hands trembling as she clutched the pieces of a shattered clay cup.

“I didn’t mean to!” She wailed, her tear streaked face buried in her arms. “I’m sorry, Momma! I didn’t mean to break it!”

Their mother loomed over them, her face contorted with rage. The smell of wine on her breath filled the air as she reached for the girl with a sharp, snapping voice. “You think sorry is enough, you little brat? That cup was worth more than your life!”

She whimpered, curling into herself, but before their mother could grab her, Antinous stepped in front of her, his arms spread wide like a shield.

“It was me!” Antinous blurted out, his voice cracking with panic. “I—I broke the cup, Momma. It wasn’t her. She didn’t do anything!”

Their mother froze, narrowing her eyes at him. “You think you can lie to me, boy?”

Antinous swallowed hard, but he didn’t back down. His body trembled as he stood his ground, even as his mother’s shadow loomed larger and darker over him. “It was me,” he said again, his voice quieter this time but firm. “I’m the one who broke it.”

His mother’s hand struck him so fast he barely saw it coming. The slap echoed through the room, followed by Y/N’s startled cry. Antinous stumbled back but didn’t fall. He straightened himself and stood tall, his face stinging but his resolve unbroken.

“You think you’re brave?” his mother spat, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him forward. “You think you can get away with anything because you’re the boy? I’ll teach you to respect what little we have!”

The first blow of the wooden spoon came down hard on his back, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. He wouldn’t let his ssiter hear him scream. She was already crying enough for the both of them, her sobs filling the room as she watched helplessly.

“Stop it!” She cried, trying to crawl toward him. “Stop hurting him! He didn’t do anything! Momma, please!”

“Stay back, N/N!” Antinous shouted through clenched teeth, glancing over his shoulder to meet her terrified gaze. “Don’t come closer! Just—just stay back!”

But the beating continued. Each strike sent pain coursing through his small body, but he bore it silently, refusing to let their mother see him break. He kept his eyes locked on her, her tear streaked face the only thing anchoring him.

When their mother finally stopped, she threw him to the floor like a rag doll. “Next time, maybe you’ll learn to be more careful,” she hissed before storming off, muttering curses under her breath.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by y/n’s soft, hiccupping sobs. Antinous lay on the floor for a moment, his body aching, before he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

She crawled to him, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Antinous. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Antinous winced as her arms brushed against his bruised back, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he hugged her tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder. “It’s okay, N/N,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady. “I promised I’d protect you, didn’t I? It doesn’t matter what happens to me. As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters.”

The memory faded, and Antinous blinked, staring blankly at the shattered mirror in front of him. His reflection was fractured, split into pieces, just like he felt inside. The sight of his sister’s bruised face earlier replayed in his mind, and he clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.

“How did I become this?” he whispered, his voice shaking. “How did I become her?”

For the first time in years, Antinous felt powerless, a child again, staring up at the shadow of his mother that he swore he’d never become.

@procrastination20 @jackiepackiee @barrythestrawberry041 @blessedbyahuntress @f3r4lfr0gg3r @permanently-nothere @eyuunho @jackintheboxs-world @simpingmyassoff @sunshinewhosketches @sugarlillycookie @kaguraaaa @doodle-with-rhy @0anodite0 @xo-cuteplosion-xo

[earlysunshines]

punches to the heart

pham hanni x fem!reader ; angst, fluff

synopsis: hanni watches you beat up her friend, you two get off on the wrong foot, and it's safe to say hanni basically hates you -- the feeling is mutual. what makes it worse is the fact that you two are bound to run into each other time and time again.

warnings: boxer!reader ; hanni is a nursing student who’s fighting lowk (kinda) ; blood ; violence ; pining ; reader is pretty traumatized ummm ; #enemies to lovers (sorta) ; alcohol ; making out ; anything else not mentioned ; not proofread

a/n: ummm I don’t really box lmfao or at least I haven’t done it professionally soooo sorry to any boxers reading this bc there might be mistakes or incorrect terms idk anyways ENJOY!! ^_^ also ignore the fact that yn works at a restaurant in this too LOL half of this fic was from MONTHS ago but i never continued it...

you’re freshly thirteen, your knees still sting and blood continues to flow out of the scrapes from being pushed onto the ground by two prepubescent boys earlier in the day, but you dab at it a couple of times with spare napkins in your bag to prevent any more crimson liquid from seeping out.

the door opens and you find your grandma knitting something on the couch, she’s also watching something on the tv. the quality of the video playing on the screen is pretty rough, but you can make out a familiar face: your late grandpa. grandpa was grandma’s everything and from what you’ve heard: he’s a sweet, memorable soul. a smile spreads across your face as you watch your grandma continue to knit. a few seconds later you’re trying to sneakily run to the bathroom to clean up the mess on your legs.

“y/n? is that you?” she calls out softly, turning in your direction. usually, she’d be at the little bakery she worked at, but she wasn’t, so you assumed she had worked the morning and lunch shifts. she looks down at your red knees and her eyes widen. “oh! sweetheart, what happened?” 

she drops whatever she’d been knitting down on the cushion and rushes over to you, cupping your face and then kneeling to meet your injuries. her eyebrows crease and she frowns, worry is painted all over her face.

“i bumped into someone and tripped on the curb.” you lie, knowing you had heard snarky remarks in between voice cracks from some idiots beforehand.

“what did i say about lying?” your grandma sighs, rubbing the area around one of the scrapes and sighing. “did those boys give you a hard time again?”

“i—” you start, but she looks at you and raises her brows, making your second lie die in your throat immediately. you gulp and avoid eye contact. “well i got pushed and i’m not lying about tripping on the curb. i got unlucky.”

grandma clicks her tongue twice and shakes her head, then grabs your hand and leads you to the small bathroom of your little apartment. 

she closes the lid of the toilet and urges you to sit down on it. while you situate yourself, she finds a little first-aid kit in the cabinet and a few sanitizing wipes. you gulp, already uneasy about the pain that you’ll feel in the next minute.

your grandma chuckles in that raspy, cliché old lady tone when she sees your clenched jaw and fingers digging in your knee anxiously. she sighs and kneels down to meet your level, then says, “it’ll hurt a little, be strong for me.” 

“i’m not scared.”

“sure you’re not hon. it’s going to sting a lot, but it’ll pass by in no time, ‘kay?” she says, taking out an alcohol wipe and holding it above the scrape on your left knee. she holds your right hand and smiles sweetly—it calms you down in no time. “i’m going to clean it, be strong.” she says, then begins to wipe away the bacteria from the wound.

you close your eyes tightly at the stinging sensation, it hurts a lot and tears well up despite your eyes being shut. grandma squeezes your hand tightly then throws the wipe away.

“there you go, one knee done.” she says, “you’re strong like your grandpa, you know?”

your brows relax and you look at her, tilting your head. “i—, i am?”

“he boxed until he was 42, you were around the age of 4 then.” she explains, smiling as she reminisces. she grabs another wipe and tightens her grip on your hand again before you feel that same pain again, and continues, “he had a lot of injuries like these ones. i took care of him like this.”

through clenched teeth you respond, “he got hurt worse than this?”

“five times worse.” grandma shivers, “blood from his lips, mostly bruises on him though. i stitched him up once and i almost threw up.” she says, cringing when she recalls this memory. “he got cut up a couple of times and complained and groaned much more than you, actually. he got in a lot of fights, but he promised that he’d get into fewer fights when we had to take care of you.”

“oh, were you okay with taking care of him so much? it must’ve been tiring to always do that for him.”

grandma’s expression softens and she smiles. “when you love someone, taking care of them is never a problem. i love you y/n, and your grandpa; taking care of you two is nothing of a problem. maybe it’s rotten work for some people, but for the people i love? never.”

her sweet smile makes your own lips curl up and she pats your leg softly before finding bandages. as she patches you up, her words linger in your mind and heart.

“you know y/n, i won’t be here forever.” she starts, standing back up to put the kit away. “when you grow older i want you to find someone who will take care of you like that, and it’s your job to take care of them too.”

“i can take care of you when i’m older.” you say it like a promise and she shakes her head.

“i don’t want you to worry about my old soul for the majority of your life. i’m talking about a friend, or maybe more. whoever it is, care for them endlessly.”

you nod. 

she smiles once more and chuckles, “come on, let’s go watch one of your grandpa’s fights—i was watching some of it before you got here.”

you follow her out the bathroom and turn off the light, then you two head back to the living room. she sits down on the couch and urges you to squeeze in with her as she picks up her needles and yarn. you sit beside her and she presses a button on the remote, which starts the video back up again.

as you watch, you recognize the familiar figure on the screen jump around on his feet. he holds his arms up and clenches his fists in the boxing gloves, shooting the opponent a nasty glare through the small space in between.

“your grandpa was a great boxer, he spent a lot of time devoted to the sport.” grandma explains.

you hum and ask, “why did he box? doesn’t it hurt?”

“well, he did it to protect himself and make some money for us back when times were rougher, way before you were born. he was passionate about it.”

“that’s cool.” you say in awe. your grandma laughs softly before starting to knit again.

you watch your grandpa dodge a few punches and a swing from the side quickly, he’s fast and your 13-year-old mind is absolutely bewildered by his athletic ability. the opponent throws another punch, which he dodges, then sends a nasty hit to the side of the other boxer’s torso. the opponent stumbles back and falls to his knees, then bends down while he tries to recover. it takes a bit for the other guy to get up, and when he does get up—he stumbles back down.

“i want to be like grandpa, can i learn to box?”

your grandma laughs and grins at you. “you know what—sure y/n, you’re a lot like him after all. besides, you need to defend yourself from whoever pushed you.”

“oh yeah, i punched him in the face.”

“you what?” your grandma asks, shocked by your reply. you shrug and keep your eyes on the screen: your grandpa had won after a hit to the guy's cheek, and now the camera is on his sweaty, smiling self. 

“he pushed me and i punched him, but that’s because he said something really bad…”

“y/n,” grandma starts, but stops after she takes another good look at you and her late lover on the screen. a small breath leaves her lips, then she shakes her head. “you two are practically the same, huh.”

the rest of the night your grandma shares anecdotes of her time with your grandpa, it ranges from a variety of silly stories: your grandpa’s first fight, how they fell in love (and this story elicited a slight face of disgust from you, a playful one of course. you couldn’t deny that it was cute, but you were also 13 and icky about a lot of romantic things), grandpa’s fights out of the ring, and their most memorable moments with you. 

you find out that a lot of your traits are rooted from your grandpa, you were pretty satisfied with that.

-

years pass, you’re not stuck in that shithole called middle school; instead, you’re a junior in high school—still in a shithole, but a little better—yuck.

you’re already pretty sick of high school, freshman year wasn’t the best for you after realizing you liked girls; well, it was alright until your first heartbreak or whatever. 

it was cliché: you made a good friend, she was sweet and friendly, and then you realized that your heartbeat would pace at an unhealthy speed around her. the two of you get into a relationship and it eventually fails, your heart breaks and blah blah blah it’s a universal experience. you managed to get over this heartbreak after a year. besides, you can’t be stuck on one failed relationship for the entirety of high school, that’s a fool’s biggest mistake. 

and you’re not a fool.

grandma get’s sick sophomore year, and grandma is all that you have. it was an unexpected turn, resulting in one of the worst years of your life.

the doctors said it had something to do with her heart, some type of cardiovascular disease that costs a bit to treat. so, as soon as you turned 15, you found yourself a part-time job at a local restaurant to pay for her medicines and treatment while she tried her best to provide you with a stable foundation for the future, or at least some food, a house, and water. grandma had argued that she didn’t need your help, she scolded you and tried to keep you focused on your studies, but you wouldn’t budge; if anything, you argued back.

twenty-four hours in a day, and yet it wasn’t enough time to do everything you needed without sacrificing some of your sanity.

six of those hours were spent sleeping, seven hours were spent in school, eight hours at work right after, and then a few hours to care for grandma—and do a little bit of boxing; nothing got in the way of your passion, especially if that passion kept your grandpa alive. 

ever since that little moment with grandma and her cleaning up your knees, your interest in your grandpa and boxing piqued; you started to push yourself physically after hearing about the contests and tournaments, ones that had prizes worth more than one shift of working.

 it was difficult – boxing, working, going to school – with grandma’s illness, but your passion was just as great as your grandpa’s and the more you developed to become more like him: the more grandma would smile. that was the product you yearned for, and all your devotion (plus your similar features) only made the image of your grandpa increasingly prominent when she looked at you.

boxing made the thought of her illness easier to bear, and that didn’t cost anything, instead it filled your pockets. so, you kept on going, replicating the moves in the old films of your grandpa, winning junior boxing matches and placing the films your grandma recorded next to the ones of your grandpa. 

even when you didn’t win matches, the tapes of you boxing were placed next to your grandpa’s. that was arguably ten times better than a trophy.

it was enough to ease the strain in grandma’s body, and that made you happy too.

--

a year passes and you’re still a part-time amateur cook at some local restaurant. you still smell like sauteed onions and garlic when you reach the door to the apartment and try to blindly reach for the keys to your home; it’s a bit late, you’re tired, and you want to shower then pass out as soon as you can.

the late evening moon cast a soft glow through the windows near the stairwell, creating a quiet atmosphere. you step inside and the air is filled with the comforting scent of vanilla, a lingering trace of grandma’s signature cookies—she must’ve known you’ve been craving something sweet lately.

the only sound that fills the quiet evening is the faint ticking of the clock reverberates throughout the apartment, and then it’s the sound of the door creaking as you close it. 

“i’m home," you called out, a habitual greeting as you kicked off your shoes. usually, you’d get a response—it was half past seven and typically, grandma would still be awake to greet you warmly—but silence lingered, only broken by the distant hum of the refrigerator.

worry pricked at your consciousness as you ventured further into the house. the hallway leading to the bedroom seemed unusually hushed. the gentle rustling of your grandma’s usual activities was conspicuously absent, she wasn’t even knitting in the living room while watching tv like she usually did. it was odd.

turning the corner into the bedroom, a gasp escaped your lips. you dropped your work bag and stood frozen in place, feeling your heart rate spike. there, lying on the carpet, was your grandma, and her face now bore the lines of pain. panic surged through your veins as you rushed to her side.

"grandma, what happened?" your voice trembled as you gently shook her shoulders, desperately hoping for a response.

grandma’s eyes were closed, her breathing erratic. the room seemed to close in on you as you fumbled for your phone, dialing 911 with trembling hands. the operator's calm instructions cut through the air as you listened intently, trying to focus on each word and compose yourself.

frantically, you performed cpr, guided by the dispatcher's voice, but the seconds felt like an eternity. the room blurred as tears welled in her eyes, mixing with the fear that gripped her heart. the paramedics were on their way, but time was slipping away. this could not be happening—not now, not here, not ever.

“please, god, please no. please stay with me, not you too.” you beg, feeling your face dampen.

as you continued the compressions, a heaviness settled in the room. the once warm and inviting space now felt suffocating. in those agonizing moments, your grandma’s fragile grip on life slipped away. it was clear that she was gone, and there was nothing you could do to help her this time.

--

there’s enough money for you to live in that apartment alone for two months. the first week was spent with you sleeping in, missing school, and staring into the ceiling blankly.

you haven’t gotten up in hours, you could hardly take care of yourself after grandma’s passing. 

after a few hours of simply laying down and feeling too much, yet nothing at all; you flip over on your side and catch sight of the framed picture of you and your grandma. your brows turn up slightly as you stare back at the picture. you turn to lay on your back again, closing your eyes and groaning. your heart aches, it’s all too much for you.

the sound of knocking elicits an exhausted sigh from you, and it takes you a moment to get up for the first time in hours. you trudge out of the bedroom and groan when a sudden headache hits you, it almost makes you stumble. the sight of the kitchen and untouched living room makes your shoulders sink, it looks the same as that life-changing night.

you unlock the door and twist the knob to open it; a taller man stands in front and looks up at you with a sincere smile. 

“ah, y/n, am i correct?” he questions. a smile pulls at his lips, his eyes soften upon observing you. “you’ve grown, you have your grandpa’s eyes.”

his voice is soft, you can tell he’s a well-spoken, dignified man just from the way he articulates his words. he's quite fit looking for his age, he seems about how old your grandpa would’ve been if he was still alive; a man with noticeable smile lines and hands that seemed to have experienced decades.

you try to respond and realize that it’s been a week since you’ve uttered something that wasn’t a cry. you resort to nodding; he seems to understand.

he smiles and scans you; it seems that he doesn’t care about your appearance or state at all. 

“my name is michael, i was a friend of your grandparents. i’m sorry for your loss.”

you stay silent, unable to speak. 

“i’m here because your grandma asked for a favor, a big one and it includes you.” he begins, “she knew her condition was getting worse and asked me to come here to talk to you.”

“what?” you croak, now curious of just who exactly this man is and his connections with not just your grandma, but also your grandpa. “you knew?” your voice cracks, your heart breaks.

“i can’t turn down a favor like this, not if your grandma is asking either.” he says, pursing his lips. his eyes scan the room, then they start to well up with water. “she wanted me to take you in and take care of you if anything happened to her, of course i’m willing to do that for her—you’re her family after all, and i owe a lot to the l/n’s. i didn’t know her time would come so soon.”

“what? who, who are you exactly? my grandma told you about her condition? what— how—”

“i was close with your grandparents. i’m someone who owes them everything.”

-

you move in with michael not so long after your first meeting, he warms up to you easily after spilling some anecdotes that threatened your last tears to spill.

it takes a while to grow accustomed to him, you’ve only ever been used to talking to your grandma freely.

michael is a man in his early 50s, younger than your grandparents. he’s a sweet, soft-spoken man that treated you like his own as soon as the two of you met. you learn that he boxed with your grandpa; michael learned everything from your grandpa and explains that your grandpa is the reason he can live normally now. 

something in the way that he talks about your grandparents and the way he looks at you explains a lot, you don’t know exactly what your grandparents did, but it seems like they were his biggest miracle.

he smiles at you when you settle in his house, then goes on to tell you that you remind him of your old man. michael is a generous guy, and though everything happened so fast—recovering from grandma’s death, moving in with this man you’ve never heard of, learning more about your grandparent’s relations, and too much more—you seem to ease into this new lifestyle.

what else could you do anyway?

the new home you’re in isn’t small; if anything, it’s actually quite large and spacious. his home is hours away from where grandma was and it was hard leaving everything behind, but with your situation, the most you could feel is grateful for having a place and person to stay with, and a way to keep you from drowning in misery.

it was also evident that there used to be someone who lived with him, a lover of some sort. the pictures on the wall give you a sense of how he was like when whoever that woman was accompanying him was around; he was a lively, beaming man back then. now, he’s a bit more mellow, but there’s still that slight charm.

