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svckmyballzfr · 2 days ago

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“I know it’s over”

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Maki Zenin!reader

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 - “Where else I can go” Tw: neglect, Injury, obsession, abandonment, Torture, Abuse, SA, Death, Suicidal thoughts, Suicide, brief description about [name]’s eyes sorry (this is a disclaimer for the whole story + sorry about the bad grammar and typos, I won’t rewrite until I’m bored)

[Somewhere In Tokyo]

The sun was setting as it rained, the streetlight outside of the school buzzed as it flickered.

Heavy breathing was heard in the hallways of said, school “Well Well , if it isn’t Yuta Okkotsu my favorite weakling”

“Don’t you come near me” Yuta said shakily as three boys surrounded him in the empty classroom.

“Oh come on, don’t play hard to get” The bully said with a smirk.

“I said don’t …” Yuta said trying to said tuff but failing miserably as the bully itched closer to him. “Come on I just wanna slug you one more time before i graduate!” The bully laughed and his little minions joined in.

“Stop it..” Yuta muttered as he clenched his other arm looking down.

“Since it’s our last time together, maybe I should just kill you” The bully said as he walked closer.

“D-don’t touch me! RIKA” Yuta said in a panicked tone looking up as the bully had gotten closer with his hands towards him. A large shadow then appeared behind the bully and he froze with a wavering presence behind him.

“hm? Whatcha say?” The bully asked confused as large hands with sharp nail and went to both sides of his face. “Argh!” The bully let out a noise as his face was pulled back behind him.

….

The rain got heavier outside as yuta had crouched by the walls of the classroom muttering “I’m sorry” Blood leaks from the locker next to him slowly and it slowly opens to a mangled body.

Yuta was now sitting in a chair, in a room full of Tailsman with small lamps surrounded in the dark room to give light. He looks up staring at all the Tailsman that reached to the dark never ending ceiling.

….

“A complete cover up and a secret execution? Boy that’s some story” Gojo said unamused “The child in question did consent though.” One of the higher ups replied but Gojo quickly responded “He’s underage, just sixteen years old, and who knows how many he have cursed”

“So you’ll take him?” One of the old hags of the higher ups asked “Yes, Yuta Okkotsu will attend Jujustu high school.”

….

Yuta had his head down with his arms crossed still sitting on the chair “You make this in shop class?” Gojo said infront of him holding up a twisted knife “Yuta Okkotsu..” he finished “I-it used to be a knife..” he said softly

“I tried killing myself” He hugged his knees closer and slowly looked up “But…Rika wouldn’t let me. Gojo just stared at him “Kinda dark.” he tossed the twisted knife away. “guess what? You’re starting at a new school today.”

…

The next day at Yuta got ready for the day where he would Jujustu high! He got to walking in the hallways tiredly with his eye bags shining in the sun.

“Did you hear about the new transferred student coming today? I heard he stuffed 4 of his classmates in a locker” Panda said while he walked with [name] and Inumaki

“You mean he killed them?” [name] asked “Tuna mayo” Inumaki added “Nah, gravely injured”

“If he’s cocky I’ll put him in his place” [name] said holding her bag on her shoulder. “Bento flakes” Inumaki sighed

“Students of all grades!” Gojo said exaggerating with hand motions “We have a new student! Give him a hand!!!!!”

‘God it’s too damn early for his bullshit..’ [name] said with a her head leaning on her hand, with her legs crossed.

“not one hand…” he said sadly

“Heard the kid’s a real wet blanket, the last thing I need is an another moody rookie to look after.” (Whatever that means..)

“Salmon”

Panda hums in agreement with Inumaki, Gojo sighs and puts his hand out “Oh well then! You can come on in now!”

Yuta then opens the sliding door and as soon as his foot stepped in the classroom they sensed his cursed aura and ever stepped he took it got stronger. Panda tensed up and got aggressive and [name] eyes widen, a large menacing curse was sensed behind him and made a strange noise while facing the 3 students, [name] unzipped her bag, Inumaki put a hand on his tall collar getting ready to use his cursed technique.

Bruce Wayne had never truly possessed a reason to resent [name]—not a logical one, at least. He simply did. Or, more accurately, the reason was etched into [name]’s eyes: the exact same eyes as her mother’s.

Every time Bruce looked at her, he saw those eyes staring back—haunted by their shape, their color. He recoiled, not out of hatred, but from something far more : fear. Because he knew precisely why they unnerved him.

Her mother—the woman he loved—had abandoned him. Abandoned the Waynes. She had walked away from the life they had built, forsaking them for her Clan—a group that viewed weakness as expendable and loyalty as conditional. A Clan that had never seen her as a person, only as power.

That memory alone, of her turning her back—festered inside Bruce like a wound that refused to heal. The thought of her always lingered, sharp and unforgiving, and [name] carried that echo with every glance.

So when Bruce received a call from Naobito Zenin, irritation boiled in his chest. He instructed Alfred to sever any lines of communication. He didn’t want to hear from them. But curiosity clawed at him, and eventually, he took the call.

“Maybe M/n is finally ready to crawl back. Fine. I’ll entertain it—but I’ll make her work for it,” he had thought, even allowing a slight smile at the idea of seeing her again. Just like old times… M/n, Satoru, and him—together. A family of sorts, fractured but familiar.

But that smile shattered when Naobito’s voice turned somber. M/n was dead—she had died months ago. And now, there was a child. A daughter. His daughter.

He could barely choke out a response. “What.”

It was too much. Jason’s resurrection. The chaos of the Red Hood. And now, this?

Bruce had Gordon collect the girl from the airport and order a DNA test immediately. He needed proof—needed something solid to stand on.

The results were : the child was his. And… impossibly, she was Satoru Gojo’s as well???

The moment she stepped through the manor doors, Bruce hadn’t yet been briefed. But when his eyes met hers—one luminous blue like Gojo’s, the other the rich hue of M/n’s—he knew.

Even beyond the strange eye color, everything else was him. The cheekbones. The jawline. Even her posture. She stood tall for a six-year-old—too tall. But those eyes... they unraveled him.

He couldn’t be near her.

If he stayed, he feared he might crumble. Or worse… lash out at something so heartbreakingly innocent.

“I’m sorry for your mother’s passing,” he murmured, voice hollow and clipped, before retreating to the Batcave.

There, beneath the weight of grief he’d never prepared for, Bruce collapsed to the floor. Hands gripping the cold ground, lungs burning, air slipping through him like smoke. Pressure mounted on his chest, like unseen hands crushing his ribs. His limbs trembled. His heart thundered like a war drum in his ears.

“No, no, no, no… please stop…” he thought as panic overtook him. His vision tunneled, lips dry, mind spinning into a storm of sorrow and helplessness.

Dick never had anything against [name], he knew her mother was really close to Bruce and had seen the woman before plenty of times as robin and he couldn’t help but grow fond of her. I mean that’s basically his mother! So was nice, caring and also helped him when he had a problem with something between him, and Bruce! He could’ve hate her, never! But that changed when she had left, when he was nightwing. How could she? For that clan.

So, when Dick was in the kitchen he had got surprised by a voice behind him and when he turned he had thought it was M/n but smaller! Those eyes. Blue and e/c eyes…he got scared and kicked the poor child.

‘I mean who is this child?? Why do they have M/n eyes, and Gojo’s eyes…’ he soon snapped out of it when he seen blood dripping from her head.

hey sorry I’m so sorry…” Dick said and helped her up.

“I-It’s o-ok I’m a big girl..” [name] says as she wipes the streak of blood of off her forehead.

“Let me-“ Before he finishes he gets a text from Alfred [Master Bruce has passed out in the batcave. Please hurry here master Dick.]

“You said you were a big girl right?” He said turning his head to her. [name] nods her head eagerly.

“Then you’ll be fine handling it. I have to go. When I come back we can go to the arcade.” Dick offered a smile then left and hurried to the batcave where Alfred stood with a worried expression.

….

The next day Bruce had woke up in his bed when dick sat near with his hands on his face.“Bruce.” Dick stood up when Bruce had sat up on the edge of the bed. “What happ-“

“I can’t be a father for that girl.” Bruce interrupted and Dick froze and looked confused “The girl little that just came to the manor. I can’t be her father. That isn’t my daughter.”

Dick just stared at Bruce with a frown “Bruce-“ Bruce silently began to cry with a hand on his eyes “I can’t..” he said shakily, dick sat next to him with a hand on his back “Ok.”

Of course Dick didn’t approve of this, I mean who would??? But he could obviously see that Bruce isn’t in the right state but It’s ok he’ll be a big brother for her to lean on and see as a father…one day. Right?

Jason hated [name].

Or at least, that’s what he told himself every single time he caught her in the corner of his eye, every time someone so much as brought up her name. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, cross his arms, and say something cruel like-

“She’s a spoiled bratty bitch whose mother was a dumb whore that got herself killed.”

He said it like it was truth. Cold, harsh truth.

But deep down—where the rage throbbed and the loneliness curled into something even colder—Jason knew he was full of it. Every time he dragged her mother’s name through the mud, he was really just trying to bury how much he missed her. M/n was the only person who ever made him feel like more than a burden. She treated him like he mattered—like he was hers.

He cried harder than anyone when he found out she died. No one saw it. He made sure of that. But behind all the noise and anger and bravado, he wept for her. For the mother he never truly had, but almost did. Until she left. Until she abandoned him—right after he was kidnapped. After the Joker. After everything.

And now she was dead?

Jason couldn’t even look at photos of her without feeling like the world was cracking apart at the seams. He hated her for walking away. Hated her for dying. Hated how much he still��loved her.

He had ignored Dick’s call two days ago. Didn’t want to hear anything that had to do with the manor. With Bruce. But something in Dick’s voice… something had kept him from deleting the message. So now here he was—back in the same house where everything had started to rot.

Dick looked like a wreck. Pale. Exhausted. Haunted.

Jason didn’t bother hiding his sneer. “What’s wrong with you, dickface?”

Dick barely looked up. “She’s dead.” His voice cracked like glass. He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

Jason blinked, confused. “Who?”

“M/n… I just wanted to tell you. She has a child. And she… she’s here.”

Dick couldn’t even finish. He left the room without another word.

Jason stood there for a long time. Heart pounding. Head spinning.

He wandered into the library, trying to escape the weight of it all. Grabbed a book—anything to pull him out of his own head. Tried to focus. Tried to not feel.

But the pages blurred. Wet. His hands were shaking.

Tears? No. No, stop that. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

But he did. God, he did.

No mission, no alias, no mask could erase the ache of being loved—and left behind.

She had come into his life. Treated him like a son. Then left. Had a baby. A new child. And then died.

Where was his closure? Where was his chance to protect her? To yell at her? To forgive her?

Jason slammed the book shut and sat frozen, chest heaving.

Then someone bumped into him.

His book hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Oh, sorry—” a small voice stammered.

He looked down.

It was like someone had punched him in the gut.

Those eyes. One blue. One [e/c].

His hands curled into fists.

So this is who she died for? This… replacement? This child? Is this the one who got her love in the end? Got her last words? Her final breath?

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

The girl looked down, ashamed. “...oh.”

He scoffed, bitterness thick in his throat. “Another one of Bruce’s adopted mistakes?”

“I-I’m his kid! I promise… a-and you’re my brother, right?” she said quietly, voice soft and trembling.

Jason didn’t answer. He smirked—sharp and humorless.

She thinks I’m her brother. Like she gets to call me that.

He knelt slightly, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder, watching her flinch beneath his grip. “Look, kid,” he said, voice like ice, “you’re just one of Bruce’s little distractions. And soon enough, he’ll forget about you too—just like everything else you care about. You’re not special. And I’m not your brother.”

He let her go and turned without another glance as she stumbled into the bookshelf behind her. The sound echoed like guilt.

But Jason kept walking.

And as he stormed off down the hallway, jaw clenched so tight it ached, he swore something to himself in silence.

‘You ruined the only good thing I ever had—just by being born. So don’t expect mercy. Not from me.’

Yuta explains that the Cursed Spirit is Rika, a childhood friend whom he had promised to marry when they grew up. Rika died in a freak accident and became an overprotective spirit that harms anyone who threatens him.

During his first mission with [Name], Yuta successfully summons Rika on his own for the first time to save them from a Cursed Spirit. Three months pass in his school training, and he grows close to [Name], Toge, and Panda. One day, on a mission together, Toge and Yuta are attacked by a high-level Curse. The man behind the attack was Suguru Geto, a previous student and old friend of Gojo, who defected from the school and killed over a hundred innocent people on a mission.

Geto attempts to get Yuta on his side so they can make use of Rika, but Yuta refuses when he insults Yuta's friends due to unsettled circumstances. Geto declares war to activate a portal to the under-world: he will release a thousand Curses upon the city to remove non-sorcerer humans, as he believes them to be undeserving and beneath sorcerers. Geto's real reason for the war, however, is to distract Gojo so he can kill Yuta and add Rika to his collection of cursed spirits. Gojo realizes this upon learning of Yuta's background, and sends Inumaki and Panda back to the school to protect Yuta and Maki during the night of Geto's attack. Geto overpowers them all, leaving only Yuta conscious. Enraged at seeing his friends hurt, Yuta promises himself as a sacrifice to Rika in order to strengthen their bond. As a result, Geto is severely wounded. He is found by Gojo, who after reflecting on their past friendship, executes him.

[name] stood quietly at the edge of the room, her gaze resting on Gojo’s sleeping form. The soft rise and fall of his chest was the only proof he was still here—still breathing, still fighting. But earlier… she’d seen his face after the fighting. The way his expression cracked when he thought no one was looking. The way his hands trembled before he shoved them deep into his pockets.

Her eyes drifted to the blindfold resting against his forehead, slightly askew. With a small breath, she stepped closer, fingers twitching nervously as she reached for it. She gently lifted it from his eyes, careful not to wake him, and replaced it with her own glasses, pressing them onto his face with a little huff.

she slipped the blindfold over her own eyes.

“Gosh, how does he see with this thing?” she muttered to herself with a crooked smile. “I’m literally blind right now.”

She took a step—and promptly bumped into the wall with a soft thud.

“Ow…” she mumbled, rubbing her arm.

Laughter—low and breathy—broke the silence behind her.

She whipped around, the blindfold slipping halfway off her face. Gojo was awake. Sitting up. Watching her.

And smiling.

His eyes—those eyes—were soft and bright like sunlight scattered across an endless ocean. Their glow lit something warm and dizzying inside her chest.

“H-HUH?! THIS IS A DREAM!” [name] blurted, panicking, leaping into the weirdest stance she could think of on the spot.

“Oh wow, I’m terrified,” he teased, clapping dramatically. “Is that… the ancient Fighting Crane meets Confused Flamingo technique? Legendary.”

[name] tried to hold the pose, struggling to stay serious. “Silence! I am the blindfolded warrior, guardian of the living room!” she declared, wobbling slightly to the left.

“Well then, oh mighty warrior,” he said with a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes, “I challenge you to a duel. But only if you can pass… the tickle trial.”

“Huh? Wait no—NO!” she shrieked as Gojo lunged, grabbing her sides with the lightest poke.

She burst into uncontrollable giggles, twisting away and finally pulling off the blindfold in a fit of laughter.

“You blue eye bastard!” she panted, catching her breath.

He sat up, smiling softly now. “Yeah, I tend to break the rules. Especially for a smile like that.”

For a moment, there was silence—the good kind. Then his voice turned gentler.

“Hey, [name]… could you take that bandage off?”

She blinked, confused. “Oh. Sure—but I kinda can’t see too good with that eye,” she murmured, fingertips brushing the edge of the gauze as she slowly peeled it away.

Her partially blind eye met his, and he stared.

“I was right,” he whispered, stepping forward with small, steady steps.

“What?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

She felt it, then. The heat of tears soaking through her shirt. His shoulders trembled against her. The strongest man she knew was quietly falling apart in her arms

“You’re my daughter.”

She froze in his embrace. And then slowly, carefully, wrapped her arms around him, like maybe, just maybe—someone loves her.

A/N || sorry for the wait but here’s the chapter!!! And boom here’s the big plot twist!!! btw name won’t have six eyes or anything, just related to gojo!! SO YES GOJO IS OUR PAPI TOO GUYS 😜 (ALSO ANOTHER AUTHOR I LOVE LIKED MY SERIES AHHHHH!!!!! TYYYYYYY ILYSM (I follow you😝) Also about the genetics thing, M/n genes pull the stronger genes into [name] ,but there is a possible, a little chance that if there is a third party, their genetics can also be in said baby (not logically obvious)

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#yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #neglected reader #yandere cassandra cain #yandere damian wayne #yandere duke thomas #jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #yuta okkotsu #inumaki toge #panda #yandere stephanie brown

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heesvnqie · 17 hours ago

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Shadows Of Desire- Shim Jaeyun!Jake

pairing: shim jaeyun!jake x Reader genre: bestfriend's pyschopatch brother x reader, dark romance, psychological thriller, horror warnings: dark themes, porn with plot, psychological tension, emotional manipulation, knife imagery, references to violence (including animal cruelty), obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes, emotional distress, and betrayal. word count: 15k (the longest fanfiction I've ever written, phew) a/n: This fanfiction has been a thrilling journey into the shadows, born from your vision of a dark, magnetic Jake and a reader torn between fear and fascination. Thank you for guiding this story through its twists—your requests shaped its haunting tone and emotional depth. For all the jakeu girlies like me, dropping a bomb!

The sun was dying, its last rays clawing through the half-drawn curtains of Hana’s house, painting the living room in streaks of blood-orange and shadow. The place always had a strange weight to it, like it was holding secrets in its walls, but today it felt heavier, almost alive with tension.

You’d been Hana’s best friend since middle school, spending years sprawled on her bedroom floor, trading secrets over bowls of popcorn or cramming for tests until your eyes burned. But today, Hana was different—skittish, her movements sharp and unsteady as she ushered you through the front door. Her sneakers scuffed against the polished hardwood, and her fingers twisted the strap of her backpack so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Keep it quiet, okay?” she hissed, her voice barely above a breath, as if speaking too loudly would shatter something fragile. Her dark eyes flicked toward the staircase, wide and glassy, like she was waiting for a predator to slink down from the shadows. “Jake’s home.”

Shim Jaeyun. Her older brother. You’d heard his name before, but he was more myth than man in Hana’s stories—someone she mentioned in rare, trembling whispers, always with a look of dread. “He’s not right, Y/N,” she’d said once, late at night during a sleepover, her voice muffled by her pillow. “He’s… I don’t know, he’s fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Just promise you’ll stay away from him, okay?” You’d nodded, more to calm her than because you understood. But the way her voice cracked, the way her hands shook when she spoke of him, stuck with you. Jake was a ghost in her life, a shadow she couldn’t escape, and now you were about to step into his territory.

You set your bag down by the couch, the soft thud sounding too loud in the oppressive quiet. The house was dim, the air thick with the faint scent of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, that you couldn’t place. A clock ticked somewhere, its rhythm uneven, like a heartbeat struggling to stay steady. Hana grabbed your arm, her grip tight enough to bruise, and tugged you toward the hallway. “Let’s just go to my room,” she said, her voice high and thin. “We can study there.”

But before you could move, a sound stopped you cold—a slow, deliberate creak from upstairs, like someone was pacing across the floorboards, testing their weight. Hana froze, her breath hitching, her nails digging into your skin. “He’s up there,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “Fuck, Y/N, just… don’t look at him, okay? Don’t talk to him.”

