#violent playground

[summerisleisicumenin]

Hallelujah, here's some photos of Peter Cushing's sexy priest from Violent Playground 🙏

[birdkeeperklink]

Does anyone have headcanons for the name of Peter Cushing's character in Violent Playground? Because I wrote something (not yet/possibly ever finished) and it's sort of in his POV-ish and he is literally only referred to as "he" the whole time (because I use third person limited in such a way where I let how the characters think of themselves influence how the narration refers to them and he wouldn't think of himself as "Father") and reading it back, it's confusing, lol. But he's only called "Father" by everyone around him for the whole movie, not even "Father [name]," so - thoughts?

[molinaesque]

Peter Cushing | The Priest (Violent Playground, 1958)

[ludojudoposts]

David McCallum in Violent Playground (1958)

[puppetmaker40]

All these are on MGM+ if you care to see some of David McCallum’s earlier work.

[half-eaten-deodorant]

How does one go from a scrungly that commits crimes and has anxiety to a literal ray of sunshine on crutches to a lunatic that commits arson for fun ALL WITHIN TWO YEARS

[zippocreed501]

David McCallum as Johnnie Murphy

Violent Playground (1958)

[meetthesoldier]

>> naomi kennedy stimboard

x / x / x

x / x / x

x / x / x

[bioswear]

KYS NIER IS FOR FUCKING FAGS AAAAAAA

Buddy I am a fag.

[playingplayer2]

Childhood shenanigans and acts of assholery of mine include:

Vicious Mockery of a teenage boy (our neighbor) who egged our house with his friend while they were cleaning the wall off (punishment decided on and approved of by the adults). I kept going past them on my little baby tricycle (I was maybe 4? 5? I was under 6) and making disparaging comments all the while. Bro looked like he was gonna pop a blood vessel before my mother noticed and shoo-ed me and my sibling away.

Around the same age I spent, like, at least an hour, maybe two, pestering this guy, a bit younger than my parents, at some get together my parents went to w/ their friends (and their friend's friends, of which, this poor dude was). I think I definitely made him seriously consider ever having kids because I was the embodiment of asking "why" and "unwitting adult who had just agreed to be my storytime audience" at that age, poor man was not doing well by the end. I think he may have been the only adult there completely unfamiliar with me, so in my little head he was akin to blood in the water for a shark or smth.

Had whole ass escape plans, down to the minute detail of exactly whose yards to cut through, where to use the back alleyways, and where to use the main streets in case of emergencies (kick-started by my father being an abusive fuck, cemented by our house being broken into one day while said abusive fuck was at work and we (mother, sibling, and me) were at said house). Alas police officers really do tend to poke holes into 7 year olds plans by virtue of longer legs and a willingness to assault small children. (There was a house about two blocks down (veeeeeery long street with multiple intersections) with, like, at least 4 cats and that was the end goal, alas.)

Speaking of seven year olds, clearly, the obvious answer to adults hurting you via enabling an abusive father is absolutely to make snow balled filled with rocks and ice and aiming for the face. I'd know, I did that. Unfortunately a 10-15 foot distance might be a bit of a feat at that age.

Also tricking a class of 9-10 year olds into bowing to a dragon tapestry in the hallway because they Won't Stop Bullying You is always funny, especially when you're the only one in the class who'd know if you're lying or not. (Being Chinese does not, in fact, mean you need to bow to every dragon you see as a sign of respect for the gods, but it sure was funny, and no, the dragon will not curse you for forgetting to bow.)

Very pointedly asking another kid about her crush on one of our classmates a la interview style at lunch because she'd done something similar to me a week prior. (She came up to me and told me it was "for an interview," before asking me point blank "how does it feel that no one wants to play with you any more since so-and-so came back to this school?" Before kind of leading the whole excluding-me-from-everything bit. Which. Was fun... So like a week later after we found out that her crush and friend would be moving states over the summer, I asked her at lunch if she was "ever going to tell blah-blah-blah that she liked him." At lunch. With our whole 3rd grade class. It wasn't my nicest move, but also literally everyone knew, including her crush/friend. But we were also all 9 or 10. So. Yeah.

In conclusion, I was a little shithead.

[starlightxsvt]

Undue Influence | y.jh

synopsis ➳ ❝ he is your sworn enemy. hell, you are literally at war with him right now. yet, you find yourself desiring him in a way that could be catastrophic. the only silver lining is that he might be feeling the same way towards you. or maybe it is all just a game.❞ pairing ➳ lawyer fem!reader x lawyer!jeonghan genre ➳ enemies to lovers, legal drama, smut wc ➳ 9.1k warnings ➳ this will have inaccurate descriptions of court and legal systems cuz i ain't no lawyer, lots of banter and sexual tension, cursing, mentions of child abuse, daddy issues, very brief hints of childhood trauma, corruption ig, kissing, dirty talking, fingering, one pussy slap, biting and teasing, Jeonghan himself is the biggest warning.

“You Honour, he fucking sucks ass!”

The courtroom plunges into a suffocating void of silence, as if the very air has been swallowed by a black hole, leaving only the echo of your childish outburst. Thick, heavy silence that drags on endlessly, echoing your very professional sentence through the air in an endless spiral. 

You remain frozen in your place, your eyes locked with your opponent who stands before you with his arms crossed and a cocky smile that keeps growing by the second. He looks like a cat that ate the canary, and the urge to punch his stupid face grows within you violently.

“Counselor,” the judge clears her throat. You slowly turn your head to face her, mortification written all over your face. You find her glaring at you. “This is a courtroom, in case you forgot. Not a middle school playground.”

You hear Jeonghan snicker beside you and you force yourself to take a deep breath as you straighten the lapels of your suit and clear your throat. “My apologies, your Honour. It will not happen again.”

The challenging look Jeonghan throws at you foreshadows otherwise, and mentally, you imagine punching his face repeatedly and kicking him in the balls. With that calming image in your mind, you look at Mina, your plaintiff, reminding yourself why you are here. 

You have a job to do.

You cannot lose to Yoon Jeonghan. Not again.

“Defense Counsel, would you like to add anything more?”

Jeonghan’s challenging gaze lingers on you for a second longer before he addresses the judge. “Yes, Your Honour. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” he makes a point by looking at you. “My client also loves his child, but let’s not kid ourselves— he can provide the future this child deserves.” He pauses to look directly into your eyes, that cold, ruthless gaze reappearing in his eyes, one that you hate with a passion beyond language. “My opponent may argue emotional bonds, but the reality is this: money makes the world go round. And a child with access to wealth will have the resources to thrive, no matter what. That’s the kind of future my client can provide.”

You grip the table behind you to distract yourself from the rage coursing through your veins. 

The silence weighs down like a lead blanket after his words, and in the suffocating stillness, you hear Mina sigh from behind you, and a piece of your heart breaks. 

Suddenly, you have the urge to cry. This feels familiar, like that case two years ago. 

You were representing a key witness, and Jeonghan was defending a wealthy, high-profile businessman accused of murder. His flawless legal strategy dismantled the evidence you worked so hard to find, and it was an easy victory for him. It made you second-guess everything you thought you knew about the law. You had never lost a case before, and that singular case shattered your sense of invincibility. 

Your boss called you a sore loser after you quit your job as a prosecutor, but there was no other option for you. Prosecuting left a bitter taste in your mouth. So you packed everything up and took a big step, opening your own law firm and starting your journey as a family lawyer.

So that you would never be in a situation like that.

Yet here you are again, up against the same man who made you question everything.

The judge’s voice brings you back to the present moment. “Plaintiff’s Counsel, would you like to add anything?”

You blink and swallow. “No, Your Honour.”

“Very well then,” she leans back in her chair. “The court will resume on Thursday, April 17th, for the final hearing. This session is now concluded.”

As the room slowly empties out, you silently stare at Mina, who looks up at you with shining eyes. “We are going to win, right?” She asks, her voice cracking.

You hate how you doubt yourself.

Blinking a few times, you compose yourself. “We will. Trust me. This isn’t over yet.”

It isn’t. Jeonghan plays dirty all the time, and now, for the first time in your career, you will not hesitate to play dirty either. You have to win this case. There is simply no other option.

— 

Judge Beatrice’s voice stops you in your tracks when you are on your way to the elevators. “What was that, Attorney ____?”

You immediately whip your back and, clasping your hands together in front of you, mutter out a meek apology. “I am really sorry about that, Madam.”

She steps closer to you, her black robes flowing elegantly along with her movements. “That was very unlike you, Attorney ____. You lost your composure the last day as well. Whatever issue you have with Attorney Yoon, you don’t bring them inside the courtroom, is that clear?”

You stare at the ground, chewing on your lower lip. “Yes, madam. I am extremely sorry.”

“I am letting this pass only because your father was a colleague and a teacher I respected dearly. You know I don’t let shit like that pass in my trials.”

“Yes, Madam. Of course.”

“Good,” she walks past you. “Have faith in yourself, Attorney. You can win this case.”

You stand motionless in your place as the judge walks past you and down the hallway before shutting the door to her office with a loud slam.

You exhale a breath you have been holding.

Your heels click rhythmically on the glossy floors as you make your way towards the elevators, just in time to see the doors of one closing. You immediately push the button to open them back up and immediately regret your decision.

The elevator is empty except for Yoon Jeonghan, who looks up as the doors reopen. The moment his eyes land on you, they sparkle vividly, like a hunter spotting an exotic animal they have been looking for all day.

Your feet pull the brake at the last second as you stand in front of the open doors, your eyes fixed on his face, while you go through a mental debate of whether you should get in or not.

“Attorney ____,” Jeonghan hums sweetly and you know it is anything but sweet. He steps aside and extends a hand, silently asking you to enter.

The fear of looking like a coward has you gritting your teeth as you step inside, ignoring him completely.

Keeping ample space between the two of you, you find your place at one corner, choosing to stare at the ceiling of the elevator. You avoid looking at his face because if you look at it too long, you get violent urges like smashing his head against a wall and cursing him out in every language that ever existed. So, you close your eyes and take in a deep breath as the doors close. It is barely a ten second elevator ride from the third floor. You will survive.

Except two seconds later, you realize you won’t.

With a sudden loud thunk and a heavy vibration, the elevator comes to a halt. A second later, the lights fizzle out, leaving only the dim strips of emergency light on in the ceiling.

How delightful.

None of you moves for a second as the realization of the situation dawns on you. Then, Jeonghan presses the emergency call button, and the voice of a security guard comes through.

“I’m really sorry. This elevator has been having some issues recently. Hang in there for a bit. This should be resolved within 10 minutes.” Someone says.

Lovely.

You grip the handle of your handbag tightly.

Today has been an exceptional day so far. What are the chances you get stuck with Yoon Jeonghan, out of all people, in an elevator?

“He said it’ll take ten minutes,” Jeonghan repeats the information, turning to look at you.

You ignore him and stare at the floor.

“Oh come on,” Jeonghan leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. You can feel his eyes on you, and you find yourself wishing it were pitch dark in here. “We’re stuck here for the next ten minutes if luck is on our side. If not, who knows how long? Might as well make the best of it.”

You huff out a breath before meeting his eyes with a glare. “You know what your problem is, Mr. Devil’s Advocate?”

His brows rise and an amused, cocky smile kisses his lips. 

You hate it. 

“I’d love to hear it.” He entertains you.

“You argue just to hear yourself talk. Doesn’t matter if you’re defending a cheating husband, a billionaire with a God complex, or…hell— a rock in the middle of the street. If someone pays you enough, suddenly that rock has rights and everyone else is just ‘too emotional’ to see the truth.”

He chuckles, tilting his head. “Hm, depends on the rock. Is it a trust fund rock or self-made?”

Your nostrils flare, and your hands curl into fists. “See? This— this is why I cannot tolerate your guts. I cannot believe I’m stuck in here with you…Yoon fucking Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan chuckles, and you narrow your eyes at him. His eyes linger on your face, making you feel hyperaware of yourself. He traces his index finger over his chin in a thoughtful manner, as if he is scrutinizing you. “You know, I think you yell at me so much because you secretly enjoy saying my name.” He states with a smirk.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Oh, absolutely. It’s my favourite curse word.”

He laughs, the sound lighthearted yet throaty, and you immediately look away for whatever reason.

“This case is clearly stressing you out, sweetheart.” He hums, casually calling you with a nickname. “You should relax.”

“Unlike someone, I actually care about my clients.” You stare at the doors.

“Mhm. I do too. Otherwise, I would not have taken this case.”

“Oh please,” you cannot stop yourself from rolling your eyes this time. “Enough with the pretenses. Everyone knows Jun Gi is paying you millions for this.”