-

michael offers you a job at his little restaurant that he manages—which you accept immediately, you owe him some labor, and honestly everything after what he’s done for you—everything goes well. 

he goes easy on you because of your recent loss, but still, he treats you like you’re his own. michael is quick to correct you, strict when he needs to be, and someone to rely on.

he’s impressed with your skills in the kitchen, enamored by how quick you are to learn recipes and cook them up. your bond grows quickly and easily, it helps you get over the loss.

when he finds you watching your grandpa’s old boxing matches on the couch a month after moving in, he decides to bring you to his little garage. he unveils the trophies that he’s collected over years of boxing and decides to give you a picture of him and your grandpa posing together. in the picture, they’re all sweaty and smiley, beaming so brightly that their teeth almost reflect the light. he insists that “you deserve it more, i never had a place to keep this anyway,” with a small smile that conceals his sorrow, then hands you the 8x6 photo.

you tell him about your background in boxing, your matches, wins, favorite moves, and that you used to teach yourself how to box because of grandpa.

he simply smiles, muttering something that sounds like a “you’re just like him.”

you learn how to box again for the first time in a while on some friday night. this time you really learn, it’s not from copying your old man’s combos on a screen; instead, it’s one-on-one lessons with his old friend. 

he teaches you a lot, beats you down and makes you get back up. despite getting knocked down, thrown around, and given harsh constructive criticism—you get up and try again, again, and again. the thrill of it all surges through your body again, giving you that adrenaline rush and burst of joy that you’ve been missing for a bit.

one month passes, then another, and now you’re learning how to box every weekend – sometimes on weekdays – running miles after school, pushing yourself all the time, and winning—growing. 

he teaches you his favorites combos, then your grandpa’s favorite ones that got him on one knee each time they sparred. you learn all the time, learn whenever you can despite the slight ache in your body and it’s always michael forcing you to take it easy to get rid of that slight pain. 

boxing takes over your mind and you’re set with cooking as your main job, so school was something you weren’t really set on, you figured that out after all your troubles. michael was okay with that—to your surprise—and you decided to devote your time into training and doing your best at the little restaurant you worked at.

time passes and you decide to put yourself up to the test and sign yourself up for matches. at first, they’re just for experience, and then you’re pushing yourself to win these triple digit checks—which you win proudly after making your way up the bracket and succeeding. you’re proud of yourself for these accomplishments, michael is too, he says that your grandparents would be proud as well and it makes you tear up.

everything was going well, and you had michael to thank for pulling you out of the harsh waters that tried to pull you down and drown you in your misery.

--

when everyone was starting out in college, you were opening up the restaurant and getting everything ready.

you graduated with a solid gpa of 3.4. your counselors were practically up your ass because of your lack of interest in going to college. they tried to persuade you by saying that it would be great for your future, they insisted that you could take culinary classes, boxing classes, etc; despite every effort and attempt, you wouldn’t budge. 

there was always that slight uneasiness that came with deciding not to go to college, but at the same time, you were set with how everything was right now; especially after seeing the elderly regulars that always came in for breakfast. one of them patted you on the back as you hung up the “welcome” sign and greeted you with a smile, saying “it’s nice to see you again y/n, as always.” 

this type of lifestyle kept you smiling, there was not much to complain about other than the rare rude customer that would pass by here and there. you were content to say the least.

-

a few months before you turn nineteen, you decide to move out because there’s a small feeling that you may be a slight burden to michael, plus, the area is not bad and the rent is cheap. he assures that you can stay for however long, but you assure that you can hold up on your own. 

the place you decide to settle in is a thirteen-minute run from michaels place and a ten-minute walk from the restaurant you work at. robert says he’s proud that you’ve grown to be independent and strong.

(you laugh because you’ve simply moved out and decided to live on your own. plus, you live near him and work most of your shifts with him too, but you let him hug you dearly). 

you stay in a single-bedroom apartment that has a nice, small kitchen area littered with trinkets you’ve collected and small plants here and there. the living room is homey and has a single couch with a small coffee table in it that you gives you a view of the small market that goes on every sunday in the distance. you love the place. 

it gets lonely some nights, coming home to a silent house. grandma pops up in your mind and part of you (all of you) wishes that you’d come home to the smell of home cooked food and a smile that emphasizes her wrinkles. grandma hated her wrinkles, but you loved them. a few wrinkles never hurt anyone.

-

you huff, taking off the bandana on your head. “i’m clocking out, see you tomorrow.” 

“wait! michael has something for you in the back. uhh--” aki, the junior in high school that works part time, begins. you pause in your tracks, bag over your shoulder. “hold on let me--”

“c’mon, i'm running a little late for the match. i need to get checked in.” you say hurriedly, “just tell him i'll get it later--”

“no, y/n, it’s important. he said to get it to you today.”

with a deep sigh, you give in, watching him put away the plate he was washing and quikcly running to the back where the lockers are. you follow him in and watch him take out a small box with a little paper on it. it's a pretty big box, maybe bigger than a shoe box.

“here,” he says, handing it to you. “michael says good luck and to open it before your match, he knows how important this one is. three hundred is a solid prize, he says you can do it.”

you smile at aki; he smiles back before running off and back to the kitchen. the box is held with your hands, subtle blisters scratching against the cardboard before you walk over to your car. 

when you’re in the driver's seat, you decide to let the box be your little passenger and see what's inside when you reach the address of the tournament. as soon as you do, the box is in your hands again. with your keys, you cut the tape that covered the openings, then eagerly opened the box like a little kid on christmas morning.

inside, there’s brand new boxing gloves. they're white, they’re fresh, and they’re the expensive ones michael caught you eyeing.

“son of a bitch.” you mutter, shaking your head with a grin playing on your lips. 

you get out your old white mazda with a bag hung on your shoulder, new gloves inside.

there's a man at the front checking you in, his appearance slightly older with hair parted in the middle and a somewhat distraught expression on his face, almost disgust. maybe he just... looks like that. 

there's a hint of attitude in his tone when he asks, "you're here for the match?" 

“yes.”

“you’re late, you know? boxers should’ve checked in ten minutes ago, visitors--”

“i’m here now.” you say calmly, looking at him apologetically. “sorry for being late, i rushed from work. i already submitted my medical information and id online, it should be good to go, i got the email. it's l/n y/n by the way, i should be on the roster--”

he snaps his fingers at you, earning a raised brow from you. your teeth grind against each other as you clench your jaw from the sudden action.

“don’t cut me off when i'm speaking. i could have you out of the match as a whole, you know?” he scoffs, glaring at you. “you boxers are so damn impatient, and to think that you’re a woman too... i would’ve figured you had better manners.”

“i’m-- im sorry?” you’re shocked by the sudden disrespect, fighting back the urge to jab his face. “um, sorry. am i still able to check in?”

he narrows his eyes at you, sighing, but still giving you a little snarky tone even as he hands you your name tag and . “fine. go down the hall and to the left, there’s the locker rooms and whatnot. you know, you’re lucky i don’t--”

“thank you sir, have a good one.” is what you say, because you trained two months for this tournament and you can’t get disqualified now if you had let out that: “fuck you, bitch.”

you dash past him, speed walking towards the changing rooms to get yourself situated and weighed in. he almost curses at you, but you’re already too far in for him to stop you anyway.

--

you make weight, meaning you get to indulge in whatever it was that you grabbed from the convenience store.

in this case it was one protein bar – cookie dough, your favorite – some fruits, an avocado, and a few crackers. a decent amount of nutrition to keep you up on your toes for the matches.

michael's little gift to you fits snug, your hands fit perfectly in them, but you should definitely break them in before sparring—so you resort to using your usual gloves, the same ones that won you the last tournament's prize. it's fine anyway, they’re your lucky ones until you break in the new.

the first girl you take on is feisty; she’s quick on her feet and clearly has some type of anger issue from the way she curses at you quietly, sending daggers with that look of hers. it seems that you piss her off the more level you are, and honestly, it’s amusing to see her continuously jab and jab with fury until you decide to step to the side quickly and give a solid swing. 

she stumbles back, losing her composure before gritting her teeth. 

then she’s light on her feet again, you’re still playing defense, simply observing as she shifts side to side. you let her punch your forearm and send a cross before seizing the moment, stepping to the left, and quickly sending a nasty hook to her body. 

she stumbles again, coughs, and falls down on her knees.

“l/n!” the referee shouts, holding your wrist and raising your arm up.

--

you have three more matches until your final round, the one that’ll determine if you win, but you have to get through all of them first.

the second round proves to be more challenging. the woman you're up against lands a nasty cross that connects squarely with your jaw, throwing you off balance for a split second. however, with attentive focus on each of her movements, you manage to anticipate her next move and swiftly counter with a hook to her side. the blow knocks her out, mirroring the outcome of your previous match.

the third round is even more difficult. the woman you're up against this time seems relentless, unleashing jabs and crosses and jabs and crosses and jabs—wow, she won’t give you a break. you're constantly dodging, weaving side to side, but she refuses to give you a moment's respite. another blow lands on your jaw again, causing you to stumble back and exhale sharply, feeling the impact reverberate through your body.

as you try to regain your footing, she continues to press the attack, landing blows to your forearms as you desperately block, trying to find an opening to mount a counterattack. despite your best efforts, she seems to have you on the ropes, leaving you struggling to keep up with her relentless assault.

but still, as you always do, you manage to swerve and find your opening. after all that effort, she has to recover for a second. a second is more than enough time to step and switch angles, sending your infamous hook and leaving her on the ground, almost in fetal position, and groaning.

the fourth round is tough, really tough. the girl you’re up against is shorter, but wow is she bulky. 

she’s buff, biceps bigger than yours, almost as if an orange had been placed in them. her shoulders were like rocks and tensed as she put her arms up a bit. you had a decent amount of muscle, pretty nice definition and whatnot—but compared to her? it was like a shrimp and a lobster put next to each other. no way she was in your weight class, could she really be?

your arms steady as you get ready to fight, waiting for the cue and as soon as the ref gives you the green light, you’re light on your feet again. she throws a jab at you, grazing your forearm as you step back. then a cross is thrown at you, another jab, and a punch to the side that lands on your shoulder. her hits are as strong as she looks, it hurts. 

you manage to throw a jab that hits her forearms, then land an uppercut that strikes the side of her jaw. she lets out a sharp breath as soon as it hits, then curses under her breath. she looks at you with a death glare, then steps forward and to the side, managing to land a nasty hit right on your abdomen, then cheek, making you fall back against the rope.

she chuckles, making you take a deep breath. 

your feet move quick, inching in on her as you sway from side to side, giving her no room to strike at you. and then, just when you find an opening, you land a nice hook with your right—less precise and powerful, but still enough—and she falls back. 

she gets back up again—not without halting a few of her actions—then shakes her head. she throws a cross at you, which you dodge easily since her reach is on the shorter side. this gives you another opportunity to land a hit right on her jaw, and with that final move, she’s on the ground, and you win.

a smile reaches your face once the referee lifts your arm up, but there’s still that last match.

there's some time before finals, you take the time to rest a bit, chugging down a bit of water and wiping away some of the sweat on your body.

you sit down on one of the benches, leaning against the wall and recollecting yourself. the though of your grandma crosses your mind before you’re interrupted by a high pitched voice in the corner of your ear.

“yunjin! i'm so sorry i'm late, i had to finish moving in some things and--”

“it’s fine, seriously. i'm glad you made it.”

you glance over, seeing two women interact. one is obviously a boxer–one that you haven’t seen yet–probably your opponent for the final round. 

she's all sweaty, strands from her hair glued to her forehead from the sweat. she's pretty built, maybe a little smaller than you are muscle-wise, but still, the definition on her arms and abs are no joke. 

the woman next to her, dressed in a simple long-sleeve shirt and jeans, is beaming at her with a wide smile. her eyes sparkle with joy and happiness and rainbows, there’s an infectious energy that seems to radiate off of her. it's funny how bright she is; you can't help but be reminded of old videos of your grandma with grandpa, where similar warmth and happiness seemed to fill the frame.

“how many more matches do you have left? did you win any yet? gosh i missed so much, didn’t i?”

the taller one shakes her head, the boxer. “it’s fine, the rest were pretty difficult, but this is the round that should be the most important. it's the last one, i'm going up someone really good, i saw her--” she catches you from the side of your eye, which prompts you to look away and start to stand up.

the other woman, the one that looks a little like an eager bunny, looked towards where the boxer was looking. catching your last swift look over to the pair before you walk away.

now, yunjin, your last opponent, tenses her jaw.

“was that her?” yunjin’s friend asks.

“most definitely.” yunjin mumbles nervously.

--

you step into the ring, tilting your neck over to crack it just slightly.

your oppenent swings her arms slightly, dynamically stretching again to ease her nerves. you look her up and down, taking a deep breath before you step into the middle of the platform.

the two of you make eye contact, comparable to cowboys pointing pistols at each other before a duel. you look away first before the referee puts his hand in the middle, then lifts it up to cue the start of your match.

slowly circling the ring, you observe her movements. her arms react quick to how yours move, twitching and moving a bit in order to match your rhythm. she's attentive, very attentive, you can tell just by how quick she’s able to react and adjust.

you throw a cross, she backs away immediately and misses, then throws a punch right at you, hitting your forearm. a grunt is heard from you, then a sharp breath as you jab her forearm in return. 

“jen! you can do it!” the voice from earlier calls out, you can’t afford to look over, but it’s that girl. the one who had been accompanying your opponent earlier.

a small smile forms on your opponent's lips before she launches into a flurry of punches aimed directly at you. you raise your forearms in a desperate attempt to block them from reaching your face, but she manages to find an opening. stepping to the side, she delivers a rear uppercut to your jaw once again, causing a sharp surge of pain to shoot through you. it hurts even more than before, the sensation amplified by the previous blows.

you grunt out in pain, feeling the metallic tang of blood filling your mouth as you watch droplets fall onto the platform below. despite the searing pain and the mounting pressure of the match, you force yourself to regain your composure. your brows crease with determination as you shake your head, breathing in and out slowly.

now it's your turn to unleash a boatload of punches. several of them land squarely on your opponent's forearms, but you manage to find an opening and deliver a powerful blow right to her stomach, causing her to gasp out in pain. despite her reaction, you continue your assault relentlessly, delivering punch after punch to the side of her arms and the forearms covering her head. each blow is delivered with precision and determination, as you refuse to let up until the match is won.

but your opponent still perseveres, somehow finding a way to get out of the corner and land a jab right where your ribs are. she's quick, that’s for sure, always managing to find her way out of situations.

you cough out, stumbling backwards and almost falling down to your knees. she looks at you, huffing proudly as you find your balance. 

“tough,” you hear her mumble, so quiet that you almost mistook it for a whisper.

the two of you go at it again, trading blows and dodging many of them. yunjin manages to land a solid hit on the side of your arm, causing a sharp sting, but you fight back with a well-placed strike right on her tricep. despite the back and forth, the pace slows as both of you focus on dodging each other's attacks, slowing down the more fatigued you both get.

yunjin suddenly lands a powerful hit that causes your arms to push your head to the side. you watch as drops of blood litter the ground once again, but even as pain flares through you, you grunt and pull yourself together.

“c’mon yunjin!” the voice cheers again, that same voice.

just because this “yunjin” has supportive spectators, doesn’t mean you don’t have one watching from above.

the thought of your grandma urges you to act swiftly, moving so quick that you manage to fake her out and strike your signature final move.

turning to the left to regain your footing, you quickly pivot back and swing your arm with precision, landing a harsh blow on her side. the impact is so fatal that it nearly elicits a cry from her—a mix of a cough and a groan—as she staggers backward before collapsing to the ground.

despite the fatigue and pain coursing through your body, and the blood flowing down your nose and to the edge of your chin, none of it bothers you anymore; you’ve won. it’s clear.

you watch as yunjin kneels on the ground, groaning and huffing as she tries to fight back the pain. with both fists planted firmly on the ground, she uses the gloves to support herself, unable to look back up as she coughs, desperately trying to regain her composure and recover from the left hook to her side.

your eyes meet the ref’s eyes, then your brows raise to ask the question “is it over?” but you already know the answer: it is.

the referee helps yunjin up, you don’t bat an eye at her.

standing in the middle of the ring waiting for her, you make full eye contact with her little friend, a look of worry and anger plastered on the woman’s face. you feel a little bad, just a little (but not really), but it’s a competition, it’s nothing to worry about – you’ve won.

still, in that moment, you're caught off guard by how familiar this woman looks, her features bearing a slight resemblance to michael’s. but you quickly push the thought aside, it's not important. what matters is the referee raising your hand up in victory and yelling out your name.

“y/n!”

-

when yunjin gets down from the ring, a few moments after you’ve already stepped off; her friend is already by her side to make sure she’s okay.

“yunjin! oh my gosh, are you okay?”

“yes, hanni, it’s fine.” yunjin assures, clutching her right side. “hell of a hook...”

if it weren’t for those gloves of yours, yunjin would have a prominent bruise right on the skin covering her ribs. hanni frowns at her state before someone comes over to hand yunjin a towel and a water bottle. 

hanni catches you in the corner of her eye as you stand there, sweaty and looking at the ground. a towel is handed to you, and you quickly use it to wipe away the blood on your face. then you look up at the ceiling, closing your eyes as if trying to gather yourself and stem the flow of blood trickling down your face.

“do matches usually end like that?” hanni asks.

“what?”

“like that. someone's hand is raised and then they just... walk off the stage?”

yunjin thinks to herself as she chugs on water. “well, i mean, usually we exchange a few words and stuff, but i guess who i just fought is more... blunt? reserved?” yunjin shakes her head, “it's not that big of a deal, really. she's bleeding anyway, i understand.”

“that’s kind of rude, don’t you think?”

“well, it’s not like she’s actually trying to hurt me for like, terrible reasons. there's a cash prize she wants and she won it.” yunjin shrugs defeatedly.

as you sniffle slightly, you turn to the side, locking eyes with hanni. your look gives the impression of a glare; your eyes narrow, and your expression remains unyielding. it's as if you're sending arrows of scrutiny towards hanni and yunjin. hanni can't help but feel unsettled by the way you hold yourself and the implicit judgment in your gaze. she's not one to judge easily, but your demeanor leaves her feeling a bit wary and cautious.

hanni watches you walk off, wiping a small drop of blood off your jawline, rubbing it off on your towel.

yunjin looks in the same direction as hanni, muttering something under her breath.

“she’s real tough, that’s right.”

--

you walk over to the cafe nearby, you need a little treat after winning, that’s what you deserve.

walking up to the cashier, you order a slice of strawberry shortcake, one latte, and a cookie for later. it’s a quick little action, once you’re done purchasing you head out the door, hearing a little jingle. 

as you walk down the sidewalk, you check your little bag to make sure the container of your cake isn’t tilted, and in the moment, you bump into someone. the coffee in your hand slips and lands on the person in front of you.

a curse slips out your lips, some of the coffee manages to land on your shoulder and upper right side of your chest. you groan, not looking up at the person in front of you and instead crouching down to pick up the bag you’ve just dropped.