You nodded, but curiosity was a live wire in your chest, sparking with every step you took. You’d never seen Jake, not even in photos—Hana kept none of him, and their parents’ house was strangely barren of family portraits. All you had were her warnings, her fear, and the stories she’d let slip over the years. Stories of Jake coming home late, his clothes stained with something dark and sticky that wasn’t always paint. Stories of him smiling at her in a way that wasn’t kind, his eyes empty, like he was looking through her. Stories of knives—how he’d sit at the kitchen table, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, the blade catching the light as he hummed tunes only he could hear.

The staircase loomed ahead, a dark spiral leading to the second floor. Hana’s grip on you tightened as you passed it, her eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to glance up. But you couldn’t help it. Your gaze lifted, drawn to the shadows at the top of the stairs, and that’s when you saw him.

Shim Jaeyun.

He stood at the edge of the landing, one hand resting lazily on the banister, his posture deceptively relaxed. He was taller than you’d imagined, lean but wiry, his black hoodie clinging to a frame that seemed built for precision, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, casting shadows across his face, but it was his eyes that hit you like a punch—piercing, unreadable, a deep brown that bordered on black, like twin voids swallowing the light. They locked onto you, and the weight of his gaze was physical, pinning you in place. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but it wasn’t warm. It was sharp, like the edge of a blade, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Hana,” he said, his voice low and smooth, almost mocking, as he leaned forward slightly, his fingers tightening on the banister. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.”

Hana flinched, her body shrinking against yours, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “She’s… she’s just here to study, Jake,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “We’re going to my room. Don’t—don’t bother us, okay?”

Jake’s smirk widened, but his eyes never left you. He tilted his head, studying you like you were a specimen under glass, something he could take apart piece by piece. “What’s your name?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with something darker, something that made your pulse spike.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct screamed to look away. “Y/N,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Y/N,” he repeated, dragging out the syllables, tasting them like they were something he could savor. He took a step down the stairs, slow and deliberate, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, tugging at your arm. But you couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his stare. “Pretty name,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Suits you.”

Hana yanked you harder now, pulling you toward the hallway, but Jake’s presence filled the space like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable. As you passed the staircase, he descended another step, close enough that you caught the scent of him—cologne, sharp and expensive, mixed with that same metallic tang you’d noticed earlier, like iron or copper.

Your stomach twisted, a cocktail of fear and something else you didn’t want to name. His hand moved, and you saw it then—a glint of silver in his palm, a small switchblade he’d pulled from his pocket. He didn’t open it, just turned it over in his fingers, the metal catching the dim light as he twirled it with practiced ease, like it was an extension of himself.

“Don’t stay too late, Hana,” he said, his tone almost playful, but there was an edge to it, a warning wrapped in silk. His eyes flicked to you again, and the smirk returned, sharper now. “Wouldn’t want your friend getting… lost.”

Hana didn’t respond, just dragged you down the hallway, her breath ragged as she fumbled with the doorknob to her room. She shoved you inside and slammed the door, locking it with a click that echoed in the silence. Her back pressed against the wood, her chest heaving, her eyes squeezed shut like she was trying to block out the memory of him.

“He’s so fucking creepy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I told you, Y/N, he’s not normal. He’s… he’s a fucking psychopath. I’ve seen him do things, things I can’t—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, her hands trembling as she hugged herself. “Just stay away from him, okay? Promise me.”

You nodded, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the encounter in vivid detail. Jake’s eyes, his voice, the way he’d moved—like a predator playing with its prey, not because he was hungry, but because he enjoyed the game.

And the knife. God, the knife. The way he’d handled it, so casual, so intimate, like it was a lover’s hand he was caressing instead of a weapon. It should’ve terrified you, and it did, but there was something else there too, something that made your heart race and your skin prickle with heat. Something you didn’t want to admit, not even to yourself.

You sank onto Hana’s bed, the springs creaking under your weight, and tried to focus on her as she paced the room, muttering about how she hated living here, how she couldn’t wait to move out. But your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

To the way he’d said your name, like it was a secret he wanted to keep. To the way his fingers danced over that blade, precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how much pressure it would take to break skin.

The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the air too warm. You glanced at Hana’s desk, cluttered with textbooks and sticky notes, and noticed a photo tucked under a pile of papers—one of her and her parents, smiling at some beach vacation. No Jake. It was like he’d been erased from their lives, a phantom they refused to acknowledge. But he was real, too real, and he was upstairs, maybe still twirling that knife, maybe thinking about you.

“Y/N, are you even listening?” Hana’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and exasperated. She stood in front of you, hands on her hips, her face flushed with frustration. “I’m serious, you can’t go near him. He’s dangerous. I’ve seen him—” She stopped, biting her lip, her eyes darting to the door like she was afraid he’d hear her through the walls.

“Seen him what?” you asked, leaning forward, your curiosity outweighing your caution. “Hana, what’s he done?”

She shook her head, her hair falling into her face. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just… trust me, okay? He’s not someone you mess with. He doesn’t feel things like normal people. He’s—” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. “He’s a monster.”

You wanted to press her, to demand details, but the fear in her eyes stopped you. It was raw, visceral, the kind of fear that came from living with something dark for too long. Instead, you nodded again, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Okay, I promise,” you said, but the words felt like a lie even as they left your lips.

Hana exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders, and moved to her desk, pulling out her laptop. “Let’s just do this stupid project,” she muttered, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get out of here.”

You joined her, spreading out your notes, but your mind was fractured, half-focused on the words in front of you, half-lost in the memory of Jake. The way he’d looked at you wasn’t just curious—it was possessive, like he’d already decided you were something he wanted to claim.

And the knife… you couldn’t shake it. You imagined him alone now, maybe in his room, the blade flicking open with a soft snick, his fingers tracing its edge, testing its sharpness. Did he ever press too hard? Did he ever let it bite?

Hours passed, the sky outside turning black, the house growing quieter. Hana’s yawns grew frequent, her head bobbing as she fought to stay awake.

You were about to suggest calling it a night when you heard it—a faint sound from the hallway, like metal scraping against wood. Your heart lurched, and Hana’s eyes snapped open, her body going still.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She grabbed your hand, her palm clammy. “Don’t make a sound.”

You held your breath, straining to listen. The sound came again, slower this time, deliberate, like someone was dragging a knife along the wall, carving a line through the silence. It stopped just outside Hana’s door, and you swore you could feel him there, his presence a cold pressure seeping through the wood. The doorknob rattled, just slightly, and Hana let out a strangled whimper, her hand crushing yours.

Then, nothing. Just silence, heavy and suffocating. After what felt like an eternity, Hana exhaled shakily, releasing your hand. “He’s gone,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. She crawled to the door, pressing her ear against it, listening for any sign of him. “You should go home, Y/N. It’s not safe here.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. You gathered your things, your movements jerky, your skin still crawling with the memory of that sound.

Hana walked you to the front door, her eyes scanning the shadows like she expected him to appear out of nowhere. “Text me when you get home,” she said, her voice urgent. “And don’t come back for a while, okay? Not until I know he’s… not around.”

You stepped outside, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a car engine, but you felt exposed, like eyes were watching from the darkness.

You glanced back at the house, and for a moment, you thought you saw a silhouette in an upstairs window—Jake, standing motionless, his face hidden in shadow. But when you blinked, he was gone.

You walked home, your heart pounding, your mind a tangle of fear and fascination. Jake was everything Hana had warned you about—dangerous, unhinged, a psychopath. But there was something else, something that pulled at you like a current, dragging you toward him even as you tried to swim away. His eyes, his voice, the knife. He was a riddle wrapped in a threat, and you were already caught in his game.

The days after your first encounter with Jake were a blur of unease and fascination, like you’d brushed against something sharp and couldn’t stop thinking about the sting. Hana’s warnings echoed in your head—her trembling voice, her wide eyes, the way she’d locked her bedroom door like it could keep him out. “He’s a psychopath, Y/N,” she’d said, her words heavy with a fear that felt lived-in, worn like an old coat. “He doesn’t care about anyone. Not me, not our parents, not you.” But her fear only fueled your curiosity, a reckless part of you drawn to the danger in Jake’s eyes, to the way he’d twirled that switchblade like it was an extension of his soul.

You tried to stay away, you really did. For a week, you avoided Hana’s house, texting her excuses about being busy with school or family stuff. But her house was a magnet, and Jake was the iron in its core. Every night, you lay awake, replaying the moment he’d said your name, the way his voice had curled around it, possessive and intimate. You saw the glint of his knife in your dreams, the blade catching the light as it spun between his fingers, a dance of control and menace. You hated yourself for it, but you wanted to see him again—to test the edge of that danger, to see how close you could get before it cut.

It was a Thursday when you gave in. Hana had texted you, begging you to come over to finish a group project for your literature class. “Jake’s not here,” she’d promised, her message punctuated with a string of anxious emojis. “He’s been gone all week. Please, Y/N, we’re so behind.” You agreed, telling yourself it was just for the project, that you weren’t hoping to hear the creak of his footsteps or catch that metallic scent in the air.

When you arrived, the house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that felt like it was waiting to be broken. Hana met you at the door, her smile strained, her eyes darting behind you like she was checking for shadows. “Come on,” she said, pulling you inside. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spread your notes across her dining room table, the same table where you’d imagined Jake sitting, twirling his knife while Hana cowered upstairs. The thought sent a shiver through you, and you glanced toward the staircase, half-expecting to see him there, leaning against the banister with that smirk. But the house stayed silent, the only sound the scratch of Hana’s pen and the occasional rustle of paper.

Hours passed, the sky outside bruising purple as dusk settled in. You were deep in a discussion about Wuthering Heights—Heathcliff’s obsession, Catherine’s defiance—when you heard it: a soft click, like a key turning in a lock. Hana’s head snapped up, her pen freezing mid-sentence. Her face drained of color, and she grabbed your wrist, her fingers cold and clammy. “He’s back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Fuck, Y/N, he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Your heart kicked into overdrive, but it wasn’t just fear. There was a thrill in it, a pulse of adrenaline that made your skin tingle. You should’ve been scared—Hana’s panic was contagious, her eyes wide with terror—but all you could think about was him. Jake. The way he’d looked at you, like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve or break.

The front door creaked open, and footsteps echoed through the house, slow and deliberate, each one sending a jolt through Hana’s body. She pushed her chair back, ready to bolt, but you stayed put, your gaze fixed on the hallway. You heard the jingle of keys, the rustle of a jacket being tossed aside, and then he appeared.

Jake stood in the doorway, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a plain white shirt clinging to his lean frame. His hair was messier than last time, falling into his eyes, but those eyes—God, those eyes—were just as piercing, just as empty. He carried a small canvas bag, the kind you’d use for groceries, but the way it hung heavy in his grip made you wonder what was inside. His gaze swept the room, landing on Hana first, then sliding to you. The air shifted, grew heavier, like a storm rolling in.

“Hana,” he said, his voice smooth and low, with that same mocking edge. “Working hard, I see.” His lips twitched into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, calculating, like he was already three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

Hana’s grip on your wrist tightened, her nails biting into your skin. “We’re just doing school stuff,” she said, her voice high and brittle. “Don’t… don’t bother us, Jake.”

He ignored her, his attention fixed on you. He set the bag down on the counter, the contents clinking softly—metal against metal. Your stomach twisted, but you couldn’t look away. He reached into his pocket, and your breath caught as he pulled out the switchblade, the same one from last time. The silver gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and he flicked it open with a soft snick, the sound sharp enough to cut through the silence. He didn’t look at the knife, didn’t need to—his fingers moved with muscle memory, twirling it effortlessly, the blade a blur of motion.

“Y/N, right?” he said, his tone casual, like he was asking about the weather. But the way he said your name was different, heavier, like he was claiming it. He stepped closer, the knife still dancing in his hand, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, pulling you back.

“Jake, stop it,” she snapped, her voice trembling but defiant. “Leave her alone.”

He paused, his head tilting slightly, the knife slowing to a stop between his fingers. He held it lightly, almost delicately, but the threat was unmistakable. “Relax, Hana,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m just being friendly.” His eyes flicked to you again, and something flickered in them—amusement, maybe, or something darker. “You’re not scared, are you, Y/N?”

Your mouth went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “No,” you said, the word coming out quieter than you meant. It wasn’t entirely true—your heart was pounding, your pulse loud in your ears—but it wasn’t just fear. There was something else, something that made your skin flush and your breath hitch. Something you didn’t want to name.

His smirk widened, sharp and dangerous. “Good,” he said, his voice a low purr. He closed the knife with a flick of his wrist, the blade disappearing into the handle, but he didn’t put it away. Instead, he slid it across the table, letting it spin slowly, the metal glinting as it caught the light. It stopped inches from your hand, and you stared at it, your fingers twitching with the urge to touch it, to feel the weight of it, to understand what he saw in it.

“Jake, stop,” Hana said again, her voice cracking. She stood now, pulling you up with her, her eyes darting between you and the knife. “We’re going to my room. Just… leave us alone.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched as Hana dragged you toward the stairs. But as you passed him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you. His touch was cold, his fingers strong, and the contact sent a jolt through you, like electricity arcing between you. Hana gasped, but Jake’s eyes were on you, only you.

“You should stay,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, like he was testing you. His thumb brushed over the pulse point in your wrist, and you wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing. “We could have fun.”

Hana yanked you free, her strength surprising, and practically shoved you up the stairs. “Don’t talk to him,” she hissed, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger. “Don’t even look at him, Y/N.”

She slammed her bedroom door behind you, locking it with a trembling hand. She leaned against it, her chest heaving, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “I told you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not normal. He plays with people, Y/N, like they’re toys. And that knife…” She trailed off, shuddering, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve seen him cut things, hurt things, just because he can. He likes it.”

You sank onto her bed, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you. Your eyes drifted to the door, half-expecting to hear that scraping sound again, the knife against the wood. “What’s with the knife?” you asked, unable to stop yourself. “Why does he…?”

Hana shook her head, her expression haunted. “It’s like his fucking obsession,” she said, her voice bitter. “He’s always had it, since we were kids. He’d sit there for hours, sharpening it, flipping it, carving things into the furniture. Once, I saw him…” She stopped, swallowing hard, her hands clenching into fists. “I saw him with a stray cat, Y/N. In the backyard, late at night. He had that knife, and he was… he was just cutting it, not deep, not enough to kill, but enough to make it scream. He was smiling, like it was nothing. Like it was fun.” Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I ran inside and locked my door. I didn’t sleep for days.”

Your stomach churned, a sick mix of horror and fascination twisting inside you. You should’ve been repulsed, should’ve wanted to run as far from this house as you could. But instead, you pictured it—Jake in the moonlight, his face calm and focused, the blade glinting as it moved with precision. You hated how the image didn’t just scare you; it intrigued you, pulled you in like a dark tide. “Did you tell anyone?” you asked, your voice quiet, almost guilty.

Hana shook her head, wiping her eyes. “Who would believe me? Our parents think he’s just… troubled. They sent him to therapy when he was younger, but it didn’t do shit. He’s too smart, Y/N. He knows how to play people, how to make them think he’s normal. But he’s not. He doesn’t feel things like we do. He doesn’t care if he hurts someone. He just… enjoys it.”

You nodded, your throat tight, trying to process her words. But your mind kept circling back to Jake—his cold touch, his piercing gaze, the way he’d spun that knife like it was an extension of himself. You wondered what it would feel like to hold it, to feel the weight of something so dangerous in your hand. The thought was wrong, so wrong, but it lingered, curling around your thoughts like smoke.

Hana sat next to you, her breathing uneven, her hands still trembling. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him,” she said, her voice urgent. “I know he’s… I don’t know, intense or whatever, but he’s dangerous, Y/N. He’ll pull you in, and then he’ll break you. That’s what he does.”

“I promise,” you said, the words automatic, but they felt hollow. You wanted to mean them, wanted to believe you could walk away and forget the way Jake’s eyes had locked onto yours, the way his voice had made your name sound like a secret. But deep down, you knew you were lying—to Hana, to yourself.

The rest of the night was a blur of half-hearted studying, Hana’s nervous energy filling the room like static. You kept glancing at the door, your ears straining for any sound—a creak, a scrape, anything to signal he was still there, lurking just out of sight. But the house stayed quiet, too quiet, and when you finally packed up to leave, Hana insisted on walking you to the door, her arm linked tightly through yours like she was anchoring you to safety.

Outside, the night was cool, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. You glanced up at the house as you stepped onto the porch, and your heart stopped.

There, in the upstairs window, was Jake. He stood motionless, his silhouette stark against the dim light of his room, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile, just watched, the switchblade in his hand catching the light as he twirled it once, twice, before letting it disappear into his palm.

Hana didn’t see him—she was too busy checking her phone, muttering about calling you an Uber—but you felt his gaze like a physical touch, cold and unyielding. You turned away, your heart pounding, and forced yourself to walk down the street, the memory of that knife and those eyes burning into you.

The next few days were torture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep without seeing him—his smirk, his blade, the way he’d held your wrist like he already owned you.

Hana texted you constantly, checking in, begging you to stay away from her house. But the pull was too strong, the need to know more about him, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a second skin.

It was late one evening, a week later, when you found yourself back at Hana’s house. She’d invited you over again, swearing Jake was out, that he’d been gone for days. You told yourself you believed her, but deep down, you knew you were hoping he’d be there. You needed to see him, to feel that rush again, even if it scared you.

The house was dark when you arrived, the windows black, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. Hana let you in, her face pale, her hands fidgeting as she led you to the living room. “We’ll work here,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s… safer.”

But before you could sit down, you heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping from the kitchen, like metal against wood. Your heart leapt into your throat, and Hana froze, her eyes wide with terror. “No,” she whispered, grabbing your arm. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

The tapping stopped, and the silence that followed was worse, heavy and suffocating. Then, slow footsteps, deliberate, echoing through the house. Jake appeared in the doorway, wearing a red stripped with white sweater, brown belt buckled on beige pants, muscled forearms, one hand holding the switchblade. He wasn’t twirling it this time—just holding it, the blade closed but gleaming faintly in the dim light. His eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar, dangerous smirk.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like he was savoring the surprise. He stepped closer, and Hana shrank back, her breath hitching. “Miss me?”

Hana’s grip on your arm was painful now, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall, the knife still in his hand. He tilted his head, studying you, and then, slowly, deliberately, he flicked the blade open. The snick was sharp, final, and you felt it in your bones.

“Jake, leave her alone,” Hana said, her voice shaking but fierce. “I’m serious.”

He ignored her, his eyes locked on yours. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, holding up the knife, letting it catch the light. “It’s… calming. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your heart racing, but you didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because part of you—some dark, reckless part—wanted to say yes, wanted to feel the cold metal in your hand, to know what it was like to hold something so dangerous, so much like him. And he saw it, that flicker of curiosity in your eyes, because his smirk grew, his gaze darkening with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite desire, but something in between.

“Enough, Jake,” Hana snapped, stepping between you, her body trembling but her voice steady now. “Get out.”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that sent a chill through you. “You’re no fun, Hana,” he said, but he didn’t move, didn’t put the knife away. He just stood there, watching you, the blade still in his hand, a silent invitation hanging in the air.

Hana grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the stairs, her steps quick and desperate. You followed, but not before glancing back at Jake, just for a moment. He was still watching, still smiling, and as you disappeared up the stairs, you heard the soft snick of the knife closing, followed by a low chuckle that echoed in your ears long after you reached Hana’s room.