Jeonghan grins, flashing his teeth. “What can I say, I am just that good.”

You bite your tongue and stare at him silently, summoning all your hatred and disgust for him in your eyes. You whisper, “You’re shameless.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. 

A sigh of exhaustion parts from your lips, and you check your wristwatch for the nth time. Ten minutes are almost done. How much longer is it going to take?

“What’s the hurry, sweetheart?” Jeonghan singsongs. You grit your teeth, murmuring, “Words cannot describe how much I want to climb through the ceiling vent and leave you here.”

He flashes a grin. “That desperate to get away from me?”

“More like your huge ego.”

“You know what else is huge?” His smirk grows bigger as his eyes shine with mischief.

You scrunch your face in disgust.

“Why are you making that face?” His voice drips with innocence, but you know it's all an act. “I was going to say my winning streak. What was going on in that smart little brain of yours, dirty girl?” He raises a cocky brow, one of his hands working on loosening the knot of his tie. You were about to clap back by saying how unprofessional he is being, but his little action distracts you from saying the words out loud. They become a jumbled mess in your head as your eyes raptly trace the movement of his slender, bony fingers in the dimly lit space. He loosens his navy blue tie before unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, exposing his Adam's apple. 

For some reason, the view is hypnotizing, and you hate yourself for not being able to pry your eyes off him. At the same time, in the very back of your mind, an annoying part keeps repeating his words “dirty girl” over and over again.

What is wrong with you? The air must be thinning out in here.

Your gaze shifts from his neck to his face, and with sheer terror, you realize he has been staring at you all this time. Your heart drops and you immediately look away, wishing you were anywhere but here, stuck in an elevator with Jeonghan. The only man who pushes your buttons like nothing else. 

You don’t have to look at him to know there is a smug smile on his face.

“You keep looking at me, Attorney ____.” The statement is dripping with arrogance. You hate it. You wish it would go pitch black in here, and you could blend in with the darkness. Or, the elevator could just snap and fall down, and you would accept death happily rather than admitting that you were looking at Yoon Jeonghan.

Turns out you’re in luck this time because your wish immediately materializes with the sudden blinking of lights and a harsh jerk of the elevator that throws you off balance. You lose your footing and fall on the opposite side, right next to Jeonghan, clutching onto the handle to keep yourself stable. Then, the emergency lights fizzle out and it goes pitch black.

“Fuck,’’ he curses under his breath.

“I cannot believe I am going to die here, stuck with you,” you hiss, tightly gripping the handle. Your words lack the confidence you would have liked them to have because you don't like where this is going.

Be careful what you wish for!

“We are not going to die in here, okay?” Jeonghan’s voice has the conviction that yours lacked. Your reply is a grunt because, frankly, your mind is starting to spiral. 

Fortunately, the elevator makes another soft jerk, and the lights turn on again with a loud noise. Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness, and half a second later, you are hyper-aware of Jeonghan’s presence next to you.

He is so close that his arm is brushing against yours. He is so close that the scent of his cologne tickles your nose and momentarily puts you in a trance. Unconsciously, your head moves, turning sideways to look at him, only to find his face too close to yours, his eyes already trained on you like a hawk. 

Your heart skips a beat. As unnerving as it is to be in such proximity to him that you feel his breath caress your face, you find yourself stuck and completely unable to move.

“You know, you are quite beautiful up close.” He whispers. 

Your mind blanks out.

You need to do something— smack his face, shove him away, yell at him. Something. Anything. You realize you cannot exercise that will on your body because you keep gazing at him, counting the little moles on his face that you've never taken notice of. In the back of your mind, a quiet voice tells you that he is getting closer to you, his face inching nearer and nearer.

Is he going to kiss you? Why does the thought delight you and send your heart racing?

Briefly, you wonder if it’s your imagination, but no, he is actually getting closer to you. So close that even without his lips meeting yours, you can taste them, you can feel them and the sensation is electric.

Your eyes fall closed instinctively and you wait for a kiss that never comes.

Instead, what comes is the ping of the elevator, which you hear a second later. When you open your eyes, the doors are already open and two maintenance workers blink at the two of you curiously. 

Like you have been zapped by a current of a thousand bolts, you and Jeonghan fly away from each other. Jeonghan clears his throat while you straighten your jacket and look anywhere but at the two men standing outside.

“You folks okay?” One of them asks.

“Yeah. Any longer and it would not have been fun.” Jeonghan replies, his tone lighthearted. 

Why is he so unaffected? You can still hear the pounding of your heartbeat in your eardrums, and your face is radiating enough heat to make you sweaty.

One of the guys says something to Jeonghan, continuing the conversation and you use that time to march out of the elevator, your eyes focused on the ground as you fan your heated face.

Fuck, what were you about to do in there? Kiss Yoon Jeonghan?

God, no.

The thought sends shivers down your spine as you briskly continue your way to the parking lot next to the courthouse. 

As you are fishing your keys out of your handbag, Jeonghan’s voice makes you stop in your tracks. “Attorney ____!”

You are unsure whether it is shame that prevents you from turning around. You decide it is sheer mortification that leaves you unable to look him in the eye and so, you just turn your head to the left and wait, indicating that you have heard him and are waiting for him to continue.

“See you next Thursday,” Jeonghan says and you wish you could see the look on his face. Is he affected like you are? It sure doesn’t feel like that from his voice.

You pause for a second and, once sure he has nothing more to say, you continue marching towards your car. Without sparing a second and completely avoiding looking at where he stands, you pull your Audi out of the parking lot and zoom down the street. 

— 

It is the fifth anniversary of the law firm that Judge Beatrice’s son started. 

A party isn’t really your scene, especially when most of it is full of boring middle aged men, half of whom you cannot tolerate the guts of. So, you make yourself comfortable in a corner, staying near your colleagues and sipping on champagne instead of going around for the sake of formality. 

“Girl, slow down with the drinks.” Lara, your colleague eyes the new flute of champagne in your hand. You huff out a breath. “Please don’t. Let me drink this expensive but free champagne in peace.”

“Dinner isn’t for another hour, you know.” She reminds and before you can reply to her, you are interrupted.

“I didn’t know this was your type of scene, Attorney ____.” Jeonghan’s sudden voice prompts your shoulders to jerk. You turn around and find him standing right there, dressed in a formal three piece suit and slick back hair that makes him look unfairly good.

Fuck. Your fingers grip the flute tightly. For a brief second, your mind travels back to the heated moment you shared with him two days ago in the elevator. Against your wish, your eyes briefly flicker to his lips, but you force your gaze back to his eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Turning your back on him, you sip your champagne in one go. You find Lara looking at the two of you with narrowed eyes and before you can ask her to get you out of this, she struts away with a knowing smile. Jeonghan smoothly positions himself right next to you. “Oh, I just mean I have heard parties aren’t really your thing.” He aimlessly gestures with a hand around the space.

“Don’t know where you heard that from.” You murmur, picking up a flute off the tray as a waiter passes by. 

“I am not particularly a fan of parties either but I sure love it when I get to see you, Attorney ____, in a dress. In which, may I add, you look absolutely stunning.” He flashes a dashing smile.

You look away. “Hm,” you hum, “I pegged you as a party lover, honestly, Counselor Yoon.”

He gives you a dirty smile, leaning closer to you. “You would love to peg me, wouldn’t you?”

You half choke on your drink as blood rushes to your face. Jeonghan finds your reaction pleasing because he chuckles at you before finishing his drink in a quick gulp. Wiping your lips, you observe his profile for a while before setting down your flute and facing your body towards him.

“Are you flirting with me?” You cross your arms and cock a brow at him.

He smiles. Resting a hand on the table behind you, he leans closer and you instinctively pull back. Once again, his cologne assaults your senses, making your mind go blank. The perfume on him is different from the one he was wearing the other day. This one has strong notes of sandalwood and a bit of cinnamon, a dangerously addictive combination when it is on him.

“You tell me,” he drawls with a smirk. His eyes are bright, fiery pools of smoke and desire, so deep and hypnotising that your breath catches in your throat. “Am I allowed to flirt with you?”

You huff, trying your best to be annoyed as you shove him away softly. “Ugh, mind your business, Counselor. And stop invading my space.”

“If you wore a dress like this to court, I would let you win every damn case.” His eye contact doesn’t waver when he says the words.

They leave you stunned. You struggle to understand if he is just making fun of you or if he sincerely means them. You blink, watching him with a face that keeps warming up by the second, unable to say anything.

You are saved from the trouble when a few journalists, accompanied by photographers, ask for pictures of you two.

Ah, just what you were waiting for. 

One of the many things that you do not enjoy at parties like this is the abundance of journalists, going around with their cameras flashing and asking annoying questions. You find it pointless, especially because of know it is done mostly for flaunting.

Jeonghan smiles brightly, tugging you closer to him with a hand on the small of your back. His fingertips brush against the bare skin on your back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You try to put some distance between the two of you, but he keeps you close, grinning at the flashing camera.

A reporter asks you, “You are working against Attorney Yoon in a case right now. Could you tell us how it has been so far?”

“I think Attorney Yoon is a very competent lawyer. He is good at his job, like I am in mine.” You give a professional, practiced smile to the reporter.

“Wow,” Jeonghan raises a brow at you. “Such sweet words coming from you.”

The camera's flash and you smile while muttering under your breath. “If you believed them to be true, then you are not as good as you think you are, Lawyer Yoon.”

He simply chuckles and pulls you tighter against his body, posing for the cameras.

“Who do you think is going to win this case?” A reporter asks and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. What kind of a question is that?

Jeonghan takes over, replying playfully but also professionally. “To know that, you need to wait till next week. Now, if you will excuse us, gentlemen.” He ushers you away from the reporters and towards a comparatively secluded part of the backyard, right next to the conservatory.

“Can you let go of my hand?” You huff, trying to free yourself. Jeonghan finally stops and turns around, regarding you with mischief, his solid grip still on your wrist. “Why? I promise I don’t bite.”

“Ew,” you tug your hand free and take a few steps away from him. You smooth out your dress, muttering underneath your breath, “I was stuck with you in an elevator this week. Can’t believe I am seeing you again so quickly.”

He pouts. “Aw, come on. You’re hurting my feelings.”

“Right,” your lips form a sarcastic smile. “Like you have those.”

Jeonghan does not reply and you try to pretend he is not right next to you, instead looking at the large estate of Judge Beatrice’s mansion. From this vantage point, you can see everything: from the manicured gardens to the sweeping line of tables draped in white linen, flickering lanterns dotting the pathway, and the silhouette of the live band. The scent of night-blooming jasmine wafts through the air, and every now and then, bursts of laughter rise above the steady, gentle hum of chatter among the guests.

“This place is actually beautiful.” Jeonghan comments.

“Yeah, when you don’t have reporters chasing after you, it is.” You reply, watching the last hues of sunset blend into the night sky. Despite having your sworn enemy right next to you, you feel oddly peaceful, a sense of tranquility settling in your heart like the hush after a summer storm.

“I have always wanted to own a mansion like this.” You find yourself whispering. Jeonghan turns his head to look at you and you feel his steady gaze piercing holes in the side of your face. Unable to resist yourself any longer, you turn your head to look at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replies, voice laced with a foreign tenderness that feels melodic to your ears.

In the muted lights of the garden, his face appears lethally gorgeous and you are transported to that moment inside the elevator two days ago. The same feelings bubble up from deep within you, making your breaths short and heavy as you fight a battle against pressing your lips to his.

It feels like a losing battle.

He gently hums your name. Your proper name, not as your job title and the hairs on your neck stand up. Hearing your name from his mouth feels sinfully good, like a taboo and you are forced to meet his gaze.

With bated breath, you watch him come closer to you.

“Jeonghan,” the word falls from your lips like a plea, tentative yet needy, soft yet urgent. He inches even closer upon hearing the word, pressing his body snugly against yours, his hot breath fanning your face, only a few centimeters of space left between your lips and his.

His hand explores your body, caressing the back of your thigh before going upwards, resting a bit too long on your ass before slithering around your waist. As if you were not already close enough, he tugs you even closer and soft grunts your name once more, his eyes growing heavy-lidded as his gaze remains trained on your lips.

You can almost feel fireworks go off inside your body. You are feeling sensations and desires you have never felt before, and a tiny part of your brain raises alarm bells, but at this point, you are too gone to care. You can never go back to how it used to be with him after you cross this line.

Somehow, you find yourself being okay with that thought right now. You briefly wonder if it is all the drinks you had finally catching up to you.

Your hands that were frozen by your side until now finally relax, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you and resting your forehead against his. Your body finds a place next to him so easily and gracefully, it’s like you have always been together. Like yin and yang.