“you’re not even going to bat an eye at her?” a voice scoffs from above, you look up to spot two familiar faces: one, the last girl you had knocked out and two, her little friend. “did the win make you so dense?”

“hanni relax, it’s fine–”

“no! she barely batted an eye at you after she won! shouldn’t boxers have more sportsmanship?”

the boxer above you puts a hand on the shorter girl’s shoulder, trying to cool her down as you stand up. the girl you had beat earlier – yunjin – she looks at you and tightens her jaw, hesitating before looking away.

“i’m, i’m sorry for that, for my friend.” she apologizes. you examine her more, noticing that only a bit of coffee landed on her t-shirt and the rest had spilt on you and the ground – it wasn’t that big of a deal. “it’s a small stain, the shirt is navy. sorry for your coffee.”

before you can respond, the shorter woman looks at yunjin confusedly, then pushes her back a bit so that she’s standing closer to you. she has to look up a bit, tilting her head as she meets your unbothered gaze.

“no, yunjin, she should apologize.” the woman spits, “you bump into my friend and spill coffee on her–”

“it’s barely anything–” yunjin butts in, but her little friend puts a finger to her lips.

“you better apologize, that win didn’t make you any better than anyone you’ve beat.” 

you look the girl up and down, then at yunjin who’s looking regretful and slightly embarrassed. you fix the slice of cake in your bag, catching the shorter girl looking at you like you’re crazy, then sigh out tiredly. 

“hey, yunjin, right?”

she nods, then hums, “yeah.”

you glance back at her friend, shrinking her down with just your eyes. you catch the way her jaw tightens and the flicker of fear in her eyes.

“tame your little friend, ‘kay?” you firmly say, then brush past the two of them.

hanni cannot believe her eyes, or anything. how can someone be so arrogant? 

she watches you casually walking off with an empty coffee cup in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other; her brows crease with anger as she starts to storm towards you, hearing yunjin’s attempts at verbally stopping her fading in the back.

you feel someone tugging at your flannel from behind, gasping lowly before turning around to meet yunjin’s little friend again.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“relax.”

“apologize.” she grips your forearm, taken aback from how firm the muscles in that area are. uncertainly, she adds, “now.”

you look her up and down again, amused by the sight. some girl – who is shorter and smaller than you – is trying to hold you – the person who just knocked her friend out – back in an attempt for some stupid, haste ‘apology.’

“what are you going to do if i don’t?” you ask, partly because you’re curious and the other reason being that this is far too entertaining. “punch me? throw a hook? what are you, 5 feet tall?”

“five feet and three inches you ass!” 

“uh huh.” you sigh, shaking her hand off with your forearm. “fuck off.”

hanni watches you walk away again, before she can walk after you, yunjin grabs her and holds her back – this time with all her strength, the rest that she has left after those matches. hanni shouts at you through gritted teeth, yunjin puts a hand over her mouth and scolds her for being an idiot.

“are you crazy?”

“she’s an ass!”

“yeah but… stop making a scene! you just moved here, don’t go starting shit on your first day.”

“but she’s–”

“hanni.” yunjin turns her around and places both hands on either shoulder, looking her dead in the eye and then shaking her head tiredly. “can we just grab something to eat, i’m so fucking tired.”

yunjin’s best friend rolls her eyes before making a small “hmph” noise, crossing her arms before walking towards the cafe that you had just left.

–

hanni grabs a post fight meal with yunjin, then takes multiple photos at some random photobooth in a mall nearby, and finally gets dropped off at where she’s staying thanks to yunjin, considering the fact that hanni has nothing but a bus pass – not even a metro card.

hanni enters the house, smelling the wonderful aroma of what she believes is garlic and onion being sauteed in the kitchen. she smiles, happy that her grandpa is home and cooking up something delicious.

she kicks off her shoes, then starts to walk over to the kitchen, only to see someone turned to the stove – a tall, athletic, toned, and feminine looking back – someone that is not her grandpa. 

immediately, she gasps, then covers her mouth. she watches the figure turn, then takes her hand off her mouth to gasp again.

“what the hell are you doing in my house?”

“what the hell are you doing here?”

“this is my house?!” hanni exclaims, her voice laced with confusion and a hint of fear. technically, it isn’t really hanni’s house, but through family ties, it might as well be. “get out! are you fucking—are you stalking me? is this because of before? what, are you going to punch me or—”

her breath catches, words failing her as you step forward, closing the distance between you two. you’re in her space now, forcing her to tilt her head up slightly to meet your narrowed gaze. the intensity in your eyes makes her breath hitch again, and she’s keenly aware of how scrutinizing your stare is. she takes in your sharp, intimidating presence, noting how your eyes bore down on her from above. you’re nearly a head taller, clearly stronger, your tank top revealing the evidence of your hard work, while she’s standing there in the casual, unassuming attire of an average college student. she would be lying her ass off if she said she wasn’t scared right now.

“i’m not going to pick a fight with someone like you,” you state, looking her up and down, your tone dripping with condescension. the height difference, the bandage on your nose from the matches you won; everything about you screams physical superiorty, and hanni feels a flare of anger. but even though she’s willing to fight, you’re making it clear that you don’t see her as a threat.

“the hell does that mean you bitch?”

you move your head slight closer so you’re up in her face, letting out a small, amused chuckle. 

“watch your mouth.”

“how about you learn personal space!” hanni groans, using her hand to push your shoulder lightly as she steps back and furthers the distance between you two. “where are your manners?”

“you really wanna start something again?”

“shut the hell up, you’re the one in my place.”

“this is michael’s place.” you correct her. “you don’t look anything like him,” well, she does have his eyes and nose. “do you even know him?”

“the hell? of course i know michael, he’s my grandpa you sack of shit!” hanni scoffs, crossing her arms angrily. 

your brows furrow and you retreat back just a bit. “he’s your what?”

“my–” before hanni finishes her sentence, you two turn your heads to the sound coming from behind the stairs. both of you watch an older man appear with two bags of groceries and a surprised look on his face as soon as he spots you two. 

he looks between you both, grin growing as he approaches the two of you. “oh! i see you two have met!”

“michael, who is this?”

“grandpa, who–”

“ah, i should’ve introduced you two, or given a little heads up.”

a heads-up would’ve been great. 

you’re standing just a foot away from the girl who tried to pounce on you outside a café, the same girl who had to be restrained by her friend—the friend you knocked out cold. and now, as fate would have it, like the universe thinks you’re some type of joke, she turns out to be the granddaughter of the man who helped you get back on your feet. 

a warning would’ve been more than just great, but it’s kind of – very – late to give one.

“well, y/n, this is hanni, my granddaughter, and hanni, this is y/n. do you remember the l/n’s? she’s their granddaughter!”

hanni blinks, her jaw dropping. the l/n’s, as in the l/n’s who saved her grandpa from some gang years before she was born, the same l/n’s that let him stay at their place during his earuly adult years, the same l/n’s he would talk about like they were some type of saviors. 

the same so called ‘saviors’ who’s descendant had been a bitch at in the cafe.

“oh.” hanni says, looking back at you and tightening her jaw. “really now?” she says softly, trying to let the information sink in.

“yes! why don’t you guys introduce each other.” he suggests. you look back at hanni like he’s just told some unbelievable, sick lie. she looks at you with grossed out features, as if you had some type of disease. “come on now,” he walks over to hold both your wrists, bringing you two closer and moving your hands over so they make contact. 

hanni stares at the hands in disgust, and you mirror her.

you sigh before loosely grabbing her hand and shaking it, greeting lowly, “nice to meet you hanni.”

she grips your hand tight in an attempt to intimidate you, but it’s nothing, barely half a kilogram of force. “nice to meet you y/n.”

you squeeze her hand just barely, earning a gasp from her and barely containing a laugh, only flashing an amused smile at the now annoyed woman in front of you.

michael smiles at the two of you, clearly missing the tension and obvious rivalry in the air before saying, “glad you two are getting along. hanni here is moving in, she’s going to the university nearby.”

“is that so?” you raise a brow at hanni, she pulls her hand away and shakes it off like a virus is on her hand. 

“yeah, nursing.”

“i bet they’d love your little self there, huh?”

hanni bites her lip in an attempt to hold herself back from cursing at you. she opts for smiling at her grandpa and saying, “hey, i’m going to unpack now gramps, okay?”

“right! i forgot, you should definitely do that. hey, y/n, why don’t you help her out?”

“me?” 

“her?” hanni asks, earning another offended glare from you. “i’m fine, really.”

“no, no, your luggage is quite heavy – and a large load. go on now, you two can bond while i make dinner,” he says cheerfully, pushing you two in the direction of the stairs. “have fun!”

–

you and hanni are fighting every single demon and voice in your heads in order to not to insult each other. you stand at the entrance of the guest bedroom, looking at the three boxes on the ground in front of the empty bed. hanni sighs, starting to unzip the suitcase that she rolls from the corner.

“you a hoarder or–?”

“shut up.” hanni spits, opening her suitcase and unpacking her clothes onto the bed. “you piss me off.”

“because i spilled coffee on your friend?”

“well you were a bitch about it.”

“it wasn’t that serious, it’s never that serious.”

“you won that fuckass tournament and now you think you’re better than her–”

“i never said that–”

“shut up!” hanni groans, turning around to glare at you. you tilt your head and she groans again, “make yourself useful with you boxer muscles and move the boxes on the ground out of the way.”

“now you need my help.”

“i’ll fuck you up just you watch.”

“yeah, right.” you snicker, looking her up and down as you lean against the doorframe. “i’m terrified.”

“make yourself useful you asshole.” hanni orders, turning back to stack a pile of shorts on the bed.

you roll your eyes, sighing loudly as you walk over, bend down, and lift a box that’s a bit heavier than you’d like to admit. nonetheless, you manage to pick it up, then put it on the desk in the room.

“jesus christ,” the box lands with a little thud and you huff lightly. “you got all that anger inside you in here or…?”

hanni doesn’t respond, instead, she kicks the back of your leg with her foot. you simply laugh, making her kick you again.

“it’s your ego in there, idiot.”

“uh huh.” you click your tongue against the back of your teeth, turning back to help her out more. 

–

hanni has settled in well, though that’s unfortunately thanks to your help—help you were more or less forced to provide. moving everything in, showing her around the area, it’s all because you couldn’t say no when michael looked at you with that signature proud smile. 

the two of you exchange few words during what you loosely call a ‘tour.’ really, it’s just you walking her around the neighborhood, pointing out the nicer spots and which neighbors are the biggest complainers, before leading her to the bus stop. hanni, for her part, stays curious, her eyes roaming over anything that catches her interest, offering small smiles to the passerbys and throwing grimaces at you. 

you show her around downtown, just around her campus for a bit, making sure not to bump into her again after you two had made the wrong step and accidentally bumped shoulders.

“are you picking a fight?” hanni asks, turning fully to face you, her eyes narrowing as she sizes you up.

“i’d rather jump off that building over there,” you say, pointing to the ten-story structure looming in the distance. “--than lay a finger on you.”

“asshole.”

she rolls her eyes at you, scoffing in that way she always does when she’s annoyed. the way she looks in her oversized quarter-zip and sweatpants, with those big, clear frames perched on her nose, almost makes you laugh. there’s something oddly endearing about it, even if you won’t admit it out loud. the feeling is enough to tug a small smile to your lips, a quiet chuckle escaping before you can stop it. she looks like an idiot, a stupid, short idiot. 

hanni notices, of course, and pushes you with her shoulder, her expression a mix of irritation and something softer you can’t quite place.

you drop her off back at the house, handing her your spare key and watching her open the door. she unlocks it and the door opens just a bit, but before she steps inside, she turns to you.

hanni huffs quietly, then looks you in the eye. 

“thanks, i guess.”

“i guess?”

“yeah, i guess.”

“you’re welcome,” you say amusingly, looking down at her and analyzing just a bit. “i guess.”

she shakes her head and steps inside the house, you don’t step away until she’s fully inside and you hear the lock click.

–

the two of you don’t run into each other for a little over a week, but neither of you can stop thinking about the other here and there, despite how much it annoys you.

you’ve been busy with work, fixing up things around your apartment, and spending time with friends before they get caught up in the chaos of school. your days have been a mix of runs, training, and lifting weights at michael’s home, with the surprising bonus of not running into hanni. it’s been peaceful, almost too peaceful, but you’re not complaining.

hanni, on the other hand, has been getting settled into the town and adjusting to her new classes. she’s spent the week mingling with new people, going over her first few notes, and tweaking her schedule to make sure she stays on top of everything. she’s the type who thrives in a flexible routine, something that keeps her grounded and stress-free, so she’s been focused on creating that for herself. 

even though you haven’t crossed paths, the thought of each other lingers in the back of your minds, a low-level irritation (and maybe just a bit of infatuation) that neither of you can quite shake off.

the next time you run into each other, hanni is sitting at her desk, highlighting a few terms and studying some diagrams when she hears faint music and the rhythmic sound of something being hit, followed by the clinking of chains. at first, she perks up, curiosity piqued, but she dismisses it, turning her own music up to drown out the distraction.

but the noise doesn’t stop. in fact, it gets louder, the chains clinking so persistently that hanni finally gives in. she sets her highlighter down and gets up, irritation mixing with curiosity. she doesn’t see anything at first, just an open garage door across the way. so, she heads downstairs, still in her pajamas—an oversized t-shirt and old middle school gym shorts.

when she reaches the garage, she opens the door to find you, drenched in sweat, going at it with a punching bag. you’re throwing a series of rapid punches, each one landing with a solid thud, your breaths sharp and controlled. 

hanni stands there for a moment, caught off guard by the intensity of it all, the sight of you completely absorbed in your workout, the focus etched on your face as the chains rattle with each strike. 

then she shakes herself out of her trance, closing the door behind her loudly and earning your attention.

“what are you doing?”

you land one last blow to the sandbag before looking at her as you catch your breath. “what does it look like i’m doing, reading?” you ask sarcastically, feeling a drop of sweat drip off your chin.

“ugh,” hanni puts on a random pair of slides on the ground before walking up to you. “could you keep it down? i have to study, ever heard of that?”

“nerd.” you mumble, eyes narrowing at the frames she has on. “close the windows.”

“hot air rises.”

“fan?”

“y/n.” hanni groans. “some people are trying to get a degree.”

“and some people need some extra cash.” you retort, turning back and landing another blow at the bag. 

she groans again, shaking her head and biting her lip before she kicks your leg. you stop, turning back over with an annoyed look plastered on your face.

“could you please just lower the volume of your music down? and maybe close the garage door?”

“it’s hot in here.”

“it’s hot up there too, don’t be soft.”

you scoff, raising your eyebrows. “me? soft?”

hanni pinches the bridge of her nose, she looks irritated beyond measure – it’s really amusing. “i could care less if you have to fight later, i’m trying to do some work for uni and if you could just cooperate – please.”

you almost fight back – verbally of course, with some snarky comeback or something like that – but the genuine distress shown on her face makes you back down. you inhale sharply, then exhale slowly, looking out the garage door before you start to take off your gloves.

“fine, whatever.” you mumble before using your teeth to peel the velcro portion off. “i only practiced for twenty minutes but fine.”

hanni feels a twinge of guilt as she watches you angrily toss the gloves into the corner. she sees the way your hands slick back your damp hair, your movements rough and frustrated as you grab your bag. you wipe the sweat from your face with a towel, but her eyes are drawn to the way the light glistens off your back, the defined muscles highlighted by sweat and shadows. when you turn, hanni’s gaze catches on the hint of your abs peeking out from your tank top, and she quickly looks away, her jaw tightening as she forces herself not to stare.

her eyes wander to a photo pinned up on the garage wall. it’s of you and her grandpa, standing side by side. you’re smiling proudly, and he’s raising your hand in victory, a small medal clutched in your other hand. the sight makes hanni exhale, the irritation she felt earlier softening a bit.

before you can leave, she steps forward, stopping you in your tracks.

you turn to face her, looking at her questionably. “what?”

“hey,” hanni looks away, seemingly making up her mind about whatever she’s about to say or do. “i… i get home at around three if i’m studying after classes, that’s a better time to you know… do your stuff.”

“i work, hanni.”

“well, it was just a suggestion.” she looks at you intensely, eyes focused on yours. “or just… turn your music down… or something.”

“thanks for the suggestion, asshole.”

“hey!”

you can’t help but chuckle, a small smile accdientally forming before you put your poker face back on. “you’ll get used to it.”

“i hate you.”

“whatever, tell that to michael.” you add finally before flipping her off as you walk away; you hear hanni scoffing from behind.

–

you sneak in practice when hanni’s not home or when michael offers to help because there’s nothing better than taking out whatever you feel out on a punching bag or in the air. 

hanni is too preoccupied with work and her new friends to think about what a nuisance you are, but still, she finds time here and there everyday for you to pop up in her mind. she groans everytime your dumb face flickers in her brain, scoffing and shaking her head.

sometimes you even think of hanni, mostly when you’re in michael’s house and not getting scolded – for some reason, the absence of bickering with hanni and the hostility in the air makes you feel strange, almost like somethings missing despite your very little time with her.

neither of you bat an eye – this is a lie, both of you do, but as subtly as you can – when it comes to the thought of each other. it’s nothing, it can’t be.

–

minjeong kept you out, making you tag along with her little group of friends for dinner. all of you had barbeque and were laughing at the texts from aeri’s new talking stage.

it’s a boatload of cliche, sappy romantic lines that were probably found in a book he had picked up in the library. it’s oddly cliche and corny, things ranging from ‘you’re brighter than the sun, my love’ to ‘van gogh could never pain anything as beautiful as you’ and it has the whole table bursting out into laughter. sure, it was charming in its own way, but still, you cackled after watching jimin nearly spit out her beer after reading through all of it.

“jesus christ, who is this guy?” minjeong scoffs.

aeri sips on her drink, shrugging. “some guy in my statistics class, heeseung or something.”

“and you haven’t blocked him?” you chuckle, sipping on your soda. you were never a drinker despite your high tolerance, always opting for something without alcohol and being the token sober friend. “you’re stronger than me.”

“he’s cute! he’s just… icky over text. i swear he’s better in person. he’s like, super sweet and shit – in a frat too but he’s not like most frat guys.”

minjeong nudges your shoulder and looks at you with raised brows, you give her a knowing look and laugh to yourself. she leans over and mutters in your ear, “how much are you betting that they become official?”

“pftt, two weeks. aeri seems more than entertained, maybe enamored?”

“if it’s less than, you owe me twenty bucks.”

you roll your eyes, finishing your diet coke. “ass.”

“it’s a deal~” minjeong cheers before both of you return to the conversation, watching jimin give another judgy look after seeing his instagram. 

just then, your phone buzzes against the table and you turn to check it. there’s a text from michael, so you quickly look over to unlock your phone with your face and read the message; there’s something about michael asking you to take the morning shift instead of the evening, which makes you sigh. 

you love your friends, but michael and work have to come first sometimes.