Jake was a specter haunting your every thought, a blade pressed against the thin skin of your restraint. Since that night in Hana’s kitchen, he’d carved himself into your mind—the way his voice curled around your name, dark and possessive, the way his switchblade spun in his fingers, a dance of menace and control. You knew he was dangerous, knew the cold glint in his eyes wasn’t just a trick of the light. But knowing didn’t stop the pull, the reckless hunger to see how close you could get to his edge without falling over.

Hana’s call came on a Wednesday afternoon, her voice rushed and frazzled through the phone. “Y/N, I’m drowning in this lit project,” she said, the words tumbling out. “Can you come over? I need you to save my ass before this deadline kills me.” She didn’t mention Jake, and you didn’t ask, but the thought of him was there, a shadow in the corner of your mind, beckoning you back to that house.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your jacket, the decision made before you could second-guess it. You told yourself it was for Hana, for the project, but the lie was flimsy, crumbling under the weight of your curiosity, your need to feel that electric chill again.

The sky was a bruise of gray clouds as you reached Hana’s house, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. The street was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made your own breathing sound too loud. You knocked on the front door, the sound swallowed by the heavy stillness, and waited. No answer. You knocked again, sharper, but the house stayed mute, its windows dark and unblinking. A prickle of unease crawled up your neck, but you pushed it down, fishing out your phone to text Hana.

Hey, I’m here. Where you at?

No reply. You tried the doorknob, half-expecting it to be locked, but it turned with a soft click, the door groaning open like a warning. The air inside was cold, heavy with that familiar mix of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, like blood or iron. You stepped into the foyer, your sneakers barely whispering against the hardwood, and called out, “Hana? You here?”

Silence answered, but it wasn’t empty. It was alive, charged, like the house itself was watching you. You set your backpack by the stairs, your eyes darting to the shadowed corners, the dim hallway stretching into darkness. “Hana?” you tried again, your voice thinner now, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

A faint sound came from behind you—a soft snick, like metal flicking open. Your heart stopped, your body going rigid as the air shifted, colder now, heavier. You turned slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and there he was—Jake, emerging from the shadows of the living room doorway like a phantom, his presence sucking the light from the room. He was closer than you’d expected, too close, his lean frame filling the space, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a tight shirt clinging to his chest. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but they gleamed through the strands, piercing and unreadable, locked on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a lilt of amusement that sent a shiver down your spine. “Sneaking in, are we?” He held his switchblade in one hand, the blade open, glinting faintly in the dim light as he tilted it, letting it catch the shadows. His other hand rested casually against the wall, but there was nothing casual about him—not the way he stood, not the way he looked at you, like you were prey he’d been waiting to catch.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screamed to run. “Hana called me,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “She said she needed help with a project. Where is she?”

Jake tilted his head, the knife twirling slowly in his fingers, a hypnotic motion that drew your eyes despite yourself. “Hana?” he said, his tone mocking, like he was playing with the word. “Not here. Must’ve slipped out. She’s like that—always running off.” He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you backed up instinctively, your shoulder brushing the wall. “But you’re here,” he added, his smirk sharpening, “and that’s so much more… interesting.”

Your pulse hammered, a mix of fear and something hotter, more dangerous, curling in your chest. He’d come from behind you, silent as a ghost, and the realization made your skin prickle—the house had felt empty, but he’d been there, watching, waiting. The air was thick now, electric, like a storm about to break, and you couldn’t look away from him, from the blade, from the way his eyes seemed to see through you.

“I should go,” you said, but the words lacked conviction, your body refusing to move. His presence was a cage, invisible but unyielding, and you were already trapped.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, a velvet threat. He was closer now, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, and that sharp, metallic tang that clung to him like a second skin. The knife stopped twirling, and he held it loosely, the blade pointed down, but its presence was a pulse in the air, a reminder of what he could do. “You came all this way,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, dark and hungry. “Might as well stay.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated how it betrayed you, how he noticed—the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his smirk deepened. “Why?” you asked, the word slipping out, a challenge you didn’t mean to issue. “What do you want from me?”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that felt like it crawled under your skin. “What do I want?” he echoed, stepping closer, so close you could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze. “I want to know why you’re not running, Y/N. Why you’re standing here, looking at me like you’re not afraid, when you should be.” He lifted the knife, not threateningly, but deliberately, letting the blade brush the air between you, a whisper of cold steel. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull.”

Your stomach twisted, his words too close to the truth. You did feel it—the pull, the dark current dragging you toward him, toward the danger he embodied. You knew what he was, or at least you suspected it—the emptiness in his eyes, the ease with which he wielded that knife, the stories of blood and screams that clung to him like shadows. But it didn’t push you away. It drew you in, like a moth to a flame, and you hated how much you wanted to burn.

“I’m just here for Hana,” you said, but the lie was brittle, and he saw it shatter in your eyes.

“Sure you are,” he said, his voice a purr, laced with amusement. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife still in his hand, its presence a cold counterpoint to his heat. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, his tone shifting, intimate now, like he was sharing a secret. “It’s… different. Like holding a piece of the world in your hand. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, sharp and perfect. You should’ve said no, should’ve backed away, but the part of you that was reckless, that was drawn to him, wouldn’t let you. “Show me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, something like satisfaction flickering in them. He flipped the knife closed with a soft snick, the sound sharp in the quiet, and held it out to you, handle first. “Take it,” he said, his tone coaxing, a dare wrapped in silk. “Feel it.”

Your hand trembled as you reached for it, your fingers brushing his, cold and steady, the contact sending a jolt through you. The knife was heavier than you expected, its handle worn smooth from years of use, and you turned it over in your palm, the weight grounding but thrilling, like holding something forbidden. You looked up at him, and he was watching you, not just your face but your hands, the way you held it, like he was seeing something new in you, something he wanted to keep.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “It’s not forgiving if you don’t respect it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding, the knife cold against your skin. “Why do you like it?” you asked, the question raw, unfiltered. “What’s it mean to you?”

He stepped closer, his body inches from yours, his eyes locked on yours, dark and unyielding. “It’s truth,” he said, his voice soft but heavy, like a confession. “No masks, no lies. Just… power. You decide how it moves, how it cuts. It’s like holding someone’s soul in your hand.” He reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he guided your hand, turning the knife slightly, the motion deliberate, intimate. “You feel that, don’t you?”

You did. The knife felt alive, a pulse of potential in your grip, and the way he was looking at you—hungry, almost proud—made your head spin. You handed it back, your fingers lingering against his, and he took it slowly, his gaze never wavering.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words sinking into you, warm and dangerous, like a spark in dry grass. He stepped back, twirling the knife once before slipping it into his pocket, but the air between you stayed charged, heavy with unspoken promises.

The front door slammed open, and you flinched, the spell breaking like glass. Hana’s voice cut through the house, high and breathless. “Y/N? I’m so sorry, I got stuck at this stupid neighbourhood meeting—” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face flushed, her backpack half-slung over her shoulder. Her eyes darted between you and Jake, and her expression tightened, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Jake,” she said, her voice clipped. “What’s going on?”

He leaned back against the counter, his smirk lazy but sharp, the knife gone but its presence still lingering. “Just chatting with Y/N,” he said, his eyes flicking to you, a private challenge in them. “She’s good company.”

Hana’s gaze snapped to you, her brows furrowing. “You okay?” she asked, softer now, stepping closer. You nodded, your throat tight, your mind still reeling from the knife, from him, from the way he’d appeared behind you like a ghost.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Hana said, grabbing your arm, her touch firm but not desperate. She led you out of the kitchen, her steps quick, and you followed, but not before glancing back at Jake. He was watching you, his smirk softer now, almost knowing, like he’d seen a part of you you hadn’t meant to show.

As you climbed the stairs, the weight of the knife lingered in your hand, cold and heavy, and you knew you were sinking deeper into something dangerous, something you weren’t sure you could—or wanted to—escape.

Jake was a fucking inferno, a blaze of danger and desire that scorched your thoughts, leaving you raw and aching for more. Ever since that night in Hana’s kitchen, when you’d gripped his switchblade and felt his dark, empty eyes burn into you, he’d infected you—his Aussie drawl, his knife play, his fucking presence a drug you couldn’t kick. He was a psychopath, no question, with that cold, calculating edge, but it didn’t scare you off. It made your pussy throb, made you want to dive into his darkness and see how much you could take before you burned up.

Hana’s text hit your phone on a Friday night, the sky black as sin, thunder growling in the distance like a beast ready to pounce. “Movie night, my place, 8 sharp,” she’d typed, casual as hell. “Be there, Y/N, need you.” She swore she’d be home, and you latched onto that, telling yourself you were going for her, for some dumbass movie and snacks. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were chasing Jake, craving that electric jolt he sent through you, that mix of fear and want that made your clit pulse just thinking about him.

The house stood like a fucking haunted relic, its windows dark except for a weak, a faint yellow glow from the kitchen, flickering like a trap set just for you. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of rain and something metallic, like blood on the wind. You knocked, the sound dying in the oppressive silence, and waited, your heart jackhammering in your chest. Nothing. You pounded again, harder, but the house was a goddamn tomb, silent and watching.

Your phone showed 8:10 p.m. No word from Hana. A flicker of panic sparked, but you shoved it down, twisting the doorknob. It gave way, the door creaking open like a warning, and you stepped into the foyer, the air cold and sharp with that familiar mix of cedarwood and steel. “Hana?” you called, your voice echoing, swallowed by the shadows. “You in here?”

The silence was alive, crawling over your skin, making your nipples harden under your shirt from the chill and something else—anticipation, maybe, or dread. You dropped your bag by the stairs, your boots barely making a sound on the hardwood, and headed for the kitchen, drawn to that sickly glow like a moth to a fucking flame. The hallway was a black void, shadows pooling like ink, and you felt eyes on you, invisible but heavy, making your pussy clench with a mix of fear and need.

You hit the kitchen doorway and froze, your breath catching like a knife in your throat. Jake was there, leaning against the counter like he fucking owned the place, a vision of Aussie sex on legs. His black tee clung to his lean chest, a leather jacket draped over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was a perfect mess, framing those sharp cheekbones, and his lips—fuck, those lips—curved in a smirk that promised all kinds of sin. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto yours, and your cunt pulsed, slick already just from one goddamn look.

He was flipping his switchblade, the silver blade catching the light as it spun, a casual, deadly dance that made your heart race. He looked like trouble, the kind of guy who’d fuck you senseless and leave you ruined, and you wanted every second of it. “Well, shit, love,” he drawled, his Aussie accent thick, dripping with charm that felt like a blade to your throat. “Didn’t expect you to walk in lookin’ like that.” His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, making your cheeks burn, your pussy aching under his gaze.

Panic hit hard. Hana wasn’t here—she’d fucking promised, but she wasn’t, and Jake was, looking like he’d been waiting for you all along. Your instincts screamed to run, to get the hell out before he could sink his claws in deeper. “I—fuck, I gotta go,” you stammered, spinning toward the hallway, your boots slipping as you bolted, your heart in your throat.

You made it halfway to the door before you skidded to a stop, a choked scream ripping from you. Jake was there, leaning against the foyer wall, his body a sudden, impossible barrier, the switchblade still flipping in his hand, his smirk sharp as a razor. “How the fucking hell? Weren’t you just there?” you gasped, your voice shaking, your mind spinning. He’d been in the kitchen, flipping that damn knife, not ten seconds ago—how was he here, blocking your way, like he’d slipped through the goddamn shadows?

He laughed, a low, dirty sound that sent a shiver straight to your clit. “I’m quick when I wanna be, darlin’,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words, making them sound filthy, dangerous. He stepped closer, and you backed up, your ass hitting the wall, your pulse pounding so loud you could hear it. “You ran,” he said, his tone low, teasing, but his eyes were dark, hungry. “What’s got you so spooked? Thought you were tougher than that.”

Your throat was dry, your body a live wire, humming with fear and a need so intense it made you flush, your cheeks burning, you were soaking through your panties. He was right—you’d run because Hana’s absence was a fucking betrayal, because this house was a trap, because he was a predator and you were prey, and yet… you wanted to be caught. “Hana said she’d be here,” you said, forcing your voice to hold, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “Where the fuck is she?”

He shrugged, the knife flipping faster, a silver blur that made your cunt throb with some fucked-up mix of fear and want. “Beats me,” he said, his tone too easy, like he was playing with you and loving every second. “Probably off somewhere, doin’ whatever. You know how she is—never where she says she’ll be.” He closed the distance, the air thick with his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp, metallic bite that was all him. “But you’re here, love,” he murmured, his eyes burning into yours, “and I’m not lettin’ you slip away that easy.”

Your skin was on fire, your clit pulsing, your whole body screaming to run but aching to stay. He was too close, his heat seeping into you, the knife a silent threat, a promise you didn’t know if you wanted kept. “I should wait for her,” you said, but it was weak, a pathetic attempt to hold onto something normal when all you wanted was him, his danger, his fucking everything.

“Fuck waiting,” he growled, his voice low, that Aussie drawl making your pussy clench. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “You don’t want Hana. You want me. You want my cock, don’t you? Want me to fuck that tight little pussy till you can’t think straight.” His words hit like a shockwave, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

You should’ve pushed him away, should’ve screamed, but instead, you moaned, a soft, needy sound that gave you away. His smirk widened, his eyes darkening with hunger, and he pressed himself closer, his body hard against yours, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable, pressing against your thigh. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice a filthy purr. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you? I bet that pussy’s begging for it.”

Your cheeks were scorching, your body trembling with need, and you nodded, unable to stop yourself, unable to lie. “Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, his lips crashing into yours, a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, raw and fucking filthy. You kissed him back, desperate, your hands clawing at his jacket, his shirt, needing to feel him, to drown in him.

He shoved you against the wall, his hands rough, ripping at your clothes, tearing your shirt open, your bra pushed up to expose your tits. “Fuck, look at these,” he growled, his hands squeezing, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you moan, your pussy clenching. “Such perfect fucking tits, made for my mouth.” He dipped down, sucking hard, his teeth grazing, and you arched into him, your clit throbbing, your body screaming for more.

His knife was out again, and your breath hitched, fear spiking but only making you wetter, your cunt aching as he flicked it open, the snick loud and final. He didn’t cut you—just let the blade trace your skin, a cold, teasing touch along your collarbone, down to your stomach, making you shiver, your hips bucking against him. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, his voice thick, dirty. “My knife on your skin, my cock so fucking hard for you. You want me to fuck you with this blade in my hand, don’t you, love?”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, your pussy dripping, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was. He smirked, setting the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a ghost in the air as he ripped your jeans down, your panties following, leaving you bare, your cunt glistening for him. “Fuck, look at that pussy,” he said, his voice rough, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles that made you gasp, your hips grinding against him. “So fucking wet, so ready for my cock. You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you stupid.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body on fire, and he groaned, his fingers plunging into you, stretching you, making you moan, your clit pulsing under his thumb. “Please, Jake, fuck me,” you begged, your cheeks flushing, your need for him a living thing, clawing at you.

He didn’t make you wait. He unzipped his jeans, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “You want this cock, love?” he said, stroking himself, his voice a filthy drawl. “Want it deep in that tight little pussy, fucking you till you scream?”

“Yes,” you moaned, your hips bucking, your cunt aching to be filled. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you upstairs, his steps silent, the house a blur of shadows and heat. His room was dark, reeking of him—leather, cologne, metal—and he threw you on the bed, his body covering yours, his eyes burning with need.

He didn’t waste time. His hands were on you, rough and hungry, spreading your thighs, his fingers teasing your clit, making you writhe, your moans loud and desperate. “Gonna fuck you so hard, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing, making you whimper. “Gonna make this pussy mine, make you come all over my cock.”

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around him, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He didn’t go slow—his pace was relentless, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit throbbing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “This pussy’s fucking perfect, taking my cock like it was made for it.”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, his dirty talk making you flush, your cunt dripping around him, the pleasure building, overwhelming. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, your body trembling, your clit pulsing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, sending you over the edge.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel that pussy squeeze.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching, your body shaking, your screams muffled against his shoulder. He didn’t stop, fucking you through it, his thrusts brutal, his groans growing louder, more feral.

“Gonna fill you up,” he said, his voice thick, his cock twitching inside you. “Gonna pump this pussy full of cum, make you mine.” He came hard, his thrusts deep, his release hot and overwhelming, and you moaned, your body trembling, feeling every pulse, every drop.

When it was over, you lay there, panting, your body slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the bed. His arm draped over you, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, lazy but claiming. The knife was on the nightstand, closed but gleaming, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your ear. “This pussy’s mine, and you’re not going anywhere.”

You flushed, your cheeks burning, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to leave. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came later, frantic, calling your name from downstairs, but his grip tightened, holding you close. “Let her fucking wait,” he growled, his voice low, filthy. “You’re mine tonight, love.”

And you were. You stayed, lost in his heat, his danger, the storm outside a faint echo of the one he’d ignited in you, and you knew this was just the start—dark, filthy, and fucking unstoppable.

The afterglow of Jake’s touch lingered like a bruise, tender and raw, your body still humming from the way he’d fucked you—hard, deep, claiming every inch of your pussy like it was his to own. His cum was still warm inside you, his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp metallic bite—clinging to your skin, marking you as his. You lay sprawled across his bed, your chest heaving, your cunt still tingling, your cheeks flushed from the filthy things he’d growled in your ear, his Aussie drawl turning every word into a weapon that made you drip. His arm was slung over you, heavy and possessive, his fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles on your hip, each touch reigniting the fire in your core.

The house was a fucking crypt around you, its silence broken only by the distant rumble of the storm outside and the faint, frantic sound of Hana’s voice echoing from downstairs. “Y/N? Where the hell are you?” she called, her tone sharp with worry, her footsteps creaking on the hardwood. You stirred, your body protesting, your mind foggy with Jake’s heat, but his grip tightened, pinning you to the bed, his lips brushing your ear, hot and commanding.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy growl, that thick Aussie accent making your clit throb. “She can fucking wait, love. Your pussy’s still mine, and I’m not done with you.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cheeks burning, your cunt clenching around nothing, already aching for him again. You should’ve moved, should’ve answered Hana, but the weight of him, the promise in his voice, kept you locked in place, your body betraying you with every shuddering breath.

The knife on the nightstand gleamed in the dim light, its blade closed but heavy with meaning, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on—his blade on your skin, cold and teasing, his cock slamming into you, his dirty talk pushing you over the brink. You shivered, your nipples hardening, and Jake noticed, his smirk widening, his fingers sliding up to pinch one, making you gasp, your pussy slick with need.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he said, his voice rough, dirty, his eyes dark with hunger. “Look at you, all flushed and needy, your cunt begging for my cock again. You love this, don’t you? Love how I fuck you, how I own this tight little pussy.” His hand slid lower, cupping you, his fingers teasing your clit, slow and deliberate, making you moan, your hips bucking against him, your cheeks scorching with embarrassment and want.

“Jake,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body trembling under his touch. “Hana’s downstairs—she’ll come up here—”

“Let her,” he growled, his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your moan loud and desperate. “Let her see how fucking wet you are for me, how you take my fingers, my cock, like a good little slut.” His words were a shock, filthy and raw, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping around his fingers, your clit pulsing under his thumb.