He inhales sharply and utters your name, his voice heavy with desire.

You make up your mind in that moment.

Without wasting another breath, you pull his face towards you and kiss him, slowly at first but it changes into quick and desperate as Jeonghan’s hands cup your jaw and tilt your face up to get better access. He completely takes over the kiss and your body, pushing your back against the wall of the conservatory and kissing you like he had been wanting to do it for ages. It feels like he is a man starved and you are his beacon of light, the way his hand grips your waist and pulls you impossibly close while devouring your lips. His tongue is in your mouth, tasting every inch of you and it is absolutely glorious; a breathtaking combination of all of your wildest fantasies combined. It is hard, bruising and wanton, taking your breath away yet leaving you feeling a high unlike ever before.

When he finally pulls away, the two of you gasp for air, faces flushed with heat and sweat. His eyes stay locked with yours and you clearly see the desire pool in them like molten lava. You know for a fact that he sees the same in you. You hate Jeonghan, you truly do but you have never wanted a man as much as you want him.

So much so that when he starts tugging you with him, you don’t question him or protest. Silently, he pulls you towards the entrance of the conservatory. He tugs on the door, and it comes open, surprising you. With the door closed and away from the noise and the crowd, his lips find yours with ease even in the darkness. One of his lands feels the skin of your thigh underneath the slit of your dress, his fingers gripping and squeezing your flesh while his other hand holds your face, tracing the slopes and edges of your jaw and neck with his thumbs.

“Jeonghan,” you sigh, grabbing his hand and pulling it closer to your core. His fingers brush over your panties and you shudder, burying your face in his neck.

“You want my fingers here, sweetheart?” His voice is deep as he starts tracing his mouth from your jaw to your neck. You make a barely cohesive sound of agreement and then, baffling you, he slaps your pussy, hard. Your mouth hangs open in shock and mortification, the sting of his slap leaving behind a delicious tingle.

“Answer me,” he whispers next to your ear, nibbling on the skin below your earlobe. Another sigh of pleasure falls from your lips, your eyes falling closed at his ministrations. “Yes,” you whisper. 

“You have it.” He hisses and, in one smooth motion, he pulls your panties aside and thrusts two of his fingers inside you. You squeal, hands fisting his jacket tightly as his digits easily slip in due to your arousal. “Oh god.” You moan, eyes rolling back as you feel his fingers move in and out of you with ease, hitting the perfect spot each time. Paired with the movement of his fingers and the heated look he’s sending your way, you know you’re not very far from your release. You are so aroused it is embarrassing but by now, you have gone past the point of caring.

He speeds up the movement of his fingers and you squeak, “Fuck, Jeonghan. I’m gonna…”

He chuckles. “So quickly, sweetheart? Are my fingers that good?”

“Mhm,” you hum, squeezing your eyes shut, grabbing onto his body like he is your lifeline. Come then. Wet my fingers with your sweet juice,” His filthy words make you moan out loud involuntarily, his thumb brushing over your clit, rubbing it swiftly and sending you over the edge, face-first into your orgasm.

It shakes your limbs as you stand there pressed against his body, feeling it wash over you, your pussy spasming repeatedly while he keeps playing with you throughout your high. When you finally feel the last of your orgasm ebb away and your mind starts functioning again, Jeonghan pulls his fingers out of you, dripping in your essence and licks his digits clean, never wavering eye contact with you.

You shiver, whether from the intimate act or from the cold, you don’t know.

Jeonghan watches you silently, his eyes carefully taking in every detail of your face. You see his gaze shift in the dimly lit space, a slither of light coming from outside falling directly on his face, casting it in a heavenly glow and adding a new shine to his wet lips. For a moment, your mind blanks out, transfixed by his beauty and the hum of pleasure echoing through your body. When the beating of your heart finally slows down and the high of your release starts wearing off, a chill runs down your spine and you grow cold.

The realization of what you just did hits you like a ton of bricks and you freeze, staring at him blankly.

Fuck. That should not have happened. He is a walking, talking red flag and you just got dirty with him. Hell, you’re going up against him in court next week!

Fuck, fuck.

This is the man you lost to. This man is your sworn enemy. You should not have let him in.

Especially…especially because deep down in your heart, you feel something for him that is serious and sincere. Past all your history and professional war, you feel something for him and after tonight, you know it will only amplify.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

Jeonghan leans closer to you, the glint of mischief returning in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something but in a moment of panic, you shove him away and hurriedly fix the strap of your dress.

“I need to leave,” you announce in a broken voice, pushing past him and scurrying out the door. You take the back exit, marching away from the party as fast as possible while trying to keep your tears at bay.

Silly, silly girl.

—

The sky is gloomy today, much like your mood.

You stand in the hallway of the courthouse, pensively gazing out the window, your body humming with nerves. After your encounter with Jeonghan, your weekend sucked. With the memory of that night branded in your brain, you ran around nonstop, trying to gather some solid evidence against Jun Gi. 

You wish you could have done better.

The sound of heavy footsteps steals your attention as you turn around to find Jeonghan walking towards you.

You freeze in your spot, your hands gripping your handbag in a deathly hold as he comes closer and closer.

“Hey, ____.” Your name casually rolls off his tongue and for a moment, you struggle to find your voice. He looks as gorgeous as ever with his hair slicked back and dressed in a fine black three-piece suit. His face, as usual, gives nothing away, radiating composure and ease.

He looks lethal and you hate it.

“About that night at the party,” You find yourself speaking. “I hope you forget that. I just had one too many drinks. That’s all.”

Jeonghan blinks, slowly registering your words. “Wait, are you saying that it was a mistake?”

You clench your teeth and scowl at him, “Yes.”

“Ha,” Jeonghan scoffs, his mouth parting in shock. He rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, disheveling the styled locks. “Fuck, really?”

“Yes,” you hiss. “And I hope you won’t bring that up ever again, Mr. Yoon.” You don’t wait for his reply, shooting a final glare at him before marching down the hallway. 

It was a mistake. It was a mistake. You keep chanting the words over and over again in your head, trying to believe them.

The effort is futile because you believe otherwise. To you, it meant more. Sure, it was a moment of weakness, a lapse in your judgment. However, over the weekend, upon reflection, you realized that you have feelings for the insufferable, egotistical man.

There is no room for those feelings right now.

You have a case to win. If you lose today, you will not only lose to Jeonghan for the second time but also a mother will lose her child.

So, no room for feelings.

— 

Your closing statement feels heavy on your tongue, especially when you see Mina’s glossy eyes directed at you, hopeful yet petrified and you feel the crushing guilt overtake your entire being. You should have done better.

The financial statements of her ex-husband are the only weapon you managed to secure. He’s a powerful man, meticulously guarded. Digging up dirt on him has been like searching for a needle in a haystack. The few precious pieces of footage you submitted, like glimpses of his reckless lifestyle, wild spending sprees, late-night parties with young women, and drinking until dawn, you hope, are enough to plant a seed of doubt. It’s not much, but it’s a spark of hope you hold onto, praying that it just might turn the tide in your favour. So, you go with that.

You take a deep breath. “Your Honour, the primary concern in this case is the well-being of the child. The father’s spending habits reveal a pattern of reckless prioritisation— purchasing luxury items and throwing expensive parties while neglecting his son’s care. Parenting requires more than financial security; it demands consistent presence and responsibility, which my client has consistently demonstrated.

Additionally, we cannot ignore the situation with the nanny, Jeanie. Initially willing to testify, she suddenly withdrew without explanation. It is a suspicious change that raises concerns about potential interference. This only reinforces the need for caution when considering the father’s ability to provide a stable environment. So I urge the court to grant primary custody to the mother, ensuring the child’s best interests are prioritized. Thank you.”

You do not find any power in you to look at the judge’s face or anyone’s in the courtroom. Silently, you pad over to your bench and sit down next to Mina, your eyes trained on the ground. One of her hands comes to rest on top of yours, giving you a gentle squeeze of reassurance. 

Judge Beatrice asks, “Defense counsel, your final statements, please.”

“Yes, your Honour,” Jeonghan responds, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “But before that, I would like to apologize for the unexpected request at this stage. Some new information has come to light that I believe is crucial to this case. With the court’s permission, I would like to call an additional witness, Ms. Jeanie Miller, the child’s nanny.”

Shocked and bewildered at his statement, your head snaps up. 

“There was no mention of having a witness at the stand today,” Judge Beatrice says flatly.

“I understand the unusual nature of this late request, but given the gravity of the custody decision, it is imperative that the court hears her testimony,” Jeonghan states firmly.

"Wait, what?" Gun Ji stands up from his seat beside Jeonghan, a look of panic on his face. "That...that's not necessary!" Jeonghan ignores him, calmly keeping his eyes focused on judge Beatrice.

She gives him a long, keen look. “Fine, bring her in.” 

—

“After thoroughly reviewing the evidence presented and carefully considering the testimonies, this court determines that the child’s best interests must take precedence. Therefore, the court rules that the primary physical and legal custody of the minor child be granted to the mother. The father shall be given reasonable visitation rights as determined by the parenting plan. Court is adjourned.” Judge Beatrice finishes. The sound of her striking the gavel echoes through the courtroom. Beside you, Mina yelps out, her voice full of glee and unshed tears as she jumps up before engulfing you in a hug. However, everything surrounding you has faded into the background as you keep staring at Jeonghan on the other side, his face composed and content even.

His eyes meet yours and he nods, giving you a soft, subtle smile that almost feels like a mirage.

Is this a dream?

You just won this case. You won against Yoon Jeonghan.

But why does it not feel like a victory at all?

He yielded. He brought Jeanie in court and had her testify against his client at the very last moment.

Why?

A bitter taste of betrayal is left in your mouth as you watch him ignore Jun Gi’s yelling. It feels like you did not earn the victory but rather, it was handed to you.

The feeling is sickening.

—

With everyone gone, the courtroom is empty now, except for you and Jeonghan.

Your files lay spread out on the table but you don’t bother arranging them. You should have been out of here by now, going on with your day and even make plans to celebrate your victory. For some reason, though, you could not leave.

You stand with your arms crossed and watch Jeonghan, his back facing you, as he arranges all his files and puts them in his briefcase one by one while talking over the phone.

“Yes, I can be there in an hour…Okay, see you then.” He hangs up and sets the phone down, tilting his head to glance at you. “Congratulations, Lawyer ___.”

His words sound like sarcasm.

“Why did you let me win, Jeonghan?” Your voice is flat.

He turns around and frowns. “What do you mean, 'let you win'?” 

“You know very well what I mean,” you sneer, stepping closer to him, your heels clicking loudly. “Why did you yield? You have never done that before, and you have represented far worse people. What, getting in my pants changed your mind? You thought I would let you hit if you let me have this case?”

His mouth falls open, his eyes widening in disbelief. 

“Answer me, asshole!”

“You are better than this,” he replies, his tone quiet but his gaze turbulent, a swirl of emotions shining in his pupils. “You know better than this.” He pauses before scrunching up his face. “Let me hit? What…How could you even say that? Sure, I am a scumbag but even for me that’s low. You know I respect you.”

“Do you? You hiss, getting up in his face. “Do you really, Mr. Money Talks? Since I have known you, you have never done something nice without an ulterior motive. Tell me, what was it this time?”

“I have had enough of this conversation,” he grunts, turning away to finish packing his belongings. 

“Oh, I am sure you have. Now that I have seen through your shit, I bet you’re done, you pathetic asshole.”

He does not make a sound as he finishes packing, the sound of his briefcase shutting leaving an echoing boom in the thick, looming silence. Without acknowledging your presence, he starts walking away and you scoff in utter disbelief. His quiet footsteps echo through the courtroom, leaving behind a sense of emptiness and rage inside you that you don't know how to grapple with.

When he is almost at the door, he turns around and stares at you blankly. “For what it is worth, I really do respect you.”

The door slams quietly behind him.

—

1 week later

You stroll through the bustling streets of late-night Seoul, the faint hum of traffic mixing with the distant chatter of people at the little roadside shops, drinking with their friends. The air is slightly chilly, but comfortable, just enough to make you pull your coat a little tighter around you. 

It has been a week since your victory. Throughout the week, you have waited for that feeling of accomplishment to come to you, the sense that will force you to look on the bright side. It has not come. 

Victory should feel sweeter than this. You won the case, defending your client with everything you had. Yet, as you weave through the crowd, your thoughts keep drifting back to him— Jeonghan. You can’t help it. You keep revisiting your last interaction with him; that pained look in his eyes and the quiet depth of his words. It gave you a glimpse of a Jeonghan you never saw before, one you thought did not exist— one who has a heart.