“hey guys, i gotta go. sorry.” you sigh, picking up your little bag.

“what?” aeri whines, “it’s only eight?”

“i have to cover the morning, probably aki’s fault. i’m sorry – here.” you slap two ten dollar bills down, offering an apologetic smile. “it’s for the tip, use the other ten for dessert or something. sorry again, let’s hang next week?”

“ugh, fine.” minjeong groans before giving you a little side hug. she smiles at you and pinches your cheek, something all of your friends do since you’re the youngest of the bunch. “see you, asshole.”

“uh huh, fuck you too.” you joke, then wave to the rest. “bye.”

you walk out of the small barbeque restaurant and fix the tank top on your body, groaning at the small oil stain on the bottom of it. you sigh before continuing to walk down the road, fixing your hair as the wind messes it up.

your ear twitches when you hear a whistle, then a remark that makes your head turn.

“hey sweetheart, let me get a piece of that…” just the sound of it tells you it’s some drunkie, when you catch sight of three men, your assumption is proved correct.

“c’mon baby, don’t be shy now.” another one says, leaning against the wall as his other friend walks over to the woman passing by, tugging at her wrist lightly.

“hey, don’t be an ass, you’re too pretty to–”

you step forward, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away from the group. she looks at you, first confused, then with a flicker of gratitude as you motion for her to leave with a quick wave of your hand. she doesn’t hesitate, scurrying down the road while you turn back to face the three men in front of you.

their faces are flushed, a deep red from anger or alcohol—or maybe both. their hair is messy, beards scraggly and unkempt, and their eyes narrow as they take you in. one of them, bolder than the others, strides up and grabs your wrist. but you twist it sharply, making him wince and pull back with a pained groan.

“you wanna be a brave little bitch, huh?” he sneers, rubbing his wrist.

you shake his hand off and shove him back, your gaze hard and unflinching. his friends laugh darkly, stepping up beside him. they’re all taller, but not by much, and the height difference doesn’t faze you. you stand your ground, eyes locked on them with a cold intensity that makes their chuckles falter.

“look at you, you’re pretty too huh princess?”

“and you look like you were made with a quick nut.” you scoff stepping back as he steps forward.

“the hell did you say?”

“you heard me.”

he pokes the inside of his cheek before grabbing your wrist again, his grip tight enough so you can’t repeat your escape from his hold.

“oh, i’m gonna make you regret that, you little whore—” his threat is cut short as your fist connects with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. he groans, clutching his cheek and letting go of your wrist.

before you can catch your breath, his friend grabs your arm and slams you against the brick wall. your shoulder scrapes against the rough surface, tearing the skin and drawing blood. you try to push forward, but another man shoves you back, forcing you to hit the same spot again. the impact knocks the wind out of you, and you gasp, the pain sharp and immediate.

they surround you, blocking any view of the street. their smirks widen, and you can feel the danger closing in. but as one of them makes a move, you react instinctively, throwing a hook that catches him off guard and sends him stumbling back. his friends pause, shocked, before they turn to you, arms raised, fists clenched.

“so you think you’re tough, huh? that’s cute…” one of them slurs, stepping closer.

you don’t hesitate. you drive a jab straight into his chest, forcing the air out of him and making him stagger. the last man lunges at you, but you sidestep him, landing a solid blow to his jaw. he crumples, and you’re left standing, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you face the remaining two who are back up, ready for whatever comes next.

–

hanni is sprawled out on the couch, completely absorbed in the latest season of her favorite show. she’s nestled against the armrest, legs stretched out so far that her toes nearly graze the opposite end. her eyes are glued to the screen, knuckles brushing her lips as she watches the unfolding drama with bated breath. the sound of the door unlocking barely registers; she assumes it’s just her grandpa coming home.

“hi grandpa!” she calls out, not bothering to glance away from the screen. but instead of the usual warm greeting, there’s only the sound of the door closing with an unexpected force. that makes her pause. she hits the pause button and finally turns her head, eyebrows knitting together when she sees you heading toward the kitchen.

there’s something off about the way you move—your shoulders are slumped, and you lean heavily against the counter as soon as you reach it. it’s then that hanni notices the blood staining your shoulder, her eyes widening. she’s on her feet in an instant, rushing over in her oversized pajamas.

“y/n?” she gasps, her voice tight with concern as she takes in the sight of your scratched back, exposed by your tank top. “what happened?”

“nothing.” you lie, opening the cupboard and grabbing the first aid kit. 

“why are you so–” hanni catches herself before she insults you. “are you okay?”

“it’s just a scratch, go enjoy your show.”

“your shoulder is bleeding, and there are scrapes all over your back.” this is the first time hanni’s seen you in almost a month, and instead of you just showing up to exist and annoy her like usual, you’re battered and bruised. you’ve got blood seeping out from a cut on your shoulder, scratches on your jaw, and more dried blood on the edge of your nostril – probably from a prior nosebleed. there’s even a small cut on your neck, and overall, you look completely wrecked. hanni looks you up and down before pointing out the obvious, “this is not just a scratch.”

“thanks, sherlock,” you mutter as you tear open an alcohol wipe packet. “i got into a fight.”

“for money? how did gloves lead to this?” she asks, bewildered.

“no, not for money.” you wince as the alcohol stings your wound, but you keep going. “some guys were catcalling this woman... probably would’ve done worse to her if i hadn’t stepped in.”

“jesus… what happened after you stepped in?” hanni’s voice softens as she watches you closely, her eyes tracing the tension in your arm as you clean the wound.

“they pushed me against a brick wall and tried to fight me. it was three against one, but they were drunk. it wasn’t easy, but it’s handled. it’s nothing,” you say, brushing it off as you grab the nearest gauze and the biggest bandage you can find.

hanni makes a disgusted face, then it softens into something of worry.

you start to wash your hands and hanni can’t help but gaze at you for a while, you look back at her as your hands rub soap around, keeping eye contact and biting down on your teeth.

“you’re so fucking wreckless.”

“thanks hanni.” you say sarcastically, turning back to rinse your hands and shake them dry. “you’re so sweet.”

“why didn’t you just run? they were drunk and you’re–”

“asshole’s deserve bruises.” you answer. “i fight because i like to, and sometimes it’s necessary in situations like this.”

“do you like getting hurt?” hanni asks, “what the hell is wrong with you.” it unintentionally comes out harsh, surprising you both.

“oh, so i can’t fight drunk assholes who only think with their dicks? what the fuck is your problem? why do you care?” you snap, stepping closer to hanni, sizing her up. “you’re all ‘you piss me off’ until i do something that has nothing to do with you.”

“well!” hanni starts, her voice wavering as she takes in your expression, eventually backing down. “i don’t know, okay? it’s just… you’re hurt. i’m studying to work in a fucking hospital, so of course, i’m going to be bothered by an injury. you should’ve let it go.”

“then be bothered by other people’s injuries, not mine,” you reply, your voice stern as you look down at her, your gaze sharp. hanni shivers under your intense stare, breaking eye contact by shaking her head and scoffing quietly. you start packing up the first aid kit, your back to her as you add, “i’m staying in the room upstairs tonight. don’t come worrying your ass off.”

“fuck you,” hanni groans, crossing her arms defensively.

“go finish your show,” you mumble, brushing your shoulder against hers as you walk past without looking back. but hanni does—she turns around, catching you stomping towards the stairs in silence.

she pinches the bridge of her nose as she heads back to the couch, flopping down with a frustrated sigh. “see if i care…” she grumbles, resuming her show.

hanni tries to focus on the tension between the two leads on screen, but she can’t shake the tension between the two of you. it lingers, gnawing at her, and she finds herself angry at you but even angrier at herself. she can’t pinpoint why, but it frustrates her to the point of a near headache. 

hanni hates you, she hates how stupidly careless you are, how you’ve gotten hurt, and the fact that you’re making her worry.

she despises you.

-

your whole body is sore from what you had endured the night prior, but it doesn’t stop you from making a coffee in the morning. 

you lean against the counter and hold yourself up with your hand, clutching your shoulder with the other. it still hurts, it had hurt even more as you changed the bandaid waiting for your coffee to drop, but it had to happen.

as you pour a glass, you hear someone going down the stairs and the contact of their feet hitting the wooden floor reverberating throughout the quiet house. hanni comes into vision in a few seconds, rubbing her eyes and then tying up her bedhead to reveal a puffy face.

avoiding eye contact, you look away, leaving her with the view of the side of your face and the bandaid on your shoulder. 

it’s silent, yet the tension seems like a siren blaring in your ears. 

hanni walks past you, grabbing an empty glass before trudging over to the fridge. the sound of water filling the glass echoes in the quiet kitchen as you sip your coffee, the gulp a little too loud in the stillness. you can hear every step she takes, the soft shuffle as she leans against the counter across from you, the gentle clink of the glass as she brings it to her lips. each sip she takes seems to resonate, followed by a small sigh that hangs in the air. everything feels heightened— every sound, every movement — everything.

you turn around and make your way to the sink – right next to hanni – and dump the rest of your coffee down the drain because you can’t finish it in front of her. neither of you bat an eye at each other, despite your faces being a hand or two apart. hanni sips on her water, you let the running water fill the silence until you decide to say something.

“i’m going to work.”

“okay.”

“okay.” you respond, turning to finally catch a glimpse of her face again, side profile and all enhanced by the light.

you grab your work bag on the table and put on your cap, not batting an eye at her as you walk towards the door.

“wait,” hanni says suddenly, making you turn around again to face her. you raise your brows, expecting more from her. “don’t be reckless.” she adds, looking you dead in the eye.

you tense up, looking right back at her. 

“whatever.” you mumble, turning back around to leave.

–

not only did michael make you work from eight in the morning until three, he makes you clock out to see a text saying “hey, could you pick up hanni?” the same hanni that you had argued with last night because you were stubborn, in pain, and still angry at three assholes to the point that you had lashed out on his innocent granddaughter for no reason.

you’re in debt to michael forever (basically – in your mind that’s the case) so of course you respond with a small thumbs up emoji.

now you find yourself back in your car, on the way to the university hanni goes to, which, is conveniently and frighteningly the same university your friends go to. if they had caught you picking up a girl, who knows what remarks they’d bring to the table the next time you see them.

(it’s not the fact that it’s just a girl, it’s the fact that hanni isn’t ugly in the slightest, not at all.)

(pretty even, but that could be pushing it.)

(it’s not pushing it, not at all the more you think about it.)

(you decide to shake hanni off your mind.)

you park by the public health building, waiting for michael’s granddaughter to show up. you sigh, looking at all the students passing by and sighing even harder looking at the dumb couples hand in hand. the last time you tried loving, it made it hard to even consider being in something like that – being enamored.

you’re back to earth when you catch a girl with overgrown bangs in a oversized jersey and sweats in the distance. she’s grinning and giggling with two other women you don’t recognize, even pushing one in the shoulder and smiling wide.

it hits you that you’ve never seen her like this… joyful? it’s partly your fault, holding onto that stupid grudge you can’t let go of, but still, it’s strange seeing her so open. she crinkles her nose, laughs with her mouth wide, and throws her head back just a bit—it’s oddly cute, even adorable. something about it unsettles you, though, like you’re witnessing a side of her you were never meant to see. even then, you feel one corner of your lips turning up just barely.

she’s closer to the car, looking around as her friend says something inaudible. then she catches you in her field of vision and her smile falters slightly, it unsettles you even more.

“i’ll see you guys tomorrow, bye!” hanni waves to her two friends, then walks towards your car. she opens the door to the passengers side and takes off her bag before settling in. 

it’s silent when she closes it, other than the faint sound of your rnb playlist in the background and the click of hanni’s seatbelt. you shift the stick and start to get out of where you are, hanni looks forward and out the window.

once you make it to the stoplight before leaving the grounds, you take the opportunity the red light gives you to speak.

“i’m sorry.”

hanni turns her head at your sudden apology, looking at you like you’ve just spat nonsense.

“what?”

“i’m sorry for… being so,” you grip the wheel tighter, turning your head just a bit to meet her gaze. “you know, stubborn.”

“is this about last night?”

you gulp. “yeah.”

“oh, okay.” hanni says, looking back and watching the light turn green. 

you slowly hit the gas and turn the wheel. “i was really um, angry last night, from everything.” you start again, eyes on the road. “i didn’t mean to be a bitch.”

“look who’s self-aware.”

“shut the hell up.”

“what an apology.” hanni says, though not without smiling to herself a bit. she looks at the bandaid on your neck, then asks, “are you good?”

“i’m fine, it was just a scratch.”

“right.”

“i literally box, hanni.”

“with gloves and a ref.”

“wow! good eye.” you say bluntly, making her snicker a bit. hanni smiles, not quite like you had seen her smile before, but the way her lips turn make you smile yourself.

she looks out the window on her side for a bit, you keep driving and turn up the volume along the way.

“why did you start boxing?” she asks out of the blue. 

you glance at her for a split second, she’s still gazing out the window. “my grandpa boxed.”

“do you like it? doesn’t it hurt?”

“it’s–” you pause, thinking of a response that doesn’t reveal too much. “--thrilling. i mean, i just… bottle up a lot. it’s the only way i get all of it out.”

“is it?”

“i guess? kinda. you should box, seems like you’ve got a lot in that tiny body of yours.” you joke.

“i’d rather jump off a building.” hanni pretends to shiver. “i don’t know how you or yunjin do it.”

“you’d love it, just put on gloves and go crazy.”

she rolls her eyes, leaning against the glass as you turn the corner. 

the rest of the ride is silent.

–

two weeks later, you’re sitting down on the couch in your apartment and watching more of your grandpa’s matches. there’s something beautiful and equally as admirable in how swift and agile he is with each move, easily taking down anyone in his way. you replay certain moments, specifically his hooks that you tried your best to replicate.

in the middle of it all, you hear a knock on your door.

you turn, looking confused because why would anyone be at your place? maybe minjeong left something again, but she hasn’t been at your place in over a week.

you open the door, not minding that you’re literally in a sports bra and boy shorts looking like you’ve just gotten out at bed, and widen your eyes at the sight of hanni in your view.

hanni, on the other hand, tenses up at the sight of you. 

your whole body is on display, but not in the way yunjin does it—dressed to impress, ready to make out with whoever catches her eye at parties. yours is a different kind of exposure, casual and unintentional, almost domestic. it catches hanni off guard, all of it. her eyes trace the small strawberry tattoo just above your waistline, lingering on the subtle curve and tone of your abdomen. the way your skin glistens under the dimmed light overhead makes it even harder for her to look away.

she’s staring – blatantly. 

you clear your throat, leaning your head down a bit as you put your hand against the doorframe.

“what are you doing here?”

“what?” hanni shoots her head up to match your level. “oh, my grandpa needed something.”

“did he? shit… i borrowed his cooking shit for a house party–” you groan, “just come inside, sit down on the couch.”

hanni does as she’s told, you let her inside and she’s taken aback by how… neat it is. 

hanni always thought of you as someone angry and stubborn—your first impressions and the way you carried yourself made her believe you’d be disorganized, a bit all over the place. but now, sitting in your apartment, she realizes how wrong she was. the earthy tones, the carefully placed trinkets, the neatly arranged shelves, and the thoughtfully chosen furniture all speak to a side of you she didn’t expect. as she sits on the couch, her eyes drift to the small plant by your tv and the man locked in the middle of a match on the screen. she glances at the coffee table, stacked with boxing and vintage magazines. your place is nice, unexpectedly so.

you return with a box balanced against your side, holding it in place with one hand while you use the other to clear the coffee table. placing the box down, you settle into the smaller seat opposite her, leaning back with a sigh. you manspread casually, your posture relaxed as you take a moment to unwind. 

it’s oddly alluring, hanni thinks, she wants to stop thinking forever as soon as the thought even processes through her brain.

“that should be all of it.” you yawn and rub your eyes. “tell michael i said sorry for forgetting.”

“right, yeah.” hanni’s staring at you, she can’t seem to take her eyes off you, not when you look so… tolerable?

“did you need something else or…?”

“no,” hanni coughs, shaking her head. “but i need you to take me somewhere um, this saturday. my grandpa is gone for the weekend.”

“am i your uber now? i don’t know if i can, i’m going out on saturday.”

“oh, nevermind then.”

“where do you need to go?” you ask, “i can make arrangements, i guess.”

“a party”

“you party?” you snicker, looking at her amused. “i didn’t know you had a social life.”

“you are actually the most annoying person i know.” she grabs the box, then starts to stand. “nevermind, you ass.”

she starts to walk away, heading toward the door, but your touch halts her. hanni feels the gentle tug of your finger hooked around the back of her zip-up’s neckline, the fabric pulling her back slightly. she turns to face you, confusion etched in her expression as she meets your gaze.

“i’ll take you, loser.” you release your finger from her hoodie. “what’s your number?”

“my what?”

“number hanni, what you use to text and call people. one, two, three, four, five, six and so on… you know, the digits on your little phone.” your tone reminds her of a kindergarten teacher talking to a child, or some soft parenting method – it’s teasing and hanni would punch you if it weren’t for the box she was holding.

she manages to stomp on your foot, making you say ‘ow’ jokingly. then she gives you her number, you send a text, a simple ‘asshole’ and smiling when you hear the little buzz from her pocket.

“just text me the address, oh, and by the way,” you say, tugging lightly at the sleeve of her zip-up hoodie, your fingers brushing against the soft fabric. “where’d you get this?” your eyes trace the way it drapes over her, the oversized fit somehow flattering. it falls just past her waist, the sleeves hanging slightly, giving her a cozy, effortless look. maybe it’s just her that makes it work so well. maybe it’s just her.

she shrugs, muttering, “i don’t know, my grandpa gave it to me and said it’d fit.”

“it’s a little big on you,” you tease, a smirk playing on your lips. “might fit someone taller.”

“i will throw this box at you,” hanni groans, rolling her eyes. you laugh softly, opening the door for her, watching as she steps into the hallway.

“hey, hanni,” you call after her, making her pause and glance back. she tilts her head, curious, as you add with a mischievous grin, “that’s my zip-up, by the way.”

she freezes, her cheeks flushing as she processes your words. she looks down at the hoodie, suddenly aware of how comfortable it feels, how it smells faintly like you. you’re terrible, she thinks, hating the weird flutter in her stomach, the way her blush deepens. everything about you, your stupid remarks, your annoying personality, and that oddly cute nature—it all makes her feel things she can’t quite name, and it drives her crazy.

hanni hates you.

(just a little less now, or maybe more – she hates how confused you render her.)