You should’ve been ashamed, should’ve pushed him away, but you didn’t. You wanted it—his filth, his control, the way he made you feel like you were his and his alone. The knife caught your eye again, and you shivered, a fucked-up mix of fear and arousal twisting in your gut. He followed your gaze, his smirk turning wicked, and he reached for it, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your heart skip, your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“Still thinking about this, huh?” he said, holding the knife up, letting the blade catch the light, his fingers still fucking you, slow and deep, making you whimper. “You want it, don’t you? Want my blade on your skin while I fuck that pretty pussy again, make you scream for me.” His voice was a dirty caress, his accent thick, and you moaned, your cheeks burning, your body arching into him, needing more, needing everything.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, pulling his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching, your cunt throbbing with need. He brought the knife closer, not cutting, just tracing the flat of the blade along your thigh, the cold metal making you shiver, your clit pulsing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes burning with something beyond desire—possession, maybe, or something darker. “So fucking wet, so ready to take whatever I give you. You’re gonna let me fuck you with this knife right here, aren’t you, love? Gonna let me make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your cheeks were on fire, your body trembling, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was, how dangerous. He set the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a shadow in the air as he shoved his jeans down, his cock springing free, hard and thick, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “Get on your knees,” he growled, his voice a command, and you obeyed, your body moving before your mind could catch up, your cunt dripping as you knelt before him.

“Suck it,” he said, his hand tangling in your hair, guiding you to his cock, the tip glistening with precum. “Show me how much you want it, how much you love my cock.” You moaned, your cheeks flushing, and took him in, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling, tasting him, the salt and heat of him filling your senses. He groaned, his grip tightening, his hips thrusting, fucking your mouth, his dirty talk relentless.

“Fuck, that’s it, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag, your pussy dripping onto the sheets. “Take it deep, let me fuck that pretty mouth, make you choke on my cock. You’re so fucking good at this, so fucking mine.” His words made you flush, your clit throbbing, your hands gripping his thighs, needing to please him, needing to be his.

He pulled out, sudden and rough, and you gasped, your lips swollen, your breath ragged. “On the bed,” he said, his voice a low snarl, and you scrambled up, your body trembling, your cunt aching to be filled. He pushed you down, spreading your thighs, his eyes dark with hunger as he looked at your pussy, slick and ready, your clit swollen, begging for him.

“Fuck, look at this cunt,” he said, his voice thick, his fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your clit, making you moan, your hips bucking. “So fucking wet, so fucking perfect. You’re gonna take my cock so good, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you till you’re screaming, till this pussy’s ruined for anyone else.” His words were filthy, raw, making you flush, your cheeks burning, your body trembling with need.

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around his cock, the pleasure so intense it was almost too much. He didn’t hold back, his pace brutal, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit pulsing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his voice rough with need. “This pussy’s fucking mine, taking my cock like it was made for it. You love this, don’t you? Love me fucking you raw, making you come all over my dick.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your body trembling, your cheeks scorching as his words pushed you closer to the edge. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna come—” you gasped, your pussy clenching, your clit throbbing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, relentless.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep, his thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel this pussy squeeze me, show me how much you fucking love it.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking, your screams muffled against the pillow. He fucked you through it, his thrusts savage, his groans loud and feral, his cock twitching inside you.

“Gonna fill this pussy,” he said, his voice thick, his thrusts deep, his release close. “Gonna pump you full of cum, make you mine, love. You want that, don’t you? Want my cum dripping out of this tight little cunt.” You moaned, your body trembling, and he came hard, his cock pulsing, his cum hot and overwhelming, filling you, marking you.

He collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his arm pulling you close, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, still teasing, still claiming. The knife gleamed on the nightstand, a silent witness to the fire between you, and you felt it—the weight of what you’d done, the depth you’d fallen into. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your temple. “This pussy’s mine, and you're getting dressed now."

Your cheeks burned, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to escape. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came again, closer now, her footsteps on the stairs, but Jake’s grip tightened, his lips finding your ear, his voice a filthy whisper.

Jake’s command—“You’re getting dressed now”—cut through the air like the flick of his switchblade, sharp and unyielding, his Aussie drawl lacing the words with a dangerous edge. You lay sprawled across his bed, your body still warm from his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had been, the memory of his heat lingering like a phantom. The house was a crypt, its silence broken only by the distant growl of the storm outside and the sharp, panicked sound of Hana’s voice from downstairs, calling your name. Her footsteps creaked on the stairs, closer now, each one a hammer against the fragile moment you’d shared with Jake.

You stirred, your limbs heavy, your mind clouded with the weight of him—his piercing eyes, his knife, his presence that filled the room like smoke. His arm was still draped over you, possessive, but he shifted, propping himself on one elbow, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watched you with that smirk, lazy but predatory. “Move, love,” he said, his voice low, teasing, the accent thick and warm, like a lure. “Unless you want Hana to see you like this, all… undone.”

Your cheeks flushed, a rush of heat that made you look away, your heart pounding as you sat up, the sheets slipping against your skin. The knife on the nightstand gleamed, its blade closed but ever-present, a silent threat that sent a shiver through you—not fear, not entirely, but something deeper, something that drew you to him even now. You reached for your clothes, scattered across the floor, your fingers trembling as you pulled your shirt over your head, the fabric catching on your damp skin.

Jake moved too, fluid and deliberate, like a panther stretching after a hunt. He stood, his fitted black tee clinging to his lean frame, his leather jacket slung over the bedpost where he’d tossed it earlier. He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on with a casual ease that belied the tension in the room, his eyes never leaving you. The way he watched you dress—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every movement—made your skin prickle, your breath hitch. “You’re quick when you’re scared,” he said, his tone mocking but soft, his smirk widening as he zipped up, his fingers brushing the knife on the nightstand, lingering there, teasing its handle.

“I’m not scared,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, tugging your jeans up, fumbling with the button. It was a lie, and he knew it—you could see it in the glint of his eyes, the way they darkened with amusement. Hana’s footsteps were louder now, almost at the top of the stairs, her voice sharper, edged with worry. “Y/N? Are you up here?”

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs, but Jake didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, that metallic tang that clung to him like a shadow. He picked up the knife, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your breath catch, the blade catching the dim light like a promise. “She’s gonna lose it, you know,” he said, his voice a low purr, his accent curling around the words. “Hana, I mean. Seeing you with me. You sure you’re ready for that?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, pulling your jacket on, your eyes flicking to the door. “I’ll handle it,” you said, but the words felt fragile, like they might shatter under the weight of his gaze. He twirled the knife, the motion hypnotic, and stepped closer, the blade held loosely, not threatening but present, a reminder of the line you’d crossed.

“Handle it?” he echoed, his smirk sharp, his eyes searching yours. “You’re in deep now, love. No handling your way out of this.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife tilting in his hand, the flat of the blade brushing the air near your arm—not touching, but close enough to make your skin tingle. “You feel that, don’t you? The rush. You’re not running. You don’t want to.”

Your heart raced, his words too close to the truth. You should’ve bolted, should’ve pushed past him and met Hana at the door, but you didn’t. You stood there, caught in his orbit, the knife a cold star in the space between you. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, the question raw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why me?”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his eyes narrowing like he was peeling you apart, layer by layer. “Why you?” he repeated, his tone softer now, almost curious. “Because you see me, Y/N. Most people don’t. They see what they want—a brother, a son, a fucking monster. But you…” He stepped closer, the knife twirling again, slow and deliberate. “You see the blade, and you don’t flinch. That’s rare.”

The door rattled, Hana’s fist pounding against it, her voice muffled but urgent. “Y/N? Open the door! What’s going on?” You flinched, the spell breaking, and turned toward the sound, but Jake’s hand caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, holding you in place.

“Let her wait,” he said, his voice low, commanding, his eyes burning into yours. “We’re not done here.” He released you, stepping back to grab his leather jacket, sliding it on with a grace that made your stomach twist. The knife disappeared into his pocket, but its presence lingered, a weight in the air, a promise unspoken.

You moved to the door, your hand on the knob, but you hesitated, glancing back at him. He was fully dressed now, leaning against the bedpost, his arms crossed, his smirk softer but no less dangerous. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the door, his accent thick, teasing. “Face the music, love. But don’t think this is over. You and me—we’re just getting started.”

You opened the door, your heart in your throat, and Hana nearly fell into the room, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, what the hell?” she hissed, grabbing your arm, pulling you into the hallway. Her gaze darted to Jake, and her expression hardened, fear and anger warring in her eyes. “What are you doing here, Jake? I told you to stay away from her.”

Jake didn’t move, his smirk unwavering, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just having a chat,” he said, his tone light but laced with that mocking edge, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Y/N’s good company. Better than you, sis.”

Hana’s grip tightened, her nails digging into your skin, and she pulled you toward the stairs, her voice low and urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.” You followed, your legs unsteady, your mind reeling from Jake’s words, from the way he’d looked at you, from the knife that wasn’t in his hand but might as well have been.

The house seemed to watch as you descended, the shadows deeper now, the air colder, heavier, like it was pressing against you, urging you to stay. You glanced back, just once, and saw Jake standing at the top of the stairs, his silhouette stark against the dim light, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t follow, didn’t need to. His presence was a tether, pulling at you, even as Hana dragged you outside.

The storm had broken, rain pelting the pavement, soaking your clothes as you stepped into the yard. Hana was shaking, her hands fumbling with her phone, muttering about getting you home. “You can’t come back here,” she said, her voice breaking, raw with fear. “Not while he’s around. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

But you did. You knew, or at least you were starting to, and that knowledge was a dangerous and a spark in your chest. You nodded, letting her lead you to her car, the rain washing away the warmth of Jake’s touch but not the memory of it. As you drove away, the house loomed in the rearview mirror, its windows black, and you swore you saw him again—Jake, standing in the doorway, a shadow in the rain, watching you go.

You didn’t speak, didn’t tell Hana the truth: that you were already too deep, that his knife had cut you in ways you couldn’t explain, that you weren’t sure you wanted to escape. Jake was a poison, a psychopath, a blade, and you were drawn to him, to the edge he offered, to the darkness you couldn’t resist. And as the city blurred past, you knew you’d be back, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, ready to burn.

The rain was a relentless curtain, hammering your house for three days straight, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and shadow. Since fleeing Hana’s house, Jake had become a specter in your mind, his presence a cold weight that pressed against your every thought. His voice—that thick, teasing Aussie drawl—haunted you, whispering through the cracks of your resolve: You’re in deep now, love.

The memory of his switchblade, its cold steel in your hand, his dark eyes watching you like you were his to unravel, clung to you like damp air, stirring a dangerous mix of fear and fascination. You’d promised Hana you’d stay away, but the promise was a fragile thing, crumbling under the weight of your own curiosity, your own need to understand the void that was Shim Jaeyun.

Your house was a sanctuary turned prison, its walls too thin to keep him out of your thoughts. Your parents were gone for the weekend, leaving you alone in the quiet, the silence broken only by the storm’s growl and the creak of settling wood.

You sat on your bedroom floor, surrounded by scattered notes for a literature project you hadn’t touched, your laptop screen dimmed to a faint glow. The clock read 12:47 a.m., the witching hour, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and something else—something sharp, metallic, like a premonition.

A knock at the front door shattered the stillness, three sharp raps that echoed like gunshots. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you froze, your eyes darting to the window. The curtains were drawn, but the porch light flickered through the gaps, casting jagged shadows across the room. Another knock, slower this time, deliberate, like whoever was out there knew you were listening, knew you wouldn’t ignore it. Your phone buzzed on the bed, Hana’s name flashing, but you ignored it, your feet moving before your mind could catch up, carrying you downstairs, your pulse a frantic drumbeat.

You paused at the door, your hand hovering over the knob, the rain’s roar louder now, mingling with the thud of your heart. You peered through the peephole, and there he was—Jake, standing in the storm like he was born from it, rain streaming off his leather jacket, his black tee plastered to his lean frame, his dark hair slick and falling into his eyes.

The porch light carved his face into sharp angles, his cheekbones stark, his lips curved in a faint, unsettling smirk. His eyes—those black, bottomless voids—locked onto the peephole, like he could see you through it, and your stomach twisted, fear and something hotter curling together. In his hand was the switchblade, open, its blade gleaming wet, the rain sliding off it like blood.

You should’ve locked the door, called the police, done anything but what you did. But your hand turned the knob, the door creaking open, and the cold rushed in, carrying his scent—leather, smoke, and that metallic tang that was his alone. He didn’t move, just stood there, the knife twirling in his fingers, his smirk widening as he tilted his head, rain dripping from his hair onto your doorstep.

“G’day, love,” he said, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and smooth, laced with a manic edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “You gonna invite me in, or make me stand here like a drowned rat?” His eyes flicked over you—your oversized hoodie, your bare legs, the way your hands trembled—and his smirk sharpened, like he was already peeling you apart.

“What are you doing here, Jake?” you asked, your voice steady but thin, the door still half-open, a barrier you weren’t sure you wanted to maintain. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He laughed, a low, jagged sound that vibrated through the air, his knife pausing, held loosely but with intent. “Middle of the night’s when the real shit happens,” he said, his tone almost playful, but his eyes were cold, calculating, like he was measuring how far he could push you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you, Y/N. About that spark in your eyes when you held my knife. You felt it, didn’t you? The power.” He stepped closer, the toe of his boot crossing the threshold, and you backed up, your heart racing, the air between you charged like a storm about to break.

“You need to leave,” you said, but the words were hollow, your body rooted to the spot, your eyes drawn to the knife, to the way he handled it with such ease, like it was part of him. “Hana’s been texting me. She’s worried. She’ll know you’re here.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or maybe something darker. “Hana,” he said, dragging out her name like it was a curse. “Always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. She doesn’t get it, does she? Doesn’t see what I see in you.” He stepped fully inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, trapping you in the dim light of your living room. The rain was muffled now, but the house felt alive, its shadows shifting, its walls holding their breath.

“What do you see?” you asked, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded, your back pressing against the couch as he moved closer, the knife twirling again, a silver blur that drew your gaze like a magnet. You hated how you wanted to know, how his presence was a blade at your throat and a lure you couldn’t resist.

He stopped, inches from you, his heat seeping into the cold air, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “I see someone who’s not afraid of the dark,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Someone who looks at a monster and doesn’t run. You’re like me, love—just a little. You’ve got that hunger, that need to know what it’s like to break things, to feel the world bend under your hands.” He lifted the knife, not to threaten, but to show it, the blade catching the light like a mirror to his soul. “You felt it when you held this, didn’t you? The truth. No lies, no masks. Just you and the edge.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking into you, stirring memories of that night—the knife’s weight, the way it had felt like holding a piece of him, the way his eyes had seen you, really seen you. “You’re wrong,” you said, but your voice trembled, the denial weak against the truth he’d laid bare. “I’m not like you. I don’t hurt people. I don’t… enjoy it.”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his smirk twisting into something almost pitying. “Don’t you?” he said, his tone soft but cutting. “Ever wanted to hurt someone, Y/N? Not with a knife, maybe, but with words, with silence, with something sharp inside you that you didn’t let out? Ever wanted to see how far you could push someone before they broke?” He stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. “That’s what I do, love. I push. I cut. I find the truth. Pain’s the only honest thing in this world—it strips away the bullshit, shows you who someone really is. You ever felt that? The clarity when it’s just you and the void?”

Your stomach churned, his words a blade twisting in your gut, because you had felt it—not his kind of violence, but moments of anger, of wanting to lash out, to shatter something fragile just to hear it break. You’d buried those impulses, called them wrong, but he saw them, named them, and it terrified you how close he was to the parts of yourself you hid. “That’s not me,” you said, your voice shaking, your hands gripping the couch, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, a silent promise.

He laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the room, his knife twirling faster now, erratic, like his thoughts were unraveling. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said, his accent thick, his eyes glinting with something wild. “But you’re here, Y/N. You opened the door. You let me in. You’re not screaming, not fighting. You’re listening, because deep down, you know I’m right. You want to know how far it goes, how dark it gets. You want to feel it—the rush, the control, the moment when nothing else matters but you and the blade.”

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air heavy with his words, with the weight of what he was offering. You backed up, your legs hitting the coffee table, your hands trembling as you steadied yourself. “You’re insane,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction, your eyes locked on his, unable to break free.

“Insane?” he said, his smirk sharpening, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe. But insanity’s just truth without the filter, love. It’s seeing the world for what it is—raw, ugly, beautiful. You ever felt empty, Y/N? Like nothing matters, like you’re just going through the motions? That’s where I live. That’s where the knife comes in. It makes things real. It makes me feel.” He lifted the knife, tracing the air with it, not close enough to touch but close enough to make your skin tingle. “I think you’re empty too. I think you’re looking for something to fill it.”

Your heart was a wild thing, pounding against your ribs, his words cutting deeper than any blade could. You wanted to deny it, to scream that he was wrong, that you were normal, that you were nothing like him. But the pull was there, undeniable, the way he saw you, the way he spoke to that hidden part of you, like a key turning in a lock. “Why me?” you asked, your voice raw, the question spilling out like a confession. “Why do you care?”

He paused, the knife still, his eyes softening for a flicker, something almost human breaking through the madness. “Because you’re not afraid to look,” he said, his voice quieter now, his accent raw, unguarded. “Everyone else—Hana, my parents, the fucking shrinks—they see me and they flinch. They see the monster, a psychopath, something to fix or lock away. But you… you see the man behind it. You held my knife, Y/N. You looked at me like you wanted to know me, not change me. That’s why.”

His words hit you like a blow, stealing your breath from your lungs, your eyes wide, your chest tight. You remembered that night in his room, the way his gaze had held you, not with cruelty but with hunger, with need. He wasn’t just playing with you—he was searching for something in you, something you hadn’t realized you’d given him. And now he was here, in your house, his knife a silent question, his presence a challenge you couldn’t ignore.

The doorbell rang again, shrill and jarring, cutting through the tension like a scream. You flinched, your head snapping toward the door, and Jake’s smirk returned, his eyes stayed cold, unreadable, as he stepped back, giving you space but not release. “That’s her,” he said, his tone casual, almost amused, his knife flicking closed with a soft snick. “Hana, come to save you. Question is, love—do you want saving?”

You moved to the door, your legs unsteady, your mind a storm of fear, fascination, and something you couldn’t name. You opened it, and Hana stood there, soaked from the rain, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, thank God,” she said, her voice trembling, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been texting you for hours—why didn’t you answer?” Her gaze landed on Jake, and she froze, her expression shifting to raw terror. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Jake leaned against the wall, his leather jacket glistening with rain, his smirk lazy but sharp, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just dropped by for a chat,” he said, his Aussie drawl thick, mocking. “Y/N’s been a great host. Better company than you, sis.”

Hana’s hands balled into fists, her fear giving way to anger as she stepped toward you, grabbing your arm. “Y/N, we’re leaving,” she said, her voice low, urgent, her eyes darting to Jake like he was a snake ready to strike. “He’s dangerous, you know that. You can’t be around him.”

You pulled your arm free, your heart pounding, your eyes flicking to Jake, to the knife in his pocket, to the way he watched you, waiting, testing. “Hana, wait,” you said, your voice shaking but firm, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I need to say something.”

Hana’s eyes widened, her mouth opening to protest, but you held up a hand, your gaze locked on Jake, your chest tight with a truth you couldn’t hold back any longer. “I see you,” you said, your voice raw, trembling, the words heavy with meaning. “I see what you are, Jake. The darkness, the… the monster. And I’m not afraid. I should be, but I’m not. I feel it too—the pull, the emptiness, the need to know how far it goes. And I hate it, but I… I can’t stop wanting to understand you.”