You tell yourself it’s just the lingering adrenaline of a hard-fought case, but it bothers you more than you’d like to admit. So much so that you feel tempted to pick up your phone and just call him.

“____!” A sudden loud voice makes you jolt as you stop on the pavement and look around. You spot Kai, a law school friend and Jeonghan's colleague, sitting at one of the roadside restaurants, holding a bottle of soju with one hand and waving at you with the other.

You smile and walk over to him.

“Sit. Have a drink. It has been a while since we had a chat,” he smiles, offering you a seat. You grab a blue plastic tool and sit, eyeing the empty shot glass and some leftover food on a plate next to him. You tease him, “What? Got ditched by your date?” 

He snorts, pouring you a shot. “By date, if you mean Jeonghan, then yeah, sure.”

Your ears perk and you sit up straight. “Jeonghan was here?”

He hums, pushing a glass towards you. “Yep, he just left.” He downs a shot and makes a noise of satisfaction. “This guy, I swear to god. He’s been weird all week. Right after the hearing on Thursday, Jun Gi stormed into the office, calling him a traitor and whatnot. Jeonghan didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, cool as always.” He pauses to take a sip of his drink. “At some point, the guy shoved him. And, get this— Jeonghan threw a punch. Didn’t even hesitate. I swear I’ve never seen him like that. Gave Jun Gi a black eye and then kicked him out the door in front of everyone. Insane, right?”

Holy shit. You gape at Kai. “Jeonghan... hit him? His client?”

“Ex client, but yeah, he did. He never loses his cool like that, you know. I tried talking to him, but he just shrugged it off. I think this case messed with his head. Not like him to get that... involved.” You sit on the rickety plastic stool, stunned. The nagging in your brain finally becomes too much to ignore and you ask, “Did he say where he was going?" “Jeonghan? He’ll probably catch the bus. You know the stop two blocks down that runs till midnight.”

Your heart starts racing. “Thanks, Kai,” you murmur, quickly chugging a shot down before hurrying down the sidewalk. You pick up your pace, the chill of the night air pushing you forward despite the uncomfortable feeling of your heels digging into your feet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Jeonghan when you find him— you just know you have to.

You start running at full speed, pushing through the busy sidewalk and murmuring apologies to the people you bump into. The bus stop comes into view, fairly empty, and your heart stops, realizing you missed Jeonghan. However, a second later, your view gets clearer and you spot the man standing there with a cigarette between his lips, his jacket slung over his shoulders as he looks around with boredom.

“You!” You charge at him, yelling. “You! Explain. What really happened that day? Why did you change your mind?” You pant, catching your breath when you finally stop in front of him.

Jeonghan, busy blowing out a thin stream of smoke, whips his head upon hearing your voice, shock flashing in his gaze. His half-lidded eyes widen, before he frowns, “What the hell are you doing here?’’

“Answer me, Jeonghan.” You glare at him, still gasping for air. “What happened that day in court?” He keeps staring at you with keen eyes that make you feel like he can see through you, reading your innermost thoughts. He takes a drag of his cigarette before speaking, his voice smooth as always. “Since you're so curious...I did my duty at first, you know. I believed my client. That’s what a lawyer does…even when everything else tells you your client is a bastard.” “But you knew that from the very beginning. You knew he wasn’t fit to take care of his son. You don’t just flip like that. What made you change your mind?”

Jeonghan pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, his gaze trained on the poison stick thoughtfully. “Look, I’ve defended plenty of rich idiots. Comes with the job. But this one... he just slipped up.” You raise a brow. “Slipped up?”

He smirks, but rather than the usual cockiness, there’s a shadow behind it that leaves you wondering. “Let’s just say I overheard him running his mouth on the phone. Something about how he didn’t really care about the kid. He just didn’t want to ‘lose’ to his ex-wife. Didn’t matter if his kid hated him. As long as he came out on top, he was happy.”

You frown, processing the information. Jeonghan flicks the ash off his cigarette, his tone a bit sharper now. “Turns out our model father also bribed the nanny to keep her mouth shut. When I got her alone and told her I’d keep her safe if she talked... well, a lot more things came into light.”

You hold your breath. “Was he…abusing him?”

Jeonghan huffs out. “Let me know if Mina wants to file a case against him. I have enough evidence to make her win.”

Fuck. You sigh, your gaze trained on the gravel of the pavement. “So that’s why you went against your client.”

Jeonghan scoffs lightly, still not looking directly at you. “Don’t make it sound noble. It was just bad strategy to keep lying when the truth was that obvious.”

You fold your arms and narrow your eyes at him. “You’re not that selfless. You don’t just risk your reputation for a lost cause.” Jeonghan remains silent for a beat, his jaw tightening before he finally looks at you, something unguarded flashing in his eyes. “Let’s just say... I’ve seen that look before. In that kid. Eyes that don’t know whether to hate or hold on because neither makes sense when your old man never really gave a damn. Figured I didn’t want to see another kid grow up wondering why he wasn’t enough.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing, but the hint of vulnerability lingers. You catch it— just a flicker before his usual cocky smirk slides back into place. “Jeonghan…” “Don’t get all sentimental on me now. The kid just deserved better. That’s all.”

He takes one last drag of his cigarette and flicks it to the ground, crushing it under his heel as you silently watch him. The tension between you lingers, charged and unresolved. You want to say a lot of things to him, but you don’t know where to start. It feels like a cactus is lodged in your throat, pricking at your skin every time a word manifests on your tongue.

“I’m sorry!” You blurt out. Jeonghan’s head turns towards you slowly, his eyes blown out like he just saw Santa Claus flying through the sky. 

“I’m sorry, what?” He gapes.

You bite your lip. “I… am sorry. For the things I said that day. For…I don’t know…Everything, I guess.”

He keeps staring at you like you have grown two heads and you drawl out a groan. “Can you not stare at me like that?”

“I am…lost for words.”

You try to make a joke. “Wow, very unlike Yoon Jeonghan to be left speechless.”

“You tend to do that to me,” he murmurs so softly as if he did not want you to hear it but you do, and your heart starts drumming loudly in your ears. His eyes never stray from you as he flicks the cigarette to the ground before crushing it with the heel of his shoe.

Then, he takes a step towards you.

You don’t step back, looking up at his eyes, slightly breathless. His eyes shine, mirroring the lights of late-night Seoul and something deeper, something foreign. It is a look you have never seen before that fills you with hope and joy.

Jeonghan’s hand reaches for yours, his fingertips ever so slightly tracing the lengths of your fingers and your knuckles, giving you goosebumps.

“Your words really hurt that day, you know,” he murmurs, the look in his eyes deeply intimate. He comes even closer to you and you love it. You love having him in your personal space, feeling the warmth radiating off him, the smell of his cologne and cigarette mixing into an addictive scent. “But, now that you are looking at me like that, with those beautiful eyes of yours,” he pauses, tantalizingly slowly linking his fingers with yours. His tone is serious but also contains a softness that makes heat pool in your belly, “I have no choice but to forgive you.”

You make a broken sound of acknowledgement. Too busy trying to get your heart to calm down. You feel like a giddy teenager, ready to have your first kiss.

And boy, do you want to kiss him.

“But,” he pauses and you hold your breath. “When you say you’re sorry for the things you said that day…does it also include that?”

“What?” You blink.

“You said it was a mistake. Are you sorry for saying that?”

Your breath stops. You gaze into his eyes, deep, dark pools of honey and you feel a sense of vulnerability grow in you. Unconsciously, you hold his hand tighter when you whisper, “Jeonghan?”

“Hm?” He leans closer to you and it physically hurts not to kiss him.

“That night…was it a mistake for you?”

He remains silent, looking at you unblinking. His eyes search your face for something you don’t understand.

“No, it was not, ____.” He says quietly but the conviction in his voice is louder than anything. “I meant every word I said that night and I do not regret having my fingers deep inside your cunt. In fact, I crave to do it again.” Only Jeonghan can say something so filthy with so much emotion. Your breath stutters and heat blooms all over your skin as you fight to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Me too,” you whisper, hypnotized by his gaze. “It was not a mistake. I am sorry I said it was.”

The look in his eyes instantly darkens. His free hand snakes around your waist, pulling your body tight against his. Your arms find home around his neck and your eyes trail to his lips before you whisper, “I want to kiss you, Jeonghan.”

“What’s holding you back?”

Nothing.

You lean upwards just slightly and press your lips to his. His arms engulf you, pulling you in deeper into the kiss. It is perfect, it is magical. The taste of cigarette in his tongue, the caress of his thumb on your lower back, the feeling of his warmth encompassing you whole— it is all perfect.

The signature cocky smile is back on his lips when you break the kiss, that familiar mischief twinkling in his eyes. You cannot help but smile. 

“Wow, Lawyer ____.” He is grinning. “Does this mean you’re my girlfriend now?”

You feel giddy.

“Not so fast, Counselor. At least take me on a date first.” You tease, adjusting his collars. He leans down to come to your eye level. “How about this? You come home with me tonight and stay over. In the morning, I’ll take you out for breakfast. In fact, we will spend the whole day outside.”

“Sounds like a date,” you mumble, looking into his eyes.

“Yes, it is.” He hums, leaning back. His hand finds yours and interlocking your fingers, he starts walking. 

“You’re not going to take the bus?” You ask, trailing after him. He has that incredulous, love-struck smile on his face. “Nah. I feel like walking with you. What do you say? Shall we take the long road?”

You grin. “Yes.”

© startlightxsvt 2025 | All Rights Reserved. Do not copy, translate, adapt, or repurpose any of my works.

A/N: what was originally a 6k word fic turned out to be almost 10k. whew! i feel like i wrote another fic set in sibilance universe unintentionally. bc Jeonghan was a lawyer over there too?? anyway, i hope this was an enjoyable read. i'd love to hear your thoughts so do comment or drop an ask! as always, please like and reblog! toodles!<3

[futurefind]

//smth smth warrants an actual meta post but the intersection of sa's Earliest intentional themes (desperately wanting to avoid killing anyone/making anyone Else grieve) with the unintentional ones (her being ready to do Very horrific things to protect her baby sister and other loved ones)

[half-eaten-deodorant]

Johnnie was wildin

[mephisto-reporting]

You Don't Have to... For Me

About: You step out of your comfort zone to share special moments with him. He sees right through your act. How will he respond? Pairing: Female Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship but there is implied mutual interest. Trigger warnings: Fears, insecurities, mild panic, mild food aversion, sensory discomfort

Author’s Note: Hey! Some of the discomforts and fears in these stories might not apply to you personally — I chose them based on what each LI seems to enjoy and what the reader might quietly endure just to spend time with them. This concept was inspired by a conversation with my dear friend and chaos enabler, Ivy ( @xaviersknight )

If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕

SYLUS

There’s a boxing ring in his penthouse.

Of course, there is.

It shouldn’t surprise you—nothing about Sylus ever plays by anyone else’s rules. He doesn’t live, he orchestrates. Even the things that should feel raw and violent, like boxing, feel too elegant when he’s involved.  Of course, he had a private ring, glinting under moody downlights like something out of a crime drama. Polished floors. Blood-red ropes. A small stack of gloves in varying sizes, already laid out for you. The floors smell faintly of clean sweat and expensive disinfectant.

You're underdressed for this, somehow. Even though he told you to wear something comfortable, even though you showed up in sleek workout leggings and a cropped tee, even though you tied your hair back the way you always do when you mean business—none of it feels right under his gaze.

“Welcome to my little playground…” Sylus speaks from across the ring.

He’s already inside it, lounging lazily against the ropes like a king waiting to be amused. Black tank top, gloves hanging loose from his fingertips, a thin sheen of sweat already glinting across his collarbone. He looks carved from obsidian and marble, every inch of him dangerous and divine.

You swallow. Smile.

“It’s not so little,” you reply.

“Oh? Planning to flatter me into going easy on you, kitten?”

There it is—kitten. The word slides off his tongue. You offer a half-laugh, stepping forward like it’s all a game. But inside, your stomach twists. Tight. Unrelenting.

You don’t like boxing.

It’s too much. Too close. Too exposed. Every movement is a risk. Every breath, a beat away from being cornered. It’s not just the physicality of it—it’s what it forces out of you. Anger. Instinct. Too close. Too loud. Too... visceral. You liked knowing where your limbs were. You liked boundaries and clear lines and space to breathe.

But Sylus was unpredictable. Impossible to read. A storm of velvet and barbed wire. And once, just once, you’d heard him say: “Boring things don’t interest me.”

He hadn’t said it to you. But it stuck. And it doesn’t take much for the mind to twist things.

Boring people don’t interest him, either.