–

you send hanni a simple ‘here.’ text and stand outside the door waiting for her, hands in your pockets as you look at the overgrown grass that needs to be cut soon – most likely by you. as much as you dread it, you’ll be getting some good food after, that’s always promised.

the door opens a few minutes later and hanni appears, you’re taken aback.

she’s fucking gorgeous.

a loose white baby t-shirt clings to her softly, revealing just a hint of her delicate stomach and the subtle curve that draws your eye without meaning to. her low-rise jeans ride low enough to show the waistband of her underwear, adding to the effortless appeal. when you finally look up at her, your lips part slightly, caught off guard by how striking she is. her full, plump lips are highlighted by a touch of makeup that emphasizes their natural shape. though her makeup is minimal, the slight smokiness around her eyes and the rosy blush on her cheeks bring out her features in a way that feels almost intimate. her bangs fall just above her eyes, partially obscuring her forehead, and the hoops in her ears add a finishing touch. everything about her compels you to take a second look, your heart skipping a beat in the process. 

“are you ready?” hanni breaks you out of your trance, you blink and then look past her. 

“yeah, sorry.”

she tries to read you, then shakes it off and walks past you and towards your car. you subconsciously look her up and down, furrowing your brows when it hits that you basically just checked her out.

was hanni always this… nice on the eyes?

hanni gets in the car first after you unlock it, you plop in the drivers seat check your messages, there’s an address in your groupchat with minjeong and the others. you decide to check it later, instead asking hanni to type her address in your phone, which is almost too similar to the one you had just seen in your notifications.

“hold on,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the address hanni had typed in and then at the one in your group chat. it’s the same address. “i think… we’re going to the same party.”

“you party?”

“okay you can’t ask me that, nerd. and yes, i do when i want.”

“whatever.” hanni rolls her eyes as you wait for the directions to pop up on your carplay screen. you take the time to settle your phone down in the cup holder, then gaze at hanni for a little, eyes flickering from her eyes to her lips once, then twice. hanni raises a brow, then asks bashfully, “what?”

“nothing,” you mumble, looking at her lips again. you reach her eyes one more time, making eye contact. “you just look really… good.” you admit, “i guess.”

“oh.” hanni just stares at you while you shift the car from ‘p’ to ‘d’, turning the car away from the curb and driving. she stares hard, focused on everything about you – from the satisfying curve of the side of your features to the sharp jawline of yours, and then to the skin of your abdomen that’s peeking out from the work jacket you have on.

she doesn’t say a word after that, instead scoffing playfully and making you smile softly. she puts on some random song from her playlist after forcefully taking the aux, accidentally playing a more intimate rnb song, making the tension in the air thicker.

–

you two make it to the house in less than ten minutes walking side by side. both of you can hear music blasting from inside, glancing at each other from the side and smiling to yourselves. 

“my god…” hanni scoffs.

“what, you don’t like astroworld? travis scott isn’t even that bad, they could be playing fucking… juice wrld or something.”

“i hear sicko mode playing every other day outside the food courts… no thanks. and ew! who plays juice wrld at a party?” 

you stifle a chuckle before walking over, hanni follows behind. you two make your way inside – the door had been unlocked already – and walk in. there’s more than just a handful of people, it’s like whoever hosted the function invited anyone they looked at. you spot your friends somewhere in the distance, locking eyes with aeri who smiles immediately after seeing you. 

you nudge hanni’s shoulder, she glares at you while you throw a cocky smirk and say, “text me when you wanna leave, i’m gonna be sober, trust.” hanni nods at you, catching the way your eyes linger on her for a few more seconds, especially at her revealed skin, then watches you leave.

she walks through the house, eventually finding her own group of friends – including yunjin. yunjin questions hanni, mentioning that she saw you earlier with her, asking if she was just more than tipsy and seeing things. but hanni sighs, pretending to be bothered by your presence as she explains a shorter version of how you two grew to tolerate each other. 

she leaves out the fact that maybe it’s because you’re just as charming and cute as you are annoying and cocky. she sugarcoats a lot about you, both the good and bad, making sure yunjin isn’t too bothered. thankfully, her older friend doesn’t mind, instead she shrugs and switches topics when minji arrives with haewon.

–

it’s been at least three hours of meeting a bunch of people from the university your friends – and coincidentally hanni – go to, playing beer bong without doing the whole drinking part, and for the past thirty minutes you’ve been watching minjeong flirt with girls from across the room and making stupid bets with aeri and jimin as she did so. ningning even snapped pictures of the tipsy flirt, making sure to remind herself to send it to the groupchat in the morning.

you check the time, brows raising at how late it is – nearly one in the morning.

“i’m going to find someone.”

“someone?” aeri raises her brows.

“it’s not like that, this girl i know.” you shove her playfully, then add, “might not be back, she has curfew – i’m giving her curfew, don’t trust her at all.”

“when did you get a girlfriend? let me meet her–”

“she’s not, shut up. i gotta go, i’ll text you or appear or something if i end up staying, see you.” you wave at your friends and then to the three others that had joined your little group conversation, lily? bae? yujin? you can’t remember clearly, but you’re probably right – you’re the only one with a functioning, sober brain in the moment anyway.

heading inside, you check your phone again. hanni texted you fifteen minutes ago saying she’d be waiting in the basement since her friends had left – most of them, the others were probably doing much more… thrilling things.

the basement wasn’t too hard to find. the music was loud, the room dimly lit, and the smell of alcohol mixed with something that is probably weed heavy in the air. you scan the room, jaw tightening and fists balling up when you catch some guy – the guy that you swear aeri was defending the night you got into a fight – all up on hanni.

what was his name? hongjoong? haneul? no, heeseung. that guy, heeseung, you catch him leaning in closer to hanni, his words drowned out by the music and his smile overly confident. hanni tried to laugh it off, but the discomfort was clear on her face. heeseung didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care. he reached out to touch her arm, and that’s when rushed over and stepped in.

you pushed through the crowd, even the two guys about to lock lips, your heart pounding as you saw how close heeseung was getting. you knew he was drunk, and that made him unpredictable. you couldn’t stand by and watch this happen.

“hey man, back off,” you said firmly, stepping between him and hanni.

heeseung’s eyes narrowed as he looked at you. “what’s your problem? we’re just having fun.”

“she’s not interested,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “leave her alone.”

heeseung’s expression darkened, and before you could react, he shoved you hard, making you stumble back. your instincts kicked in, and you quickly regained your footing, shoving him back with equal force.

“you wanna go, huh?” heeseung taunted, his voice dripping with bravado as he squared up to you.

the crowd around you started to take notice, some backing away while others watched with eager anticipation. you knew this wasn’t going to end well, it never does when you’re involved, but there was no turning back now, not with hanni on the line and at risk. 

you didn’t want to fight, not really, but heeseung swung first, a wild punch that you barely dodged. now you have to fight him, it’s what you train yourself for anyway. 

you retaliated, landing a solid hit to his side and yelling through the music, “back the fuck up.” but it only seemed to anger him more. hanni hides behind you, stepping back as you put a hand out to keep her away from the intoxicated asshole in front of you.

he lunges at you and you feel a sharp sting on your side, followed by the warmth of blood trickling down your ribcage. heeseung had managed to land a hit that split the skin over your rib, his ring slicing what wasn’t covered by your sports bra and jacket. you didn’t have time to dwell on it; you were so focused on keeping hanni away from him that you didn’t even notice the fist hurling at your face while you looked back to check on her. you could taste the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, realizing he had hit your nose 

but you weren’t backing down. you pushed through the pain, throwing another punch that connected with heeseung’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. he tried to come at you again, but you were quicker, sidestepping his attack and delivering a powerful hook to his gut. heeseung doubled over, gasping for breath, and you took the opportunity to finish the fight.

with one last punch, you sent him crashing to the floor. he groans in pain, clutching his side as he lay there, defeated. you stood over him, breathing heavily. your body hurts, there’s blood dripping down on the wooden floor below you, and there’s still the taste of metal in your mouth. 

hanni rushes over to you, her eyes wide with concern as she saw the blood on your side and face. “y/n, are you okay?” she asks, her voice trembling.

your breath shakes, then you wipe the blood from your nose with the back of your hand. “it’s nothing,” you replied, though the pain was starting to set in. “we should go.”

hanni didn’t argue. she helped you out of the crowded room, the two of you leaving heeseung behind as he lay there, too stunned and beaten to follow.

she also doesn’t say a word as you walk away from the fight with a bloody nose and cut skin over the skin of your rib as well as on the corner of your lip. she doesn’t say a word as she follows you to the car, but to be fair, you hadn’t let her anyway.

your breath is shaky the whole way back, you gasp as you flop against the headrest of the car.

“y/n, are you okay?” you don’t respond to her inquiry. instead, you grip the wheel tightly, eyes fixed on the road, and bite down on your back teeth. there’s an unreadable expression on your face, you’re angry and hurt and god knows what else; there’s so much going on with you that hanni can’t point out. 

hanni doesn’t want to feed the fire, you look like you’ll punch anything if she even considers saying another word. she just stares ahead, letting you drive back to her place, following you after you slam the door of your car and lock it, walking in behind you as you open the door without looking back.

“you’re okay, right?” you ask quietly, voice practically a hum. “he didn’t touch you or anything, did he?

“no, he didn’t.” she stares at your back after you take off your work jacket, throwing it at the couch. “you’re–”

“i’m going to stay the night, i’ll be in the shower.”

“i–” hanni watches you disappear up the stairs, then her features relax into defeat.

–

some of your clothes are still in the room you used to stay in, you grab an old black t-shirt and throw it on, along with your old high school gym shorts. 

everything hurts. your body is a mess of bruises and cuts, but it’s your heart that aches the most. your chest tightens with a mix of regret and self-loathing, each breath a painful reminder of how stupid you were to get into a fight with another drunk idiot. the fact that it all happened in front of hanni makes your stomach churn. you can’t shake the image of her wide eyes, the surprise—maybe even fear?—etched across her face as she watched you throw punches and take hits right in front of her.

there’s a gnawing doubt that settles deep in your mind. did she think less of you for losing control like that? did it make you seem weaker in her eyes because you’d gotten hurt in a reckless, impulsive moment? you replay the scene over and over, each time the look on her face twists the knife in your gut a little more. it shouldn’t bother you, none of it should, you fight for fun, you’ve fought her fucking friend – but still, your flop onto the bed with a groan.

you wonder what she’s thinking now, if she’s disappointed or disgusted, if she sees you differently after witnessing your bruised and battered state. the thought that she might judge you, might see you as less capable, gnaws at you relentlessly. what if she thinks you’re just some bigger asshole than you already are to her, one who can’t control their temper, who gets beat up by nobodies in a drunken brawl? 

you shoot up when you hear a knock on the door, staring straight at it until it opens slowly to reveal hanni in the universities crewneck sweatshirt and shorts, as well as a first aid kit in one hand and an ice pack in the other.

“hey.”

“what do you want?”

“sit up.”

“hanni–”

“are you ever not an asshole? what did i say? sit up straight.” her tone is venomous, you’ve never heard her this serious or angry – seriously angry, angrier than when you spilled coffee on yunjin that one time. “please, just please listen to me for once.”

“fine.”

she sits down next to you, watching you shrink a bit just from her being there. she sets down the first aid kit, you watch her open it and grab a little wipe. then your gaze is redirected when she grabs your chin and moves it, facing it towards her as she examines close, making you gasp and you even feel your cheeks heating up. 

hanni gently cradles your chin between her thumb and pointer finger, her touch firm but surprisingly tender. she carefully dabs at the blood on your lip, her focus intent as if the world outside this moment doesn’t exist. when she lets go, there’s an unexpected pang of disappointment in the pit of your stomach, a slight desire for her touch to linger just a little longer.

but then, she holds you again, tilting your head slightly upward as she tends to the small cut on your lip. her fingers are cool against your skin, and you can’t help but wince at the sting. her expression softens, a brief flicker of concern crossing her face, but she doesn’t say anything. the silence between you is thick, loaded with everything unsaid, as she continues to care for you with a careful, almost hesitant touch.

“you’re an idiot, you know.” hanni says lowly, eyes focused on that little wound. “but less of an asshole.”

“what?” you inhale sharply when hanni presses harder on the cut, most likely intentionally. “ouch.”

“you’re hurt, and it’s because of me. i understand if you’re mad at me for that.”

you pull away, looking at her in disbelief. “what? i’m not mad at you.”

“really?”

“you dumbass.” you start, hanni just stares. “i don’t care about getting hurt, i just… i got so angry, and then he swung and… i just… i don’t know.” you grip the edge of the bed, avoiding her gaze. “i just didn’t want you hurt. i seriously don’t care that i’m hurt, i don’t care at all, i’d take another punch or two if it meant you being safe.”

“really?”

“i mean, yeah. you’re… i don’t know. why would i not do that?”

“i didn’t know you cared for me like that.”

“of course i do hanni.” the words slip out before you can stop them, carrying a weight you didn’t intend. you meet her eyes, your expression showing some sort of longing, exposing something unclear to both you and hanni, maybe unspoken or unknown feelings. your voice, soft and genuine, takes hanni by surprise. “i mean,” you quickly add, clearing your throat as your voice drops to a murmur, “you’re… you know. i couldn’t just let heeseung do that.”

“right,” hanni whispers, studying your face before resuming her careful attention to the cut on your lip. “um, your bruise looks rough, by the way.”

but the bruise doesn’t matter. the pain had faded the moment she touched you, the moment you became hyperaware of every little detail—the way your breath caught each time her thumb brushed against your skin, the soft part of her lips, the way she looked at you with that unreadable expression. she looks really beautiful, and you find yourself utterly captivated, unable to think of anything else but how you’re drawn to her, completely entranced by her presence.

hanni doesn’t hear a response from you, she looks up to meet your eyes, they’re staring deep into hers, brows upturned in the slightest. you two stare at each other for a moment again, hanni’s fingers still on your skin, the wipe in her hand hovering over the corner of your lip, and blush tinting both of your cheeks simultaneously. 

even with the ice pack pressed against your bruise, it feels like your skin is so warm that the ice is melting faster than it should. hanni takes your hand and places it over the pack, guiding you to hold it there. then, without a word, she reaches for the water bottle on the bedside table, setting it within easy reach before grabbing a bottle of tylenol from the kit. did they always have that in there? you really don’t care, not when hanni is carefully placing a tylenol pill at your lips and gently tapping your jaw twice.

“open,” she murmurs, her voice soft and comforting. you comply, opening your mouth just enough for her to slide the pill onto your tongue. she follows up by lifting the water bottle to your lips, helping you take a sip. you swallow, feeling the cool water slide down your throat. “good,” she whispers, her eyes lingering on your lips before meeting your gaze. she smiles, and it’s like everything else fades away.

something shifts in the air between you two, a subtle but undeniable change that makes your heart race, something that won’t easily fade. you’re certain now—whatever this is, it’s here to stay.

“can you lift your shirt up for me? i’m going to patch up your cut, okay?” you nod, keeping the ice pack on your bruise as you lift the shirt just enough for hanni to see the cut – still fresh – and furrow her brows just a bit. nonetheless, she grabs things you don’t pay attention to from the kit, then starts to work her magic.

(“when you love someone, taking care of them is never a problem. i love you y/n, and your grandpa; taking care of you two is nothing of a problem. maybe it’s rotten work for some people, but for the people i love? never.”)

her features etch into concentration, she bites the inside of her lip just barely, and it’s familiar in a bittersweet way.

(“you know y/n, i won’t be here forever.” your grandma’s voice rings in your head. “when you grow older i want you to find someone who will take care of you like that, and it’s your job to take care of them too.”)

she finishes tending to the cut, her knuckles grazing the bandage before she says, “you’re really tough, y/n.” 

the softness in her tone, the evident care, how she’s handled you so sweetly; you feel your eyes watering and before you know it there’s tears sliding down your cheek. hanni doesn’t notice until you sniffle, she looks up at you, surprised to see you in the vulnerable state.

“oh my god, are you okay? did it hurt? you should've told me–”

your voice cracks as you say, “you’re just like her.”

“y/n, what?”

“hanni, you’re, you–” you cut yourself off, bototm lip trembling as you fight back more tears. 

what catches hanni offguard again is the sudden hug she’s being pulled into, feeling your arms wrap around her, holding her close. hanni freezes, but melts into you, rubbing your back and mumbling soft reassurance, “it’s okay, it’s okay i’m– i’m here.”

“you don’t think i’m weak, do you?”

“of course not, you beat someone up for me.”

“good.”

“you’re stronger than everyone i know. you’re anything but weak.” she assures, hearing you sniffle again.

hanni is confused to say the least, but she’s not going ot let go until you’re ready, she’d stay with you the whole night if you asked, really.

you haven’t broken down in years, every punching bag you’ve ever come across has already met everything you’ve bottled up and left unsaid. but something about hanni and her care, it left you crying in her arms to the point where she had to pull away to wipe your tears here and there.

hanni listened to you talk about your grandma, her dying in your arms, her care, her, really the whole latter. she listened to everything, sitting there next to you even when you couldn’t speak and all you could do was stare right at the ground. it was almost like every grudge had fizzled away into nothing, there wasn’t any space for that anymore.

you chuckle, regaining awareness of the whole situation. you feel like an idiot. “i’m sorry you had to hear my sob story.”

“it’s nothing, seriously.” she squeezes your hand tightly. “i just want you to be okay.”

“it’s just, you remind me of her a little, i can’t remember the last time i cried like that. she said something to me once and… i guess seeing it in real time made me break down like a loser.”

hanni tended to you like no one else did, no doctor or nurse you’ve seen has ever done anything like that other than give you a little warning that boxing is dangerous and to be careful not to overtrain yourself. no one has held you like that, looked at you like that, or even spoken to you like that since your grandma.

“you’re not a loser y/n, all those times i called you an asshole, it’s just because of that stupid grudge i had.” she explains. “don’t beat yourself up over it.”

–

you and hanni have made up after that night, it took a while for you to open up fully and stop avoiding her due to your embarrassment, but it worked out.

you pick up hanni after her classes nearly everyday, michael makes you work hours that let you do so, he seems to enjoy your growing bond. 

sometimes you wait inside your car near whichever building she’s in with a drink or meal just because, and sometimes you two end up at your place for a short bit of time just to mingle and hangout. it’s a growing routine, a recurring thing that you’re fond of.

hanni’s noticing a more vulnerable, caring side of you. before all of this, she’s seen you as some fighter with anger issues, but you’re just like that on the outside. when she’s inside your skin, she’s exposed to the more calm side of you, the side that’s not always on edge, the side that makes her swoon a little bit – she’s always found you alluring no matter how hard she tried to deny it, but now that your real self is constantly in front of her; you’re someone she can’t help but smile at everytime she sees you.

she takes pictures of you rarely, but each one is favorited just because she’s telling herself that they’re funny moments worth looking back on, even if some of them are just you doing domestic things or even driving. she even mentions you to her friends sometimes, sometimes, even to yunjin (who isn’t against this whole growing bond, the rivalry had died down anyway, it was just a tournament for money) which caught her by surprise. 

hanni found herself seeking you out more often, even if it meant enduring the relentless thumping of your fists against the sandbags and the blare of your obnoxiously loud music while she tried to study. it was a small price to pay for those fleeting moments where she could catch a glimpse of you – she kind of (really) enjoyed watching you workout to the point where she’d fake complaints.