The room was silent, the rain a distant hum, the air thick with the weight of your confession.

Jake’s smirk faded, his eyes darkening, something raw and unguarded flickering in them—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something that looked like recognition. Hana gasped, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wet with tears. “Y/N, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You don’t know what you’re saying. He’s not—he’s not someone you can save.”

Jake stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes never leaving yours, his presence a force that filled the room. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice low, his accent thick, almost vulnerable. “You see me, and you’re still here. You’re not running.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the knife, but he didn’t open it—just held it, the handle worn, a piece of him offered to you. “That’s more than anyone’s ever given me, love.”

Hana grabbed your arm again, her grip desperate, her voice shrill. “Y/N, stop this,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “He’s a psychopath. He’ll hurt you, he’ll break you—I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it. You can’t do this.”

You turned to her, your heart aching at her pain, at the fear in her eyes, but you couldn’t lie anymore—not to her, not to yourself. “I know he’s dangerous,” you said, your voice steady now, the truth a weight you were ready to carry. “I know what he is, Hana. But I feel something when I’m with him—something real, something I can’t ignore. I’m not trying to save him. I just… I need to know who I am when I’m with him.”

Hana shook her head, her sobs choking her words, her hands trembling as she let go of you, stepping back like you’d burned her. “You’re choosing him,” she said, her voice barely audible, raw with betrayal. “You’re choosing a monster over me.”

“I’m not choosing,” you said, your eyes stinging, your throat tight. “I’m just… I’m just being honest. I’m sorry, Hana. I’m so sorry.”

She stared at you, her face a mask of grief, then turned and ran out into the rain, the door slamming behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot. You stood there, your chest heaving, your eyes burning with unshed tears, the silence heavier now, suffocating.

Jake was still, his knife in his hand, his eyes on you, softer now, almost human. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice quiet, his accent warm, like he was seeing you for the first time. “You could’ve gone with her. Could’ve left me behind.”

You shook your head, stepping closer, the distance between you shrinking, the air charged with something new—something fragile, something real. “I meant it,” you said, your voice steady, your eyes locked on his. “I see you, Jake. And I’m not running. Not yet.”

He studied you, his eyes searching, the knife slipping back into his pocket, his hands empty now, open, like he was offering you something more than steel. “You’re braver than I thought,” he said, his smirk returning, but it was different—less sharp, more real. “Or crazier. Either way, you’re mine now, love. No going back.”

You nodded, your heart a wild thing, your mind a storm of fear and truth and something you couldn’t name. The rain pounded the windows, the house a witness to the line you’d crossed, to the darkness you’d chosen to face. Jake was a blade, a psychopath, a danger you couldn’t escape, but he was also a mirror, showing you parts of yourself you’d never dared to see.

The rain battered your house, a relentless howl that swallowed the silence left by Hana’s departure. You stood frozen, your confession to Jake—a raw, jagged truth—still ringing in the air, your chest tight with the weight of what you’d done. The living room was a cage of shadows, the dim lamp casting Jake’s silhouette against the wall, his leather jacket slick with rain, his black tee clinging to his lean frame, his dark hair damp and framing his sharp cheekbones. His eyes, those black voids, held yours, softer now, almost human, but still laced with that dangerous edge.

He moved before you could speak, closing the distance in a single step. His arms wrapped around you, sudden and strong, pulling you against his chest, the scent of leather and metal enveloping you. His embrace was warm, grounding, but it carried a current of something wild, like a storm trapped in his skin. “You’re not alone, love,” he murmured, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and raw, vibrating against your ear. “Not anymore.”

The words broke something in you, a dam you hadn’t known was there. Tears welled, hot and unstoppable, spilling down your cheeks as you pressed your face into his jacket, your hands clutching his shirt, trembling. You cried—for Hana, for the line you’d crossed, for the darkness you’d seen in him and in yourself. Jake’s hold tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath steady but heavy, like he was anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the truth you’d both named.

And as you stood there, the storm raging outside, you knew this was the end of one story and the beginning of another—one you’d write together, in shadows and steel, in truth and terror, in the space where monsters and mortals met.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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shidoglazer · 1 day ago

Text

“i knew you in another life, i’ll love you ‘til the day that i die.”

sae itoshi

the “demon child” who got convicted of a crime for not mourning during a funeral, accused of being the murderer of the victim and was dragged by knights with chains to throw him off the cliff for a peaceful death, yet was left in the middle of the forests rotting because the knights said “good enough, nobody will find him here. i’m too lazy to climb up all those steps.”

the “witches child” who ran away. just for trying to be kind and offering herbs for a sick child and immediately being accused of being a witch for knowing too much. she lives in the forests after running away from being beheaded — she knows the forests like its the back of her palm, places to collect herbs, to feed animals, what different sounds would that place make according to the animals there… so why was there something so unfamiliar that day?

“hi there.” sae opened his eyes when he heard a girls voice, he squinted and took a look at your features, knowing by a glance you were just around the same age as him. his body squirmed against the rusted metal chains, “get me out.. ‘m not a demons child.” he mumbled weakly, and that was all you needed to get to work. “why’d you get abandoned?” your hands started to work against the metal lock, using different twigs from the ground to pick the lock, occasionally using your hand to keep him in place.

for some reason, sae found your touch the softest he’s ever felt. and thats. something. “i don’t know. i’m not a demons child.” “you don’t know the reason you were abandoned?” “i’m not a demons child.” he mumbled over and over, and you knew there was a lot of fixing to do with this guy. you stayed silent for the majority of the times while picking the lock, and he kept mumbling about dumb judges, lazy people, weakness, how he hated them all.

after getting him out of those chains, you supported him up to walk him to the shelter you found in the middle of the forests. on the way there, just taking a step seemed to exhaust him. “..whats your name? i never got it.” “sae.” he paused. “not demons child.” and you basically had to take a deep breath before talking to him. “im a witches child. its fine, not like we’re ever going back there right?” and there was a long gap of silence before sae replied. “..hm.”

when you reached your small hut, you immediately took some soup you made some other day and handed it to him. “its a bit cold, but it has everything healthy in it!” he took the bowl into his hands and immediately wolfed it down like a starving man (basically was), licking his lips after finishing the whole bowl. “..got anymore? please.” and that day, you spent your whole day foraging for more food to make for him. maybe it was the satisfaction of knowing someone really enjoyed your food, or that you could help the only one you know in the same situation as you.

at night, it was cold. your body temperatures dropped and the holes that punched through the walls weren’t helpful. you were used to this, sae wasn’t. so he did the only thing he thought was the most efficient. “i’m cold.” he doesn’t give you another warning before hugging up on you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “you’re shameless.” you say with a pink tinted against your face, leaning against each others warmth. the cold breeze wasn’t something to be hated anymore as it served as your cupid, like a mysterious force that made your limbs tangle with each others.

in the morning, you woke up to sae standing in front of you, holding a basket full of poisonous mushrooms and random flowers and weeds he picked. “i’ll help you make the food today.” you rub your eyes and lift yourself up from the grass bed, taking the basket from his hands and examining it. “..sae..” you say groggily, your eyes barely being able to open fully. “a lot of these are poisonous, but i appreciate the effort, dearest ..” dearest. dearest. he stood there like an idiot, the usual composure he had falling piece by piece as his mouth fell slightly agape, red blushing through his fair skin. “..o- oh. okay. my bad. i’ll throw these out, real quick.” he quickly took the basket from your hands and ran out the door, being in shock at himself for acting like this.

but after a few weeks of living with you, he learned to identify which mushrooms were safe, waking up earlier then you to go foraging, coming back with a basket with mushrooms that are actually safe. “good morning. can you help me check if these are safe?” he handed the basket to you and you looked through them one by one. “..yeah, good job dearest.” you smiled hazily, reaching out to pinch his cheek. he grumbles about being treated like a kid, yet he makes little to no effort to pull away from your touch that feels like a touch of warmth in his ice-cold world.

though, not all stories have happy endings. just because you were out of sight from the citizens doesn’t mean you were off their radar. in the middle of making you and sae lunch like usual, there was sudden chanting coming closer and closer, a smell of smoke, dozens of footsteps stomping against the forest floor. you look to sae, who’s clearly noticed, immediately scrambling up, “come on- lets go lets go lets go—” he tries to pull you to the windows to escape, yet you dont budge. “no, i.. i’m done for.” “you’re not. i won’t allow it.” and with force you’ve never seen him use before, he throws you onto his shoulder and runs. he runs for not for his own life, but for yours. he may lose his own life, but theres no way he’ll deprive this world of yours.

despite the hundreds of twigs digging into his feet with every step, the crowd of people chasing behind them, he holds onto you tightly even when his heart is pounding in his chest. even when his feet are bleeding and you’re begging for him to stop.

but you don’t have to beg him.

it’s the end of the chase.

a cliff meets his eyes. and you both know that theres no chance to run anymore. he shifts your position to look at your face just one last time, putting you on your own two feet and cupping your face. “hey.. if we’re born again, maybe as people who aren’t children of demons and witches,” he gulps, “let’s get married. make me your husband and i’ll make you my wife, and i’ll give you all the herbs and mushrooms you could ever want. maybe a house with better walls, and-” he chokes on his own tears, the crowd gets closer and closer, “i love you. my dearest.” you hug him tight, closing your eyes as if hoping you’d wake up from this nightmare. if you could just go back to the day you both met, brought him to a safer place, savoured moments with him more .. your thoughts get cut off as you’re engulfed into flames, choking out a cry of pain as sae holds you tightly. “i love you sae— i love you so much, i love you,” the fire spreads too quickly against your wool clothes, and you both are reduced to nothing but charred bones.

it was almost instinct when you first saw sae on tv that you knew you wanted to support him, then you started seeing him in public, or sometimes even in your local cafe where you worked part time at. your co-workers would nudge at you whenever he came in, “look, its your idol, itoshi or whatever his name was. go get him!”

and it wasn’t different for sae. his eyes locked onto yours whenever he saw you. the cafe you worked at was mediocre and all for aesthetics. he’d complain about everything if he could, yet he still comes for you. “one mushroom soup. thanks.” until he basically became a regular here, and he never had to specially request for you to be the one serving him, unless you were out of work, that was. “..wheres that girl? the one that usually serves me?” “oh, shes sick today, so-” he doesn’t wait for another word to immediately stand up and leave the cafe.

the news spread like wildfire, first it was your co-workers telling you how sae was definitely into you, and you didn’t believe it at first until you saw this interview.

“so, sae itoshi! headlines say you’ve been eyeing a cafe worker, is she cute? what-” “first of all. stop butting into my business. second of all,” he pauses “yes. she is cute. my standards wouldn’t be any lower than that.” and fuck. you almost passed out after hearing that.

another day at the cafe after that interview, he came into the cafe and sat down at his usual booth, and you immediately brought him the mushroom soup without saying anything. “i.. figured you’d want the mushroom soup again, right?” “actually.” he pushes the mushroom soup away, looking at your name tag. “y/n.” then back up to your eyes, “i don’t want to say unnecessary things or make up bullshit. so just listen. i’m interested in you. romantically, ‘was wondering if you could give me some type of social media so we could stay in contact.” and you stood there, mouth agape, pink immediately tinting your cheeks. “oh- i, i want to, but i can’t do this during work tho-” and a glare from him is all you need to take your pen out from your pocket and write your number on a notepad, slipping it to him.

“sae! pick me up some mushrooms and creamer when you’re going to the grocery store later, i wanna make mushroom soup and bread.” you say excitedly, while sae looks at you with those endearing eyes that you swear nothing can replace that feeling in your stomach whenever you look at him. “mushroom soup? for our anniversary? i thought you wanted to go out and eat.” he says while cleaning up the living room after your cats caused a warzone there. “well, i thought i’d do something special. since mushroom soup was the reason we met, no?” “..hm. i’m okay with anything. do you want me to help you cook tho?” “god no.” “okay, jeez..”

he comes back with the mushrooms and creamer, placing it onto the counter and you start cooking while he stands there and watches you, occasionally kissing you out of nowhere just because he feels like it. you started the night with mushroom soup on the dining table, sitting beside each other with silence that speaks so loudly. “hey.. i’ve been meaning to tell you this but i wanted to wait until it was our anniversary.” he reached into his pockets, pulling out a key. “i bought a new house. for us.” and you’re shocked. staring at the house key, then back at him, “what?! no way- what type of house even is it??” “don’t yell at me for wasting my money.” he pauses. “a mansion. 4 stories.” you almost cried right there, immediately pulling sae into a hug. “thank you.. thank you sae, i love you so much. you spoil me too much,” “then i must’ve owed you something in a past life.”

and after dinner, you both immediately get into bed. the air conditioner is blasting on full wind, a blanket covering each other and you’re already enough warm, but theres no excuse as to why sae hugs you close to his chest, as if protecting you from the rest of the world. yet you lean into it anyways. you close your eyes, hoping not to wake up from this dream, but to progress into another day with your dearest.

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nogutsnogloria · 1 day ago

Text

summary: robby hasn’t had a proper conversation with you since you started on his shift. a small encounter makes him want to change that.

michael robinavich x reader

warning: medical inaccuracies, reader is shy, smoking and drinking mentioned

a/n: medical case may or may not be based on a true story of my life.

robby didn’t know much about the new nurse, all he knew was anything he learned from dana and even then the information was “sweet girl, good nurse, keeps to herself otherwise.” boy did you ever keep to yourself. robby thinks he’s maybe heard you say ten words to him total since he met you months ago, nine of them clinical.

you had just finished up a triggering case for you and dana knew it so she stops you right before you’re about to hop into something else and tells you to go get some air. you nod and head out through the ambulance bay. not expecting anyone else but when you turn the corner you see robby there lighting up a cigarette.

“do you want a cigarette?” he asks looking at you. “oh, um no thank you. i don’t smoke.” he huffs out a bit of a chuckle at that. “good. never start.” you smile at him “you got it boss.”

he looks you over and he can see that you’re a bit shaken by something. “you okay?” you look at him like a deer being caught in the headlights. “yeah, yeah um that cva we just had hit kind of close to home.” you end it there because you don’t want your first real conversation with your hot senior attending to be a trauma dump of sorts. you exhale out a breath “well i have patients i need to check on. better get back in there.” you turn on your heel and walk back in.

robby finishes his cigarette and heads in immediately going to find dana. she can sense something is up just by the look on his face. “what’s up cap, you look like you need to ask me something.” he’s watching you. “she told me the cva hit close to home, but shes as collected as can be running his follow-up vitals right now” he says to dana pointing his chin in her direction. “yeah robby she’s a real nurse, she can keep it professional. i don’t think i could pull her off that case if i tried. especially with that guys daughters right there worried about him.” he looks at dana with a quizzical look. “look robby i already said too much, i am sure she’d tell you if you asked her.” she leaves him at the desk with that.

robby is trying to look casual after shift waiting outside the woman’s locker room. your busy finding your headphones in your bag you don’t see him sneaking up on you. “i know you said you don’t smoke, but i was wondering if i could buy you a beer.” you clearly weren’t expecting him and jump at his words. hand over your heart you turn to him. “jesus dr. robby! you can’t sneak up on a girl like that. i spook easily.” you smile at him to let him know that you weren’t really afraid of him, just startled. you think about his offer. “i could go for a beer.” and you follow him out of the hospital to the pub down the street.

the two of you find a place to sit and the waitress comes to take your order. robby can’t help to notice how polite you are to the waitress, even outside of work you are making sure people feel comfortable in your presence. “you know i think you and i have doubled our word count to each other today.” he says with an amused smile on his face. “yeah, well my motto has been speak when spoken to, the last hospital i worked in we were basically only allowed to talk to the doctors if it was involving a patients care. it’s a hard thing to unlearn.” robby nods and makes a note to figure out where you came from before working at the pitt.

the waitress comes back with your drinks and placed them on the table. you take a sip out of yours and put it down on the table in front of you, pulling at the label of the bottle. robby can’t not ask it’s really the whole reason he’s sitting in the bar with you, at least that’s what he’s telling himself. “so you said that cva today hit close to home. i just wanted to make sure you were okay after that. i didn’t really have a chance to check in on you, that’s a part of my job.” you continue to peal at the label on your beer. chancing a look up at his face you decide to tell him the truth.

“my dad had a stroke about three weeks ago. my mom was out of town visiting her sisters so i went over and we had dinner. i was just about to leave and when he was saying goodbye to me he wasn’t making sense, mumbling and slurring his words. i didn’t even run an assessment like i maybe should have i just called 9-1-1. and when i told him an ambulance was coming he yelled at me. the words came out clear as day and i thought i maybe made a mistake.” you smile at robby and he just blinks at you. “having seen this situation so many times before i couldn’t believe how i just froze, not that there was much i could do from home but…” you trail off. robby rests a hand on top of your arm of the hand that has now basically peeled the whole label off your bottle. “hey there’s a reason we aren’t supposed to be a part of a loved ones care when they’re in the hospital. worrying is a completely normal response you saw something wasn’t right and called an ambulance, i would say that he had pretty good care right off the bat.” you nod at that. “is your dad alright now? any thing long term?”

you shake your head with a smile. “we got really lucky. his doctor suspects that the time between first symptoms and clot buster administered was about forty-five minutes, he had full speech back by 11:30 that night and was discharged two days later. now he’s just grumpy because he can’t drive for a couple more weeks. my poor mom needs a vacation when he gets the okay to be behind a wheel again.” robby nods at that with a smile. “and you? anything long term with you?” you take another drink from your bottle. “i think im doing fine and then a case like today comes in. that guy was definitely in worse shape than my dad was, but then my mind starts racing and asking questions like what if i didn’t go there for dinner, what if i picked up a shift that night. sorry i shouldn’t dump this all on you. i have a therapist for that.” you look up apologetic with a forced exhale. “don’t worry about it please, im enjoying learning about what makes you, you” you meet his eyes with a small smile. “i am enjoying this too.” you meet his eyes.

“this hospital isn’t like your old one. the doctors here appreciate the nurses input, we welcome it. or if you just want to ask how our weekend was is good too. we like to make sure everyone feels apart of the team, no weird power dynamics if i can help it. i for one would enjoy hearing your voice a lot more.” you blush at that. “i will try. but like i said im usually a speak when spoken to type of girl.” robby leans in resting his head on his palm. “then i guess you’re going to be sick of me asking how you are”

#dr robby x reader #dr michael robinavich x you #dr michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction

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poorrichardjr · 14 hours ago

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I wish everyone understood what the Supreme Court has just done. They didn't answer the question that brought this case to them, but decided on their own to create new law because the Trump administration was upset that lower court judges were following the law. The Scotus didn't answer whether or not the executive order banning birthright citizenship was valid, they only said that lower courts have exceeded their authority by issuing nationwide stays.

Now, no president likes when this is done. However, republicans have done this at every single opportunity by judge shopping in Texas or the fifth circuit. However, only one of the people affected by this has ever had the luck of having such a skewed court willing to do his bidding no matter what the law actually is.

The results of this decision will ripple throughout this country. Today, democracy has truly died. In effect, no president ever has to worry about taking a court case to the supreme court if they lose lower court cases, simply because every single person who wants to avail themselves of their rights will have to hire a lawyer and take it to court. This will not only clog the court system beyond functioning, and will guarantee that a lot of very poor people are going to have their rights stolen from them because they won't be able to afford a lawyer or the court fees.