And the thought had stuck in your ribs ever since — echoing in your bones every time he teased you, called you “kitten” or “sweetie” like it was second nature. You didn’t want to be boring to him. You didn’t want him to lose interest. So you said yes.

Of course you said yes.

He tossed a pair of gloves toward you — you caught them, barely.

“You’ll need help with the wraps,” he said, walking over before you could protest.

He took your hands gently, like you were a glass weapon. Thumb brushing your palm. The silk of his touch was deceptive — soft, delicate — but you could feel the power beneath it. Coiled control. Calculated intimacy. Like he knew exactly what strings he was tugging.

“You nervous?” he murmured without looking up.

“No,” you lied. “Why would I be? This is just practice... right?”

You step into the ring.

He doesn’t rush you. Just watches.

You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s stalking someone through a deal, or when he’s circling the truth in a conversation. It’s not hunger. It’s focus. He’s studying you, already inside your head.

“I thought we’d start with light sparring,” he says. “No pressure. Just a dance.”

You force your lips into a smile, ignoring the cold sweat trickling down your spine. “Just don’t break my nose.”

“I’d never mar you, sweetie...” His eyes crinkle, playful. “Unless you ask me nicely.” He was joking, of course. Sylus never hurt you despite his reputation.

He moves first. Not striking. Just circling.

Testing.

You follow. Clumsy. Too stiff.

“Relax,” he says, not unkindly. “This isn’t a war. Not yet.”

You take a breath.

Try again.

The first time he taps your shoulder with a jab, you flinch. He sees it. Of course he does. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching your reactions more than your form.

“Something wrong, sweetie?”

“No.” You lie so fast it burns your throat.

He jabs again—light, teasing. You respond with a wild swing. Miss entirely. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Getting bold, aren’t we?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t read him. You don’t know if he’s impressed or amused or—

Disappointed.

That’s the word that hurts most.

You move too hard next time. Overcorrect. You nearly trip over your own foot as your glove grazes his chest and he catches you—arms snapping around your waist, steadying you like it’s nothing.

Your face is close to his. Too close. His breath is warm against your cheek. He smells like clean sweat and spiced cologne. He doesn’t let go right away.

You look up, startled.

He’s staring at you again. But something’s different.

Less amusement. More... calculation.

And then, softness.

“Why are you hesitating?” he asks. Quiet. Not a whisper, but close.

You blink. “I’m not.”

His brow arches.

You try again. “I just... I’m not good at this.”

“I noticed.”

You flinch.

But his voice is gentle now. Not mocking. Not amused. Just... honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t explain the heat rising in your chest. The way your gloves suddenly felt too heavy. The sweat gathering at your lower back. The eyes on you — his eyes — making it impossible to breathe.

It wasn’t the fight. It was the nearness. The intimacy of it. The way his presence filled the ring like smoke, clinging to your skin and thoughts alike.

You stepped back, then again. The ropes pressed against your spine.

His gaze followed you — not taunting. Not cruel. Just watchful.

“You don’t like this....” he said quietly.

You stiffened. “It’s fine.”

“No, sweetie.” He took a step forward. “You’re not fine.”

You looked down, fingers curling into the gloves. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Silence stretched.

“I heard you say once,” you added, voice quieter now, “that boring things don’t interest you. I just… I didn’t want to be that.”

There’s a pause. A shift.

Then, a laugh.

“Is that what this is about?”

You don’t answer.

His hand rises, gloved, brushing lightly beneath your chin until you meet his gaze.

“Oh, sweetie...” he sighs, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “You think I invited you here to impress me?”

You nod. Barely.

He exhales, the sound tinged with remorse.

“I invited you here because I like watching you try,” he says, lips curving into a gentle smile. “You could throw cotton balls at me, and I’d still find it riveting.”

You blink fast.

He leans in, voice barely audible. “If I wanted perfect form, I’d spar with one of my... business associates. If I wanted dull, I’d drink alone. But you... you make things interesting just by showing up.”

You feel the tears prick your lashes before you can stop them.

His hand—still gloved—cups your cheek gently. The rough texture of the leather is at odds with the tenderness in his touch.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, sweetie,” he murmurs. “Just be here. That’s enough.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

“Besides,” he adds, voice lighter now, “your form is atrocious. But your pout is lethal.”

You laugh—shaky, but real. He grins, triumphant.

“There she is..." he whispers.

You don’t spar again that night. Instead, you both sit in the ring, backs against the ropes, gloves off, drinks in hand brought up by someone who clearly knows better than to ask questions. Sylus lounges beside you, knee brushing yours, casual in a way that still buzzes under your skin.

He talks, and he listens, and he teases, and he lets you unravel yourself in pieces—not all at once, but enough to make you feel seen. Safe.

And when you leave, hours later, he walks you to the door and leans against the frame, arms crossed, lips curved.

“Next time,” he says, “we’ll do something that scares me.”

You raise a brow. “Does anything scare you?”

“Just one thing,” he replies, eyes holding yours.

You want to ask what.

“But that’s a discussion for another time.” He taps your forehead, leading you to his car. his hand, extended, waited for yours without force, without pressure.

Just... waiting.

And when you placed yours in his, he didn’t let go.

CALEB

You could hear his grin through the message.

Got us two VIP passes to the Amusement Park’s Firelight Festival tonight. :p Rides, food, fireworks… and a parade with glowing dragons, just like the old stories you love. ;)

And then, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t making your stomach twist in a dozen knots .

 Come ready to fly,.

You smiled when you read it.

You really did. He remembered that you liked parades and fireworks. You’d told him when you hung out with him once.

And then immediately set your phone down and groaned into your pillow.

Rides. He said rides.

He didn’t know. You never told him. It was embarrassing. Heights just... did something to you. The tilt of the world. The way it all dropped away beneath you like gravity forgot how to love you. That sick feeling in your stomach, the one that clung like static even hours after you were back on solid ground.

You liked fireworks. Parades. Candy stalls and fuzzy prizes you’d never win.

But coasters? Loops? Platforms you could see through?

Nope.

And yet, here you were — standing at the entrance of the park’s glowing gates. breath caught somewhere between your throat and your heart, watching him wave at you from across the crowd.

Caleb was all light. All warmth. That stupidly charming smile that could’ve powered the whole island. He was in his casual clothes – Sleeveless white shirt, baggy jeans and shades and his dark hair was a little tousled like he’d run here.

“Hey!” he beamed, trotting toward you. “Look at you. You showed up. Thought I’d have to fly over and drag you in myself.”

You laughed — or tried to. “Would’ve been easier if you had.”

“Oh? You saying you wanted me to sweep you off your feet?” He winked, already walking backward toward the gates, tugging you by the wrist. “Next time just say the word and I will come pick you up from your doorstep.”

He had the same boyish grin as always. Same lopsided energy. But beneath the laughter, there was something tight about him. Focused. Like he was trying to be carefree — like he was carrying something heavier than he let on.

You squeezed his hand. He looked at you, surprised. Then softened.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied. “You?”

“Always,” he said, but didn’t let go. “And even more so now that you are here.”

The park was a living constellation. Lights danced in every direction — strung along towers, wrapped around trees, woven into the very air like stardust. People bustled by with caramel popcorn and glowing necklaces. Children squealed. Music floated from every corner.

And high above it all, looming like metal beasts with neon eyes, were the rides.

You avoided looking at them.

Caleb was thrilled. He practically vibrated next to you, pointing out different ones, telling stories, dropping trivia. “That one,” he said, eyes sparkling as he pointed at a monstrous looped coaster. “It was inspired by the early zero-G training modules for astronauts. Goes up to 3Gs on the final drop. Wanna try it?”

You smiled too fast. Too wide. “Sure.”

With VIP passes, the wait time was almost non-existent.

You stared up at the metal track. It twisted into the clouds, lights flashing like a heartbeat. Every scream that echoed down from the peak made your stomach twist tighter. You tried to breathe.

Caleb was rambling about pilot protocols and how G-force affected vision, and you were nodding, smiling, trying to look normal.

But the closer you got, the worse it felt.

Your hands shook when you buckled in.

Caleb noticed. “You cold?”

You shook your head too fast. “I’m fine.”

The harness clicked into place. The floor dropped out from beneath your feet.

And then — the ascent.

The world shrank beneath you. Each click of the coaster’s gears echoed like a countdown.

You felt him look at you.

“…Hey?”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Your hands were white-knuckled fists. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Breathing shallow. Chest tight.

“…Hey.”

His voice was gentler now.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

He was watching you. Really watching you — not with teasing, not with that easy charm. With concern. With care.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked softly, the lightest tremble in his voice.

“I didn’t want to ruin this evening…” you whispered, ashamed.

The ride lurched — nearly at the peak now. A second more and it would drop.

The wind screamed as the peak crested.

He reached over — twisted in his seat, even with the restraints — and grabbed your hand with his left. “Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

It was warm. Heavy.

But steady.

“Hold on to me,” he said, voice low. “Don’t look down. Don’t think about anything else. Just me.”

And then — the fall.

You screamed.

Not just out of fear but because it was everything all at once. The terror. The relief. The way Caleb held your hand the entire time, grounding you when the sky fell away.

When the ride slowed, your breathing did too.

You didn’t let go.

He didn’t ask you to.

Later, you sat on the grass, away from the lights, a bag of half-eaten cotton candy between you. The fireworks were a long way from happening and there was time to kill.

Caleb leaned back on one hand, the other tucked around your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“We’ve been here for a while now because I did something stupid. I ruined the evening for you... You were so excited.”

“I didn’t bring you up here to make you uncomfortable.” he said finally. Soft. Almost guilty.

You winced. “You didn’t. I just…”

“You hate heights.”

He gave a sheepish little smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You think I dragged you out here for the rollercoasters?”

You glanced at him.

“I did it for the fireworks. For the stupid nebula cotton candy. For the look on your face when the parade started. For you. Not the rides.”

You looked down. “I just didn’t want to seem—”

“I don’t need you to be fearless,” he said. “I just need you to be you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You swallowed hard.

He tugged you in closer. “I’m serious. If you’re scared, if you’re upset, if you hate rollercoasters — I want to know. I want to know you. Not some version of you that’s trying to be what you think I want.”

You looked up at him, eyes stinging a little.

“I do like the parade though,” you whispered.

He smiled , soft and golden, all heart. “Good. Because I booked the best spot for it.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“I’m a Colonel in the Farspace Fleet,” he said with a wink. “Perks of the uniform.”

You laughed. The sound felt free now.

He watched you with a look you couldn’t name. Something warm. Something more.

Then he said, softly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks for holding my hand.”

He skipped the thrill rides without hesitation, instead loading your arms with candy and glowsticks and ridiculous souvenirs. You sat together on a private bench as the parade passed by, a blur of shimmering lights and music. When the fireworks finally exploded overhead in bursts of gold and violet, he leaned just a bit closer.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent beneath the sky’s celebration. “Even if the rides were a bust.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, Caleb,” you said.

And this time, it wasn’t a lie.

ZAYNE

You stand in front of the mirror, tilting your head as you assess your outfit for the third time. Casual. Put-together—but not trying too hard. The denim jacket is a little snug across your shoulders, the black tee just low-cut enough to count as flirty if Zayne noticed such things. He always seems so calm, so unfazed. And yet, every time he looks at you, your stomach flips like a coin midair.

You check your phone. Zayne.

I’ll pick you up in ten. Wear something comfortable.

Comfortable? That’s rich, considering what he’s roped you into.

Pool.

You had smiled like it was nothing when he’d brought it up over coffee earlier this week, his fingers casually tapping the rim of his mug, eyes steady on yours. “There’s this place I used to go to when I first joined Akso. It’s quiet. Good for unwinding. Would you want to join me? I can teach if you’d like.”

And you, ever the glutton for punishment, had said yes.

You’ve never played pool in your life. Something about the geometry, the angles, the calculated strength of the strike… none of it sounded appealing to you. Your hand-eye coordination is barely enough for catching projectiles thrown at you. But it’s Zayne. Calm, composed, frustratingly attractive Zayne. And he invited you. That has to mean something.

The pool hall is tucked between a laundromat and a late-night ramen bar. A few patrons linger at other tables, but Zayne seems to know the owner, and within minutes, he’s leading you to a far table in the corner, away from the noise.

He’s already in his element, chalking his cue. “We’ll start with the basics,” he says, offering you a stick. “Grip. Posture. Precision. Pool’s all about intention.”

You take the cue stick and try to mirror him. You can already feel the weight of the evening pressing at the back of your neck like an invisible hand.

The first round is a disaster.

Your fingers curled around the smooth wood, already clammy. You lined up awkwardly, bent forward, and—

Crack.