“ugh, i have a longass lecture tomorrow. please keep it down, it’s in the morning.”

“and i need to stay in shape you loser.”

“you can go a day without it, just skip today, please?”

you stop your movements, breathing in deeply to catch your breath before looking at her.

she’s wearing her glasses again, and something about them makes her look especially cute. her hair is braided into two neat plaits that hang off her shoulders, framing her face perfectly. when she looks at you, there’s a hint of playful annoyance in her expression, though it only makes you smile wider. your grin broadens even more as you take in the full picture of her—she’s drowned in oversized clothes and you can’t help but be captivated.

“is that my t-shirt?”

hanni looks down at her top, then stutters, “i- i don’t know? i just grabbed it…”

“you’re a thief, that’s what.”

“shut up oh my god.” she groans.

you chuckle, then take your gloves off and hand them to her, she looks at you confusedly. “put them on.” you urge, watching her look at you like you’re stupid. “c’mon now.”

“what?” she feels you grabbing her hands, you place the gloves on yourself for her, then push her towards the sandbag. “i’m not going to–”

“take a hit, it’s a stress reliever.”

“y/n please–”

“go on,” you smirk, raising your brows. “your grandpa was great, you have to have inherited some of his skills.” she immediately punches you in the shoulder, causing you to pout playfully.

with a sigh, she gets into a fighting stance that nearly makes you burst out laughing. she throws a punch—surprisingly decent—then looks at you expectantly.

“happy?” she asks, a dumbfounded expression on her face.

“fix your form,” you murmur, moving behind her to adjust her arms. hanni’s breath catches slightly as you correct her stance, your hands steadying her waist before tapping her thigh to shift her leg back. “there you go, but don’t stay so loose. someone’s going to knock you over.”

“it’s not like i’m going to fight anyone soon—” mid-sentence, you give her a gentle shove, causing her to stumble and lose her balance. “hey!”

“stay tense. if i’d used all my strength, you would’ve hit the ground,” you giggle, helping her back into position. she blushes as you guide her, the warmth of your hands lingering on her waist, making her hyper-aware of every touch. “okay?” your breath hits teh back of her ear and she shivers.

“yeah, whatever.” she says before punching again, a better one for that matter.

“you’re actually not bad.”

“are you lying to me?”

“a little.” you joke, then smile at her. “you’re cute.” you say under your breath.

“what did you say?”

“nothing.”

hanni had heard you say it, but she doesn’t push further. 

–

the next time you pick hanni up, you decide to head out onto her campus and find your friends before picking her up. her class ends in thirty minutes anyway, and ningning had promised to buy you coffee the next time she had seen you.

you stand near your car with her, leaning against the brick wall beside her with your hand against it as you sip on the latte she had bought you. you stare at the cup, impressed by the quality.

“this is good.”

“i know right.” she agrees, taking another sip. “jesus, your lip is still busted.”

“is it?” you ask, feeling ningnings thumb grazing the injury. “it feels fine.”

“it’s still dark. heeseung got you good, didn’t he?” 

“shut up, i knocked him out, that’s what matters.” you roll your eyes and hear her laugh. she pushes your shoulder playfully, laughing even more.

hanni walks towards your car only to see you not inside, which throws her off. she looks around, scanning the area for a bit until her eyes land on you leaning against the wall with a girl. she feels her heart sink a bit just watching her touch your lip and push you lightly. you laugh at her and smile, making the weird feeling in her stomach even worse.

she walks over and taps your shoulder, earning the attention from the two of you as she clears her throat. 

“hey, i had trouble finding you.” hanni says, then looks at ningning, almost glaring. “who’s this?”

“oh, a friend.” you simply state, then wave at the girl beside you. “i got to get going, let’s catch up soon again, okay?

“mhm, see you n/n.” she winks at you and you have to fight back a gag. hanni feels like there’s a pit in her stomach.

the two of you get into your car, but it’s odd considering hanni hasn’t insulted you or even said anything. she just gets inside and looks out the window while you turn on the car, you raise a brow.

“is everything okay? bad day or…?”

“you into her?”

“what? no. don’t be ridiculous.”

“she kept touching your lip.” hanni scoots closer to the window, not daring to look at you. “i think she wants you.”

“you’re actually an idiot.” you sigh, shrugging her off as you start to drive away.

hanni stays silent the rest of the car ride, not saying much other than responding to your questions bluntly. you don’t know what’s gotten into her.

–

you’re very aware that it’s easy to piss hanni off, or maybe that’s just because it’s you. 

half the time it’s really just you being playfully irritating, she’s never actually been mad at you in months. but these days, ever since you picked her up that one time after hanging with ningning, she’s been distant, avoidant even.

hanni stays cooped up in her room, you even knock on her door after training to ask to grab a bite or really just anything. hanni’s always throwing the same excuses at you, she never did this before, but now her university work suddenly keeps her away from you.

you knock at her door again, opening it to find her in bed on her phone.

“you busy?”

“who’s asking.”

“what the hell is up with you?” you sigh, walking over to sit next to her. “i just wanted to ask if you wanted fruit. your grandpa cut some for me, like, so much. do you want to eat it together?”

hanni's grown fond of the way you look at her, something she never expected to happen. there's a warmth in your gaze that catches her off guard, especially when you give her those pleading eyes, head tilted just so, with your hair falling perfectly to frame your face. even then, as she shakes her head, she can’t ignore the little flutter in her chest. despite everything, there's an undeniable allure in the way you look at her now, one that she's finding harder to resist.

the whole reason she’s been giving you the cold shoulder is because the realization hit her as soon as you leather tend to your injuries: she likes you, she likes you so goddamn much. seeing you with ningning the other day made her realize that she likes you too much, so much that the fact that someone likes you, and you might like them – this ‘ningning’ makes her heartache.

for fucks sake, she’s a nursing student, she can’t be wallowing away because of a crush.

“not hungry.”

“have you even eaten?”

“yeah.”

“you liar.” you get up, looking at her worryingly and fighting back the words you want to say. “i’m heading out then, i’ll pick you up tomorrow after school.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i’m going to, don’t leave me hanging.” you give hanni a serious look, tightening your jaw before letting a small huff out. she avoids your gaze, turning on her side in her bed, then catching the sight of you leave as soon as your back is turned towards her.

-

you cannot believe what you’re watching unfold right now. 

hanni, hanni, hanni who you beat up a man for, is in the distance talking to that same man you beat up. heeseung is saying something to her that you can’t catch, hanni’s giving him a smile, and you would’ve gotten out of the car to smack him in the face if hanni weren’t already walking towards you.

she gets inside, you look at her like a police officer interrogating a criminal.

“was that him?”

“oh, it’s nothing.”

“hanni.” you start, but decide to close your eyes tight, poke your tongue at your cheek, and simply start to back out of your parking spot. “we’ll talk about this later, we’re going to my place.”

“yours?”

“we’re going to talk.”

“you’re abducting me.” hanni raises a brow, if it were coming from anyone else it would for sure be mildly concerning. “you’re kidnapping me.”

“yes.”

-

you two make it inside and as soon as hanni is in after you, you shut the door and cross your arms.

hanni heads over to your little kitchen and grabs a waterbottle from your fridge, then leans against the counter.

“what did i do?” you ask, walking over to her. “did i piss you off in the wrong way again? did i say something wrong?”

“what are you talking about?”

“don’t give me that, you’ve been avoiding me.”

“no i haven’t.”

“then why haven’t you been over to watch your stupid shows at my place in the past two weeks hanni.” you step closer, sizing up with her and drilling through her skull with your eye contact. “why haven’t we gone out for smoothies in the past two weeks, why haven’t we had a full conversation in two weeks, and hell, why were you talking to heeseung earlier.”

hanni gulps the water she’s sipped, turning her head away, but you use two fingers to redirect her attention back to you. hanni feels her breath shake when she exhales.

“i, it’s nothing. and besides, heeseung was just… asking me out, saying sorry and whatnot but i didn’t give him my number or anything.”

“so you rejected him?”

“i mean, i just told him i’ll think about it.”

you laugh, you laugh because this is fucking ridiculous. 

“he beat me up hanni, he punched a woman – me – right in the face and gave me a bruise. you said you’d ‘think about it?’” 

“what does it matter to you! you already have that ningning, why do you care about me?”

you pause, looking at her confused. “is all this shit because of ningning? she’s just my friend.”

“well you look at her like it’s something more!” hanni blurts, looking stressed.

“it’s not– hanni, you’re being ridiculous.”

“am i? because she was touching your lip and pushing your shoulder and it seemed like you enjoyed being around her sooooo much–”

“and because of this you’ve been avoiding me? and you’re really going to consider seeing a guy who beat my ass up.” you can’t believe what you’re saying, you can’t believe any of this.

“what, i can’t do my own shit now?”

she can’t, she can’t because only you should be doing that shit with her. you’re looking at her like she’s crazy, utterly confused as you scan her features. for a split second, she looks at you like she’s reconsidering things, like she’s longing or something. 

then it hits you, it hits you after you run through every mental note of hanni: she’s jealous, she’s jealous of you because she thinks you and ningning have something going on. 

you pause, stepping closer until there’s hardly any space between you. leaning in, you narrow your eyes at her, voice dropping low. “because,” you murmur, placing one hand on her waist while the other gently cups her jawline. her breath hitches, and you can feel the tension in her neck, but she doesn’t pull away. instead, she drops her gaze to your lips, then down to your collarbone, avoiding your eyes. you tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet your gaze. your eyes trace over her flustered expression – flushed cheeks and parted lips – and you let out a sigh. “because it should be me you’re thinking about seeing, asshole.”

her hand slides to your upper chest, sliding up to your collarbone before you kiss her.

you kiss her like you want her, like you need her and she kisses back with the same force. she reels you in closer and melts into you without thinking. hanni smells like pears and a sunday morning, you could die like this.

she parts to catch her breath, shivering when your hand trickles right under her shirt and your skin grazes against her own. her eyes are still closed when she says, “you’re not with ningning, are you?”

“i’d rather get hit by a bullet train than do anything with her.” you mutter, then pull her closer by the waist. “i want you to be the one i’m kissing, it’s always been you dumbass.”

hanni kisses you again, pulling you in with her arms wrapped around your neck. 

–

it’s been two hours, you’ve had your lips on hanni for at least two thirds of that time.

but now, on your couch after two long weeks, hanni is by your side leaning against you. she’s always been hesitant with physical touch when it came to you, but after making out with you – with you closer than ever to her, hovering above as her back rests on the cushion of your couch – she doesn’t have to be hesitant whatsoever.

“i don’t understand,” your lips are still swollen, you can feel the swell as you speak. “so is does he want her or not?” you ask, pointing to the two leads on the tv.

“he does but it’s like, complicated.”

“literally how.”

“she dated his brother, and i think she also likes girls.”

“you’re kidding.”

“i swear.” hanni says, eyes focused on the screen. 

“whatever.” you don’t really care, not as much as she does about this show. but that doesn’t stop you from putting an arm around her and looping her hair around your finger, then smiling to yourself. hanni scoots closer into you, and an episode later you’re laying on top of her, fighting sleep as her fingers comb through your hair and press into your scalp relaxingly.

(your grandma was onto something, maybe there was someone out there that you could love and be loved by just as much as her.)

[pennylanewrites]

when we were young [levi ackerman]

now playing: when we were young - adele

tags: fluff, old levi reminiscing, established relationship, flashback, canonverse, mentions of violence (non-graphic)

levi didn’t mind getting old, not really. he didn’t care for the deep smile lines or the wrinkles around his eyes. however, he did mind that he couldn’t pick his wife up and carry her to bed with ease anymore. he especially hated that his knee would still buckle if he didn’t use that bloody cane to get across a room.

levi ackerman, for the first time in his fifty-five years of life, had managed to nick himself while shaving. you stepped into the bathroom to grab something, eyes wide at the stream of blood running down his neck.

“what happened?” you were quick to grab the first-aid kit from the cabinet, eyes panning at him.

“i was just shaving, keep it down.” he rolled his eyes, sitting at the edge of the tub. he unbuttoned his shirt, already stained at the collar, and discarded it on the floor.

you looked down at him with a smile. his muscles were still there, though much less defined. the scars from his youth, long healed, a painful reminder of what he had been through.

you dabbed alcohol on a cotton pad before sitting down on his good leg.

“this is pretty deep, levi.” you muttered. he winced when the alcohol came in touch with the cut on his cheek, his fingers pressing against your waist.

“my hand still shakes sometimes.” he looked down at his three remaining fingers with a sigh. the nerves were all messed up, but he was insistent on using that hand for everything still.

“it’s okay, old man. i’ll shave you from now on.” you chuckled, cleaning up the dried-up blood from his jaw.

“you know what this reminds me of, brat?”

levi’s brows were furrowed, a scowl permanently etched in his features as you tried to make him sit down.

“captain, your face is full of blood.”

“it’s not mine.”

“some of it is yours.”

you weren’t really sure what had happened. it was all so fast. a soldier calling you a slut, you punching him, him slapping you back. that’s when levi had stepped in.

you finally managed to get levi to sit down, opening the first-aid kit beside you on his desk.

“he shouldn’t have slapped you.” was all he muttered before getting up again. you brought your hands to his shoulders, pushing him down with all the force you could muster.

“hey! let someone help you for once.” gray eyes shot up at yours, growing wide when you sat down on his knee to keep him in place. he didn’t utter a single word as you cleaned his face up with a damp towel, not even wincing when you dabbed alcohol against his busted lip.

he realised he didn’t particularly mind your breath fanning against his cheek, or your hair falling in his eyes. he certainly didn’t mind you shuffling on his lap, like you weren’t his soldier and he your captain.

“you’re sitting on me.” he said, more like an acknowledgment. you panicked and tried to get up, but levi’s arms wrapped around your hips. “thanks.”

“for sitting on you?” a smile played on your lips in the dimly-lit office, “captain.” you added, to be safe.

“don’t call me captain like that.”

“like what?”

“you’re making it dirty.”

“what does it remind you of, captain?” you shook levi out of his thoughts. he wrapped his arms further around your waist, pulling you closer. he knew you remembered the same thing.

“almost thirty years later, you’re still cheeky.”

“it never goes away.” you sighed, leaning down to peck his lips.

in his memory, he was lifting you up with one arm to plop you down on the desk and kiss you. in the present, you had to pull him up carefully and hand him his cane.

levi didn’t mind, though. some parts of him still worked just fine.

[dccomicsimagines]

A Sight for Sore Eyes - Jason Todd x Reader

Warning - Gun Violence

Requested by Anon - Can I have Jason Todd run into his ex-wife? Maybe the heat is still between them????!!

Author's Note - I finally finished something! Also this is more like an estranged wife than ex. Hope that's okay!

***

"Stay here," you whispered to the maid who was nervously biting her nails. "I'll take the tea in."

"You sure? I hate that man." She looked around the kitchen as if the walls had ears. They did, but you doubt they were listening to you now. Not with the big meeting going on.

"I'll be fine." You flashed her a smile to hide the butterflies in your stomach.

She added the last cup. "Thank you." She went to go sit in the corner with her head in her hands. Her face pale.

You understood her fear, trying not to feel it yourself. Touching the necklace around your neck, you pressed it against your collarbone. It took you a moment to gather your courage, but eventually you picked up the tray and headed out of the kitchen doors.

The Falcone residence oozed old wealth and a posh lifestyle. Almost like it wasn't funded by blood money.

You paused by the door and reached up to adjust the red rose pin on your shirt. Something Mario Falcone, the current head of the family after the blood bath that was the Holiday murders twenty years ago, added to all the Falcone servants' uniforms.

As if you needed a mark to prove you worked for Mario. You were literally in his penthouse serving tea.

You tapped the pin three times, hearing the slight beep of the recorder.

A lump formed in your throat as you prayed for any help from some higher power. You took a deep breath and quietly entered the office.

"And you want us to help you how?" Mario said from behind his desk. You walked across the plush Persian rug and set the tray on the desk. He gestured for you to stay. You backed into the far corner and folded your shaking hands behind your back.

The man in the other chair squawked. "I need men." You dared a peek. The Penguin looked older than you last saw him. He had a black eye. You wondered who punched him.

Mario leaned back in his seat, holding his fingers together. "What do you have to offer? I know Batman is breathing down your neck." He pursed his lips. "I'd rather not get that kind of attention."

The Penguin wiped sweat from his brow. You frowned slightly.

Mario motioned for you to pour the tea. You did, keeping your eyes on the floor.

"You see..." The Penguin took the cup of tea before you finished pouring. You stopped the tea just in time to barely miss his hand. He took a loud sip. You eyed him before pouring for Mario.

Mario raised an eyebrow. You added sugar to his tea and started to step back.

"If you don't give me men, I can't stop what they will do to you." The Penguin looked up with such genuine fear. Your heart stopped. From the widening of his eyes, you knew Mario's stopped as well.

"Who's they?" Mario glanced at you. He frowned. You quickly moved back to your place by the far wall.

The Penguin shook his head and dropped his cup. "I've already said too much." You stepped forward and knelt down to pick up the cup. Taking the towel you kept in your pocket out, you dabbed the tea stain.

The Falcones spilled. They were hot headed bunch after Carmine passed.

Although from what you knew of the Penguin, he never spilled. Your gut told you something was very wrong.

"Well, I can't help you." You heard Mario stand up. "Not if all you can give me is veiled threats."

"You don't understand." The Penguin stood up, almost hitting you with his cane. "This is your only chance, boy. Don't be a idiot."

You winced as you heard Mario take a sharp breath.

Glass shattered. You saw tea dripping down the far wall. "What did you call me?!"

Not again. You crawled back and stayed near the wall out of Mario's range.

Mario threw as many objects as his sister, Sophia. Neither had regard for who they might hit with those said objects. You had a cut on your arm to prove it.

"You stupid brat. As dumb as your father!" The Penguin's face flushed. "You just dug your own grave and probably mine."

Suddenly, screams echoed from inside the penthouse. The Penguin's face went white as a sheet. He flopped face first onto Mario's desk, spilling the rest of the tea tray.

You winced as everything shattered. Mario grabbed a gun from his desk drawer.

"(Y/N)." Mario tossed it to you. You caught it. It was heavy in your hands, bringing back old memories. You pushed them away as you swore you heard a gurgle on the other side of the door.

Mario took out another gun, loading it. He moved toward his fireplace. You watched as he pressed three different stones on it. A secret door next to it popped open. "Stay here and defend," Mario ordered.

"What?!" You watched him enter the secret room and shut the door. A lock whirled as it resealed. "Bastard," you mumbled.

You tapped the rose pin. "Help."

No response. You hoped it meant they were on their way. The office door rattled. You ducked into the shadows in the corner of the room.

Another scream echoed through the penthouse. The maid. You swallowed hard. You'd have to get to her.