Even if the administration loses a case, they will still be able to enforce their illegal orders everywhere in the country. How many innocent people, valid American citizens, and people who just happen to look "foreign" are going to end up in nations where they have never been and don't know the language too because the administration is allowed to. The result of this case, since it wasn't decided whether or not the original executive order was legal, means that now this administration and "conservative" states can now deny people born in their states citizenship. Each one of those people will have to hire lawyers to get that citizenship, and I can guarantee you that a lot of them will get deported even before their case is heard.

Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, dissenting "with deep disillusionment" in 6-3 Supreme Court decision limiting nationwide injunctions in cases challenging Trump's executive order to end birthright citizenship: "It is not difficult to predict how this all ends. Eventually, executive power will become completely uncontainable, and our beloved constitutional Republic will be no more."

https://www.supremecourt.gov/opinions/24pdf/24a884_8n59.pdf

#donald trump #america #republicans #Supreme Court #Nationwide injunctions #end of democracy #clogged court systems #justice only for the rich

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rori-is-writing · 2 days ago

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Conflict of Interest

A The Pitt Drabble Series.

Drabbles | Teen | Dr. Robby x Nurse!Reader | 669 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: An unwanted visitor walks into your E.R. ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Angst, Doctors Behaving Badly, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Nurse!Reader

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

[ A/N: Yes, this is longer than 500 words and I'm technically breaking my own rules about what a drabble is but this idea hit me like a freight train the other day and I couldn't not write it. So shhhhhhhhh. ]

You have always been a standout nurse. A tough nurse. You’ve been hit, pushed, spat on, and groped and all of it you’ve taken in stride and continued on like some stoic Buddhist warrior.

But not today.

Because today…he came in.

The moment you walk into the room and see his face it’s like you’re an animatronic that had glitched mid-loop. Your skin feels hot. Your heart thunders in your ears. Your brain goes all staticky.

“Oh would you look at that!” The older man says with a delighted smile. “I didn’t know you worked here sweetheart—“

But you don’t hear the rest because you’re already backpedaling out of the room and back into the hallway.

You can feel your skin tingling like thousands of tiny spiders are skittering over it. You want to throw up. To cry. To run out of this hospital and never return. Instead, for possibly the first time in your entire career, you march up to Dana at the nurse’s station and say, “I need someone to switch patients with me.”

Dana frowns.

“Excuse me?”

“I need a different patient. Any patient. I’ll even take Princess’s fecal impaction.”

“You will?!” Princess gasped hopefully. Nobody ever wanted the fecal impaction cases.

“Why do you need a different patient? What’s wrong with him?”

You swallow. “He’s my uncle.”

If anything, Dana looks even more confused. “I know nobody is supposed to treat their family and friends but you know nobody here is going to rat you out to admin if you decide to do it anyway right?”

But you’re already shaking your head. “That’s not why. I just…I can’t treat him. Please get someone else to do it.” And then, without another word you walk away, heading straight for the hallway that leads to the stairwell.

You need some air.

Now.

Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Santos finds you. You stare up at her from your perch on the bottom steps, waiting for her to tell you to get back to work. That you’re pathetic for hiding back here instead of just doing your damn job and treating the harmless old man like you’re supposed to.

Instead, she surprises you.

“He did something to you.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.

Her lips thin.

“I thought so.”

You glance away, wringing your hands to keep them from shaking.

“Want me to take him?”

You blink.

“…What?”

“As a patient. I’ll take him.”

Your eyes blink even faster. Did…did you hear her right? “But…why?”

“Because you need someone to be mean to him. And I’m amazing at mean.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw your arms around her in an embrace.

“Okay,” you croak instead. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She said, strangely kind, before a glimmer appears in her eye. “So…how mean we talking?”

You can’t help but laugh, a strangled, pitiful sound if you ever heard one. “Mean enough that he never comes back here again?”

This time, she smiles.

“You got it.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It’s only later—when you’re finally off the clock and indulging in a greasy, well-deserved dinner with Robby—that you hear what happened.

“Do you know anything about the patient we had today who stormed out of the E.R.?”

“Oh?” You say casually, knowing immediately who he’s talking about. You hadn’t been there to see it—having been assisting with a complicated trauma case at the time—but you’d heard plenty about it afterwards from your fellow gossipy nurses.

“Yeah, apparently Santos decided to do a rectal exam. Even though, according to his symptoms, he had no need of one.” He eyed you carefully. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

“Did she?” You say innocently. “Well, she’s the doctor. She would know better than me.”

He sighed.

“Do I wanna know?”

“Not today,” you tell him as you steal his french fry. “Let’s just…enjoy this. Okay?”

His eyes soften.

“Okay.”

Next Drabble | Drabble Masterlist

Thanks for reading! 💙

#cw: implied childhood abuse #the doctor will see you now #the pitt drabbles #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt #dr robby x reader #michael robinavich x reader #drabble #dr robby #drabbles #michael robinavitch #trinity santos #dr santos

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dontshootmespence · 3 days ago

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A Whole New Meaning

Pairing: Non-enhanced Bob x Reader

Summary: After a long day at the art studio, Bob returns home to find a surprise from his wife.

Author’s Note: This has been rolling around in my head for days. In this world, Bob is a regular guy with similar traumas to Thunderbolts, but no super serum. Also, Bob is a bit of a dippy himbo in this, but we love him for it. This will definitely have some follow-ups, but if you have something you'd like me to cover, leave me an ask!

Warnings: Bob being a himbo for a second, COVID mention, fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v.

Word Count: 1664

—--

The inky black and blue of the night sky washed over the neighborhood as Bob parked the car in the driveway, stars guiding him home. Moonlight bathed the front door in a hazy sheen, welcoming him back after a long day. Although his head was buzzing with all the things he needed to do tomorrow, he took a deep breath and grabbed the door knob, the touch of cool metal bringing his head back to where he needed and wanted it to be.

On you. The scent of citrus on your skin. The sound of your laughter when he cracked a joke. The soft give of your body underneath his touch.

As he stepped inside the house, the thick, warm scent of Indian spices hit his nostrils, and the chill of the night slipped away. He inhaled the scent, smiling. Before he could close the door, you ran up to him and wrapped your arms around him like you hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“H-Hey,” he laughed, groaning when you pulled him in for a kiss that grounded him back in reality and what really mattered. “What was that for?”

“I missed you,” you replied, kissing the corner of his mouth as he smiled. Your kisses tasted like sunshine.

Bob chuckled and leaned down to kiss you again, his index finger resting underneath your chin. “You saw me this morning.”

For a moment, the two of you got lost in each other, hands roaming over each other’s bodies like you were discovering something new, something pure. “Still,” you replied. “I always miss you when you’re gone. Doesn’t matter for how long.” He felt so lucky.

Bob stepped back and drank you in. You were wearing his favorite dress on you and he hadn’t even noticed until now. “What’s this for?” He laughed, grabbing you and pulling you close again, fluid, like a dance. He nuzzled his head into your neck, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder. “The dress? Dinner?”

“That’s not all,” you said, smiling as you clutched both his hands and brought him into the kitchen. “I took off today so I could do this for you.”

Glancing around, Bob drank in the picture before him. You’d set the table with your wedding china and lit candles, soft and flickering in the dim light of the room. On the stove was his favorite meal, the first meal you’d ever made him, and in the refrigerator was the cake he’d obsessed over since he found it at a local bakery a few years ago. “Why’d you do all this?”

“Because I love you, silly.”

You’d been married for two years at this point, but he never tired of hearing you say you loved him. Never tired of the warmth that flooded through him.

Sighing happily, Bob hugged you and placed a kiss on your forehead, hands curling into the back of your hair. “I love you, too. So damn much it hurts sometimes.” He combed his hands through your hair and sank into another searing kiss that had you both wondering whether or not to postpone dinner.

You pulled away, grazing your teeth over his bottom lip. You could stay like this forever, just vacillating back and forth in his arms. Forever wouldn’t be enough. “I’ve got one more surprise for you,” you whispered. “It’s on the bathroom counter.”

His eyebrows knit in confusion, but he began walking toward the bathroom, his hand slipping from yours.

From across the house, you heard him call out. “Are these COVID tests?” He asked, shocked. “Babe, you know I have to go to work tomorrow. Why would you kiss me?”

When he returned from the bathroom, he was met with you in a fit of giggles.

“These are positive. Are you feeling okay?” He quickly stepped toward you and put the back of his hand on your head. “You’re not warm or anything. Why are you laughing?” He chuckled, confused as hell.

“Look at the tests again, baby,” you breathed. Your smile fell as he took a second look at the tests in his hand. “I don’t have COVID.”

For a few moments, he stared at the tests before it finally clicked, his mouth dropping open and eyes wide with awe and maybe a little bit of panic. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” you laughed, gathering your hands to your face.

Bob punched the air with both fists. “You’re pregnant?! I’m gonna be a dad! Seriously?”

You lost yourself in a fit of laughter as Bob ran around the living room. He was bursting with too much energy and nowhere to put it. He essentially had the zoomies. “You’re gonna be a dad,” you replied, holding out your hand to him. “The best dad.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you and placed his hand on your stomach. “And you’re gonna be the mom,” he said, reverence filling his voice. You were his everything before. But now? Everything took on a whole new meaning. Resting his head against you, he continued, “You’re going to be the best mom in the world.”

When you tipped his head up to meet your gaze, he had tears in his eyes. “I’m so fucking happy,” he cried.

Standing up, he cradled you in his arms, peppering your face with kisses like his life depended on it. “I love you,” he breathed, his hands roaming down your sides and coming to rest on your hips. The hips that would help cradle his baby.

Then a smirk bloomed on his face. “You think maybe we can put dinner off for a little bit?” He asked with a shy smile, his fingers slipping over the soft fabric of your dress.

You gave him a quick peck on the lips before running to the kitchen to turn off the stove. Bob cackled as you ran back and jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. He carried you down the familiar hallway to your bedroom and plopped you on the comforter. “I can’t believe we’re gonna have a baby,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your clothed stomach.

Bob reached down to your ankle, his fingers grazing over the cool expanse of your skin like it was the first time he’d ever touched you. As he hit the hem of your dress, his breath hitched, his skin heating to the point of it being unberable. He rucked your dress up and saw you wet for him already, your panties damp with the evidence of your arousal.

As he kneeled on the floor in front of the bed, he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you close, reveling in the small, almost silent moan that fell from your lips.

You whispered into the room, so full of memories and life. “Bob, please.”

That was all he needed to hear. With two fingers, he pulled your panties down and around your ankles before taking them off completely and throwing them behind him. “I’ve got you, baby.” He licked at your pussy from back to front, groaning so hard at your tensing body that you felt it in your chest. “You taste so good.”

“Need you,” you said, practically choking on your words. “Please.”

Bob’s fingers fluttered at your entrance, ghosting over you like smoke on the wind, barely touching you. “What do you need, baby? Talk to me.”

“Your mouth, your fingers. Need all of you.” Your entire body thrummed with need, your skin prickling under the heat of his touch.

As he sunk two fingers into your core, you groaned, arching up into the impossibly damp air of your bedroom. His touch was like fire. Slowly, he moved his fingers in and out, pulling moans from you before he brought his mouth to your clit. “You look so beautiful when you’re needy,” he laughed, the feeling rolling through you. “Sound like heaven.”

His tongue rolled over your clit in waves. Each swipe over your aching core coaxed him forward, like a man starved. “Come for me, honey,” he said, his fingers sliding over that sweet spot inside you. With a few quick taps of his fingers, you came with a cry into his waiting mouth. You were always beautiful, but now, pregnant with his baby and coming under his touch, he couldn’t handle it. “Need to fuck you, baby,” he breathed.

When he stood, Bob slipped your silk dress over your head and threw it to the side before quickly removing his own clothes. He slipped inside you like it was where he was meant to be, groaning at the feel of your walls clenching around him. “Fffuck. Baby, you feel so good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in close, reaching up to bring him down on top of you. You needed to feel the weight of him as he fucked into you. Whining, you scratched your fingers down his back. He pumped into you harder and placed his hand on your lower stomach. “Can you feel me, baby? How hard and desperate I am for you?”

“Y-y-yes,” you moaned, struggling to get your words out. “Don’t stop, p-please!”

Bob licked and kissed at your neck, lips roaming over soft skin. A coil tightened in your stomach, your release just on the horizon. “Gonna come, baby. Come with me.”

Grunting and rutting into you, he reached between your bodies and tapped at your clit, watching as your mouth dropped open and a cry left your lips. Watching you come undone beneath him put him over the edge. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

As you both came down, breaths steadying into normalcy, Bob pulled himself from you and came to rest with his head on your stomach. “Hi, baby,” he whispered, kissing your stomach.

Smiling, you snaked your hand through his hair. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Either. Both. Doesn’t matter.” He kept caressing your stomach. “Just can’t wait to watch this all unfold.”

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds fanfic #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds fluff #bob reynolds smut #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x y/n #robert reynolds fanfic #robert reynolds imagine #robert reynolds fluff #robert reynolds smut #x reader #fem reader #female reader

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weasleyreidstyles · 2 days ago

Note

Wait lowk need a amortentia trope in serendipity like before they even interacted as much? Maybe if you could write that please 💕

an: i very much agree!!! im sorry if this is the worst piece of writing you've ever read....please give me grace as im very out of practice LOL....so this little scene is set pre-serendipity!! thanks for the request 🤭🤭💕

also i know that according to the lexicon and other sources, it takes like a week to make the potion but for the purpose of my own timeline, its a fast tracked process (like 2 hours max – to fit a typical double lesson structure) !!

love is for fools — mattheo riddle

"Powerful infatuations can be induced by the skilful potioneer, but never yet has anyone managed to create the truly unbreakable, eternal, unconditional attachment that alone can be called love." — Hector Dagworth-Granger regarding love potions; The Tales of Beedle the Bard

The potions classroom was dark and smelled faintly of crushed herbs and mildew from the stone walls that were slick with age. It was a heavy juxtaposition to the air outside of the classroom. Professor Snape was stood in a shrouded corner of the room, heavy cloak draped around him like shadows as he waited for you all to enter in a calm and silent fashion.

You'd just come from a horrific double session of Defence where Professor Umbridge had, once again, undermined and belittled Harry infront of the entire class, leaving Riddle and his gaggle of friends snickering at the back of the room, with no consequences. To say you were fuming for your best friend would be an understatement. But after experiencing one of her detentions on multiple occasions Harry, and even Fred, had made you promise not to do, or say, anything that the terrorising professor would deem worthy enough to gift you one of her torture sessions.

But as the rest of October ensued, it was becoming harder and harder to keep your loose promise to both boys.

"Someone needs to bring her attitude down a peg or two." You mutter to Ron, who nods his head in grim agreement. "Why won't Dumbledore do anything?"

"Suppose he's not allowed to interfere with the Ministry." Ron replies and you roll your eyes in light annoyance.

"He's never been afraid to oppose them before. And its not like he's oblivious to what she's been doing during her detentions." You whisper, voice barely heard over the scrape of chairs as you and your peers take your seats. You sneak a glance at Harry's freshly bandaged hand and grimace. "It's absolutely barbaric and he can't keep ignoring it."

Ron hums in agreement as he slams his ink pot onto the table, prompting Snape to glare at him with barely hidden disgust.

His beady eyes scan over the room, slow and assessing. They linger on where you, Ron, Hermione and Harry are grouped together at one of the stations, alongside two Hufflepuffs and Padma Patil, who was whispering to her sister on the station next to her's. He then focuses on where Malfoy, Berkshire and Zabini conspire over a piece of parchment in the back, and of course, he says nothing about them, and their other friends, not paying attention.

"Today you will be brewing blindly. To test whether or not you should consider choosing Potions as a subject next year." His monotonous drawl fills the room like an echo.

You could physically feel the way Harry rolled his eyes as he glared, not so inconspicuously, at his least favourite Professor.

"Only few of you in this class will be competent enough to understand which potion you will be brewing when I say it must have a mother-of-pearl appearance." He continues, eyes still continuously scanning the classroom.

Wordlessly, and without him picking up his wand, the ingredients for the potion appear on the blackboard behind him:

One piece of Bdellium....Five Flutterby bush flowers....One sprig of Knotgrass...Three Lacewing flies....

You were brewing Amortentia. The most powerful, dangerous love potion in the world. A NEWT level potion that, if brewed wrong, could cause very serious side effects and even death. And for this reason, Dumbledore had banned the sale, production and usage of such a potion outside of school hours.

While you had faith in your friends, most of the class were abysmal at potion brewing. And Snape was notorious for getting people to try their own potions if he so felt like it.

This would be an interesting couple of hours.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The dungeons were sweltering by the time the first hour had passed.

You had sweat collecting at the bottom of your ponytail, and beside you, Hermione's once pristine curls had become frizzier as the hour progressed. Harry and Ron looked no better, either. In the cauldron between the two of you, your brew had begun to have a slight sheen, however it wasn't quite pearly enough to be a satisfactory brew of Amortentia.

"We just need to keep stirring it anti-clockwise now that we've added the lavender." Hermione says, her voice airy and tired, a side-effect to the heat that swirled around the room. You nodded wordlessly and continued with the ladel as she reaches for her bottled water from her bag underneath the bench. "I hate how there are no windows down here."

"Right! Seems very impractical when we're surrounded by dangerous fumes." You mumble, scrunching your nose up as you get a whiff of whatever your potion was beginning to smell like: firewood or old parchment; you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

"What can you smell in the potion right now?" You ask Hermione, who leans close to the nose of the cauldron and breathes in a decent amount of the steam that had begun to settle on the surface of the potion.

"I'm not sure, but we've definitely done it right. Freshly mown grass and new parchment. I think." She responds, thoughtfully. "What about you."

"I can't quite put my finger on it. At first it smelt like smoke but now," you breathe in some of the more concentrated steam, "now I can definitely smell cinnamon or some kind of spiced herb and I think I can smell the soap Mrs Weasley has in the bathrooms back at The Burrow, too."

Hermione is smirking by the time you've recounted what you can smell.

"We've definitely brewed it right." She says, a giggle rising in her throat as you stare at her incredulously.

"Why are you laughing, Mione?" You ask, confusion lacing your rosy face.

"Cinnamon, spiced herbs and Mrs Weasley's soap." Hermione repeats what you said back to you slowly, as if trying to emphasise a point she had made in silence.

"Meadow don't be dim! You must know who the scents remind you of."

You stare at her dumbly for a moment, before going back to the potion, which had begun to give off the correct characteristics of an Amortentia potion, and smelling the steam that was rolling off of it in waves.

And then it hit you immediately. And Hermione's laugh echoed around your station, quietly so she didn't have Snape breathing down your necks, which gathered the attention of Harry and Ron, who stared at you both like you'd gone mad. And maybe you had.

Cinnamon and clove; Mrs Weasley's soap. You were smelling Fred Weasley.

Gods, Ron was going to throttle you.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

With the revelation that you were apparently in love with your best friend's older brother, your potion, and a handful of other people's potions were completed, which also signified that the lesson was almost over.

Two hours of sweltering torture and you were ready to collapse into a pool of ice water, at this point.

Your friends clearly felt the same sentiment. Harry's hair was even messier than usual, sticking slightly to the nape of his neck and his glasses were constantly fogging up from the humidity. Ron had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie was loose around his collar, Snape's qualms about his incorrect use of his uniform long forgotten in the heat. And Hermione's hair had somehow gotten more frizzy in the last hour than ever before, although you had mumbled a spell you'd been perfecting wandlessly which tampered it down quite a bit, which your Gryffindor friend was grateful for.