The cue ball wobbled. It barely tapped the triangle of colored balls, scattering them half-heartedly.

"Solid attempt," Zayne said, not unkindly, but with a teasing tilt to his voice. “You aimed with your heart, not your eyes.”

You told yourself to relax. He didn’t expect you to be great. He wasn’t like that.

Was he?

Zayne moved with confidence, sinking two shots in a row. His posture was perfect, movements fluid. When he lined up his next shot, he looked back at you briefly, one brow raised as if to say, You watching? You nodded, smiled. Pretended to be fascinated by the game instead of calculating how many more turns you’d have to humiliate yourself.

Your second shot went worse than the first. Your hand slipped on the bridge, the ball skidded, and you felt your cheeks heat. Zayne came up behind you then, gently placing his hand on your arm to guide your posture.

“Here,” he murmured, breath warm near your ear. “Relax your grip.”

Your fingers froze.

He was so close. His hand so steady. Yours... not.

You nodded. Said nothing. Tried again. Failed again.

The next few rounds were even worse. You miss the cue ball entirely once. Twice. Then you scratch it. You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. Zayne doesn’t scold you, he’s not cruel, but he’s precise, his words clipped with surgical clarity.

You nod. Try again. Fail. Again.

“Your wrist’s too loose.”

“You’re leaning too far. Keep your core stable.”

“Don’t look at the cue, look through the shot.”

With each miss, your shoulders tighten. Your knuckles go white around the stick. You feel the blood drain from your face as a couple nearby chuckles softly. You know it’s not about you, but your skin crawls with embarrassment anyway. You didn’t like people watching you mess up.

Zayne watches, silent for a few beats. Then he speaks, voice lower this time. “You’re holding your breath.”

You hadn’t realized you were.

He places his cue stick down gently and walks toward you, his steps soundless on the hardwood floor. He stops just within reach, but doesn’t touch you.

“You’re not enjoying this.” he says softly.

You froze mid-bend.

“I—” you began, but he raised a hand.

“Don’t lie.”

You straightened slowly, cue stick still in hand. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” you admitted, voice barely above the background hum of the jukebox. “You’re so good at this. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

The silence between you was soft, not sharp.

“I invited you here because I like spending time with you,” he said. “Not because I needed a pool partner.”

You blinked at him, uncertain.

He continued, voice lower now. “I can be... singularly focused. Too much, sometimes. But I don’t want you pretending to be okay with something just because I picked it.”

Your grip on the cue loosened. “I didn’t want to ruin the evening.”

He tilted his head. “It would ruin it more if you spent it uncomfortable.”

You want to deny it. Laugh it off. But your throat is tight, and your heart feels like it’s pressed against a wall.

“I just—” You force a shrug. “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s all.”

Zayne studies your face. “So you dragged yourself into something you hate just to do that?”

“I don’t hate it,” you mutter. “I just... don’t belong here. Pool isn’t exactly my thing.”

His expression shifts, not amusement, not disappointment. Just something softer. Quieter. The kind of look someone gives when they see through you instead of at you.

“I noticed,” he murmurs. “Your shoulders were locked. You didn’t blink once in thirty seconds.”

You try to smile. “So much for subtlety.”

Zayne chuckles. It’s a quiet sound, rare, but warm. “I’m a doctor,” he says. “Reading body language is half the job.”

There’s a pause. Then he leans forward—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of cologne on his shirt. He lowers his voice. “Next time you want to spend time with me... just say it. You don’t have to contort yourself into something you're not. It wouldn’t feel right if you were uncomfortable the whole time.”

You blink, stunned into silence.

“I don’t want your time if it costs you your ease,” he adds. “That’s not the kind of presence I want to be in your life.”

Your chest aches, not with shame, but something closer to relief. The kind that comes when someone lifts the weight off your shoulders before you even realize how heavy it’s been.

He straightens up and gently takes the cue stick from your hands.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s ditch this and go to that ramen place next door. You can make fun of my spice tolerance there. Does that sound good to you?”

You grin, heart hammering, the tension finally cracking like ice. “Only if you let me steal your gyoza.”

“Negotiable,” he says, brushing past you with the ghost of a smile. “Come. The night is far from over. You don’t have to change who you are around me,” he said, tone calm but sincere. “I’d rather have the truth.”

Your heart thudded, unsteady but warm.

You nodded. “Next time... you’ll be the one out of your element.”

He smirked. “I look forward to it.”

And he meant it.

XAVIER

The elevator hums quietly as you check your reflection for the fifth time.

Comfortable. Cute. Relaxed. That was the goal.

You’d chosen your favorite knit sweater — the one just baggy enough to hang off one shoulder — and paired it with soft leggings, fuzzy socks, and a warm-toned scrunchie pulling your hair back in a loose twist. A look that said, “I didn’t try that hard,” while clearly being planned down to the scent of the vanilla lip balm on your mouth.

Because this wasn’t just dinner.

It was dinner at Xavier’s apartment.

You cradle the two grocery bags in your arms a little tighter, filled with neatly packed slices of marbled beef, a few delicate cuts of lamb, some fresh shitake, enoki, and bok choy, plus the greens. There’s also a small six-pack of fruit-flavored soda you thought he might like — and two mochi ice cream desserts in your bag's chill pouch.

You’d been excited all day.

Xavier’s apartment was what you expected: neat, quiet, lightly decorated in soft colors and odd trinkets he didn’t think twice about but made your eyes linger.

In the center of the living space, a low table had been arranged with two cushions on either side and a full hot pot setup. The induction stove was small but new, clean and white, already buzzing  gently beneath a divided metal pot. Steam curled lazily into the air.

He padded barefoot across the room, sleeves rolled, hair loose and a little ruffled from sleep, and took the bags from your arms wordlessly. When you tried to insist you could help, he simply said, “Sit. You’re the guest.”

And so you sat.

And then he poured the broth packets in. The setup was clean and minimalist, just like him — a pale wood table, small ceramic sauce dishes, dipping bowl sets, and a yin-yang shaped hot pot cooker with two separate sides of broth.

Except this time… both sides were red.

Not a gentle tomato-based red.

Not one side miso, not mushroom.

The liquid turned dark crimson almost instantly.

You blinked.

“Hot Mala. It’s… strong,” he said. He stirred with a lazy rhythm, the aroma already clawing at the back of your throat.

You swallowed hard. Bright crimson oil glistened on the surface, flecked with floating peppercorns and crushed chili. You felt your soul begin to sweat.

“...Both sides?” you asked, feigning a casual glance.

“Spicy’s better,” Xavier said, crouching at the table. “I only bought the twin-pot style because the seller said it was popular.”

Your tongue already tingled at the idea of the red broth. You weren’t just bad with spice — you were barely functioning around a mildly spicy samosa. Anything more, and your eyes would water and your face would burn like a reactor core meltdown.

But you looked at him — quiet, warm, fond in that unreadable way of his as he placed dipping bowls beside the stove.

And you smiled.  You did what you always did with people who mattered more to you than your own comfort.

Because the thought that you might ruin this calm, carefully arranged evening over something like spice tolerance made your chest tighten.

“It looks perfect,” you said.

He sat across from you, cross-legged and relaxed in dark joggers and a white hoodie, a bold choice for hot pot, especially with the red broth.

He leaned over the table with all the grace of a sleepy cat, selecting slices of meat and guiding them into the red broth with long chopsticks.

“You brought good cuts,” he noted, nodding. “I trust your judgment.”

And then, a pause — his eyes narrowed a little at the pile of greens beside him.

“Except… this.”

You laughed softly. “It’s not that bad.”

He gave the vegetables a look that could only be described as betrayal. “It smells like sadness.”

You tried not to laugh. But your heart twisted. Not because of his words.

Because while he bantered the smell of chili oil and peppercorn was already beginning to sting your throat. You reached for your dipping bowl, adding soy sauce, onions, minced garling, lime and sesame paste with trembling fingers, trying to busy yourself.

And when he dropped your favorite mushroom into the red broth, you didn’t protest.

You only smiled.

The first bite singed.

You chewed slowly, nodding like it was fine, like your tongue wasn’t slowly blistering from the inside out. You chased it with soda. Swallowed a second piece — lamb this time — and made a soft sound that you hoped passed for enjoyment but probably sounded more like someone dying of quiet regret.

You blinked the tears back.

He watched you.

You looked down at your bowl.

“Too spicy,” he said, softly.

Your fingers tightened on the chopsticks. “No. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You flinched, barely. He was still neutral in tone — not accusatory. Just… certain. Like a man who already knew the sky was blue and didn’t need convincing.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” you said quietly. “You were excited.”

“I’m always excited to see you,” he said, without a hint of irony. “But I’m not excited to watch you suffer.”

That stilled you.

“I thought you didn’t notice.”

“I notice everything about you.” His chopsticks stilled above the pot. “I just don’t always know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

You laughed despite yourself, hand gripping your drink as you coughed lightly. “Okay. I admit it. I’m bad with spice. But I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. “Because I… uh… You invited me. I didn’t want to be difficult.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’d rather be in pain than tell me the truth?”

You winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It is,” he said gently. Then added, “But I’ve done worse.”

Then he shifted.

With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the vegetables — yes, even the sad greens — and a generous portion of meat into a plate. He grabbed the serving ladle and began to scoop the broth from one section of the pot into a bowls.

“I have a mild instant soup base in the kitchen, it's delicious too.” he said, standing up. “Give me five minutes.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

You blinked again, but this time not from spice.

“Why?”

“Because you’re here,” he said simply, walking to the kitchen. “And I like that you’re here.”

Your throat tightened.

The new broth was clear, soft, comforting. The moment he brought it out, you wanted to cry.

Not just from the relief of no longer melting from the inside out.

But because someone had noticed.

Listened.

And changed something just for you.

“You didn’t have to,” you said softly as you ate. “Really.”

“I know.”

And then, as if to demonstrate further solidarity, he reached into the spicy broth, pulled out a bok choy… and stared at it like it was his mortal enemy. Then, with slow determination, he bit into it.

His whole face remained unchanged.

But you saw the twitch.

“…Was it worth it?” you asked.

“No,” he said, deadpan. “But now we’re even.”

Later, when you left, he walked you to the door barefoot, holding the empty mochi container like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Next time,” he said, after a pause, “you pick the broth.”

“Next time?”

He blinked. “If you want.”

You looked up at him.

He stood in the doorway — hoodie sleeves half-pushed, hair still tousled, the faint scent of chili oil clinging to him like a memory. His expression was unreadable again. But the warmth behind it? That wasn’t hard to see at all.

“I’d like that,” you said.

And you were already planning it.

RAFAYEL

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That thought rings in your head as the last rays of evening sunlight melt into amber, stretching across the mirror-glass surface of the lake. Everything is quiet — too quiet — save for the light chirp of insects and the steady ripple of water as Rafayel swims deeper, his silhouette cutting sleek lines through the reflection of the sky.

He’s graceful.

Unfairly so.

Water clings to his skin like it belongs there, catching on his lashes, beading along his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle down his back and arms as he moves. And you, standing at the shallow edge in your swimsuit, arms folded like a makeshift barrier, feel like a tangled bundle of nerves held together by one wrong decision.

Not the lack of footing. Not the invisible things beneath the surface. Not the way your limbs felt disconnected and sluggish, or how you could never quite get the rhythm of your strokes right without swallowing water or tipping awkwardly sideways like an overfilled tote bag.

You could swim. Technically.

You just… didn’t like it.

It was clumsy. You were clumsy. You’d passed the mandatory swimming exam at school, survived a few hotel pools on holidays ut lakes? Open water? With things brushing against your legs, invisible weeds tangling near your feet, the ground disappearing beneath you with nothing to hold?

It made your skin crawl.

But the way Rafayel’s eyes lit up when he talked about it… You didn’t want to ruin that.

So you came.

You still remember yesterday evening when Rafayel had flashed that impish grin and tossed you with “Wear something cute. I’m kidnapping you for a swimming adventure. No complaints,” — you’d said yes.

Because he was Raf.

And part of you always said yes to him. Hoping, stupidly, that it  might be something worth remembering.

Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d tease. Maybe he’d say something flippant and walk away…

Or maybe — just maybe — he’d notice you like you notice him.

“You’re not gonna melt, cutie,” he calls from a few meters out, resting easily on the surface of the water. He floats with infuriating elegance, his arms outstretched and his purple hair haloed around his head. “Or are you actually made of sugar?”

You snort softly, hugging yourself tighter. “I just… don’t want to ruin the peace. It’s nice just watching.”

“You mean it’s nice watching me.” He grins. “Go ahead. Get your fill. I don’t blame you…”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

And that was Rafayel in a sentence — smug, sharp-tongued, beautiful enough to get away with it. But underneath the teasing, you knew his invitation wasn’t just about swimming.