Suddenly, the office door opened and an animal-like monster fell through. It had long claws, crawling on all fours. It sniffed at the Penguin.

You held your breath. It turned your way. It had an owl-like black mask that reveal part of it's jaw. You could see the bone. Zombie?

It let out a terrible shriek. You flinched. It saw the movement and sprang toward you.

You fired, getting it in the face. It flew back against the wall.

Not wasting a moment, you ran out of the room. Another scream came from the kitchen. You ran toward it, bursting through the door to find two more of the zombies surrounding the terrified maid.

Without hesitation, you shot both. They flew against the kitchen cabinets. You ran for the maid, grabbing her hand and going into the pantry.

She seemed to wake up from her shock to slam the door shut.

"Block it." You pointed your gun at the door. The maid ran, tossing bags of rice against the door. When she ran out, she grabbed everything off the shelves to add to the pile with no logical thought in her mind.

You let yourself feel the nausea in your stomach, the adrenaline shaking your very bones.

"What are those?" The maid whispered, freezing as more gunshots and screams echoed from somewhere else in the penthouse.

"I don't know." You swallowed hard, keeping your gun aimed at the door. "Do you have your phone?"

She nodded. "Should I call the cops?"

You shook your head. "I doubt they'd be much help." You held out your free hand. "Let me call a number I know."

The maid eyed you, but scratches on the door made her toss the phone into your hand. She got behind you, shivering.

You sighed and typed a number you knew by heart. It rang, much to your relief.

Your finger twitched on the trigger. The door began to rattle just as Oracle's voice came through the speaker.

***

Jason punched the last Talon. It spun before collapsing in a heap on the rooftop of the Gotham News building. "All clear here," Jason said, holding back a yawn.

He hadn't slept well. If anyone asked, he claimed it was the new bed, but he knew it was because you were no longer sleeping beside him.

Six months since you left. You hadn't bothered to contact him since walking out the door.

Jason stewed. "Red Hood, meet Batman and Robin at Falcone's penthouse. Talons are overrunning the place," Barbara said through his comm.

"Good riddance." Jason turned to look out over the city. The lights shined on the wet pavement. He took a deep breath of the damp air.

Barbara clicked her tongue. "Jason, (Y/N) is there."

Jason's blood ran cold. Your disappointed face flashed before his eyes. His feet were moving before his mind.

"Keep calm, Jason. I was just on the phone with her." Barbara's voice was faint. Jason grappled off the closest building, flying through the air before grappling to the next.

He didn't realize how fast he was moving until he saw Falcone's building in the distance. His legs burned, arms aching.

Jason couldn't let that disappointment be the last thing he remembered of you.

***

Nothing surprised Bruce much anymore. Years of being Batman had led him to expect the unexpected.

However, today was different.

He and Damian crashed through the skylight of Mario Falcone's penthouse to find a blood bath and several feral Talons.

What caused the Court of Owls to make a direct attack against the Falcone family? Why so many Talons? Why were they taking out everyone?

Questions he had to worry about later. Hopefully, you could shine some light on the subject. If he could find you.

Bruce threw a Talon against the far wall before dodging the blade of another. "Robin, find (Y/N)."

"TT." Damian's huff reached his ears just as the Talon next to Bruce shrieked. Bruce threw an ice grenade at the Talon. It exploded upon impact, freezing the Talon in place.

Damian ran out of the room, cutting down two Talons as he went with his katana.

More Talons crawled out of the vents. Bruce grimaced, catching a knife thrown by one of the Talons.

He let out a slow breath, calculating the best strategy before the far window shattered and a flash of red barreled in. The red took out three Talons from their momentum alone. Gunshots rang out quickly, almost making it impossible to identify them as separate shots.

Bruce's eyes widened. All the Talons fell. "Where's (Y/N)?" The flash of red turned toward Bruce. He finally could make out Red Hood, Jason.

Bruce nodded to the Talons. "That was...helpful."

Jason grunted. "Where is she?!"

"(Y/N)'s camera pinged in what looks to be the kitchen," Oracle said. "I'll lead you there."

Jason charged out of the room. Bruce followed, taking out a Talon hiding in the shadows of the hallway.

He hoped they weren't too late as they passed several fallen Falcone guards.

***

A fraction of the door broke off. A clawed hand reached through. The maid screamed. Everything in you wanted to shoot, but you held yourself back. You had two shots left, had to make them count if Bruce didn't make it in time.

Fuck Bruce for taking so long.

Please don't let Jason fall apart if you died. You doubted he was doing well since you left him, you couldn't imagine what he'd do if you died on a mission for Bruce.

"Grab something to fight with," you told the maid as she clung to the back of your shirt. "Anything."

She didn't listen, muttering prayers under her breath.

More chunks broke off the door. You let out a slow breath.

The first zombie started to crawl through, bending to squeeze through the small hole. You waited until it was halfway through before shooting it in the head.

The maid screamed. She pulled at your shirt. You had to fight to not fall back on her. The zombie went limp.

It blocked the hole, but soon it's body was pulled out and another zombie started to crawl through.

You shot that one in the head. It blocked the hole again, but the whole door started to shake. Scratches on the wood.

The other body was pulled out and just as claws enclosed on the edge of the hole, a shout came from the other room. Your heart skipped a beat. You lifted your hand to prepare to throw the gun.

You heard the slice of a katana followed closely by a remark of how disgusting this whole situation was. A smile pulled at your lips. "I think we're saved," you told the maid. She looked up at you before turning to throw up.

Gross, but you couldn't blame her. You wrinkled your nose and patted her back. "I'm sorry," she coughed. "You're so calm. Are you used to this?"

You bit your lip, wanting to say you married into it. However, all you could do is shake your head. "I'm not used to zombies. Not these kind anyway."

She looked confused, but you focused back on the door. "(Y/N)!" Jason's voice echoed from behind the door as it started to shake even more than before.

You froze. How did Jason get here? Bruce promised he'd keep him out of your mission. "Red?" You asked, raising your gun to throw just in case.

"Open the damn door. It's safe," Jason demanded. A rush of anger filled you.

The maid looked at you with wide eyes. "I thought you said you didn't call the cops."

"I didn't." You didn't look at her, keeping your eyes on the door. "How do I know it's you, Red?"

The irritated sigh that followed confirmed it for you. He did that to you a lot. One of the problems in your marriage actually.

"(Y/N), the area is secure." Damian's snotty voice made your anger cool. "You may exit now."

The maid grabbed your hand as you moved to shove things out of the way. She didn't help you, just squeezed your hand until you thought your bones broke.

You opened the door to find Red Hood flying forward to crush you against him. All the breath left your lungs.

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, but this time it was for other reasons. Reasons you weren't going to think about for now.

"I'm fine, Red," you whispered to him.

"You better be." Jason pulled away when the maid cleared her throat.

"Robin, guide her to safety," Bruce ordered, nodding to the maid. The maid squeaked at being addressed.

Damian opened his mouth to protest, but one look from Bruce silenced him. "Come along," Damian said, taking the maid's arm.

"(Y/N)?" The maid looked at you wide eyed.

"I'll be fine." You flashed her a smile. "Don't worry. Robin will keep you safe."

She bit her lip, but let Robin drag her out of the room.

You looked around the kitchen at the zombie bodies on the floor. The counters were cracked, cupboards pulled down, glass from the dishes covered every surface. Luckily, you were wearing thick shoes.

"Report," Bruce said. You pursed your lips and looked at him. He looked no worse for wear.

Jason tensed. "Wait a minute." He shook his head. You wished you could see his face, but the helmet hid it. "Is this where you were this whole time? You were undercover for him?!" He was glaring at you. You hated when he did that with his helmet on.

"You aren't the only one who can disappear for months," you snapped, narrowing your eyes.

He flinched. "That's low."

"Oh that's low. Isn't it low to not tell your wife that you're running away to space with your ex?" You crossed your arms.

"Enough." Bruce stepped between you and Jason. "Work this out later." He turned toward you, giving Jason his back. "Report."

Jason huffed. You couldn't stop yourself from smiling at the sound. "Mario had a meeting with the Penguin." You tapped your pin. "I recorded it."

"Where are they?" Bruce studied you. You felt touched your sort of father-in-law cared enough to check you for injuries.

"In Mario's office. Penguin fainted once the attack started. The zombies left him alone for the most part." You gestured for them to follow you toward Mario's office.

Jason bullied his way in front of Bruce and next to you. "Talons, not zombies."

You hummed. "So this is the Court of Owls?" You glanced back at Bruce.

"The court has decided to come out of retirement." Bruce frowned. You stepped over a few bodies of Mario's guards. You knew them, but you didn't let yourself feel anything yet.

Jason touched your hand. You allowed yourself to take his hand for a moment before pulling away at doorway to Mario's office.

Penguin was stirring from in front of Mario's desk. Batman went over to him and dragged him up onto the chair.

You went over to Mario's secret door. It was untouched. "Mario is still here," you said.

Jason followed you. "He in a secret room or something?"

"Safe room. Left me out here to defend him." You bit your lip when Jason's head snapped to you. "Stop it."

"Were you his bodyguard?" Jason's shoulder tensed. "Or more?"

You gagged. "No, god. Don't even suggest it." You slapped his arm.

The Penguin squawked awake, blubbering as Bruce interrogated him.

"What am I supposed to think, (Y/N)? You walked out, said you needed space, but then disappeared for six months," Jason growled.

You pursed your lips, narrowing your eyes at him. "Now you know what I was thinking when you ran off with Starfire, huh?"

Jason flinched. It didn't feel as satisfying as you wished it did.

You knocked on the hidden door. "Mr. Falcone, it's (Y/N). It's safe to come out."

"Starfire isn't really my ex. We just slept together once," Jason grumbled. You rolled your eyes. He was making the same excuses he did six months ago. Nothing changed.

"Doesn't help your case." You punched his arm to shut him up.

Mario opened the door. He smiled when he saw you, but froze at the sight of Red Hood.

A unmanly shriek came out of Mario. He tried to close the door, but Jason grabbed the corner and ripped it open.

Mario backed into his safe room, eyes wide with terror. Jason followed him in. "(Y/N), did you call this thug? I'll have you burned alive." Mario spat, grabbing a gun and aiming it toward Jason. Jason kept walking toward him unbothered.

"I didn't call him specifically." You leaned against the doorway. The adrenaline was wearing off. Your hands trembled as everything sunk in. "By the way, I quit."

Mario shot Jason in the chest, but it bounced off his armor. You covered your ears. The gun shots echoed loudly in the small room.

Jason knocked the gun out of his hand and picked him up by the front of his shirt. He held him up until his feet were dangling off the ground.

You couldn't help feeling warm from seeing Jason was still as strong as ever.

"You don't threatened her." Jason's voice was colder than ice. "Forget her name, forget her face. She was never in your disgusting presence, do you understand?" Jason brought Mario's face close to his helmet. "Do you?"

"Yes." Mario shook like a leaf. You swore you saw the front of his pants darken.

A hand touched your shoulder. Bruce moved you out of the room. "Watch the Penguin. I want to have a word with Mr. Falcone."

You snorted, stepping out to find the Penguin unconscious on the floor. "What a rough day for you." You nudged his side with your toe as Mario screamed from his safe room. "A rough day for all of us."

You sat down in the chair and crossed your arms. Taking a shaky breath, you tried to keep your emotions locked up, but tears still filled your eyes anyway.

***

"Red Hood, wait outside," Bruce ordered. Jason dropped Mario. Mario crumbled to the floor, blubbering.

"Fine." Jason stomped out. He saw the Penguin unconsciousness on the floor. Worrying his lip, he saw the top of your head as you sat in an armchair facing away from him.

A sniffle came from you. Jason's stomach dropped.

He moved to your side and knelt beside the chair. You recoiled, quickly wiping your face with your hands.

His heart fell slightly. "You okay?"

"I'm tired." You sighed, "This was...a lot."

Jason nodded. He reached out and laid his hand on your knee. You relaxed under his touch. A little hope blossomed in his heart.

Even though he was madder than heck to know you were working for Bruce for six months. That Bruce didn't tell him and you didn't try to contact him at all. That you were with Falcone this whole time.

He still wanted you home. Still wanted you to be his wife, partner in life and beyond.

Bruce stomped out of the safe room. "We need to go. The police are on their way." You jumped up at the sound of his voice. Jason slowly stood, grabbing your hand. You let him.

"I should wait here for the cops," you said softly. Your hand trembled in his.

"Not necessary." Bruce pursed his lips. "I'll give a copy of your video recording to Gordon. It will be enough."

Jason squeezed your hand. "I'm taking her home." He stared at Bruce, daring him to say something.

You looked at him slightly surprised. "Our home?"

"Is there anywhere else, sweetheart?" Jason's voice cracked. He cursed his helmet for hiding what he hoped was the love in his face.

"No." Bruce laid a hand on Jason's shoulder. Jason tensed.

"What do you mean no?" Jason snarled. You squeezed his hand gently.

Bruce stepped closer. "It's best if (Y/N) is kept somewhere safe since she is a witness. You remember what the court does to witnesses." Jason pulled you into his side suddenly, his arm around your waist. You gasped, but relaxed into him.

"Our place is safe." Jason bit his lip. He tried not to think about you being pinned to a wall by Talons, bleeding to death as you screamed his name. A lump formed in his throat.

"It is, but you know the cave is safer." Bruce's lips pursed. "(Y/N) needs to be cleared for any trackers as well."

"He's right." Your voice shook. Jason studied you, noting your trembling lips, widening of your eyes, a sickly pallor overtaking your cheeks.

Jason swallowed hard. "Fine, but I'll take her."

Bruce nodded. "I wouldn't expect anything less. Take the batmobile." He pressed the remote key to the batmobile into Jason's free hand. Jason looked at it before closing his fingers around it.

Jason started to lead you from the room, but you stopped. You pulled away from him. His arm felt empty without you. "Please make sure Mia is safe. She's the maid, she doesn't know anything,"

"She will be safe." Bruce rested his hand on your shoulder. You and Bruce shared a long look. Jason's stomach tightened at the sight. When had you and Bruce became so close? "Now go."

You nodded, quickly using your sleeve to wipe your face. Jason stepped toward you at the sight. You took a deep breath. "(Y/N)," Jason whispered, reaching out to you.

You flinched. "Not now." Brushing his arm away, you walk past him and out the door.

Jason watched you go with a sigh before quickly following you.

"Good luck," Bruce said so softly that Jason almost missed it. It was only the threat of leaving you alone that stopped him from going back in and unleashing his rage onto Bruce.

***

"Thank you, Alfred." You gave him a hug, even though you were only wearing a oversized robe. It did little to protect you from chill of the batcave, but you had to toss your clothes after going through several scans and a bug sweep.

"You're welcome, Miss (Y/N). It is good to have you home." Alfred patted your back before pulling away to look you in the eye. "Now head upstairs. I have clothes waiting in Master Jason's old room." You frowned slightly, but Alfred held up a hand. "And Master Jason knows not to enter unless you give him permission."

You smiled at the thought of Jason being locked out of his old room. "Thank you again." You turned and headed upstairs.

Bruce's study still looked the same. You paused at Bruce's desk as the grandfather clock door swung closed behind you.

The gold frame caught your eye. You traced it with one finger, smiling sadly. It was you and Jason on your wedding day. You were wearing a nice dress you got from Walmart, he in jeans and a button down.

That day had been magical. The beach was warm, sand soft under your feet. Jason had a boyish grin through the whole ceremony.

You shook your head. No point staying in the past now. You left Bruce's study and made your way upstairs.

The manor was quiet. You closed your eyes to enjoy the peace, the safety.

A lump formed in your throat as you remembered the blood, the bodies of people you gotten to know over six months.

Tears burned in your eyes. "Damn it." You covered your face and hurried to Jason's old room.

The room smelled of lemon and fresh laundry. You opened your eyes, taking in the familiar ACDC poster on the wall, the red comforter on the king sized bed. An old pair of pajamas was folded neatly on the bed.

You picked up the pjs and headed into the bathroom.

Turning the water as hot as it could go, you waited to let the steam fill the room before you let yourself grieve.

***

Jason carefully balanced the tray he prepared with one hand and knocked on door with the other. Steam rose from the mug of tea and bowl of soup he had made for you.

He hoped you would accept them. That you would let him in.

A long moment of silence followed his knock. "Come in," you said weakly. He heard the roughness of your voice. His heart ached at the thought you had been crying.

Jason turned the knob and slowly opened the door. You were sitting on the bed, towel draped over your head and his old pjs on. Warmth flooded his gut at the sight.

"I brought you something to eat and drink." He walked past you and set the tray on the side table. You pulled off the towel at his voice, staring at him with a calculated gaze. Your eyes were swollen and red.

"Thanks." Your gaze dropped to his body. Jason couldn't stop himself from blushing. "Did you lose weight?"

"Haven't been eating as much." Jason turned away. He went to stand by the window, looking out at the dark gardens below.

You hummed. He heard you sip from the mug of tea. The silence that fell was thick. Jason almost couldn't breathe.

"I see you are wearing your ring," you whispered.

"And you aren't wearing yours." Jason spun to face you. You cupped the mug in your hands, staring down into it.

"I was undercover, Jason. I couldn't have a wedding ring." You reached for your neck. Jason blinked when you pulled out a simple gold chain necklace with the ring attached. "But I had it on me."

Jason's voice caught in his throat. "Why did you go undercover and not tell me?"

You sighed. "It was only supposed to be for a few weeks. Mario Falcone was doing business in Italy. I came to Bruce and asked him if I could get away, he offered the job."

Jason sank onto the bed next to you, but left a decent distance between you and him. A distance that honestly hurt. "And it turned into six months?"

"I was working as a waitress at a cafe Mario was frequenting there. There was an attempt on his life. I saved him, he hired me on the spot." You sipped your tea. "I was still angry with you, so I took him up on it."

Jason leaned forward on his knees. "So you were being petty? Disappearing because I left you? At least I left you a fucking note."

"You left me a note saying you'll be gone for months in space with Kori." You narrowed your eyes. Jason scowled back at you. "On our anniversary."

"It wasn't our anniversary." Jason stood up and paced in front of you.

"Oh, right. It was the day before." Sarcasm slipped into your tone.

Something snapped inside Jason. "Nothing happened between me and Starfire! We slept together once a long time ago!"

"That's not even the point!" You set your mug back on the tray.

"Then what's the point, (Y/N)?!" Jason threw his arms in the air.

You grabbed a pillow from the bed and threw it at him. Jason caught it easily. "You idiot! Maybe the point was that you didn't tell me in person?! That you didn't even discuss it with me! I'm your wife and you ran off to space without even bothering to check with me!" Tears filled your eyes.

"Fine, it was a mistake not to talk to you about it!" Jason threw the pillow back onto the bed. "But you don't get to just disappear on me! What happens if you died while you were with that bastard Falcone?! You would do that to me?! Leave me to find out from Bruce that you died on his mission!"