Professor Snape looked as he always did once he took centre stage at the front of the dark classroom once more, dressed head to toe in black; his cloak draping down him like a blanket. One glance at the Slytherins showed that, they too were formidable against the blistering sweatbox that was the dungeons potions room.

Even Theo Nott, someone that you were now forced to put up with due to Prefect Patrols in the evenings, looked as prim and proper as he always did: not a crease to be seen in his shirt or robe, his tie not askew like so many others in the room. He looked as if the heat did not affect him at all, only the slightest tinge of rose on his cheeks gave it away. The rest of his group was in the same condition as him: not a hair out of place, looking as if they hadn't just brewed a complex potion for two straight hours. The only odd one our was Riddle, who was sat lazily in his seat, lounging as if he wasn't in a classroom. Tie half undone, shirt untucked but not ruffled, hair a mess but not in a scruffy, sweaty way. And yet, you had to admit that despite his devil-may-care attitude, he still managed to look effortlessly good. Although you'd never, ever admit that out loud.

Gods, they were all insufferable.

Before thoughts of hexing the smug look of aloofness from Riddle's face could be entained for even a moment, Snape's voice filled the room with a commanding cadence that sent the whispering between stations to an immediate halt.

"You have had two hours to brew your Amortentia." He says, gazing lazily towards each cauldron on the tables in front of him. "Some of you," he looks around at the few cauldrons, including your's, where the tell-tale steam rises and evaporates into the atmosphere, "have been successful and may even have the slightest chance of entering my classroom next year."

"Others, like Longbottom," he turns his glare onto the nervous Gryffindor who practically sinks into his seat. "Have failed so astronomically, that I may consider taking you off the course, prematurely, myself."

Neville and even a few other students cower at that and it sends Riddle and his posse into a fit of quiet snickering that forces you to send a glare over your shoulder at them. Ron does the same. They ignore you both and continue to laugh at other people's misfortune.

"But the Headmaster would, unfortunately, never allow that. So in that case, we won't be testing out those potions." Snape continues as if his Slytherin students were not currently being disruptive towards him.

'Fucking favouritism. Perhaps they should have a taste of Umbridge's punishments.' You think bitterly, and you swear Nott and Riddle's laughter grows a little louder, but you must just be too distracted by their loudness.

"Miss Meadow and Miss Granger," Snape says, snapping you from your thoughts. "Bring up your sample."

Once you have gotten a vile full of your potion, you wordlessly stand up and walk to the front of the class, Hermione hot on your heels. Snape swirls the glass under his nose for a second and breathes in the potion's aroma. He's silent for a moment before the ghost of smile flashes across his face. It's gone before either of you can blink.

"Tell me, Miss Meadow. What do you smell in your potion?" He asks, blatantly ignoring your friend beside you, who is bouncing on her feet with restless energy, eager to be told that you'd done it right. The whole room had begun to smell like your potion at this point. But you know that in higher concentrations, Amortentia tends to be stronger in scent. Not that you're complaining, though.

"Umm..." You pause and your eyes catch Ron's before you look away immediately. "Cinnamon and clove, fresh soap and–"

You pause as another smell becomes more clear to you when you smell the air again.

"–and something smokey. Like a fireplace or burning embers."

You sneak a glance at Ron, who is staring at you with widened eyes before he turns to Harry as if to wordlessly say, "can you believe what we're hearing right now?!?!"

Harry, of course, is clueless. But Hermione just smiles knowlingly.

"Very well." Snape responds to you before his eyes are finally snapping to the back of the room, where the Slytherins are all gathered.

"Mr Riddle," he says monotonously and the boy looks away from where he had been staring aimlessly around the classroom.

Riddle makes an exaggerated effort to get a whiff of his own potion, the scent of whatever it is that satisfies him clearly catching him off guard as his brows furrow in light confusion.

"I don't know." He says boredly. "Wildflowers and rain."

He doesn't elaborate and Snape doesn't pester him for an answer but when you take your seat, you feel the beginning of a headache form at the back of your skull.

You grimace and rub at the spot that hurts but think nothing of it. It's probably the discomfort of the heat finally getting to you now that you know you can leave and sit in the courtyard once the clock strikes midday.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

The air in Professor Slughorn's classroom is vastly different to what you've been used to experiencing while Snape was your Potions teacher in the past. Despite the fact that it was still held in the dungeons, this classroom felt brighter somehow. More cosy and breathable in comparison to the dreary environment that caused you and your friends to dread ever having a lesson down in the depths of the castle.

Walking into the first potions lesson of the year was not dissimilar to what it had been like before, except this year the class was vastly smaller than it had been in previous years. Only a handful of your classmates had evidently passed the Potions OWL, as there were about twenty of you in total.

You and Hermione followed Lavender Brown and Romilda Vane through the door and you're met with a variety of smells that hit you all at once. It's impossible to tell one scent from another.

Theo and Pansy are already sat at a station near that back of the room and you immediately drag Hermione to the remaining two seats. She follows, albeit begrudgingly, and her face paints a picture of unease as Pasny smiles at her and then you in greeting.

"Must we sit here?" She mutters under her breathe, casting a look of dread and disgust towards the station next to you, where Riddle sits with Berkshire, as aloof as always.

"I'm sorry but I'm not sitting next to Romilda bloody Vane all year. I think I'd pitch myself from the Astronomy Tower." You reply quietly. "Besides Pansy and Theo aren't so bad."

"She's right, Granger. We are a dream." Theo butts into your conversation with a smirk that stretches across his whole face.

You and Pansy roll your eyes.

"You do have a point, Meadow. At least we won't see her oggling Harry." Hermione replies to you, ignoring Theo altogether.

He sees this and his mouth drops open dramatically.

"Tesoro! Your friend cannot ignore me!" He says with a whine that has all of his friends, including you, scoffing at his theatrics. But you don't say anything, only smirk as he becomes more gobsmacked at the fact that a girl could blatantly ignore his existence. But you can see how Hermione visibly relaxes beside you and you're instantly grateful that he was able to, unknowingly, put her at ease.

'You and your friends really don't like us do you?' His voice is grating in your mind and you grimace as a stabbing pain slices through your skull at the slightest intrusion.

'You've all been worldclass dicks to her, and the others, for years. I'm surprised she hasn't gotten up and moved tables.' You say, or you think you say, in response to him.

And by the way he raises an eyebrow at you and laughs under his breath, you don't know whether you have succeeded or not. And it bothers you to no end.

'You need more practice, Princess.' He says and for the rest of the lesson, you know that your head is going to hurt more from this slight interaction than it will if Ron and Harry were to get into another Quidditch debate.

Speaking of, the two boys stumbled into the classroom, later than usual, their uniforms askew and bags half hanging off their shoulders. Professor Slughorn however, hardly batted an eyelid as they took the teo remaining seats near the back of the room.

The Professor only smiled warmly at Harry, who sat down with huff, before he stood in front of his desk, ready to address the class.

"Now then," He says, clasping his hands together before he motions towards everyone. "Get your scales and potions kits out, everyone. And your copies of Advanced Potion-Making too-"

Harry's raised hand halts his instruction.

"Sir?" He asks, his face tinged red.

"Yes, Harry, m'boy?" Slughorn asks and from beside you, you can see Theo roll his eyes. You kick his shin with your foot.

'Tesoro what the fuck!'

You ignore him, and the stabbing pain in the back of your head, rubbing at it in mild annoyance.

"I haven't got a book or scales or anything – neither has Ron – we didn't realise we'd be able to do the NEWTs you see-"

"Yes! Professor McGonagall mentioned so. But not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all! You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today and I'm sure I can lend you some scales. There's a small stock of old books in the cupboard at the back of the room too. They'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts..."

You tune the conversation out, instead focusing intently on your abandoned quill that rests on the table. In your mind, you make a swirling notion which sends the quill into graceful spirals which occupies your bored state until the sound of a minute scuffle interrupts you.

Harry and Ron are grasping for a book. A book. You can't believe your eyes.

When Ron victoriously wanders back to his seat with the more pristine version of Advanced Potion-Making you smirk at Harry who holds a battered, crumpled version that has clearly seen better days.

Hermione stifles a laugh from beside you.

"Now then," Slughorn says, which gathers your attention once more. "I have prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Can anyone tell me what this one is?"

He begins going through each potion that had been sat at the main station at the front of the room, which explained why you were so overwhelmed by various smells when you first walked into the room. He showed and discussed Veritaserum, a truth potion that was colourless, odorless and banned to use, and Polyjuice Potion which you were, unfortunately, rather familiar with already.

"Now who can tell me what this one is?" Slughorn uncovers the lid and your hand shoot's into the air without a second thought as the smell overwhelms your senses.

"That's Amortentia, sir. The most powerful love potion in the world." You say once he motions for you to give your answer.

"Excellent. And I assume you knew this by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"Yes and the characteristic spirals." You say with enthusiasm. "It's also supposed to smell differently to each person according to what attracts them."

Slughorn nods to let you continue.

"For example I smell burning embers..." You pause and take a breath of the potion, which has a different scent profile than when you remember it last year. "Spiced amber and something else but I can't quite tell."

You sound as confused as you look but Slughorn, thankfully ignores it.

"Thank you for sharing, Miss-"

"Meadow, sir."

"Meadow? You wouldn't happen to be related to Joseph Meadow, would you?"

"Yes, he's my father." You reply and Slughorn smiles warmly in recognition.

"Ah you do resemble him very well now that I think about it. He was one of my star potioneers when he was a student here. Twenty points to Ravenclaw, m'dear."

You smile in response to that as Slughorn continues the lesson. But you're left reeling at the scent that the Amortentia omitted when you smelled it for the first time in just over a year.

Because the last time you checked, Fred Weasley did not smell like that.

Like burning embers and spiced amber and dark oud. And he most certainly didn't smell like the distinctive metallic of blood, either.

You glance at the station behind you and Riddle is staring at you. It's unnerving and unsettling and you don't like it.

You feel his stare as it prickles against your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The prickling sensation leaves you soon after it starts, as if he's finally taken his dark eyes off of you, taking the headache-y sensation with him.

You think nothing of it and ignore the Amortentia, to the best of your ability, for the remaining hour of the lesson.

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xuchiya · 2 days ago

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secure me in your arms || choi san || one-shot

| genre: fluff. small tinge of angst. army! choi san. | mentions: a little bit of angst here ...

word count: 2.2k

It was supposed to be a normal evening.

The kind where the sky burned in soft hues of orange and rose, with the sun gently retreating behind the buildings. The kind where the wind cooled your face just enough to make you forget about the day’s heat. The kind of evening that never made headlines—quiet, forgettable to most—but for you, it had always felt quietly significant. Something sentimental, maybe. Like the universe was whispering that something small but meaningful was about to happen.

After eight straight hours of office work and back-to-back department meetings, you finally clocked out. You tapped your ID against the monitor, the familiar beep marking your freedom for the day. As you walked past the lobby, the security guard gave you a nod and a smile.

“Have a safe ride home!” he called out.

You smiled back, dipping your head politely. “Have a great evening, sir.”

With a quiet sigh, you adjusted your bag on your shoulder and made your way toward the parking lot. Your usual routine involved a short walk to the bus stop at the far end of the lot, but today, something—or rather, someone—disrupted that rhythm.

A few steps ahead, you saw a familiar figure standing beside a sleek black motorcycle. His helmet sat on the seat while his phone rested in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment before placing it down and exhaling—slowly, like the weight of something heavy clung to his chest.

“San-ssi?” you called out, your voice hesitant but clear.

He looked up, startled—eyes widening the moment he saw you.

You blinked. “Oh. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Truthfully, you were more than surprised. Most days, you only caught glimpses of him through your office window, always at the same time—just as you were packing your things, he’d hop onto his motorcycle and ride off with a kind of calm urgency. You had always assumed his schedule was tight, especially since you remembered him once mentioning he was a reservist in the military.

But seeing him now—still here, waiting—was unexpected.

San’s eyes softened, but his surprise lingered. Not because he didn’t want to see you—but because he hadn’t planned on being seen. His mind had been busy rehearsing what he might say if he ran into you—how to casually offer you a ride home, how to keep it from sounding like he’d been thinking about it too much.

And then, there you were. Standing just a few feet away, holding his gaze. Every rehearsed word vanished.

He cleared his throat, swallowing down the lump that had formed.

“Hey… are you on your way home?”

You nodded, adjusting your grip on your shoulder bag. “Yeah. My pup’s probably crying nonstop by now.”

He winced internally. Obvious. So painfully obvious.

He knew you. Knew how you preferred staying home rather than going out, how your weekends were spent curled up with your dog and not at some café or get together party. Still, he asked. Maybe just to say something. Anything.

He let out a soft chuckle, gaze lowering for a second as a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The kind of smile that made the world feel like it was slowing down. The trees around the parking lot shimmered faintly with fairy ball lights, casting delicate golden glows that reached across the asphalt. But what those lights highlighted most wasn’t the motorcycle beside him. It was you—the soft shape of your face, the warmth in your eyes, the way your hair caught the breeze.

He tried not to stare, but it was always hard not to.

You glanced at him too. There he was, leaning casually against his bike like he wasn’t the most dangerous kind of calm you’d ever seen. One hand held his helmet loosely at his side, the other ran back through his hair as he laughed softly at your joke. That laugh—you’d heard it before. It had the strange power to settle the world. To make things feel okay, even when they weren’t.

And then his phone buzzed.

Then again.

Once.

Twice.

Silence.

Out of curiosity, your eyes flicked to his phone. The screen showed nothing but: Incoming Call: PRIVATE LINE. It confused you, but something about the moment told you not to pry. It felt too heavy… too confidential.

But he knew who it was. You saw it in the way his whole face shifted. His posture stiffened. His shoulders squared. Something had changed—and you could feel it. Your foot shifted anxiously as he picked up his phone, eyes scanning whatever message was on the screen. You didn’t need to read it to know something wasn’t right.

“…What’s wrong?” you asked, your voice softer now. The calm had shattered, replaced by unease that crept into your chest. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared at the screen for a few more seconds before locking his phone and placing it back on the holder. Then, he reached into the back compartment. You watched as he pulled out the extra helmet—the one he’d kept meaning to give you. Days. Weeks. Maybe even months had passed, each moment eaten away by hesitation and fear.

Every time he thought about giving it to you, his courage failed him. And now, when it might already be too late, this was all he had to give. A silent gesture. A fragile hope. A quiet promise that he’d come back. But he couldn’t say that aloud. Not when the country was teetering on the edge of something burning. Not when he wasn’t sure if he’d even get the chance.

“I need you to trust me,” he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that didn’t belong to him. Something inside you twisted. A quiet panic stirred.

“Why?” you asked. “Is something wrong?” You looked at the helmet in his hands, then back at him, “San-ssi?”

The phone buzzed again. This time, a name flashed on the screen, Sgt. Montano – URGENT. You didn’t know who that was. But the dread in your stomach didn’t need names. You knew. You knew this wasn’t just a regular night anymore. Even though the two of you were just co-workers on the surface, you both shared something deeper. Something unspoken. Something both of you were too afraid to touch.

He inhaled sharply—one of those deep, measured breaths that people take when they're trying to hold it together. The kind that sounded like goodbye without saying the word, “You hold on to this until I come back,” he murmured, pressing the helmet gently into your hands.

You stared down at it. It felt heavier than it should. Smooth, glossy black, visor tinted just enough that you could faintly see your reflection on its surface.

You looked at him again, “San…” your voice cracked a little, uncertain and small. “Please tell me what’s happening…”

“This is where you need to trust me.” Your fingers tightened around the helmet he’d handed you, confusion flickering in your eyes. “Wait—what’s going on? Are you—”

Before you could finish, his hand gently settled over yours. Warm. Steady. Grounding. Like an anchor in a storm you didn’t see coming.

“You trust me, right?” he asked—not about this moment, not about the weight of the situation unfolding before you. No, his voice carried something deeper. He was asking about everything you had shared—quiet lunches on lazy afternoons, late-night conversations over takeout, the secrets you’d entrusted to each other without realizing just how sacred they’d become. It wasn’t about how long you’d known him. It was about the depth. The certainty.

“I always trusted you,” you whispered, though your throat felt like it had been scraped raw.

He smiled at that—not the kind of smile that stretched wide and carefree, but a quiet, almost shy tug at the corner of his mouth. The kind that hinted at something he couldn’t say. Maybe fear. Maybe a goodbye. Maybe both.

You watched as he turned away, slipping his helmet on with practiced ease—his movements efficient, automatic. Muscle memory forged from something far more serious than daily errands or weekend rides. He was readying himself. And suddenly, so many things clicked at once.

“No kiss at least?” you blurted, voice embarrassingly soft and trembling.

The calls from someone named "Sergeant." The way he always kept his phone within reach. The silent pauses when the news came on, about rising tensions and military deployment.

You’d known something was coming. You just hadn’t expected it to be now. And before your brain could talk you out of it, your mouth acted on impulse.

It made him freeze. You instantly regretted it. His posture went stiff, like you’d startled him, and for a second you feared you’d crossed a line neither of you had spoken of. But then—slowly—he turned to you. His visor lifted halfway, revealing only his eyes. Wide. Surprised. And… flushed.

His cheeks turned a soft shade of pink beneath the helmet’s shadow, and then he tilted his head with a barely-there smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Without a word, he gripped the bottom of his helmet, pulled it off in one fluid motion, and leaned in.

The kiss was feather-light. A mere breath of a moment. But it was real. And it burned through you like fire. Like a promise.

When San pulled back, you hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. You just stood there, breath stolen, heart thundering, “Until then,” he said, pulling the helmet back over his head. His voice came muffled this time, but the meaning still struck clear. He nodded toward the helmet you were still holding. “Secure me in your arms.”

Then, with a swift kick, he flicked the bike’s stand up and revved the engine. The sound split through the quiet street as he shifted into gear. A second later, he was gone—riding into the night, swallowed by city lights and the invisible hands of duty.

You stood in the silence he left behind, the helmet still cradled to your chest. The wind tugged at your clothes, carrying his scent away with it. When you finally looked down, something glinted inside the helmet. Frowning, you reached in. Your fingers brushed against something cool—metal. Your breath caught.

You pulled it out slowly. Choi San’s dog tag.

And your heart sank and soared all at once.

Instantly, your mind drifted back to the day you first found out he was part of the army. It was during a company team-building trip—a warm, sun-drenched afternoon by the beach. Everyone was split into groups for a game of tug-of-war, laughter echoing along the shore, the ocean breeze tousling hair and lifting spirits.

San had been on your team. You remembered clearly how the fabric of his tight white shirt clung to him after the game, and how something silver around his neck clinked softly with every movement. The chain had caught your eye. It had gleamed in the sun—subtle but noticeable.

After your team won that round, you’d collapsed onto a weathered log, panting and exhilarated. A moment later, San approached, holding two bottles of water, the sea wind tousling his damp hair. He handed you one before sitting beside you, his shirt collar slightly pulled open.

That’s when you saw it clearly. The dog tag.

Curious, you had glanced sideways. “You’re in the army? Or the navy?”

He turned to you with a soft smile, shoulders still rising and falling from the exertion. “Army,” he said simply, and took a sip from his bottle.

You nodded, letting your gaze drift back out to the beach. The waves lapped gently at the shore, soft and rhythmic, crashing lightly against the rocks. Something about it—maybe the calmness—reminded you of your father.