He wanted to share something.

And you wanted to be part of that world , his world , even if it made your stomach twist.

So you step in.

Slowly. The water’s cool against your skin, not cold, but shocking in contrast to the warm evening air. You move step by careful step, feeling the soft sand shift beneath your toes, the occasional ripple brushing your calf like phantom fingers.

It’s fine.

You can do this.

You make it chest-deep before you hear his voice again.

“Come closer.”

He’s farther now, maybe eight or nine meters out, treading water with that casual, effortless grace.

You hesitate.

He notices.

There’s a pause — one of those strange suspended silences that exist only between people who know each other too well and not well enough at the same time.

Then you smile. Not because you feel okay, but because you want him to feel okay.

And you swim.

Clumsily. Arms too wide, breath too shallow. You keep your chin above water, trying not to panic, trying not to think about the darkness beneath your feet or the silt that clouds around your knees when you kick.

But then — something brushes you.

A slip of lake weed? A fish? A strand of hair?

It doesn’t matter.

Terror shoots up your spine like ice.

You gasp sharply, flail, and instinct kicks in — wild, desperate kicks, arms slapping water, trying to go anywhere but where you are. You can’t feel the bottom anymore. You can’t find a rhythm. Panic closes your throat like a fist—

And then he’s there.

Strong hands caught you.

You didn’t even realize he’d come until his arms wrapped around your waist, one hand steady at your back, the other curling under your thigh to anchor you as you trembled.

“Hey. Hey,” Rafayel’s voice was lower now. All the teasing had dropped out. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

You tried to speak, but your throat burned. Your hands clutched at his shoulders instead, nails digging in. He didn’t flinch.

His face is close. Closer than it’s ever been. Water drips from his lashes, and for once, there’s no smirk, no teasing spark. Just something… protective. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

And somehow, you do.

He holds you for a moment longer. You feel the strength in him, the calm. The quiet assurance that, at least in this moment, nothing would dare happen to you.

And then you’re moving.

Back toward the shore.

He doesn’t drag. He glides, guiding you like something precious — like you’re worth holding onto.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “You should’ve told me you didn’t want to swim.”

“I didn’t… I thought I could handle it,” you croaked out, cheeks burning with shame. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Idiot, guppy” he muttered, but there was no venom in it. “You think I brought you here to watch you suffer?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The humiliation was sharp and bitter in your chest, mixing with the leftover panic.

He walked the last few steps, carrying you until the water kissed only your calves. When he set you down, your legs wobbled.

“You could’ve drowned,” he said quietly. “And then what would I do? Swim around this stupid lake yelling at your ghost?” He knew he wouldn’t have let that happen. So did you. But he was making a fair point.

That startled a laugh out of you, hoarse and awkward, but it made him smile.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to say no to you.”

He looked at you, for a long moment. Eyes clearer than usual. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said. “If you want to spend time with me, just say so. You don’t have to drown for it, cutie.”

You blinked. Then frowned. “So what, you’re not gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh no,” he smirked, the old glint back in his eye. “I am absolutely making fun of you. But—” He reached for your towel, flicking it playfully over your head, “…only after I make sure you're not cold, scared, or crying.”

He plopped down beside you on the ground, towel around his shoulders, hair dripping. The lake shimmered behind him, but he didn’t spare it another glance.

He looked only at you. “You’re an idiot,” he says, voice bright with performative scorn. “A pretty, sweet, stubborn idiot.”

You blink.

He reaches out and dries your wet hair with surprisingly gentle fingers using the towel.  Then, with a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, he says, “Next time, you sit on the shore, look pretty, and cheer for me. Deal?”

You open your mouth to protest.

“And,” he adds, lifting a finger, “You’ll bring snacks. Preferably something cold. I’ll get out, pretend to suffer from exertion, and you’ll feed me with loving devotion while telling me how brave I am.”

You laugh. This time, genuinely.

“…Deal.”

He bumped your shoulder with his, light and easy. “That’s my good little guppy.”

And somehow, as the light faded and the stars blinked into view above the treetops — you didn’t feel so out of your depth anymore.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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[gaintsnowflake]

❆ YOUR BOYFRIENDS "BOYFRIEND"

PAIRING : dick grayson x gn!reader

ONESHOT : you are sure if you're dating dick or wally is at this point....

A/N : mainly fluffy with a hint angst (hurt/comfort kinda vibes but also no....) if you squint long enough you get dick grayson x reader x wally west-

masterlist

      DICK GRAYSON was supposed to be your boyfriend. But instead of romantic Saturdays and shared smoothies or whatever couples were doing in today’s world, you were seated on the edge of the pool, playing the role of decorative lifeguard while Wally West happily hijacked your boyfriend. Again. It wasn't something you weren't used to. It was like clockwork, every Saturday, Wally West would appear in your home, your boyfriend instantly becoming unavailable.

      Somehow, your home had become his personal playground, currently engaged in a shirtless splash war that looked suspiciously like a rom-com montage. Limbs flailing, voices laughing, moving around each other like golden retrievers with a flirtation problem. Splashing, wrestling, grinning. You were pretty sure they had more chemistry than a high school science department. 

      You sat on the steps, half-drenched, half-annoyed. The sun warmed your skin, and the occasional splash from their chaos gave you a breeze. A small mercy. You watched as they circled each other in the pool, grinning, laughing, absolutely glowing. It was hard to be mad, they really were cute. You would have shipped them together if it were any reality show besides your life. 

      As the sun began to set and their laughs filled your ears, you moved towards them, closing in to suggest that it may be time to head inside. You approached like a mom at a sleepover, ready to suggest pizza and dry towels. Only, Dick didn’t notice. Of course not. He was too busy ducking Wally’s sneak-attack splash to see you creeping forward. Your voice is not loud enough or your splashes are not violent, so lost in his play fight with Wally he knocked into you. Your movements are not cinematic or graceful as your head  dunked below water. 

      “Babe! I am so sorry!” Dick gasped, rushing to your side with his signature panicked charm. He reached out to help you, except that Wally immediately lunged for him, and the next thing you saw was your boyfriend being yanked underwater mid-apology.

     “You know it's not too late, you can still choose the better of us—” Wally started, a cheeky smile finding his face— “that being me, of course.”

      Before you even got the chance to deny his gracious offer possibly with sarcasm, possibly with a list of grievances, he was dragged down into the water by your boyfriend, Dick quickly surfacing after Wally lost his grip and slipped to the bottom. A glint in his eye showing nothing but mischief.

       “Again, so sorry, but you did kinda put yourself in the splash zone…” Dick noted, as his hair fell by the sharpness of his eyes. Yet he wasn’t fully there, only half engaged. 

       “It's late, we should start heading in… I was thinking about ordering pizza? Sound good?”

       “Perfect, babe! We will be inside in a few,” He said as he fought Wally once again. “Love you!”

       You turned and trudged back toward the house, water dripping from your clothes as the boys resumed their aquatic rom-com. You moved quickly— mostly because you knew the only thing that would drag them inside faster than your plea for attention… was the smell of melted cheese. 

        And when you peered back at them you notice the glimmer in the pool, shimmering more than a sheet of glass. Their hair gleaming in the golden rays of the setting sun. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower buzzed, as if the rest of the world kept spinning. You weren’t jealous, you reaffirmed yourself. Not really. Okay, maybe a little. But could you even blame yourself when Dick had dimples and Wally had the audacity to sparkle like a human Capri Sun?

        You could only sigh, kicking off your soggy flip-flops at the back door and padding into the kitchen with a dramatic little squelch each step. The tile was cool under your feet, the kind of chill that should’ve been refreshing, but mostly just made you more aware of how wet you were. 

       You grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapping it around yourself like armor. If you were going to be ignored, you could at least be ignored dry.

       The local pizza place on your phone was already open. You placed the order with practiced ease: three large pies, one split in half of cheese and your favorite toppings (for you), one all-meat (for them), and a third "emergency" pepperoni because somehow Wally always ended up eating enough for three people and still complained he was hungry after. And as you hit confirm, the familiar war cries from the backyard retired, splashes, shouts, laughter that sounded like it came from a summer camp movie quickly replaced by the light hum of cicadas and hushed conversations.

       You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, lips pursed, wondering for the fifth time this month if maybe you were the third wheel and they were just too polite to tell you. The door finally creaked open behind you, wet feet smacking against the tile.

      “Did you order the good kind?” Wally’s voice appeared before he did, towel slung over one shoulder like he lived here. Honestly, you weren’t even sure he didn’t.

      “Yes, West. Three pizzas. I am nothing if not reliable.”

      Dick appeared behind him, running a hand through his soaked hair, water droplets flying like a shampoo commercial. 

      “She’s also very dramatic,” he added with a wink, stepping around you to grab another towel. His fingers brushed yours on the counter, maybe on purpose, maybe not. You didn’t look at him long enough to find out, afraid to get lost in his charm and forget your annoyance with the two.

      Wally grinned, leaning against the fridge like he paid rent. “She just wants us to admit we’d be lost without her.”

       You blinked, silent for a few moments trying to assemble your words. “That’s not true. I just want my boyfriend back for more than five consecutive minutes.”

       That shut them both up for a second. 

       “You have me.” Dick cleared his throat, his lips hovering your head, as if they themselves were the ones afraid to apologize. 

       “You had her,” Wally snorted. “Then I cannonballed into your relationship like the icon I am.”

        “Uninvited,” you added.

        “I bought popsicles once.”

        “Last year.”

        “A gesture is a gesture,” Wally said with a shrug. “Anyway, you love me.”

         Your eyes narrowed. “I tolerate you because you’re pretty and you keep Dick entertained long enough for me to take naps.” 

         Dicks arm wrapped around your shoulders, a blanket providing comfort. He pressed a damp kiss to your cheek, speaking all the words he wished he could say.

         “Come on. Admit it. You like having us both around.” You leaned back into him just slightly, unable to keep the smallest smile from tugging at the corner of your lips.

         “Maybe. When you’re not actively trying to drown me.”

         “Hey, that was Wally’s fault.”

         “Rude. She fell because you spun around like a confused dolphin.”

          You sighed again, but it was lighter this time. Comfortable. Familiar. Exhausted, sure— but mostly in a fond, ridiculous way that only came from loving two disasters who couldn’t go five minutes without turning your backyard into a water park.

        The doorbell rang, and three heads snapped toward the front hallway like wolves smelling dinner.

        “Race you,” Wally muttered.

        “No powers,” Dick warned, knowing it could fall on deaf ears.

        You didn’t even bother to join the scramble. Let them fight for the pizza. They’d earn it. Besides, someone had to grab plates, and you’d learned long ago that if you didn’t, they’d just eat straight from the box over your sink.

        You smiled to yourself as they nearly tripped over each other running through the hallway, their laughter echoing like music.

     You weren’t jealous. You were happy, content with how normal they made life seem. How much they reminded you what life was supposed to feel like. A feeling not worth trading for a few more kisses. 

[mmegwrld]

⏾⋆｡𖦹 SWEETEST PIE + park jimin

park jimin is the tough boy next door who’s always looked out for you. after a violent night brings hidden feelings to light, your sweet friendship turns into something much deeper.

word count : 3.2k

genre : FLUFFFYYYYY, a little angst if you squint

warnings : bad boy! jimin x baker’s daughter!reader, this is not inspired by sweetest pie by meg and dua 😭 i was totally listening to the sweetener album and ordinary things by ariana grande! jimin already likes the reader, fights!! blood mentioned, kissing! guy touches the reader in a way she doesn’t like!!

a/n : i lowkey REALLLYYYY LIKE THIS ONE HELP… but im going to hawaii for a couple of days so im not gonna be uploading much :-(

masterlist

you have known park jimin since the second grade. back when he had crooked teeth, skinned knees and a knack for into trouble for talking too much in the back of the class. he used to share his fruit snacks with you at lunch and glared at anybody who made fun of you on the playground.

you were seven and shy, clutching onto your mom’s hand like the world might swallow you whole if you let go. it was the first day of second grade and all the kids seemed to know each other.

your mom knelt beside you, brushing your hair out of your face softly. “sweetheart,” she said gently.

“do you remember miss park? from the neighborhood?” she asked. you nodded slowly. miss park has always had kind eyes, a warm smile, always smelt like peppermint.

“well, her son jimin is in your class. and i just talked to his mother— she said he’d be happy to show you around.” you look up, seeing a boy with messy dark hair and a bandaid on his cheek peeked around the classroom door.