"Like you couldn't have died in space and did the same to me! At least I was on earth!" You straightened your shoulders.

Jason towered over you. You glared back at him.

The red faded from his vision. He dropped his shoulders, taking a step away from you. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

You sighed and turned away from him. "We're just going in circles."

Jason studied your back. He closed his eyes and took a soothing slow breath.

Alfred told him once after he started dating you that relationships sometimes meant swallowing your pride. Letting go to move on.

He also said sometimes an apology can fix more than you think.

"I'm sorry." The words left Jason's lips freely. "I messed up. You were right. I should have talked to you about going to space. Even if it wasn't with Kori, I should have discussed it with you."

You peeked over your shoulder at him. "I'm sorry too. I should have gotten a message to you. Let you know where I was and that I was as safe as I could be."

"You shouldn't have left in the first place. How were we supposed to work it out if you weren't here?" Jason grumbled, smiling when you let out a little laugh.

"I guess we're both to blame." You bit your lip. A moment of silence passed between you.

Jason wanted to ask you to come home, be his wife again...but what if that wasn't what you wanted? Maybe you didn't want him anymore? He rocked on his ankles.

"What should we do now?" you asked softly, eyes on the floor.

Jason put his hands in his pockets. "I don't know."

You pursed your lips and sank down onto the edge of the bed. "I don't want to give up on us."

Jason dropped to his knees as if you stole the air out of him. "Sweetheart, I don't want that either." He shuffled until he was knelt in front of you. You took his hands. He frowned at how cold you were, trying to rub warmth into them. "I love you. Always have, always will."

You looked at him with a glimmer of a smile on your lips. "I love you too."

Jason leaned forward. You met him halfway. The kiss shattered any resentment or anger Jason had left inside him. He could only think that you were here, you loved him, you wanted him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck. Jason picked you up, chuckling when you gasped in surprise. He kissed you again as he laid down on the bed with you.

***

You woke to the late afternoon sun shining through the window. Stretching, you felt Jason's callused hand on your bare hip. He squeezed gently before sliding his hand up around your waist to pull you back into him.

He was warm, a human furnace. You rolled over, opening your eyes to take him in.

Jason had dark circles under his eyes, his face thinner than it was before you left. However, he was still the same. You reached up to trace his lips with your thumb.

He mumbled in his sleep. You leaned forward to steal a quick kiss. Jason's eyes opened the moment your lips touched his. He rolled over, pulling you halfway onto his chest.

You laughed, grinning down at him. "Morning, handsome."

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" Jason smirked back at you. His fingertips tickled your back slightly. "God, I missed you."

"I missed you too." You rested your chin on his chest, watching him. Jason's hand moved to the back of your neck. You blinked when you felt them touch the clasp of your necklace. "What are you doing?"

Jason undid the clasp and pulled your necklace off. Your wedding ring sparkled in the sunlight. "I want to put your ring back on your finger where it belongs."

Your heart melted. "Okay." You watched him slid the ring off the chain and take your hand. He slipped it on your finger. "I remember you missed my finger a few times during the ceremony."

"Because I was too busy looking at you." Jason sighed, holding up your hand to study your ring. "Beautiful."

Your face burned slightly. "Bruce has the photo on his desk."

Jason hummed. "How did he get a picture?"

"Must have made a copy of the one we gave Alfred." You closed your eyes, turning your head so your ear was pressed against his skin. His heartbeat soothing some of the worry in your belly.

Jason laid a hand in your hair. "Can we promise that if either one of us has to leave for a long mission, that we'll take the other with?"

You opened one eye to look at him. His jaw firm. "You're serious?"

"I am." He looked at you without wavering.

"Okay." You smiled, opening your other eye. "But I doubt I'll go undercover again. It sucked."

Jason hummed. "And space sucked. All the food was terrible and all the alien girls wanted to fuck me, but I told them I was married to the most beautiful woman in the universe who would kicked their asses if they laid a hand on me."

You snorted, kissing his chest. "Charmer." You sobered when you thought about last night. "What are we going to do about the Court of Owls?"

"Well..." Jason groaned, pulling you fully on top of him. You rolled your eyes when you felt how excited he was. "Right now, I think we should celebrate being together."

"You mean celebrate again?" You raised an eyebrow, sitting up as you straddled his hips.

"And maybe again afterward? If you're willing?" Jason smirked, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Then once we're completely done celebrating, we can see what intel they found last night."

You couldn't stop yourself from grinning back at him. "Fine." You leaned down to kiss his lips. "I love you."

"And I love you." Jason suddenly flipping you so he was on top. You laughed before you lost yourselves in each other.

[popcornpoppypop]

Promises, Promises Part 2

Summary: Tensions are high as baby Abbot makes their appearance.

Warnings: Blood, Childbirth, Birth Trauma, talk of death, brief mention of a dog bite (literally one sentence), Medical inaccuracies

A/N: The baby will be fine! I hate when it's not clear before reading so, not really a spoiler but baby Abbot is okay. Okay, so this was supposed to be two parts but every time I slimmed it down I hated it, so it will be three. I'm a yapper, I can't help it.

“Princess call the blood bank I want three units of type matched blood with three units of O neg on stand by. Dana get me the birth kit, all of the gauze we have and grab Mel. I’m going to need another set of hands. Bring the warmer in here too!” Robby ordered.

“Breathe, we’re going to keep you safe, I love you.” Jack said, willing the tears from his eyes.

“Let’s get you back in bed.” Robby said as he helped Jack get Callie comfortable in bed.

“I got gauze and forceps.” Dr. King came running in with a rolling tray and an armful of supplies. Dana barreled in behind her with her supplies and a baby warmer.

“You’re about to be very popular, Callie.” Dr. King smiled.

“Hooray.” Callie groaned.

“Dr. King hook up the blood and fluids, please.” Robby tossed the bags to her.

“Oh shit!” Callie groaned. “I gotta push!” She moaned. The room fell silent for a moment.

“Let’s move people!” Robby barked as Dana helped him gown up. He snapped on his gloves as he rolled to the end of the bed.

“I’m right here, baby, I’m with you.” Jack told her, grabbing her hand.

“Jack, I love you.” She smiled, tears rolling down her cheek.

“Callie, I want you only pushing with the contractions okay? I need you stay strong and not get too tired.” Robby instructed her.  Callie nodded.

“You remember the classes, the books? Chin to your chest.” Jack said. Callie nodded before groaning as a contraction took over. She tucked her chin to her chest and started pushing.

“Good, Callie!” Robby said.

“Okay, breathe Honey.” Jack said, one of his hands supporting her neck and the other holding her hand.

“You’re doing great Sweetheart.” Dana dabbed a bit of gauze across her forehead as she grabbed one of her legs to support her. This went on for a good hour. The nurses and Dr. King running in and out of the room. The red on the floor grew and so did the pounding in Jack’s chest.

“I can’t do it! I can’t!” Callie sobbed, falling back onto the bed.  Jack held her face in his hands.

“Yes you can, baby you have to. You are so strong, there isn’t a stronger woman on this planet. I know it’s hard and scary right now, but you have to do this part. I can’t do it for you, I wish I could. The baby needs you to.” He said, his voice shaking.

“Callie, the head is almost out, you are so close.” Robby said.

“Come on, Sweetheart.” Dana said, her voice unsteady. Callie nodded and took a deep breath and began pushing again.

“Blood pressure is falling, Dr. Robby.” Dr. King noted.

“push another unit of saline and hang the O neg.” Robby instructed.

“You’re doing great, darling.” Jack kissed her temple.

“Callie the head is out! Take break!” Robby said.

“Did you hear that, Sweetheart? You’re almost done.” Dana rubbed her shoulder. Callie laid on the bed, her body wracked with sobs.

“when you’re ready, give me another big push.” Robby said.

“You’re amazing, you’re fucking superhero.” Jack smiled down at her, his face tear-stained. Callie started pushing again.

“Get the warmer set up Dr. King.” Robby said. “Next push and baby will be here, Callie.”

“You’re at the finish line, Honey.” Dana smiled. Callie took a breath and gave every last ounce of energy to pushing.

“You’re doing great, I love you so fucking much.” Jack cheered as he helped support her leg and neck.

“Baby’s out! Breathe Callie! You’re done.” Robby smiled as he handed the baby to Dr. King.

“They aren’t crying.” Callie moaned.

“That happens sometimes.” Jack told her, though his nerves were only getting worse.

“Get me more gauze!” Robby barked from the end of the bed.

“Dana, the baby isn’t crying.” Callie sobbed.

“I know, it’s okay.” She patted her shoulder as she went over to help Dr. King.

“Jack!”

“I know, it’s okay. They’ve got them.” He held her as close to him as possible.

“I need the Bakri now!” Robby barked.

“Robby, what’s going on?” Jack asked through gritted teeth.

“Jack, not now.” He snapped. A cry filled the room and Callie fell back against the bed sobbing.

“She’s okay, she’s was just being a little stubborn.” Dr. King smiled.

“It’s a girl?” Callie asked as Dr. King put her on her chest.

“Yes, a very healthy little girl.” Dr. King nodded.

“Jack…” Callie looked up from the baby to see Jack crying.

“She looks like you.” He smiled, kissing her cheek. For a moment they lived in that perfect moment. Nothing was wrong, they had a beautiful new daughter.

“My head hurts.” Callie mumbled.

“Mel take the baby.” Robby instructed. “Take her and find McKay to do a full exam in another room.” Dr. King grabbed the baby from Callie just as she went limp.

“No! No, Callie! Don’t do this! Robby!!” Jack yelled.

“Get him out of here! Now!” Robby yelled. Dana tried to pull him away from Callie’s cold body.

“Mateo! Donnie!” She yelled. They came running in and grabbed Jack, dragging him to the break room.

“I need to be in there! I need to be with her!” He yelled.

“Dr. Abbot you need to be with your daughter. Robby has Callie. He needs room to work.” Donnie told him.

“Fuck!” He yelled throwing a mug into the wall.

“Mateo, find out where Mel brought the baby.” Donnie instructed.

“I can’t do this again.” Jack sobbed.

“Robby’s got her. Dana’s with her.” Donnie said putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Their in bay 7.” Mateo said.

“Let’s go see her, yeah?” Donnie helped Jack to his feet. They guided him to the bay. Dr. King and McKay were inside looking after the baby.

“Dr. Abbot, she’s doing great.” McKay said. Jack didn’t acknowledge either of them. He peered down at the baby, bright and healthy and utterly perfect.

“You can hold her, Jack.” McKay said.

“I don’t trust my arms to not give out.” He grumbled. He ran a finger along her little cheek.

“She looks like Callie.” Dr. King said, her voice gave away that she’d been crying.

“We met in this bay.” Jack stated, his tone flat.

“Really?” Mel asked.

“She’d come in for a dog bite to the hand. She was so damn pretty and had the worst jokes. I was done for the second she smiled at me.” Jack said the tears falling.

“Jack?” Robby’s voice broke him from the memory.

“Is she okay?” He couldn’t turn around.

“Jack, she lost a lot of blood.”

“Don’t fucking say it.” Jack’s voice tight. He turned to see Robby’s face sullen.

“Jack she’s in a coma. We stopped the bleeding, but she stopped breathing and her heart stopped. We got her back.”

“How long was she down?”

“Three minutes and thirty seconds.”

“You said you wouldn’t let this happen.” Jack gritted his teeth.

“I know.”

“I said to save her, above everything save her.”

“I know.”

“I’m not good enough to do this on my own.” Jack sobbed, looking at his daughter.

“Jack, we’re not letting you do this alone.” Dr. King stepped forward, putting her hands on his shoulders. “We’re going to help you, this baby and you are family, we aren’t letting you do this alone.”

“Robby, she’s seizing! " a voice called, and Robby ran off. Jack fell to his knees. He didn’t know how long he had been crying or how long he had been on the ground, but a hand on his shoulder broke him from his sobs.

“Dr. Abbot, she needs to eat. I don’t know what you two had planned, but we had someone from NICU bring down milk.” Perlah said, bottle in hand. “You should do it. She needs to see you.” She sighed. Jack nodded. She was right. They hadn’t even done the skin-to-skin like Callie wanted.

“Can I have the room?” He cleared his throat. Everyone filtered out. He took his scrub top off and his undershirt. He lifted the baby up and held her close, offering the bottle which she gladly took.

“You look like your mom already.” Jack smiled. “She would have been pissed if you looked too much like me.” He gave a half-hearted chuckle. He watched as the baby drank the whole bottle.

“Jack…oh. Sorry.” McKay was about to leave.

“What is it?”

“Robby wanted me to let you know that the seizing stopped and she’s stable for now.” McKay said.

“Why isn’t he telling me?” Jack grumbled.

“He thought you might want some space from him. He’s still with her.” McKay nodded and left.

“Your mother is a tough woman. I know she’s going to fight stay with us.” He said to the baby who yawned and stretched. He laid the baby down in the warmer again, threw his shirts back on and opened the door.

“Perlah, who can be spared?” Jack asked.

“Mateo, why? What do you need?”

“Someone to stay with her.” Jack gestured to the warmer.

“Yeah, of course we got her.” Perlah nodded as she dragged a mobile computer cart into the room.

Jack walked back over to room 3, everyone looked at him with sympathy and glassy eyes. He stood just by the door, scared to go in. Dr. King came rushing out and nearly knocked him over.

“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. Did you want to go in?” She asked.

“I…is she cleaned up?”

“What?”

“Is she still covered in her own blood.” Jack’s voice cracked.

“Oh. Dana’s been cleaning her up as we go. There may be some visible, but not like earlier.” She gave a tight smile and walked off. Jack stood in the doorway.

Robby was still doing external uterine massage, jamming his hands into Callie’s abdomen. His eyes tracking up and down her body, up and down, noting anything and everything. Dana was at the foot of the bed with a cloth washing her legs. There was a tube in her throat and the sound of the ventilator and monitor are loud and grating.

“She’s stable?” Jack croaked, making Robby and Dana’s heads snap up.

“Yeah. She’s stable. Bleeding is controlled.” Robby cleared his throat.

“She’s hanging in there. She’s a tough lady, Jack.” Dana said, walking over and putting her hands on his shoulders.

“How’s the baby?” Robby asked.

“Good. Fed her. Did that, uh, skin to skin contact. Was supposed to be her…” Jack’s voice broke and he looked away. Dana pulled him into a hug. He let himself break a little more.

“You told her she had to be strong earlier, now it’s your turn.” Dana told him.

“We’ll fight tooth and nail for her, Jack.” Robby said. Jack looked up and realized his eyes were red too.

“Can I sit with her?”

“Yeah, course. We’ll be outside.” Robby said as he and Dana left.

Jack sat on the stool next to the bed. He grabbed her hand, still too cold for his liking.

“I’m going to be selfish and beg you to stay. I can’t do this without you, baby, please. You’re my whole world and that baby deserves a life with you. I’m only good with you around.” Jack shook his head.

“You’d be so disappointed in me. I should be with our daughter. But I can’t bear the thought of leaving your side.”  Jack wiped the tears from his eyes.

He lost track of time watching Callie’s chest rise and fall. It could have been days for all he knew.

“Jack, you need to eat.” Dana came in holding a tray of food.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know, but you still need to eat.” She said, putting the tray in his lap.

“What time is it?” He groaned as he bit into the sandwich.

“9pm. You’ve been in here for three hours.” Dana put her hand on his shoulder.

“Three hours she’s still breathing.”

“Yeah. Did you two every settle on a name? Everyone keeps calling her baby Abbot. I’m sure she’d rather anything else.” Dana attempted a joke.

“Um…yeah. For a girl, Pippa.”

“Pippa. That’s really nice.” Dana smiled and wiped the tears from her face.

“She said it reminded her of spring and she thought everyone’s favorite season had to be spring so it meant the baby would be everyone’s favorite.” Jack snorted.

“She already is.” Dana sighed.

“You should be home.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Neither is Robby. You’re stuck with us until she’s awake. That’s what family does, Jack.”

“She’ll wake up.” Jack nodded.

“Yeah, she will. You want to spend some time with that beautiful baby? I can sit with her.” Dana offered. Jack nodded and stood. He made his way to bay 7, he opened the curtain and found Mel and Robby sitting with the baby.

“Dr. Abbot, we just finished up her second exam. Flying colors and all that. She’s a perfect baby.” Mel smiled.

“She’s incredible Jack.” Robby smiled.

“You two should go home and get some rest.” He said.

“Oh I’m really okay. Besides, my sisters at summer camp and the house is too quite. I’d rather be here to help you.” Mel smiled.

“You know I’m not going anywhere until Callie’s okay.” Robby said.

“I was about to get the next bottle ready for baby Abbot, do you want some privacy?” Mel asked.

“No, it’s fine. And her name is Pippa.” Jack smiled.

“Pippa? That’s so nice. Like a flower.” Mel smiled.

“Like spring. That’s what Callie said when she picked it.” Jack rubbed the tears from his eyes.

“She has good taste, that woman.” Robby nodded.

Jack scooped the baby up and took the bottle from Mel. He fed the baby, bouncing in place as she cooed.

“You’re a natural, Jack. You look like you were meant for this.” Robby said, his voice cracking.

“I owe you an apology.” Jack sighed.

“No, you don’t.” Robby shook his head.

“I do. I snapped, I blamed you. None of it was your fault. Hell, she’s still here because you had the balls to do something.”

“If I had rushed her labs and listened to you and Dana she would have gotten surgery.”

“No, the labs were fine. This was just bad luck on top of bad luck.” Jack said. “She said she didn’t want to go anywhere else because she knew you all would take care of us. She was right. I don’t know if anyone would have fought as hard for her.”

“We’ll always fight you three.” Robby nodded, a sad smile flickered across his face.  Jack’s chest tightened, they were three now. He would do everything to keep it three.

“She really does look like Callie.” Robby smiled at the baby as she yawned, her bottle finished, her tiny limbs attempting to stretch for the first time.

“Thankfully.” Jack snorted.

“Except those ginger curls and that stern look, that’s all you.” Robby chuckled.

“Well, my  best features then.” Jack ran his fingertips through the small, soft curls of his daughter’s head.

“What’s it feel like?” Mel asked from the corner.

“What? You’ve held a baby, Dr. King.” Jack looked at her confused.

“N-no. She’s here, she wasn’t and then she was. She’s yours. What’s that feel like?” Mel had the same look on her face as she did when learning a new procedure that looked painful.

“Oh.” Jack stilled for a moment. The words swirled around his head, none felt right. “Like the world finally makes sense and somehow, it’s more confusing than ever. Like…everything before now was worth it.”

“That’s nice.” Mel smiled. “Sometimes I get worried that people don’t appreciate the transformation of being a parent.” She nodded.  “I’ll be back in a while.” She said as she left.

“You three broke my best resident.” Robby sighed.

“Naw, she’s alright. She just feels it all.” Jack nodded.