“My dad was in the navy,” you said after a beat, voice quieter. “He served for twenty years before he retired.”

San shifted slightly, clearly surprised that you’d shared something so personal, but he didn’t speak. He leaned in slightly instead—listening, attentive.

“He knew the risks when he married my mom, had a family,” you continued, eyes still on the sea. “But he still went through with it. When things got dangerous, and he didn’t know when—or if—he’d be back… he gave her his dog tag. Said it would help her sleep better at night.”

San didn’t answer right away. His eyes followed the shoreline, then slowly returned to you. “You know,” he began, voice low, “whether it’s army, navy, or air force… when someone gives you their dog tag, it means they trust you.”

You turned your head to look at him—and were caught off guard to find his gaze already on you. Close. Focused. Your heartbeat stuttered for a moment. Something in his scent—faint cologne and the salt of the ocean—was oddly calming, like he belonged in that moment beside you.

“Is that… normal?” you asked softly. “To give someone your tag?”

He shook his head. “Not really. It’s not standard or anything. But when we do… it usually means we’re going into something dangerous. Or something we might not come back from.” He paused, eyes flicking down to the small space between your hands.

Then—gently—he reached across and wrapped his fingers around yours. “But right now,” he said, holding your gaze, “it means there’s someone out there we want to come back to. Someone we believe in. Someone who believes in me.”

The memory snapped away as your present vision blurred with tears.

You looked down at the helmet in your hands, and the cold metal nestled inside it. San didn’t just trust you with the helmet. It was the dog tag that mattered most. And now it sat in your hands—his name etched into it—pressed against your chest like a silent promise.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #san ateez #ateez san #ateez choi san #san fluff #san x reader #choi san #san #choi san fluff #choi san x reader #ateez choi san angst #ateez angst #san angst

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222col · 3 days ago

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— ALL DIRT BIKE, NO DREAMS

fawn!reader x jj maybank

summary: jj was the lost boy of town, betrayed and abandoned too many times to even think of trusting anyone new.

cw .ᐟ fluff, religious themes, mentions of blood, abandonment

his hands stained with oil, shirts dirty and hair messy. the town could hear him coming before they knew it was him. the dirt bike spoke before he did.

you prayed for him every night, always kept him in your conversations with god. the poor, lonely boy on the edge of town. living in the abandoned trailer, with not a soul to keep him company. your father had tried to help him, but jj was too far gone.

been left behind too many times, treated like dirt. unable to trust the hand trying to feed him, watched it snatched back too many times before to ever accept again.

he came to church sometimes, more for the free coffee and bread. never spoke to anyone there, always alone on the final pew. you always watched him, and never paid any mind when he took a few bills from the collection. he needed it more than the new roof did.

sometimes you'd put your own allowance into the pot, just to feel as though you were helping him without his knowledge.

you often walked past his trailer, watched him work on his bike as you did. he never warned you away, but it felt like trespassing. felt like walking on forbidden land, being anywhere near the maybank trailer.

jj was forbidden fruit. you so desperately wanted to speak to him, offer him kindness. you wonder the last time he'd felt it— kindness. the last time he smiled, or laughed even.

he looked like the shell of a boy. waiting for the dust to come and carry him away.

you weren't subtle, or as you thought. walking past his trailer for the third time today, twiddling your thumbs as your long skirt blew in the wind.

his movements paused, wiping away the sweat from his brow, replacing it with oil from the back of his hand. his eyes met yours, as you bit back a smile.

it was so uncommon. for him to be met with a smile, not the usual disapproval or judgement he was so used to.

"what ya lookin' at me like that for?" he asks, voice gruff. the boy stays sitting upon his bike, hands on the handlebars— ready for a getaway. "got oil on your forehead." you murmur softly, voice almost too quiet for him to hear. too soft to be heard by his ears.

the gentleness almost distracts him from actually listening. but he does, quickly lifting the bandana from his back pocket to remove the stain.

it's strange. normally he'd be scowling, mumbling profanities, especially at that little giggle you're directing at him. but he finds himself smiling, unable to help the act.

"yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he chuckles, leaning back, his hands on his thighs. no longer in fight or flight mode. he can't remember the last time someone came this close and he didn't want to run. "y'the pastor's daughter, right?"

nodding your head softly, tentatively walking over to him. "mhm." you murmur, pausing closer to him than anyone had been in months.

"gonna tell ya daddy that you were laughin' at me," jj taunts, eliciting another giggle from your lips. "not very neighborly of ya."

you know he must be joking, but this much conversation from the blonde was rare. your lip is between your teeth, as you try desperately not to let the blood distract you from biting too hard.

"oh, i- um, i didn't mean—"

"now we're even." he smirks, as the swipe of oil exchanges from his fingers to the curve of your neck. your eyes are wide, and you're sure your cheeks must be pink.

jj chuckles at the sight of you, shaking his head as his hands return to the bike. the dust remains where he leaves, stood alone before his trailer. black swipe of oil on your skin.

you daren't move it. daren't wipe it away, because somehow that would be wiping away the interaction. it stayed there as proof on your walk home, that jj maybank wasn't as tough as he seemed.

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ultravi0lence14 · 1 day ago

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THE DIARIES OF A GIRL INTERRUPTED

DEAN WINCHESTER AU

SYNOPSIS: the story of a girl and her lost love through the views of her old, tattered diary

WARNINGS: heavy topics | descriptions of parental abuse | slight drug use | swearing | insane infatuation 🫠

NAT BABBLES: inspired by the heart breaking story of willoughby tucker and ethel cain🙂‍↕️

JULY 2ND — 1996

dear diary,

daddy is being mean again. he says it’s god’s will. that if we’re going to act out, then god is going to punish us through his hands. but i don’t understand what i did; i don’t understand why daddy acts out when i don’t do anything to provoke him.

i’ve heard mama over the phone, telling her friends how daddy is just an angry man. how he’s good. just. because he’s our small towns preacher. but his actions aren’t good and just, and i can understand that.

i’m seventeen now, and i the exact moment i turn eighteen, i am out of here. going somewhere far away from here, somewhere i can be free.

i just hope that is soon.

JULY 4TH — 1996

dear diary,

today is the fourth of july, and daddy made me and mama go to the church’s barbecue; just to show face i’m sure.

he made us stand like shiny toys, hands clasped on my shoulder so hard i could barely breathe. is he going to pinch me when i say something wrong? grab my arm and drag me off somewhere private to really make me hurt? i was not sure, but i wanted today to be done and over with.

something strange happened though, and i’ve been thinking about it ever since it happened. before daddy dragged mama and i home.

there was a new family there today; a man and two boys. one of them looked my age, but the other couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

i’ve never really been attracted to any boys, since the town is so small and all of them are either disgusting pigs or bottom feeders. but this boy my age was different. refreshing somehow.

he had sandy brown hair was a little longer, and his hazel green eyes caught onto mine before i could even process he noticed me. his stare was piercing, and the softness in his eyes blanketed something else i could tell; like sorrow, or pain.

i find myself wanting to see him again, and if this town is as small as i know it is, then i hopefully will.

JULY 8TH - 1996

dear diary,

it took four days, but i finally saw him.

the lake is a peaceful place for me to go. away from daddy and mama’s yelling, away from the sad reality of my sad life. it’s a five minute walk down the road, and i find myself going there more and more each day.

today, i was sitting on the edge of the dock, reading my new book that i bought a couple of days ago. i was so engrossed in the riveting tale, that i didn’t hear the smack of boots on the wooden dock.

“can i sit here?” the voice was rough and edged, a voice that has seen and screamed. when i turned, i was faced with an angel.

the sun backed his milky skin beautifully, and i swear i saw god’s vision. his black shirt and distressed jeans made him seem rough around the edges, but that same softness in his eyes remained, and the book he carried under his arm was anything but daunting.

i was such a weirdo. nodding for him to sit because i was so tongue tied. i couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t fathom words that wouldn’t make him hate me. that’s how i was raised. anything i said could be used against me or used in the wrong context.

we sat side by side on that dock for hours, silently reading together in peaceful harmony. i didn’t go home until i knew it was time for dinner, and i found myself hoping he’d be back to the dock some time soon.

JULY 12TH — 1996

dear diary,

he introduced himself as dean winchester today.

i’ve gone to the dock everyday since the first time he came by, and each day, he’s come too.

we’ve sat in silence, no words spoken. i was too nervous, and he seemed far away in his own world. it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it was something i found myself yearning for.

peaceful. serene.

but today he broke that silence, an outstretched palm and dog eared page being our peace offering. his smile was soft, but forced. i could tell he wasn’t used to doing the facial expression, like he was so used to grimacing his whole life.

i could understand. i can still understand.

i know my palm was sweaty when i shook his, but the roughness of his hand and the nimble fingers that wrapped around mine had my head reeling, so it doesn’t even matter.

today was only pleasantries. how old i was, if i was the preachers daughter, stuff like that. all i found out about him is that he’s originally from kansas and that his younger brother is named sam.

i am hoping to figure out more. he seems like a man with enough skeletons in his closet to fill a graveyard.

JULY 14TH — 1996

dear diary,

i’ve only been talking to him for shy of two days, but dean winchester is becoming somewhat of a comfort in my life.

i found myself wanting to open up to him. not lie and say the bruise on my cheek was from running into a door but from the scratch of daddy’s ring striking against my cheek.

though i didn’t. i found myself stopping the words from coming out of my mouth. when he asked further, all i said was what i believed to be true; ‘god loves you, but not enough to save you’.

it’s something i’ve preached like a new religion since daddy started getting more angry, and i didn’t expect anyone to agree with me.

until dean.

he opened up about his mom dying when he was a kid, about how his dad relies on drinking to ease the pain of losing his one true love.

he said if god truly loved him and his family, he wouldn’t have ripped his mom away from them so tragically; making his dad a semi-functioning drunk who goes to church to make himself feel better.

dean’s ideology on running away is he wouldn’t go anywhere without his sammy, and if i had a younger sibling i loved as much as dean loved sam, i would think the same.

mama came out to call me for dinner, and she almost caught me and dean talking. if she or daddy saw, i’d be done for. but i’d still see him, i realize. i’d crawl on my hands and knees to dean if it means i can spend five minutes in his company.

this blossoming friendship is becoming something i look forward to, and i won’t let anyone or anything take it away from me.

JULY 19TH — 1996

dear diary,

what i have with dean is not normal, i know that more and more as we spend hours upon hours together on that dock and in the adjacent field.

my infatuation with him grows stronger, and my will to bare my soul and heart to him grows stronger. i feel him in my bones, in my ribs and in the crevices of my veins. without him, i believe i would be nothing but a shell of a girl who let’s the world tell her what to do.

he treats me like a human, like his equal. his green eyes shine as he stares at me, dusts his fingers across my back when we venture into town to get soda at the gas station. he plays with the ends of my hair and the willowing fabric of my billowy shirts, and i find that his hands were made to be touching my skin.

no one has ever listened to my thoughts like him, has told me to be more than i am so i can reach my full potential. but dean does, and he makes me feel lighter than i truly am.

handling me like i am mad of glass, he doesn’t throw me and destroy and chip away at my girlhood like my dad. he honours me for all i am, and i find myself falling more and more in love with him.

i need him. need him more than a friend. i don’t care that we’ve know each other for less than a month. i need his soft words in my ear, his lips on my skin, and his rough edges and soft cheeks brushing against my own.

god, if you’re even listening, please give me this one thing. please. please. please.

JULY 22ND — 1996

dear diary,

i did something reckless today, and it made me realize that a spur of the moment decision can get you to where your heart desires.

in the tall grass of the field by my house, under the shade of a weeping willow tree, i kissed dean, and it felt like the most natural thing to me.

his hands were rough yet soft on my waist, holding me tender yet strongly like he didn’t want me to run away from him. i never would. dean would be by my side in all aspects of my world.

the feeling of his lips gently pressing against mine was cathartic, and at first, i thought he was going to pull away. but dean never did, and i found myself crawling into his lap and wishing time slowed down for just a couple more minutes.

in that moment, i wanted to tell him about my dad. how the bruises weren’t from doors, and how my mother’s neglectful attitude kept getting worse. in that moment, i wanted him to take me away from that house; grab sam so we can run away. for good.

but deep down, i knew none of that would happen, and i felt silly to even fathom telling dean about the slaps and kicks i endure from my father.

someday though, i will.

JULY 29TH — 1996

dear diary,

the past week of my life has possibly been the best in a while, and that truly is saying a lot.

dean and i have spent practically most of our time together, and i yearn for the days to surpass 24 hours, just so i can spend more time with him and not have to go back to the circle of hell i call my home.

a couple of days ago, when i met him at the corner of my street, he was smoking a cigarette. i was awestruck, for drugs even as small as nicotine was foreign to me.

daddy always told me that if he ever caught me smoking, he’d put the whole package of cigarette butts out on my skin. and knowing him, i know he isn’t bluffing.

so when dean offered for me to take a ‘hit’ as he called it, i was nervous at first.

“you don’t have to,” was his words, a coaxing hand twirling a piece of my hair while the other held his cigarette. “do whatever you feel is best for you, darling.”

he started calling me darling, and when he does, i find myself pliable in his hands. the words made me grab the stick from his hands, taking a long drag and puffing the smoke out almost immediately.

the taste of marlboro reds still lingered on my tongue for hours after, but the feeling of freedom and rebellion from my daddy felt good. it made me feel in control, and dean always tells me that i’m the only person who’s in control of my life. that no one pushes me around.

“be mean.” he says, pressing feather light kisses across my skin. “be demanding and fucking cruel when need be. because the only person who’s going to change the trajectory of your life, is you, darling.”

i believe him. i truly do. but daddy breaks down my soul, lifts my walls even higher, and each day i stay under his roof, under his religious driven views, i become more and more wary of myself.

all i can look forward to is spending more and more time with dean, and if the rest of my life is like this past week, i won’t be mad.

AUGUST 1ST — 1996

dear diary,

dean might kill my daddy, and i don’t know what there is to do about it.

we were at the local auto shop today — the one where dean works at, and my carefree attitude made me slightly forget that i have demons and bruises to hide from my one true love.

he saw the splatters of purple and blue on my ribs, and demanded to know the truth. i knew the lies about me running into doors and walls wouldn’t last forever, but i hoped it would hold for longer.

when i broke down and told him, he cradled me in his arms like i was made of glass, like he couldn’t even fathom breaking me even more. each stroke of his fingers through my hair, each tightened grip he left around my waist, i felt like he was healing me. making me whole again.

but then he pulled away, and i swear, i saw murder in his eyes.

“that fucking hypocrite!” he grit out, hands clutching my face with a tenderness that didn’t match his voice. “preaching god’s word only to go home and beat on his daughter like a fucking mad man. i’ll make him pay, darling, i promise you.”

i don’t know what he means, but i hope whatever it is, he makes my daddy feel as broken and bruised as i have throughout the years.

AUGUST 6TH — 1996

dear diary,

when dean said he was going to make my daddy pay, i didn’t think he meant trying to expose him in front of our entire church.

daddy was talking about eternal damnation today, and what sends one to the fiery pits of hell. he was speaking like he wasn’t the one who slapped his wife and daughter around, and i could feel dean simmering from a couple of pews behind me.

when church was done, and everyone was talking outside, dean walked right up to my dad, his fist pummelling into his jaw before i could even suck in a breath.

“how does that feel? huh?” dean had snarled, trying to attack my dad for a second time while his father and other men from the church held him back. “does it feel nice to be beaten? can you understand what you put your daughter through each and every day you lay your sick hands on her?”

everyone was staring at him like he was crazy, and it was then i realized that my daddy had not only a grip on me, but a firm hand on everyone in this fucking church. he breeched his claws into their skin, ripping and tearing at their marrow and mirth until they were nothing but pliant sand in his palms.

when dean saw the realization in my eyes, he broke away from the crowd, rushing over to me so he can grab my hand and drag me away from the crowd.

he took me to our field, and i swear, i have never cried tears as bottomless and salt stricken as the ones i cried in his arms.

i wanted it all to be done and over with. wanted daddy to stop, mama to wake up, and for me, dean, and his brother to run far away from here. but none of that would happen, and i saw it clear as day today at the church.

“we’ll get away from this town.” dean reassured me, hands stroking over my skin as i was perched in his lap. “we will go to wherever your heart desires. i’ll let you see the west with me, and everything will be different.”

i wanted to believe him, i really did. but something in my gut told me that what he was saying wouldn’t come to truth.

AUGUST 13TH — 1996

dear diary,

i’m so heartbroken, i haven’t been able to write anything without tears dripping down onto the paper.

when i got home from being with dean after that fateful day at church, dad had punishment in the form of his closed fists and the metal ending of his belt. mama had to carry me upstairs afterwards, and i laid curled in my bed for the next day.

he threatened that if he ever saw me with dean again, that he’d do worse than put the fear of god in me. he forbade me from seeing my only true love, and i couldn’t have that.

two days later, when i could actually walk, i snuck out and ran straight to dean’s house. sam answered the door, and when i saw the moving boxes piled up behind him, i felt my heart crack in a million pieces.

“daddy found a new job in california,” sam explained, a soft tender smile across his cheeks. just like his brother. “dean told me to tell you, he’s currently out right now.”

i immediately ran around town, trying my hardest to find dean, but he was nowhere to be found. at the end of it all, i knew the one place he would ever be waiting for me.

the dock.

when i got there, i halted as i saw dean sitting on the edge, head in hands as his shoulders shook in silent tears. when he heard my footsteps on the wood, i have never seen someone leap up faster.

his hands immediately cradled my face, words coming out a mile a minute as he tried to reassure me.

“come with me, darling.” he breathed, hands moving around my face, like he was trying to make me out to be real. “see the west with me. leave your past behind and start a future with me.”

i wanted to leave. so desperately i did. but my mom. i couldn’t leave her. it wasn’t fair of me, and i knew my dad would just track me down.

so i left dean winchester on that dock. the hope of seeing the west together breaking like a new, intangible dream.

AUGUST 17TH — 1996

dear diary,

what is wrong with me? i should’ve said yes. i should’ve gone with him.

i can’t breath without dean winchester, and i feel the cracks in my heart falling all over my rib cage each day he is gone.

daddy is just getting worse since he learned about my tryst with dean, and his anger is making me crumble mentally and physically, making my bones and soul ache an absolute amount.

i will die in this house, i’ve realized. and no one — not even dean, will be able to help me.

i can’t write anymore. i can’t write what i made myself have. dean was right. what i want in life, i need to take. i should’ve been mean. i should’ve listened. but i didn’t, and now my final resting place will be the four walls of my room.

JANUARY 24TH — 2006

dear diary,

it’s been almost ten years since i’ve last seen dean winchester, and my heart has broken each day since.

today would’ve been his 27th birthday, and i found myself walking into the cemetery this morning with a looming sense of dread hanging over my heart.

he died three years ago, and when sam called me to break the news, i fell to my knees, screaming so loud my mama ran upstairs in worry. i hadn’t left home, and dean would never come back. all because some drunk idiot decided to drive.

i mourn him today. what we had ten years ago, what he told me, how he loved me. when daddy died from a heart attack, i thought about what dean would’ve said. would he have consoled me? watched silently as he laughed at my fathers grave? spewing out hate he would smack me for.

everything is so confusing. but what i do know, is that dean is with his mom, and that’s the only beautiful aspect of god i think about.

rest easy, angel. i will always love you.

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