“jimin,” his mom called from behind him. “come meet your new friend,” she pushes him out. he blinked at you, looked at his mom, then to you again. and with the kind of confidence only seven-year-old boys could get away with, he marched up and held out a half-eaten fruit snack.

“wanna share?” he asked. you took it without thinking, nodding. “cool,” he grinned. “i’ll show you where the swings are.”

growing up together felt so natural. predictable even. like seasons changing or the way the bakery always smelled like vanilla and cinnamon by 7am. but somewhere between childhood and college, something shifted.

maybe it was the way he’d grown into his sharp jaw and rough edges, or how his silence started meaning more than his words. maybe it was the way he looked at you now—longer, softer—when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

the bell above the bakery door jingles softly, too soft for the closing hour. you look up, already knowing who it is. jimin doesn’t say a word. just walked in with his hoodie up, jaw clenched, and knuckles bloody. he always came here after fights, like it was some sort of safe place.

your smile flickers, barely there, “rough night?” you ask. he slides into the stool at the counter with a low breath, “something like that.” you didn’t press him. you never did.

instead, you turn to grab the first aid. it had partially become his by now. as you dab at his busted knuckles with gentle fingers, the silence was heavy. he flinched once, but not from the pain. from how softly you’re touching him.

“you’re gonna scar.”

“doesn’t matter,” he replies.

“it does to me,” you say, not looking up.

jimin looks at you, really looks. your lashes low, lips pressed into a small line, focused on only patching him up. it made his stomach ache— his heart ache.

you always knew that jimin and his mother struggled, with his dad gone. his mom practically fell apart. they struggled with everything, especially money.

it was your mom how had told you about it. she’d come back with grocery bags and a furrow in her brow. she mentioned how she ran into jimin‘s mom in the cereal aisle.

“she looked tired,” your mom says, voice softer. “said things have been tight lately… jimin’s been skipping meals to save money. did you know that?”

you hadn’t. but the second you did, it stuck with you like something lodged in your chest.

he’d never say it himself. jimin wasn’t the type. he’d show up with bloodied hands and an empty stomach and pretend everything was fine. but you knew him too well for that. you always had.

so the next morning, you made extra.

two breakfast sandwiches—warm, eggy, and wrapped in parchment—plus a cinnamon roll with too much icing and a iced white coffee just how he liked it.

when you spot him outside the bakery, sitting on the back step with his hood up, your heart pinches. he looked smaller somehow, even with his broad frame hunched over his knees.

“you’re here early,” you said, nudging the door open with your hip, hands full. he didn’t look at you. just mumbles, “didn’t sleep.” you hand him the bag and the coffee without a word.

“what’s this?” he asks, like it wasn’t obvious “breakfast,” you said. “and sugar. you need both.”

he blinks at you, hesitation flickering in his eyes. “you didn’t have to—” “i know,” you cut him off quickly. “but i wanted to.. my mom is dropping off your moms food.”

his jaw works, like he was fighting something in his throat. “you heard from my mom.”

you don’t lie. “yeah.”

he was quiet for a moment, staring at the bag in his lap. “i didn’t want you to think i was weak,” he says, barely audible.

you sit down beside him, shoulder brushing his. “i don’t think you’re weak, jimin. i think you’re trying. and trying alone is exhausting,” you nod your head. he doesn’t answer, but he does unwrap the sandwich and takes a bite.

you put your head on his shoulder, “next time, just come inside.”

it’s a small table.

old wood, a little uneven in the legs, the same one your mom’s had since you were in second grade—but tonight, it feels different. warmer. fuller. jimin sits across from you, shoulders tense at first, head ducked slightly like he’s not used to this kind of comfort. his mom is beside him, hands folded in her lap, eyes glassy when she sees the spread your mom’s laid out.

pasta. garlic bread. a salad tossed with the fancy vinaigrette you keep for holidays.

“come on, eat,” your mom says, smiling gently at jimin’s mom. “you’re family. always have been.” you catch jimin looking at you then—quiet, soft-eyed—and you give him a small smile.

his mom clears her throat, trying to hide the way her voice wavers. “i told you we didn’t need all this…”

“you didn’t ask for it,” your mom says simply. “but we wanted to.”

jimin’s hand is curled tight around his fork. you can see the way his jaw clenches when his mom picks at her food, trying to make it last. he’s always hated this—watching her sacrifice without asking.

you nudge his knee under the table. he glances up. you mouth, eat. he rolls his eyes, but he takes a bite.

your mom starts talking about the bakery—telling a story about a customer who came in asking if cinnamon rolls could be vegan and also gluten free and also taste the same—and eventually, the table starts to soften. laughter hums between you. even jimin’s mom lets out a real smile, her hand brushing his when she reaches for more salad.

later, after the table’s cleared and your moms are in the kitchen with mugs of tea, you and jimin slip out to the porch.

he leans on the railing, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, head tilted back as he exhales. you stand beside him.

“i know you didn’t want this to be a thing,” you say gently. “but i told my mom because we care. not because we pity you.”

“i know,” he says, voice low. “she just… she works so hard. and i can’t always help. not enough.” you bump his shoulder. “you help more than you think.”

he finally looks at you then. and there’s that look again. the one he gives you when he’s not being the tough guy. the one that says he feels more than he knows how to say.

“you still going to that party tonight?” he asks, voice low. “yeah,” you nod. “you?” he shrugs. “wasn’t gonna. but maybe i will now.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it—barely more than a whisper, “thank. for dinner. and for… just being you.”

you smile, heart aching in that way it always does around him, “you’re welcome.” your eyes meet and something hangs between you—quiet and unfinished.

you don’t push it.

because you know, when jimin’s ready, he’ll say it.

but for now, you just lean against him, watching the sky shift above you.

together.

it was a spring break party at some frat house. the music was too loud, the air too warm, and the cup in your hand had gone flat a long time ago. but your friend dragged you here, swearing you needed to “have fun for once,” so here you were—sipping weak punch and swaying to the bass in someone’s overpacked living room.

you hadn’t seen jimin in over an hour. he was here somewhere—your ride, your constant—but the party had swallowed him up.

you barely had time to turn around before a hand grabs your wrist. “hey,” a voice slurs behind you. you freeze. fuck.

it was a guy you vaguely recognize from a few classes. tall, cocky, the kind who stared too long and didn’t understand the word no. you’d dodged his attempts before. but this time, he’s drunk. and bold.

“been lookin’ for you all night,” he said, tugging you closer. you yank your arm back. “i’m not interested. but he didn’t let go.

his fingers wrapped tighter around your wrist, nails digging into skin. “cmon. don’t be like that. i saw you earlier—dancin’ all cute. you were lookin’ at me, weren’t you?” he smirks. gross.

“no,” you said, heart thudding, voice sharp. “let me go.” he leans down, face way too close. “bet you taste as sweet as you look.” and then he grabs your waist, hands sliding down your back like he had a right.

“get off me!” you shove him, panic in your voice now. he just laughs, like it was a game. like you were something to be played with. “don’t fucking touch me.”

a figure pops up in front of you, pushing you back softly. jimin. he pushes the guy roughly as one of his other friends approaches you, checking up on you.

the guy stumbles, “what the hell is your problem?” the guy snaps, straightening up. jimin’s eyes are wild and his jaw is tight.

jimin doesn’t answer. he just punches the guy.

the room froze for a second, a chorus of shocked voices echoing over the music. the crowd barely had time to react before jimin tackles the guy into the beer pong table.

you try to get jimin before namjoon pushes you back, “let him fight. that guy harassed you.”

jungkook and taehyung hype up jimin as jin and hobi run down to get jimin off. “don’t touch her!” he shouts, his voice shaking. “don’t you ever fucking touch her!”

jin holds down the guy as hobi pulls off jimin, “it’s okay, jimin! it’s okay!” jin says. hobi holds him, in a bear hug. jimin’s chest was heaving, lip split, eyes still burning as jin pushes the guy out of the house.

and than finally, he looks at you. not angry, wild, just scared. you stand next to namjoon as jimin approaches you, he holds your face.

your chest was rising and falling at a rapid pace. you stare up at him, “you okay?” he asks. “jimin you didn’t have to—“ “yeah,” he wipes the blood from his mouth.

“i did.”

and for a second, everything else—the party, the noise, the crowd—it all fades. because the way he was looking at you right there? it didn’t feel like just friendship anymore.

your room is quiet.

the soft hum of the lamp casts a golden glow across the sheets, and you’re both lying on your sides, facing each other. jimin’s hoodie is tossed over your chair, his hands freshly cleaned and bandaged from the fight.

you’re not speaking. not yet. just breathing. his eyes are on yours—soft, unreadable. “you always smell like sugar,” he says suddenly, voice barely a whisper.

you blink. “what?” he gives you the faintest smile, like he’s embarrassed but not sorry. “your clothes, your hair… even your bed. you smell like cinnamon and vanilla. like I’m supposed to be here.”

your heart skips. “you are supposed to be here.” he looks at you like he’s trying not to fall any deeper—and failing.

“you mean that?”

you nod slowly. “yeah.”

his gaze drops to where your fingers brush beneath the blanket, and he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding something in for too long.

“i thought i was gonna lose it,” he murmurs. “when i saw that guy grab you.” “you kinda did,” you whisper. he gives a breath of a laugh, then goes quiet. the way he looks at you now makes your stomach twist.

“it wasn’t just about tonight,” he says. “it was the way he looked at you. like you were something to take. something he had a right to.”

his jaw clenches. his voice lowers. “but you’re not. you’re… you.”

your breath catches, and for a second neither of you speak.

then, softer than before, he adds, “you know i think about kissing you every time we’re this close, right?”

you blink. “jimin…”

“every time,” he says. “when you laugh. when you look at me like i’m not the guy who fights too much. like I’m someone good.” you reach for his hand beneath the blanket, finding his fingers and curling yours around them.

“you could,” you say quietly. he looks up at you, searching your face like he’s not sure he heard you right. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah.”

he leans in—slow, hesitant—giving you time to pull away. you don’t.

his lips brush yours like a promise, warm and gentle and everything he’s never said out loud. he kisses you like he’s afraid the moment might slip through his fingers, and when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“i’m not good at saying things,” he whispers. “i mess up. i keep stuff in. but i’d never hurt you. never.”

“i know,” you whisper. “that’s why i trust you.”

he smiles, a small, real one, and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you into his chest like you’re something breakable and precious.

you bury your face against him, breathing him in—his shampoo, his cologne, the faint scent of blood and sugar—and you let yourself melt into the safety of it all.

tonight, he’s not just the boy with bruised knuckles.

he’s yours.

the sun spills across your room in soft streaks of gold. you’re warm, still half-asleep, tucked against jimin’s chest under your comforter. his arm is draped over your waist, legs tangled with yours, and his breath is slow and steady against your neck.

it’s quiet. peaceful.

and then— “sweetheart?”

your mom’s voice right outside your door. your eyes fly open. knock knock, “i brought muffins—do you want—” the door creaks open before you can say a word.

jimin bolts upright like he’s been shot. his hair’s a mess, hoodie halfway off his shoulder, eyes wide and terrified.

you’re scrambling, yanking the blanket up to your chin as your mom freezes in the doorway, holding a plate of blueberry muffins and blinking at the very obvious boy in your bed.

jimin mutters, “oh my god,” under his breath. your mom’s eyes slowly narrow. “park jimin.” you open your mouth. nothing comes out. he coughs. “hi, mrs. (last name).”

“you got five seconds to tell me why you’re in my daughter’s bed.” you try to sit up without making it worse. “it’s not—it’s not what it looks like—”

“really?” she says, raising a brow. “because what it looks like is that my daughter has a bad boy with bloody knuckles sleeping in her bed.” jimin’s hand slowly disappears under the covers like he can make himself vanish.

“she was patching me up,” he blurts. “after a fight. i didn’t mean to stay—i just—she said i could crash—”

your mom looks at you. you look at jimin. jimin looks like he’s reconsidering every life decision that led to this exact moment. then your mom sighs and sets the muffin plate on your desk.

“wash those sheets. and if you’re staying for breakfast, jimin, you’re helping me at the bakery— and! best believe, your mom and i are gonna be talking about this for the rest of you guys’ life!”

she turns on her heel and walks out, muttering something about teenage hormones. the door clicks shut. jimin stares at you, eyes wide. you burst out laughing.

he groans and flops back into the pillows, throwing his arm over his face. “i’m never going to recover from that.” you grin, curling into his side. “you still smell like vanilla and blood.”

he peeks at you from under his arm. “think she’s gonna ban me from the bakery?” you kiss his shoulder. “nope. but she’s definitely gonna make you wear an apron.”

he groans louder. “this is the price of love, huh?”

you smile, heart full. “guess so.”